Table of Contents

With Wolfe in Canada

TITLE PAGE

Preface.

Chapter 1: A Rescue.

Chapter 2: The Showman's Grandchild.

Chapter 3: The Justice Room.

Chapter 4: The Squire's Granddaughter.

Chapter 5: A Quiet Time.

Chapter 6: A Storm.

Chapter 7: Pressed.

Chapter 8: Discharged.

Chapter 9: The Defeat Of Braddock.

Chapter 10: The Fight At Lake George.

Chapter 11: Scouting.

Chapter 12: A Commission.

Chapter 13: An Abortive Attack.

Chapter 14: Scouting On Lake Champlain.

Chapter 15: Through Many Perils.

Chapter 16: The Massacre At Fort William Henry.

Chapter 17: Louisbourg And Ticonderoga.

Chapter 18: Quebec.

Chapter 19: A Dangerous Expedition.

Chapter 20: The Path Down The Heights.

Chapter 21: The Capture Of Quebec.

With Wolfe in Canada

Preface.

MY DEAR LADS,

In the present volume I have endeavoured to give the details of the principal events in a struggle whose importance can hardly be overrated. At its commencement the English occupied a mere patch of land on the eastern seaboard of America, hemmed in on all sides by the French, who occupied not only Canada in the north and Louisiana in the south, but possessed a chain of posts connecting them, so cutting off the English from all access to the vast countries of the west.

On the issues of that struggle depended not only the destiny of Canada, but of the whole of North America and, to a large extent, that of the two mother countries. When the contest began, the chances of France becoming the great colonizing empire of the world were as good as those of England. Not only did she hold far larger territories in America than did England, but she had rich colonies in the West Indies, where the flag of England was at that time hardly represented, and her prospects in India were better than our own. At that time, too, she disputed with us on equal terms the empire of the sea.

The loss of her North American provinces turned the scale. With the monopoly of such a market, the commerce of England increased enormously, and with her commerce her wealth and power of extension, while the power of France was proportionately crippled. It is true that, in time, the North American colonies, with the exception of Canada, broke away from their connection with the old country; but they still remained English, still continued to be the best market for our goods and manufactures.

Never was the short-sightedness of human beings shown more distinctly, than when France wasted her strength and treasure in a sterile contest on the continent of Europe, and permitted, with scarce an effort, her North American colonies to be torn from her.

All the historical details of the war have been drawn from the excellent work entitled Montcalm and Wolfe, by Mr. Francis Parkman, and from the detailed history of the Louisbourg and Quebec expeditions, by Major Knox, who served under Generals Amherst and Wolfe.

Yours very sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.

Chapter 1: A Rescue.

Most of the towns standing on our seacoast have suffered a radical change in the course of the last century. Railways, and the fashion of summer holiday making, have transformed them altogether, and great towns have sprung up where fishing villages once stood. There are a few places, however, which seem to have been passed by, by the crowd. The number yearly becomes smaller, as the iron roads throw out fresh branches. With the advent of these comes the speculative builder. Rows of terraces and shops are run up, promenades are made, bathing machines and brass bands become familiar objects, and in a few years the original character of the place altogether disappears.

Sidmouth, for a long time, was passed by, by the world of holiday makers. East and west of her, great changes took place, and many far smaller villages became fashionable seaside watering places. The railway, which passed by some twelve miles away, carried its tens of thousands westward, but left few of them for Sidmouth, and anyone who visited the pretty little place, fifteen years back, would have seen it almost as it stood when our story opens a century ago.

There are few places in England with a fairer site. It lies embosomed in the hills, which rise sharply on either side of it, while behind stretches a rich, undulating country, thickly dotted with orchards and snug homesteads, with lanes bright with wildflowers and ferns, with high hedges and trees meeting overhead. The cold breezes, which render so bare of interest the walks round the great majority of our seaside towns, pass harmlessly over the valley of the Sid, where the vegetation is as bright and luxuriant as if the ocean lay leagues away, instead of breaking on the shore within a few feet of the front line of houses.

The cliffs which, on either side, rise from the water's edge, are neither white like those to the east, nor grey as are the rugged bulwarks to the west. They are of a deep red, warm and pleasant to the eye, with clumps of green showing brightly up against them on every little ledge where vegetation can get a footing; while the beach is neither pebble, nor rock, nor sand, but a smooth, level surface sloping evenly down; hard and pleasant to walk on when the sea has gone down, and the sun has dried and baked it for an hour or two; but slippery and treacherous when freshly wetted, for the red cliffs are of clay. Those who sail past in a boat would hardly believe that this is so, for the sun has baked its face, and the wind dried it, till it is cracked and seamed, and makes a brave imitation of red granite; but the clammy ooze, when the sea goes down, tells its nature only too plainly, and Sidmouth will never be a popular watering place for children, for there is no digging sand castles here, and a fall will stain light dresses and pinafores a ruddy hue, and the young labourers will look as if they had been at work in a brick field.

But a century since, the march of improvement had nowhere begun; and there were few larger, and no prettier, seaside villages on the coast than Sidmouth.

It was an afternoon in August. The sun was blazing down hotly, scarce a breath of wind was stirring, and the tiny waves broke along the shore with a low rustle like that of falling leaves. Some fishermen were at work, recaulking a boat hauled up on the shore. Others were laying out some nets to dry in the sun. Some fisher boys were lying asleep, like dogs basking in the heat; and a knot of lads, sitting under the shade of a boat, were discussing with some warmth the question of smuggling.

"What do you say to it, Jim Walsham?" one of the party said, looking up at a boy some twelve years old, who was leaning against a boat, but who had hitherto taken no part in the discussion.

"There is no doubt that it's wrong," the boy said. "Not wrong like stealing, and lying, and that sort of thing; still it's wrong, because it's against the law; and the revenue men, if they come upon a gang landing the tubs, fight with them, and if any are killed they are not blamed for it, so there is no doubt about its being wrong. Then, on the other hand, no one thinks any the worse of the men that do it, and there is scarce a one, gentle or simple, as won't buy some of the stuff if he gets a chance, so it can't be so very wrong. It must be great fun to be a smuggler, to be always dodging the king's cutters, and running cargoes under the nose of the officers ashore. There is some excitement in a life like that."

"There is plenty of excitement in fishing," one of the boys said sturdily. "If you had been out in that storm last March, you would have had as much excitement as you liked. For twelve hours we expected to go down every minute, and we were half our time bailing for our lives."

An approving murmur broke from the others, who were all, with the exception of the one addressed as Jim Walsham, of the fisher class. His clothing differed but little from that of the rest. His dark blue pilot trousers were old and sea stained, his hands and face were dyed brown with exposure to the sun and the salt water; but there was something, in his manner and tone of voice, which showed that a distinction existed.

James Walsham was, indeed, the son of the late doctor of the village, who had died two years previously. Dr. Walsham had been clever in his profession, but circumstances were against him. Sidmouth and its neighbourhood were so healthy, that his patients were few and far between; and when he died, of injuries received from being thrown over his horse's head, when the animal one night trod on a stone coming down the hill into Sidmouth, his widow and son were left almost penniless.

Mrs. Walsham was, fortunately, an energetic woman, and a fortnight after her husband's death, she went round among the tradesmen of the place and the farmers of the neighbourhood, and announced her intention of opening a school for girls. She had received a good education, being the daughter of a clergyman, and she soon obtained enough pupils to enable her to pay her way, and to keep up the pretty home in which her husband lived in the outskirts of Sidmouth.

If she would have taken boarders, she could have obtained far higher terms, for good schools were scarce; but this she would not do, and her pupils all lived within distances where they could walk backwards and forwards to their homes. Her evenings she devoted to her son, and, though the education which she was enabled to give him would be considered meagre, indeed, in these days of universal cramming, he learned as much as the average boy of the period.

He would have learned more had he followed her desires, and devoted the time when she was engaged in teaching to his books; but this he did not do. For a few hours in the day he would work vigorously at his lessons. The rest of his time he spent either on the seashore, or in the boats of the fishermen; and he could swim, row, or handle a boat under sail in all weather, as well or better than any lad in the village of his own age.

His disposition was a happy one, and he was a general favourite among the boatmen. He had not, as yet, made up his mind as to his future. His mother wanted him to follow his father's profession. He himself longed to go to sea, but he had promised his mother that he would never do so without her consent, and that consent he had no hope of obtaining.

The better-class people in the village shook their heads gravely over James Walsham, and prophesied no good things of him. They considered that he demeaned himself greatly by association with the fisher boys, and more than once he had fallen into disgrace, with the more quiet minded of the inhabitants, by mischievous pranks. His reputation that way once established, every bit of mischief in the place, which could not be clearly traced to someone else, was put down to him; and as he was not one who would peach upon others to save himself, he was seldom in a position to prove his innocence.

The parson had once called upon Mrs. Walsham, and had talked to her gravely over her son's delinquencies, but his success had not been equal to his anticipations. Mrs. Walsham had stood up warmly for her son.

"The boy may get into mischief sometimes, Mr. Allanby, but it is the nature of boys to do so. James is a good boy, upright and honourable, and would not tell a lie under any consideration. What is he to do? If I could afford to send him to a good school it would be a different thing, but that you know I cannot do. From nine in the morning, until five in the afternoon, my time is occupied by teaching, and I cannot expect, nor do I wish, that he should sit moping indoors all day. He had far better be out in the boats with the fishermen, than be hanging about the place doing nothing. If anything happened to me, before he is started in life, there would be nothing for him but to take to the sea. I am laying by a little money every month, and if I live for another year there will be enough to buy him a fishing boat and nets. I trust that it may not come to that, but I see nothing derogatory in his earning an honest living with his own hands. He will always be something better than a common fisherman. The education I have striven to give him, and his knowledge that he was born a gentleman, will nerve him to try and rise.

"As to what you say about mischief, so far as I know all boys are mischievous. I know that my own brothers were always getting into scrapes, and I have no doubt, Mr. Allanby, that when you look back upon your own boyhood, you will see that you were not an exception to the general rule."

Mr. Allanby smiled. He had come rather against his own inclinations; but his wife had urged him to speak to Mrs. Walsham, her temper being ruffled by the disappearance of two favourite pigeons, whose loss she, without a shadow of evidence, most unjustly put down to James Walsham.

The parson was by no means strict with his flock. He was a tall man, inclined to be portly, a good shot and an ardent fisherman; and although he did not hunt, he was frequently seen on his brown cob at the meet, whenever it took place within a reasonable distance of Sidmouth; and without exactly following the hounds, his knowledge of the country often enabled him to see more of the hunt than those who did.

As Mrs. Walsham spoke, the memory of his old school and college days came across him.

"That is the argumentum ad hominem, Mrs. Walsham, and when a lady takes to that we can say no more. You know I like your boy. There is much that is good in him; but it struck me that you were letting him run a little too wild. However, there is much in what you say, and I don't believe that he is concerned in half the mischief that he gets credit for. Still, you must remember that a little of the curb, just a little, is good for us all. It spoils a horse to be always tugging at his mouth, but he will go very badly if he does not feel that there is a hand on the reins.

"I have said the same thing to the squire. He spoils that boy of his, for whom, between ourselves, I have no great liking. The old man will have trouble with him before he is done, or I am greatly mistaken."

Nothing came of Mr. Allanby's visit. Mrs. Walsham told James that he had been there to remonstrate with her.

"I do not want to stop you from going out sailing, Jim; but I wish you would give up your mischievous pranks, they only get you bad will and a bad name in the place. Many people here think that I am wrong in allowing you to associate so much with the fisher boys, and when you get into scrapes, it enables them to impress upon me how right they were in their forecasts. I do not want my boy to be named in the same breath with those boys of Robson's, or young Peterson, or Blame."

"But you know I have nothing to do with them, mother," James said indignantly. "They spend half their time about the public house, and they do say that when Peterson has been out with that lurcher of his, he has been seen coming back with his coat bulged out, and there is often a smell of hare round his father's cottage at supper time. You know I wouldn't have anything to do with them."

"No, Jim, I am sure you would not; but if people mix up your name with theirs it is almost as bad for you as if you had. Unfortunately, people are too apt not to distinguish between tricks which are really only the outcome of high spirit, and a lack of something better to do, and real vice. Therefore, Jim, I say, keep yourself from mischief. I know that, though you are out of doors so many hours of the day, you really do get through a good deal of work; but other people do not give you credit for this. Remember how your father was respected here. Try to act always as you would have done had he been alive, and you cannot go far wrong."

James had done his best, but he found it hard to get rid of his reputation for getting into mischief, and more than once, when falsely suspected, he grumbled that he might just as well have the fun of the thing, for he was sure to have the blame.

As Jim Walsham and his companions were chatting in the shade of a boat, their conversation was abruptly broken off by the sight of a figure coming along the road. It was a tall figure, with a stiff military bearing. He was pushing before him a large box, mounted on a framework supported by four wheels. Low down, close to the ground, swung a large flat basket. In this, on a shawl spread over a thick bed of hay, sat a little girl some five years old.

"It is the sergeant," one of the boys exclaimed. "I wonder whether he has got a fresh set of views? The last were first-rate ones."

The sergeant gave a friendly nod to the boys as he passed, and then, turning up the main street from the beach, went along until he came to a shaded corner, and there stopped. The boys had all got up and followed him, and now stood looking on with interest at his proceedings. The little girl had climbed out of her basket as soon as he stopped, and after asking leave, trotted back along the street to the beach, and was soon at play among the seaweed and stones.

She was a singularly pretty child, with dark blue eyes, and brown hair with a touch of gold. Her print dress was spotlessly clean and neat; a huge flapping sunbonnet shaded her face, whose expression was bright and winning.

"Well, boys," the sergeant said cheerfully, "how have you been getting on since I was here last? Nobody drowned, I hope, or come to any ill. Not that we must grumble, whatever comes. We have all got to do our duty, whether it be to march up a hill with shot and shell screaming and whistling round, as I have had to do; or to be far out at sea with the wind blowing fit to take the hair off your head, as comes to your lot sometimes; or following the plough from year's end to year's end, as happens to some. We have got to make the best of it, whatever it is.

"I have got a grand new set of pictures from Exeter. They came all the way down from London town for me by waggon. London Bridge, and Windsor Castle, with the flag flying over it, telling that the king--God bless his gracious majesty--is at home.

"Then, I have got some pictures of foreign parts that will make you open your eyes. There's Niagara. I don't know whether you've heard of it, but it's a place where a great river jumps down over a wall of rock, as high as that steeple there, with a roar like thunder that can be heard, they say, on a still night, for twenty miles round.

"I have got some that will interest you more still, because you are sailors, or are going to be sailors. I have got one of the killing of a whale. He has just thrown a boat, with five sailors, into the air, with a lash of his tail; but it's of no use, for there are other boats round, and the harpoons are striking deep in his flesh. He is a big fish, and a strong one; but he will be beaten, for he does not know how to use his strength. That's the case with many men. They throw away their life and their talents, just because they don't know what's in them, and what they might do if they tried.

"And I have got a picture of the fight with the Spanish Armada. You have heard about that, boys, surely; for it began out there, over the water, almost in sight of Sidmouth, and went on all the way up the Channel; our little ships hanging on to the great Spaniards and giving them no rest, but worrying them, and battering them, till they were glad to sail away to the Dutch coast. But they were not safe there, for we sent fire ships at them, and they had to cut and run; and then a storm came on, and sunk many, and drove others ashore all around our coasts, even round the north of Scotland and Ireland.

"You will see it all here, boys, and as you know, the price is only one penny."

By this time, the sergeant had let down one side of the box and discovered four round holes, and had arranged a low stool in front, for any of those, who were not tall enough to look through the glasses, to stand upon. A considerable number of girls and boys had now gathered round, for Sergeant Wilks and his show were old, established favourites at Sidmouth, and the news of his arrival had travelled quickly round the place.

Four years before, he had appeared there for the first time, and since then had come every few months. He travelled round the southwestern counties, Dorset and Wilts, Somerset, Devon, and Cornwall, and his cheery good temper made him a general favourite wherever he went.

He was somewhat of a martinet, and would have no crowding and pushing, and always made the boys stand aside till the girls had a good look; but he never hurried them, and allowed each an ample time to see the pictures, which were of a better class than those in most travelling peep shows. There was some murmuring, at first, because the show contained none of the popular murders and blood-curdling scenes to which the people were accustomed.

"No," the sergeant had said firmly, when the omission was suggested to him; "the young ones see quite enough scenes of drunkenness and fighting. When I was a child, I remember seeing in a peep show the picture of a woman lying with her head nearly cut off, and her husband with a bloody chopper standing beside her; and it spoiled my sleep for weeks. No, none of that sort of thing for Sergeant Wilks. He has fought for his country, and has seen bloodshed enough in his time, and the ground half covered with dead and dying men; but that was duty--this is pleasure. Sergeant Wilks will show the boys and girls, who pay him their pennies, views in all parts of the world, such as would cost them thousands of pounds if they travelled to see them, and all as natural as life. He will show them great battles by land and sea, where the soldiers and sailors shed their blood like water in the service of their country. But cruel murders and notorious crimes he will not show them."

It was not the boys and girls, only, who were the sergeant's patrons. Picture books were scarce in those days, and grown-up girls and young men were not ashamed to pay their pennies to peep into the sergeant's box.

There was scarcely a farm house throughout his beat where he was not known and welcomed. His care of the child, who, when he first came round, was but a year old, won the heart of the women; and a bowl of bread and milk for the little one, and a mug of beer and a hunch of bread and bacon for himself, were always at his service, before he opened his box and showed its wonders to the maids and children of the house.

Sidmouth was one of his regular halting places, and, indeed, he visited it more often than any other town on his beat. There was always a room ready for him there, in the house of a fisherman's widow, when he arrived on the Saturday, and he generally stopped till the Monday. Thus he had come to know the names of most of the boys of the place, as well as of many of the elders; for it was his custom, of a Saturday evening, after the little one was in bed, to go and smoke his pipe in the taproom of the "Anchor," where he would sometimes relate tales of his adventures to the assembled fishermen. But, although chatty and cheery with his patrons, Sergeant Wilks was a reticent, rather than a talkative, man. At the "Anchor" he was, except when called upon for a story, a listener rather than a talker.

As to his history, or the county to which he belonged, he never alluded to it, although communicative enough as to his military adventures; and any questions which were asked him, he quietly put on one side. He had intimated, indeed, that the father and mother of his grandchild were both dead; but it was not known whether she was the child of his son or daughter; for under his cheerful talk there was something of military strictness and sternness, and he was not a man of whom idle questions would be asked.

"Now, boys and girls," he said, "step up; the show is ready. Those who have got a penny cannot spend it better. Those who haven't must try and get their father or mother to give them one, and see the show later on. Girls first. Boys should always give way to their sisters. The bravest men are always the most courteous and gentle with women."

Four girls, of various ages, paid their pennies and took their places at the glasses, and the sergeant then began to describe the pictures, his descriptions of the wonders within being so exciting, that several boys and girls stole off from the little crowd, and made their way to their homes to coax their parents out of the necessary coin.

James Walsham listened a while, and then walked away to the sea, for there would be several sets of girls before it came to the turn of the boys. He strolled along, and as he came within sight of the beach stopped for a moment suddenly, and then, with a shout, ran forward at the top of his speed.

The little girl, after playing some time with the seaweed, had climbed into a small boat which lay at the edge of the advancing tide, and, leaning over the stern, watched the little waves as they ran up one after another. A few minutes after she had got into it, the rising tide floated the boat, and it drifted out a few yards, as far as its headrope allowed it. Ignorant of what had happened, the child was kneeling up at the stern, leaning over, and dabbling her hands in the water.

No one had noticed her. The boys had all deserted the beach. None of the fishermen were near the spot.

Just before James Walsham came within sight of the sea, the child had overbalanced itself. His eye fell on the water just as two arms and a frightened little face appeared above it. There was a little splash, and a struggle, and the sea was bare again.

At the top of his speed James dashed across the road, sprang down the beach, and, rushing a few yards into the water, dived down. He knew which way the tide was making, and allowed for the set. A few vigorous strokes, and he reached something white on the surface. It was the sunbonnet which had, in the child's struggles, become unfastened. He dived at once, and almost immediately saw a confused mass before him. Another stroke, and he seized the child's clothes, and, grasping her firmly, rose to the surface and swam towards shore.

Although the accident had not been perceived, his shout and sudden rush into the water had called the attention of some of the men, and two or three of them ran into the water, waist deep, to help him out with his little burden.

"Well done, Master Walsham! The child would have been drowned if you had not seed it. None of us noticed her fall over. She was playing on the beach last time I seed her."

"Is she dead?" James asked, breathless from his exertions.

"Not she," the fisherman said. "She could not have been under water a minute. Take her into my cottage, it's one of the nighest. My wife will put her between the blankets, and will soon bring her round."

The fisherman's wife met them at the door, and, taking the child from the lad, carried it in, and soon had her wrapped up in blankets. But before this was done she had opened her eyes, for she had scarcely lost consciousness when James had seized her.

The lad stood outside the door, waiting for the news, when the sergeant hurried up, one of the fishermen having gone to tell him what had happened, as soon as the child had been carried into the cottage--assuring him, as he did so, that the little one would speedily come round.

Just as he came up the door of the cottage opened, and one of the women, who had run in to assist the fisherman's wife, put her head out.

"She has opened her eyes," she said. "The little dear will soon be all right."

"Thank God for His mercies!" the sergeant said, taking off his hat. "What should I have done if I had lost her?

"And I have to thank you, next to God," he said, seizing the boy's hand. "May God bless you, young gentleman! and reward you for having saved my darling. They tell me she must have been drowned, but for you, for no one knew she had fallen in. Had it not been for you, I should come round to look for her, and she would have been gone--gone forever!" and the showman dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.

"I was only just in time," the lad said. "I did not see her fall out of the boat. She was only a few yards away from it when she came up--just as my eyes fell on the spot. I am very glad to have saved her for you; but, of course, it was nothing of a swim. She could not have been many yards out of my depth. Now I will run home and change my things."

James Walsham was too much accustomed to be wet through, to care anything about his dripping clothes, but they served him as an excuse to get away, for he felt awkward and embarrassed at the gratitude of the old soldier. He pushed his way through the little crowd, which had now gathered round, and started at a run; for the news had brought almost all those gathered round the peep show to the shore, the excitement of somebody being drowned being superior even to that of the peep show, to the great majority; though a few, who had no hope of obtaining the necessary pennies, had lingered behind, and seized the opportunity for a gratuitous look through the glasses.

James ran upstairs and changed his clothes without seeing his mother, and then, taking down one of his lesson books, set to work, shrinking from the idea of going out again, and being made a hero of.

Half an hour later there was a knock at the front door, and a few minutes after his mother called him down. He ran down to the parlour, and there found the showman.

"Oh, I say," the boy broke out, "don't say anything more about it! I do hate being thanked, and there was nothing in swimming ten yards in a calm sea. Please don't say anything more about it. I would rather you hit me, ever so much."

The sergeant smiled gravely, and Mrs. Walsham exclaimed:

"Why didn't you come in and tell me about it, Jim? I could not make out at first what Mr.--Mr.--"

"Sergeant Wilks, madam."

"What Sergeant Wilks meant, when he said that he had called to tell me how grateful he felt to you for saving his little grandchild's life. I am proud of you, Jim."

"Oh, mother, don't!" the boy exclaimed. "It is horrid going on so. If I had swum out with a rope through the surf, there might be something in it; but just to jump in at the edge of the water is not worth making a fuss about, one way or the other."

"Not to you, perhaps, young gentleman, but it is to me," the showman said. "The child is the light of my life, the only thing I have to care for in the world, and you have saved her. If it had only been by stretching out your hand, I should have been equally grateful. However, I will say no more about it, but I shall not think the less.

"But don't you believe, madam, that there was no credit in it. It was just the quickness and the promptness which saved her life. Had your son hesitated a moment it would have been too late, for he would never have found her. It is not likely that your son will ever have any occasion for help of mine, but should there be an opportunity, he may rely upon it that any service I can render him shall be his to the death; and, unlikely as it may seem, it may yet turn out that this brave act of his, in saving the life of the granddaughter of a travelling showman, will not be without its reward."

"Is she all right now?" James asked abruptly, anxious to change the conversation.

"Yes. She soon came to herself, and wanted to tell me all about it; but I would not let her talk, and in a few minutes she dropped off to sleep, and there I left her. The women tell me she will probably sleep till morning, and will then be as well as ever. And now I must go and look after my box, or the boys will be pulling it to pieces."

It was, however, untouched, for in passing the sergeant had told the little crowd that, if they left it alone, he would, on his return, let all see without payment; and during the rest of the afternoon he was fully occupied with successive audiences, being obliged to make his lectures brief, in order that all might have their turn.

After the sergeant had left, James took his hat and went for a long walk in the country, in order to escape the congratulations of the other boys. The next day little Agnes was perfectly well, and appeared with her grandfather in the seat, far back in the church, which he always occupied on the Sundays he spent at Sidmouth. On these occasions she was always neatly and prettily dressed, and, indeed, some of the good women of the place, comparing the graceful little thing with their own children, had not been backward in their criticisms on the folly of the old showman, in dressing his child out in clothes fit for a lady.

Chapter 2: The Showman's Grandchild.

Three months later the showman again appeared at Sidmouth, but did not set up his box as usual. Leaving it at his lodging, he went at once with his grandchild to Mrs. Walsham's.

"I have come, madam," he said after the first inquiries about the child had been answered, "on a particular business. It will seem a strange thing to you for a man like me to ask, but things are not quite as they seem, though I can't explain it now. But I am beating about the bush, and not getting any nearer. I have come to ask, madam, whether you would take charge of the child for two years. Of course I am ready to pay anything that you may think proper."

"But I don't take boarders," Mrs. Walsham said, much surprised at the proposition. "I only take girls who come in the morning and go away in the afternoon. Besides, they are all a good many years older than your grandchild. None of the girls who come to me are under twelve."

"I know, ma'm, I know; and I am sure you must think it a great liberty on my part to ask such a thing," the sergeant said apologetically. "It is not the teaching I want, but just a home for her."

Mrs. Walsham felt puzzled. She did, in her heart, feel it to be a liberty. Surely this wandering showman would find no difficulty in getting his grandchild taken care of among people of his own rank in life. It did seem most singular that he should seek to place the child with her. Mrs. Walsham was not given to thinking what her neighbours would say, but she thought of the buzz of comment and astonishment which her taking the charge of this child would excite. She had been particular in keeping her little school to some extent select, and as it was now as large as she could manage unaided, she was able to make it almost a favour to the farmers' wives to take their girls.

But to do Mrs. Walsham justice, this thought had less influence with her than that of the time and care which would be required by a child of that age in the house. Certainly, she thought, as she looked at her, sitting with her eyes wide open and an expression of grave wonder in her face, "she is a little darling, and as Jim saved her life I have a special interest in her; but this is out of the question."

It was two or three minutes before she answered the showman's last words.

"No, it cannot be done, Sergeant Wilks. No money that could be paid me would make up to me for the charge of a child of her age. I am all day in school, and what could a child, especially one accustomed to be out all day, do with herself? The worry and anxiety would be immense. Were it not for my school, it would be different altogether. A child of that age, especially such a sweet little thing as your granddaughter seems to be, would be a pet and amusement; but as it is, I am sorry to say that it is out of the question. But surely you will have no difficulty in finding plenty of good women who would be glad to take her, and to whom, having children of the same age, she would be no trouble whatever."

"Yes," the sergeant said slowly, "I was afraid you would say that, ma'm. Besides, though you are good enough not to say it, I know that there must be other objections. I know you must be surprised at my wanting her to be with a lady like yourself. So far as money goes, I could afford to pay fifty pounds a year, and perhaps you might get a girl who could look after Aggie while you are busy."

"Fifty pounds a year!" Mrs. Walsham said, greatly surprised. "That is a large sum, a great deal too large a sum for you to pay for the care of such a little child. For half that, there are scores of farmers' wives who would be happy to take her, and where she would be far more happy and comfortable than she would be with me."

"I know I could get plenty to take her," the soldier said, "but I have reasons, very particular reasons, why I wish to place her with a lady for two years. I cannot explain those reasons to you, but you may imagine they must be strong ones, for me to be willing to pay fifty pounds a year for her. That money has been laid by from the day she was born, for that purpose. I have other reasons, of my own, for wishing that she should be at Sidmouth rather than at any other place; and I have another reason," and a slight smile stole across his face, "for preferring that she should be with you rather than anyone else. All this must seem very strange to you, madam; but at the end of the two years, when you know what my reasons were, you will acknowledge that they were good ones.

"God knows," he went on, looking very grave, "what a wrench it will be for me to part with her. How lonely I shall be, as I tramp the country without her pretty prattle to listen to; but I have got to do it sooner or later, and these two years, when I can see her sometimes, will be a break, and accustom me to do without her sweet face.

"Please, madam," he urged, "do not give me a final answer today. I shall not go till Monday, and will call again, if you will let me, that morning; and believe me, if I could tell you all, I could give you reasons which would, I think, induce you to change your mind."

So saying, he made a military salute, took the child's hand in his, and was soon striding along towards the sea.

Mrs. Walsham was some time before she recovered from her surprise. This was, indeed, a mysterious affair. The earnestness with which the old soldier pleaded his cause had moved her strongly, and had almost persuaded her to accept the proposal, which had at first seemed preposterous. Fifty pounds a year, too, was certainly a handsome sum. She could get a girl from the village for two or three shillings a week to look after the child, and go out with her during school hours, and a hundred pounds would be a very handsome addition to the sum which she had begun, little by little, to lay by for Jim's preparation for the medical profession.

In the five years which would elapse, before it would be time for him to enter upon his studies for it, she could hardly hope to lay by more than that sum, and this would at a stroke double it. Certainly it was a tempting offer. She could not do justice to the child, could not give her the care and attention which she ought to have, and which she could have for such a sum elsewhere; but the sergeant knew exactly how she was placed, and if he was willing and anxious for her to assume the charge of the child, why should she refuse this good offer?

However, her pupils were waiting for her in the next room, and with an effort Mrs. Walsham put the matter aside, and went in to them.

When James returned home to dinner, his mother related to him the whole conversation. James was more amused than puzzled.

"It seems a rum idea, mother; but I don't see why you shouldn't take her. She is a sweet little thing, and will be a great amusement. Fifty pounds a year seems a tremendous sum for a man like that to pay; but I suppose he knows his own business, and it will be a great pull for you. You will be able to have all sorts of comforts. I should like it very much. I have often wished I had had a little sister, and she can go out walks with me, you know. It would be like having a big dog with one, only much jollier."

"Yes," his mother said smiling; "and I shouldn't be surprised if you wanted to throw sticks into the water for her to fetch them out, and to be taking her out for a night's fishing, and be constantly bringing her home splashed with that nasty red mud from head to foot. You would be a nice playmate for a little girl, Jim. Perhaps it is that special advantage that the sergeant had in his mind's eye, when he was so anxious to put her with me."

James laughed.

"I would see that she didn't come to any harm, anyhow, you know; and, after all, I suppose it was my picking her out of the sea that had something to do with his first thinking of putting her with you."

"I suppose it had, Jim," she said more seriously. "But what do you think, my boy? You know there are disadvantages in it. There will be a good deal of talk about my taking this showman's grandchild, and some of the farmers' wives won't like it."

"Then let them dislike it," James said indignantly. "The child is as good as their daughters, any day. Why, I noticed her in church looking like a little lady. There was not a child there to compare to her."

"Yes, I have noticed her myself," Mrs. Walsham said. "She is a singularly pretty and graceful child; but it will certainly cause remark."

"Well, mother, you can easily say, what is really the fact, that you naturally felt an interest in her because I picked her out of the water. Besides, if people make remarks they will soon be tired of that; and if not, I can get into some scrape or other and give them something else to talk about."

Accordingly, when Sergeant Wilks called on Monday morning for his answer, Mrs. Walsham told him that she had decided to accept his offer.

"You are aware how I am placed," she said, "and that I cannot give her the care and time which I could wish, and which she ought to have for such a liberal payment as you propose; but you know that beforehand, and you see that for two years' payments I could not sacrifice my school connection, which I should have to do if I gave her the time I should wish."

"I understand, madam," he said, "and I am grateful to you for consenting to take her. She is getting too old now to wander about with me, and since the narrow escape she had, last time I was here, I have felt anxious whenever she was out of my sight. It would not suit me to put her in a farm house. I want her to learn to speak nicely, and I have done my best to teach her; but if she went to a farm house she would be picking up all sorts of country words, and I want her to talk like a little lady.

"So that is settled, ma'm. I am going on to Exeter from here, and shall get her a stock of clothes there, and will bring her back next Saturday. Will it suit you to take her then?"

Mrs. Walsham said that would suit very well; and an hour later the sergeant set out from Sidmouth with his box, Aggie trotting alongside, talking continuously.

"But why am I to stop with that lady, grampa, and not to go about with you any more? I sha'n't like it. I like going about, though I get so tired sometimes when you are showing the pictures; and I like being with you. It isn't 'cause I have been naughty, is it? 'Cause I fell out of the boat into the water? I won't never get into a boat again, and I didn't mean to fall out, you know."

"No, Aggie, it's not that," the sergeant said. "You are always a good girl--at least, not always, because sometimes you get into passions, you know. Still, altogether you are a good little girl. Still, you see, you can't always be going about the country with me."

"But why not, grampa?"

"Well, my dear, because great girls can't go about the country like men. It wouldn't be right and proper they should."

"Why shouldn't it be, grampa?" the child persisted.

"Well, Aggie, I can't exactly explain to you why, but so it is. Men and boys have to work. They go about in ships, or as soldiers to fight for their country, just as I did. Girls and women have to stop at home, and keep house, and nurse babies, and that sort of thing. God made man to be hard and rough, and to work and go about. He made woman gentle and soft, to stop at home and make things comfortable."

Aggie meditated for some distance, in silence, upon this view of the case.

"But I have seen women working in the fields, grampa, and some of them didn't seem very soft and gentle."

"No, Aggie, things don't always go just as they ought to do; and you see, when people are poor, and men can't earn enough wages, then their wives and daughters have to help; and then, you see, they get rough, more like men, because they are not doing their proper work. But I want you to grow up soft and gentle, and so, for a time, I want you to live with that lady with the nice boy who pulled you out of the water, and they will make you very happy, and I shall come and see you sometime."

"I like him," the child said with a nod; "but I would rather be with you, you know."

"And the lady will teach you to read, Aggie. You have learned your letters, you know."

Aggie shook her head, to show that this part of the programme was not particularly to her liking.

"Do you think the boy will play with me, grampa?"

"I daresay he will, Aggie, when you are very good; and you must never forget, you know, that he saved your life. Just think how unhappy I should be, if he had not got you out of the water."

"The water was cold and nasty," Aggie said, "and it seemed so warm and nice to my hands. Aggie won't go near the water any more. Of course, if the boy is with me I can go, because he won't let me tumble in.

"Shall I get into the basket now, grampa? I is tired."

"Oh, nonsense, little woman! you have not walked half a mile yet. Anyhow, you must trot along until you get to the top of this hill, then you shall have a lift for a bit."

And so, with the child sometimes walking and sometimes riding, sometimes asleep in her basket and sometimes chatting merrily to her grandfather, the pair made their way across the country towards Exeter.

There was no little talk in Sidmouth when, on the following Sunday, the showman's grandchild appeared in Mrs. Walsham's pew in church, and it became known that she had become an inmate of her house. It was generally considered that Mrs. Walsham had let herself down greatly by taking the showman's grandchild, and one or two of the mothers of her pupils talked about taking them away. One or two, indeed, called upon her to remonstrate personally, but they gained nothing by the step.

"I do not understand what you mean," she said quietly, "by saying that the child is not fit to associate with my other pupils. She is singularly gentle and taking in her manner. She expresses herself better than any child of her own age in Sidmouth, so far as I know. There are few so neatly and prettily dressed. What is there to object to? Her grandfather has been a sergeant in the army. He bears a good character, and is liked wherever he goes. I do not consider that James or myself are, in any way, demeaned by sitting down to meals with the child, who, indeed, behaves as prettily and nicely as one could wish; and I certainly do not see that any of my pupils can be injuriously affected by the fact that, for an hour or two in the day, she learns her lessons in the same room with them. Had I thought that they would be, I should not have received her. I shall, of course, be sorry if any of my pupils are taken away, but as I have several girls only waiting for vacancies, it would make no difference to me pecuniarily."

And so it happened that Mrs. Walsham lost none of her pupils, and in a short time the wonder died out. Indeed, the child herself was so pretty, and taking in her ways, that it was impossible to make any objection to her personally.

Mrs. Walsham had been struck by the self command which she showed at parting with her grandfather. Her eyes were full of tears, her lip quivered, and she could scarcely speak; but there was no loud wailing, no passionate outburst. Her grandfather had impressed upon her that the parting was for her own good, and child though she was, she felt how great a sacrifice he was making in parting with her, and although she could not keep the tears from streaming down her cheeks, or silence her sobs as she bade him goodbye, she tried hard to suppress her grief.

The pain of parting was, indeed, fully as great to Sergeant Wilks as to his granddaughter; and it was with a very husky voice that he bade her goodbye, and then, putting her into Mrs. Walsham's arms, walked hastily away.

Aggie was soon at home. She and James very quickly became allies, and the boy was ever ready to amuse her, often giving up his own plans to take her for a walk to pick flowers in the hedgerow, or to sail a tiny boat for her in the pools left as the sea retired. Mrs. Walsham found, to her surprise, that the child gave little trouble. She was quiet and painstaking during the half hours in the morning and afternoon when she was in the school room, while at mealtimes her prattle and talk amused both mother and son, and altogether she made the house brighter and happier than it was before.

In two months the sergeant came round again. He did not bring his box with him, having left it at his last halting place; telling James, who happened to meet him as he came into Sidmouth, that he did not mean to bring his show there again.

"It will be better for the child," he explained. "She has done with the peep show now, and I do not want her to be any longer associated with it."

Aggie was delighted to see him, and sprang into his arms, with a scream of joy, as he entered. After a few minutes' talk, Mrs. Walsham suggested that she should put on her hat and go for a walk with him, and, in high contentment, the child trotted off, holding her grandfather's hand. Turning to the left, the sergeant took the path up the hill, and when he reached the top, sat down on the short turf, with Aggie nestling up against him.

"So you are quite well and happy, Aggie?" he asked.

"Quite well, grampa, and very happy; but I do wish so much that you were here. Oh. it would be so nice to have you to go out with every day!"

"I am afraid that cannot be managed, Aggie. I have been busy so long that I could not settle down quietly here. Besides, I must live, you know."

"But wouldn't people give you money for the show if you lived here, grampa? You always got money here the same as other places."

"Yes, my dear, but I could not get fresh pictures every day, and should soon tire them by showing the old house."

"But you are sorry sometimes, grampa, not to have me with you?"

"Yes, Aggie, very sorry. I miss you terribly sometimes, and I am always thinking about you."

"Then why don't you take me away again, grampa?"

"Because, as I told you, Aggie, I want you to learn to read, and to grow up quite a little lady."

"Does reading make one a lady, grampa?"

"No, Aggie, not by itself, but with other things."

"And when I am quite grown up and big, and know how to read nicely, shall I be able to go with you again?"

"We will see about that, Aggie, when the time comes. There is plenty of time yet to think about that."

"But I am getting on very fast, grampa, and the lady says I am a good girl. So it won't be such a very long time before I can leave."

"It will be some time, yet. You have only got to read little words yet, but there are lots of long words which you will come to presently. But Mrs. Walsham tells me that you are getting on nicely, and that you are a very good girl, which pleases me very much; and when I am walking along with my box, I shall like to be able to think of you as being quite comfortable and happy."

"And I go walks with Jim, grampa, and Jim has made me a boat, and he says someday, when it is very fine and quiet, he will take me out in a big boat, like that boat, you know; and he is going to ask you if he may, for the lady said I must not go out with him till he has asked you. And he said he won't let me tumble over, and I am going to sit quite, quite still."

"Yes, Aggie, I don't see any harm in your going out with him. I am sure he will only take you when it is fine, and he will look after you well. You like him, don't you?"

"Oh! I do, grampa; and you know, it was him who got me out of the water, else I should never have come out, and never have seen grampa again; and he has made me a boat. Oh! yes, I do like him!"

"That's right, my dear; always stick to those who are good to you."

A few days after this, as James was sailing the toy boat, for Aggie's amusement, in a pool, a boy sauntered up. He was somewhat taller than James Walsham, and at least two years older. He was well dressed, and James knew him as the nephew and heir of the squire.

It was not often that Richard Horton came down into the village. He was accustomed to be treated with a good deal of deference at the Hall, and to order servants and grooms about pretty much as he chose, and the indifference with which the fisher boys regarded him offended him greatly. He was a spoilt boy. His uncle had a resident tutor for him, but the selection had been a bad one. The library was large and good, the tutor fond of reading, and he was content to let the boy learn as little as he chose, providing that he did not trouble him. As to any instruction beyond books, he never thought of giving it.

The squire never interfered. He was a silent and disappointed man. He attended to his duties as a magistrate, and to the management of his estate, but seldom went beyond the lodge gates. He took his meals by himself, and often did not see his nephew for a week together, and had no idea but that he was pursuing his studies regularly with his tutor. Thus, the character of Richard Horton formed itself unchecked. At the best it was a bad one, but under other circumstances it might have been improved.

Up to the age of ten, he had lived in London with his father and mother, the latter a sister of the squire, who, having married beneath her, to the indignation of Mr. Linthorne, he had never seen her afterwards.

Four years before the story begins, she had received a letter from him, saying that, as her eldest son was now his heir, he wished him to come and live with him, and be prepared to take his place. The Hortons, who had a numerous family, at once accepted the offer, and Richard, hearing that he was going to a grand house, and would no doubt have a pony and all sorts of nice things, left his father and mother without a tear.

He was essentially selfish. He was vain of his good looks, which were certainly striking; and with his changed fortunes he became arrogant, and, as the squire's servants said, hateful; and yet the change had brought him less pleasure than he expected. It was true that he had the pony, that he was not obliged to trouble himself with lessons, that he was an important person at the "Hall;" but he had no playfellows, no one to admire his grandeur, and the days often passed heavily, and there was a look of discontent and peevishness upon his handsome face.

Perhaps the reason why he so seldom came down into Sidmouth, was not only because the fisher boys were not sufficiently impressed with his importance, but because they looked so much happier and more contented than he felt, in spite of his numerous advantages. On this day he was in a particularly bad temper. He had lamed his pony the day before, by riding it furiously over a bad road after it had cast a shoe. The gardener had objected to his picking more than half a dozen peaches which had just come into perfection, and had threatened to appeal to the squire.

Altogether, he was out of sorts, and had walked down to the sea with a vague hope that something might turn up to amuse him. He stood for some little time watching James sail the boat, and then strode down to the edge of the pool. The boat was a model of a smack, with brown sails. James had taken a good deal of pains with it, and it was an excellent model.

Presently, in crossing, she stuck in a shallow some twelve feet from the edge. The intervening stretch of water was a foot deep.

James picked up some small stones and threw them close to her, that the tiny wave they made might float her off. He tried several times without success.

"What's the use of such little stones as that?" Richard said roughly. "You will never get her off like that;" and picking up one as large as his fist, he threw it with some force.

It struck the mast, and broke it asunder, and knocked the boat on to her side. James Walsham uttered an angry exclamation.

"You are a bad boy," Aggie said passionately. "You are a bad boy to break my boat;" and she burst into tears.

"I didn't mean to do it, you little fool!" Richard said angrily, vexed more at his own clumsiness than at the damage it had caused. "What are you making such a beastly noise about?" and he gave her a push.

It was not a hard one, but the ground was slippery, and the child's foot slipped, and she fell at the edge of the pool, her dress going partly into the water. At the same instant, Richard reeled, and almost fell beside her, from a heavy blow between the eyes from James's fist.

"You insolent blackguard!" he exclaimed furiously, "I will pay you for this;" and he rushed at James.

The combat was not a long one. Hard work at rowing and sailing had strengthened Jim Walsham's muscles, and more than balanced the advantage in height and age of his adversary. He had had, too, more than one fight in his time, and after the first sudden burst of passion, caused by the overthrow of Aggie, he fought coolly and steadily, while Richard rained his blows wildly, without attempting to guard his face.

The child, on regaining her feet, ran crying loudly towards the beach, making for two fishermen who were engaged in mending a net some distance away; but before she could reach them to beg for aid for her champion, the fight was over, terminating by a heavy right-handed hit from James, which landed Richard Horton on his back in the pool.

James stood quietly awaiting a renewal of the conflict when he arose, but Richard had had enough of it. One of his eyes was already puffed and red, his nose bleeding, and his lip cut. His clothes were soaked from head to foot, and smeared with the red mud.

"I will pay you out for this, you see if I don't," Richard gasped hoarsely.

"What! have you had enough of it?" James said scornfully. "I thought you weren't any good. A fellow who would bully a little girl is sure to be a coward."

Richard moved as if he would renew the fight, but he thought better of it, and with a furious exclamation hurried away towards the Hall.

James, without paying any further heed to him, waded after the boat, and having recovered it, walked off towards the child, who, on seeing his opponent had moved off, was running down to meet him.

"Here is the boat, Aggie," he said. "There is no great harm done, only the mast and yard broken. I can easily put you in fresh ones;" but the child paid no attention to the boat.

"He is a wicked bad boy, Jim; and did he hurt you?"

"Oh, no, he didn't hurt me, Aggie, at least nothing to speak of. I hurt him a good deal more. I paid him out well for breaking your boat, and pushing you down, the cowardly brute!"

"Only look, Jim," she said, holding out her frock. "What will she say?"

James laughed.

"Mother won't say anything," he said. "She is accustomed to my coming in all muddy."

"But she said 'Keep your frock clean,' and it's not clean," Aggie said in dismay.

"Yes, but that is not your fault, little one. I will make it all right with her, don't you fret. Come on, we had better go home and change it as soon as possible."

They passed close by the two fishermen on their way.

"You gave it to the young squire finely, Master Walsham," one of them said, "and served him right, too. We chanced to be looking at the moment, and saw it all. He is a bad un, he is, by what they say up at the Hall. I heard one of the grooms talking last night down at the 'Ship,' and a nice character he gave him. This thrashing may do him some good; and look you, Master Walsham, if he makes a complaint to the squire, and it's likely enough he will get up a fine story of how it came about--the groom said he could lie like King Pharaoh--you just send word to me, and me and Bill will go up to the squire, and tell him the truth of the matter."

Mrs. Walsham felt somewhat alarmed when her son told her what had happened, for the squire was a great man at Sidmouth, a magistrate, and the owner of the greater part of the place as well as of the land around it; and although Mrs. Walsham did not hold the same exaggerated opinion of his powers as did the majority of his neighbours, who would scarcely have dreamt of opposing it, had the squire ordered anyone to be hung and quartered, still she felt that it was a somewhat terrible thing that her son should have thrashed the nephew and heir of the great man.

In the evening there was a knock at the door, and the little maid came in with eyes wide open with alarm, for she had heard of the afternoon's battle, to say that the constable wished to speak to Mrs. Walsham.

"Servant, ma'am," he said as he entered. "I am sorry to be here on an unpleasant business; but I have got to say as the squire wishes to see Master Walsham in the justice room at ten o'clock, on a charge of 'salt and battery.

"Don't you be afeard ma'am," he went on confidentially. "I don't think as anything is going to be done to him. I ain't got no warrant, and so I don't look upon it as regular business. I expects it will be just a blowing up. It will be just the squire, and not the magistrate, I takes it. He told me to have him up there at ten, but as he said nothing about custody, I thought I would do it my own way and come to you quiet like; so if you say as Master Walsham shall be up there at ten o'clock, I'll just take your word for it and won't come to fetch him. The doctor was allus very good to me and my missus, and I shouldn't like to be walking through Sidmouth with my hand on his son's collar."

"Thank you, Hobson," Mrs. Walsham said quietly. "You can rely upon it my son shall be there punctually. He has nothing to be afraid or ashamed of."

Full of rage as Richard Horton had been, as he started for home, he would never have brought the matter before the squire on his own account. His case was too weak, and he had been thrashed by a boy younger than himself. Thus, he would have probably chosen some other way of taking his vengeance; but it happened that, just as he arrived home, he met his tutor coming out. The latter was astounded at Richard's appearance. His eyes were already puffed so much that he could scarcely see out of them, his lips were cut and swollen, his shirt stained with blood, his clothes drenched and plastered with red mud.

"Why, what on earth has happened, Richard?"

Richard had already determined upon his version of the story.

"A brute of a boy knocked me down into the water," he said, "and then knocked me about till he almost killed me."

"But what made him assault you in this outrageous manner?" his tutor asked. "Surely all the boys about here must know you by sight; and how one of them would dare to strike you I cannot conceive."

"I know the fellow," Richard said angrily. "He is the son of that doctor fellow who died two years ago."

"But what made him do it?" the tutor repeated.

"He was sailing his boat, and it got stuck, and he threw in some stones to get it off; and I helped him, and I happened to hit the mast of his beastly boat, and then he flew at me like a tiger, and that's all."

"Well, it seems to be a monstrous assault, Richard, and you must speak to the squire about it."

"Oh, no, I sha'n't," Richard said hastily. "I don't want any row about it, and I will pay him off some other way. I could lick him easy enough if it had been a fair fight, only he knocked me down before I was on my guard. No, I sha'n't say anything about it."

But Richard's tutor, on thinking the matter over, determined to speak to the squire. Only the evening before, Mr. Linthorne had surprised him by asking him several questions as to Richard's progress and conduct, and had said something about examining him himself, to see how he was getting on. This had caused Mr. Robertson no little alarm, for he knew that even the most superficial questioning would betray the extent of Richard's ignorance, and he had resolved that, henceforth, he would endeavour to assert his authority, and to insist upon Richard's devoting a certain portion of each day, regularly, to study. Should the squire meet the boy anywhere about the house, he must at once notice the condition of his face; and even if he did not meet him, he could not fail to notice it on Sunday, when he sat beside him in the pew. It would be better, therefore, that he should at once report the matter to him.

Without saying a word to Richard of his intentions, he therefore went to the squire's study, and told him what had taken place, as he had learned it from Richard. The squire listened silently.

"Very well, Mr. Robertson. You were quite right to tell me about it. Of course, I cannot suffer my nephew to be treated in this manner. At the same time, I am sorry that it was Walsham's son. I don't know anything about the boy, and should not know him even by sight, but I had an esteem for his father, who was a hard-working man, and, I believe, clever. He used to attend here whenever any of the servants were ill, and I had intended to do something for the boy. I am sorry he has turned out so badly. However, I will have him up here and speak to him. This sort of thing cannot be permitted."

And accordingly, orders were given to the constable. When, in the evening, Mr. Robertson informed Richard what he had done, the boy flew into a terrible passion, and abused his tutor with a violence of language which shocked and astonished him, and opened his eyes to his own culpability, in allowing him to go on his way unchecked. He in vain endeavoured to silence the furious lad. He had been so long without exercising any authority, that he had now no authority to exercise, and, after an angry scene, Richard flung himself out of the room, and left his tutor in a state bordering on consternation.

Chapter 3: The Justice Room.

Richard's feelings were not to be envied, as he lay awake that night, thinking over what had taken place in the morning. It had never, for a moment, entered his mind that his tutor would repeat his statement to the squire, and he would have given a good deal if he had not made it. However, there was nothing for him now but to stick to the story, and he felt but little doubt of the result. He had no idea that any, but the actors in it, had witnessed the scene by the pool, and he felt confident that his uncle would, as a matter of course, take his word in preference to that of this boy, who would naturally tell lies to screen himself. Of course, the child was there, but no one would mind what a baby like that said. Still, it was a nuisance, and he gnashed his teeth with rage at the interference of his tutor in the matter.

"I will get rid of him, somehow, before long," he said. "I will pay him out for his meddling, as sure as my name's Richard Horton. I will get him out of this before three months are gone."

The next morning at breakfast, Richard received a message from the squire that he was to be present at ten o'clock in the justice room, and accordingly, at that hour he presented himself there with a confident air, but with an inward feeling of misgiving.

The squire was sitting at his table, with his clerk beside him. Mr. Robertson was in a chair a short distance off. The constable was standing by the side of James Walsham, at the other end of the room. Mr. Linthorne nodded to his nephew.

"I wish you to repeat the story which you told Mr. Robertson yesterday."

Richard had thought over whether it would be better to soften his story, but as it had already been told to the squire, he had concluded that there would be more danger in contradicting his first version than in sticking to it. Accordingly, he repeated his story almost word for word as he had told it to Mr. Robertson.

"What have you to say to this, James Walsham?" the squire asked. "This is a serious charge, that you without any provocation assaulted and maltreated my nephew."

"I say it is all a lie, sir," James said fearlessly.

The squire uttered a short exclamation of surprise and anger. He had been, at first, favourably impressed with the appearance of the young prisoner, though he had been surprised at seeing that he was younger than his nephew, for he had expected to see a much older boy.

"That is not the way to speak, sir," he said sternly, while the constable pressed a warning hand on James's shoulder.

"Well, sir, it's not true then," the boy said. "It's all false from beginning to end, except that I did strike him first; but I struck him, not because he had thrown a great stone and broken my boat, but because he pushed a little girl who was with me down into the water."

"She slipped down. I never pushed her," Richard broke in.

"Hold your tongue, sir," the squire said sternly. "You have given your evidence. I have now to hear what the accused has to say.

"Now, tell your story."

James now gave his version of the affair.

When he had ended, Mr. Linthorne said gravely, "Have you any witnesses to call?"

"Yes, sir, there are two fishermen outside who saw it."

"Bring them in," the magistrate said to the constable.

Not a word was spoken in the justice room until the constable returned. As James had told his story, the magistrate had listened with disbelief. It had not occurred to him that his nephew could have told a lie, and he wondered at the calmness with which this boy told his story. Why, were it true, Richard was a coward as well as a liar, for with his superior age and height, he should have been able to thrash this boy in a fair fight; yet James's face had not a mark, while his nephew's showed how severely he had been punished.

But his eye fell upon Richard when James said that he had witnesses. He saw an unmistakable look of terror come over his face, and the bitter conviction flashed across him that James's story was the true one.

"There is no occasion to give him the book, Hobson," he said, as the constable was about to hand the Testament to one of the fishermen. "This is a private investigation, not a formal magisterial sitting, and there is no occasion, at this stage, to take any evidence on oath."

"What is your name, my man?"

"John Mullens, your honour."

"Well, just tell me, Mullens, what you know about this business."

"I was a-mending my nets, yer honour, along with Simon Harte, and young Master Walsham was a-sailing his boat in a pool, along with the little gal as lives at his mother's."

"How far were you from the spot where he was?" the squire asked.

"Two hundred yards or so, I should say," the fisherman replied. "We was working behind a boat, but we could see over it well enough. Presently we saw Master Horton come down, and stand alongside the others.

"I said to Simon, 'He is a good-looking young fellow, is the squire's nephew,'" and the fisherman's eye twinkled with a grim humour, as he glanced at Richard's swollen face.

"The boat got stuck, and Master Walsham threw something in close to it to get it off. Then I see Master Horton stoop, and pick up a chunk of stone, and chuck it hard; and it hit the boat and knocked it over. I see the little girl turn round and say something to Master Horton, and then she put her apron up to her face and began to cry. He gave her a sort of shove, and she tumbled down into the edge of the pool.

"I says to Simon, 'What a shame!' but afore the words was out of my mouth, Master Walsham he hits him, and hits him hard, too. Then there was a fight, but Master Horton, he hadn't a chance with James, who gave him as sound a licking as ever you see'd, and ending with knocking him backwards into the pool. Then he gets up and shakes his fist at James, and then goes off as hard as he could. That's all I know about it."

"It's a wicked lie," Richard burst out. "They have made it up between them. There was nobody there."

"Hold your tongue, sir, I tell you," the squire said, so sternly that Richard, who had risen from his seat, shrank back again and remained silent; while Simon Harte gave his evidence, which was almost identical with that of the other fisherman.

"Have you any other witnesses?" the magistrate asked James.

"Only the little girl, sir, but I did not bring her up. She is so little, I thought it was better she should not come, but I can send for her if you wish it."

"It is not necessary," Mr. Linthorne said. "I have heard quite sufficient. The manner in which you and these fishermen have given your evidence convinces me that you are speaking the truth, and I am sorry that you should have been placed in this position. You will understand that this is not a formal court, and therefore that there is no question of discharging you. I can only say that, having heard the story of what took place at this fight between you and my nephew, I am convinced that you did what any other boy of spirit would have done, under the same circumstances, and that the punishment which you administered to him was thoroughly deserved.

"Good morning!"

James Walsham and his witnesses left the room. Mr. Linthorne rose, and saying to his nephew, "Follow me, sir," went to his study.

Without saying a word as to what had passed, he took down some books from the shelves, and proceeded to examine Richard in them. A few minutes sufficed to show that the boy was almost absolutely ignorant of Latin, while a few questions in geography and history showed that he was equally deficient in these also.

"That will do," the squire said. "Go up to your room, and remain there until I send for you."

An hour after this a dog cart came round to the door. Mr. Robertson took his place in it with his trunk, and was driven away to Exeter, never to return.

For two days Richard remained a prisoner in his room. His meals were brought up to him, but the servant who came with them answered no questions, telling him that the squire's orders were that he was not to hold any conversation with him. There was, indeed, a deep pleasure among the servants at the Hall, at the knowledge that Richard Horton was in disgrace. The exact circumstances of the affair were unknown, for the fishermen had not been present when Richard had told his story, and Mrs. Walsham, who was much shocked when James told her the circumstances, had impressed upon him that it was better to say nothing more about it.

"You are clear in the matter, Jim, and that is enough for you. The squire will, no doubt, punish his nephew for the wicked lies he has told. Some day, you know, the boy will be master here. Don't let us set everyone against him by telling this disgraceful story."

So, beyond the fact that there had been a fight between James Walsham and the squire's nephew, and that Richard Horton had been thrashed, and that the squire himself had said that it served him right, Sidmouth knew nothing of what had taken place in the justice room.

Mr. Linthorne's first impulse had been to send his nephew at once back to his parents, with the message that he would have nothing more to do with him; but, though he had the reputation of being a stern man, the squire was a very kind-hearted one. He was shocked to find that the boy was a liar, and that, to shield himself, he had invented this falsehood against his opponent; but upon reflection, he acknowledged that he himself had been to blame in the matter. He had taken the boy into his house, had assigned to him the position of his heir, and had paid no further attention to him.

Unfortunately, the man he had selected as his tutor had proved false to the trust. The boy had been permitted to run wild, his head was turned with the change in his prospects, his faults had grown unchecked. It was to be said for him that he had not intended, in the first place, to bring his opponent into disgrace by making this false accusation against him, for his tutor had acknowledged that he had said he did not intend to tell him, or to take any step in the matter, and his position of accuser had been, to some extent, forced upon him by the necessity of his confirming the tale, which he had told to account for his being thrashed by a boy smaller than himself.

Yes, it would be unfair upon the boy utterly to cast him off for this first offence. He would give him one more trial.

The result of the squire's reflection was that, on the third day of his imprisonment, Richard was sent for to the study. The squire did not motion to him to sit down, and he remained standing with, as the squire said to himself, a hang-dog look upon his face.

"I have been thinking over this matter quietly, Richard, for I did not wish to come to any hasty conclusion. My first impulse was to pack you off home, and have no more to do with you, but I have thought better of it. Mean and despicable as your conduct has been, I take some blame to myself, for not having seen that your tutor did his duty by you. Therefore, I have resolved to give you another chance, but not here. I could not bear to have a boy, who has proved himself a despicable liar, about me; but I will try and think that this was a first offence, and that the lesson which it has taught you may influence all your future life, and that you may yet grow up an honourable man.

"But you will remember that, henceforth, you are on trial, and that the position in which you will stand by my will, will depend solely and entirely on your own conduct. If you prove, by that, that this lesson has had its effect, that you deeply repent of your conduct, and are resolved to do your best to be henceforth straight, honourable, and true, you will, at my death, occupy the position I have intended for you. If not, not one single penny of my money will you get. I am going to put you in a school where you will be looked strictly after, and where you will have every chance of retrieving yourself. I have just written to a friend of mine, a post captain in his majesty's service, asking him to receive you as a midshipman. I have told him frankly that you have been somewhat over indulged, and that the discipline of the sea life will be of great benefit to you, and have requested him to keep a tight hand over you, and let me know occasionally how you are going on. I have told him that your position as my heir will, to a very large extent, depend upon his reports, and have asked him, in the name of our old friendship, to be perfectly frank and open in them with me. I have said 'he is my eldest nephew, but I have others who will take his place, if he is unworthy of the position, and although I should be sorry if he should be found wanting, I will commit the interests of all the tenants and people on my estate to no one who is not, in every respect, an honourable gentleman.'

"That will do, sir. You need not remain longer in your room, but you will not leave the grounds. My friend's ship is at Portsmouth at present, and doubtless I shall receive an answer in the course of a few days. Until then, the less we see each other, the more pleasant for us both."

There were few more miserable boys in England than Richard Horton, during the week which elapsed before the answer to the squire's letter was received. It cannot be said that, in the true sense of the word, he was sorry for his fault. He was furious with himself, not because he had lied, but because of the consequences of the lie. A thousand times he called himself a fool for having imperilled his position, and risked being sent back again to the dingy house in London, merely to excuse himself for being thrashed by a boy smaller than himself. Mad with his folly, not in having invented the story, but in having neglected to look round, to assure himself that there were no witnesses who would contradict it, he wandered disconsolate about the gardens and park, cursing what he called his fortune.

It was an additional sting to his humiliation, that he knew every servant in and about the house rejoiced at his discomfiture, and he imagined that there was a veiled smile of satisfaction, at his bruised visage and his notorious disgrace with the squire, on the face of every man he met outside, and of every woman who passed him in the house.

During the whole week he did not venture near the stables, for there he knew that he had rendered himself specially obnoxious, and there was nothing for him to do but to saunter listlessly about the garden, until the day arrived that the letter came granting the squire's request, and begging that he might be sent off at once, as the vessel would probably put to sea in a few days.

"Now, Richard," the squire said that evening to him, in a kinder voice than he had used on the last occasion, "you understand exactly how we stand towards each other. That being so, I do not wish to maintain our present uncomfortable relations. You have had your punishment, and, unless I hear to the contrary, I shall assume that the punishment has had its effect. When you return from sea, after your first voyage, you will come home here as if nothing had happened, and this business need never be alluded to between us. If you turn out as I have hitherto believed you to be, I shall receive you as warmly as if my opinion of you had never been shaken.

"I have requested Captain Sinclair to let me know what is the average allowance that the midshipmen receive from their parents, and shall see that you have as much as your messmates. I have also asked him to kindly allow one of his officers to order you a proper outfit in all respects, and to have the bill sent in to me. So now, my boy, you will have a fresh and a fair start, and I trust that you will turn out everything that I can wish."

"I will try, sir. I will indeed," Richard said earnestly; and he spoke from his heart, for the inheritance was very dear to him, and it would be a terrible thing indeed to forfeit it.

For two years after Richard Horton's departure, things went on quietly at Sidmouth. James Walsham continued to make a pet and a playmate of little Aggie. Her out-of-door life had made her strong and sturdy, and she was able to accompany him in all his rambles, while, when he was at work at home preparing fishing lines, making boats, or otherwise amusing himself, she was content to sit hours quietly beside him, chattering incessantly, and quite content with an occasional brief answer to the questions. When he was studying, she too would work at her lessons; and however much she might be puzzled over these, she would never disturb him by asking him questions when so engaged.

She was an intelligent child, and the hour's lesson, morning and afternoon, soon grew into two. She was eager to learn, and rapidly gained ground on Mrs. Walsham's older pupils. During the two years, that lady never had cause to regret that she had yielded to the sergeant's entreaties. Aggie was no trouble in the house, which she brightened with her childish laughter and merry talk; and her companionship, James's mother could not but think, did the boy much good. It softened his manner, and, although he still often went out with the fishermen, he was no longer thrown entirely for companionship upon the boys on the beach.

The sergeant came and went, seldom being more than two months without paying a visit to Sidmouth. The child was always delighted to see her grandfather, and James took to him greatly, and liked nothing better than to stroll up with him to a sheltered spot on the hillside, where he would throw himself down on the grass, while the sergeant smoked his pipe and told him stories of his travels and adventures, and Aggie ran about looking for wildflowers, or occasionally sat down, for a while, to listen also.

The squire lived his usual lonely life up at the Hall. The absence of his nephew, whose ship had sailed for a foreign station, was a relief rather than otherwise to him. It had, from the first, been a painful effort to him to regard this boy as his heir, and he had only done it when heartsick from a long and fruitless search for one who would have been nearer and dearer to him. Nor had he ever taken to the lad personally. The squire felt that there was not the ring of true metal in him. The careless way in which he spoke of his parents showed a want of heart; and although his uncle was ignorant how much the boy made himself disliked in the household, he was conscious, himself, of a certain antipathy for him, which led him to see as little of him as possible.

The two years, for which the sergeant had placed his grandchild with Mrs. Walsham, came to an end. That he did not intend to continue the arrangement, she judged from something he said on the occasion of his last visit, two months before the time was up, but he gave no hint as to what he intended to do with her.

In those weeks Mrs. Walsham frequently thought the matter over. That the sergeant had plans for the child she could hardly doubt. The child herself had told her that she knew of no other relations than her grandfather, and yet he could hardly intend to take her about with him, after placing her for two years in a comfortable home. She was but seven years old now--far too young to go out into a place as servant girl in a farm house. She doubted not that the sergeant had expended the whole of his savings, and she thought him foolish in not having kept her with him for some little time longer, or, if he could not do that, he might have placed her with some honest people, who would have kept her for the sum he had paid until she was old enough to take a place as a nurse girl.

And yet, while she argued thus, Mrs. Walsham felt that the old showman had not acted without weighing the whole matter. There must be something in it which she did not understand. In fact, he had said so when he placed the child with her.

As the time approached, she became more worried at the thought of Aggie leaving her. The little one had wound herself very closely round her heart. The expense of keeping her was small indeed, the cost of her food next to nothing; while the extra girl, whom Mrs. Walsham had taken on when she first came, had been retained but a very short time, James's constant companionship with her rendering the keeping of a nurse altogether unnecessary.

At last she made up her mind that she would offer to keep her on without pay. She and James would miss her companionship sorely, and it could not be considered an extravagance, since the money she had received for her would pay for the cost of her keep for years to come. When Mrs. Walsham's mind was once made up, her only fear was that these mysterious plans of the sergeant would not allow him to leave Aggie with her.

Punctual to the day, Sergeant Wilks arrived, and after a little talk in the parlour, as usual, with James and Aggie present, he formally requested the favour of a conversation with Mrs. Walsham alone.

"Take Aggie for a walk, James. Do not stay out above three quarters of an hour, as your tea will be ready for you then."

"You must have wondered, ma'am, a good deal," the sergeant began when they were alone, "why I, who get my living by travelling the country with a peep show, wished to place my grandchild in a position above her, and to have her taught to be a little lady. It is time now that I should tell you. Aggie is my granddaughter, but she is the granddaughter, too, of Squire Linthorne up at the Hall."

"Bless me!" Mrs. Walsham ejaculated, too astonished for any further expression of her feelings.

"Yes, ma'am, she is the daughter of the squire's son Herbert, who married my daughter Cissie."

"Dear me, dear me," Mrs. Walsham said, "what an extraordinary thing! Of course I remember Herbert Linthorne, a handsome, pleasant young fellow. He was on bad terms, as everyone heard, eight years ago, with his father, because he married somebody beneath--I mean somebody of whom the squire did not approve. A year afterwards, we heard that he was dead, and there was a report that his wife was dead, too, but that was only a rumour. The squire went away just at the time, and did not come back for months afterwards, and after that he was altogether changed. Before, he had been one of the most popular men in this part of the country, but now he shut himself up, gave up all his acquaintances, and never went outside the park gates except to come down to church. I remember it gave us quite a shock when we saw him for the first time--he seemed to have grown an old man all at once. Everyone said that the death of his son had broken his heart.

"And Aggie is his granddaughter! Well, well, you have astonished me. But why did you not tell me before?"

"There were a good many reasons, ma'am. I thought, in the first place, you might refuse me, if you knew, for it might do you harm. The squire is a vindictive man, and he is landlord of your house; and if he came to know that you had knowingly taken in his granddaughter, there was no saying how he might have viewed it. Then, if you had known it, you might have thought you ought to keep her in, and not let her run about the country with your son; and altogether, it would not have been so comfortable for you or her. I chose to put her at Sidmouth because I wanted to come here often, to hear how the squire was going on; for if he had been taken ill I should have told him sooner than I intended."

"But why did you not tell him before?" Mrs. Walsham asked.

"Just selfishness, ma'am. I could not bring myself to run the risk of having to give her up. She was mine as much as his, and was a hundred times more to me than she could be to him. I took her a baby from her dead mother's arms. I fed her and nursed her, taught her her first words and her first prayer. Why should I offer to give her up to him who, likely enough, would not accept the offer when it was made to him? But I always intended to make it some day. It was my duty to give her the chance at least; but I kept on putting off the day, till that Saturday when she was so nearly drowned; then I saw my duty before me."

"I had, from the first, put aside a hundred pounds, to give her more of an education than I could do; but if it hadn't been for that fall into the sea, it might have been years before I carried out my plan. Then I saw it could not go on any longer. She was getting too old and too bold to sit quiet while I was showing my box. She had had a narrow escape, and who could say what might happen the next time she got into mischief? Then I bethought me that the squire was growing old, and that it was better not to put it off too long. So, ma'am, I came to you and made up my mind to put her with you."

"And you had your way," Mrs. Walsham said, smiling, "though it was with some difficulty."

"I expected it would be difficult, ma'am; but I made up my mind to that, and had you kept on refusing I should, as a last chance, have told you whose child she was."

"But why me?" Mrs. Walsham asked. "Why were you so particularly anxious that she should come to me, of all people?"

The sergeant smiled.

"It's difficult to tell you, ma'am, but I had a reason."

"But what was it?" Mrs. Walsham persisted.

The sergeant hesitated.

"You may think me an old fool, ma'am, but I will tell you what fancy came into my mind. Your son saved Aggie's life. He was twelve years old, she was five, seven years' difference."

"Why, what nonsense, sergeant!" Mrs. Walsham broke in with a laugh. "You don't mean to say that fancy entered your head!"

"It did, ma'am," Sergeant Wilks said gravely. "I liked the look of the boy much. He was brave and modest, and a gentleman. I spoke about him to the fishermen that night, and everyone had a good word for him; so I said to myself, 'I can't reward him for what he has done directly, but it may be that I can indirectly.'

"Aggie is only a child, but she has a loving, faithful little heart, and I said to myself, 'If I throw her with this boy, who, she knows, has saved her life, for two years, she is sure to have a strong affection for him.'

"Many things may happen afterwards. If the squire takes her they will be separated. He may get to care for someone, and so may she, but it's just giving him a chance.

"Then, too, I thought a little about myself. I liked to fancy that, even though she would have to go from me to the squire, my little plan may yet turn out, and it would be I, not he, who had arranged for the future happiness of my little darling. I shouldn't have told you all this, ma'am; but you would have it."

"I am glad you brought her to me, Sergeant Wilks, anyhow," Mrs. Walsham said, "for I love her dearly, and she has been a great pleasure to me; but what you are talking about is simply nonsense. My son is a good boy, and will, I hope, grow up an honourable gentleman like his father; but he cannot look so high as the granddaughter of Squire Linthorne."

"More unequal marriages have been made than that, ma'am," the sergeant said sturdily; "but we won't say more about it. I have thought it over and over, many a hundred times, as I wheeled my box across the hills, and it don't seem to me impossible. I will agree that the squire would never say yes; but the squire may be in his grave years before Aggie comes to think about marriage. Besides, it is more than likely that he will have nothing to say to my pet. If his pride made him cast his son off, rather than acknowledge my daughter as his, it will keep him from acknowledging her daughter as his grandchild. I hope it will, with all my heart; I hope so."

"In that case, Sergeant Wilks," Mrs. Walsham said, "let this be her home for the time. Before you told me your story, I had made up my mind to ask you to let her remain with me. You need feel under no obligation, for the money you have paid me is amply sufficient to pay for the expenses of what she eats for years. It will be a real pleasure for me to keep her, for she has become a part of the house, and we should miss her sorely, indeed. She is quick and intelligent, and I will teach her all I know, and can train her up to take a situation as a governess in a gentleman's family, or perhaps--" and she laughed, "your little romance might come true some day, and she can in that case stop in this home until James makes her another."

"You are very kind, ma'am," the sergeant said. "Truly kind indeed; and I humbly accept your offer, except that so long as I live she shall be no expense to you. I earn more than enough for my wants, and can, at any rate, do something towards preventing her from being altogether a burden on your hands. And now, ma'am, how would you recommend me to go to work with the vindictive old man up at the Hall?"

"I shouldn't have thought he was vindictive. That is not at all the character he bears."

"No," the sergeant said, "I hear him spoken well of; but I have seen, in other cases, men, who have had the name of being pleasant and generous, were yet tyrants and brutes in their own family. I judge him as I found him--a hard hearted, tyrannical, vindictive father. I think I had better not see him myself. We have never met. I have never set eyes on him save here in church; but he regarded me as responsible for the folly of his son. He wrote me a violent letter, and said I had inveigled the lad into the marriage; and although I might have told him it was false, I did not answer his letter, for the mischief was done then, and I hoped he would cool down in time.

"However, that is all past now; but I don't wish to see him. I was thinking of letting the child go to the Hall by herself, and drop in suddenly upon him. She is very like her father, and may possibly take his heart by storm."

"Yes," Mrs. Walsham assented. "Now I know who she is, I can see the likeness strongly. Yes; I should think that that would be the best way. People often yield to a sudden impulse, who will resist if approached formally or from a distance. But have you any reason to suppose that he will not receive her? Did he refuse at first to undertake the charge of the child? Does he even know that she is alive? It may be that, all these years, he has been anxious to have her with him, and that you have been doing him injustice altogether."

"I never thought of it in that light," the sergeant said, after a pause. "He never came near his son when he lay dying, never wrote a line in answer to his letters. If a man could not forgive his son when he lay dying, how could he care for a grandchild he had never seen?"

"That may be so, Sergeant Wilks; but his son's death certainly broke him down terribly, and it may be that he will gladly receive his granddaughter.

"But there are the young ones back again. I will think over what you have been telling me, and we can discuss it again tomorrow."

Chapter 4: The Squire's Granddaughter.

The following day another council was held, and Mrs. Walsham told the sergeant that, on thinking it over, she had concluded that the best way would be to take the old butler at the Hall, who had served the family for forty-five years, into their confidence, and to ask him to arrange how best Aggie might be introduced to the squire.

"I have been thinking over what you said, ma'am, and it may be that you are right, and that I have partly misjudged the squire. I hope so, for Aggie's sake, and yet I cannot help feeling sorry. I have always felt almost sure he would have nothing to say to her, and I have clung to the hope that I should not lose my little girl. I know, of course, how much better it will be for her, and have done all I could to make her so that she should be fit for it, if he took her. But it will be a wrench, ma'am. I can't help feeling it will be a wrench;" and the old soldier's voice quivered as he spoke.

"It cannot be otherwise, sergeant," Mrs. Walsham said kindly. "You have been everything to each other, and though, for her good and happiness, you are ready to give her up, it is a heavy sacrifice for you to make."

That afternoon, the sergeant went for a long walk alone with Aggie, and when they returned Mrs. Walsham saw, by the flushed cheeks and the swollen eyes of the child, that she had been crying. James noticed it also, and saw that she seemed depressed and quiet. He supposed that her grandfather had been telling her that he was going to take her away, for hitherto nothing had been said, in her hearing, as to the approaching termination of the stay with his mother.

As they came out of church, Mrs. Walsham had waited for a moment at the door, and had told the butler at the Hall that she wished particularly to speak to him, that afternoon, if he could manage to come down. They were not strangers, for the doctor had attended John's wife in her last illness, and he had sometimes called with messages from the Hall, when the doctor was wanted there.

John Petersham was astonished, indeed, when Mrs. Walsham informed him that the little girl he had seen in her pew, in church, was his master's granddaughter.

"You don't say so, ma'am. You don't say as that pretty little thing is Master Herbert's child! But why didn't you say so afore? Why, I have caught myself looking at her, and wondering how it was that I seemed to know her face so well; and now, of course, I sees it. She is the picture of Master Herbert when he was little."

"I couldn't say so before, John, because I only knew it myself last night. Her grandfather--that is, her other grandfather, you know--placed her with me to educate, and, as he said, to make a little lady of, two years ago; but it was only last night he told me."

"Only to think of it!" the butler ejaculated. "What will the squire say?"

"Yes, that is the point, John. What will the squire say? Her grandfather thinks he will have nothing to say to her."

"Nothing to say to her, ma'am! Why, he will be off his head with joy. Didn't he search for her, and advertise for her, and do all he could to find her for months? It wasn't till he tried for over a year that he gave it up, and sent for Richard Horton to come to him."

"Her grandfather can only judge by what he knows, John. He tells me that the son wrote to his father, over and over again, on his deathbed, and that he never came near him, or took any notice of the letters."

"That's true enough, ma'am," the butler said sadly; "and it is what has pretty nigh broken the squire's heart. He was obstinate like at first, and he took me with him when he travelled about across the sea among the foreigners, and when he was at a place they called Athens, he got a fever and he was down for weeks. We came home by sea, and the winds was foul, and we made a long voyage of it, and when we got home there was letters that had been lying months and months for us, and among them was those letters of Master Herbert's.

"The squire wasn't an hour in the house afore the carriage was round to the door, and we posted as hard as horses could take us right across England to Broadstairs, never stopping a minute except to change horses; and when we got there it was a month too late, and there was nothing to do but to go to the churchyard, and to see the stone under which Master Herbert and his young wife was laid.

"The house where they had died was shut up. There had been a sale, and the man who was the father of Master Herbert's wife was gone, and we learned there had been a baby born, and that had gone too. The squire was like a madman, blaming himself for his son's death, and a-raving to think what must Master Herbert have thought of him, when he never answered his letters. I had a terrible time with him, and then he set to work to find the child; but, as I told you, we never did find it, or hear a word of it from that time to this, and the squire has never held up his head. He will be pretty well out of his mind with joy."

"I am very glad to hear what you say, John," Mrs. Walsham said. "I could hardly fancy the squire, who always has borne such a name for kindness, being so hard that he would not listen to his dying son's entreaties."

"No, ma'am. The squire was hard for a bit. Master Herbert's marriage was a sad disappointment to him. He had made up his mind he was going to do so well, and to cut such a figure in the world; but he would have come round. Lord bless you, he only meant to hold out for a bit. When he was ill at Athens, he was talking all the time about forgiving his son, and I could see how hard it had been to him to keep separated from him. On the voyage home he fidgeted ever so at the delay, and I knew that the first thing he did, when he got back, would be to write to Master Herbert and tell him to bring his wife down to the Hall. There's not a hard corner in the squire's heart.

"I thank the good God for the news you have told me, ma'am; it's the best I ever heard in all my life."

Mrs. Walsham now told him how the child had been brought up, and then the sergeant himself, who was waiting in the next room, was brought in; and to him John Petersham related the story of the squire's illness, the reason of the letters not reaching him for months after they had been written, and his intense sorrow and self reproach at having arrived too late, and told him of the efforts that had been made to find the child. The sergeant listened in grave silence.

"I am glad it is so," he said, after a pause. "I have misjudged the squire, and I am glad of it. It will be a blow to me to lose the child. I do not pretend that it won't; but it is for her good, and I must be content. He can hardly object to my seeing her sometimes, and if I know that she is well and happy, that is all I care for; and now the sooner it's over the better. Can she come up this evening?"

"Surely she can," John Petersham said. "The squire dines at five. If you will bring her up at six, I will take her in to him."

And so it was arranged, and in his walk with Aggie, afterwards, the sergeant told her the history of her parents, and that Squire Linthorne was her other grandfather, and that she was to go up and see him that evening.

Aggie had uttered her protest against fate. She did not wish to leave her grampa who had been so good to her, and Mrs. Walsham, and James. The description of the big house and its grandeurs, and the pleasures of a pony for herself, offered no enticement to her; and, weeping, she flung her arms round her grandfather's neck and implored him not to give her up.

"I must, my dear. It is my duty. I wish to God that it were not. You know how I love you, Aggie, and how hard it is for me to part with you; but it is for your good, my darling. You mayn't see it now, but when you get older you will know it. It will not be so hard now on me, dear, nor on you, as it would have been had I given you up two years ago; but we have learned to do a little without each other."

"But you will come and see me, just as you have here, won't you?" Aggie said, still weeping.

"I hope so, my dear. You see, the squire is your father's father, while I am only your mother's father, and somehow the law makes him nearer to you than I am, and he will have the right to say what you must do."

"I won't stay with him. I won't," Aggie said passionately, "if he won't let you come."

"You must not say that, dear," the sergeant said. "We must all do our duty, even when that duty is hard to do, and your duty will be to obey the squire's orders, and to do as he tells you. I have no doubt he will be very kind, and that you will be very happy with him, and I hope he will let you see me sometimes."

It was a long time before the child was at all reconciled. When her sobs began to cease, her grandfather told her what she was to do when she saw the squire.

"You will remember, my dear, that I have been more fortunate than he has. I have had you all these years, and he has had no one to love or care for him. You must remember that he was not to blame, because he objected to his son marrying my daughter. They were not in the same position of life, and it was only natural that he should not like it, at first; and, as I told you, he was coming home to make them both happy, when he found it was too late.

"You must think, dear, that while I have been happy all these years with you, he has been sorrowing and grieving, and you must try and love him, and make up to him for what he has suffered. I know you will not forget your old friends. You will love me whether you see me often or not; and Mrs. Walsham, who has been very kind to you; and James, you know, who saved your life."

"I shall never forget anyone, grampa. I shall always love you better than anyone," the child exclaimed, throwing her arms round his neck with a fresh burst of tears.

"There, there, my pet," the sergeant said soothingly. "You must not cry any more. I want you to look your best this evening, you know, and to do credit to us all. And now, I think we have settled everything, so we will be going back to tea."

That evening, the squire was sitting by himself in the great dining room, occasionally sipping the glass of port, which John Petersham had poured out before he left the room. The curtains were drawn, and the candles lighted; for it was late in September, and the evenings were closing in fast; and the squire was puzzling over John Petersham's behaviour at dinner.

Although the squire was not apt to observe closely what was passing around him, he had been struck with the old butler's demeanour. That something was wrong with him was clear. Usually he was the most quiet and methodical of servants, but he had blundered several times in the service. He had handed his master dishes when his plate was already supplied. He had spilled the wine in pouring it out. He had started nervously when spoken to. Mr. Linthorne even thought that he had seen tears in his eyes. Altogether, he was strangely unlike himself.

Mr. Linthorne had asked him if anything was the matter, but John had, with almost unnecessary earnestness, declared there was nothing. Altogether, the squire was puzzled. With any other servant, he would have thought he had been drinking, but such a supposition, in John's case, was altogether out of the question.

He could have had no bad news, so far as the squire knew, for the only children he had, had died young, and he had no near relatives or connections. It was ridiculous to suppose that John, at his age, had fallen in love. Altogether, the squire failed to suggest to himself any explanation of his old butler's conduct, and had just concluded, philosophically, by the reflection that he supposed he should know what it was sooner or later, when the door of the room quietly opened.

The squire did not look up. It closed again as quietly, and then he glanced towards it. He could hardly believe his eyes. A child was standing there--a girl with soft smooth hair, and large eyes, and a sensitive mouth, with an expression fearless but appealing. Her hands were clasped before her, and she was standing in doubt whether to advance. There was something so strange, in this apparition in the lonely room, that the squire did not speak for a moment. It flashed across him, vaguely, that there was something familiar to him in the face and expression, something which sent a thrill through him; and at the same instant, without knowing why, he felt that there was a connection between the appearance of the child, and the matter he had just been thinking of--John Petersham's strange conduct. He was still looking at her, when she advanced quietly towards him.

"Grandpapa," she said, "I am Aggie Linthorne."

A low cry of astonishment broke from the squire. He pushed his chair back.

"Can it be true?" he muttered. "Or am I dreaming?"

"Yes, grandpapa," the child said, close beside him now. "I am Aggie Linthorne, and I have come to see you. If you don't think it's me, grampa said I was to give you this, and then you would know;" and she held out a miniature, on ivory, of a boy some fourteen years old; and a watch and chain.

"I do not need them," the squire said, in low tones. "I see it in your face. You are Herbert's child, whom I looked for so long.

"Oh! my child! my child! have you come at last?" and he drew her towards him, and kissed her passionately, while the tears streamed down his cheeks.

"I couldn't come before, you know," the child said, "because I didn't know about you; and grampa, that's my other grandpapa," she nodded confidentially, "did not know you wanted me. But now he knows, he sent me to you. He told me I was to come because you were lonely.

"But you can't be more lonely than he is," she said, with a quiver in her voice. "Oh! he will be lonely, now!"

"But where do you come from, my dear? and how did you get here? and what have you been doing, all these years?"

"Grampa brought me here," the child said. "I call him grampa, you know, because I did when I was little, and I have always kept to it; but I know, of course, it ought to be grandpapa. He brought me here, and John--at least he called him John--brought me in. And I have been living, for two years, with Mrs. Walsham down in the town, and I used to see you in church, but I did not know that you were my grandpapa."

The squire, who was holding her close to him while she spoke, got up and rang the bell; and John opened the door, with a quickness that showed that he had been waiting close to it, anxiously waiting a summons.

"John Petersham," the squire said, "give me your hand. This is the happiest day of my life."

The two men wrung each other's hands. They had been friends ever since John Petersham, who was twelve years the senior of the two, first came to the house, a young fellow of eighteen, to assist his father, who had held the same post before him.

"God be thanked, squire!" he said huskily.

"God be thanked, indeed, John!" the squire rejoined, reverently. "So this was the reason, old friend, why your hand shook as you poured out my wine. How could you keep the secret from me?"

"I did not know how to begin to tell you, but I was pretty nigh letting it out, and only the thought that it was better the little lady should tell you herself, as we had agreed, kept it in. Only to think, squire, after all these years! But I never quite gave her up. I always thought, somehow, as she would come just like this."

"Did you, John? I gave up hope years ago. How did it come about, John?"

"Mrs. Walsham told me, as I came out of church today, as she wanted to speak to me. So I went down, and she told me all about it, and then I saw him--" John hesitated at the name, for he knew that, perhaps, the only man in the world against whom his master cherished a bitter resentment, was the father of his son's wife. "It seems he never saw your advertisements, never knew as you wanted to hear anything of the child, so he took her away and kept her. He has been here, off and on, all these years. I heard tell of him, often and often, when I had been down into Sidmouth, but never dreamt as it was him. He went about the country with a box on wheels with glasses--a peep show as they calls it."

The squire winced.

"He is well spoken of, squire," John said, "and I am bound to say as he doesn't seem the sort of man we took him for, at all, not by no means. He did not know you wanted to have her, but he thought it his duty to give her the chance, and so he put her with Mrs. Walsham, and never told her, till yesterday, who she was. Mrs. Walsham was quite grieved at parting with her, for she says she is wonderfully quick at her lessons, and has been like a daughter with her, for the last two years."

The child had sat quietly down in a chair, and was looking into the fire while the two men were speaking. She had done what she was told to do, and was waiting quietly for what was to come next. Her quick ear, however, caught, in the tones of John Petersham, an apologetic tone when speaking of her grandfather, and she was moved to instant anger.

"Why do you speak like that of my grampa?" she said, rising to her feet, and standing indignantly before him. "He is the best man in the world, and the kindest and the nicest, and if you don't like him, I can go away to him again. I don't want to stay here, not one minute.

"You may be my grandpapa," she went on, turning to the squire, "and you may be lonely, but he is lonely, too, and you have got a great house, and all sorts of nice things; and you can do better without me than he can, for he has got nothing to love but me, poor grampa!"

And her eyes filled with sudden tears, as she thought of him tramping on his lonely walks over the hills.

"We do not mean to speak unkindly of your grandfather, my dear," the squire said gently. "I have never seen him, you know, and John has never seen him but once. I have thought, all these years, bitterly of him; but perhaps I have been mistaken. He has ever been kind and good to you, and, above all, he has given you back to me, and that will make me think differently of him, in future. We all make mistakes, you know, and I have made terrible mistakes, and have been terribly punished for them. I daresay I have made a mistake here; but whether or no, you shall never hear a word, from me, against the man who has been so kind to you."

"And you will let me see him sometimes, grandpapa?" the child said, taking his hand pleadingly. "He said, if you said no, I must do as you told me; because somehow you are nearer to me than he is, though I don't know how that can be. But you won't say that, will you? For, oh! I know he is so lonely without me, and I should never be happy, thinking of him all alone, not if you were to be ever so kind to me, and to give me all sorts of grand things."

"No, my dear, I certainly shall not say so. You shall see him as often as you like."

"Oh, thank you, grandpapa!" she exclaimed joyfully, and she held up her face to kiss him.

The squire lifted her in his arms, and held her closely to him.

"John," he said, "you must tell Mrs. Morcombe to get a room ready for my granddaughter, at once, and you had better bring the tea in here, and then we will think of other things. I feel quite bewildered, at present."

When John returned with the tea, Aggie was sitting on the squire's knee. She was perfectly at home, now, and had been chattering to him of her life with her grandfather, and had just related the incident of her narrow escape from drowning.

"Do you hear that, John?" the squire said. "She was nearly drowned here, within sight of our home, and I might never have known anything about it. It seems that lad of Dr. Walsham's saved her life. He is a fine lad. He was her champion, you know, in that affair with my nephew. How strange that the two boys should have quarrelled over my granddaughter!"

"Yes, squire, and young Walsham came well out of it!" John said heartily; for to him, only, did the squire mention the circumstances of the case, and he chuckled now to himself, as he thought that Richard Horton had made an even greater mistake in that matter than he thought of, for John detested the boy with all his heart, and had only abstained from reporting his conduct, to the squire, from fear of giving his master pain.

The squire's brow clouded a little at the allusion.

"It will make a difference to him, John," he said, "for, of course, now my granddaughter will take his place."

"And a good thing, too!" John said heartily. "I have never said a word before, squire, because, as you had chosen him as your heir, there was no use in setting you against him; but a more hatefuller lad than Richard Horton I never comed across, and so said everyone here. You did not see much of him, squire, and natural thought well of him, for he was a good-looking boy, and could speak fair enough when he liked. I thought well of him, myself, when he first came, but I larned better, afterwards."

"There are many excuses to be made for him, John," the squire said, "and I have had good reports of him, since. Of course, I shall see that, although he can no longer be regarded as my heir here, he shall be well provided for. But there will be plenty of time to think of this."

"Mr. Wilks asked me to say, sir," the butler said as he prepared to leave them, "that he shall be staying in Sidmouth tomorrow, and that, if you wish to see him, he will come up here."

"Certainly I wish to see him," the squire replied. "I have many things to ask him. Let the boy go down, the first thing in the morning, or--no, if you don't mind, John, would you go down yourself tonight? He will naturally be anxious to know how his grandchild is getting on. Tell him with what joy I have received her, and take any message she may give you.

"Is there anything you would like to say to your grandfather, child?"

"Oh, yes. Please tell him that I think I shall like it, and that he is to come and see me when he likes, and that, of course, he is to see me when he comes in the morning, and then I can tell him all about it."

"And say, I shall be glad to see him the first thing after breakfast," the squire added.

The housekeeper soon entered, and Aggie, very sleepy after the excitements of the day, was taken off to bed. Her sleepiness, however, disappeared in her wonder at the size of the house, and at the vastness of her bedroom.

"Why, you have got a fire!" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I never saw a fire in a bedroom, before."

"I didn't light it for the cold, miss," the housekeeper said; "but because it is a long time since the room was slept in before, and because I thought it would be cheerful for you. I shall sleep in the next room, till things are settled, so that, if you want anything, you will only have to run in."

"Thank you," Aggie said gratefully. "It does all seem so big; but I am sure not to want anything. Thank you."

"Here is your box, miss. Would you like me to help undress you?"

"Oh, no!" Aggie laughed. "Why, of course I can undress myself;" and she laughed at the idea of assistance being required in such a matter.

"Then, good night!" the housekeeper said. "I shall leave the door ajar, between the two rooms, when I come to bed."

The next morning, soon after breakfast, Sergeant Wilks was ushered into the study, where the squire was expecting him. The two men had had hard thoughts of each other, for many years. The squire regarded the sergeant as a man who had inveigled his son into marrying his daughter, while the sergeant regarded the squire as a heartless and unnatural father, who had left his son to die alone among strangers. The conversation with John Petersham had taught the sergeant that he had wronged the squire, by his estimate of him, and that he was to be pitied rather than blamed in the matter. The squire, on his part, was grateful to the sergeant for the care he had bestowed upon the child, and for restoring her to him, and was inclined, indeed, at the moment, to a universal goodwill to all men.

The sergeant was pale, but self possessed and quiet; while the squire, moved, by the events of the night before, out of the silent reserve in which he had, for years, enveloped himself, was agitated and nervous. He was the first to speak.

"Mr. Wilks," he said. "I have to give you my heartfelt thanks, for having restored my granddaughter to me--the more so as I know, from what she has said, how great a sacrifice you must be making. John has been telling me of his conversation with you, and you have learned, from him, that I was not so wholly heartless and unnatural a father as you must have thought me; deeply as I blame myself, and shall always blame myself, in the matter."

"Yes," the sergeant said. "I have learned that I have misread you. Had it not been so, I should have brought the child to you long ago--should never have taken her away, indeed. Perhaps we have both misjudged each other."

"I fear that we have," the squire said, remembering the letters he wrote to his son, in his anger, denouncing the sergeant in violent language.

"It does not matter, now," the sergeant went on quietly; "but, as I do not wish Aggie ever to come to think ill of me, in the future, it is better to set it right.

"When I left the army, I had saved enough money to furnish a house, and I took one at Southampton, and set up taking lodgers there. I had my pension, and lived well until my wife died--a year before your son came down, from London, with another gentleman, and took my rooms. My daughter was seventeen when her mother died, and she took to managing the house. I was careful of her, and gave her orders that, on no account, was she ever to go into the lodgers' rooms. I waited on them, myself.

"How your son first saw her, and got to speak to her, I don't know; but I am not surprised that, when he did, he loved her, for there was no prettier or sweeter girl in Hampshire. They took the rooms, first, only for a fortnight, then the other gentleman went away, and your son stayed on.

"One day--it came upon me like a thunderbolt--your son told me he wanted to marry my Agnes. I was angry, at first. Angry, because it had been done behind my back, and because I had been deceived. I said as much; but your son assured me that he had never spoken to her in the house, but had met her when she went out for her walks. Still, it was wrong, and I told him so, and I told her so, though, in my heart, I did not altogether blame them; for young people will be young people, and, as he had acted honourably in coming to me at once, I let that pass.

"But, squire, though but a sergeant in His Majesty's service, I had my pride as you had yours, and I told him, at once, that I would not give my consent to my daughter's marrying him, until you had given yours; and that he must leave the house at once, and not see Agnes again, until he came with your written consent to show me.

"He went away at once. After a time, he began to write to me, urging me to change my decision; and from this, although he never said so, I was sure that you had refused to sanction his marriage. However, I stuck to what I had said, though it was hard for me to do so, with my child growing thin and pale before my eyes, with all her bright happiness gone.

"So it went on, for three months, and then one morning she was gone, and I found a letter on her table for me, saying that she had been married to him a week before, when she went out, as I thought, to spend the day with a friend. She begged and prayed me to forgive her, and said how miserable she had been, and that she could not say no to her lover's pleadings.

"I wrote to the address she had given me, saying that she had well nigh broken my heart. She knew that I had only refused my consent because it would have seemed a dishonourable action, to allow your son to marry her without your consent. She knew how hard it had been for me to do my duty, when I saw her pining before my eyes, but I forgave her wholly, and did not altogether blame her, seeing that it was the way of Nature that young women, when they once took to loving, should put their father altogether in the second place;

"It was hard to me to write that letter, for I longed to see her bonny face again. But I thought it was my duty. I thought so then; but I think, now, it was pride.

"From time to time she wrote to me. I learned that you still refused to see your son, and I gathered, though she did not say much of this, that things were going badly with them. At last, she wrote that her husband was ill--very ill, she feared. He had, in vain, tried to get employment. I don't think he was naturally strong, and the anxiety had broken him down. Then I went up to London at once, and found them, in a little room, without the necessaries of life. I brought them down home, and nursed him for three months, till he died.

"A week later, Aggie was born. Ten days afterwards, I laid her mother by the side of her father. No answer had come to the letters he had written to you, while he had been ill, though in the later ones he had told you that he was dying. So, I looked upon the child as mine.

"Things had gone badly with me. I had been able to take no lodgers, while they were with me. I had got into debt, and even could I have cleared myself, I could not well have kept the house on, without a woman to look after it. I was restless, too, and longed to be moving about. So I sold off the furniture, paid my debts, and laid by the money that remained, for the child's use in the future.

"I had, some time before, met an old comrade travelling the country with a show. I happened to meet him again, just as I was leaving, and he told me the name of a man, in London, who sold such things. I left the child, for a year, with some people I knew, a few miles out of Southampton; came up to London, bought a show, and started. It was lonely work, at first; but, after a year, I fetched the child away, and took her round the country with me, and for four years had a happy time of it.

"I had chosen this part of the country, and, after a time, I became uneasy in my mind, as to whether I was doing right; and whether, for the child's sake, I ought not to tell you that she was alive, and offer to give her up, if you were willing to take her. I heard how your son's death had changed you, and thought that, maybe, you would like to take his daughter; but, before bringing her to you, I thought she should have a better education than I had time to give her, and that she should be placed with a lady, so that, if you took her, you need not be ashamed of her manners.

"I hoped you would not take her. I wanted to keep her for myself; but my duty to her was clear.

"And now, squire, you know all about it. I have been wrong to keep her so long from you, I grant; but I can only say that I have done my duty, as far as I could, and that, though I have made many mistakes, my conscience is clear, that I did the best, as far as it seemed to me at the time."

Chapter 5: A Quiet Time.

As the sergeant was telling the story, the squire had sat with his face shaded by his hand, but more than one tear had dropped heavily on the table.

"I wish I could say as much," he said sadly, when the other ended. "I wish that I could say that my conscience is clear, Mr. Wilks. I have misjudged you cruelly, and that without a tithe of the reason, which you had, for thinking me utterly heartless and cruel. You will have heard that I never got those letters my son wrote me, after he was ill, and that, when I returned home and received them, I posted to Southampton, only to find that I was too late; and that, for a year, I did all in my power to find the child. Still, all this is no excuse. I refused to forgive him, returned his letters unanswered, and left him, as it seemed, to his fate.

"It is no excuse to say that I had made up my mind to forgive him, when he was, as I thought, sufficiently punished. He did not know that. As to the poverty in which you found him, I can only plead that I did not dream that he would come to that. He had, I knew, some money, for I had just sent him his half-year's allowance before he wrote to me about this business. Then there was the furniture of his rooms in London, his horses, jewels, and other matters. I had thought he could go on very well for a year.

"Of course, I was mistaken. Herbert was always careless about money, and, no doubt, he spent it freely after he was first married. He would naturally wish to have everything pretty and nice for his young wife, and, no doubt, he counted upon my forgiving him long before the money was spent.

"I am not excusing myself. God knows how bitterly I have condemned myself, all these years. I only want to show you that I had no idea of condemning him to starvation. He was my only son, and I loved him. I felt, perhaps, his rebellion all the more, because he had never before given me a day's trouble. I was harsh, obstinate, and cruel.

"I have only the one old excuse. I never thought it would turn out as it did. What would I give, if I could say, as you can, that you have a clear conscience, and that you acted always as it seemed to be your duty!

"And now, Mr. Wilks, now that I have heard your story, I trust that you will forgive my past suspicions of you, and let me say how much I honour and esteem you for your conduct. No words can tell you how I thank you, for your goodness and kindness to my little granddaughter; our little granddaughter, I should say. You have the better right, a thousand-fold, to her than I have; and, had I been in your place, I could never have made such a sacrifice.

"We must be friends, sir, great friends. Our past has been saddened by the same blow. All our hopes, in the future, are centred on the same object."

The two men rose to their feet together, and their hands met in a firm clasp, and tears stood in both their eyes.

Then the squire put his hand on the other's shoulder, and said, "We will talk again, presently. Let us go into the next room. The little one is longing to see you, and we must not keep her."

For the next hour, the two men devoted themselves to the child. Now that she had her old friend with her, she felt no further misgivings, and was able to enter into the full delight of her new home.

The house and its wonders were explored, and, much as she was delighted with these, the gardens and park were an even greater excitement and pleasure. Dancing, chattering, asking questions of one or the other, she was half wild with pleasure, and the squire was no less delighted. A new light and joy had come into his life, and with it the ten years, which sorrow and regret had laid upon him, had fallen off; for, although his habits of seclusion and quiet had caused him to be regarded as quite an old man by his neighbours, he was still three years short of sixty, while the sergeant was two years younger.

It was a happy morning for them, all three; and when John Petersham went in, after lunch, to the kitchen, he assured his fellow servants that it was as much as he could do to keep from crying with joy, at the sight of the squire's happy face, and to hear him laugh and joke, as he had not done for eight years now.

The sergeant had stopped to that meal, for he saw, by the manner in which the squire asked him, that he should give pain if he refused; and there was a simple dignity about the old soldier, which would have prevented his appearing out of place at the table of the highest in the land.

"Now, pussy," the squire said, when they had finished, "you must amuse yourself for a bit. You can go in the garden again, or sit with Mrs. Morcombe in her room. She will look you out some picture books from the library. I am afraid there is nothing very suited to your reading, but we will soon put all that right. Your grandfather and I want to have another quiet chat together."

"Now I want your advice," he said when they were both comfortably seated in the study. "You see, you have been thinking and planning about the child for years, while it has all come new upon me, so I must rely upon you entirely. Of course, the child must have a governess, that is the first thing; not so much for the sake of teaching her, though, of course, she must be taught, but as a companion for her."

"Yes," the sergeant assented, "she must have a governess."

"It will be a troublesome matter to find one to suit," the squire said thoughtfully. "I don't want a harsh sort of Gorgon, to repress her spirits and bother her life out with rules and regulations; and I won't have a giddy young thing, because I should like to have the child with me at breakfast and lunch, and I don't want a fly-away young woman who will expect all sorts of attention. Now, what is your idea? I have no doubt you have, pictured in your mind, the exact sort of woman you would like to have over her."

"I have," the sergeant answered quietly. "I don't know whether it would suit you, squire, or whether it could be managed; but it does seem, to me, that you have got the very woman close at hand. Aggie has been for two years with Mrs. Walsham, who is a lady in every way. She is very fond of the child, and the child is very fond of her. Everyone says she is an excellent teacher. She would be the very woman to take charge of her."

"The very thing!" the squire exclaimed, with great satisfaction. "But she has a school," he went on, his face falling a little, "and there is a son."

"I have thought of that," the sergeant said. "The school enables them to live, but it cannot do much more, so that I should think she would feel no reluctance at giving that up."

"Money would be no object," the squire said. "I am a wealthy man, Mr. Wilks, and have been laying by the best part of my income for the last eight years. I would pay any salary she chose, for the comfort of such an arrangement would be immense, to say nothing of the advantage and pleasure it would be to the child. But how about the boy?"

"We both owe a good deal to the boy, squire," the sergeant said gravely, "for if it had not been for him, the child would have been lost to us."

"So she was telling me last night," the squire said. "And he really saved her life?"

"He did," the sergeant replied. "But for his pluck and promptitude she must have been drowned. A moment's hesitation on his part, and nothing could have saved her."

"I made up my mind last night," the squire said, "to do something for him. I have seen him before, and was much struck with him."

"Then, in that case, squire, I think the thing could be managed. If the lad were sent to a good school, his mother might undertake the management of Aggie. She could either go home of an evening, or sleep here and shut up her house, as you might arrange with her; living, of course, at home, when the boy was home for his holidays, and only coming up for a portion of the day."

"That would be a capital plan," the squire agreed warmly. "The very thing. I should get off all the bother with strange women, and the child would have a lady she is already fond of, and who, I have no doubt, is thoroughly qualified for the work. Nothing could be better. I will walk down this afternoon and see her myself, and I have no doubt I shall be able to arrange it.

"And now about yourself--what are your plans?"

"I shall start tomorrow morning on my tramp, as usual," the sergeant answered quietly; "but I shall take care, in future, that I do not come with my box within thirty miles or so of Sidmouth. I do not want Aggie's future to be, in any way, associated with a showman's box. I shall come here, sometimes, to see her, as you have kindly said I may, but I will not abuse the privilege by coming too often. Perhaps you won't think a day, once every three months, to be too much?"

"I should think it altogether wrong and monstrous!" the squire exclaimed hotly. "You have been virtually the child's father, for the last seven years. You have cared for her, and loved her, and worked for her. She is everything to you, and I feel how vast are your claims to her, compared to mine; and now you talk about going away, and coming to see her once every three months. The idea is unnatural. It is downright monstrous!

"No, you and I understand each other at last; would to Heaven we had done so eight years back! I feel how much more nobly you acted in that unhappy matter than I did, and I esteem and honour you. We are both getting on in life, we have one common love and interest, we stand in the same relation to the child, and I say, emphatically, that you have a right, and more than a right, to a half share in her. You must go away no more, but remain here as my friend, and as joint guardian of the child.

"I will have no refusal, man," he went on, as the sergeant shook his head. "Your presence here will be almost as great a comfort, to me, as to the child. I am a lonely man. For years, I have cut myself loose from the world. I have neither associates nor friends. But now that this great load is off my mind, my first want is a friend; and who could be so great a friend, who could enter into my plans and hopes for the future so well, as yourself, who would have an interest in them equal to my own?"

The sergeant was much moved by the squire's earnestness. He saw that the latter had really at heart the proposal he made.

"You are very good, squire," he said in a low voice; "but even if I could bring myself to eat another man's bread, as long as I can work for my own, it would not do. I am neither by birth nor education fitted for such a position as that you offer to me."

"Pooh, nonsense!" the squire said hotly. "You have seen the world. You have travelled and mixed with men. You are fit to associate as an equal with anyone. Don't you deceive yourself; you certainly do not deceive me.

"It is pride that stands in your way. For that you are going to risk the happiness of your granddaughter, to say nothing of mine; for you don't suppose that either of us is going to feel comfortable and happy, when the snow is whirling round, and the wind sweeping the moors, to think of you trudging along about the country, while we are sitting snugly here by a warm fire.

"You are wanting to spoil everything, now that it has all come right at last, by just the same obstinate pride which wrecked the lives of our children. I won't have it, man. I won't hear of it.

"Come, say no more. I want a friend badly, and I am sure we shall suit each other. I want a companion. Why, man, if I were a rich old lady, and you were a poor old lady, and I asked you to come as my companion, you would see nothing derogatory in the offer. You shall come as my companion, now, or if you like as joint guardian to the child. You shall have your own rooms in the house; and when you feel inclined to be grumpy, and don't care to take your meals with the child and me, you can take them apart.

"At any rate, try it for a month, and if you are not comfortable then I will let you go, though your rooms shall always be in readiness for you, whenever you are disposed to come back.

"Come, give me your hand on the bargain."

Sergeant Wilks could resist no longer. The last two years work, without the child, had indeed been heavy, and especially in winter, when the wind blew strong across the uplands, he began to feel that he was no longer as strong as he used to be. The prospect of having Aggie always near him was, however, a far greater temptation than that of ending his days in quiet and comfort.

His hand and that of the squire met in a cordial grip, and the matter was settled. Fortunately, as the sergeant reflected, he had still his pension of ten shillings a week, which would suffice to supply clothes and other little necessaries which he might require, and would thus save him from being altogether dependent on the squire.

Aggie was wild with delight, when she was called in and informed of the arrangement. The thought of her grandfather tramping the country, alone, had been the one drawback to the pleasure of her life at Mrs. Walsham's, and many a time she had cried herself to sleep, as she pictured to herself his loneliness. That he was to be with her always, was to give up his work to settle down in comfort, was indeed a delight to her.

Greatly pleased was she, also, to hear that Mrs. Walsham was to be asked to come up to be her governess.

"Oh, it will be nice!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands. "Just like the fairy stories you used to tell me, grampa, when everyone was made happy at the end by the good fairy. Grandpapa is the good fairy, and you and I are the prince and princess; and James--and what is to be done with James? Is he to come up, too?"

"No, my dear," the squire said, smiling. "James is to go to a good school, but you will see him when he comes home for his holidays. But that part of it is not arranged yet, you know; but if you will put on your hat, you can walk down with us to the town, and introduce me to Mrs. Walsham."

Mrs. Walsham had just dismissed her pupils, when the party arrived, and was thinking how quiet and dull the house was without Aggie, when the door opened, and the child rushed in and threw her arms round her neck.

"Oh, I have such good news to tell you! Grandpapa is so good and kind, and grampa is going to live with us, and you are to come up, too, and James is to go to school. Isn't it all splendid?"

"What are you talking about, Aggie?" Mrs. Walsham asked, bewildered, as the child poured out her news.

"Aggie is too fast, madam," the squire said, entering the room accompanied by the sergeant. "She is taking it all for granted, while it has yet to be arranged. I must apologize for coming in without knocking; but the child opened the door and rushed in, and the best thing to do was, we thought, to follow her.

"I have come, in the first place, to thank you for your great kindness to my little granddaughter, and to tell your son how deeply I feel indebted to him, for having saved her life two years ago.

"Now, Aggie, you run away and look for your friend, while I talk matters over with Mrs. Walsham."

Aggie scampered away to find James, who was at work at his books, and to tell him the news, while the squire unfolded his plans to Mrs. Walsham.

His offers were so handsome that Mrs. Walsham accepted them, without an instant's hesitation. She was to have the entire charge of the child during the day, with the option of either returning home in the evening, when Aggie went in to dessert after dinner, or of living entirely at the Hall. The squire explained his intention of sending James to a good school at Exeter, as an instalment of the debt he owed him for saving the child's life, and he pointed out that, when he was at home for his holidays, Aggie could have her holidays, too, and Mrs. Walsham need only come up to the Hall when she felt inclined.

Mrs. Walsham was delighted with the offer, even more for James's sake than her own, although the prospect for herself was most pleasant. To have only Aggie to teach, and walk with, would be delightful after the monotony of drilling successive batches of girls, often inordinately tiresome and stupid. She said, at once, that she should prefer returning home at night--a decision which pleased the squire, for he had wondered what he should do with her in the evening.

The arrangement was at once carried into effect. The school was broken up, and, as the parents of the children were almost all tenants of the squire, they offered no objection to the girls being suddenly left on their hands, when they heard that their teacher was going to live as governess at the Hall. Indeed, the surprise of Sidmouth and the neighbourhood, at learning that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's was the squire's granddaughter, and that the showman was therefore a connection of the squire, and was going also to live at the Hall, was so great, that there was no room for any other emotion. Save for wrecks, or the arrival of shoals of fish off the coast, or of troubles between the smugglers and the revenue officers, Sidmouth had few excitements, and the present news afforded food for endless talk and conjecture.

On comparing notes, it appeared that there was not a woman in the place who had not been, all along, convinced that the little girl at Mrs. Walsham's was something more than she seemed to be, and that the showman was a man quite out of the ordinary way. And when, on the following Sunday, the sergeant, who had in the meantime been to Exeter, walked quietly into church with the squire, all agreed that the well-dressed military-looking man was a gentleman, and that he had only been masquerading under the name of Sergeant Wilks until, somehow or other, the quarrel between him and the squire was arranged, and the little heiress restored to her position; and Sidmouth remained in that belief to the end.

The sergeant's military title was henceforth dropped. Mr. Linthorne introduced him to his acquaintances--who soon began to flock in, when it was known that the squire's granddaughter had come home, and that he was willing to see his friends and join in society again--as "My friend Mr. Wilks, the father of my poor boy's wife."

And the impression made was generally favourable.

None had ever known the exact story of Herbert's marriage. It was generally supposed that he had married beneath him; but the opinion now was that this must have been a mistake, for there was nothing in any way vulgar about the quiet, military-looking gentleman, with whom the squire was evidently on terms of warm friendship.

The only person somewhat dissatisfied with the arrangement was James Walsham. He loved his mother so much, that he had never offered the slightest dissent to her plan, that he should follow in his father's footsteps. She was so much set on the matter, that he could never bring himself to utter a word in opposition. At heart, however, he longed for a more stirring and more adventurous life, such as that of a soldier or sailor, and he had all along cherished a secret hope, that something might occur to prevent his preparing for the medical profession, and so enable him to carry out his secret wishes. But the present arrangement seemed to put an end to all such hopes, and, although grateful to the squire for sending him to a good school, he wished, with all his heart, that he had chosen some other way of manifesting his gratitude.

Four years passed quietly. James Walsham worked hard when at school, and, during his holidays, spent his time for the most part on board the fishermen's boats. Sometimes he went up to the Hall, generally at the invitation of Mr. Wilks.

"Why don't you come oftener, Jim?" the latter asked him one day. "Aggie was saying, only yesterday, that you used to be such friends with her, and now you hardly ever come near her. The squire is as pleased as I am to see you."

"I don't know," Jim replied. "You see, I am always comfortable with you. I can chat with you, and tell you about school, and about fishing, and so on. The squire is very kind, but I know it is only because of that picking Aggie out of the water, and I never seem to know what to talk about with him. And then, you see, Aggie is growing a young lady, and can't go rambling about at my heels as she used to do, when she was a little girl. I like her, you know, Mr. Wilks, just as I used to do; but I can't carry her on my shoulder now, and make a playfellow of her."

"I suppose that's all natural enough, Jim," Aggie's grandfather said; "but I do think it is a pity you don't come up more often. You know we are all fond of you, and it will give us a pleasure to have you here."

Jim was, in fact, getting to the awkward age with boys. When younger, they tyrannize over their little sisters, when older they may again take pleasure in girls' society; but there is an age, in every boy's life, when he is inclined to think girls a nuisance, as creatures incapable of joining in games, and as being apt to get in the way.

Still, Jim was very fond of his former playmate, and had she been still living down in Sidmouth with his mother, they would have been as great friends as ever.

At the end of the fourth year, Richard Horton came back, after an absence of five years. He was now nearly twenty, and had just passed as lieutenant. He was bronzed with the Eastern sun, and had grown from a good-looking boy into a handsome young man, and was perfectly conscious of his good looks. Among his comrades, he had gained the nickname of "The Dandy"--a name which he accepted in good part, although it had not been intended as complimentary, for Richard Horton was by no means a popular member of his mess.

Boys are quick to detect each other's failings, and several sharp thrashings, when he first joined, had taught Richard that it was very inexpedient to tell a lie on board a ship, if there was any chance of its being detected. As he had become one of the senior midshipmen, his natural haughtiness made him disliked by the younger lads; while, among those of his own standing, he had not one sincere friend, for there was a general feeling, among them, that although Richard Horton was a pleasant companion, and a very agreeable fellow when he liked, he was not somehow straight, not the sort of fellow to be depended upon in all emergencies.

By the captain and lieutenants, he was considered a smart young officer. He was always careful to do his duty, quiet, and gentlemanly in manner, and in point of appearance, and dress, a credit to the ship. Accordingly, all the reports that his captain had sent home of him had been favourable.

Great as was the rage and disappointment which Richard had felt, when he received the letter from his uncle telling him of the discovery of his long-lost granddaughter, he had the tact to prevent any signs of his feelings being visible, in the letter in which he replied. The squire had told him that, although the discovery would, of course, make a considerable difference in his prospects, he should still, if the reports of his conduct continued satisfactory, feel it his duty to make a handsome provision for him.

"Thanks to my quiet life during the last ten years," the squire had written, "I have plenty for both of you. The estate will, of course, go to her; but, always supposing that your conduct will be satisfactory, I shall continue, during my lifetime, the allowance you at present receive, and you will find yourself set down, in my will, for the sum of twenty thousand pounds."

Richard had replied in terms which delighted the squire.

"You see, the boy has a good heart," he said, as he handed the letter to Mr. Wilks. "No one could express himself better."

His companion read the letter over in silence.

"Charmingly expressed," he said as he returned it. "Almost too charmingly, it seems to me."

"Come, come, Wilks, you are prejudiced against the young fellow, for that business with Aggie and young Walsham."

"I hope I am not prejudiced, squire," his friend replied; "but when I know that a lad is a liar, and that he will bring false accusations to shield himself, and when I know that he was detested by all who came in contact with him--John Petersham, the gardener, and the grooms--I require a good deal more than a few satisfactory reports from his captain, who can know very little of his private character, and a soft-soldering letter like that, to reinstate him in my good opinion. I will wager that, if you and I had been standing behind him when he opened your letter, you would have heard an expression of very different sentiments from those he writes you here.

"Look at this: 'I regret, indeed, my dear uncle, that my new cousin must have such a bad opinion of me, owing to my roughness in that unfortunate affair, which I have never ceased to regret; but I hope that, when we meet, I shall be able to overcome the dislike which she must feel for me.'

"Bah!" the old soldier said scornfully. "I would lay all my pension, to a shilling, that boy has already made up his mind that someday he will marry Aggie, and so contrive to get the estates after all."

The squire burst into a good-humoured laugh.

"It's well I don't take up your wager. Such ideas as that might occur to you and me, but hardly to a lad not yet seventeen."

"Well, we shall see," the other said, cooling down. "I hope I may be mistaken in him. We shall see when he comes home."

When he did come home, the old soldier could find but little fault with the young man. He had a frank and open manner, such as is common to men of his profession. He was full of life and anecdote. His manner to the squire was admirable, affectionate, and quietly respectful, without any air of endeavouring especially to ingratiate himself with him. Nor could the ex-sergeant find anything to complain of in the young man's manner towards himself. He took the first opportunity, when they were alone, to say how glad he had been, to hear that his grandfather had met with a friend and companion in his lonely life, and to express a hope that the bad opinion, which he had doubtless formed of him from his conduct when a boy, would not be allowed to operate against him now.

But, though there was nothing he could find fault with, the old soldier's prejudices were in no way shaken, and, indeed, his antipathy was increased, rather than diminished, by the young officer's conduct towards Aggie. It might be, of course, that he was only striving to overcome the prejudiced feeling against him; but every time the old soldier saw him with his granddaughter, he felt angry.

In point of fact, Aggie was disposed to like Richard, even before his arrival. Six years had eradicated every tinge of animosity for that shove on the sand. His letters had been long, bright, and amusing, and with the mementos of travel which he picked up in the ports of India and China, and from time to time sent home to his uncle, there was always a little box with some pretty trinket "for my cousin." She found him now a delightful companion. He treated her as if she had been seventeen, instead of eleven; was ready to ride or walk with her, or to tell her stories of the countries he had seen, as she might choose; and to humour all her whims and fancies.

"Confound him and his pleasant manners!" the ex-sergeant would mutter to himself, as he watched them together, and saw, as he believed, in the distance, the overthrow of the scheme he had at heart. "He is turning the child's head; and that foolish boy, James, is throwing away his chances."

James, indeed, came home from school for the last time, two or three weeks after Richard Horton's return. He was now nearly eighteen, and, although a broad and powerful fellow, was still a boy at heart. He did not show to advantage by the side of Richard Horton. The first time he went up to the Hall, after his return, the latter had met him with outstretched hand.

"I am glad to meet you again," he said. "I behaved like a blackguard, last time we met, and you gave me the thrashing which I deserved. I hope we shall get on better, in the future."

Aggie and her two grandfathers were present, and James Walsham certainly did not show to advantage, by the side of the easy and self-possessed young officer. He muttered something about its being all right, and then found nothing else to say, being uncomfortable, and ill at ease. He made some excuse about being wanted at home, and took his leave; nor did he again go up to call. Several times, the old soldier went down to Sidmouth to see him, and on one occasion remonstrated with him for not coming up to the Hall.

"What's the use?" James said, roughly. "I have got lots of reading to do, for in two months, you know, I am to go up to London, to walk the hospitals. No one wants me up there. Aggie has got that cousin of hers to amuse her, and I should feel only in the way, if I went."

Mr. Wilks was fairly out of temper at the way things were going. He was angry with James; angry with the squire, who evidently viewed with satisfaction the good understanding between his granddaughter and nephew; angry, for the first time in his life, with Aggie herself.

"You are growing a downright little flirt, Miss Aggie," he said one day, when the girl came in from the garden, where she had been laughing and chatting with her cousin.

He had intended to speak playfully, but there was an earnestness in his tone which the girl, at once, detected.

"Are you really in earnest, grampa?" she asked, for she still retained the childish name for her grandfather--so distinguishing him from the squire, whom she always called grandpapa.

"No; I don't know that I am in earnest, Aggie," he said, trying to speak lightly; "and yet, perhaps, to some extent I am."

"I am sure you are," the girl said. "Oh, grampa! You are not really cross with me, are you?" and the tears at once sprang into her eyes. "I have not been doing anything wrong, have I?"

"No, my dear, not in the least wrong," her grandfather said hastily. "Still, you know, I don't like seeing Jim, who has always been so good and kind to you, quite neglected, now this young fellow, who is not fit to hold a candle to him, has turned up."

"Well, I haven't neglected him, grampa. He has neglected me. He has never been near since that first day, and you know I can't very well go round to Sidmouth, and say to him, 'Please come up to the Hall.'"

"No, my dear, I know you can't, and he is behaving like a young fool."

"Why is he?" Aggie asked, surprised. "If he likes sailing about better than coming up here, why shouldn't he?"

"I don't think it's for that he stays away, Aggie. In fact, you see, Jim has only just left school, and he feels he can't laugh, and talk, and tell you stories about foreign countries, as this young fellow can, and having been so long accustomed to have you to himself, he naturally would not like the playing second fiddle to Richard Horton."

"But he hasn't been here much," the girl said, "ever since I came here. He used to be so nice, and so kind, in the old days when I lived down there, that I can't make out why he has changed so."

"My dear, I don't think he has changed. He has been only a boy, and the fact is, he is only a boy still. He is fond of sailing, and of the amusements boys take to, and he doesn't feel at home, and comfortable here, as he did with you when you were a little girl at his mother's. But mind, Aggie, James is true as steel. He is an honourable and upright young fellow. He is worth fifty of this self-satisfied, pleasant-spoken young sailor."

"I know James is good and kind, grampa," the girl said earnestly; "but you see, he is not very amusing, and Richard is very nice."

"Nice! Yes," the old soldier said; "a fair weather sort of niceness, Aggie. Richard Horton is the squire's nephew, and I don't wish to say anything against him; but mark my words, and remember them, there's more goodness in James's little finger, than there is in his whole body. But there, I am a fool to be talking about it. There is your cousin calling you, in the garden. Go along with you."

The girl went off slowly, wondering at her grandfather's earnestness. She knew she liked her old playmate far better than Richard Horton, although the latter's attentions pleased and flattered her. The old soldier went straight off to the squire's study.

"Squire," he said, "you remember that talk we had, three years ago, when your nephew's answer came to your letter, telling him that Aggie was found. I told you that I would wager he had made up his mind to marry her. You laughed at me; but I was right. Child though she still is, he is already paving the way for the future."

"Master Richard certainly is carrying on a sort of flirtation with the little witch," the squire said, smiling; "but as she is such a mere child as you say, what does it matter?"

"I think it matters a great deal," the old soldier said seriously. "I see, squire, the young fellow has quite regained your good opinion; and unless I am mistaken, you have already thought, to yourself, that it would not be a bad thing if they were to come together someday.

"I have thought it over, and have made up my mind that, in spite of your four years' continued kindness to me, and of the warm friendship between us, I must go away for a time. My box is still lying at Exeter, and I would rather tramp the country again, and live on it and my pension, than stay here and see my darling growing up a woman with that future before her. I am sorry to say, squire, that what you call my prejudice is as strong as ever. I doubt that young fellow as strongly as I did before he came home. Then, I only had his past conduct and his letter to go by. Now I have the evidence of my own senses. You may ask me what I have against him. I tell you--nothing; but I misdoubt him from my heart. I feel that he is false, that what he was when a boy, he is now. There is no true ring about him."

The squire was silent for a minute or two. He had a very sincere friendship and liking for his companion, a thorough confidence in his judgment and principles. He knew his self-sacrificing nature, and that he was only speaking from his love for his grandchild.

"Do not let us talk about it now, old friend," he said quietly. "You and I put, before all other things, Aggie's happiness. Disagreement between us there can be none on the subject. Give me tonight to think over what you have said, and we will talk about it again tomorrow."

Chapter 6: A Storm.

After breakfast next morning, the squire asked his friend to go with him into his study.

"I have been thinking this matter over," he said, "very seriously, and, upon reflection, I agree with you that it is undesirable that Aggie should see much of Richard, until she is of an age to form a fair opinion for herself, and to compare him with other young men. I agree with you, also, that we have not yet sufficient proofs that he is completely changed. I hope that he is. You think he is not. At any rate, he must have a longer trial, and until it is proved to your satisfaction, as well as mine, that he is in every way a desirable husband for Aggie, the less they see of each other, the better. I therefore propose to write at once to my friend Admiral Hewson, to ask him to use his influence, at the admiralty, to get the young fellow appointed to a ship. Does that meet your approval, my friend?"

"Quite so," the other said cordially. "Nothing could be better. In the meantime, as you say, should Richard turn out well, and the young people take a liking for each other, no match could be more satisfactory. What I want is that she should take no girlish fancy for him, at present."

"So be it, then," the squire said. "I think, you know, that we are a couple of old fools, to be troubling ourselves about Aggie's future, at present. Still, in a matter which concerns us both so nearly, we cannot be too careful. If we had a woman with us, we could safely leave the matter in her hands; as it is, we must blunder on, as best we may."

And so it was settled, and a week later, Richard Horton received an official letter from the admiralty, ordering him to proceed at once to Portsmouth to join the Thetis, to which he was appointed as fourth lieutenant. The order gave Richard extreme satisfaction. He was beginning to find his life desperately dull, and he was heartily sick of playing the attentive nephew. He was well content with the progress he had made; nothing had gone wrong since he returned, his uncle had clearly taken him back into his favour, and he had no doubt that Aggie quite appreciated the pains he had bestowed to gain her liking.

He detested the squire's companion, for he felt that the latter disliked and distrusted him, and that his projects would meet with a warm opposition on his part. Still, with the squire and Aggie herself on his side, he did not fear the result. As to James Walsham, whom he had come home prepared to regard as a possible rival, from his early intimacy with the child, and the fact that his mother was her governess, he now regarded him with contempt, mingled with a revengeful determination to pay off the old score, should a chance ever present itself.

He therefore started next day in high spirits, assuming, however, a great reluctance to tear himself away. A few days later a letter came from him, saying that he hoped that he should be able to come back, sometimes, for a day or two, as the Thetis was at present to be attached to the Channel squadron, and it was not expected that she would, for some time, proceed on foreign service.

Early in October, James Walsham was to go up to London, to commence his medical course. A week before he was to start, Mr. Wilks went down in the morning, intending to insist on his returning with him to the Hall. As he went down towards Sidmouth, the old soldier noticed how strongly the wind was blowing, the trees were swaying and thrashing in the wind, the clouds were flying past overhead. Everything portended a severe gale.

Finding, at Mrs. Walsham's, that James was down on the beach, he continued his course until he joined him there. James was standing with a group of fishermen, who were looking seaward. Now that he was exposed to the full force of the wind, Mr. Wilks felt that, not only was it going to blow a gale, but that it was blowing one already. The heavy clouds on the horizon seemed to lie upon the water, the waves were breaking with great force upon the beach, and the fishermen had hauled their boats up across the road.

"It's blowing hard, Jim," he said, laying his hand on the young fellow's shoulder.

"It is blowing hard, and it will blow a great deal harder before nightfall. The fishermen all think it is going to be an exceptional gale. It is blowing dead on shore. It will be bad work for any ships that happen to be coming up Channel today. Eight or ten of our boats are out. We thought we had made out three of them just before you came, but the cloud closed down on them. The fishermen are just going to get lifelines ready. I am afraid we are going to have a terrible night of it."

"I came down to ask you if you will come up to lunch, Jim, but I suppose you will not be able to tear yourself away from here."

"I shouldn't like to leave now, indeed. There is no saying what may happen. Besides, so many of the fishermen are away, that I may be useful here if a vessel comes ashore, and there may be half a dozen before the morning. Every hand will be wanted to give assistance."

"But you could not get a boat out through those breakers, could you, Jim?"

"Yes," Jim replied, "we might get one of the big boats through it now; but it's going to be worse, presently. When I went out, last year, with a boat to the brig which was driven ashore, it was worse than this.

"I shall be very glad to come up tomorrow, if you will let me. I hear that fellow Horton went away last week."

"Yes, he went away, Jim. But why his being there should have kept you from going up is beyond me."

"I don't like the fellow, Mr. Wilks. He may mean very well, but I don't like him. I have been in one row about him with the squire, and I don't want another; but I am quite sure, if I had gone up much while he was there, it would have ended in my trying to punch his head again."

"In that case, perhaps," the old soldier said, smiling, "you were wise to stay away, Jim. I don't like the lad myself. Still, punching his head would not have been a desirable thing."

"I am glad you don't like him," James said, warmly. "Somehow I made up my mind that you were all sure to like him, and I don't suppose the idea made me like him any the better. He was just the free-and-easy sort of fellow to get along well, and I was quite sure that Aggie would not want me, when she had him to go about with her. I saw him drive through in the pony carriage with her, two or three times, and it was easy to see how thoroughly she was enjoying herself."

"Well, it was your own fault, my boy. If you choose to sulk down here, and never to go up to the Hall, you can't blame Aggie for letting herself be amused by someone else."

"Oh! I don't blame her," James said hastily. "Of course, it is all right that she should enjoy herself with her cousin. Only somehow, you know, after being great friends with anyone, one doesn't like to see someone else stepping into your place."

"But as I have told you, over and over again, during the last three years, Jim, you have willfully stepped out of your place. You know how often I have asked you to come up, and how seldom you have come. You have never shown Aggie that you have any wish to continue on the footing of friendship, on which you stood towards each other when she was at your mother's, and as you have chosen to throw her over, I don't see why she shouldn't take to anyone else who takes pains to make himself pleasant to her."

"Oh! I don't blame her a bit, Mr. Wilks. How could you think such a thing! I was very fond of little Aggie when she was at my mother's; but of course, I was not ass enough to suppose that she was going trotting about the country with me, when she once went up to the Hall as the squire's granddaughter. Of course, the whole thing was changed.

"Ah! Here comes the rain."

As he spoke, a sudden splash of rain struck them. It might have been noticed coming across the water in a white line. With it came a gust of wind, to which that which had already been blowing was a trifle. There was no more talking, for nothing less than a shout could have been heard above the roaring of the wind. It was scarcely possible to stand against the fury of the squall, and they were driven across the road, and took shelter at the corner of some houses, where the fishermen had already retired.

The squall lasted but a few minutes, but was soon succeeded by another, almost equally furious, and this seemed to increase in strength, until the wind was blowing a perfect hurricane; but the fishermen now struggled across the road again, for, between the rain squalls, a glimpse had been caught of two of the fishing boats, and these were now approaching the shore. A mere rag of sail was set on each, and yet they tore over the waves at tremendous speed.

One was some two hundred yards ahead of the other, and by the course they were making, they would come ashore nearly at the same spot. The news that two boats were in sight spread rapidly, and many of the fishermen's wives, with shawls over their heads, ran down and stood peering out from behind shelter, for it was well-nigh impossible to stand exposed to the fury of the gale.

An old fisherman stood, with a coil of rope in his hand, close to the water's edge. Several of the others stood close to him, and four of them had hold of the other end of the rope. When the boat was within fifty yards of shore, the sail was lowered; but she still drove straight on before the wind, with scarce an abatement in her speed. A man stood in her bow, also with a coil of rope in his hand, and, as he approached, threw it far ahead. The fisherman rushed waist deep into the water and caught the end of it, which in a moment was knotted to the one in his hand.

"Run along with her," he shouted.

For a moment, the boat towered on the top of a wave, which raced in towards the shore. The next, as it came, took her stern, and she was in the act of swinging round, when the strain of the rope came upon her, and brought her straight again. Higher and higher the wave rose, and then crashed down, and the boat shot forward, like an arrow, in the foam. The fishermen rushed forward and caught it, those on board leapt out waist-deep; all were taken off their feet by the backward rush, but they clung to the sides of the boat, while the men at the head rope, with their heels dug deeply into the sand, withstood the strain, and kept her from being swept out again.

A few seconds, and the boat was left dry, and the next wave carried it high up on the beach, amid a loud cheer from the fishermen and lookers on; but there was no time to waste, for the next boat was close at hand. Again, the rope was thrown to the shore, but this time the strain came a moment too late, the following wave turned the boat round, the next struck it broadside and rolled it, over and over, towards the shore. The fishermen, in an instant, joined hands, and rushing down into the water, strove to grasp the men.

Several times, those in front were knocked down and rolled up on the beach, but three of the crew were brought in with them. There was one still missing, and there was a shout as he was seen, clinging to an oar, just outside the line of breakers. James Walsham had been working with the fishermen in saving those already brought to shore. He now fastened the end of a line round his body.

"You can never get through those rollers--they will break you up like an eggshell," the old fisherman shouted.

"I will dive through them," Jim shouted back. "Give me plenty of slack, and don't pull, till you see I have got him."

The lad waited for his opportunity, and then, rushing down after the sheet of white foam, he stood, waist deep, as a great wave, some twelve feet high, towered up like a wall towards him. It was just going to break, when James plunged, head foremost, into it. There was a crash which shook the earth, a mass of wildly rushing foam, and then, some ten yards beyond the spot where the wave had broken, Jim's head appeared above the surface. It was but for a moment, for he immediately dived again, under the next wave, and then came up within a few yards of the floating oar. A stroke or two, and he was alongside. He seized the man, and held up one arm as a signal. In a moment the rope tightened, and they moved towards shore. When they were close to the edge of the breaking waves, Jim held up his hand, and the strain stopped.

"Now," he said to the man, "the moment they begin to pull, leave go of the oar, and throw your arms round me."

He waited until a wave, bigger than ordinary, approached, and, just as it began to pass under him, gave the signal. Higher and higher they seemed to rise, then they were dashed down with a tremendous shock. There was a moment's confusion as they were swept along in the white water. Jim felt a terrific strain, and it seemed to him that the rope would cut him in sunder. Then he was seized by a dozen strong arms, and carried high and dry, before the next wave could reach him.

For a minute or two he was scarce conscious. The breath had been almost knocked out of his body, with the break of the wave, and the rushing water seemed still singing in his ears.

"Are you hurt, my boy? Are you hurt, James?" were the first words he clearly heard.

"No, I think I am all right," he said, trying to sit up. "Is the other fellow all right?"

"He has broke his arm," one of the fishermen, who had just helped the man to his feet, replied. "He may be thankful it's no worse."

James was now helped to his feet.

"I am all right," he repeated to Mr. Wilks, "except that I feel as if I had a hot iron round my body. That rope has taken the skin off all round me, I fancy, and doesn't it smart, just, with the salt water!"

"Oh, James, how could you do it?" a girl's voice said suddenly.

The fishermen drew aside, and Aggie Linthorne pressed forward.

The squire had gone into her schoolroom and had said:

"Mrs. Walsham, I think you had better give up your lessons for the morning, and get home. It is blowing a gale now, and we shall probably have the rain down before long. I will walk down with you. The wind is dead on the shore, and it will be a grand sight."

Aggie at once set her mind on going, too; but the squire refused, until Mrs. Walsham suggested that, if it came on wet, Aggie could stop at her house until it cleared up, or, if necessary, till morning. Whereupon, the squire had given way, and the three had started together for Sidmouth, leaving Mrs. Walsham at her house as they passed. The others had struggled down, against the wind, until they came within sight of the sea. The first boat had just been run safely on shore when they arrived, and Aggie gave a cry, and put her hands over her face, as the second boat was seen to capsize.

"Cling to me, Aggie," the squire said. "See, they are rushing in the water to save them. They will have them, yet!"

At the cheer which broke out from the spectators, clustering thickly now, as the first of the shipwrecked crew was brought to shore, Aggie looked out again. It was a sight she never forgot. With the great waves crashing down on the shore, and the line of straggling figures, waist deep in the white foam, in which were scattered, here and there, portions of the boat, oars, sails, and nets.

"Well done, well done!" the squire exclaimed. "They have dragged up three of them. I don't know whether there are any more."

"Yes, yes, look!" Aggie cried; "there, out in the waves--there, I can see a head. That's just about where I was nearly drowned. Oh, grandpapa, take me away, I can't look at it."

"There's someone going out to save him, Aggie. Listen to the cheer."

Aggie looked again.

"Oh, grandpapa, stop him, stop him!" she cried, "it's James."

But at the same moment the plunge was made, and the figure lost to sight.

Aggie threw her arms round her grandfather, and hid her face.

"I can't look, I can't look," she cried. "Tell me about it."

"There, he is up; bravo!" the squire exclaimed, almost as excited as she was. "He has dived again, dear,"--then, after a pause--"there he is close to him. He has got him, Aggie! Now he is waving his hand; now they are tightening the rope; now he is waving his hand again, and they are waiting. There!"

There was a pause, which seemed to the girl to be endless, then the squire cried:

"They have got them out, both of them;" and a loud cheer broke from all standing round.

"Come along, grandpapa, let us go down to them."

"Stay a moment, my dear. They may be hurt. It's better you should not go."

The girl stood, with her hands clasped, gazing at the fishermen grouped on the shore, stooping over the prostrate figures. Then one of them stood up and waved his hand, and the spectators knew that all was well. Then the girl ran down to join them.

"Why, Aggie!" James exclaimed in astonishment, as she pressed forward. "Why, my dear, what brings you here in this storm? Whatever will the squire say?"

"The squire has brought her down himself," Mr. Linthorne said, following closely behind his granddaughter; "and he is glad he did, James, for she has seen a grand sight.

"You are a fine fellow;" and he wrung the lad's hand.

"A grand fellow, Wilks, isn't he?"

"I always said so, squire," the old soldier said, his face beaming with satisfaction; "but now, let us get him home, and Aggie, too. The child will be blown away."

But, for a minute or two, they could not carry James off, so closely did the men and women press round him, and shake him by the hand. At last they got him away, and, escorted by a crowd of cheering boys, led him back to his mother's.

"Your son is a hero, Mrs. Walsham!" the squire exclaimed as they entered; "but don't talk to him now, but mix him a glass of hot grog.

"Wilks, you get him between the blankets directly. I will tell his mother all about it, while she is mixing the grog.

"Hallo, Aggie! Why, bless the child, she's fainted."

The girl had borne up till they reached the house, towards which the wind had blown her along, as she clung to her grandfather's arm; but the excitement had been too much for her, and, the instant they entered the room, she had dropped into an armchair, and at once lost consciousness.

Mrs. Walsham kept her presence of mind, in spite of her bewilderment at these sudden occurrences. She at once laid the girl on the sofa, removed her dripping bonnet and cloak, and poured a few drops of brandy between her lips, while she set the squire to work, to chafe her hands. Aggie soon opened her eyes, and recovered her consciousness.

"Don't try to get up, Aggie," Mrs. Walsham said. "You are faint and shaken with all this excitement. Your grandpapa and I were two very foolish people, to let you come out.

"Now, Mr. Wilks, the best thing you can do, is to find a boy outside, and send him up to the Hall, with a message that the carriage is to come down directly.

"I think, Mr. Linthorne, she had better get back home. I should be glad enough, as you know, to keep her here for the night; but this house is rocking with the wind, now, and she would not be likely to get any sleep here. I will run up and see how James is, and if he is all right, I will come up with her and stop the night. She is very much shaken, and had better not be alone."

Mrs. Walsham soon came downstairs again, and said that James said he never felt better in his life, and that, by all means, she was to go up to the Hall. She then set about and prepared a cup of tea, which greatly restored Aggie, and, by the time the carriage arrived, the girl was able to walk to the gate.

Mr. Wilks had offered to remain with James, but the latter would not hear of it. The lad was, indeed, well pleased to hear that they were all going up to the Hall, as thereby he escaped hearing any more of his own praises. Besides, he was most anxious to get down to the beach again, for no one could say what might take place there before morning.

As soon, therefore, as he heard the door close, he jumped out of bed, and when, peeping through the blinds, he saw the carriage drive off with its four occupants, he at once began to dress. He felt bruised and sore from the blows he had received, and a red wheal round his chest, beneath the arms, showed where the rope had almost cut into the flesh. However, he soon dressed himself, and descended the stairs, went into the kitchen, and told the astonished girl that he was going out; then, having made a hasty meal of bread and cold meat, he put on his oilskins again, and started for the shore.

He did not, however, wait long. So heavy was the sea, now, that nothing whatever could be done should any vessel drive ashore, and, as for the fisher boats, the sailors shook their heads as they spoke of them.

"They were farther away to the west, so the chaps as got ashore tells us. They may have got in, somewhere, before it got to the worst. If not, it must have gone hard with them."

Finding that there was nothing to be done, and that he was much more stiff and bruised than he had believed, Jim made his way back again, and turned into bed; where he soon fell asleep, and did not wake until the following morning.

One of the grooms had come down from the Hall, at six o'clock, to inquire how he was, and the message given by the girl, that he had been out, but that he had come back and was now sound asleep, satisfied Mrs. Walsham, and enabled her to devote her undivided attention to her charge, who needed her care more than her son. Before night, indeed, the squire had sent down to Sidmouth for Dr. Walsham's successor, who said that Aggie was very feverish, and must be kept perfectly quiet for some days. He sent her up a soothing draught, and Mrs. Walsham sat up with her all night. She slept but little, and talked almost incessantly, sometimes rambling a little.

The first thing in the morning, the doctor was again sent for, and on his recommendation the squire at once sent off a man, on horseback, to Exeter, for the leading physician of that town. When he arrived, late in the afternoon, Aggie was somewhat quieter, and his report was more cheering.

"Her pulse is very high," he said; "but Mr. Langford tells me that it is not so rapid as it was in the morning, and that he thinks the symptoms are abating. Undoubtedly, it is a sharp feverish attack, brought on by excitement and exposure. A very little more, and it would have been a case of brain fever, but I trust now that it will soon pass off. The sedatives that have been administered are taking effect, and I trust she will soon fall asleep.

"As you requested, I have made my arrangements for staying here tonight, and I trust that, by the morning, we shall have her convalescent."

Mr. Wilks had gone down, the first thing in the morning, to see James, and found him up and about as usual. He was very greatly concerned, at hearing that Aggie had passed a bad night, and came four times up to the Hall, during the day, to inquire about her; and on his last visit, late in the evening, he was told that she was sleeping quietly, and that the doctor had every hope that she would wake, in the morning, free from fever. This proved to be the case; but she was ordered to keep her bed for a day or two.

On the morning after the storm, the wind had gone down much, although a tremendous sea was still breaking on the shore. Messages arrived, in the course of the day, to say that all the missing boats, with one exception, had succeeded in gaining the shore before the storm was full on. The missing boat was never heard of again.

Two days later, James Walsham had strolled up the hill to the east of the town, and was lying, with a book before him, in a favourite nook of his looking over the sea. It was one of the lovely days which sometimes come late in autumn, as if the summer were determined to show itself at its best, before leaving. It could not be said that James was studying, for he was watching the vessels passing far out at sea, and inwardly moaning over the fact that he was destined for a profession for which he had no real liking, instead of being free to choose one of travel and adventure.

Presently, he heard voices behind him. The position, in which he was lying, was a little distance down on the slopes, on the seaward side of the path, and, as a screen of bushes grew behind it, he could not be seen by anyone passing along.

"All the men, with their pistols and cutlasses, are to assemble here at ten o'clock tonight, Johnson. But do not give them orders till late, and let them come up, one by one, so as not to attract attention. Lipscombe's men are to assemble at the same hour, and march to meet us. This time, I think, there is no mistake. The cargo is to be landed where I told you. It will be high tide at twelve o'clock, and they are sure to choose that hour, so that the cutter can run close in. I have sent off a man on horseback to Weymouth, for the revenue cutter to come round. If she's in time, we shall catch that troublesome lugger, as well as her cargo. She has been a thorn in our side for the last year. This time, I do hope we shall have her."

The speakers then moved on out of hearing, but James Walsham recognized the voice, as that of the revenue officer commanding the force at Sidmouth.

Smuggling was, at that time, carried on on a large scale along the coast, and there were frequent collisions between those engaged in it and the revenue officers. The sympathies of the population were wholly with the smugglers, and the cheating of the revenue was not at all considered in the light of a crime.

Many of the fishermen, from time to time, took a hand in smuggling cruises, and the country people were always ready to lend assistance in landing and carrying the cargoes.

When out in their boats at night, James had often heard the fishermen tell stories of their smuggling adventures, and more than once he had been with them, when they had boarded a lugger laden with contraband, to warn them that the revenue cutter was on the cruising ground, and it would not be safe to attempt to run cargo at present. He now determined, at once, that he would warn the smugglers of their danger. The question was, where was the cargo to be run? The officer had not mentioned the spot, but, as the force from the next station to the east was to cooperate, it must be somewhere between the two.

Waiting till the speakers must have gone well along the cliff, he rose to his feet, and returned to Sidmouth. He thought, at first, of telling some of the fishermen what he had heard, but as, in the event of an affray, it might come out how the smugglers had been warned of the intention of the revenue officers, he thought there would be less risk in giving them warning himself. He knew every path down the cliff for miles, and trusted that he should be able to make his way down, and give the boats notice of their danger, before the revenue men reached the shore.

At nine o'clock he dressed himself, in the rough sailor's suit he wore when he went out with the fishermen, and started along the cliff. For some distance he kept well inland, as the officer might have placed a man on the lookout, to stop anyone going towards the scene of action. The spot he thought the most likely was a mile and a half along the shore. There was a good landing place, and an easy path up the cliff, and he knew that cargoes had been more than once run here. Accordingly, when he reached this spot, he sat down among some bushes on the edge of the cliff, and waited for some sort of signal. Half an hour later, he heard the tramp of a number of men, passing along behind him.

"There go the revenue men," he thought to himself. "I suppose they are going to meet those coming the other way."

An hour passed without further sound, and James began to get uneasy. If this was the spot fixed for the landing, some of the country people ought to be arriving, by this time, to help to carry off the cargo. They might, for aught he knew, be already near, waiting for the signal before they descended the path. No doubt the revenue men would be lying in wait, a short distance off, and would allow the friends of the smugglers to go down to the water, without letting them know of their presence.

He kept his eyes fixed on the water to the east, watching anxiously for the appearance of a light. Presently he started. Immediately in front of him, about a mile at sea, a bright light was shown. In a second, it disappeared. Three times it flashed out, and then all was dark. The night was a very dark one. There was no moon, and the stars were obscured, and although he strained his eyes to the utmost, he could not make out the vessel from which the light had been shown.

"How foolish to show such a bright light!" he said to himself. "It would have been almost sure to attract the attention of anyone on the watch."

He made his way to the path, and descended to the edge of the water, and waited, expecting momentarily to be joined by people from above. But no one came. He strained his ears listening for the fall of approaching oars; but all was silent.

Half an hour passed, and then it flashed across him that the signal must have been made to deceive the revenue men, and to cause them to assemble at that spot, and so leave the point really determined upon free for operations.

With an exclamation of disgust at his own stupidity, in having been deceived, James ran up the path again at the top of his speed, and then took the road along the cliff. For two miles, he ran without interruption, and then saw a dark mass in front of him. He turned off, instantly, to the left. Doubtless he had been heard approaching, for two or three men detached themselves from the rest, and started to cut him off. James ran straight inland, and in the darkness soon lost sight of his pursuers. Then he turned, and made for the cliff again. Two or three hundred yards farther along, there was another path to the shore, and this he had no doubt, now, was the one the smugglers were about to use. He struck the cliff within a few yards of the spot. In an instant, two men jumped up and seized him.

"Who are you?"

For an instant, James thought that his assailants were revenue men, but, even in the darkness, he saw that they were countrymen.

"Quick!" he said. "The revenue men are close at hand. They are watching, two or three hundred yards along. Listen! Here they come."

A tramping of feet coming rapidly along the cliff was clearly heard, and the men, with an oath, released their hold and ran off, giving a loud whistle, and made for their carts, which were stationed a few hundred yards inland. James dashed down the path, shouting at the top of his voice. He had not gone many yards before he met a number of men, coming up with tubs of spirits on their shoulders.

"Throw them down," he cried, "and make along the shore. The revenue men are close behind."

His advice was taken at once. The tubs were thrown down, and went leaping and bounding down to the shore, while the men followed James, at full speed, down the path.

Their pursuers were close behind. There was no longer any use in concealment. Their officer shouted to them to press forward at full speed, while, from the beach below, a hubbub of voices suddenly broke out, and, at the same moment, a blue light was lit on the cliff above.

"Beat them back, my lads," one of the smugglers was shouting, as James ran down to the little crowd of men standing near two boats. "We are five to one against them. Come on."

"Surrender in the king's name," the revenue officer shouted, as he rushed forward, followed by his men.

The answer was a pistol shot, and, in a moment, a furious melee began. The advantage in numbers was all on the side of the smugglers. Those who had landed with the kegs were all armed with pistol and cutlass, and the countrymen had heavy sticks and bludgeons. The ten revenue men would have been overpowered, but suddenly a shout was heard, and another party of sailors ran up along the shore, and joined in the fray. It was the detachment from the other station, which had been waiting, at some little distance along the shore, for the signal from above.

"To the boats, lads," the leader of the smugglers shouted. "We are caught in a trap."

The smugglers rushed to the boats, and James, who was standing by the water's edge, leaped on board with them. Most of the country people fled at once along the shore, pursued by some of the revenue men, while the others made a rush for the boats. These had been kept afloat a few yards from the shore. Grapnels had been dropped over their sterns, and, as the men in charge hauled out the moment the fight began, they were in water shoulder deep when the smugglers scrambled on board.

The revenue men dashed in after them, and strove to hold the boats; but they were beaten off with oars and cutlasses, and the boats were soon hauled out into deep water. The grapnels were lifted, and the men, many of whom were wounded more or less severely in the fray, got out their oars and pulled to the lugger, amid a dropping fire of pistol shots from shore.

Chapter 7: Pressed.

Many and deep were the maledictions uttered, as the smugglers climbed on board their vessel; but their captain said cheerily:

"Never mind, lads, it might have been worse. It was only the first cargo of tubs, and half of those weren't ashore. The lace and silk are all right, so no great harm is done. Set to work, and get up sail as soon as you can. Likely enough there is a cutter in the offing; that blue light must have been a signal. They seem to have got news of our landing, somehow."

The crew at once set to work to get up sail. Three or four of the countrymen, who had, like James, got on board the boats, stood in a group looking on, confused and helpless; but James lent his assistance, until the sails were hoisted and the craft began to move through the water.

"Now, then," the captain said, "let us go below and look at the wounds. We daren't show a light, here on deck."

The wounds were, for the most part, slashes and blows with cutlasses; for in the darkness and confusion of the fight, only two of the bullets had taken effect. One of the smugglers had fallen, shot through the head, while one of those on board had his arm broken by a pistol ball.

"Now for our passengers," the captain said, after the wounds had been bandaged.

"Who are you?" and he lifted a lantern to James's face.

"Why, it is young Mr. Walsham!" he exclaimed in surprise.

James knew the man now, for the lugger had several times put in at Sidmouth, where, coming in as a peaceable trader, the revenue officers, although well aware of the nature of her vocation, were unable to touch her, as vessels could only be seized when they had contraband on board.

"Why, what brings you into this affair, young master?"

James related the conversation he had overheard, and his determination to warn the smugglers of their danger.

"I should have managed it, in plenty of time, if I had known the exact spot on which you were going to land; but I saw a signal light, two miles down the coast, and that kept me there for half an hour. It struck me, then, it was a ruse to attract the officers from the real spot of landing, but though I ran as hard as I could, I was only just before them."

"Thank you heartily," the smuggler said. "I expect you saved us from a much worse mess than we got into. I have no doubt they meant to capture the tubs, as they were loaded, without raising an alarm; and the fellows on the shore would have come up quietly, and taken us by surprise as we were landing the last boat loads. Thanks to you, we have got well out of it, and have only lost one of our hands, and a score or so of tubs."

"You can't put me ashore, I suppose?" James said.

"That I can't," the smuggler replied. "I have no doubt that cutter from Weymouth is somewhere outside us, and we must get well off the coast before morning. If we give her the slip, I will send you off in a boat sometime tomorrow. I must go ashore, myself, to make fresh arrangements for getting my cargo landed."

James went on deck again. The breeze was light, and the lugger was slipping along quietly through the water. He could faintly see the loom of the cliffs on his right, and knew that the lugger was running west, keeping as close inshore as she could, to avoid the cutter watching for her outside. He wondered what they would say at home, when it was found that he was missing; but consoled himself by thinking that his mother, who was still up at the Hall, would no doubt suppose that he had gone out for a night's fishing, as he had often done before, and that, as she was away, he had forgotten to leave word with the servant.

Suddenly, a blue light burned out on the top of the cliff. An angry exclamation broke from the captain, who was standing at the helm.

"Confound it!" he exclaimed. "They have caught sight of us from the cliff, and are signalling our whereabouts to the cutter."

As he spoke, he turned the vessel's head seaward, and, for a quarter of an hour, sailed straight out.

"Now," he said quietly, "I think we must be out of sight of those fellows on shore. Get her on the other tack, lads, but be as quiet as you can about it. There's no saying how close the cutter may be to us."

The great sails were lowered, as the boat's head paid off to the east. The yards were shifted to the other sides of the masts, and the sails hoisted again, and the lugger began to retrace her way back along the coast.

"It's just a chance, now," the captain said to James, who was standing close by him, "whether the commander of the cutter guesses, or not, that we shall change our course. He will know we are likely enough to do it."

"What should you do if you were in his place?" James said.

"I should run straight out to sea, and lay to, eight or ten miles off. He would be able to make us out then at daylight, whichever course we take; whereas, by trying to follow in the dark, he would run the chance of missing us altogether. I wish the wind would get up a bit. We are not moving through the water more than three knots an hour, and it's dying away. However, I fancy it will blow up again in the morning."

"Do you know whether she is faster than you are?" James asked.

"There is not much difference," the captain replied. "If the wind is strong, we have the legs of her; but in a light breeze, she is the fastest. She has chased us half a dozen times already, but we have always given her the slip."

"Then, even if she does run out to sea, as you say," James said, "we ought to be safe, as we should be a dozen miles or so along the coast."

"Yes, but not that ahead of her," the captain answered, "for she would be so much to the seaward. Still, that would be far enough; but she will begin to fire long before we are in range, and will bring any other king's ship within hearing down on us. However, I daresay we shall give her the slip, as we have done before."

The hours passed slowly. The wind continued to drop, until the vessel scarcely moved through the water, and, after a while, the sweeps were got out, and were worked until the day broke. All eyes were on the lookout for the cutter, as the day dawn began to steal over the sky.

"There she is, sure enough," the captain exclaimed at length, "lying to on the watch, some eight miles to the west. She must have seen us, for we are against the light sky; but, like, ourselves, she is becalmed."

It was a quarter of an hour, however, before the position of the cutter was seen to change. Then her head was suddenly turned east.

"She has got the wind," the captain said. "Now we only want a good breeze, and you'll have a lively day of it, lads."

From the time when she had turned, the lugger had made only about eight miles along the coast to the east, and an equal distance seaward, for the tide had set against her. The morning was bright and clear, the sea was perfectly smooth. As yet, the sails hung idly down, but there were dark lines on the water that showed that a breeze was coming.

"We shall have plenty of wind presently," the skipper said. "See how light the sky is to the south. There will be white tops on the waves in an hour or two.

"Here comes a flaw. Haul in your sheets, lads, now she begins to move."

The puff did not last long, dying away to nothing in a few minutes, and then the lugger lay immovable again. The men whistled, stamped the deck impatiently, and cast anxious glances back at the cutter.

"She is walking along fast," the skipper said, as he examined her through a glass. "She has got the wind steady, and must be slipping along at six knots an hour. This is hard luck on us. If we don't get the breeze soon, it will be a close thing of it."

Another quarter of an hour passed without a breath of wind ruffling the water. The cutter was fully two miles nearer to them than when she had first been seen, and was holding the wind steadily.

"Here it comes, lads," the skipper said cheerfully. "Another ten minutes, and we shall have our share."

The time seemed long, indeed, before the dark line on the water reached the lugger, and there was something like a cheer, from the crew, as the craft heeled slightly over, and then began to move through the water. It was the true breeze this time, and increased every moment in force, till the lugger was lying well over, with a white wave at her bow.

But the cutter had first gained by the freshening breeze, and James Walsham, looking back at her, judged that there were not more than four miles of water between the boats. The breeze was nearly due west, and, as the lugger was headed as close as she would lie to it, the cutter had hauled in her sheets and lay up on the same course, so that they were now sailing almost parallel to each other.

"If we could change places," the skipper said, "we should be safe. We can sail nearer the wind than she can, but she can edge away now, and has all the advantage of us."

James had already perceived this, and wondered that the lugger did not pay off before the wind, so as to make a stern chase of it.

"I want to get a few miles farther out," the skipper said. "Likely enough there is another cutter somewhere inshore. It is quite enough to have one of these fellows at one's heels."

Another half hour and the cutter, edging in, was little over three miles distant. Then the skipper gave the word, the helm was put down, the sheets slackened off, and, in a minute, the lugger was running dead before the wind with her sails boomed out, one on either side. The cutter followed her example, and hoisted a large square sail.

The wind was blowing fresh now, and the sea was getting up. Not a cloud was to be seen in the sky, and the sun shone brightly on the white heads which were beginning to show on the water. The lugger was tearing along, occasionally throwing a cloud of spray over her bows, and leaving a track of white water behind her.

"I think she still gains on us," the captain said to the mate, who had taken the helm.

"Ay, she is gaining," the sailor agreed, "but the wind is freshening every minute. She can't carry that topsail much longer. It's pressing her bows under now."

"She will go almost as fast without it," the skipper said.

The commander of the cutter seemed to be of the same opinion, for, just as he spoke, the topsail was seen to flutter, and then descended to the deck. It was a quarter of an hour before the skipper spoke again.

"I think we just about hold our own," he said. "I didn't think the Polly could have held her running."

"She couldn't, in a light wind," the mate replied; "but with this wind, it will want a fast boat to beat her."

The hands were now set to work, shifting the kegs further aft.

"That's better," the skipper said presently. "I am sure we are gaining ground, and our masts will stand it, if the cutter's will."

With her stern low in the water, the lugger was now tearing along at a tremendous pace. Stout as were her masts, and strong the stays, James Walsham wondered at their standing the strain of the great brown sails, as they seemed, at times, almost to lift her bodily out of the water. Buoyant as the craft was, the waves broke over her bows and flooded her decks, and sheets of spray flew over her.

The cutter, with her sharper bows and all her sail forward, was feeling it still more severely, and the spirits of all on board the lugger rose rapidly, as it was evident that they were dropping their pursuers. Suddenly, the gaff of the cutter's mainsail was seen to droop, and the boom was hauled on board.

"I thought it would be too much for them," the skipper said exultantly. "They are going to reef."

"We had better reef down too, I think," the mate said. "She has had as much as she could bear for some time."

"I'll hold on ten minutes longer," the skipper said. "Every half mile counts."

But before that time was up, the sails were one after another reefed, for the wind continued to freshen. The sky was still cloudless, but there was a misty light in the air, and a heavy sea was beginning to run.

Suddenly, a gun flashed out from the cutter. The skipper uttered an oath. Their pursuer was more than three miles astern, and he knew that she could only be firing as a signal.

There were several large ships in sight on their way up or down the Channel. To these, little attention had been paid. The skipper shaded his eyes with a hand, and gazed earnestly at a large ship on the weather beam, some four miles away.

"That is a frigate, sure enough," he exclaimed. "We are fairly caught between them.

"Haul in the sheets, lads, we will have a try for it yet."

The lugger was brought sharp up into the wind, and was soon staggering along seaward, with the lee bulwark almost under water. The cutter instantly lowered her square sail, and followed her example, continuing to fire a gun every minute. All eyes were turned towards the frigate, which was now on the port beam.

"We shall cross two miles to windward of her," the skipper said. "If she keeps on her course, a quarter of an hour will do it, but she is sure to notice the guns. The wind will take them down to her.

"Ah, there she goes."

As he spoke, a puff of smoke darted out from the frigate's bow. Her sails fluttered, and her head bore round, until she was on the same tack as the lugger.

The latter was now about equidistant from her two pursuers. The cutter and the lugger were nearly abreast, but the former, being to windward, could edge down. The frigate was three miles to leeward, but she was fully a mile ahead.

"There is no way out of it," the skipper said bitterly. "In a light wind we could run away from the frigate, but with this breeze we have no chance with her. Look how she is piling on sail!"

The crew shared the captain's opinion. Some shook their fists and cursed vainly at their pursuers, some stood sullenly scowling, while the French portion of the crew gave way to wild outbursts of rage. Rapidly the three vessels closed in towards each other, for the cutter edged in so rapidly that the lugger was obliged to bear off towards the frigate again. As a last hope, the lugger's course was changed, and she again tried running, but the superior weight and power of the frigate brought her rapidly down. Presently a heavy gun boomed out, and a shot came dancing along the water, a hundred yards away.

"Lower the sails," the skipper said. "It is no use going farther. The inside of a prison is better than the bottom of the sea, anyhow."

Down came the sails, and the lugger lay rolling heavily in the waves, as the frigate bore down upon her with a white roll of water on her stem.

"Get ready, lads," the skipper said. "There is just one chance yet. She will run by us. The instant she is past, up sail again. We shall be a mile away before they can get her round into the wind again. If she doesn't cripple us with her shot, we may weather her yet. We needn't mind the cutter."

The frigate came foaming along, the crew busy in taking sail off her. The instant she had passed, and was preparing to round to, the sails of the lugger flew up like magic, and she was soon tearing along almost in the eye of the wind, as if to meet the cutter, which was running down towards her.

"Down below, lads, every man of you," the captain shouted. "We shall have a broadside in a minute."

In a moment, the deck was clear of all save the skipper and his mate, who stood at the tiller. The frigate swept slowly round, and then, as her guns came to bear, shot after shot was fired at the lugger, already three-quarters of a mile to the windward. The shot hummed overhead, one struck the water alongside, a yard or two away, but still she was untouched.

"Some of her shots went as near the cutter as they did to us," the skipper said. "She won't fire again."

They were now fast approaching the cutter, which, when she was within a quarter of a mile, changed her course and was brought up again into the wind, firing the four guns she carried on her broadside as she came round. The lugger's head was paid off, and this placed the cutter on her starboard quarter, both going free. The former was travelling the faster, but a gun was fired from the cutter's bow, and the shot struck splinters from the lugger's quarter. The crew were on deck again now.

"Train that gun over the stern," the skipper said. "If we can knock her mast out of her, we are saved. If not, they will have us yet."

He had scarcely spoken when there was a crash. A shot from the cutter had struck the mizzen mast, a few feet above the deck, and the mast and sail fell over to leeward. There was a cry of rage and dismay.

"Luck's against us," the skipper said bitterly. "Down with the sail, lads. This time it is all up with us."

The sail was lowered, and the lugger lay motionless in the water, until the cutter came up and lay within fifty yards of her. A boat was at once lowered, and an officer was rowed to the lugger.

"So we have caught you, my friends, at last," he said, as he sprang on board.

"You wouldn't have done it, if it had not been for the frigate," the skipper said.

"No; I will say your craft sails like a witch," the officer replied. "I wish we could have done it without her. It will make all the difference to us. The frigate will get the lion's share of the prize. What is the value of your cargo?"

"Two hundred kegs of brandy," the skipper replied, "and fifteen hundred pounds' worth of lace and silks."

"A good prize," the officer said. "Not your own, I hope, for you have made a brave chase of it."

"No," the skipper answered. "Fortunately, I only took a very small share this time. It's bad enough to lose my boat; I own two-thirds of her."

"I am sorry for you," the officer said, for he was in high spirits at the success of the chase, and could afford to be pleasant. "Here comes a boat from the frigate. You played them a rare trick, and might have got off, if it hadn't been for that lucky shot of ours.

"I see you were just getting out a stern chaser," and he pointed to the gun. "It is well for you that you didn't fire it, as you can't be charged with armed resistance."

"I wish I had fired it, for all that. It might have been my luck to cripple you."

"It would have made no difference if you had," the officer replied. "The frigate would have overhauled you. With this wind she would sail five feet to your four."

The boat from the frigate now came alongside.

"How are you, Cotterel?" the officer said, as he stepped on board. "That was a lucky shot of yours; but I think it's lucky for the lugger that you hit her, for the captain was so savage, at that trick they played him, that I believe he would have sunk her when he came up to her again. I heard him say to the first lieutenant, 'I won't give her a chance to play me such a trick again.'"

"What orders have you brought?" the other asked.

"We are outward bound, so you are to put a crew on board and take her into port; but, as we are very short of hands, we will relieve you of the prisoners."

All on board the lugger were at once ordered into the frigate's boat, and were rowed off to the ship. On gaining the deck, they were drawn up in line, and the captain and first lieutenant came up. The good humour of the former had been restored by the capture of the lugger.

"Hallo!" he said, looking at the bandaged heads and arms of some of the men, "so you have been having a fight trying to run your cargo, I suppose. That will make it all the worse for you, when you get on shore. Now, I might press you all without giving you a choice, but I don't want unwilling hands, so I will leave it to you. Which is it to be--an English prison for two or three years, or a cruise on board the Thetis?"

The greater part of the men at once stepped forward, and announced their willingness to volunteer.

"Who have we here," the captain asked, looking at the three countrymen.

"They are passengers, sir," the skipper of the lugger said, with a half smile.

A few questions brought to light the facts of the surprise while the cargo was being landed.

"Well, my lads," the captain said, "you are in the same boat with the rest. You were engaged in an unlawful enterprise, and in resisting his majesty's officers. You will get some months in prison anyhow, if you go back. You had better stay on board, and let me make men of you."

The countrymen, however, preferred a prison to a man o' war.

James Walsham had been turning over the matter in his mind. He had certainly taken no part in the fray, but that would be difficult to prove, and he could not account for his presence except by acknowledging that he was there to warn them. It would certainly be a case of imprisonment. Surely, it would be better to volunteer than this. He had been longing for the sea, and here an opportunity opened for him for abandoning the career his mother intended for him, without setting himself in opposition to her wishes. Surely she would prefer that he should be at sea for a year or two to his being disgraced by imprisonment. He therefore now stepped forward.

"I do not belong to the lugger's crew, sir, and had nothing to do with running their cargo, though I own I was on the spot at the time. I am not a sailor, though I have spent a good deal of time on board fishing boats. Mr. Horton, whom I see there, knows me, and will tell you that I am a son of a doctor in Sidmouth. But, as I have got into a scrape, I would rather serve than go back and stand a trial."

"Very well, my lad," the captain said. "I like your spirit, and will keep my eye on you."

The three countrymen and four of the French sailors, who declined to join the Thetis, were taken back to the cutter, and the Thetis at once proceeded on her way down channel. James had given a hastily scribbled line, on the back of an old letter which he happened to have in his pocket, to the men who were to be taken ashore, but he had very little hope that it would ever reach his mother. Nor, indeed, did it ever do so. When the cutter reached Weymouth with the lugger, the men captured in her were at once sent to prison, where they remained until they were tried at assizes three months afterwards; and, although all were acquitted of the charge of unlawful resistance to the king's officers, as there was no proof against any of the six men individually, they were sentenced to a year's imprisonment for smuggling.

Whether Jim's hurriedly written letter was thrown overboard, or whether it was carried in the pocket of the man to whom he gave it until worn into fragments, James never knew, but it never reached his mother.

The news that James was missing was brought to her upon the day after the event by Mr. Wilks. He had, as usual, gone down after breakfast to report how Aggie was getting on, with a message from his mother that her charge was now so completely restored that it was unnecessary for her to stay longer at the Hall, and that she should come home that evening at her usual time. Hearing from the girl that James had not returned since he went out at nine o'clock on the previous evening, the old soldier sauntered down to the beach, to inquire of the fishermen in whose boat James had gone out.

To his surprise, he found that none of the boats had put to sea the evening before. The men seemed less chatty and communicative than usual. Most of them were preparing to go out with their boats, and none seemed inclined to enter into a conversation. Rather wondering at their unusual reticence, Mr. Wilks strolled along to where the officer of the revenue men was standing, with his boatswain, watching the fishermen.

"A fine morning, lieutenant."

"Yes," the latter assented. "There will be wind presently. Have you heard of the doings of last night?"

"No," Mr. Wilks said in surprise, "I have heard nothing. I was just speaking to the fishermen, but they don't seem in as communicative a mood as usual this morning."

"The scamps know it is safest for them to keep their mouths shut, just at present," the officer said grimly. "I have no doubt a good many of them were concerned in that affair last night. We had a fight with the smugglers. Two of my men were shot and one of theirs, and there were a good many cutlass wounds on each side. We have taken a score of prisoners, but they are all country people who were assisting in the landing; the smugglers themselves all got off. We made a mess of the affair altogether, thanks to some fellow who rushed down and gave the alarm, and upset all the plans we had laid.

"It is too provoking. I had got news of the exact spot and hour at which the landing was to take place. I had my men all up on the cliff, and, as the fellows came up with kegs, they were to have been allowed to get a hundred yards or so inland and would there have been seized, and any shout they made would not have been heard below. Lieutenant Fisher, with his party from the next station, was to be a little way along at the foot of the cliffs, and when the boats came with the second batch, he was to rush forward and capture them, while we came down from above. Then we intended to row off and take the lugger. There was not wind enough for her to get away.

"All was going well, and the men were just coming up the cliff with the tubs, when someone who had passed us on the cliff ran down shouting the alarm. We rushed down at once, but arrived too late. They showed fight, and kept us back till Fisher's party came up; but by that time the boats were afloat, and the smugglers managed to get in and carry them off, in spite of us. We caught, as I tell you, some of the countrymen, and Fisher has taken them off to Weymouth, but most of them got away. There are several places where the cliff can be climbed by men who know it, and I have no doubt half those fishermen you see there were engaged in the business."

"Then the smuggler got away?" Mr. Wilks asked.

"I don't know," the lieutenant said shortly. "I had sent word to Weymouth, and I hope they will catch her in the offing. The lugger came down this way first, but we made her out, and showed a blue light. She must have turned and gone back again, for this morning at daylight we made her out to the east. The cutter was giving chase, and at first ran down fast towards her. Then the smugglers got the wind, and the last we saw of them they were running up the Channel, the cutter some three miles astern.

"I would give a couple of months' pay to know who it was that gave the alarm. I expect it was one of those fishermen. As far as my men could make out in the darkness, the fellow was dressed as a sailor. But I must say good morning, for I am just going to turn in."

Mr. Wilks had been on the point of mentioning that James was missing, but a vague idea that he might, in some way, be mixed up with the events of the previous night, checked the question on his lips; and yet he thought, as the officer walked away, it was not probable. Had James been foolish enough to take part in such a business, he would either have been taken prisoner, or would, after he escaped, have returned home. He had evidently not been taken prisoner, or the officer would have been sure to mention it.

Much puzzled, he walked slowly back to the fishermen. Some of the boats had already pushed off. He went up to three of the men, whose boat, being higher up than the rest, would not be afloat for another quarter of an hour.

"Look here, lads," he said. "My young friend Jim Walsham is missing this morning, and hasn't been at home all night. As none of the fishing boats put out in the evening he cannot have gone to sea. Can any of you tell me anything about him?"

The men gave no answer.

"You need not be afraid of speaking to me, you know," he went on, "and it's no business of mine whether any of the men on the shore were concerned in that affair. The lieutenant has just been telling me of last night; but hearing of that, and finding Jim is missing, I can't help thinking there is some connection between the two things. Nothing you say to me will go further, that I can promise you; but the lad's mother will be in a terrible way. I can't make it out, for I know that, if he had anything to do with this smuggling business, he would have told me. Again, if he was there and got away, he would naturally have come straight home, for his absence would only throw suspicion upon him."

"Well, Mr. Wilks," the youngest of the sailors said, "I don't know nothing about it myself. No one does, so far as I know, but I have heard say this morning as how he was there or thereabouts; but don't you let out as I told you, 'cause they would want to know who I heard it from."

"You can rely upon my silence, my lad, and here's half a guinea to drink my health between you. But can't you tell me a little more?"

"Well, sir, they do say as how it war Mr. Jim as came running down into the middle of them on the beach, shouting the alarm, with the revenue men close at his heels. I don't say as it were he--likely enough it weren't--but that's the talk, and that's all I have heared about the matter. How he came for to know of it, or how he got there, no one knows, for sartin he has had nought to do with any landings afore. He was a lot among us, but I know as he never was told about it; for, though everyone would have trusted Jim, still, seeing how he was placed, with his mother up at the Hall, and the squire a magistrate, it was thought better as he shouldn't be let into it. Everyone on the shore here likes Jim."

"But if he was there, and he hasn't been taken prisoner--and I am sure the lieutenant would have told me if he was--why shouldn't he have got home?"

"We didn't know as he hadn't got home, did us, Bill?" the fisherman appealed to one of his comrades.

"No," the other said. "We thought likely he had got safely away with the rest. It war a dark night, and I expect as everyone was too busy looking after himself to notice about others."

"He may have been wounded," the old soldier said anxiously, "and may be in hiding in some house near the place."

The fisherman was silent. Such a thing was, of course, possible.

"He might that," one of the sailors said doubtfully, "and yet I don't think it. The chase was a hot one, and I don't think anyone, wounded so bad as he couldn't make his way home, would have got away. I should say as it wur more likely as he got on board one of the boats. It seems to me as though he might have come to warn us--that is to say, to warn them, I mean--just to do em a good turn, as he was always ready to do if he had the chance. But he wouldn't have had anything to do with the scrimmage, and might have been standing, quiet like, near the boats, when the other lot came along the shore, and then, seeing as the game was up, he might, likely enough, have jumped on board and gone off to the lugger."

"That is possible," Mr. Wilks said. "Anyhow, I will go off at once, and make inquiries at all the houses within a mile or so of the landing place."

Chapter 8: Discharged.

Contrary to his usual habits of punctuality, Mr. Wilks did not return to luncheon at the Hall, and it was two hours later before he came in, looking fagged and anxious. He had been to all the farm houses within two miles of the scene of the fight, and had ascertained, for certain, that Jim was not lying wounded at any of them. At first, his inquiries had everywhere been coldly received. There was scarce a farm house near the coast, but the occupants had relations with the smugglers, assisting with their carts and men at the landings, or having hiding places where goods could be stowed away. At first, therefore, all professed entire ignorance of the events of the previous night; but, when persuaded by the earnestness of the old soldier's manner that his mission was a friendly one, they became more communicative, and even owned that some of their men had been taken prisoners and marched to Weymouth; but none of them had heard of any wounded man being in hiding.

Convinced, at last, that James must have gone off to the lugger, Mr. Wilks returned to Sidmouth, a prey to great anxiety. Everything depended now on whether the lugger was captured. If so, James would have to stand his trial for being concerned in the fight on the beach, and, as two of the revenue men had been killed, his sentence might be a heavy one.

If she got away, all would be well. They would doubtless hear by letter from Jim, and it would be better that he should not return at present to Sidmouth, but should at once take up his residence in London, and commence his studies there.

He met the squire just as the latter was starting for Sidmouth.

"Well, Wilks, we began to think that you were lost," he said, cheerfully. "Aggie was downstairs to lunch, and was mightily offended that you should not be there at her first appearance.

"But you look tired and fagged. Has anything gone wrong?"

"Things have gone very wrong, squire."

And he related to his friend all the news that he had gathered, and his conviction that James Walsham was on board the lugger.

"This is a pretty kettle of fish," the squire said irritably. "What on earth did the boy mean by getting himself mixed up with such an affair as that?"

"It is a foolish business, squire," the old soldier agreed. "But we can't expect wise heads on young shoulders, I suppose. He, somehow or other, learnt the surprise which the revenue men intended, and as most of his friends, the fishermen, would probably be concerned in it, he went to give them notice, intending, no doubt, to go quietly back again before the revenue men arrived. I don't know that he's altogether to be blamed in the matter. Most young fellows would do the same."

"Well, I suppose they would," the squire agreed reluctantly; "but it is a most awkward business. If the lad gets caught, and gets two or three years' imprisonment, it will ruin his prospects in life. His mother will be broken hearted over the business, and I am sure Aggie will take it terribly to heart. They were great friends of old, though she hasn't seen much of him for the last two or three years, and, of course, that affair of the other day has made quite a hero of him."

"We must hope the lugger will get safely over to France," his companion said. "Then no great harm will have been done."

"We must hope so," the squire assented moodily. "Confound the young jackanapes, turning everything upside down, and upsetting us all with his mad-brain freaks."

Mrs. Walsham was greatly distressed, when the news was broken to her by Mr. Wilks, and Aggie cried so that the squire, at last, said she must go straight up to bed unless she stopped, for she would be making herself ill again. When she was somewhat pacified, the matter was discussed in every light, but the only conclusion to be arrived at was, that their sole hope rested in the hugger getting safely off.

"Of course, my dear madam," the squire said, "if they are taken I will do my best to get a pardon for your son. I am afraid he will have to stand his trial with the rest; but I think that, with the representations I will make as to his good character, I may get a mitigation, anyhow, of a sentence. If they find out that it was he who gave the alarm, there will be no hope of a pardon; but if that doesn't come out, one would represent his being there as a mere boyish freak of adventure, and, in that case, I might get him a free pardon. You must not take the matter too seriously to heart. It was a foolish business, and that is the worst that can be said of it."

"I think it was a grand thing," Aggie said indignantly, "for him to risk being shot, and imprisoned, and all sorts of dreadful things, just to save other people."

"And I think you are a goose, Aggie," the squire said. "If everyone were to go and mix themselves up in other people's business, there would be no end of trouble. I suppose next you will say that, if you heard me arranging with the constable to make a capture of some burglars, you would think it a grand thing to put on your hat to run off to warn them."

"Oh, grandpapa, how can you say such a thing!" the girl said. "Burglars and smugglers are quite different. Burglars are wicked men, and thieves and robbers. Smugglers are not, they are only trying to get goods in without paying duty."

"They try to rob the king, my dear, and in the eyes of the law are just as criminal as burglars. Both of them are leagued to break the law, and both will resist and take life if they are interfered with. I allow that, in general estimation, the smugglers are looked upon in a more favourable light, and that a great many people, who ought to know better, are in league with them, but that does not alter the facts of the case."

The girl did not argue the question, but the squire was perfectly aware that he had in no way convinced her, and that her feeling, that James Walsham's action was a highly meritorious one, was in no way shaken. It was agreed that nothing was to be said about James's absence, and, after taking some refreshment, Mr. Wilks went down into Sidmouth again, to tell the girl at Mrs. Walsham's that she was not to gossip about James being away.

Three days later, a letter was received by the squire from Richard Horton.

"I am taking the opportunity of writing a few lines to you, my dear uncle, as I have a chance of sending it ashore by the revenue cutter Thistle, which is lying alongside of us. Between us, we have just captured a rascally smuggling lugger, with a cargo of lace, silk, and spirits. You will, I am sure, be surprised and grieved to hear that among the crew of the lugger was James Walsham. I could hardly believe my eyes, when I saw him in such disreputable company. It will be a sad blow for his poor mother. As we were short of hands, our captain offered the crew of the lugger the choice of shipping with us, or being sent on shore for trial. Most of them chose the former alternative, among them James Walsham, of which I was glad, as his mother will be spared the disgrace of his being placed in the dock with his associates. I need not say that if I could have obtained his release, I should have done so, knowing that you had a high opinion of him; but it was, of course, out of my power to interfere."

The squire was alone in his study when he received the letter, for it was midday before the post arrived at Sidmouth, when a man from the Hall went down each day, with a bag, to fetch the letters. He rang the bell, and ordered the servant to tell Mr. Wilks he should be glad if he would step in to him. When his friend came, he handed him the letter without a word.

"That settles the matter," he said, as he threw the letter angrily down upon the table. "A malicious young viper! I wish I had him here."

"It is not nicely worded," the squire said gravely; "but it was an unpleasant story to have to tell."

"It was not an unpleasant story for him to tell," the old soldier said hotly. "There is malice in every line of it. He speaks of the men as James's associates, talks about the disgrace he would bring on his mother. There's malice, squire, in every line of it."

"I'm afraid it's a bad letter," the squire assented gravely.

"It's a natural letter," Mr. Wilks said savagely. "It is written in a hurry, and he's had no time to pick and choose his words, and round off his sentences, as he generally does in his letters to you. He was so full of malicious exultation that he did not think how much he was showing his feeling, as he wrote."

"It's a bad letter and a nasty letter," the squire assented; "but let that pass, now. The first question is--How are we to tell Jim's mother? Do you think it will be a relief to her, or otherwise?"

"It will be a blow to know that the lugger has been captured," Mr. Wilks said--"a severe blow, no doubt, for her escape is what we have been building our hopes upon. It will be a heavy blow, too, for her to know that James is a seaman before the mast; that it will be years before she will see him again, and that all her plans for his future are upset. But I think this will be much better for her than if she knew he was a prisoner, and would have to stand a trial.

"Between ourselves, squire, as far as the lad himself is concerned, I am not sure that he will be altogether sorry that events have turned out as they have. In our talks together, he has often confided to me that his own inclinations were altogether for a life of activity and adventure; but that, as his mother's heart was so set upon his following his father's profession, he had resolved upon never saying a word, to her, which would lead her to suppose that his own wishes lay in any other direction. This business will give him the opportunity he has longed for, to see the world, without his appearing in any way to thwart his mother's plans."

"At any rate," the squire said, "I am heartily glad he has got off being tried. Even if I had got a free pardon for him, it would have been a serious slur upon him that he had been imprisoned, and would have been awkward for us all in the future. I think, Wilks, I will leave it to you to break it to his mother."

"Very well," the other agreed. "It is an unpleasant business, squire; but perhaps I had better do it. It may console her if I tell her that, at heart, he always wanted to go to sea, and that, accustomed as he is to knock about in the fishermen's boats, he will find it no hardship on board a man o' war, and will come back, in the course of two or three years, none the worse for his cruise. She may think he will take up doctoring again after that, though I have my doubts whether he will do that. However, there is no use in telling her so. Shall I show her that letter, squire?"

"No," the squire replied, "of course you can tell her what's in it; but I will keep the letter myself. I would give a good deal if he had not written it. It is certainly badly worded, though why he should feel any malice, towards the other, is more than I can tell."

His companion was about to speak, but thought better of it, and, without another word, went to break the news to Mrs. Walsham.

Mrs. Walsham was terribly upset. After suffering her to cry for some time in silence, Mr. Wilks said:

"My dear madam, I know that this news must distress you terribly; but it may be that in this, as in all things, a providence has overruled your plans for your son, for his own good. I will tell you now what you would never have known had this affair never occurred. Jim, at heart, hates his father's profession. He is a dutiful son and, rather than give you pain, he was prepared to sacrifice all his own feelings and wishes. But the lad is full of life and energy. The dull existence of a country surgeon, in a little town like this, is the last he would adopt as his own choice; and I own that I am not surprised that a lad of spirit should long for a more adventurous life. I should have told you this long ago, and advised you that it would be well for you both to put it frankly to him that, although you would naturally like to see him following his father's profession, still that you felt that he should choose for himself; and that, should he select any other mode of life, you would not set your wishes against his. But the lad would not hear of my doing so. He said that, rather than upset your cherished plans, he would gladly consent to settle down in Sidmouth for life. I honoured him for his filial spirit; but, frankly, I think he was wrong. An eagle is not made to live in a hen coop, nor a spirited lad to settle down in a humdrum village; and I own that, although I regret the manner of his going, I cannot look upon it as an unmixed evil, that the force of circumstances has taken him out of the course marked out for him, and that he will have an opportunity of seeing life and adventure."

Mrs. Walsham had listened, with a surprise too great to admit of her interrupting the old soldier's remarks.

"I never dreamed of this," she said at last, when he ceased. "I cannot remember, now, that I ever asked him, but I took it for granted that he would like nothing better than to follow in his father's steps. Had I known that he objected to it, I would not for a moment have forced him against his inclinations. Of course it is natural that, being alone in the world, I should like to have him with me still, but I would never have been so selfish as to have sacrificed his life to mine. Still, though it would be hard to have parted from him in any way, it is harder still to part like this. If he was to go, he need not have gone as a common sailor. The squire, who has done so much for him, would no doubt, instead of sending him to school, have obtained a midshipman's berth for him, or a commission in the army; but it is dreadful to think of him as a common sailor, liable to be flogged."

"Well, Mrs. Walsham, perhaps we may set the matter partly to rights. I will speak to the squire, and I am sure he will write to his friend at the admiralty, and have an order sent out, at once, for Jim's discharge. At the same time, it would be better that he should not return here just at present. His name may come out, at the trial of the smugglers, as being concerned in the affair, and it would be better that he should stay away, till that matter blows over. At any rate, if I were you I should write to him, telling him that you know now that he has no taste for the medical profession, and that, should he see anything that he thinks will suit him in America, you would not wish him to come home immediately, if he has a fancy for staying out there; but that, if he chooses to return, you are sure that the squire will exert himself, to give him a start in any other profession he may choose."

Mrs. Walsham agreed to carry out the suggestion and, that afternoon, the squire sent off a letter to his friend at the admiralty, and three letters were also posted to James himself.

The voyage of the Thetis was uneventful. Her destination was Hampton, at the opening of Chesapeake Bay, where the troops on board would join the expedition under General Braddock, which was advancing up the Potomac. When she arrived there, they found several ships of war under Commodore Keppel. Braddock's force had marched to Wills Creek, where a military post named Fort Cumberland had been formed. The soldiers on board were at once disembarked, and marched up the banks of the Potomac to join the force at Fort Cumberland. The sailors were employed in taking stores up the river in boats.

James Walsham had done his best, during the voyage, to acquire a knowledge of his duties. His experience in the fishing boats was useful to him now, and he was soon able to do his work as an able-bodied seaman. His good spirits and willingness rendered him a general favourite. He was glad that he was not put in the same watch with Richard Horton, as, after their first meeting, the young lieutenant showed no signs of recognition. He was not, James found, popular among the men. He was exacting and overbearing with them, and some on board, who had served with him on his previous voyage, had many tales to his disadvantage.

A fortnight after the arrival of the Thetis at Hampton, orders were issued among the ships of war for thirty volunteers for Braddock's expedition, of which the Thetis was to furnish ten. So many sent in their names, that the first lieutenant had difficulty in choosing ten, who were looked upon with envy by the rest of the ship's company; for there seemed little chance, at present, of fighting at sea, and the excitement of a march on shore, with adventures of all sorts, and encounters with the French and their Indian allies, seemed delightful to the tars.

Upon the following day a ship arrived from England and, an hour afterwards, an order was passed forward that the first lieutenant wanted James Walsham upon the quarterdeck.

"Walsham," he said, "an order has just come from the admiralty for your discharge, and you are to have a passage in the first ship returning, if you choose to take it. I am sorry you are leaving the ship, for I have noticed that you show great willingness and activity, and will make a first-rate sailor. Still, I suppose, your friends in England did not care about your remaining before the mast."

James touched his hat and walked forward. He was scarcely surprised, for he had thought that his mother would probably ask the squire to use his influence to obtain his discharge. He scarcely knew whether he was glad or sorry. He was in a false position, and could not hope for promotion except by some lucky chance, such as was not likely to occur, of distinguishing himself.

At the same time, he sighed as he thought that he must now return and take up the profession for which his mother had intended him. A quarter of an hour later, however, the ship's corporal came round and distributed the mails, and James, to his delight, found there were three letters for him. He tore open that from his mother. It began by gently upbraiding him for getting himself mixed up in the fight between the smugglers and the revenue men.

"In the next place, my dear boy," she said, "I must scold you, even more, for not confiding in your mother as to your wishes about your future profession. Mr. Wilks has opened my eyes to the fact that, while I have all along been taking it for granted, that your wishes agreed with mine as to your profession, you have really been sacrificing all your own inclinations in order to avoid giving me pain. I am very thankful to him for having opened my eyes, for I should have been grieved indeed had I found, when too late, that I had chained you down to a profession you dislike.

"Of course, I should have liked to have had you with me, but in no case would have had you sacrifice yourself; still less now, when I have met with such kind friends, and am happy and comfortable in my life. Therefore, my boy, let us set aside at once all idea of your becoming a doctor. There is no occasion for you to choose, immediately, what you will do. You are too old now to enter the royal navy, and it is well that, before you finally decide on a profession, you have the opportunity of seeing something of the world.

"I inclose bank notes for a hundred pounds so that, if you like, you can stay for a few weeks or months in the colonies, and then take your passage home from New York or Boston. By that time, too, all talk about this affair with the smugglers will have ceased; but, as your name is likely to come out at the trial of the men who were taken, so the squire thinks it will be better for you to keep away, for a time."

The rest of the letter was filled up with an account of the excitement and alarm which had been felt when he was first missed.

"We were glad, indeed," she said, "when a letter was received from Richard Horton, saying that you were on board the Thetis. Mr. Wilks tells me it was an abominably spiteful letter, and I am sure the squire thinks so, too, from the tone in which he spoke this afternoon about his nephew; but I can quite forgive him, for, if it had not been for his letter, we should not have known what had become of you, and many months might have passed before we might have heard from you in America. As it is, only four or five days have been lost, and the squire is writing tonight to obtain your discharge, which he assures me there will be no difficulty whatever about."

The squire's was a very cordial letter, and he, too, enclosed notes for a hundred pounds.

"Mr. Wilks tells me," he said, "that you do not like the thought of doctoring. I am not surprised, and I think that a young fellow, of such spirit and courage as you have shown, ought to be fitted for something better than administering pills and draughts to the old women of Sidmouth. Tell me frankly, when you write, what you would like. You are, of course, too old for the royal navy. If you like to enter the merchant service, I have no doubt I could arrange with some shipping firm in Bristol, and would take care that, by the time you get to be captain, you should also be part owner of the ship. If, on the other hand, you would like to enter the army--and it seems to me that there are stirring times approaching--I think that, through one or other of my friends in London, I could obtain a commission for you. If there is anything else you would like better than this, you may command my best services. I never forget how much I am indebted to you for my present happiness, and, whatever I can do for you, still shall feel myself deeply your debtor."

The old soldier wrote a characteristic letter. In the first place, he told James that he regarded him as a fool, for mixing up in an affair in which he had no concern whatever. Then he congratulated him on the fact that circumstances had broken the chain from which he would never otherwise have freed himself.

"You must not be angry with me," he said, "for having betrayed your confidence, and told the truth to your mother. I did it in order to console her, by showing her that things were, after all, for the best; and I must say that madam took my news in the very best spirit, and I am sure you will see this by her letter to you. There is no one I honour and esteem more than I do her, and I was sure, all along, that you were making a mistake in not telling her frankly what your wishes were. Now you have got a roving commission for a time, and it will be your own fault if you don't make the best of it. There is likely to be an exciting time in the colonies, and you are not the lad I take you for, if you dawdle away your time in the towns, instead of seeing what is going on in the forest."

These letters filled James with delight, and, without an hour's delay, he sat down to answer them. In his letter to the squire he thanked him most warmly for his kindness, and said that, above all things, he should like a commission in the army. He wrote a very tender and affectionate letter to his mother, telling her how much he felt her goodness in so promptly relinquishing her own plans, and in allowing him to choose the life he liked.

"Thank Aggie," he concluded, "for the message she sent by you. Give her my love, and don't let her forget me."

To the old soldier he wrote a gossipping account of his voyage.

"It was impossible," he said, "for the news of my discharge to have come at a better moment. Thirty sailors from the fleet are going with General Braddock's force, and everyone else is envying their good luck--I among them. Now I shall go up, at once, and join the Virginian regiment which is accompanying them. I shall join that, instead of either of the line regiments, as I can leave when I like. Besides, if the squire is able to get me a commission, it would have been pleasanter for me to have been fighting here as a volunteer, than as a private in the line.

"By the way, nobody thinks there will be much fighting, so don't let my mother worry herself about me; but, at any rate, a march through the great forests of this country, with a chance of a brush with the redskins, will be great fun. Perhaps, by the time it is over, I may get a letter from you saying that I have got my commission. As I hear there is a chance of a regular war between the French and us out here, the commission may be for a regiment on this side."

After finishing his letters, and giving them to the ship's corporal to place in the next post bag, James said goodbye to his messmates, and prepared to go on shore. The ten men chosen for the expedition were also on the point of starting. Richard Horton was standing near, in a state of great discontent that he had not been chosen to accompany them in their expedition. James Walsham stepped up to him, and touched his hat respectfully.

"I wish to thank you, Lieutenant Horton, for your extremely kind letter, telling my friends that I was on board this ship. It has been the means of my obtaining my discharge at once, instead of having to serve, for many months, before I could send the news home and obtain an answer in return."

Without another word he turned and, walking to the gangway, took his place in a boat about starting with some sailors for the shore, leaving Richard Horton in a state of fury, with himself, for having been the means of obtaining James's discharge. He had already, more than once, felt uncomfortable as he thought of the wording of the letter; and that this indulgence of his spite had had the effect of restoring James's liberty, rendered him well-nigh mad with rage.

On landing, James Walsham at once disposed of his sailor's clothes, and purchased a suit similar to those worn by the colonists; then he obtained a passage up the river to Alexandria, where the transports which had brought the troops were still lying. Here, one of the companies of the Virginia corps was stationed, and James, finding that they were expecting, every day, to be ordered up to Wills Creek, determined to join them at once.

The scene was a busy one. Stores were being landed from the transports, teamsters were loading up their waggons, officers were superintending the operations, the men of the Virginia corps, who wore no uniform, but were attired in the costume used by hunters and backwoodsmen; namely, a loose hunting shirt, short trousers or breeches, and gaiters; were moving about unconcernedly, while a few of them, musket on shoulder, were on guard over the piles of stores.

Presently a tall, slightly-built young man, with a pleasant but resolute face, came riding along, and checked his horse close to where James was standing. James noticed that the men on sentry, who had, for the most part, been sitting down on fallen logs of wood, bales, or anything else which came handy; with their muskets across their knees, or leaning beside them; got up and began pacing to and fro, with some semblance of military position.

"Who is that young man?" he asked a teamster standing by.

"That is Colonel Washington," the man replied, "one of the smartest of the colonial officers."

"Why, he only looks two or three and twenty," James said in surprise.

"He is not more than that," the man said; "but age don't go for much here, and Colonel Washington is adjutant general of the Virginian militia. Only a few months back, he made a journey with despatches, right through the forests to the French station at Port de Beuf, and, since then, he has been in command of the party which went out to build a fort, at the forks of the Ohio, and had some sharp fighting with the French. A wonderful smart young officer they say he is, just as cool, when the bullets are flying, as if sitting on horseback."

James resolved, at once, that he would speak to Colonel Washington, and ask him if he could join the Virginian militia. He accordingly went up to him, and touched his hat.

"If you please, sir, I am anxious to join the Virginian militia, and, as they tell me that you are adjutant general, I have come to ask you if I can do so."

"I see no difficulty in it, my lad," the colonel said; "but if you have run away from home, in search of adventure, I should advise you to go back again, for we are likely to have heavy work."

"I don't mind that, sir, and I have not run away. I am English. I was pressed on board a frigate, and was brought over here, but my friends in England procured my discharge, which came for me here, a fortnight after my arrival. They are, I believe, about to obtain for me a commission in a king's regiment; but, as I was here, I thought that I should like to see some service, as it may be some months before I hear that I have got my commission. I would rather if I could join as a volunteer, as I do not want pay, my friends having supplied me amply with money."

"You seem to be a lad of spirit," Colonel Washington said, "and I will at once put you in the way of doing what you desire. You shall join the Virginian corps as a volunteer. Have you money enough to buy a horse?"

"Yes, plenty," Jim said. "I have two hundred pounds."

"Then you had better leave a hundred and fifty, at least, behind you," the colonel said. "I will direct you to a trader here, with whom you can bank it. You can get an excellent horse for twenty pounds. I asked you because, if you like, I can attach you to myself. I often want a mounted messenger; and, of course, as a volunteer, you would mess with me."

"I should like it above all things," James said thankfully.

"Then we will at once go to the tent of the officer commanding this company," Washington said, "and enroll you as a volunteer."

On reaching the tent, Washington dismounted and led the way in.

"Captain Hall," he said, "this is a young English gentleman, who will shortly have a commission in the king's army, but, in the meantime, he wishes to see a little brisk fighting, so he is to be enrolled as a volunteer in your company; but he is going to obtain a horse, and will act as a sort of aide-de-camp to me."

Captain Hall at once entered James's name as a volunteer on the roll of his company.

"Do you know of anyone who has a good horse for sale?" Washington asked.

"Yes," the captain replied, "at least, there was a farmer here half an hour ago with a good-looking horse which he wants to sell. I have no doubt he is in the camp, still."

Captain Hall went to the door of the tent, and told two of the men there to find the farmer, and tell him he had a purchaser for his horse.

Ten minutes later the farmer came up, and James bought the horse, Captain Hall doing the bargaining for him.

"Now," Washington said, "we will go round to the storekeeper I spoke of, and deposit the best part of your money with him. I should only take a pound or two, if I were you, for you will find no means of spending money when you once set forward, and, should anything happen to you, the Indians would not appreciate the value of those English notes of yours. You will want a brace of pistols and a sword, a blanket, and cooking pot--that is about the extent of your camp equipment."

Chapter 9: The Defeat Of Braddock.

England and France were, at this time, at peace in Europe, although the troops of both nations were about to engage in conflict, in the forests of America. Their position there was an anomalous one. England owned the belt of colonies on the east coast. France was mistress of Canada in the north, of Louisiana in the south, and, moreover, claimed the whole of the vast country lying behind the British colonies, which were thus cooped up on the seaboard. Her hold, however, of this great territory was extremely slight. She had strong posts along the chain of lakes from the Saint Lawrence to Lake Superior, but between these and Louisiana, her supremacy was little more than nominal.

The Canadian population were frugal and hardy, but they were deficient in enterprise; and the priests, who ruled them with a rod of iron, for Canada was intensely Catholic, discouraged any movements which would take their flocks from under their charge. Upon the other hand, the colonists of New England, Pennsylvania, and Virginia were men of enterprise and energy, and their traders, pushing in large numbers across the Alleghenies, carried on an extensive trade with the Indians in the valley of the Ohio, thereby greatly exciting the jealousy of the French, who feared that the Indians would ally themselves with the British colonists, and that the connection between Canada and Louisiana would be thereby cut.

The English colonists were greatly superior to the French in number; but they laboured under the disadvantage that the colonies were wholly independent of each other, with strong mutual jealousies, which paralysed their action and prevented their embarking upon any concerted operations. Upon the other hand, Canada was governed by the French as a military colony. The governor was practically absolute, and every man capable of bearing arms could, if necessary, be called by him into the field. He had at his disposal not only the wealth of the colony, but large assistance from France, and the French agents were, therefore, able to outbid the agents of the British colonies with the Indians.

For years there had been occasional troubles between the New England States and the French, the latter employing the Indians in harassing the border; but, until the middle of the eighteenth century, there had been nothing like a general trouble. In 1749 the Marquis of Galissoniere was governor general of Canada. The treaty of Aix la Chapelle had been signed; but this had done nothing to settle the vexed question of the boundaries between the English and French colonies. Meanwhile, the English traders from Pennsylvania and Virginia were poaching on the domain which France claimed as hers, ruining the French fur trade, and making friends with the Indian allies of Canada. Worse still, farmers were pushing westward and settling in the valley of the Ohio.

In order to drive these back, to impress the natives with the power of France, and to bring them back to their allegiance, the governor of Canada, in the summer of 1749, sent Celoron de Bienville. He had with him fourteen officers, twenty French soldiers, a hundred and eighty Canadians, and a band of Indians. They embarked in twenty-three birch-bark canoes, and, pushing up the Saint Lawrence, reached Lake Ontario, stopping for a time at the French fort of Frontenac, and avoiding the rival English port of Oswego on the southern shore, where a trade in beaver skins, disastrous to French interests, was being carried on, for the English traders sold their goods at vastly lower prices than those which the French had charged.

On the 6th of July the party reached Niagara, where there was a small French fort, and thence, carrying their canoes round the cataract, launched them upon Lake Erie. Landing again on the southern shore of the lake, they carried their canoes nine miles through the forest to Chautauqua Lake, and then dropped down the stream running out of it until they reached the Ohio. The fertile country here was inhabited by the Delawares, Shawanoes, Wyandots, and Iroquois, or Indians of the Five Nations, who had migrated thither from their original territories in the colony of New York. Further west, on the banks of the Miami, the Wabash, and other streams, was a confederacy of the Miami and their kindred tribes. Still further west, in the country of the Illinois, near the Mississippi, the French had a strong stone fort called Fort Chartres, which formed one of the chief links of the chain of posts that connected Quebec with New Orleans.

The French missionaries and the French political agents had, for seventy years, laboured hard to bring these Indian tribes into close connection with France. The missionaries had failed signally; but the presents, so lavishly bestowed, had inclined the tribes to the side of their donors, until the English traders with their cheap goods came pushing west over the Alleghenies. They carried their goods on the backs of horses, and journeyed from village to village, selling powder, rum, calicoes, beads, and trinkets. No less than three hundred men were engaged in these enterprises, and some of them pushed as far west as the Mississippi.

As the party of Celoron proceeded they nailed plates of tin, stamped with the arms of France, to trees; and buried plates of lead near them, with inscriptions saying that they took possession of the land in the name of Louis the Fifteenth, King of France.

Many of the villages were found to be deserted by the natives, who fled at their approach. At some, however, they found English traders, who were warned at once to leave the country; and, by some of them, letters were sent to the governor of Pennsylvania, in which Celoron declared that he was greatly surprised to find Englishmen trespassing in the domain of France, and that his orders were precise, to leave no foreign traders within the limits of the government of Canada.

At Chiningue, called Logstown by the English, a large number of natives were gathered, most of the inhabitants of the deserted villages having sought refuge there. The French were received with a volley of balls from the shore; but they landed without replying to the fire, and hostilities were avoided. The French kept guard all night, and in the morning Celoron invited the chiefs to a council, when he told them he had come, by the order of the governor, to open their eyes to the designs of the English against their lands, and that they must be driven away at once. The reply of the chiefs was humble; but they begged that the English traders, of whom there were, at that moment, ten in the town, might stay a little longer, since the goods they brought were necessary to them.

After making presents to the chiefs, the party proceeded on their way, putting up the coats of arms and burying the lead inscriptions. At Scioto a large number of Indians were assembled, and the French were very apprehensive of an attack, which would doubtless have been disastrous to them, as the Canadians of the party were altogether unused to war. A council was held, however, at which Celoron could obtain no satisfaction whatever, for the interests of the Indians were bound up with the English.

There can be no doubt that, had they been able to look into the future, every Indian on the continent would have joined the French in their effort to crush the English colonies. Had France remained master of America the Indians might, even now, be roaming free and unmolested on the lands of their forefathers. France is not a colonizing nation. She would have traded with the Indians, would have endeavoured to Christianize them, and would have left them their land and freedom, well satisfied with the fact that the flag of France should wave over so vast an extent of country; but on England conquering the soil, her armies of emigrants pressed west, and the red man is fast becoming extinct on the continent of which he was once the lord.

Celoron's expedition sailed down the Ohio until it reached the mouth of the Miami, and toiled for thirteen days against its shallow current, until they reached a village of the Miami Indians, ruled over by a chief called, by the French, La Demoiselle, but whom the English, whose fast friend he was, called Old Britain. He was the great chief of the Miami confederation.

The English traders there withdrew at the approach of the French. The usual council was held, and Celoron urged the chief to remove from this location, which he had but newly adopted, and to take up his abode, with his band, near the French fort on the Maumee. The chief accepted the Frenchman's gifts, thanked him for his good advice, and promised to follow it at a more convenient time; but neither promises nor threats could induce him to stir at once.

No sooner, indeed, had the French departed, than the chief gathered the greater part of the members of the confederation on that spot; until, in less than two years after the visit of Celoron, its population had increased eightfold, and it became one of the greatest Indian towns of the west, and the centre of English trade and influence.

Celoron reached Miami, and then returned northward to Lake Erie, and thence back to Montreal, when he reported to the governor that English influence was supreme in the valley of the Ohio.

In the following year, a company was formed in Virginia for effecting a settlement in Ohio, and a party proceeded west to the village of the chief called Old Britain, by whom they were received with great friendship, and a treaty of peace was solemnly made between the English and the Indians. While the festivities, consequent on the affair, were going on, four Ottawa Indians arrived from the French, with the French flag and gifts, but they were dismissed with an answer of defiance. If, at this time, the colonists could have cemented their alliance with the Indians, with gifts similar to those with which the French endeavoured to purchase their friendship, a permanent peace with the Indians might have been established; but the mutual jealousies of the colonies, and the nature of the various colonial assemblies, rendered any common action impossible. Pennsylvania was jealous of the westward advance of Virginia, and desired to thwart rather than to assist her.

The governors of New York, Pennsylvania, and Virginia were fully conscious of the importance of the Indian alliance, but they could do nothing without their assemblies. Those of New York and Pennsylvania were largely composed of tradesmen and farmers, absorbed in local interests, and animated but by two motives; the cutting down of all expenditure, and bitter and continuous opposition to the governor, who represented the royal authority. Virginia and Pennsylvania quarrelled about their respective rights over the valley of the Ohio. The assembly of New York refused to join in any common action, saying, "We will take care of our Indians, and they may take care of theirs."

The states further removed from the fear of any danger, from the action of the Indians and French, were altogether lukewarm.

Thus, neither in the valley of the Ohio, nor on the boundaries of the New England states, did the Indians receive their promised gifts, and, as the French agents were liberal both in presents and promises, the Indians became discontented with their new friends, and again turned their eyes towards France. Old Britain, however, remained firm in his alliance; and the English traders, by constant presents, and by selling their goods at the lowest possible rates, kept him and his warriors highly satisfied and contented.

The French, in vain, tried to stir up the friendly tribes to attack Oswego on Lake Ontario, and the village of Old Britain, which were the two centres to which the Indians went to trade with the English; but they were unsuccessful until, in June, 1752, Charles Langlade, a young French trader, married to a squaw at Green Bay, and strong in influence with the tribes of that region, came down the lakes with a fleet of canoes, manned by two hundred and fifty Ottawa and Ojibwa warriors. They stopped awhile at the fort at Detroit, then paddled up the Maumee to the next fort, and thence marched through the forests against the Miamis.

They approached Old Britain's village in the morning. Most of the Indians were away on their summer hunt, and there were but eight English traders in the place. Three of these were caught outside the village, the remaining five took refuge in the fortified warehouse they had built, and there defended themselves.

Old Britain and the little band with him fought bravely, but against such overwhelming numbers could do nothing, and fourteen of them, including their chief, were killed. The five white men defended themselves till the afternoon, when two of them managed to make their escape, and the other three surrendered. One of them was already wounded, and was at once killed by the French Indians. Seventy years of the teaching of the French missionaries had not weaned the latter from cannibalism, and Old Britain was boiled and eaten.

The Marquis of Duquesne, who had succeeded Galissoniere as governor, highly praised Langlade for the enterprise, and recommended him to the minister at home for reward. This bold enterprise further shook the alliance of the Indians with the English, for it seemed to them that the French were enterprising and energetic, while the English were slothful and cowardly, and neglected to keep their agreements. The French continued to build forts, and Dinwiddie, governor of Virginia, sent George Washington to protest, in his name, against their building forts on land notoriously belonging to the English crown.

Washington performed the long and toilsome journey through the forests at no slight risks, and delivered his message at the forts, but nothing came of it. The governor of Virginia, seeing the approaching danger, made the greatest efforts to induce the other colonies to join in common action; but North Carolina, alone, answered the appeal, and gave money enough to raise three or four hundred men. Two independent companies maintained by England in New York, and one in South Carolina, received orders to march to Virginia. The governor had raised, with great difficulty, three hundred men. They were called the Virginia Regiment. An English gentleman named Joshua Fry was appointed the colonel, and Washington their major.

Fry was at Alexandria, on the Potomac, with half the regiment. Washington, with the other half, had pushed forward to the storehouse at Wills Creek, which was to form the base of operations. Besides these, Captain Trent, with a band of backwoodsmen, had crossed the mountain to build a fort at the forks of the Ohio, where Pittsburgh now stands.

Trent had gone back to Wills Creek, leaving Ensign Ward, with forty men, at work upon the fort, when, on the 17th of April, a swarm of canoes came down the Allegheny, with over five hundred Frenchmen, who planted cannon against the unfinished stockade, and summoned the ensign to surrender. He had no recourse but to submit, and was allowed to depart, with his men, across the mountains.

The French at once set to, to build a strong fort, which they named Fort Duquesne. While the governor of Virginia had been toiling, in vain, to get the colonists to move, the French had acted promptly, and the erection of their new fort at once covered their line of communication to the west, barred the advance of the English down the Ohio valley, and secured the allegiance of all the wavering Indian tribes.

Although war had not yet been declared between England and France, the colonists, after this seizure, by French soldiers, of a fort over which the English flag was flying, henceforth acted as if the two powers were at war. Washington moved forward from Wills Creek with his hundred and fifty men, and surprised a French force which had gone out scouting. Several of the French were killed, and the commander of Fort Duquesne sent despatches to France to say that he had sent this party out with a communication to Washington, and that they had been treacherously assassinated.

This obscure skirmish was the commencement of a war which set two continents on fire. Colonel Fry died a few days after this fight, and Washington succeeded to the command of the regiment, and collected his three hundred men at Green Meadow, where he was joined by a few Indians, and by a company from South Carolina.

The French at Duquesne were quickly reinforced, and the command was given to Coulon de Villiers, the brother of an officer who had been killed in the skirmish with Washington. He at once advanced against the English, who had fallen back to a rough breastwork which they called Fort Necessity, Washington having but four hundred men, against five hundred French and as many Indians.

For nine hours the French kept up a hot fire on the intrenchment, but without success, and at nightfall Villiers proposed a parley. The French ammunition was running short, the men were fatigued by their marches, and drenched by the rain which had been falling the whole day. The English were in a still worse plight. Their powder was nearly spent, their guns were foul, and among them they had but two cleaning rods.

After a parley, it was agreed that the English should march off with drums beating and the honours of war, carrying with them all their property; that the prisoners taken in the previous affair should be set free, two officers remaining with the French as hostages until they were handed over.

Washington and his men arrived, utterly worn out with fatigue and famine, at Wills Creek. This action left the French masters of the whole country beyond the Alleghenies.

The two mother nations were now preparing for war, and, in the middle of January, 1755, Major General Braddock, with the 44th and 48th Regiments, each five hundred strong, sailed from Cork for Virginia; while the French sent eighteen ships of war and six battalions to Canada.

Admiral Boscawen, with eleven ships of the line and one frigate, set out to intercept the French expedition. The greater part of the fleet evaded him, but he came up with three of the French men of war, opened fire upon them, and captured them. Up to this time a pretence of negotiations had been maintained between England and France, but the capture of the French ships brought the negotiations to a sudden end, and the war began.

A worse selection than that of Major General Braddock could hardly have been made. He was a brave officer and a good soldier, but he was rough, coarse, and obstinate. He utterly despised the colonial troops, and regarded all methods of fighting, save those pursued by regular armies in the field, with absolute contempt. To send such a man to command troops destined to fight in thick forests, against an enemy skilled in warfare of that kind, was to court defeat.

As might be expected, Braddock was very soon on the worst possible terms with the whole of the colonial authorities, and the delays caused by the indecision or obstinacy of the colonial assemblies chafed him to madness. At last, however, his force was assembled at Wills Creek. The two English regiments had been raised, by enlistment in Virginia, to 700 men each. There were nine Virginian companies of fifty men, and the thirty sailors lent by Commodore Keppel. General Braddock had three aides-de-camp--Captain Robert Orme, Captain Roger Morris, and Colonel George Washington.

It was the 1st of June, when James Walsham rode with Colonel Washington into the camp, and, three days later, the last companies of the Virginian corps marched in. During the next week, some of the English officers attempted to drill the Virginians in the manner of English troops.

"It is a waste of time," Colonel Washington said to James, one day, when he was watching them, "and worse. These men can fight their own way. Most of them are good shots, and have a fair idea of forest fighting; let them go their own way, and they can be trusted to hold their own against at least an equal number of French and Indians; but they would be hopelessly at sea if they were called upon to fight like English regulars. Most likely the enemy will attack us in the forest, and what good will forming in line, or wheeling on a flank, or any of the things which the general is trying to drum into their heads, do to them? If the French are foolish enough to wait at Fort Duquesne until we arrive, I have no doubt we shall beat them, but if they attack us in the woods it will go hard with us."

During the ten days which elapsed between his arrival and the start, James was kept hard at work, being for the most part employed galloping up and down the road, urging up the waggoners, and bringing back reports as to their position and progress. On the 10th of June the army started; 300 axemen led the way, cutting and clearing the road; the long train of pack horses, waggons, and cannon followed; the troops marched in the forest on either side, while men were thrown out on the flanks, and scouts ranged the woods to guard against surprise.

The road was cut but twelve feet wide, and the line of march often extended four miles. Thus, day by day they toiled on, crossing the Allegheny Mountains, range after range; now plunging down into a ravine, now ascending a ridge, but always in the deep shadow of the forest. A few of the enemy hovered round them, occasionally killing a straggler who fell behind.

On the 18th of June, the army reached a place called the Little Meadows. So weak were the horses, from want of forage, that the last marches had been but three miles a day, and, upon Washington's advice, Braddock determined to leave the heavy baggage here, with the sick men and a strong guard under Colonel Dunbar; while he advanced with 1200 men, besides officers and drivers.

But the progress was still no more than three miles a day, and it was not until the 7th of July that they arrived within eight miles of the French fort. Between them lay, however, an extremely difficult country with a narrow defile, and Braddock determined to ford the Monongahela, and then cross it again lower down.

The garrison of Fort Duquesne consisted of a few companies of regular troops, some hundreds of Canadians, and 800 Indian warriors. They were kept informed, by the scouts, of the progress of the English, and, when the latter approached the Monongahela, a party under Captain Beaujeu set out to meet them. His force consisted of 637 Indians, 100 French officers and soldiers, and 146 Canadians, in all about 900 men.

At one o'clock in the day, Braddock crossed the Monongahela for the second time. The troops had, all the day, been expecting the attack and had prepared for it. At the second ford the army marched in martial order, with music playing and flags flying. Once across the river they halted for a short time, and then again continued their advance.

Braddock made every disposition for preventing a surprise. Several guides, with six Virginian light horsemen, led the way. Then came the advanced column, consisting of 300 soldiers under Gage, and a large body of axemen, under Sir John Sinclair, with two cannon. The main body followed close behind. The artillery and waggons moved along the road, the troops marched through the woods on either hand, numerous flanking parties were thrown out a hundred yards or more right and left, and, in the space between them and the line of troops, the pack horses and cattle made their way, as they best could, among the trees.

Beaujeu had intended to place his men in ambuscade at the ford, but, owing to various delays caused by the Indians, he was still a mile away from the ford when the British crossed. He was marching forward when he came suddenly upon the little party of guides and Virginian light horsemen. These at once fell back. The Indians raised their war whoop, and, spreading right and left among the trees, opened a sharp fire upon the British.

Gage's column wheeled deliberately into line, and fired volley after volley, with great steadiness, at the invisible opponents. The greater part of the Canadians bolted at once, but the Indians kept up their fire from behind the shelter of the trees. Gage brought up his two cannon and opened fire, and the Indians, who had a horror of artillery, began also to fall back.

The English advanced in regular lines, cheering loudly. Beaujeu fell dead; but Captain Dumas, who succeeded him in command, advanced at the head of his small party of French soldiers, and opened a heavy fire.

The Indians, encouraged by the example, rallied and again came forward, and, while the French regulars and the few Canadians who had not fled held the ground in front of the column, the Indians swarmed through the forests along both flanks of the English, and from behind trees, bushes, and rocks opened a withering fire upon them. The troops, bewildered and amazed by the fire poured into them by an invisible foe, and by the wild war whoops of the Indians, ceased to advance, and, standing close together, poured fruitlessly volley after volley into the surrounding forest.

On hearing the firing, Braddock, leaving 400 men in the rear under Sir Peter Halket, to guard the baggage, advanced with the main body to support Gage; but, just as he came up, the soldiers, appalled by the fire which was mowing them down in scores, abandoned their cannon and fell back in confusion. This threw the advancing force into disorder, and the two regiments became mixed together, massed in several dense bodies within a small space of ground, facing some one way and some another, all alike exposed, without shelter, to the hail of bullets.

Men and officers were alike new to warfare like this. They had been taught to fight in line against solid masses of the enemy, and against an invisible foe like the present they were helpless. The Virginians alone were equal to the emergency. They at once adopted their familiar forest tactics, and, taking their post behind trees, began to fight the Indians in their own way.

Had Braddock been a man of judgment and temper, the fortunes of the day might yet have been retrieved, for the Virginians could have checked the Indians until the English troops were rallied and prepared to meet the difficulty; but, to Braddock, the idea of men fighting behind trees was at once cowardly and opposed to all military discipline, and he dashed forward on his horse, and with fierce oaths ordered the Virginians to form line. A body of them, however, under Captain Waggoner, made a dash for a huge fallen tree, far out towards the lurking places of the Indians, and, crouching behind it, opened fire upon them; but the regulars, seeing the smoke among the bushes, took them for the enemy and, firing, killed many and forced the rest to return.

A few of the soldiers tried to imitate the Indians, and fight behind the trees, but Braddock beat them back with the flat of his sword, and forced them to stand with the others, who were now huddled in a mass, forming a target for the enemy's bullets. Lieutenant Colonel Burton led 100 of them towards a knoll from which the puffs came thickest, but he fell wounded, and his men, on whom the enemy instantly concentrated their fire, fell back. The soldiers, powerless against the unseen foe, for afterwards some of the officers and men who escaped declared that, throughout the whole fight, they had not seen a single Indian, discharged their guns aimlessly among the trees.

They were half stupefied now with the terror and confusion of the scene, the rain of bullets, the wild yells which burst ceaselessly from their 600 savage foemen; while the horses, wild with terror and wounds, added to the confusion by dashing madly hither and thither. Braddock behaved with furious intrepidity. He dashed hither and thither, shouting and storming at the men, and striving to get them in order, and to lead them to attack the enemy. Four horses were, one after the other, shot under him. His officers behaved with equal courage and self devotion, and in vain attempted to lead on the men, sometimes advancing in parties towards the Indians, in hopes that the soldiers would follow them. Sir Peter Halket was killed, Horne and Morris, the two aides-de-camp, Sinclair the quartermaster general, Gates, Gage, and Gladwin were wounded. Of 86 officers, 63 were killed or disabled, while of non-commissioned officers and privates only 459 came off unharmed.

James Walsham had been riding by the side of Washington when the fight began, and followed him closely as he galloped among the troops, trying to rally and lead them forward. Washington's horse was pierced by a ball and, staggering, fell. James leaped from his horse and gave it to the colonel, and then, seeing that there was nothing for him to do, withdrew a short distance from the crowd of soldiers, and crouched down between the trunks of two great trees growing close to each other; one of which protected him, for the most part, from the fire of the Indians, and the other from the not less dangerous fire of the English. Presently, seeing a soldier fall at a short distance from him, he ran out and picked up his musket and cartridge box, and began to fire at the bushes where the puffs of smoke showed that men were in hiding.

After three hours' passive endurance of this terrible fire, Braddock, seeing that all was lost, commanded a retreat, and he and such officers as were left strove to draw off the soldiers in some semblance of order; but at this moment a bullet struck him, and, passing through his arm, penetrated his lungs, and he fell from his horse. He demanded to be left where he lay, but Captain Stewart of the Virginians, and one of his men, bore him between them to the rear.

The soldiers had now spent all their ammunition, and, no longer kept in their places by their general, broke away in a wild panic. Washington's second horse had now been shot, and as, trying to check the men, he passed the trees where James had taken up his position, the latter joined him.

In vain Washington and his other officers tried to rally the men at the ford. They dashed across it, wild with fear, leaving their wounded comrades, cannon, baggage, and military chest a prey to the Indians.

Fortunately, only about fifty of the Indians followed as far as the ford, the rest being occupied in killing the wounded and scalping the dead. Dumas, who had now but twenty Frenchmen left, fell back to the fort, and the remnants of Braddock's force continued the flight unmolested.

Chapter 10: The Fight At Lake George.

Fortunate was it, for the remnant of Braddock's force, that the Indians were too much occupied in gathering the abundant harvest of scalps, too anxious to return to the fort to exhibit these trophies of their bravery, to press on in pursuit; for, had they done so, few indeed of the panic-stricken fugitives would ever have lived to tell the tale. All night these continued their flight, expecting every moment to hear the dreaded war whoop burst out again in the woods round them.

Colonel Washington had been ordered, by the dying general, to press on on horseback to the camp of Dunbar, and to tell him to forward waggons, provisions, and ammunition; but the panic, which had seized the main force, had already been spread by flying teamsters to Dunbar's camp. Many soldiers and waggoners at once took flight, and the panic was heightened when the remnants of Braddock's force arrived. There was no reason to suppose that they were pursued, and even had they been so, their force was ample to repel any attack that could be made upon it; but probably their commander saw that, in their present state of utter demoralization, they could not be trusted to fight, and that the first Indian war whoop would start them again in flight. Still, it was clear that a retreat would leave the whole border open to the ravages of the Indians, and Colonel Dunbar was greatly blamed for the course he took.

A hundred waggons were burned, the cannon and shells burst, and the barrels of powder emptied into the stream, the stores of provisions scattered through the woods, and then the force began its retreat over the mountains to Fort Cumberland, sixty miles away. General Braddock died the day that the retreat began. His last words were:

"We shall know better how to deal with them next time."

The news of the disaster came like a thunderbolt upon the colonists. Success had been regarded as certain, and the news that some fourteen hundred English troops had been utterly routed, by a body of French and Indians of half their strength, seemed almost incredible. The only consolation was that the hundred and fifty Virginians, who had accompanied the regulars, had all, as was acknowledged by the English officers themselves, fought with the greatest bravery, and had kept their coolness and presence of mind till the last, and that on them no shadow of the discredit of the affair rested. Indeed, it was said that the greater part were killed not by the fire of the Indians, but by that of the troops, who, standing in masses, fired in all directions, regardless of what was in front of them.

But Colonel Dunbar, not satisfied with retreating to the safe shelter of Fort Cumberland, to the amazement of the colonists, insisted upon withdrawing with his own force to Philadelphia, leaving the whole of the frontier open to the assaults of the hostile Indians. After waiting a short time at Philadelphia, he marched slowly on to join a force operating against the French in the region of Lake George, more than two hundred miles to the north. He took with him only the regulars, the provincial regiments being under the control of the governors of their own states.

Washington therefore remained behind in Virginia with the regiment of that colony. The blanks made in Braddock's fight were filled up, and the force raised to a thousand strong. With these he was to protect a frontier of three hundred and fifty miles long, against an active and enterprising foe more numerous than himself, and who, acting on the other side of the mountain, and in the shade of the deep forests, could choose their own time of attack, and launch themselves suddenly upon any village throughout the whole length of the frontier.

Nor were the troops at his disposal the material which a commander would wish to have in his hand. Individually they were brave, but being recruited among the poor whites, the most turbulent and troublesome part of the population, they were wholly unamenable to discipline, and Washington had no means whatever for enforcing it. He applied to the House of Assembly to pass a law enabling him to punish disobedience, but for months they hesitated to pass any such ordinance, on the excuse that it would trench on the liberty of free white men.

The service, indeed, was most unpopular, and Washington, whose headquarters were at Winchester, could do nothing whatever to assist the settlements on the border. His officers were as unruly as the men, and he was further hampered by having to comply with the orders of Governor Dinwiddie, at Williamsburg, two hundred miles away.

"What do you mean to do?" he had asked James Walsham, the day that the beaten army arrived at Fort Cumberland.

"I do not know," James said. "I certainly will not continue with Dunbar, who seems to me to be acting like a coward; nor do I wish to go into action with regulars again; not, at least, until they have been taught that, if they are to fight Indians successfully in the forests, they must abandon all their traditions of drill, and must fight in Indian fashion. I should like to stay with you, if you will allow me."

"I should be very glad to have you with me," Washington said; "but I do not think that you will see much action here. It will be a war of forays. The Indians will pounce upon a village or solitary farm house, murder and scalp the inhabitants, burn the buildings to the ground, and in an hour be far away beyond reach of pursuit. All that I can do is to occupy the chief roads, by which they can advance into the heart of the colony, and the people of the settlements lying west of that must, perforce, abandon their homesteads, and fly east until we are strong enough to again take up the offensive.

"Were I in your place, I would at once take horse and ride north. You will then be in plenty of time, if inclined, to join in the expedition against the French on Fort George, or in that which is going to march on Niagara. I fancy the former will be ready first. You will find things better managed there than here. The colonists in that part have, for many years, been accustomed to Indian fighting, and they will not be hampered by having regular troops with them, whose officers' only idea of warfare is to keep their men standing in line as targets for the enemy.

"There are many bodies of experienced scouts, to which you can attach yourself, and you will see that white men can beat the Indians at their own game."

Although sorry to leave the young Virginian officer, James Walsham thought that he could not do better than follow his advice, and accordingly, the next day, having procured another horse, he set off to join the column destined to operate on the lakes.

The prevision of Washington was shortly realized, and a cloud of red warriors descended on the border settlements, carrying murder, rapine, and ruin before them. Scores of quiet settlements were destroyed, hundreds of men, women, and children massacred, and in a short time the whole of the outlying farms were deserted, and crowds of weeping fugitives flocked eastward behind the line held by Washington's regiment.

But bad as affairs were in Virginia, those in Pennsylvania were infinitely worse. They had, for many years, been on such friendly terms with the Indians, that many of the settlers had no arms, nor had they the protection in the way of troops which the government of Virginia put upon the frontier. The government of the colony was at Philadelphia, far to the east, and sheltered from danger, and the Quaker assembly there refused to vote money for a single soldier to protect the unhappy colonists on the frontier. They held it a sin to fight, and above all to fight with Indians, and as long as they themselves were free from the danger, they turned a deaf ear to the tales of massacre, and to the pitiful cries for aid which came from the frontier. But even greater than their objection to war, was their passion of resistance to the representative of royalty, the governor.

Petition after petition came from the border for arms and ammunition, and for a militia law to enable the people to organize and defend themselves; but the Quakers resisted, declaring that Braddock's defeat was a just judgment upon him and his soldiers for molesting the French in their settlement in Ohio. They passed, indeed, a bill for raising fifty thousand pounds for the king's use, but affixed to it a condition, to which they knew well the governor could not assent; viz, that the proprietary lands were to pay their share of the tax.

To this condition the governor was unable to assent, for, according to the constitution of the colony, to which he was bound, the lands of William Penn and his descendants were free of all taxation. For weeks the deadlock continued. Every day brought news of massacres of tens, fifties, and even hundreds of persons, but the assembly remained obstinate; until the mayor, aldermen, and principal citizens clamoured against them, and four thousand frontiersmen started on their march to Philadelphia, to compel them to take measures for defence.

Bodies of massacred men were brought from the frontier villages and paraded through the town, and so threatening became the aspect of the population, that the Assembly of Quakers were at last obliged to pass a militia law. It was, however, an absolutely useless one. It specially excepted the Quakers from service, and constrained nobody, but declared it lawful for such as chose to form themselves into companies, and to elect officers by ballot. The company officers might, if they saw fit, elect, also by ballot, colonels, lieutenant colonels, and majors. These last might then, in conjunction with the governor, frame articles of war, to which, however, no officer or man was to be subjected, unless, after three days' consideration, he subscribed them in presence of a justice of the peace, and declared his willingness to be bound by them.

This mockery of a bill, drawn by Benjamin Franklin while the savages were raging in the colony and the smoke of a hundred villages was ascending to the skies, was received with indignation by the people, and this rose to such a height that the Assembly must have yielded unconditionally, had not a circumstance occurred which gave them a decent pretext for retreat.

The governor informed them that he had just received a letter from the proprietors, as Penn's heirs were called, giving to the province five thousand pounds to aid in its defence, on condition that the money should be accepted as a free gift, and not as their proportion of any tax that was or might be laid by the Assembly.

Thereupon, the Assembly struck out the clause taxing the proprietory estates, and the governor signed the bill. A small force was then raised, which enabled the Indians to be to some extent kept in check; but there was no safety for the unhappy settlers in the west of Pennsylvania during the next three years, while the French from Montreal were hounding on their savage allies, by gifts and rewards, to deeds of massacre and bloodshed.

The northern colonies had shown a better spirit. Massachusetts, which had always been the foremost of the northern colonies in resisting French and Indian aggression, had at once taken the lead in preparation for war. No less than 4500 men, being one in eight of her adult males, volunteered to fight the French, and enlisted for the various expeditions, some in the pay of the province, some in that of the king. Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, himself a colonist, was requested by his Assembly to nominate the commander. He did not choose an officer of that province, as this would have excited the jealousy of the others, but nominated William Johnson of New York--a choice which not only pleased that important province, but had great influence in securing the alliance of the Indians of the Five Nations, among whom Johnson, who had held the post of Indian commissioner, was extremely popular.

Connecticut voted 1200 men, New Hampshire 500, Rhode Island 400, and New York 800, all at their own charge. Johnson, before assuming the command, invited the warriors of the Five Nations to assemble in council. Eleven hundred Indian warriors answered the invitation, and after four days' speech making agreed to join. Only 300 of them, however, took the field, for so many of their friends and relatives were fighting for the French, that the rest, when they sobered down after the excitement of the council, returned to their homes.

The object of the expedition was the attack of Crown Point--an important military post on Lake Champlain--and the colonists assembled near Albany; but there were great delays. The five colonial assemblies controlled their own troops and supplies. Connecticut had refused to send her men until Shirley promised that her commanding officer should rank next to Johnson, and the whole movement was for some time at a deadlock, because the five governments could not agree about their contributions of artillery and stores.

The troops were a rough-looking body. Only one of the corps had a blue uniform, faced with red. The rest wore their ordinary farm clothing. All had brought their own guns, of every description and fashion. They had no bayonets, but carried hatchets in their belts as a sort of substitute.

In point of morals the army, composed almost entirely of farmers and farmers' sons, was exemplary. It is recorded that not a chicken was stolen. In the camps of the Puritan soldiers of New England, sermons were preached twice a week, and there were daily prayers and much singing of psalms; but these good people were much shocked by the profane language of the troops from New York and Rhode Island, and some prophesied that disaster would be sure to fall upon the army from this cause.

Months were consumed in various delays; and, on the 21st of August, just as they were moving forward, four Mohawks, whom Johnson had sent into Canada, returned with the news that the French were making great preparations, and that 8000 men were marching to defend Crown Point. The papers of General Braddock, which fell, with all the baggage of the army, into the hands of the French, had informed them of the object of the gathering at Albany, and now that they had no fear of any further attempt against their posts in Ohio, they were able to concentrate all their force for the defence of their posts on Lake Champlain.

On the receipt of this alarming news, a council of war was held at Albany, and messages were sent to the colonies asking for reinforcements. In the meantime, the army moved up the Hudson to the spot called the Great Carrying Place, where Colonel Lyman, who was second in command, had gone forward and erected a fort, which his men called after him, but was afterwards named Fort Edward.

James Walsham joined the army a few days before it moved forward. He was received with great heartiness by General Johnson, to whom he brought a letter of introduction from Colonel Washington, and who at once offered him a position as one of his aides-de-camp. This he found exceedingly pleasant, for Johnson was one of the most jovial and open hearted of commanders. His hospitality was profuse, and, his private means being large, he was able to keep a capital table, which, on the line of march, all officers who happened to pass by were invited to share. This was a contrast, indeed, to the discipline which had prevailed in Braddock's columns, and James felt as if he were starting upon a great picnic, rather than upon an arduous march against a superior force.

After some hesitation as to the course the army should take, it was resolved to march for Lake George. Gangs of axemen were sent to hew a way, and, on the 26th, 2000 men marched for the lake, while Colonel Blanchard, of New Hampshire, remained with 500 to finish and defend Fort Lyman. The march was made in a leisurely manner, and the force took two days to traverse the fourteen miles between Fort Lyman and the lake. They were now in a country hitherto untrodden by white men save by solitary hunters.

They reached the southern end of the beautiful lake, which hitherto had received no English name, and was now first called Lake George in honour of the king. The men set to work, and felled trees until they had cleared a sufficient extent of ground for their camp, by the edge of the water, and posted themselves with their back to the lake. In their front was a forest of pitch pine, on their right a marsh covered with thick brush wood, on their left a low hill. Things went on in the same leisurely way which had marked the progress of the expedition.

No attempt was made to clear away the forest in front, although it would afford excellent cover for any enemy who might attack them, nor were any efforts made to discover the whereabouts or intention of the enemy. Every day waggons came up with provisions and boats.

On September 7th, an Indian scout arrived about sunset, and reported that he had found the trail of a body of men moving from South Bay, the southern extremity of Lake Champlain, towards Fort Lyman. Johnson called for a volunteer to carry a letter of warning to Colonel Blanchard. A waggoner named Adams offered to undertake the perilous service, and rode off with the letter. Sentries were posted, and the camp fell asleep.

While Johnson had been taking his leisure on Lake George, the commander of the French force, a German baron named Dieskau, was preparing a surprise for him. He had reached Crown Point at the head of 3573 men--regulars, Canadians, and Indians--and he at once moved forward, with the greater portion of his command, on Cariolon, or, as it was afterwards called, Ticonderoga, a promontory at the junction of Lake George with Lake Champlain, where he would bar the advance of the English, whichever road they might take.

The Indians with the French caused great trouble to their commander, doing nothing but feast and sleep, but, on September 4th, a party of them came in bringing a scalp and an English prisoner, caught near Fort Lyman.

He was questioned, under the threat of being given over to the Indians to torture, if he did not tell the truth, but the brave fellow, thinking he should lead the enemy into a trap, told them that the English army had fallen back to Albany, leaving 500 men at Fort Lyman, which he represented as being entirely indefensible.

Dieskau at once determined to attack that place, and, with 216 regulars of the battalions of Languedoc and La Reine, 684 Canadians, and about 600 Indians, started in canoes and advanced up Lake Champlain, till they came to the end of South Bay. Each officer and man carried provisions for eight days in his knapsack.

Two days' march brought them to within three miles of Fort Lyman, and they encamped close to the road which led to Lake George. Just after they had encamped, a man rode by on horseback. It was Adams, Johnson's messenger. He was shot by the Indians, and the letter found upon him. Soon afterwards, ten or twelve waggons appeared, in charge of ammunition drivers who had left the English camp without orders.

Some of the drivers were shot, two taken prisoners, and the rest ran away. The two prisoners declared that, contrary to the assertion of the prisoner at Ticonderoga, a large force lay encamped by the lake. The Indians held a council, and presently informed Dieskau that they would not attack the fort, which they believed to be provided with cannon, but would join in an attempt on the camp by the lake. Dieskau judged, from the report of the prisoners, that the colonists considerably outnumbered him, although in fact there was no great difference in numerical strength, the French column numbering 1500 and the colonial force 2200, besides 300 Mohawk Indians. But Dieskau, emulous of repeating the defeat of Braddock, and believing the assertions of the Canadians that the colonial militia was contemptible, determined to attack, and early in the morning the column moved along the road towards the lake.

When within four miles of Johnson's camp, they entered a rugged valley. On their right was a gorge, hidden in bushes, beyond which rose the rocky height of French Mountain. On their left rose gradually the slopes of West Mountain. The ground was thickly covered with thicket and forest. The regulars marched along the road, the Canadians and Indians pushed their way through the woods as best they could. When within three miles of the lake, their scout brought in a prisoner, who told them that an English column was approaching. The regulars were halted on the road, the Canadians and Indians moved on ahead, and hid themselves in ambush among the trees and bushes on either side of the road.

The waggoners, who had escaped the evening before, had reached Johnson's camp about midnight, and reported that there was a war party on the road near Fort Lyman. A council of war was held, and under an entire misconception of the force of the enemy, and the belief that they would speedily fall back from Fort Lyman, it was determined to send out two detachments, each 500 strong, one towards Fort Lyman, the other to catch the enemy in their retreat. Hendrick, the chief of the Mohawks, expressed his strong disapproval of this plan, and accordingly it was resolved that the thousand men should go as one body. Hendrick still disapproved of the plan, but nevertheless resolved to accompany the column, and, mounting on a gun carriage, he harangued his warriors with passionate eloquence, and they at once prepared to accompany them. He was too old and fat to go on foot, and the general lent him a horse, which he mounted, and took his place at the head of the column.

Colonel Williams was in command, with Lieutenant Colonel Whiting as second. They had no idea of meeting the enemy near the camp, and moved forward so carelessly that not a single scout was thrown out in front or flank. The sharp eye of the old Indian chief was the first to detect a sign of the enemy, and, almost at the same moment, a gun was fired from the bushes. It is said that the Iroquois, seeing the Mohawks, who were an allied tribe, in the van, wished to warn them of danger. The warning came too late to save the column from disaster, but it saved it from destruction. From the thicket on the left a deadly fire blazed out, and the head of the column was almost swept away. Hendrick's horse was shot, and the chief killed with a bayonet as he tried to gain his feet.

Colonel Williams, seeing rising ground on his right, made for it, calling his men to follow; but, as he climbed the slope, the enemy's fire flashed out from behind every tree, and he fell dead. The men in the rear pressed forward to support their comrades, when the enemy in the bushes on the right flank also opened fire.

Then a panic began. Some fled at once for the camp, and the whole column recoiled in confusion, as from all sides the enemy burst out, shouting and yelling. Colonel Whiting, however, bravely rallied a portion of Williams' regiment, and, aided by some of the Mohawks, and by a detachment which Johnson sent out to his aid, covered the retreat, fighting behind the trees like the Indians, and falling back in good order with their faces to the enemy.

So stern and obstinate was their resistance that the French halted three-quarters of a mile from the camp. They had inflicted a heavy blow, but had altogether failed in obtaining the complete success they looked for. The obstinate defence of Whiting and his men had surprised and dispirited them, and Dieskau, when he collected his men, found the Indians sullen and unmanageable, and the Canadians unwilling to advance further, for they were greatly depressed by the loss of a veteran officer, Saint Pierre, who commanded them, and who had been killed in the fight. At length, however, he persuaded all to move forward, the regulars leading the way.

James Walsham had not accompanied the column, and was sitting at breakfast with General Johnson, on the stump of a tree in front of his tent, when, on the still air, a rattling sound broke out.

"Musketry!" was the general exclamation.

An instantaneous change came over the camp. The sound of laughing and talking was hushed, and every man stopped at his work. Louder and louder swelled the distant sound, until the shots could no longer be distinguished apart. The rattle had become a steady roll.

"It is a regular engagement!" the general exclaimed. "The enemy must be in force, and must have attacked Williams' column."

General Johnson ordered one of his orderlies to mount and ride out at full speed and see what was going on. A quarter of an hour passed. No one returned to his work. The men stood in groups, talking in low voices, and listening to the distant roar.

"It is clearer than it was," the general exclaimed.

Several of the officers standing round agreed that the sound was approaching.

"To work, lads!" the general said. "There is no time to be lost. Let all the axemen fell trees and lay them end to end to make a breastwork. The rest of you range the waggons in a line behind, and lay the boats up in the intervals. Carry the line from the swamp, on the right there, to the slope of the hill."

In an instant, the camp was a scene of animation, and the forest resounded with the strokes of the axe, and the shouts of the men as they dragged the waggons to their position.

"I was a fool," Johnson exclaimed, "not to fortify the camp before; but who could have supposed that the French would have come down from Crown Point to attack us here!"

In a few minutes terror-stricken men, whites and Indians, arrived at a run through the forest, and reported that they had been attacked and surprised by a great force in the forest, that Hendrick and Colonel Williams were killed, and numbers of the men shot down. They reported that all was lost; but the heavy roll of fire, in the distance, contradicted their words; and showed that a portion of the column, at least, was fighting sternly and steadily, though the sound indicated that they were falling back.

Two hundred men had already been despatched to their assistance, and the only effect of the news was to redouble the efforts of the rest. Soon parties arrived carrying wounded; but it was not until an hour and a half after the engagement began, that the main body of the column were seen marching, in good order, back through the forest.

By this time the hasty defences were well-nigh completed, and all the men were employed in cutting down the thick brushwood outside, so as to clear the ground as far as possible, and so prevent the enemy from stealing up, under shelter, to the felled trees.

Three cannon were planted, to sweep the road that descended through the pines. Another was dragged up to the ridge of the hill. Two hundred and fifty men were now placed on each flank of the camp, the main body stood behind the waggons or lay flat behind the logs and boats, the Massachusetts men on the right, the Connecticut men on the left.

"Now, my lads," Johnson shouted, in his cheery voice, "you have got to fight. Remember, if they get inside not one of you will ever go back to your families to tell the tale, while if you fight bravely you will beat them back sure enough."

In a few minutes, ranks of white-coated soldiers could be seen moving down the roads, with their bayonets showing between the boughs. At the same time, Indian war whoops rose loud in the forest, and then dark forms could be seen, bounding down the slope through the trees towards the camp in a throng.

There was a movement of uneasiness among the young rustics, few of whom ever heard a shot fired in anger before that morning; but the officers, standing pistol in hand, threatened to shoot any man who moved from his position.

Could Dieskau have launched his whole force at once upon the camp at that moment, he would probably have carried it, but this he was powerless to do. His regular troops were well in hand; but the mob of Canadians and Indians were scattered through the forest, shouting, yelling, and firing from behind trees.

He thought, however, that if he led the regulars to the attack, the others would come forward, and he therefore gave the word for the advance. The French soldiers advanced steadily, until the trees grew thinner. They were deployed into line, and opened fire in regular volleys. Scarcely had they done so, however, when Captain Eyre, who commanded the artillery, opened upon them with grape from his three guns, while from waggon, and boat, and fallen log, the musketry fire flashed out hot and bitter, and, reeling under the shower of iron and lead, the French line broke up, the soldiers took shelter behind trees, and thence returned the fire of the defenders.

Johnson received a flesh wound in the thigh, and retired to his tent, where he spent the rest of the day. Lyman took the command, and to him the credit of the victory is entirely due.

For four hours the combat raged. The young soldiers had soon got over their first uneasiness, and fought as steadily and coolly as veterans. The musketry fire was unbroken. From every tree, bush, and rock the rifles flashed out, and the leaden hail flew in a storm over the camp, and cut the leaves in a shower from the forest. Through this Lyman moved to and fro among the men, directing, encouraging, cheering them on, escaping as by a miracle the balls which whistled round him. Save the Indians on the English side, not a man but was engaged, the waggoners taking their guns and joining in the fight.

The Mohawks, however, held aloof, saying that they had come to see their English brothers fight, but, animated no doubt with the idea that, if they abstained from taking part in the fray, and the day went against the English, their friends the Iroquois would not harm them.

The French Indians worked round on to high ground, beyond the swamp on the left, and their fire thence took the defenders in the flank. Captain Eyre speedily turned his guns in that direction, and a few well-directed shells soon drove the Indians from their vantage ground. Dieskau directed his first attack against the left and centre; but the Connecticut men fought so stoutly, that he next tried to force the right, where the Massachusetts regiments of Titcomb, Ruggles, and Williams held the line. For an hour he strove hard to break his way through the intrenchments, but the Massachusetts men stood firm, although Titcomb was killed and their loss was heavy.

At length Dieskau, exposing himself within short range of the English lines, was hit in the leg. While his adjutant Montreuil was dressing the wound, the general was again hit in the knee and thigh. He had himself placed behind a tree, and ordered Montreuil to lead the regulars in a last effort against the camp.

But it was too late. The blood of the colonists was now up, and, singly or in small bodies, they were crossing their lines of barricade, and working up among the trees towards their assailants. The movement became general, and Lyman, seeing the spirit of his men, gave the word, and the whole of the troops, with a shout, leaped up and dashed through the wood against the enemy, falling upon them with their hatchets and the butts of their guns.

The French and their allies instantly fled. As the colonists passed the spot where Dieskau was sitting on the ground, one of them, singularly enough himself a Frenchman, who had ten years before left Canada, fired at him and shot him through both legs. Others came up and stripped him of his clothes, but, on learning who he was, they carried him to Johnson, who received him with the greatest kindness, and had every attention paid to him.

Chapter 11: Scouting.

It was near five o'clock before the final rout of the French took place; but, before that time, several hundreds of the Canadians and Indians had left the scene of action, and had returned to the scene of the fight in the wood, to plunder and scalp the dead. They were resting, after their bloody work, by a pool in the forest, when a scouting party from Fort Lyman, under Captains M'Ginnis and Folsom, came upon them and opened fire.

The Canadians and Indians, outnumbering their assailants greatly, fought for some time, but were finally defeated and fled. M'Ginnis was mortally wounded, but continued to give orders till the fight was over. The bodies of the slain were thrown into the pool, which to this day bears the name, "the bloody pool."

The various bands of French fugitives reunited in the forest, and made their way back to their canoes in South Bay, and reached Ticonderoga utterly exhausted and famished, for they had thrown away their knapsacks in their flight, and had nothing to eat from the morning of the fight until they rejoined their comrades.

Johnson had the greatest difficulty in protecting the wounded French general from the Mohawks, who, although they had done no fighting in defence of the camp, wanted to torture and burn Dieskau in revenge for the death of Hendrick and their warriors who had fallen in the ambush. He, however, succeeded in doing so, and sent him in a litter under a strong escort to Albany. Dieskau was afterwards taken to England, and remained for some years at Bath, after which he returned to Paris. He never, however, recovered from his numerous wounds, and died a few years later.

He always spoke in the highest terms of the kindness he had received from the colonial officers. Of the provincial soldiers he said that, in the morning they fought like boys, about noon like men, and in the afternoon like devils.

The English loss in killed, wounded, and missing was two hundred and sixty-two, for the most part killed in the ambush in the morning. The French, according to their own account, lost two hundred and twenty-eight, but it probably exceeded four hundred, the principal portion of whom were regulars, for the Indians and Canadians kept themselves so well under cover that they and the provincials, behind their logs, were able to inflict but little loss on each other.

Had Johnson followed up his success, he might have reached South Bay before the French, in which case the whole of Dieskau's column must have fallen into his hands; nor did he press forward against Ticonderoga, which he might easily have captured. For ten days nothing was done except to fortify the camp, and when, at the end of that time, he thought of advancing against Ticonderoga, the French had already fortified the place so strongly that they were able to defy attack. The colonists sent him large reinforcements, but the season was getting late, and, after keeping the army stationary until the end of November, the troops, having suffered terribly from the cold and exposure, became almost mutinous, and were finally marched back to Albany, a small detachment being left to hold the fort by the lake. This was now christened Fort William Henry.

The victory was due principally to the gallantry and coolness of Lyman; but Johnson, in his report of the battle, made no mention of that officer's name, and took all the credit to himself. He was rewarded by being made a baronet, and by being voted a pension, by parliament, of five thousand a year.

James Walsham, having no duties during the fight at the camp, had taken a musket and lain down behind the logs with the soldiers, and had, all the afternoon, kept up a fire at the trees and bushes behind which the enemy were hiding. After the battle, he had volunteered to assist the over-worked surgeons, whose labours lasted through the night. When he found that no forward movement was likely to take place, he determined to leave the camp. He therefore asked Captain Rogers, who was the leader of a band of scouts, and a man of extraordinary energy and enterprise, to allow him to accompany him on a scouting expedition towards Ticonderoga.

"I shall be glad to have you with me," Rogers replied; "but you know it is a service of danger. It is not like work with regular troops, where all march, fight, stand, or fall together. Here each man fights for himself. Mind, there is not a man among my band who would not risk his life for the rest; but, scattered through the woods as each man is, each must perforce rely principally on himself. The woods near Ticonderoga will be full of lurking redskins, and a man may be brained and scalped without his fellow, a few yards away, hearing a sound. I only say this that you may feel that you must take your chances. The men under me are, every one, old hunters and Indian fighters, and are a match for the redskin in every move of forest war. They are true grit to the backbone, but they are rough outspoken men, and, on a service when a foot carelessly placed on a dried twig, or a word spoken above a whisper, may bring a crowd of yelping redskins upon us, and cost every man his scalp, they would speak sharply to the king himself, if he were on the scout with them, and you must not take offence at any rough word that may be said."

James laughed, and said that he should not care how much he was blown up, and that he should thankfully receive any lessons from such masters of forest craft.

"Very well," Captain Rogers said. "In that case, it is settled. I will let you have a pair of moccasins. You cannot go walking about in the woods in those boots. You had better get a rifle. Your sword you had best leave behind. It will be of no use to you, and will only be in your way."

James had no difficulty in providing himself with a gun, for numbers of weapons, picked up in the woods after the rout of the enemy, were stored in camp. The rifles had, however, been all taken by the troops, who had exchanged their own firelocks for them. Captain Rogers went with him among the men, and selected a well-finished rifle of which one of them had possessed himself. Its owner readily agreed to accept five pounds for it, taking in its stead one of the guns in the store. Before choosing it, Captain Rogers placed a bit of paper against a tree, and fired several shots at various distances at it.

"It is a beautiful rifle," he said. "Its only fault is that it is rather heavy, but it shoots all the better for it. It is evidently a French gun, I should say by a first-rate maker, built probably for some French officer who knew what he was about. It is a good workmanlike piece, and, when you learn to hold it straight, you can trust it to shoot."

That evening James, having made all his preparations, said goodbye to the general and to his other friends, and joined the scouts who were gathering by the shore of the lake. Ten canoes, each of which would carry three men, were lying by the shore.

"Nat, you and Jonathan will take this young fellow with you. He is a lad, and it is his first scout. You will find him of the right sort. He was with Braddock, and after that affair hurried up here to see fighting on the lakes. He can't have two better nurses than you are. He is going to be an officer in the king's army, and wants to learn as much as he can, so that, if he ever gets with his men into such a mess as Braddock tumbled into, he will know what to do with them."

"All right, captain! We will do our best for him. It's risky sort of business ours for a greenhorn, but if he is anyways teachable, we will soon make a man of him."

The speaker was a wiry, active man of some forty years old, with a weatherbeaten face, and a keen gray eye. Jonathan, his comrade, was a head taller, with broad shoulders, powerful limbs, and a quiet but good-tempered face.

"That's so, isn't it, Jonathan?" Nat asked.

Jonathan nodded. He was not a man of many words.

"Have you ever been in a canoe before?" Nat inquired.

"Never," James said; "but I am accustomed to boats of all sorts, and can handle an oar fairly."

"Oars ain't no good here," the scout said. "You will have to learn to paddle; but, first of all, you have got to learn to sit still. These here canoes are awkward things for a beginner. Now you hand in your traps, and I will stow them away, then you take your place in the middle of the boat. Here's a paddle for you, and when you begin to feel yourself comfortable, you can start to try with it, easy and gentle to begin with; but you must lay it in when we get near where we may expect that redskins may be in the woods, for the splash of a paddle might cost us all our scalps."

James took his seat in the middle of the boat. Jonathan was behind him. Nat handled the paddle in the bow. There was but a brief delay in starting, and the ten boats darted noiselessly out on to the lake. For a time, James did not attempt to use his paddle. The canoe was of birch bark, so thin that it seemed to him that an incautious movement would instantly knock a hole through her.

Once under weigh, she was steadier than he had expected, and James could feel her bound forward with each stroke of the paddles. When he became accustomed to the motion of the boat, he raised himself from a sitting position in the bottom, and, kneeling as the others were doing, he began to dip his paddle quietly in the water in time with their stroke. His familiarity with rowing rendered it easy for him to keep time and swing, and, ere long, he found himself putting a considerable amount of force into each stroke. Nat looked back over his shoulder.

"Well done, young 'un. That's first rate for a beginner, and it makes a deal of difference on our arms. The others are all paddling three, and, though Jonathan and I have beaten three before now, when our scalps depended on our doing so, it makes all the difference in the work whether you have a sitter to take along, or an extra paddle going."

It was falling dusk when the boat started, and was, by this time, quite dark. Scarce a word was heard in the ten canoes as, keeping near the right-hand shore of the lake, they glided rapidly along in a close body. So noiselessly were the paddles dipped into the water that the drip from them, as they were lifted, was the only sound heard.

Four hours' steady paddling took them to the narrows, about five-and-twenty miles from their starting point. Here, on the whispered order of Nat, James laid in his paddle; for, careful as he was, he occasionally made a slight splash as he put it in the water. The canoes now kept in single file, almost under the trees on the right bank, for the lake was here scarce a mile across, and watchful eyes might be on the lookout on the shore to the left. Another ten miles was passed, and then the canoes were steered in to the shore.

The guns, blankets, and bundles were lifted out; the canoes raised on the shoulders of the men, and carried a couple of hundred yards among the trees; then, with scarcely a word spoken, each man rolled himself in his blanket and lay down to sleep, four being sent out as scouts in various directions. Soon after daybreak, all were on foot again, although it had been arranged that no move should be made till night set in. No fires were lighted, for they had brought with them a supply of biscuit and dry deers' flesh sufficient for a week.

"How did you get on yesterday?" Captain Rogers asked, as he came up to the spot where James had just risen to his feet.

"First rate, captain!" Nat answered for him. "I hardly believed that a young fellow could have handled a paddle so well, at the first attempt. He rowed all the way, except just the narrows, and though I don't say as he was noiseless, he did wonderfully well, and we came along with the rest as easy as may be."

"I thought I heard a little splash, now and then," the captain said, smiling; "but it was very slight, and could do no harm where the lake is two or three miles wide, as it is here. But you will have to lay in your paddle when we get near the other end, for the sides narrow in there, and the redskins would hear a fish jump, half a mile away."

During the day the men passed their time in sleep, in mending their clothes, or in talking quietly together. The use of tea had not yet become general in America, and the meals were washed down with water drawn from the lake (where an over-hanging bush shaded the shore from the sight of anyone on the opposite bank), mixed with rum from the gourds which all the scouts carried.

Nat spent some time in pointing out, to James, the signs by which the hunters found their way through the forest; by the moss and lichens growing more thickly on the side of the trunks of the trees opposed to the course of the prevailing winds, or by a slight inclination of the upper boughs of the trees in the same direction.

"An old woodsman can tell," he said, "on the darkest night, on running his hand round the trunk of a tree, by the feel of the bark, which is north and south; but it would be long before you can get to such niceties as that; but, if you keep your eyes open as you go along, and look at the signs on the trunks, which are just as plain, when you once know them, as the marks on a man's face, you will be able to make your way through the woods in the daytime. Of course, when the sun is shining, you get its help, for, although it is not often a gleam comes down through the leaves, sometimes you come upon a little patch, and you are sure, now and then, to strike on a gap where a tree has fallen, and that gives you a line again. A great help to a young beginner is the sun, for a young hand in the woods gets confused, and doubts the signs of the trees; but, in course, when he comes on a patch of sunlight, he can't make a mistake nohow as to the direction."

James indulged in a silent hope that, if he were ever lost in the woods, the sun would be shining, for, look as earnestly as he would, he could not perceive the signs which appeared so plain and distinct to the scout. Occasionally, indeed, he fancied that there was some slight difference between one side of the trunk and the other; but he was by no means sure that, even in these cases, he should have noticed it unless it had been pointed out to him; while, in the greater part of the trees he could discern no difference whatever.

"It's just habit, my lad," Nat said encouragingly to him; "there's just as much difference between one side of the tree and the other, as there is between two men's faces. It comes of practice. Now, just look at the roots of this tree; don't you see, on one side they run pretty nigh straight out from the trunk, while from the other they go down deep into the ground. That speaks for itself. The tree has thrown out its roots, to claw into the ground and get a hold, on the side from which the wind comes; while, on the other side, having no such occasion, it has dipped its root down to look for moisture and food."

"Yes, I do see that," James said, "that is easy enough to make out; but the next tree, and the next, and, as far as I see, all the others, don't seem to have any difference in their roots one side or the other."

"That is so," the scout replied. "You see, those are younger trees than this, and it is like enough they did not grow under the same circumstances. When a few trees fall, or a small clearing is made by a gale, the young trees that grow up are well sheltered from the wind by the forest, and don't want to throw out roots to hold them up; but when a great clearing has been made, by a fire or other causes, the trees, as they grow up together, have no shelter, and must stretch out their roots to steady them.

"Sometimes, you will find all the trees, for a long distance, with their roots like this; sometimes only one tree among a number. Perhaps, when they started, that tree had more room, or a deeper soil, and grew faster than the rest, and got his head above them, so he felt the wind more, and had to throw out his roots to steady himself; while the others, all growing the same height, did not need to do so."

"Thank you," James said. "I understand now, and will bear it in mind. It is very interesting, and I should like, above all things, to be able to read the signs of the woods as you do."

"It will come, lad. It's a sort of second nature. These things are gifts. The redskin thinks it just as wonderful that the white man should be able to take up a piece of paper covered with black marks, and to read off sense out of them, as you do that he should be able to read every mark and sign of the wood. He can see, as plain as if the man was still standing on it, the mark of a footprint, and can tell you if it was made by a warrior or a squaw, and how long they have passed by, and whether they were walking fast or slow; while the ordinary white man might go down on his hands and knees, and stare at the ground, and wouldn't be able to see the slightest sign or mark. For a white man, my eyes are good, but they are not a patch on a redskin's. I have lived among the woods since I was a boy; but even now, a redskin lad can pick up a trail and follow it when, look as I will, I can't see as a blade of grass has been bruised. No; these things is partly natur and partly practice. Practice will do a lot for a white man; but it won't take him up to redskin natur."

Not until night had fallen did the party again launch their canoes on the lake. Then they paddled for several hours until, as James imagined, they had traversed a greater distance, by some miles, than that which they had made on the previous evening. He knew, from what he had learned during the day, that they were to land some six miles below the point where Lake George joins Lake Champlain, and where, on the opposite side, on a promontory stretching into the lake, the French were constructing their new fort.

The canoes were to be carried some seven or eight miles through the wood, across the neck of land between the two lakes, and were then to be launched again on Lake Champlain, so that, by following the east shore of that lake, they would pass Ticonderoga at a safe distance. The halt was made as noiselessly as before, and, having hauled up the canoes, the men slept till daybreak; and then, lifting the light craft on their shoulders, started for their journey through the woods. It was toilsome work, for the ground was rough and broken, often thickly covered with underwood. Ridges had to be crossed and deep ravines passed, and, although the canoes were not heavy, the greatest care had to be exercised, for a graze against a projecting bough, or the edge of a rock, would suffice to tear a hole in the thin bark.

It was not until late in the afternoon that they arrived on the shores of Lake Champlain. A fire was lighted now, the greatest care being taken to select perfectly dry sticks, for the Iroquois were likely to be scattered far and wide among the woods. The risk, however, was far less than when in sight of the French side of Lake George. After darkness fell, the canoes were again placed in the water, and, striking across the lake, they followed the right-hand shore. After paddling for about an hour and a half, the work suddenly ceased.

The lake seemed to widen on their left, for they had just passed the tongue of land between the two lakes, and on the opposite shore a number of fires were seen, burning brightly on the hillside. It was Ticonderoga they were now abreast of, the advanced post of the French. They lingered for some time before the paddles were again dipped in water, counting the fires and making a careful note of the position. They paddled on again until some twelve miles beyond the fort, and then crossed the lake and landed on the French shore.

But the canoes did not all approach the shore together, as they had done on the previous nights. They halted half a mile out, and Captain Rogers went forward with his own and another canoe and landed, and it was not for half an hour that the signal was given, by an imitation of the croaking of a frog, that a careful search had ascertained the forest to be untenanted, and the landing safe.

No sooner was the signal given than the canoes were set in motion, and were soon safely hauled up on shore. Five men went out, as usual, as scouts, and the rest, fatigued by their paddle and the hard day's work, were soon asleep.

In the morning they were about to start, and Rogers ordered the canoes to be hauled up and hidden among the bushes, where, having done their work, they would for the present be abandoned, to be recovered and made useful on some future occasion.

The men charged with the work gave a sudden exclamation when they reached the canoes.

"What is that?" Rogers said angrily. "Do you want to bring all the redskins in the forest upon us?"

"The canoes are all damaged," one of the scouts said, coming up to him.

There was a general movement to the canoes, which were lying on the bank a few yards' distance from the water's edge. Every one of them had been rendered useless. The thin birch bark had been gashed and slit, pieces had been cut out, and not one of them had escaped injury or was fit to take the water. Beyond a few low words, and exclamations of dismay, not a word was spoken as the band gathered round the canoes.

"Who were on the watch on this side?" Rogers asked.

"Nat and Jonathan took the first half of the night," one of the scouts said. "Williams and myself relieved them."

As all four were men of the greatest skill and experience, Rogers felt sure that no neglect or carelessness on their part could have led to the disaster.

"Did any of you see any passing boats, or hear any sound on the lake?"

The four men who had been on guard replied in the negative.

"I will swear no one landed near the canoes," Nat said. "There was a glimmer on the water all night; a canoe could not have possibly come near the bank, anywheres here, without our seeing it."

"Then he must have come from the land side," Rogers said. "Some skulking Indian must have seen us out on the lake, and have hidden up when we landed. He may have been in a tree overhead all the time, and, directly the canoes were hauled up, he may have damaged them and made off.

"There is no time to be lost, lads. It is five hours since we landed. If he started at once the redskins may be all round us now. It is no question now of our scouting round the French fort, it is one of saving our scalps."

"How could it have been done?" James Walsham asked Nat, in a low tone. "We were all sleeping within a few yards of the canoes, and some of the men were close to them. I should have thought we must have heard it."

"Heard it!" the hunter said contemptuously; "why, a redskin would make no more noise in cutting them holes and gashes, than you would in cutting a hunk of deer's flesh for your dinner. He would lie on the ground, and wriggle from one to another like an eel; but I reckon he didn't begin till the camp was still. The canoes wasn't hauled up till we had sarched the woods, as we thought, and then we was moving about close by them till we lay down.

"I was standing theer on the water's edge not six feet away from that canoe. I never moved for two hours, and, quiet as a redskin may be, he must have taken time to do that damage, so as I never heard a sound as loud as the falling of a leaf. No, I reckon as he was at the very least two hours over that job. He may have been gone four hours or a bit over, but not more; but that don't give us much of a start. It would take him an hour and a half to get to the fort, then he would have to report to the French chap in command, and then there might be some talk before he set out with the redskins, leaving the French to follow."

"It's no use thinking of mending the canoes, I suppose," James asked.

The hunter shook his head.

"It would take two or three hours to get fresh bark and mend those holes," he said, "and we haven't got as many minutes to spare. There, now, we are off."

While they had been speaking, Rogers had been holding a consultation with two or three of his most experienced followers, and they had arrived at pretty nearly the same conclusion as that of Rogers, namely, that the Indian had probably taken two or three hours in damaging the canoes and getting fairly away into the forest; but that, even if he had done so, the Iroquois would be up in the course of half an hour.

"Let each man pack his share of meat on his back," Rogers said. "Don't leave a scrap behind. Quick, lads, there's not a minute to be lost. It's a case of legs, now. There's no hiding the trail of thirty men from redskin eyes."

In a couple of minutes, all were ready for the start, and Rogers at once led the way, at a long slinging trot, straight back from the lake, first saying:

"Pick your way, lads, and don't tread on a fallen stick. There is just one chance of saving our scalps, and only one, and that depends upon silence."

As James ran along, at the heels of Nat, he was struck with the strangeness of the scene, and the noiselessness with which the band of moccasin-footed men flitted among the trees. Not a word was spoken. All had implicit confidence in their leader, the most experienced bush fighter on the frontier, and knew that, if anyone could lead them safe from the perils that surrounded them, it was Rogers.

James wondered what his plan could be. It seemed certain to him that the Indians must, sooner or later, overtake them. They would be aware of the strength of the band, and, confiding in their superior numbers, would be able to push forward in pursuit without pausing for many precautions. Once overtaken, the band must stand at bay, and, even could they hold the Indians in check, the sound of the firing would soon bring the French soldiers to the spot.

They had been gone some twenty minutes only, when a distant war whoop rose in the forest behind them.

"They have come down on the camp," Nat said, glancing round over his shoulder, "and find we have left it. I expect they hung about a little before they ventured in, knowing as we should be expecting them, when we found the canoes was useless. That war whoop tells 'em all as we have gone. They will gather there, and then be after us like a pack of hounds.

"Ah! That is what I thought the captain was up to."

Rogers had turned sharp to the left, the direction in which Ticonderoga stood. He slacked down his speed somewhat, for the perspiration was streaming down the faces even of his trained and hardy followers. From time to time, he looked round to see that all were keeping well together. Although, in such an emergency as this, none thought of questioning the judgment of their leader, many of them were wondering at the unusual speed at which he was leading them along. They had some two miles start of their pursuers, and, had evening been at hand, they would have understood the importance of keeping ahead until darkness came on to cover their trail; but, with the whole day before them, they felt that they must be overtaken sooner or later, and they could not see the object of exhausting their strength before the struggle began.

As they ran on, at a somewhat slower pace now, an idea as to their leader's intention dawned upon most of the scouts, who saw, by the direction they were taking, that they would again strike the lake shore near the French fort. Nat, who, light and wiry, was running easily, while many of his comrades were panting with their exertions, was now by the side of James Walsham.

"Give me your rifle, lad, for a bit. You are new to this work, and the weight of the gun takes it out of you. We have got another nine or ten miles before us, yet."

"I can hold on for a bit," James replied. "I am getting my wind better, now; but why only ten miles? We must be seventy away from the fort."

"We should never get there," Nat said. "A few of us might do it, but the redskins would be on us in an hour or two. I thought, when we started, as the captain would have told us to scatter, so as to give each of us some chance of getting off; but I see his plan now, and it's the only one as there is which gives us a real chance. He is making straight for the French fort. He reckons, no doubt, as the best part of the French troops will have marched out after the redskins."

"But there would surely be enough left," James said, "to hold the fort against us; and, even if we could take it, we could not hold it an hour when they all came up."

"He ain't thinking of the fort, boy, he's thinking of the boats. We know as they have lots of 'em there, and, if we can get there a few minutes before the redskins overtake us, we may get off safe. It's a chance, but I think it's a good one."

Others had caught their leader's idea and repeated it to their comrades, and the animating effect soon showed itself in the increased speed with which the party hurried through the forest. Before, almost every man had thought their case hopeless, had deemed that they had only to continue their flight until overtaken by the redskins, and that they must, sooner or later, succumb to the rifles of the Iroquois and their French allies. But the prospect that, after an hour's run, a means of escape might be found, animated each man to renewed efforts.

After running for some distance longer, Rogers suddenly halted and held up his hand, and the band simultaneously came to a halt. At first, nothing could be heard save their own quick breathing; then a confused noise was heard to their left front, a deep trampling and the sound of voices, and an occasional clash of arms.

"It is the French column coming out," Nat whispered, as Rogers, swerving somewhat to the right, and making a sign that all should run as silently as possible, continued his course.

Chapter 12: A Commission.

Presently the noise made by the column of French troops was heard abreast of the fugitives. Then it died away behind them, and they again directed their course to the left. Ten minutes later, they heard a loud succession of Indian whoops, and knew that the redskins pursuing them had also heard the French column on its march, and would be warning them of the course which the band were taking. The scouts were now but four miles from Ticonderoga, and each man knew that it was a mere question of speed.

"Throw away your meat," Rogers ordered, "you will not want it now, and every pound tells."

The men had already got rid of their blankets, and were now burdened only with their rifles and ammunition. The ground was rough and broken, for they were nearing the steep promontory on which the French fort had been erected. They were still a mile ahead of their pursuers, and although the latter had gained that distance upon them since the first start, the scouts knew that, now they were exerting themselves to the utmost, the redskins could be gaining but little upon them, for the trained white man is, in point of speed and endurance, fairly a match for the average Indian.

They had now descended to within a short distance of the edge of the lake, in order to avoid the valleys and ravines running down from the hills. The war whoops rose frequently in the forest behind them, the Indians yelling to give those at the fort notice that the chase was approaching.

"If there war any redskins left at the fort," Nat said to James, "they would guess what our game was; but I expect every redskin started out on the hunt, and the French soldiers, when they hear the yelling, won't know what to make of it, and, if they do anything, they will shut themselves up in their fort."

Great as were the exertions which the scouts were making, they could tell, by the sound of the war whoops, that some at least of the Indians were gaining upon them. Accustomed as every man of the party was to the fatigues of the forest, the strain was telling upon them all now. For twelve miles they had run almost at the top of their speed, and the short panting breath, the set faces, and the reeling steps showed that they were nearly at the end of their powers. Still they held on, with scarcely any diminishing of speed. Each man knew that if he fell, he must die, for his comrades could do nothing for him, and no pause was possible until the boats were gained.

They were passing now under the French works, for they could hear shouting on the high ground to the right, and knew that the troops left in the fort had taken the alarm; but they were still invisible, for it was only at the point of the promontory that the clearing had been carried down to the water's edge. A low cry of relief burst from the men, as they saw the forest open before them, and a minute later they were running along in the open, near the shore of the lake, at the extremity of the promontory, where, hauled up upon the shore, lay a number of canoes and flat-bottomed boats, used for the conveyance of troops. A number of boatmen were standing near, evidently alarmed by the war cries in the woods. When they saw the party approaching they at once made for the fort, a quarter of a mile away on the high ground, and, almost at the same moment, a dropping fire of musketry opened from the entrenchments.

"Smash the canoes," Rogers said, setting the example by administering a vigorous kick to one of them.

The others followed his example, and, in a few seconds, every one of the frail barks was stove in.

"Two of the boats will hold us well," Rogers said; "quick, into the water with them, and out with the oars. Ten row in each boat. Let the other five handle their rifles, and keep back the Indians as they come up. Never mind the soldiers."

For the white-coated troops, perceiving the scouts' intention, were now pouring out from the intrenchments.

A couple of minutes sufficed for the men to launch the boats and take their seats, and the oars dipped in the water just as three or four Indians dashed out from the edge of the forest.

"We have won the race by three minutes," Rogers said, exultantly. "Stretch to your oars, lads, and get out of range as soon as you can."

The Indians began to fire as soon as they perceived the boats. They were scarcely two hundred yards away, but they, like the white men, were panting with fatigue, and their bullets flew harmlessly by.

"Don't answer yet," Rogers ordered, as some of the scouts were preparing to fire. "Wait till your hands get steady, and then fire at the French. There won't be many of the redskins up, yet."

The boats were not two hundred yards from shore when the French soldiers reached the edge of the water and opened fire, but at this distance their weapons were of little avail, and, though the bullets splashed thickly around the boats, no one was injured, while several of the French were seen to drop from the fire of the scouts. Another hundred yards, and the boats were beyond any danger, save from a chance shot. The Indians still continued firing, and several of their shots struck the boats, one of the rowers being hit on the shoulder.

"Lay in your rifles, and man the other two oars in each boat," Rogers said. "The French are launching some of their bateaux, but we have got a fair start, and they won't overtake us before we reach the opposite point. They are fresher than we are, but soldiers are no good rowing; besides, they are sure to crowd the boats so that they won't have a chance."

Five or six boats, each crowded with men, started in pursuit, but they were fully half a mile behind when the two English boats reached the shore.

"Now it is our turn," Rogers said, as the men, leaping ashore, took their places behind trees. As soon as the French boats came within range, a steady fire was opened upon them. Confusion was at once apparent among them. Oars were seen to drop, and as the fire continued, the rowing ceased. Another minute and the boats were turned, and were soon rowing out again into the lake.

"There's the end of that," Rogers said, "and a close shave it has been.

"Well, youngster, what do you think of your first scout in the woods?"

"It has been sharper than I bargained for," James said, laughing, "and was pretty near being the last, as well as the first. If it hadn't been for your taking us to the boats, I don't think many of us would have got back to Fort Henry to tell the tale."

"There is generally some way out of a mess," Rogers said, "if one does but think of it. If I had not thought of the French boats, we should have scattered, and a few of us would have been overtaken, no doubt; but even an Indian cannot follow a single trail as fast as a man can run, and I reckon most of us would have carried our scalps back to camp. Still, with the woods full of Iroquois they must have had some of us, and I hate losing a man if it can be helped. We are well out of it.

"Now, lads, we had better be tramping. There are a lot more bateaux coming out, and I expect, by the rowing, they are manned by Indians. The redskin is a first-rate hand with the paddle, but is no good with an oar."

The man who had been hit in the shoulder had already had his wound bandaged. There was a minute's consultation as to whether they should continue their journey in the boats, some of the men pointing out that they had proved themselves faster than their pursuers.

"That may be," Rogers says; "but the Indians will land and follow along the shore, and will soon get ahead of us, for they can travel quicker than we can row, and, for aught we know, there may be a whole fleet of canoes higher up Lake George which would cut us off. No, lads, the safest way is to keep on through the woods."

The decision was received without question, and the party at once started at a swinging trot, which was kept up, with occasional intervals of walking, throughout the day. At nightfall their course was changed, and, after journeying another two or three miles, a halt was called, for Rogers was sure that the Indians would abandon pursuit, when night came on without their having overtaken the fugitives.

Before daybreak the march was continued, and, in the afternoon, the party arrived at Fort William Henry.

James now determined to leave the force, and return at once to New York, where his letters were to be addressed to him. He took with him a letter from General Johnson, speaking in the warmest tones of his conduct.

On arriving at New York he found, at the post office there, a great pile of letters awaiting him. They had been written after the receipt of his letter at the end of July, telling those at home of his share in Braddock's disaster.

"I little thought, my boy," his mother wrote, "when we received your letter, saying that you had got your discharge from the ship, and were going with an expedition against the French, that you were going to run into such terrible danger. Fortunately, the same vessel which brought the news of General Braddock's defeat also brought your letter, and we learned the news only a few hours before your letter reached us. It was, as you may imagine, a time of terrible anxiety to us, and the squire and Aggie were almost as anxious as I was. Mr. Wilks did his best to cheer us all, but I could see that he, too, felt it very greatly. However, when your letter came we were all made happy again, though, of course, we cannot be but anxious, as you say you are just going to join another expedition; still, we must hope that that will do better, as it won't be managed by regular soldiers. Mr. Wilks was quite angry at what you said about the folly of making men stand in a line to be shot at, he thinks so much of drill and discipline. The squire and he have been arguing quite fiercely about it; but the squire gets the best of the argument, for the dreadful way in which the soldiers were slaughtered shows that, though that sort of fighting may be good in other places, it is not suited for fighting these wicked Indians in the woods.

"The squire has himself been up to London about your commission, and has arranged it all. He has, as he will tell you in his letter, got you a commission in the regiment commanded by Colonel Otway, which is to go out next spring. He was introduced to the commander in chief by his friend, and told him that you had been acting as Colonel Washington's aide-de-camp with General Braddock, and that you have now gone to join General Johnson's army; so the duke said that, though you would be gazetted at once, and would belong to the regiment, you might as well stay out there and see service until it arrived; and that it would be a great advantage to the regiment to have an officer, with experience in Indian fighting, with it. I cried when he brought me back the news, for I had hoped to have you back again with us for a bit, before you went soldiering for good. However, the squire seems to think it is a capital thing for you. Mr. Wilks thinks so, too, so I suppose I must put up with it; but Aggie agrees with me, and says it is too bad that she should never have seen you, once, from the time when she saw you in that storm.

"She is a dear little girl, and is growing fast. I think she must have grown quite an inch in the five months you have been away. She sends her love to you, and says you must take care of yourself, for her sake."

The squire, in his letter, repeated the news Mrs. Walsham had given.

"You are now an ensign," he said, "and, if you go into any more fights before your regiment arrives, you must, Mr. Wilks said, get a proper uniform made for you, and fight as a king's officer. I send you a copy of the gazette, where you will see your name."

Mr. Wilks's letter was a long one.

"I felt horribly guilty, dear Jim," he said, "when the news came of Braddock's dreadful defeat. I could hardly look your dear mother in the face, and, though the kind lady would not, I know, say a word to hurt my feelings for the world, yet I could see that she regarded me as a monster, for it was on my advice that, instead of coming home when you got your discharge, you remained out there and took part in this unfortunate expedition. I could see Aggie felt the same, and, though I did my best to keep up their spirits, I had a terrible time of it until your letter arrived, saying you were safe. If it had not come, I do believe that I should have gone quietly off to Exeter, hunted up my box again, and hired a boy to push it for me, for I am not so strong as I was. But I would rather have tramped about, for the rest of my life, than remain there under your mother's reproachful eye. However, thank God you came through it all right, and, after such a lesson, I should hope that we shall never have repetition of such a disaster as that. As an old soldier, I cannot agree with what you say about the uselessness of drill, even for fighting in a forest. It must accustom men to listen to the voice of their officers, and to obey orders promptly and quickly, and I cannot but think that, if the troops had gone forward at a brisk double, they would have driven the Indians before them. As to the whooping and yells you talk so much about, I should think nothing of them; they are no more to be regarded than the shrieks of women, or the braying of donkeys."

James smiled as he read this, and thought that, if the old soldier had heard that chaos of blood-curdling cries break out, in the still depth of the forest, he would not write of them with such equanimity.

"You will have heard, from the squire, that you are gazetted to Otway's regiment which, with others, is to cross the Atlantic in a few weeks, when it is generally supposed war will be formally declared. Your experience will be of great use to you, and ought to get you a good staff appointment. I expect that, in the course of a year, there will be fighting on a large scale on your side of the water, and the English ought to get the best of it, for France seems, at present, to be thinking a great deal more of her affairs in Europe than of her colonies in America. So much the better, for, if we can take Canada, we shall strike a heavy blow to her trade, and some day North America is going to be an important place in the world."

The letters had been lying there several weeks, and James knew that Otway's regiment had, with the others, arrived a few days before, and had already marched for Albany. Thinking himself entitled to a little rest, after his labours, he remained for another week in New York, while his uniform was being made, and then took a passage in a trading boat up to Albany.

Scarcely had he landed, when a young officer in the same uniform met him. He looked surprised, hesitated, and then stopped.

"I see you belong to our regiment," he said. "Have you just arrived from England? What ship did you come in?"

"I have been out here some time," James replied. "My name is Walsham. I believe I was gazetted to your regiment some months ago, but I only heard the news on my arrival at New York last week."

"Oh, you are Walsham!" the young officer said. "My name is Edwards. I am glad to meet you. We have been wondering when you would join us, and envying your luck, in seeing so much of the fighting out here. Our regiment is encamped about half a mile from here. If you will let me, I will go back with you, and introduce you to our fellows."

James thanked him, and the two walked along talking together. James learned that there were already five ensigns junior to himself, his new acquaintance being one of them, as the regiment had been somewhat short of officers, and the vacancies had been filled up shortly before it sailed.

"Of course, we must call on the colonel first," Mr. Edwards said. "He is a capital fellow, and very much liked in the regiment."

Colonel Otway received James with great cordiality.

"We are very glad to get you with us, Mr. Walsham," he said, "and we consider it a credit to the regiment to have a young officer who has been, three times, mentioned in despatches. You will, too, be a great service to us, and will be able to give us a good many hints as to this Indian method of fighting, which Braddock's men found so terrible."

"It is not formidable, sir, when you are accustomed to it; but, unfortunately, General Braddock forced his men to fight in regular fashion, that is, to stand up and be shot at, and that mode of fighting, in the woods, is fatal. A hundred redskins would be more than a match, in the forest, for ten times their number of white troops, who persisted in fighting in such a ridiculous way; but, fighting in their own way, white men are a match for the redskins. Indeed, the frontiersmen can thrash the Indians, even if they are two or three to one against them."

"You have been in this last affair on the lake, have you not, Mr. Walsham? I heard you were with Johnson."

"Yes, sir, I was, and at the beginning it was very nearly a repetition of Braddock's disaster; but, after being surprised and, at first, beaten, the column that went out made such a stout fight of it, that it gave us time to put the camp in a state of defence. Had the Indians made a rush, I think they would have carried it; but, as they contented themselves with keeping up a distant fire, the provincials, who were all young troops, quite unaccustomed to fighting, and wholly without drill or discipline, gradually got steady, and at length sallied out and beat them decisively."

"I will not detain you, now," the colonel said; "but I hope, ere long, you will give us a full and detailed account of the fighting you have been in, with your idea of the best way of training regular troops for the sort of work we have before us. Mr. Edwards will take you over to the mess, and introduce you to your brother officers."

James was well received by the officers of his regiment, and soon found himself perfectly at home with them. He had to devote some hours, every day, to acquiring the mysteries of drill. It was, to him, somewhat funny to see the pains expended in assuring that each movement should be performed with mechanical accuracy; but he understood that, although useless for such warfare as that which they had before them, great accuracy in details was necessary, for ensuring uniformity of movement among large masses of men in an open country.

Otherwise, the time passed very pleasantly. James soon became a favourite in the regiment, and the young officers were never tired of questioning him concerning the redskins, and their manner of fighting. There were plenty of amusements. The snow was deep on the ground, now, and the officers skated, practised with snowshoes, and drove in sleighs. Occasionally they got up a dance, and the people of Albany, and the settlers round, vied with each other in their hospitality to the officers.

One day, in February, an orderly brought a message to James Walsham, that the colonel wished to speak to him.

"Walsham," he said, "I may tell you, privately, that the regiment is likely to form part of the expedition which is being fitted out, in England, against Louisbourg in Cape Breton, the key of Canada. A considerable number of the troops from the province will accompany it."

"But that will leave the frontier here altogether open to the enemy," James said in surprise.

"That is my own opinion, Walsham. Louisbourg is altogether outside the range of the present struggle, and it seems to me that the British force should be employed at striking at a vital point. However, that is not to the purpose. It is the Earl of Loudon's plan. However, it is manifest, as you say, that the frontier will be left terribly open, and therefore two companies of each of the regiments going will be left. Naturally, as you are the only officer in the regiment who has had any experience in this forest warfare, you would be one of those left here; but as an ensign you would not have much influence, and I think that it would be at once more useful to the service, and more pleasant for yourself, if I can obtain for you something like a roving commission. What do you think of that?"

"I should greatly prefer that, sir," James said gratefully.

"The general is a little vexed, I know," the colonel went on, "at the numerous successes, and daring feats, gained by Rogers and the other leaders of the companies of scouts, while the regulars have not had an opportunity to fire a shot: and I think that he would, at once, accept the proposal were I to make it to him, that a company, to be called the Royal Scouts, should be formed of volunteers taken from the various regiments, and that you should have the command."

"Thank you, sir," James said, "and I should like it above all things; but I fear that we should have no chance, whatever, of rivalling the work of Rogers and the other partisan leaders. These men are all trained to the work of the woods, accustomed to fight Indians, equally at home in a canoe or in the forest. I have had, as you are good enough to say, some experience in the work, but I am a mere child by their side, and were I to lead fifty English soldiers in the forest, I fear that none of us would ever return."

"Yes, but I should not propose that you should engage in enterprises of that sort, Walsham. My idea is that, although you would have an independent command, with very considerable freedom of action, you would act in connection with the regular troops. The scouts are often far away when wanted, leaving the posts open to surprise. They are so impatient of any discipline, that they are adverse to going near the forts, except to obtain fresh supplies. You, on the contrary, would act as the eyes of any post which you might think threatened by the enemy. At present, for instance, Fort William Henry is the most exposed to attack.

"You would take your command there, and would report yourself to Major Eyre, who is in command. As for service there, your letter of appointment would state that you are authorized to act independently, but that, while it would be your duty to obey the orders of the commanding officer, you will be authorized to offer such suggestions to him as your experience in Indian warfare would lead you to make. You would train your men as scouts. It would be their special duty to guard the fort against surprise, and, of course, in case of attack to take part in its defence. In the event of the provincial scouts making any concerted movement against a French post, you would be authorized to join them. You would then have the benefit of their skill and experience, and, in case of success, the army would get a share of the credit. What do you think of my plan?"

"I should like it above all things," James replied. "That would be precisely the duty which I should select had I the choice."

"I thought so," the colonel said. "I have formed a very high opinion of your judgment and discretion, from the talks which we have had together, and I have spoken strongly in your favour to the general, who had promised me that, in the event of the army moving forward, you should have an appointment on the quartermaster general's staff, as an intelligence officer.

"Since I heard that the main portion of the army is to sail to Louisbourg, I have been thinking this plan over, and it certainly seems to me that a corps, such as that that I have suggested, would be of great service. I should think that its strength should be fifty men. You will, of course, have another officer with you. Is there anyone you would like to choose, as I may as well take the whole scheme, cut and dried, to the general?"

"I should like Mr. Edwards, sir. He is junior to me in the regiment, and is very active and zealous in the service; and I should greatly like to be allowed to enlist, temporarily, two of the scouts I have served with in the force, with power for them to take their discharge when they wished. They would be of immense utility to me in instructing the men in their new duties, and would add greatly to our efficiency."

"So be it," the colonel said. "I will draw out the scheme on paper, and lay it before the general today."

In the afternoon, James was again sent for.

"The earl has approved of my scheme. You will have temporary rank as captain given you, in order to place your corps on an equal footing with the provincial corps of scouts. Mr. Edwards will also have temporary rank, as lieutenant. The men of the six companies, of the three regiments, will be paraded tomorrow, and asked for volunteers for the special service. If there are more than fifty offer, you can select your own men."

Accordingly, the next morning, the troops to be left behind were paraded, and an order was read out, saying that a corps of scouts for special service was to be raised, and that volunteers were requested. Upwards of a hundred men stepped forward, and, being formed in line, James selected from them fifty who appeared to him the most hardy, active, and intelligent looking. He himself had, that morning, been put in orders as captain of the new corps, and had assumed the insignia of his temporary rank. The colonel had placed at his disposal two intelligent young non-commissioned officers.

The next morning, he marched with his command for Fort William Henry. No sooner had he left the open country, and entered the woods, than he began to instruct the men in their new duties. The whole of them were thrown out as skirmishers, and taught to advance in Indian fashion, each man sheltering himself behind a tree, scanning the woods carefully ahead, and then, fixing his eyes on another tree ahead, to advance to it at a sharp run, and shelter there.

All this was new to the soldiers, hitherto drilled only in solid formation, or in skirmishing in the open, and when, at the end of ten miles skirmishing through the wood, they were halted and ordered to bivouac for the night, James felt that his men were beginning to have some idea of forest fighting. The men themselves were greatly pleased with their day's work. It was a welcome change after the long monotony of life in a standing camp, and the day's work had given them a high opinion of the fitness of their young officer for command.

But the work and instruction was not over for the day. Hitherto, none of the men had had any experience in camping in the open. James now showed them how to make comfortable shelters against the cold, with two forked sticks and one laid across them, and with a few boughs and a blanket laid over them, with dead leaves heaped round the bottom and ends; and how best to arrange their fires and cook their food.

During the following days, the same work was repeated, and when, after a week's marching, the force issued from the forest into the clearing around Fort William Henry, James felt confident that his men would be able to hold their own in a brush with the Indians. Major Eyre, to whom James reported himself, and showed his appointment defining his authority and duties, expressed much satisfaction at the arrival of the reinforcement.

"There are rumours, brought here by the scouts," he said, "that a strong force will, ere long, come down from Crown Point to Ticonderoga, and that we shall be attacked. Now that the lake is frozen, regular troops could march without difficulty, and my force here is very inadequate, considering the strength with which the French will attack. None of my officers or men have any experience of the Indian methods of attack, and your experience will be very valuable. It is a pity that they do not give me one of these companies of scouts permanently. Sometimes one or other of them is here, but often I am without any of the provincials, and, although I have every confidence in my officers and men, one cannot but feel that it is a great disadvantage to be exposed to the attack of an enemy of whose tactics one is altogether ignorant.

"You will, of course, encamp your men inside the fort. I see you have brought no baggage with you, but I have some spare tents here, which are at your service."

"Thank you, sir," James replied; "I shall be glad to put the men under cover, while they are here, but I intend to practise them, as much as possible, in scouting and camping in the woods, and, although I shall always be in the neighbourhood of the fort, I do not propose always to return here at night. Are any of Captain Rogers's corps at present at the fort?"

"Some of them came in last night," Major Eyre replied.

"I have authority," James said, "to enlist two of them in my corps."

Major Eyre smiled.

"I do not think you will find any of them ready to submit to military discipline, or to put on a red coat."

"They are all accustomed to obey orders, promptly enough, when at work," James said, "though there is no attempt at discipline when off duty. You see them at their worst here. There is, of course, nothing like military order in the woods, but obedience is just as prompt as among our troops. As to the uniform, I agree with you, but on that head I should not be particular. I can hardly fancy any of the scouts buttoned tightly up with stiff collars; but as, after all, although they are to be enlisted, they will be attached to the corps, rather than be regular members of it, I do not think I need insist upon the uniform."

After leaving the major, James saw to the pitching of the tents, and the comforts of his men, and when he had done so strolled off towards a group of scouts, who were watching his proceedings, and among whom he recognized the two men for whom he was looking.

He received a cordial greeting from all who had taken part in his previous adventures with Captain Rogers's band.

"And so you are in command of this party?" Nat said. "I asked one of the men just now, and he said you were the captain. You are young to be a captain, but, at any rate, it's a good thing to have a king's officer here who knows something about the woods. The rest ain't no more idea of them than nothing."

"I want to chat to you, Nat, and also to Jonathan, if you will come across with me to my tent."

"I'm agreeable," Nat said; and the two scouts walked across to the tent with James.

Lieutenant Edwards, who shared the tent with him, was inside, arranging a few things which Major Eyre had sent down for their use.

"Edwards, these are the two scouts, Nat and Jonathan, of whom you have often heard me speak. Now, let us sit down and have a chat.

"There is some first-rate rum in that bottle, Nat. There are two tin pannikins, and there is water in that keg.

"Now, Nat," he went on, when the party were seated on blankets laid on the ground, "this corps of mine has been raised, specially, to act as scouts round this or any other fort which may be threatened, or to act as the advanced guard of a column of troops."

"But what do they know of scouting?" Nat said contemptuously. "They don't know no more than children."

"They don't know much, but they are active fellows, and ready to learn. I think you will find that, already, they have a pretty fair idea of fighting in Indian fashion in the woods, and, as I have authority to draw extra supplies of ball cartridge, I hope, in a few weeks, to make fair shots of them. You have taught me something of forest ways, and I shall teach them all I know; but we want better teachers, and I want to propose, to you and Jonathan, to join the corps."

"What, and put on a red coat, and choke ourselves up with a stiff collar!" Nat laughed. "Nice figures we should look! No, no, captain, that would never do."

"No, I don't propose that you should wear uniform, Nat. I have got a special authority to enlist you and Jonathan, with the understanding that you can take your discharge whenever you like. There will be no drilling in line, or anything of that sort. It will be just scouting work, the same as with Captain Rogers, except that we shall not make long expeditions, as he does, but keep in the neighbourhood of the fort. I should want you to act both as scouts and instructors, to teach the men, as you have taught me, something of woodcraft, how to find their way in a forest, and how to fight the Indians in their own way, and to be up to Indian devices. You will be guides on the line of march, will warn me of danger, and suggest the best plan of meeting it. You will, in fact, be scouts attached to the corps, only nominally you will be members of it. I know your ways, and should not exact any observance of discipline, more than that which you have with Rogers, and should treat you in the light of non-commissioned officers."

"Well, and what do you say, Jonathan?" Nat said, turning to his tall companion. "You and I have both taken a fancy to the captain here, and though he has picked up a lot for a young 'un, and will in time make a first-rate hand in the woods, I guess he won't make much hand of it, yet, if he hadn't got someone as knows the woods by his side. We have had a spell of hard work of it with Rogers lately, and I don't mind if I have a change, for a bit, with the redcoats."

"I will go, of course," Jonathan said briefly.

"Very well, then, that's settled, captain," Nat said. "Rogers will be in tonight, and I will tell him we are going to transfer ourselves over to you."

"He won't mind, I hope," James said.

"He won't mind," Nat replied. "We ain't very particular about times of service in our corps. We just comes and goes, pretty well as the fancy takes us. They would never get us to join, if they wanted to get us to bind down hard and fast. Sometimes they start on an expedition fifty strong, next time perhaps not more than thirty turns up.

"Is there anything to do to join the corps?"

"Not much, Nat. I give you each a shilling and attest you, that is to say, swear you in to serve the king, and, in your case, give you a paper saying that you are authorized to take your discharge, whensoever it pleases you."

"Very well, captain. Then on those terms we join, always understood as we don't have to put on red coats."

The two men were sworn in, and then Nat, standing up, said:

"And now, captain, discipline is discipline. What's your orders?"

James went to the door of the tent, and called the sergeant.

"Sergeant, these two men are enlisted as scouts in the corps. They will draw rations, and be a regular part of the company like the rest, but they will not wear uniform, acting only as scouts. They will have the rank and position of corporals, and will specially instruct the men in woodcraft, and in the ways of the Indians. They will, of course, occupy the tent with the non-commissioned officers, and will mess with them. Being engaged as scouts, only, they will in other respects be free from anything like strictness. I trust that you will do what you can to make them comfortable."

The sergeant saluted, and led the two scouts over to the tent occupied by himself and the other non-commissioned officers, and the roars of laughter that issued from it in the course of the evening, at the anecdotes of the scouts, showed that the newcomers were likely to be highly popular characters in their mess.

Chapter 13: An Abortive Attack.

Three weeks passed. James kept his men steadily at work, and even the scouts allowed that they made great progress. Sometimes they went out in two parties, with an officer and a scout to each, and their pouches filled with blank cartridge. Each would do its best to surprise the other; and, when they met, a mimic fight would take place, the men sheltering behind trees, and firing only when they obtained a glimpse of an adversary.

"I did not think that these pipe-clayed soldiers could have been so spry," Nat said to James. "They have picked up wonderfully, and I wouldn't mind going into an Indian fight with them. They are improving with their muskets. Their shooting yesterday wasn't bad, by no means. In three months' time, they will be as good a lot to handle as any of the companies of scouts."

Besides the daily exercises, the company did scouting work at night, ten men being out, by turns, in the woods bordering the lake. At one o'clock in the morning, on the 19th of March, Nat came into the officers' tent.

"Captain," he said, "get up. There's something afoot."

"What is it, Nat?" James asked, as he threw off his rugs.

"It's the French, at least I don't see who else it can be. It was my turn tonight to go round and look after our sentries. When I came to Jim Bryan, who was stationed just at the edge of the lake, I said to him, 'Anything new, Jim?' and he says, 'Yes; seems to me as I can hear a hammering in the woods.' I listens, and sure enough axes were going. It may be some three miles down. The night is still, and the ice brought the sound.

"'That's one for you, Jim,' says I. 'Them's axes sure enough.' I stands and looks, and then a long way down the lake on the left I sees a faint glare. They had had the sense to light the fires where we couldn't see them; but there were the lights, sure enough. It's the French, captain, the redskins would never have made fires like that, and if it had been a party of our scouts, they would have come on here, and not halted an hour's tramp away.

"You had best get the troops under arms, captain. Who would have thought they would have been such fools as to light their fires within sight of the fort!"

James at once went to Major Eyre's quarters, and aroused him, and in a few minutes the garrison were all under arms. Their strength, including James Walsham's corps, and some scouts of the company of John Stark, numbered three hundred and forty-six men, besides which there were a hundred and twenty-eight invalids in hospital.

Two hours passed, and then a confused sound, as of a great body of men moving on the ice, was heard. The ice was bare of snow, and nothing could be seen, but the cannon on the side facing the lake at once opened fire, with grape and round shot, in the direction of the sound.

After firing for a few minutes, they were silent. The sound on the ice could no longer be heard.

"They have taken to the woods," Nat, who had taken up his station next to James Walsham, said. "It ain't likely they would stop on the ice with the balls pounding it up."

"Do you think they will attack before morning?" James asked.

"It ain't likely," Nat replied. "They won't know the positions, and, such a dark night as this, they wouldn't be able to make out anything about them. If they could have come straight along the ice to the head of the lake here, they would have made a dash, no doubt; but now they find we ain't to be caught asleep, I expect they will wait till morning."

Again the sound of axes was heard in the wood, and the glare of light appeared above the trees.

"There must be a tidy lot of 'em," Nat said.

"Do you think it will be any use to go out and try to surprise them?"

"Not a bit, captain. They are sure to have a lot of redskins with them, and they will be lurking in the woods, in hopes that we may try such a move. No; we have got a strong position here, and can lick them three to one; but in the woods, except Stark's men, and perhaps yours, none of the others wouldn't be no good at all."

Mayor Eyre, shortly afterwards, sent for James, who gave him the opinion of the scout, and the major then ordered the troops to get under shelter again, leaving Stark's men to act as sentries, for the night was bitterly cold.

It was not until ten o'clock next day that the French appeared, and, surrounding the fort on all sides, except on that of the lake, opened heavy musketry fire upon it. They were a formidable body. Vaudreuil, the governor of Canada, had spared no pains to make the blow a successful one. The force had been assembled at Crown Point, and numbered sixteen hundred regulars, Canadians, and Indians. Everything needful for their comfort had been provided--overcoats, blankets, bear skins to sleep on, and tarpaulins to cover them. They had been provided with twelve days' provisions, which were placed on hand sledges and drawn by the troops.

They marched, over the ice of Lake Champlain, down to Ticonderoga, where they rested a week, and constructed three hundred scaling ladders. Three days' further march, up Lake George, brought them to the English fort.

The weak point of the expedition was its leader, for Vaudreuil, who was himself a Canadian, had the greatest jealousy of the French officers, and had intrusted the command of the expedition to his brother, Rigaud.

The fire did no damage, as the garrison lay sheltered behind their entrenchments, replying occasionally whenever the enemy mustered in force, as if with an intention of attacking.

"I don't think they mean business, this time, captain," Nat said in a tone of disgust. "Why, there are enough of them to eat us, if they could but make up their minds to come on. They don't suppose they are going to take William Henry by blazing a way at it half a mile off!"

"Perhaps they are going to make a night attack," James said. "They will have learned all about the position of our works."

"Maybe so," Nat replied; "but I don't think so. When chaps don't attack at once, when there are four or five to one, I reckon that they ain't likely to attack at all. They meant to surprise us, and they haven't, and it seems to me as it has taken all the heart out of them."

As evening approached, the fire ceased. At nightfall, strong guards were placed round the entrenchments, and the troops retired to their quarters, ready to turn out at a minute's notice.

About midnight they were called out. There was again a sound on the lake. The cannon at once opened, and, as before, all was silent again.

"Look, Walsham, look!" Edwards exclaimed. "They have set fire to the sloops."

As he spoke, a tongue of flame started up from one of the two vessels lying in the ice, close to the shore, and, almost simultaneously, flames shot up from among the boats drawn up on the beach.

"That's redskin work," Nat exclaimed.

"Come, lads," James cried, leaping down from the low earthwork into the ditch. "Let us save the boats, if we can."

The scouts followed him and ran down to the shore; but the Indians had done their work well. The two sloops, and many of the boats, were well alight, and it was evident at once that, long before a hole could be broken through the ice, and buckets brought down from the fort, they would be beyond all hopes of saving them.

The French, too, opened fire from the woods bordering the lake, and, as the light of the flames exposed his men to the enemy's marksmen, James at once called them back to the fort, and the sloops and boats burned themselves out.

At noon, next day, the French filed out from the woods on to the ice, at a distance of over a mile.

"What now?" Edwards exclaimed. "They surely don't mean to be fools enough to march across the ice to attack us in broad daylight."

"It looks to me," James replied, "as if they wanted to make a full show of their force. See, there is a white flag, and a party are coming forward."

An officer and several men advanced towards the fort, and Major Eyre sent out one of his officers, with an equal number of men, to meet them. There was a short parley when the parties came together, and then the French officer advanced towards the fort with the English, his followers remaining on the ice.

On nearing the fort, the French officer, Le Mercier, chief of the Canadian artillery, was blindfolded, and led to the room where Major Eyre, with all the British officers, was awaiting him. The handkerchief was then removed from his eyes, and he announced to the commandant that he was the bearer of a message from the officer commanding the French force, who, being desirous of avoiding an effusion of blood, begged the English commander to abstain from resistance, which, against a force so superior to his own, could but be useless. He offered the most favourable terms, if he would surrender the place peaceably, but said that if he were driven to make an assault, his Indian allies would unquestionably massacre the whole garrison.

Major Eyre quietly replied that he intended to defend himself to the utmost.

The envoy was again blindfolded. When he rejoined the French force, the latter at once advanced as if to attack the place, but soon halted, and, leaving the ice, opened a fusillade from the border of the woods, which they kept up for some hours, the garrison contemptuously abstaining from any reply.

At night, the French were heard advancing again, the sound coming from all sides. The garrison stood to their arms, believing that this time the real attack was about to be made.

Nearer and nearer came the sound, and the garrison, who could see nothing in the pitchy darkness, fired wherever they could hear a sound. Presently a bright light burst up. The redskins, provided with faggots of resinous sticks, had crept up towards some buildings, consisting of several store houses, a hospital, and saw mill, and the huts and tents of the rangers, and, having placed their torches against them, set them on fire and instantly retreated. The garrison could do nothing to save the buildings, as their efforts, in the absence of water, must be unavailing, and they would have been shot down by the foe lying beyond the circle of light. They therefore remained lying behind the entrenchment, firing wherever they heard the slightest sound, and momentarily expecting an attack; but morning came without the French advancing, and the garrison were then able to give their whole attention to saving the buildings in the fort.

Some great wood stacks had now ignited, and the burning embers fell thickly on the huts, and for some hours it was only by the greatest exertions that the troops were able to save the buildings from destruction. Every moment they expected to be attacked, for, had the French advanced, the huts must have been left to themselves, in which case the garrison would have found themselves shelterless, and all their provisions and stores would have been consumed; but before noon the danger was over, for not only had the fires begun to burn low, but a heavy snow storm set in. All day it continued.

"Now would be the time for them to attack," James Walsham said to his lieutenant. "We can scarce see twenty yards away."

"Now is their chance," Edwards agreed; "but I don't believe in their attacking. I can't think who they have got in command. He ought to be shot, a man with such a force as he has, hanging about here for four days when he could have carried the place, with a rush, any moment."

"No, I don't think they will attack," James replied. "Men who will stop to light a fire to warm themselves, within sight of an enemy's fort they want to surprise, are not likely to venture out of shelter of their blankets in such a snow as this."

All day and all night the snow came down, till the ground was covered to a depth of over three feet. Early on Tuesday morning, twenty volunteers of the French regulars made a bold attempt to burn a sloop building on the stocks, with several storehouses and other structures near the water, and some hundreds of boats and canoes which were ranged near them. They succeeded in firing the sloop, and some buildings, but James, with his scouts, sallied out and forced them to retreat, with the loss of five of their number; and, by pulling down some of the huts, prevented the fire spreading.

Next morning the sun rose brightly, and the white sheet of the lake was dotted with the French, in full retreat for Canada. Their total loss had been eleven killed and wounded, while, on the English side, seven men had been wounded, all slightly. Never was a worse conducted or more futile expedition.

After this affair, the time passed slowly at Fort William Henry. Until the sun gained strength enough to melt the thick white covering of the earth, James practised his men in the use of snowshoes, and, as soon as spring had fairly commenced, resumed the work of scouting. This was done only as an exercise, for there was no fear that, after such a humiliating failure, the French would, for some time to come, attempt another expedition against the fort.

In the autumn of 1756, General Montcalm had come out from France to take the command of the French troops. Few of the superior officers of the French army cared to take the command, in a country where the work was hard and rough, and little glory was to be obtained. Therefore the minister of war was able, for once, to choose an officer fitted for the post, instead of being obliged, as usual, to fill up the appointment by a court favourite.

The Marquis of Montcalm was born at the chateau of Candiac, near Nimes, on the 29th of February, 1712. At the age of fifteen, up to which time he had studied hard, he entered the army. Two years later he became a captain, and was first under fire at the siege of Philipsbourg. In 1736 he married Mademoiselle Du Boulay, who brought him influential connections and some property. In 1741 Montcalm took part in the campaign in Bohemia. Two years later he was made colonel, and passed unharmed through the severe campaign of 1744.

In the following year he fought in the campaign in Italy, and, in 1746, was wounded at the disastrous action at Piacenza, where he twice rallied his regiment, received five sabre cuts, and was made prisoner. He was soon liberated on parole, and was promoted, in the following year, to the rank of brigadier general, and, being exchanged for an officer of similar rank, rejoined the army, and was again wounded by a musket shot. Shortly afterwards the peace of Aix la Chapelle was signed, and Montcalm remained living quietly with his family, to whom he was tenderly attached, until informed, by the minister of war, that he had selected him to command the troops in North America, with the rank of major general. The Chevalier de Levis was appointed second in command.

No sooner did Montcalm arrive in America, than difficulties arose between him and the Marquis de Vaudreuil, the governor, who had hoped to have himself received the appointment of commander of the French forces, and who, in virtue of his office, commanded the Canadian militia.

From first to last this man opposed and thwarted Montcalm, doing all in his power to injure him, by reports to France in his disfavour. The misfortunes which befell France during the war were, in no slight degree, due to this divided authority, and to the obstacles thrown in the way of Montcalm by the governor.

Montcalm's first blow against the English was struck in August, 1756, six months before the attack on Fort William Henry, which had been arranged by Vaudreuil. Three battalions of regular troops, with 700 Canadians and 250 Indians, with a strong force of artillery, were quietly concentrated at Fort Frontenac, and were intended for an attack upon the important English post of Oswego. Fighting had been going on in this neighbourhood for some time, and it was from Oswego that Shirley had intended to act against Niagara and Frontenac. That enterprise had fallen through, owing to Shirley having been deprived of the command; but a sharp fight had taken place between Colonel Bradstreet and his armed boatmen, and 1100 French, who were beaten off.

Oswego was a place of extreme importance. It was the only English post on Ontario, situated as it was towards the southwest corner of the lake. So long as it remained in their possession, it was a standing menace against the whole line of communications of the French with the south. Owing to gross neglect, the fort had never been placed in a really defensive condition. The garrison was small, and crippled with the fever, which had carried off great numbers of them. The remainder were ill fed and discontented.

On the 12th of August, the Earl of London sent Colonel Webb, with the 44th Regiment and some of Bradstreet's boatmen, to reinforce Oswego. They should have started a month before, and, had they done so, would have been in time; but confusion and misunderstanding had arisen from a change in command. Webb had scarcely made half his march, when tidings of the disaster met him, and he at once fell back with the greatest precipitation.

At midnight on the 10th, Montcalm had landed his force within half a league of the first English fort. Four cannon were at once landed, and a battery thrown up, and so careless of danger were the garrison, that it was not till the morning that the invaders were discovered. Two armed vessels at once sailed down to cannonade them; but their light guns were no match for the heavy artillery of the French, and they were forced to retire.

The attack was commenced without delay. The Indians and Canadians, swarming in the forest round the fort, kept up a hot fire upon it. By nightfall the first parallel was marked out at 180 yards from the rampart.

Fort Ontario, considered the strongest of the three forts at Oswego, stood on a high plateau on the right side of the river, where it entered the lake. It was in the shape of a star, and formed of a palisade of trunks of trees set upright in the ground, hewn flat on both sides, and closely fitted together--an excellent defence against musketry, but worthless against artillery. The garrison of the fort, 370 in number, had eight small cannon and a mortar, with which, all next day, they kept up a brisk fire against the battery which the French were throwing up, and arming with twenty-six pieces of heavy artillery.

Colonel Mercer, the commandant of Oswego, saw at once that the French artillery would, as soon as they opened fire, blow the stockade into pieces, and thinking it better to lose the fort, alone, than the fort and its garrison, he sent boats across the river after nightfall, and the garrison, having spiked their guns, and thrown their ammunition into the well, crossed the river, unperceived by the French.

But Oswego was in no position for defence. Fort Pepperell stood on the mouth of the river, facing Fort Ontario. Towards the west and south the place was protected by an outer line of earthworks, mounted with cannon, but the side facing the river was wholly exposed, in the belief that Fort Ontario would prevent any attack in this direction.

Montcalm lost no time. The next evening, his whole force set to work throwing up a battery, at the edge of the rising ground on which Fort Ontario stood, and, by daybreak, twenty heavy guns were in position, and at once opened fire. The grape and round shot swept the English position, smashing down the mud-built walls, crashing through the stockades, and carrying destruction among the troops. The latter made a shelter of pork barrels, three high and three deep, and planted cannon behind them, and returned the enemy's fire; but the Canadians and Indians had crossed the river, by a ford two miles up, and soon opened fire from all sides.

Colonel Mercer, who had bravely led his men, and inspired them by his example, was cut in two by a cannon shot, and the garrison were seized with despair. A council of officers was held, and the garrison surrendered as prisoners of war, to the number of sixteen hundred, which included sick, the sailors belonging to the shipping, labourers, and upwards of a hundred women.

Montcalm had the greatest difficulty in preventing the Indians, by means of threats, promises, and presents, from massacring the prisoners. Oswego was burned to the ground, the forts and vessels on the stocks destroyed, and, the place having been made a desert, the army returned with their prisoners and spoil to Montreal.

The loss of Oswego had inflicted a very severe blow to the influence and prestige of England, among the Indians of the lake districts, but this was partly restored by the failure of the French expedition against William Henry, early in the following spring.

The expedition against Louisbourg, to strengthen which the western frontier had been denuded of troops, proved a failure. A great delay had taken place at home, in consequence of ministerial changes, and it was not until the 5th of May that fifteen ships of the line and three frigates, under Admiral Holbourne, with 5000 troops on board, sailed from England for Halifax, where Loudon was to meet him with the forces from the colony. But, while the English fleet had been delaying, the French government had obtained information of its destination, and had sent three French squadrons across the Atlantic to Louisbourg.

It was the 10th of July before the united English force assembled at Halifax, and there fresh delays arose. The troops, nearly twelve thousand in number, were landed, and weeks were spent in idle drill.

At the beginning of August the forces were again embarked, when a sloop came in from Newfoundland, bringing letters which had been captured on board a French ship. From these, it appeared that there were twenty-two ships of the line, besides several frigates, in the harbour of Louisbourg, and that 7000 troops were in garrison, in what was by far the strongest fortress on the continent.

Success was now impossible, and the enterprise was abandoned. Loudon, with his troops, sailed back to New York; and Admiral Holbourne, who had been joined by four additional ships, sailed for Louisbourg, in hopes that the French fleet would come out and fight him. He cruised for some time off the port, but Lamotte, the French admiral, would not come out.

In September, a tremendous gale burst upon the British fleet: one ship was dashed on the rocks, a short distance from Louisbourg, and only a sudden shift of the wind saved the rest from a total destruction. Nine were dismasted, and others threw their cannon into the sea. Had Lamotte sailed out on the following day, the English fleet was at his mercy. Fortunately he did not do so, and Holbourne returned to England.

The French in Canada were aware that Loudon had gathered all his troops at New York, and was preparing for an expedition, which was to be aided by a fleet from England; but, thinking it probable that it was directed against Quebec, the most vital point in Canada, since its occupation by the English would entirely cut the colony off from France, Montcalm was obliged to keep his forces in hand near that town, and was unable to take advantage of the unprotected state in which Loudon had left the frontier of the colonies.

As soon, however, as, by despatch received from France, and by the statements of prisoners captured by the Indians on the frontier, Montcalm learned that the expedition, which had just left New York, was destined for Louisbourg, he was at liberty to utilize his army for the invasion of the defenceless colonies, and he determined to commence the campaign by the capture of Fort William Henry.

James Walsham, with his company of Royal Scouts, had spent the spring at Fort William Henry. Loudon had, at first, sent an order for the corps to be broken up, and the men to rejoin their respective regiments, and to accompany them on the expedition; but the earnest representations of Colonel Monro of the 35th Regiment, who was now in command, of the total inadequacy of the garrison to defend itself, should a serious attack be made from Ticonderoga; and of the great value to him of the corps under Captain Walsham, which was now thoroughly trained in forest fighting, induced him to countermand the order.

James was glad that he was not obliged to rejoin his regiment. The independent command was a pleasant one, and although life at Fort William Henry had, since the French repulse, been an uneventful one, there was plenty of fishing in the lake, and shooting in the woods, to vary the monotony of drill.

He and Edwards were now both expert canoemen, and often ventured far down the lake, taking with them one or other of the scouts, and keeping a sharp lookout among the woods on either side for signs of the enemy. Once or twice they were chased by Indian canoes, but always succeeded in distancing them.

"The news has just come in that the expedition has sailed," James said as he one day, towards the end of July, entered the hut which he now occupied with Edwards; for the corps had long since been put under huts, these being better suited for the hot season than tents.

"It is rather a nuisance," Edwards grumbled, "being kept here, instead of going and taking share in a big siege."

"Don't be impatient, Edwards," James replied. "If I am not greatly mistaken, you will have quite as much fighting as you want here before long. Montcalm's sudden attack on Oswego last autumn showed that he is an enterprising general, and I have no doubt that, as soon as he learns that Loudon's expedition is not intended for Quebec, he will be beating us up on the frontier with a vengeance."

Montcalm, indeed, had already prepared to strike a blow. A thousand Indians, lured by the prospect of gifts, scalps, and plunder, had come in from the west and north, and were encamped near Montreal; and, besides these, there were the Mission Indians, and those of the Five Nations who adhered to France.

Early in July, the movement began. Day after day, fleets of boats and canoes rowed up Lake Champlain, and, towards the end of the month, the whole force was gathered at Ticonderoga. Here were now collected eight thousand men, of whom two thousand were Indians, representing forty-one tribes and sub-tribes: among them were Iroquois, Hurons, Nipissings, Abenakis, Algonkins, Micmacs, and Malecites. These were all nominal Christians, and counted eight hundred warriors. With them were the western Indians: Ojibwas, Mississagas, Pottawattamies, Menomonies, Sacs, Foxes, Winnebagoes, Miamis, and Iowas. These were still unconverted.

The French held these savage allies in abhorrence. Their drunkenness, their turbulence, their contempt of all orders, their cruelty to their captives, and their cannibalism, disgusted and shocked Montcalm and his officers; but they were powerless to restrain them, for without them as scouts, guides, and eyes in the forests, the French could have done nothing, and, at the slightest remonstrance, the Indians were ready to take offence, and to march away to their distant homes.

The letters of Montcalm and his officers, to their friends, were full of disgust at the doings of their savage allies, and of regret that they could not dispense with their services, or restrain their ferocity. Vaudreuil and the Canadians, on the other hand, accustomed to the traditions of savage warfare, made no attempt whatever to check the ferocity of the Indians, and were, indeed, the instigators of the raids which the savages made upon the unprotected villages and settlements on the frontier; offered rewards for scalps, and wrote and talked gleefully of the horrible atrocities committed upon the colonists.

Chapter 14: Scouting On Lake Champlain.

One morning, Colonel Monro sent for James.

"Captain Walsham," he said, "there are rumours that the French are gathering at Crown Point in considerable force. Captain Rogers is still disabled by his wound, and his band have suffered so heavily, in their last affair with the enemy, that for the time they are out of action. It is important that I should learn the truth of these rumours, for, if they be true, I must communicate at once to the general, in order that he may get together a sufficient force to relieve us, if Montcalm comes down and lays siege to the fort. Will you undertake the business?"

"I will do my best, sir," James replied. "Do you propose that I should take all my company, or only a picked party?"

"That I will leave to you, Captain Walsham. I want trustworthy news, and how you obtain it for me matters little."

"Then I will take only a small party," James said. "Fifty men would be useless, for purposes of fighting, if the enemy are numerous, while with such a number it would be hopeless to attempt to escape detection by the Indians. The fewer the better for such an enterprise."

On leaving the commandant, James at once summoned the two hunters to his hut, and told them the mission he had received.

"I am ready, captain, that is if you, and I, and Jonathan makes up the party. As to going trapezing about round Crown Point with fifty soldiers, the thing ain't to be thought of. We should be there no more than half an hour before the Indians would know of it, and we should have no show either for fighting or running away. No, captain, the lads are good enough for scouting about round camp here; but, as for an expedition of that sort, we might as well start with a drove of swine."

"That is just what I thought, Nat. One canoe may escape even the eyes of the Indians, but a dozen would have no chance of doing so."

"We might get up the lakes," the scout said; "but the mischief would be in the woods. No, it never would do, captain. If we goes, it must be the three of us and no more. When do you think of starting?"

"The sooner the better, Nat."

"Very well, captain, I will go and get some grub ready, and, as soon as it gets dusk, we will get the canoe into the water."

"I suppose you can't take me with you?" Lieutenant Edwards said, when James told him of the duty he had been requested to perform. "It is dismal here."

"Not exactly," James laughed. "What would become of the company, if it were to lose its two officers and its two scouts at a blow! No, Edwards, you will command during my absence, and I think you will soon have more lively times here, for, if it be true that Montcalm will himself command the troops coming against us, it will be a different business altogether from the last. And now, leave me alone for an hour. I have some letters to write before I start. They will be for you to send off, in case we don't come back again.

"Don't look serious, I have no intention of falling into the hands of Montcalm's savages. Still, there is no doubt the expedition is a risky one, and it is just as well to be prepared."

Just as the sun was setting, Nat came into the officer's hut.

"Everything is ready, captain," he said. "I hope you have made a good dinner, for it's the last hot meal you will eat, till you get back. I have cooked enough meat for the next four days, and that's about as long as it will keep good; after that, dried deer's flesh will have to do for us.

"I expect, I tell you, we shall have to be pretty spry this time. If they are coming down in force, they are sure to send a lot of their Indians through the woods on each side of the lake, and the water will be swarming with their canoes. Jonathan and I have been talking it over, and trying to settle which would be the safest, to foot it all the way, or to go by water. We concluded, as there ain't much difference, and the canoe will be the quickest and easiest, so we had best keep to that plan."

"I would certainly rather go that way, Nat, if you think that the danger is no greater."

"No, I don't think there's much difference, captain. At any rate, we may as well go that way. Like enough, we shall have to tramp back by the woods."

Half an hour later, the canoe put out. Although they had little fear that any of the Indian canoes would be so far up Lake George, there was scarce a word spoken in the boat for some hours after starting. Jonathan was always silent, and Nat, although talkative enough when in camp, was a man of few words when once embarked upon a serious expedition. As for James, he had little inclination for conversation.

The enterprise was, he knew, one of extreme danger. Had it been only a French force he was about to reconnoitre, or even one composed of French and Canadians together, he would have thought little of it; but he knew that the redskins would be roaming thickly in the forest, ahead of the army, and, much as he relied upon the skill and experience of the two scouts, he knew it would be difficult, indeed, to elude their watchful eyes. He thought of the letters he had been writing, and wondered whether he should return to tear them up, or whether they would be read at home.

All the time he was thinking, he worked his paddle vigorously, and at a high rate of speed. The light canoe bounded noiselessly over the water, impelled by three vigorous pairs of arms.

When they approached the narrows connecting Lake George with Lake Champlain, the boat's head was directed towards the shore, for they could not get past Ticonderoga before daylight broke; and it was likely that a good watch would be kept, in the narrows, by the enemy; and it would be dangerous to try to effect a landing there. The canoe was carried ashore, and hidden in some bushes, and all lay down to sleep.

When day broke, Nat rose and went down to the water to see that, in landing, they had left no mark upon the shore, which might betray them to the eye of a passing redskin. Going down on his hands and knees, he obliterated every sign of their footprints, raised the herbage upon which they had trodden, cut short to the ground such stalks as they had bruised or broken in their passage, and then, when confident that all was safe, he returned to his camp. When it again became dark, the canoe was carried down and replaced in the water, and they continued their passage. James had, at Nat's request, laid by his paddle.

"You paddle wonderfully well, captain. I don't say you don't; but for a delicate piece of work like this, one can't be too careful. It ain't often I can hear your paddle dip in the water, not once in a hundred times, but then, you see, that once might cost us our scalps. We have got to go along as silent as a duck swimming. Speed ain't no object, for we shall be miles down Lake Champlain before daylight; but, if the French know their business, they will have half a dozen canoes in these narrows, to prevent us scouting on Lake Champlain; and, you see, they have got all the advantage of us, 'cause they've got just to lie quiet and listen, and we have got to row on. As far as seeing goes, I can make them out as soon as they can make us out; but they can hear us, while they won't give our ears a chance.

"I tell you, captain, I don't expect to get through this narrows without a chase for it. If it come to running, of course you will take your paddle again, and we three can show our heels to any canoe on the lakes, perviding of course as it's only a starn chase. If there are three or four of them, then I don't say as it won't be a close thing."

James accordingly lay quietly back in the boat, while his companions took the paddles. It was not necessary for him either to look out, or to listen, for he knew that his companions' eyes and ears were quicker than his own. It had been agreed, before starting, that they should go along close to the trees, on the left-hand side of the passage, because the keenest lookout would be kept on the right-hand side, as that would naturally be chosen by any boat going up, as being farthest from the French fort.

"There is no fear, whatever, of our being seen from the land," Nat had said. "The redskins would know that so well that they wouldn't trouble to look out. It's only canoes we have got to be afraid of, and, as to them, it's just a chance. They might see us out in the light waters, in the middle; but, under the trees, they can't make us out thirty yards off. They will be lying there, quiet, if they are there at all, and we shall either get past them safe, or we shall pretty nigh run into them. It's just chance, and there's nothing to do for it but to paddle as noiselessly as fish, and trust to our luck."

Having crossed the lake to the left shore, they entered the narrows. The paddles were dipped so quietly into the water, that even James could scarcely hear their sound. Every few strokes the scouts stopped paddling altogether, and sat listening intently. They were keeping close to the trees, so close that, at times, it seemed to James that, by stretching out his hands, he could touch the bushes.

After an hour's paddling they stopped longer than usual.

"What is it?" James whispered in Jonathan's ear, for Nat had taken the bow paddle.

"There are men ahead," the scout whispered back. "We heard them speak just now."

Presently the boat began to move again, but so quietly, that it was only by looking at the dark masses of the boughs, that stretched out overhead, that James knew the boat was in motion. Jonathan now crouched in the bottom of the boat, and placed his hand on Nat's shoulder as a sign for him to do the same. The time seemed endless to James, as he lay there. It was too dark, under the trees, for him even to see the outline of Nat's figure. The boat was, he was sure, moving; for occasionally, as he lay on his back, it grew lighter overhead, as they passed under openings in the trees.

Suddenly his heart gave a bound, and he nearly started, for a guttural voice spoke, seemingly within a few feet of the canoe. He placed his hand on his rifle, in readiness to sit up and fire, but all was still again. It was a passing remark, made by one redskin to another; in a canoe, for the sound was to his right. Another long period passed, and then Jonathan sat up and took to his paddle again, and James judged that the danger was over.

Raising his head, he could see nothing except the vague light of the sheet of water on his right. The boat was still keeping close under the trees, on the left shore of the lake, and he lay back again, and dozed off to sleep. He was awoke by Jonathan touching his foot.

"You can take your paddle now, captain."

He sat up at once, and looked round. They were far out now, on a broad sheet of water. There were some faint lights, as of fires burning low, high up to the left behind them; and he knew that they had already passed Ticonderoga, and were making their way along Lake Champlain. They paddled for some hours, and then landed on the right-hand side of the lake.

"We are not likely to be disturbed here," Nat said, as they lifted the canoe from the water. "The Indians, coming down from Crown Point, would keep on the other side of the lake. They will all make for Ticonderoga, and will not think of keeping a lookout for anyone, as far down the lakes as this."

"That was a close shave with that canoe, Nat. It startled me, when I heard the voice close to us. They must have been within ten yards of us."

"About that," Nat said. "It was lucky they spoke when we were coming along. I expect they had been watching for some nights, and hadn't much idea anyone would come, or else they wouldn't have spoken. As it was, it was easy enough to pass them, on such a dark night. Of course, they were looking outside, and I just kept along as close as I could to the bushes, only just giving a light stroke, now and then, to take her along. Being inside them, I got a sight of 'em some distance away, but I knew they couldn't see us, sharp as their eyes are. The only chance was their hearing, and, as there was no noise for them to hear, I felt safe enough after I had once caught sight of 'em, and saw they were lying out at the edge of the shadow.

"If they had been close under the bushes, as they ought to have been, we should have been in for a fight; for we mightn't have seen each other till the boats touched. Let that be a lesson to you, captain. When you are on the lookout for a canoe, at night, lie in among the bushes. It must pass between you and the light, then, and as they can't see you, you can either grapple or shoot, just as you like.

"If they had a seen us, we should have had a hot time, for I could hear by their calls, right along the other side, that they were looking out for us in earnest, and, if a rifle had been fired, we should have had half a dozen canoes down upon us in no time; and, like enough, should have had to leave the boat, and take to the woods."

"How far is Crown Point away?"

"Not more than ten miles," Nat said. "It is thirty miles from Ticonderoga. It lies out on a point, just where Champlain widens out. I reckon our safest way, tonight, will be to scout along this side, till we are well past the point; then to paddle out well across the lake, and come up again, and land to the left of Crown Point. We shall then be in the track of boats coming up from the lower end of the lake, and can paddle boldly on. No one would be keeping any lookout that way. Our danger won't begin until we get ashore; in course, then we must act according to sarcumstances."

This manoeuvre was carried out. They started as soon as it became dark, and, after paddling along the eastern shore for nearly three hours, struck out into the wide lake till they approached the opposite shore, and then, heading south again, paddled boldly down towards the spot where, at the end of a sweep of land, which seemed to close in the lake, stood the French fort of Crown Point.

Before starting, the two scouts had stripped to the waist, had laid aside their caps, and, fastening a strip of leather round their heads, had stuck some feathers into it. They then painted their faces and bodies.

"You needn't be particular about the flourishes, Jonathan. It's only the redskin outline as one wants to get. If we run against any other canoes coming up the lake, or they get sight of us as we near the shore; so as we look something like redskins, that's near enough. Of course, we can both speak Mohawk well enough to pass muster, and the captain will lay himself down in the bottom.

"Captain, you will do well enough for a Canadian when we have once landed. There ain't much difference between a hunter one side of the frontier and the other, but it's as well that you shouldn't be seen till we land. The less questions asked, the better. Our Mohawk's good enough with any of the other tribes, but it wouldn't pass with a Mohawk, if we got into a long talk with him."

Fortunately, however, these precautions proved unnecessary. No other canoes were seen on the lake, and they landed, unnoticed, at a spot a mile and a half to the west of Crown Point. Before starting from Fort William Henry, James had laid aside his uniform, and had dressed himself in hunting shirt and leggings, similar to those worn by the scouts. He had adopted various little details, in which the Canadian hunters differed from those on the English side of the frontier. The latter wore their hunting shirts loose in Indian fashion, while the Canadians generally wore a leathern belt outside theirs, at the waist.

His cap was made of squirrels' skins, which would pass equally well on both sides of the frontier. The fire bag, in which tobacco, tinder, and other small matters were carried, was of Indian workmanship, as was the cord of his powder horn and bullet pouch. Altogether, his get-up was somewhat brighter and more picturesque than that of English scouts, who, as a rule, despised anything approaching to ornament.

He knew that by disguising himself he would be liable, if captured, to be shot at once as a spy; but this could not be considered, under the circumstances, to add to the risk he ran, for, in any case, he was certain to be killed if detected, and it would have been out of the question to attempt to approach the French camp in the uniform of a British officer. Could he have spoken Canadian French, the mission would have been comparatively easy, but he knew only a few words of the language, and would be detected the instant he opened his lips.

The canoe was hauled up and carefully concealed on land, and then they lay down until daylight; for no information, as to the strength of the enemy, could be gained in the dark. In the morning, the two scouts very carefully made their toilet. They had brought all necessaries with them; and soon, in their Indian hunting shirts and fringed leggings, and with carefully-painted faces, they were in a position to defy the keenest scrutiny.

When, after a careful survey of each other, they felt that their disguise was complete, they moved boldly forward, accompanied by James. After half an hour's walking they emerged from the forest, and the strong fort of Crown Point lay before them.

It was constructed of stone, and was capable of withstanding a long siege, by any force which could be brought against it. Round it was the camp of the French troops, and James judged, from the number of tents, that there must be some 1500 French soldiers there. A short distance away were a large number of roughly-constructed huts, roofed with boughs of trees.

"Them's the Canadians," Jonathan said. "The redskins never build shelters while on the war path. There are a heap of redskins about."

These, indeed, even at the distance of several hundred yards, could be easily distinguished from their white allies, by their plumed headdresses, and by the blankets or long robes of skins which hung from their shoulders.

"I should put them down at three thousand."

"It is a big army," Nat said. "I should think there must be quite as many Canadians as French. How many redskins there are, there ain't no knowing, but we may be sure that they will have got together as many as they could. Put 'em down at 4000, and that makes 7000 altogether, enough to eat up Fort William Henry, and to march to Albany--or to New York, if they are well led and take fancy to it--that is, if the colonists don't bestir themselves smartly.

"Well, so far you have found out what you came to seek, captain. What's the next thing?"

"We must discover, if we can, whether they mean to go up the lakes in boats, or to march through the woods," James replied. "They will have a tremendous job getting any guns through the woods, but, if they are going by water, of course they can bring them."

"Very well," Nat replied. "In that case, captain, my advice is, you stop in the woods, and Jonathan and I will go down past the fort to the shore, and see what provision they are making in that way. You see, the place swarms with Canadians, and you would be sure to be spoken to. Redskins don't talk much to each other, unless there is some need for words, and we can go right through the French camp without fear. The only danger is of some loping Mohawk coming up to us, and I don't reckon there are many of 'em in the camp, perhaps nary a one."

Although James did not like his followers to go into danger, without his sharing it, he saw that his presence would enormously add to their risks, and therefore agreed to their plan. Withdrawing some distance into the wood, and choosing a thick growth of underwood, he entered, and lay down in the bushes, while the two scouts walked quietly away towards the camp.

Two hours passed. Several times he heard footsteps in the wood near him, and, peering through the leaves, caught sight of parties of Indians going towards the camp, either late arrivals from Montreal, or bands that had been out scouting or hunting. At the end of the two hours, to his great relief, he saw two figures coming from the other way through the woods, and at once recognized the scouts. He crawled out and joined them, as they came up.

"Thank God you are back again! I have been in a fever, all the time you have been away."

"I wish I had known the precise place where you were hiding. I should have made a sign to you to keep quiet; but it ain't of no use, now."

"What's the matter then, Nat?"

"I ain't quite sure as anything is the matter," the scout replied; "but I am feared of it. As bad luck would have it, just as we were coming back through the camp, we came upon a Mohawk chief. He looked hard at us, and then came up and said:

"'The Owl thought that he knew all his brothers; but here are two whose faces are strange to him.'

"Of course, I told him that we had been living and hunting, for years, in the English colony, but that, hearing that the Mohawks had joined the French, we had come to fight beside our brothers. He asked a few questions, and then passed on. But I could see the varmin was not satisfied, though, in course, he pretended to be glad to welcome us back to the tribe. So we hung about the camp for another half hour, and then made a sweep before we came out here. I didn't look round, but Jonathan stooped, as if the lace of his moccasin had come undone, and managed to look back, but, in course, he didn't see anything."

"Then you have no reason to believe you are followed, Nat?"

"Don't I tell you I have every reason?" Nat said. "If that redskin, the Owl, has got any suspicion--and suspicion you may be sure he's got--he won't rest till he's cleared the matter up. He is after us, sure enough."

"Then had we not better make for the canoe at full speed?"

"No," Nat said. "If they are behind us, they will be watching our trail; and if they see we change our pace, they will be after us like a pack of wolves; while, as long as we walk slowly and carelessly, they will let us go. If it were dark, we might make a run for it, but there ain't no chance at present. If we took to the lake, we should have a hundred canoes after us, while the woods are full of Indians, and a whoop of the Owl would bring a hundred of them down onto our track."

"Why shouldn't the Owl have denounced you at once, if he suspected you?" James asked.

"Because it ain't redskin nature to do anything, till you are sure," the scout replied. "There is nothing a redskin hates so much as to be wrong, and he would rather wait, for weeks, to make sure of a thing, than run the risk of making a mistake. I don't suppose he takes us for whites. He expects we belong to some other tribe, come in as spies."

"Then what are you thinking of doing?" James asked.

"We will go on a bit further," Nat said, "in hopes of coming across some stream, where we may hide our trail. If we can't find that, we will sit down, before long, and eat as if we was careless and in no hurry."

For a time, they walked on in silence.

"Do you think they are close to us?" James asked, presently.

"Not far away," the scout said carelessly. "So long as they see we ain't hurrying, they will go easy. They will know, by this time, that we have a white man with us, and, like enough, the Owl will have sent back for one or two more of his warriors. Likely enough, he only took one with him, at first, seeing we were but two, and that he reckoned on taking us by surprise; but, when he saw you joined us, he would send back for perhaps a couple more."

"Then what I would suggest," James said, "is, that we should at once stroll down to our canoe, put it in the water, and paddle out a few hundred yards, and there let down the lines we have got on board, and begin to fish. As long as we are quiet there, the redskins may not interfere with us, and, when it gets dark, we can make off. At the worst, we have a chance for it, and it seems to me anything would be better than this sort of wandering about, when we know that, at any time, we may have them down upon us."

"Perhaps that is the best plan," Nat said. "What do you think, Jonathan?"

Jonathan gave an assenting grunt, and they turned their faces towards the lake, still walking at the same leisurely pace. Not once did any of the three look back. As they neared the water, James found the temptation very strong to do so, but he restrained it, and sauntered along as carelessly as ever.

The canoe was lifted from its hiding place and put in the water. As they were about to step in, the bushes parted, and the Owl stood beside them.

"Where are my brothers going?" he asked quietly.

"We are going fishing," Nat answered. "The noise in the woods will have frightened game away."

"There is food in the camp," the Owl said. "The French give food to their brothers, the redskins."

"My white brother wants fish," Nat said quietly, "and we have told him we will catch him some. Will the Owl go with us?"

The Indian shook his head, and in a moment the canoe put off from the shore, the Indian standing, watching them, at the edge of the water.

"That's a badly puzzled redskin," Nat said, with a low laugh. "His braves have not come up yet, or he would not have let us start.

"There, that is far enough. We are out of the range of Indian guns. Now, lay in your paddles, and begin to fish. There are several canoes fishing further out, and the redskin will feel safe. He can cut us off, providing we don't go beyond them."

The Indian was, as Nat had said, puzzled. That something was wrong he was sure; but, as he was alone, he was unable to oppose their departure. He watched them closely, as they paddled out, in readiness to give a war whoop, which would have brought down the fishing canoes outside, and given warning to every Indian within sound of his voice; but, when he saw them stop and begin to fish, he hesitated. If he gave the alarm, he might prove to be mistaken, and he shrank from facing the ridicule which a false alarm would bring upon him. Should they really prove, as he believed, to be spies, he would, if he gave the alarm, lose the honour and glory of their capture, and their scalps would fall to other hands--a risk not to be thought of.

He therefore waited, until six of his braves came up. He had already retired among the trees, before he joined them; but the canoe was still visible through the branches.

"The men we tracked have taken to the water. They are fishing. The Owl is sure that they are not of our tribe; but he must wait, till he sees what they will do. Let three of my brothers go and get a canoe, and paddle out beyond them, and there fish. I will remain with the others here. If they come back again, we will seize them. If they go out further, my brothers will call to the redskins in the other canoes, and will cut them off. The Owl and his friends will soon be with them."

"There is another canoe coming out, Nat," James said. "Hadn't we better make a run for it, at once?"

"Not a bit of it, captain. Dear me, how difficult it is to teach men to have patience! I have looked upon you as a promising pupil; but there you are, just as hasty and impatient as if you had never spent a day in the woods. Where should we run to? We must go up the lake, for we could not pass the point, for fifty canoes would be put out before we got there. We couldn't land this side, because the woods are full of redskins; and if we led them for ten miles down the lake, and landed t'other side, scores of them would land between here and there, and would cut us off.

"No, lad; we have got to wait here till it's getting late. I don't say till it's dark, but till within an hour or so of nightfall. As long as we show no signs of going, the chances is as they won't interfere with us. It's a part of redskin natur to be patient, and, as long as they see as we don't try to make off, they will leave us alone. That's how I reads it.

"You agrees with me, Jonathan?

"In course, you do," he went on, as his companion grunted an assent. "I don't say as they mayn't ask a question or so; but I don't believe as they will interfere with us.

"There is a fish on your line, captain. You don't seem, to me, to be attending to your business."

James, indeed, found it difficult to fix his attention on his line, when he knew that they were watched by hostile eyes, and that, at any moment, a conflict might begin. The canoe that had come out last had shaped its course so as to pass close to those fishing outside them, and a few words had been exchanged with the occupants of each--a warning, no doubt, as to the suspicious character of the fishing party near them. Beyond this, nothing had happened. The Indians in the canoe had let down their lines, and seemed as intent as the others upon their fishing.

The hours passed slowly. Under other circumstances, James would have enjoyed the sport, for the fish bit freely, and a considerable number were soon lying in the canoe. Nat and Jonathan appeared as interested in their work as if no other boat, but their own, were afloat on the lake. Never once did James see them glance towards the canoes. They did not talk much, but when they spoke, it was always in the Indian tongue.

The time seemed endless, before the sun began to sink beyond the low hills on their left. It was an intense relief, to James, when Nat said at last:

"The time is just at hand now, cap. The redskins are tired of waiting. At least, they think that they had better not put it off any longer. They know, as well as we do, that it won't do to wait till it gets dark.

"Do you see that canoe, that came out last, is paddling down towards us? It looks as if it were drifting, but I have seen them dip a paddle in, several times. The others are pulling up their lines, so as to be in readiness to join in. Get your piece ready to pick up, and aim the moment I give the word. They think they are going to surprise us, but we must be first with them. Go on with your fishing, and just drop your line overboard, when you pick up your gun."

The canoe approached slowly, until it was within thirty yards. James and his companions went on with their fishing, as if they did not notice the approach of the other canoe, until one of the Indians spoke.

"Have my Indian brothers caught many fish?"

"A goodish few," Nat replied. "One or two of them are large ones.

"See here," and he stooped as if to select a large fish.

"Now," he said suddenly.

In an instant, the three rifles were levelled to the shoulder, and pointed at the Indians. The latter, taken completely by surprise, and finding themselves with three barrels levelled at them, as by one accord dived overboard.

"Now your paddles," Nat exclaimed.

Three strokes sent the canoe dancing up to that which the Indians had just left. It struck it on the broadside, and rolled it instantly over.

"Those redskin guns are out of the way, anyhow," Nat said. "Now we have got to row for it."

He gave a sharp turn to the canoe as he spoke, and it bounded away towards the right, thereby throwing those outside it on their quarter. Simultaneously with the upset of the canoe, half a dozen rifles rang out from the shore, an Indian war whoop rose at the edge of the woods, and, a minute later, half a dozen canoes shot out from shore.

Chapter 15: Through Many Perils.

The course Nat was taking was not parallel to that of the boats outside him. He was sheering gradually out into the lake, and, although the boat was travelling somewhat faster than its pursuers, James saw that its course would carry it across their bows at a dangerously close distance. The Indians were not long in seeing that the canoe was outstripping them, and in each of the boats one of the redskins laid aside his paddle, and began to fire. The balls struck the water near the canoe, but no one was hit.

"Let them fire," Jonathan said. "It ain't every man as can shoot straight from a canoe going at racing pace. The more they fires the better. They will only fall further behind."

After firing two or three shots each, the Indians appeared to be of the same opinion, and resumed their paddles; but they had lost so much ground that the canoe they were in chase of shot out into the lake fifty yards ahead of the nearest. Some more shots were fired, and then the Indians began hastily to throw the fish, with which their canoes were laden, into the water. After paddling two or three hundred yards farther, Nat laid in his paddle.

"Out with them fish," he said. "You can leave one or two for supper, but the rest must go overboard. Be quick about it, for those canoes from the shore are coming up fast."

The work was concluded just as the canoes with the Owl and his warriors came up with the others, which, having now got rid of their fish, again set out, and, in a close body, the ten canoes started in pursuit.

"Paddle steady," Nat said; "and whatever you do, be keerful of your blades. If one was to break now it would mean the loss of our scalps. Don't gain on 'em; as long as the redskins on shore think as their friends are going to catch us, they won't care to put out and join in the chase; but if they thought we was getting away, they might launch canoes ahead of us and cut us off. The nearer we are to them the better, as long as we are keeping ahead."

For an hour the chase continued. The Indians, although straining every nerve, did not gain a foot upon the fugitives, who, although paddling hard, had still some reserve of strength. The sun, by this time, was touching the tops of the hills.

"Now, cap," Nat said, "it's time to teach 'em as we can bite a bit. They won't be quite so hot over it, if we give them a lesson now. Do you turn round and pepper them a bit.

"Now, old hoss! You and I must row all we know for a bit."

Turning himself in the canoe, resting his elbow on his knee to steady his rifle, James took as careful an aim as the dancing motion of the boat permitted, and fired. A dull sound came back, like an echo, to the crack of the piece, and a paddle in the leading boat fell into the water. A yell arose from the Indians, but no answering shout came back.

The Indians were now paddling even harder than before, in hope of overtaking the canoe, now that it was impelled by but two rowers. But the scouts were rowing their hardest, and proved the justice of their fame, as the best paddlers on the lakes, by maintaining their distance from their pursuers.

Again and again James fired, several of his bullets taking effect. It was now rapidly becoming dusk.

"That will do, captain. We had best be showing them our heels now, and get as far ahead as we can, by the time it is quite dark."

James laid by his rifle and again took his paddle, and, as all were rowing at the top of their speed, they gradually increased the distance between themselves and their pursuers. Rapidly the gap of water widened, and when darkness fell on the lake, the fugitives were more than half a mile ahead of their pursuers. The night was dark, and a light mist rising from the water further aided them. When night had set in, the pursuing canoes could no longer be seen.

For another half hour they paddled on, without intermitting their efforts, then, to James's surprise, Nat turned the head of the canoe to the western shore. He asked no question, however, having perfect faith in Nat's sagacity. They were nearly in the middle of the lake when they altered their course, and it took them half an hour's hard paddling, before the dark mass of trees loomed up in the darkness ahead of him. Ten minutes before, Nat had passed the word that they should paddle quietly and noiselessly. It was certain that the chase would be eagerly watched from the shore, and that any Indians there might be in the wood would be closely watching near the water's edge.

Accordingly, as noiselessly as possible they approached the shore, and, gliding in between the overhanging trees, laid the canoe alongside a clump of bushes. Then, without a word being spoken, they laid in their paddles and stretched themselves full length in the canoe.

James was glad of the rest, for, trained and hard as were his muscles, he was exhausted by the long strain of the row for life. He guessed that Nat would calculate that the Indian canoes would scatter, when they lost sight of them, and that they would seek for them more closely on the eastern shore. At the same time he was surprised that, after once getting out of sight of their pursuers, Nat had not immediately landed on the opposite shore, and started on foot through the woods.

After recovering his breath, James sat up and listened attentively. Once or twice he thought he heard the sound of a dip of a paddle, out on the lake, but he could not be sure of it; while from time to time he heard the croak of a frog, sometimes near, sometimes at a distance along the shore. He would have thought little of this, had not a slight pressure of Jonathan's hand, against his foot, told him that these were Indian signals.

Some hours passed before Nat made a move, then he touched Jonathan, and sat up in the canoe. The signal was passed on to James, the paddles were noiselessly taken up, and, without a sound that could be detected by the most closely-listening ear, the canoe stole out again on to the lake. Until some distance from shore they paddled very quietly, then gradually the strokes grew more vigorous, until the canoe was flying along at full speed up the lake, her course being laid so as to cross very gradually towards the eastern side.

It was not until, as James judged, they must have been several miles from the point at which they had started, that they approached the eastern shore. They did so with the same precautions which had been adopted on the other side, and sat, listening intently, before they gave the last few strokes which took them to the shore. Quietly they stepped out, and the two scouts, lifting the canoe on their shoulders, carried it some fifty yards into the forest, and laid it down among some bushes. Then they proceeded on their way, Nat walking first, James following him so close that he was able to touch him, for, in the thick darkness under the trees, he could not perceive even the outlines of his figure. Jonathan followed close behind. Their progress was slow, for even the trained woodsmen could, with difficulty, make their way through the trees, and Nat's only index, as to the direction to be taken, lay in the feel of the bark of the trunks.

After an hour's progress, he whispered:

"We will stop here till daylight. We can't do any good at the work. We haven't made half a mile since we started."

It was a positive relief, to James, to hear the scout's voice, for not a single word had been spoken since they lost sight of their pursuers in the darkness. The fact that he had ventured now to speak showed that he believed that they were comparatively safe.

"May I speak, Nat?" he asked, after they had seated themselves on the ground.

"Ay, you may speak, captain, but don't you raise your voice above a whisper. There is no saying what redskin ears may be near us. I guess these forests are pretty well alive with them. You may bet there isn't a redskin, or one of the irregular Canadian bands, but is out arter us tonight. The war whoop and the rifles will have put them all on the lookout.

"They will have seen that we were pretty well holding our own, and will guess that, when night came on, we should give the canoes the slip. I guess they will have placed a lot of canoes and flatboats across the lake, opposite Crown Point, for they will know that we should either head back, or take to the woods. I guess most of the redskins near Crown Point will have crossed over at this point, as, in course, we were more likely to land on this side. I had a mighty good mind to land whar we was over there, but there are sure to be such a heap of Indians, making their way up that side from Montreal, that I judge this will be the best; but we shall have all we can do to get free of them."

"Why didn't you land at once, Nat, after we lost sight of them, instead of crossing over?"

"Because that's where they will reckon we shall land, captain. That's where they will look for our tracks the first thing in the morning, and they will know that we can't travel far such a dark night as this, and they will search every inch of the shore for three or four miles below where they lost sight of us, to find where we landed. They would know well enough we couldn't get ashore, without leaving tracks as they would make out, and they would reckon to pick up our trail fast enough, in the wood, and to overtake us before we had gone many miles.

"Now, you see, we have doubled on them. The varmint in the woods will search the edge of the lake in the morning, but it's a good long stretch to go over, and, if we have luck, they mayn't strike on our landing place for some hours after daylight. In course, they may hit on it earlier; still, it gives us a chance, anyhow. Another thing is, we have twenty miles less to travel through the woods than if we had to start up there, and that makes all the difference when you've got redskins at your heels. If we don't have the bad luck to come across some of the varmint in the woods, I expect we shall carry our scalps back to Fort William Henry.

"Now you had best sleep till daybreak. We sha'n't get another chance till we get into the fort again."

With the first dawn of morning, they were on their way. Striking straight back into the woods, they walked fast, but with the greatest care and caution, occasionally making bends and detours, to prevent the redskins following their traces at a run, which they would have been able to do, had they walked in a straight line. Whenever the ground was soft, they walked without trying to conceal their tracks, for Nat knew that, however carefully they progressed, the Indians would be able to make out their trail here. When, however, they came to rocky and broken ground, they walked with the greatest caution, avoiding bruising any of the plants growing between the rocks. After walking ten miles in this direction, they turned to the south.

"We ought to be pretty safe, now," Nat said. "They may be three or four hours before they hit on our landing place, and find the canoe. I don't say as they won't be able to follow our trail--there ain't no saying what redskin eyes can do--but it 'ull take them a long time, anyway. There ain't much risk of running against any of them in the forest, now. I guess that most of them followed the canoe down the lake last night.

"Anyway, we are well out from Lake Champlain now. When we have gone another fifteen mile, we sha'n't be far from the upper arm. There's a canoe been lying hidden there for the last two years, unless some tramping redskin has found it, which ain't likely."

Twenty miles further walking brought them to the shore of the lake. Following this for another hour, they came upon the spot, where a little stream ran into the lake.

"Here we are," Nat said. "Fifty yards up here we shall find the canoe."

They followed the stream up for a little distance, and then Nat, leaving its edge, made for a clump of bushes a few yards away. Pushing the thick foliage aside, he made his way into the centre of the clump.

"Here it is," he said, "just as I left it."

The canoe was lifted out and carried down to the lake, and, taking their seats, they paddled up Lake Champlain, keeping close under the shore.

"We have had good luck, captain," Nat said. "I hardly thought we should har got out without a scrimmage. I expect as the best part of the redskins didn't trouble themselves very much about it. They expect to get such a lot of scalps and plunder, when they take the fort, that the chance of three extra wasn't enough inducement for 'em to take much trouble over it. The redskins in the canoes, who chased us, would be hot enough over it, for you picked out two if not more of them; but those who started from the fort wouldn't have any particular reason to trouble much, especially as they think it likely that those who were chasing us would get the scalps. When a redskin's blood's up there ain't no trouble too great for him, and he will follow for weeks to get his revenge; but, take 'em all in all, they are lazy varmint, and as long as there is plenty of deer's meat on hand, they will eat and sleep away their time for weeks."

By night, they reached the upper end of Lake Champlain, the canoe was carefully hidden away again, and they struck through the woods in the direction of Fort William Henry. They were now safe from pursuit, and, after walking two or three miles, halted for the night, made a fire, and cooked some of the dried meat. When they had finished their meal, Nat said:

"Now we will move away a bit, and then stretch ourselves out."

"Why shouldn't we lie down here, Nat?"

"Because it would be a foolish thing to do, captain. There ain't no saying what redskins may be wandering in the woods in time of war. A thousand nights might pass without one of 'em happening to come upon that fire, but if they did, and we were lying beside it, all the trouble we have taken to slip through their hands would be chucked clean away. No, you cannot be too careful in the woods."

They started early the next morning, and, before noon, arrived at Fort William Henry, where James at once reported, to Colonel Monro, what he had learned of the strength of the French force gathering at Crown Point.

"Thank you, Captain Walsham," the commandant said. "I am greatly indebted to you, for having brought us certain news of what is coming. I will write off at once, and ask for reinforcements. This is a serious expedition, and the colonies will have to make a great effort, and a speedy one, if they are going to save the fort, for, from what we hear of Montcalm, he is not likely to let the grass grow under his feet. I shall report the services you have rendered."

As soon as Colonel Monro received the report James had brought him, he sent to General Webb, who, with two thousand six hundred men, chiefly provincials, was at Fort Edward, fourteen miles away. On the 25th of July that general visited Fort William Henry, and, after remaining there four days, returned to Fort Edward, whence he wrote to the governor of New York, telling him the French were coming, and urging him to send forward the militia at once, saying that he was determined to march himself, with all his troops, to the fort. Instead of doing so, three days later he sent up a detachment of two hundred regulars under Lieutenant Colonel Young, and eight hundred Massachusetts men under Colonel Frye. This raised the force at Fort William Henry to two thousand two hundred men, and reduced that of Webb to sixteen hundred.

Had Webb been a brave and determined man, he would have left a few hundred men, only, to hold Fort Edward, and marched with the rest to assist Monro, when, on the morning of the 3d of August, he received a letter from him, saying that the French were in sight on the lake. But, as he was neither brave nor determined, he remained at Fort Edward, sending off message after message to New York, for help which could not possibly arrive in time.

Already, the garrison of Fort William Henry had suffered one reverse. Three hundred provincials, chiefly New Jersey men, under Colonel Parker, had been sent out to reconnoitre the French outposts. The scouts, under James Walsham, were of the party. They were to proceed in boats down the lake.

"I don't like this business, no way, captain," Nat said, as the company took their place in the boats. "This ain't neither one thing or the other. If Monro wants to find out about the enemy, Jonathan and I kin do it. If he wants to fight the enemy, this lot ain't enough; besides, these New Jersey men know no more about the forest than so many children. You mark my words, this is going to be a bad business. Why, they can see all these boats halfway down the lake, and, with all these redskins about, they will ambush us as soon as we try to land.

"Look here, captain; you know that I ain't no coward. I don't think no one can say that of me. I am ready to fight when there is a chance of fighting, but I don't see no good in getting myself killed off, when there ain't no good in it. So what I says is this: don't you be in a hurry, captain, with these boats of ours."

"But I must obey orders, Nat," James said, smiling.

"Yes, you must obey orders, captain, no doubt. But there's two ways of obeying orders. The one is to rush in front, and to do a little more than you are told. The other is to take things quiet, and just do what you are told, and no more. Now, my advice is, on this here expedition you go on the last plan. If you are ordered to land first, why land first it must be. If you don't get orders to land first, just let them as is in a hurry land afore you. I ain't been teaching all these lads to know something about the woods, for the last six months, jest to see them killed off like flies, because a blundering wrong-headed colonel sends them out with two hundred and fifty ploughmen, for the redskins to see and attack jest when they fancies."

"Very well, Nat, I will take your advice, and, for once, we won't put ourselves in the front, unless we are ordered."

Satisfied with this, Nat passed quietly round among the men, as they were taking their places in the boats, and told them that there was no occasion for them to row as if they were racing.

"I shall be in the captain's boat," he said. "You keep close to us, and don't you try to push on ahead. When we are once fairly in the woods, then we will do the scouting for the rest, but there ain't no hurry for us to begin that, till we are on shore."

"Look at us," Nat grumbled in James's ear, as the boats started down the lake. "There we are, rowing along the middle, instead of sneaking along close to the shore. Does Parker think that the redskins are as blind as he is, and that, 'cause it's night, a lot of big boats like these can't be seen out in the middle of the lake? I tell you, captain, if we ain't ambushed as soon as we land, I will grant I know nothing of redskin ways."

James had, in fact, before starting, suggested to Colonel Parker that it would be well to keep under the shelter of the bushes; but the officer had replied stiffly:

"When I want your advice, Captain Walsham, I will ask for it."

After which rebuff, James was more willing than he had hitherto been to act in accordance with the advice of the scout. Accordingly, as they rowed down the lake, the boats with the Royal Scouts, although keeping up with the others, maintained their position in the rear of the column.

Towards daybreak, the boats' heads were turned to shore, and, when they neared it, Colonel Parker gave the order for the men to lay in their oars, while the three boats, which happened to be in advance, were told to advance at once and land. The boats passed through the thick curtain of trees, which hung down over the water's edge. A minute passed, and then three others were ordered to follow them.

"Did you hear nothing?" Nat whispered to James.

"No, I didn't hear anything, Nat. Did you?"

"Well, I think I did hear something, captain. It seems to me as I heard a sort of scuffle."

"But they never could surprise some thirty or forty men, without the alarm being given?"

"It depended what sort of men they were," Nat said scornfully. "They wouldn't surprise men that knew their business; but those chaps would just jump out of their boats, as if they was landed on a quay at New York, and would scatter about among the bushes. Why, Lord bless you, the Indians might ambush and tomahawk the lot, before they had time to think of opening their lips to give a shout."

The second three boats had now disappeared among the trees, and Colonel Parker gave the word for the rest to advance in a body.

"Look to your firelocks, lads," James said. "Whatever happens, keep perfectly cool. You at the oars, especially, sit still and be ready to obey orders."

The boats were within fifty yards of the trees when, from beneath the drooping boughs, a volley of musketry was poured out, and, a moment later, a swarm of canoes darted out from beneath the branches, and the terrible Indian war whoop rang in the air.

Appalled by the suddenness of the attack, by the deadly fire, and the terrible yells, the greater portion of the men in the boats were seized with the wildest panic. Many of them jumped into the water. Others threw themselves down in the bottom of the boats. Some tried to row, but were impeded by their comrades.

"Steady, men, steady!" James shouted, at the top of his voice. "Get the boats' heads round, and keep together. We can beat off these canoes, easy enough, if you do but keep your heads."

His orders were obeyed promptly and coolly by the men of his company. The boats were turned with their heads to the lake, as the canoes came dashing up, and the men who were not employed in rowing fired so steadily and truly that the redskins in several of the leading canoes fell, upsetting their boats.

"Don't hurry," James shouted. "There is no occasion for haste. They can go faster than we can. All we have got to do is to beat them off. Lay in all the oars, except the two bow oars, in each boat. All the rest of the men stand to their arms, and let the boats follow each other in file, the bow of one close to the stern of that ahead."

The check, which the volley had given to the canoes, gave time to the men in several of the boats, close to those of the scouts, to turn. They were rowing past James's slowly-moving boats, when he shouted to them:

"Steady, men, your only chance of escape is to show a front to them, as we are doing. They can overtake you easily, and will row you down one after the other. Fall in ahead of our line, and do as we are doing. You need not be afraid. We could beat them off, if they were ten times as many."

Reassured by the calmness with which James issued his orders, the boats took up the positions assigned to them. James, who was in the last boat in the line, shuddered at the din going on behind him. The yells of the Indians, the screams and cries of the provincials, mingled with the sharp crack of rifles or the duller sound of the musket. The work of destruction was soon over. Save his own company and some fifty of the provincials in the boats ahead, the whole of Colonel Parker's force had been killed, or were prisoners in the hands of the Indians, who, having finished their work, set off in pursuit of the boats which had escaped them.

James at once changed the order. The front boat was halted, and the others formed in a line beside it, presenting the broad side to the approaching fleet of canoes. When the latter came within a hundred yards, a stream of fire opened from the boats, the men aiming with the greatest coolness.

The canoes were checked at once. A score of the paddlers had sunk, killed or wounded, into the bottom, and several of the frail barks were upset. As fast as the men could load, they continued their fire, and, in two minutes from the first shot, the canoes were turned, and paddled at full speed towards the shore, pursued by a hearty cheer from the English. The oars were then manned again, and the remains of Parker's flotilla rowed up the lake to Fort William Henry.

Several of the prisoners taken by the Indians were cooked and eaten by them. A few days afterwards a party of Indians, following the route from the head of Lake Champlain, made a sudden attack on the houses round Fort Edward, and killed thirty-two men.

It was an imposing spectacle, as the French expedition made its way down Lake George. General Levis had marched by the side of the lake with twenty-five hundred men, Canadians, regulars, and redskins; while the main body proceeded, the troops in two hundred and fifty large boats, the redskins in many hundreds of their canoes.

The boats moved in military order. There were six regiments of French line: La Reine and Languedoc, La Sarre and Guienne, Bearn and Roussillon. The cannons were carried on platforms formed across two boats. Slowly and regularly the procession of boats made its way down the lake, till they saw the signal fires of Levis, who, with his command, was encamped near the water at a distance of two miles from the fort. Even then, the English were not aware that near eight thousand enemies were gathered close to them. Monro was a brave soldier, but wholly unfitted for the position he held, knowing nothing of irregular warfare, and despising all but trained soldiers.

At daybreak, all was bustle at Fort Henry. Parties of men went out to drive in the cattle, others to destroy buildings which would interfere with the fire from the fort. The English position was now more defensible than it had been when it was attacked in the spring. The forest had been cleared for a considerable distance round, and the buildings which had served as a screen to the enemy had, for the most part, been removed. The fort itself lay close down by the edge of the water. One side and the rear were protected by the marsh, so that it could only be attacked from one side. Beyond the marsh lay the rough ground where Johnson had encamped two years before; while, on a flat hill behind this was an entrenched camp, beyond which, again, was another marsh.

As soon as the sun rose, the column of Levis moved through the forest towards the fort, followed by Montcalm with the main body, while the artillery boats put out from behind the point which had hid them from the sight of the English, and, surrounded by hundreds of Indian canoes, moved slowly forward, opening fire as they went. Soon the sound of firing broke out near the edge of the forest, all round the fort, as the Indians, with Levis, opened fire upon the soldiers who were endeavouring to drive in the cattle.

Hitherto James Walsham, with Edwards and his two scouts, was standing quietly, watching the approaching fleet of boats and canoes; Nat expressing, in no measured terms, his utter disgust at the confusion which reigned in and around the fort.

"It looks more like a frontier settlement suddenly surprised," he said, "than a place filled with soldiers who have been, for weeks, expecting an attack. Nothing done, nothing ready. The cattle all over the place. The tents on that open ground there still standing. Stores all about in the open. Of all the pig-headed, obstinate, ignorant old gentlemen I ever see, the colonel beats them all. One might as well have an old woman in command. Indeed, I know scores of old women, on the frontier, who would have been a deal better here than him."

But if Monro was obstinate and prejudiced, he was brave, cool, and determined, and, now that the danger had come, he felt secure of his ground, and took the proper measures for defence, moving calmly about, and abating the disposition to panic by the calm manner in which he gave his orders. Nat had scarcely finished his grumbling, when the colonel approached.

"Captain Walsham," he said, "you will take your company at once, and cover the parties driving in the cattle. You will fall back with them, and, when you see all in safety, retire into the intrenched camp."

The company were already under arms, waiting for orders and, at the double, James led them up the sloping ground towards the forest, whence the war whoops of the Indians, and the sharp cracks of the rifles, were now ringing out on all sides. James made for the spot where a score of soldiers were driving a number of cattle before them, some hurrying the beasts on across the rough ground, others firing at the Indians, who, as their numbers increased, were boldly showing themselves behind the trees, and advancing in pursuit.

As soon as they neared the spot, James scattered his men in skirmishing order. Each placed himself behind one of the blackened stumps of the roughly-cleared forest, and opened fire upon the Indians. Several of these fell, and the rest bounded back to the forest, whence they opened a heavy fire.

Now the company showed the advantage of the training they had gone through, fighting with the greatest steadiness and coolness, and keeping well in shelter, until, when the soldiers and cattle had got well on their way towards the fort, James gave the order to fall back, and the band, crawling among the stumps, and pausing to fire at every opportunity, made their way back without having lost a man, although several had received slight wounds.

Chapter 16: The Massacre At Fort William Henry.

When the skirmishing round Fort Henry was over, La Corne, with a body of Indians, occupied the road that led to Fort Edward; and Levis encamped close by, to support him, and check any sortie the English might make from their intrenched camp. Montcalm reconnoitred the position. He had, at first, intended to attack and carry the intrenched camp, but he found that it was too strong to be taken by a rush. He therefore determined to attack the fort, itself, by regular approaches from the western side, while the force of Levis would intercept any succour which might come from Fort Edward, and cut off the retreat of the garrison in that direction. He gave orders that the cannon were to be disembarked at a small cove, about half a mile from the fort, and near this he placed his main camp. He now sent one of his aides-de-camp with a letter to Monro.

"I owe it to humanity," he said, "to summon you to surrender. At present I can restrain the savages, and make them observe the terms of a capitulation, but I might not have the power to do so under other circumstances, and an obstinate defence on your part could only retard the capture of the place a few days, and endanger the unfortunate garrison, which cannot be relieved, in consequence of the dispositions I have made. I demand a decisive answer within an hour."

Monro replied simply that he and his soldiers would defend themselves till the last.

The trenches were opened on the night of the 4th. The work was extremely difficult, the ground being covered with hard stumps of trees and fallen trunks. All night long 800 men toiled at the work, while the guns of the fort kept up a constant fire of round shot and grape; but by daybreak the first parallel was made. The battery on the left was nearly finished, and one on the right begun. The men were now working under shelter, and the guns of the fort could do them little harm.

While the French soldiers worked, the Indians crept up through the fallen trees, close to the fort, and fired at any of the garrison who might, for a moment, expose themselves. Sharpshooters in the fort replied to their fire, and all day the fort was fringed with light puffs of smoke, whilst the cannon thundered unceasingly. The next morning, the French battery on the left opened with eight heavy cannon and a mortar, and on the following morning the battery on the right joined in with eleven other pieces.

The fort only mounted, in all, seventeen cannon, for the most part small, and, as some of them were upon the other faces, the English fire, although kept up with spirit, could reply but weakly to that of the French. The fort was composed of embankments of gravel, surmounted by a rampart of heavy logs, laid in tiers, crossing each other, the interstices filled with earth; and this could ill support the heavy cannonade to which it was exposed. The roar of the distant artillery continuing day after day was plainly audible at Fort Edward; but although Monro had, at the commencement of the attack, sent off several messengers asking for reinforcements, Webb did not move.

On the third day of the siege he had received 2000 men from New York, and, by stripping all the forts below, he could have advanced with 4500 men, but some deserters from the French told him that Montcalm had 12,000 men, and Webb considered the task of advancing, through the intervening forests and defiles between him and Fort Henry, far too dangerous an operation to be attempted. Undoubtedly it would have been a dangerous one, for the Indians pervaded the woods as far as Fort Edward. No messenger could have got through to inform Monro of his coming, and Montcalm could therefore have attacked him, on the march, with the greater part of his force. Still, a brave and determined general would have made the attempt. Webb did not do so, but left Monro to his fate.

He even added to its certainty by sending off a letter to him, telling him that he could do nothing to assist him, and advising him to surrender at once. The messenger was killed by the Indians in the forest, and the note taken to Montcalm, who, learning that Webb did not intend to advance, was able to devote his whole attention to the fort. Montcalm kept the letter for several days, till the English rampart was half battered down, and then sent it in by an officer to Monro, hoping that it would induce the latter to surrender. The old soldier, however, remained firm in his determination to hold out, even though his position was now absolutely hopeless. The trenches had been pushed forward until within 250 yards of the fort, and the Indians crept up almost to the wall on this side.

Two sorties were made--one from the fort, the other from the intrenched camp; but both were repulsed with loss. More than 300 of the defenders had been killed and wounded. Smallpox was raging, and the casemates were crowded with sick. All their large cannon had been burst or disabled, and only seven small pieces were fit for service. The French battery in the foremost trench was almost completed, and, when this was done, the whole of Montcalm's thirty-one cannon and fifteen mortars would open fire, and, as a breach had already been effected in the wall, further resistance would have been madness.

On the night of the 8th, it was known in the fort that a council of war would be held in the morning, and that, undoubtedly, the fort would surrender.

James, with his company, had, after escorting the cattle to the fort, crossed the marsh to the intrenched camp, as the fort was already crowded with troops. The company therefore avoided the horrors of the siege. When the report circulated that a surrender would probably be made the next morning, Nat went to James.

"What are you going to do, captain?"

"Do, Nat? Why, I have nothing to do. If Monro and his council decide to surrender, there is an end of it. You don't propose that our company is to fight Montcalm's army alone, do you?"

"No, I don't," Nat said, testily; "there has been a deal too much fighting already. I understand holding out till the last, when there's a hope of somebody coming to relieve you; but what's the use of fighting, and getting a lot of your men killed, and raising the blood of those redskin devils to boiling point? If the colonel had given up the place at once, we should have saved a loss of 300 men, and Montcalm would have been glad enough to let us march off to Fort Edward."

"But probably he will agree to let us do that now," James said.

"He may agree," Nat said, contemptuously; "but how about the redskins? Do you think that, after losing a lot of their braves, they are going to see us march quietly away, and go home without a scalp? I tell you, captain, I know redskin nature, and, as sure as the sun rises tomorrow, there will be a massacre; and I, for one, ain't going to lay down my rifle, and let the first redskin, as takes a fancy to my scalp, tomahawk me."

"Well, but what do you propose, Nat?"

"Well, captain, I have heard you say yours is an independent command, and that you can act with the company wherever you like. While you are here, I know you are under the orders of the colonel; but if you had chosen to march away on any expedition of your own, you could have done it."

"That is so, Nat; but now the siege is once begun, I don't know that I should be justified in marching away, even if I could."

"But they are going to surrender, I tell you," Nat insisted. "I don't see as how it can be your duty to hand over your company to the French, if you can get them clear away, so as to fight for the king again."

"What do you say, Edwards?" James asked his lieutenant.

"I don't see why we shouldn't march away, if we could," Edwards said. "Now that the game is quite lost here, I don't think anyone could blame you for saving the company, if possible, and I agree with Nat that Montcalm will find it difficult, if not impossible, to keep his Indians in hand. The French have never troubled much on that score."

"Well, Nat, what is your plan?" James asked, after a pause.

"The plan is simple enough," Nat said. "There ain't no plan at all. All we have got to do is to march quietly down to the lake, to take some of the canoes that are hauled up at the mouth of the swamp, and to paddle quietly off, keeping under the trees on the right-hand side. There ain't many redskins in the woods that way, and the night is as dark as pitch. We can land eight or ten miles down the lake, and then march away to the right, so as to get clean round the redskins altogether."

"Very well, Nat, I will do it," James said. "It's a chance, but I think it's a better chance than staying here, and if I should get into a row about it, I can't help it. I am doing it for the best."

The corps were quietly mustered, and marched out through the gate of the intrenchments, on the side of the lake. No questions were asked, for the corps had several times gone out on its own account, and driven back the Indians and French pickets. The men had, from their first arrival at the fort, laid aside their heavy boots, and taken to moccasins as being better fitted for silent movement in the forest. Therefore not a sound was heard as, under Nat's guidance, they made their way down the slope into the swamp.

Here they were halted, for the moment, and told to move with the greatest care and silence, and to avoid snapping a bough or twig. This, however, was the less important, as the cannon on both sides were still firing, and a constant rattle of musketry was going on round the fort.

Presently, they reached the point where the canoes were hauled up, and were told off, three to a canoe.

"Follow my canoe in single file," James said. "Not a word is to be spoken, and remember that a single splash of a paddle will bring the redskins down upon us. Likely enough there may be canoes out upon the lake--there are sure to be Indians in the wood."

"I don't think there's much fear, captain," Nat whispered. "There's no tiring a redskin when he's out on the scout on his own account, but when he's acting with the whites he's just as lazy as a hog, and, as they must be sure the fort can't hold out many hours longer, they will be too busy feasting, and counting the scalps they mean to take, to think much about scouting tonight."

"We shall go very slowly. Let every man stop paddling the instant the canoe ahead of him stops," were James's last instructions, as he stepped into the stern of a canoe, while Nat and Jonathan took the paddles. Edwards was to take his place in the last canoe in the line.

Without the slightest sound, the canoes paddled out into the lake, and then made for the east shore. They were soon close to the trees, and, slowly and noiselessly, they kept their way just outside the screen afforded by the boughs drooping down, almost into the water. Only now and then the slightest splash was to be heard along the line, and this might well have been taken for the spring of a tiny fish feeding.

Several times, when he thought he heard a slight sound in the forest on his right, Nat ceased paddling, and lay for some minutes motionless, the canoes behind doing the same. So dark was it, that they could scarce see the trees close beside them, while the bright flashes from the guns from fort and batteries only seemed to make the darkness more intense. It was upwards of an hour before James felt, from the greater speed with which the canoe was travelling, that Nat believed that he had got beyond the spot where any Indians were likely to be watching in the forest.

Faster and faster the boat glided along, but the scouts were still far from rowing their hardest. For, although the whole of the men were accustomed to the use of the paddle, the other boats would be unable to keep up with that driven by the practised arms of the leaders of the file. After paddling for another hour and a half, the scout stopped.

"We are far enough away now," Nat said. "There ain't no chance in the world of any redskins being in the woods, so far out as this. The hope of scalps will have taken them all down close to the fort. We can land safely, now."

The word was passed down the line of canoes, the boats glided through the screen of foliage, and the men landed.

"Better pull the canoes ashore, captain. If we left them in the water, one might break adrift and float out beyond the trees. Some redskin or other would make it out, and we should have a troop of them on our trail, before an hour had passed."

"There's no marching through the forest now, Nat," James said. "I can't see my own hand close to my face."

"That's so, captain, and we'd best halt till daylight. I could make my way along, easy enough, but some of these fellows would be pitching over stumps, or catching their feet in a creeper, and, like enough, letting off their pieces as they went down. We may just as well stay where we are. They ain't likely to miss us, even in the camp, and sartin the redskins can't have known we have gone. So there's no chance whatever of pursuit, and there ain't nothing to be gained by making haste."

James gave the order. The men felt about, till each found a space of ground, sufficiently large to lie down upon, and soon all were asleep except the two scouts, who said, at once, that they would watch by turns till daylight.

As soon as it was sufficiently light to see in the forest, the band were again in motion. They made due east, until they crossed the trail leading from the head of Lake Champlain to Fort Edward; kept on for another hour, and then, turning to the south, made in the direction of Albany, for it would have been dangerous to approach Fort Edward, round which the Indians were sure to be scattered thickly.

For the first two hours after starting, the distant roar of the guns had gone on unceasingly, then it suddenly stopped.

"They have hoisted the white flag," Edwards said. "It is all over. Thank God, we are well out of it! I don't mind fighting, Walsham, but to be massacred by those Indians is a hideous idea."

"I am glad we are out of it too," James agreed; "but I cannot think that Montcalm, with so large a force of French regulars at his command, will allow those fiendish Indians to massacre the prisoners."

"I hope not," Edwards said. "It will be a disgrace indeed to him and his officers if he does; but you know what the Indians are, better than I do, and you have heard Nat's opinion. You see, if Montcalm were to use force against the Indians, the whole of them would go off, and then there would be an end to any hope of the French beating the colonists in the long run. Montcalm daren't break with them. It's a horrible position for an officer and a gentleman to be placed in. Montcalm did manage to prevent the redskins from massacring the garrison of Oswego, but it was as much as he could do, and it will be ten times as difficult, now that their blood is up with this week of hard fighting, and the loss of many of their warriors. Anyhow, I am glad I am out of it, even if the bigwigs consider we had no right to leave the fort, and break us for it. I would rather lose my commission than run the risk of being massacred in cold blood."

James agreed with him.

For two days, they continued their march through the forest, using every precaution against surprise. They saw, however, nothing of the enemy, and emerged from the forest, on the evening of the second day's march, at a distance of a few miles from Albany.

They had not reached that town many hours, when they learned that Nat's sombre predictions had been fulfilled. The council of war in the fort agreed that further resistance was impossible, and Lieutenant Colonel Young went out, with a white flag, to arrange the terms of surrender with Montcalm. It was agreed that the English troops should march out, with the honours of war, and be escorted to Fort Edward by a detachment of French troops; that they should not serve for eighteen months; and that all French prisoners captured in America, since the war began, should be given up within three months. The stores, ammunition, and artillery were to be handed over to the French, except one field piece, which the garrison were to be allowed to retain, in recognition of their brave defence.

Before signing the capitulation, Montcalm summoned the Indian chiefs before him, and asked them to consent to the conditions, and to restrain their young braves from any disorder. They gave their approval, and promised to maintain order.

The garrison then evacuated the fort, and marched to join their comrades in the intrenched camp. No sooner had they moved out, than a crowd of Indians rushed into the fort through the breach and embrasures, and butchered all the wounded who had been left behind to be cared for by the French. Having committed this atrocity the Indians, and many of the Canadians, rushed up to the intrenched camp, where the English were now collected. The French guards, who had been stationed there, did nothing to keep them out; and they wandered about, threatening and insulting the terrified women, telling the men that everyone should be massacred, and plundering the baggage.

Montcalm did his best, by entreaty, to restrain the Indians, but he took no steps whatever to give effectual protection to the prisoners, and that he did not do so will remain an ineffaceable blot upon his fame. Seeing the disposition of the redskins, he should have ordered up all the regular French troops, and marched the English garrison under their protection to Fort Edward, in accordance with the terms of surrender; and he should have allowed the English troops to again fill their pouches with cartridge, by which means they would have been able to fight in their own defence.

The next morning, the English marched at daybreak. Seventeen wounded men were left behind in the huts, having been, in accordance with the agreement, handed over to the charge of a French surgeon; but as he was not there in the morning, the regimental surgeon, Miles Whitworth, remained with them attending to their wants. The French surgeon had caused special sentinels to be placed for their protection, but these were now removed, when they were needed most.

At five in the morning the Indians entered the huts, dragged out the inmates, tomahawked and scalped them before the eyes of Whitworth, and in the presence of La Corne and other Canadian officers, as well as of a French guard stationed within forty feet of the spot--none of whom, as Whitworth declared on oath, did anything to protect the wounded men.

The Indians, in the meantime, had begun to plunder the baggage of the column. Monro complained, to the officers of the French escort, that the terms of the capitulation were broken; but the only answer was that he had better give up all the baggage to the Indians, to appease them. But it had no effect in restraining the passion of the Indians. They rushed upon the column, snatching caps, coats, and weapons from men and officers, tomahawking all who resisted, and, seizing upon shrieking women and children, carried them away or murdered them on the spot. A rush was made upon the New Hampshire men, at the rear of the column, and eighty of them were killed or carried away.

The Canadian officers did nothing at all to try to assuage the fury of the Indians, and the officers of the Canadian detachment, which formed the advance guard of the French escort, refused any protection to the men, telling them they had better take to the woods and shift for themselves. Montcalm, and the principal French officers, did everything short of the only effectual step, namely, the ordering up of the French regular troops to save the English. They ran about among the yelling Indians, imploring them to desist, but in vain.

Some seven or eight hundred of the English were seized and carried off by the savages, while some seventy or eighty were massacred on the spot. The column attempted no resistance. None had ammunition, and, of the colonial troops, very few were armed with bayonets. Had any resistance been offered, there can be no doubt all would have been massacred by the Indians.

Many of the fugitives ran back to the fort, and took refuge there, and Montcalm recovered from the Indians more than four hundred of those they had carried off. These were all sent under a strong guard to Fort Edward. The greater part of the survivors of the column dispersed into the woods, and made their way in scattered parties to Fort Edward. Here cannon had been fired at intervals, to serve as a guide to the fugitives, but many, no doubt, perished in the woods. On the morning after the massacre the Indians left in a body for Montreal, taking with them two hundred prisoners, to be tortured and murdered on their return to their villages.

Few events cast a deeper disgrace on the arms of France than this massacre, committed in defiance of their pledged honour for the safety of their prisoners, and in sight of four thousand French troops, not a man of whom was set in motion to prevent it. These facts are not taken only from English sources, but from the letters of French officers, and from the journal of the Jesuit Roubaud, who was in charge of the Christianized Indians, who, according to his own account, were no less ferocious and cruel than the unconverted tribes. The number of those who perished in the massacre is uncertain. Captain Jonathan Carver, a colonial officer, puts the killed and captured at 1500. A French writer, whose work was published at Montreal, says that they were all killed, except seven hundred who were captured; but this is, of course, a gross exaggeration. General Levis and Roubaud, who were certain to have made the best of the matter, acknowledged that they saw some fifty corpses scattered on the ground, but this does not include those murdered in the fort and camp.

Probably the total number killed was about two hundred, and besides these must be counted the two hundred prisoners carried off to be tortured by the Indians. The greater portion of these were purchased from the Indians, in exchange for rum, by Vaudreuil, the governor at Montreal; but to the eternal disgrace of this man, he suffered many of them to be carried off, and did not even interfere when, publicly, in the sight of the whole town, the Indians murdered some of the prisoners, and, not content with eating them themselves, forced their comrades to partake of the flesh. Bougainville, one of the aides-de-camp of Montcalm, was present, and testified to the fact, and the story is confirmed by the intendant Bigot, a friend of the governor.

The ferocity of the Indians cost them dear. They had dug up and scalped the corpses in the graveyard of Fort William Henry. Many of these had died of smallpox, and the savages took the infection home to their villages, where great numbers perished of the disease.

As soon as their Indian allies had left, the French soldiers were set to work demolishing the English fort, and the operation was completed by the destruction, by fire, of the remains. The army then returned to Crown Point.

In view of the gross breach of the articles of capitulation by the French, the English government refused also to be bound by it, and the French prisoners in their hands were accordingly retained.

Colonel Monro himself was one of those who survived. He had made his way through the savages back to the fort, to demand that the protection of the French troops should be given to the soldiers, and so escaped the massacre.

Upon his arrival at Albany, James reported, to the officer in command there, the reason which had induced him to quit the fort with his company. These reasons were approved of, but the officer advised James to send in a written report to General Webb, and to march at once to Fort Edward, and place himself under that officer's directions.

When he reached the fort, the fugitives were coming in from the woods. James at once reported himself to the general, and handed in his written statement. At the same time he gave his reasons, in a few words, for the course he had taken. Webb was far too much excited by the news of the terrible events which had taken place, and for which, as he could not but be aware, he would be to some extent held responsible, by public opinion, for having refused to move to Monro's assistance, to pay much attention to the young officer's statement.

"You were quite right, sir, quite right to carry off your command," he said hastily. "Thank God there are so many the fewer of his majesty's troops sacrificed! You will please take your company out at once into the woods. They are accustomed to the work, which is more than any of my troops here are. Divide them into four parties, and let them scour the forest, and bring in such of the fugitives as they can find. Let them take as much provisions and rum as they can carry, for many of the fugitives will be starving."

James executed his orders, and, during the next five days, sent in a considerable number of exhausted men, who, hopelessly lost in the woods, must have perished unless they had been discovered by his party.

Had Montcalm marched direct upon Fort Edward, he could doubtless have captured it, for the fall of Fort William Henry had so scared Webb, that he would probably have retreated the moment he heard the news of Montcalm's advance, although, within a day or two of the fall of the fort, many thousands of colonial militia had arrived. As soon, however, as it was known that Montcalm had retired, the militia, who were altogether unsupplied with the means of keeping the field, returned to their homes.

Loudon, on his way back from the unsuccessful expedition against Louisbourg, received the news of the calamity at Fort William Henry. He returned too late to do anything to retrieve that disaster, and determined, in the spring, to take the offensive by attacking Ticonderoga. This had been left, on the retirement of Montcalm, with a small garrison commanded by Captain Hepecourt, who, during the winter, was continually harassed by the corps of Captain Rogers, and James Walsham's scouts.

Toward the spring, receiving reinforcements, Hepecourt caught Rogers and a hundred and eighty men in an ambush, and killed almost all of them; Rogers himself, and some twenty or thirty men, alone escaping.

In the spring there was a fresh change of plans. The expedition against Ticonderoga was given up, as another attempt at Louisbourg was about to be made. The English government were determined that the disastrous delays, which had caused the failure of the last expedition, should not be repeated. Loudon was recalled, and to General Abercromby, the second in command, was intrusted the charge of the forces in the colonies. Colonel Amherst was raised to the rank of major general, and appointed to command the expedition from England against Louisbourg, having under him Brigadier Generals Whitmore, Lawrence, and Wolfe. Before the winter was ended two fleets put to sea: the one, under Admiral Boscawen, was destined for Louisbourg; while the other, under Admiral Osborne, sailed for the Straits of Gibraltar, to intercept the French fleet of Admiral La Clue, which was about to sail from Toulon for America.

At the same time Sir Edward Hawke, with seven ships of the line and three frigates, sailed for Rochefort, where a French squadron with a fleet of transports, with troops for America, were lying.

The two latter expeditions were perfectly successful. Osborne prevented La Clue from leaving the Mediterranean. Hawke drove the enemy's vessels ashore at Rochefort, and completely broke up the expedition. Thus Canada, at the critical period, when the English were preparing to strike a great blow at her, was cut off from all assistance from the mother country, and left to her own resources.

As before, Halifax was the spot where the troops from the colonies were to meet the fleet from England, and the troops who came out under their convoy, and here, on the 28th of May, the whole expedition was collected. The colonies had again been partially stripped of their defenders, and five hundred provincial rangers accompanied the regulars. James Walsham's corps was left for service on the frontier, while the regiments, to which they belonged, sailed with the force destined for the siege of Louisbourg.

This fortress stood, at the mouth of a land-locked bay, on the stormy coast of Cape Breton. Since the peace of Aix la Chapelle, vast sums had been spent in repairing and strengthening it, and it was, by far, the strongest fortress in English or French America. The circuit of its fortifications was more than a mile and a half, and the town contained about four thousand inhabitants. The garrison consisted of the battalions of Artois, Bourgogne, Cambis, and Volontaires Etrangers, with two companies of artillery, and twenty-four of colonial troops; in all, three thousand and eighty men, besides officers. In the harbour lay five ships of the line and seven frigates, carrying five hundred and forty-four guns, and about three thousand men, and there were two hundred and nineteen cannons and seventeen mortars mounted on the ramparts and outworks, and forty-four in reserve.

Of the outworks, the strongest were the grand battery at Lighthouse Point, at the mouth of the harbour; and that on Goat Island, a rocky islet at its entrance. The strongest front of the works was on the land side, across the base of the triangular peninsula on which the town stood. This front, twelve hundred yards in extent, reached from the sea, on the left, to the harbour on the right, and consisted of four strong bastions with connecting works.

The best defence of Louisbourg, however, was the craggy shore, which, for leagues on either side, was accessible only at a few points, and, even there, a landing could only be effected with the greatest difficulty. All these points were watched, for an English squadron, of nine ships of war, had been cruising off the place, endeavouring to prevent supplies from arriving; but they had been so often blown off, by gales, that the French ships had been able to enter, and, on the 2nd of June, when the English expedition came in sight, more than a year's supply of provisions was stored up in the town.

Chapter 17: Louisbourg And Ticonderoga.

All eyes in the fleet were directed towards the rocky shore of Gabarus Bay, a flat indentation some three miles across, its eastern extremity, White Point, being a mile to the west of Louisbourg. The sea was rough, and the white masses of surf were thrown high up upon the face of the rock, along the coast, as far as the eye could reach.

A more difficult coast on which to effect a landing could not have been selected. There were but three points where boats could, even in fine weather, get to shore--namely, White Point, Flat Point, and Fresh Water Cove. To cover these, the French had erected several batteries, and, as soon as the English fleet was in sight, they made vigorous preparations to repel a landing.

Boats were at once lowered, in order to make a reconnaissance of the shore. Generals Amherst, Lawrence, and Wolfe all took part in it, and a number of naval officers, in their boats, daringly approached the shore to almost within musket shot. When they returned, in the afternoon, they made their reports to the admiral, and these reports all agreed with his own opinion--namely, that there was but little chance of success. One naval captain alone, an old officer named Fergusson, advised the admiral to hold no council of war, but to take the responsibility on himself, and to make the attempt at all risks.

"Why, admiral," he said, "the very children at home would laugh at us, if, for a second time, we sailed here with an army, and then sailed away again without landing a man."

"So they would, Fergusson, so they would," the admiral said. "If I have to stop here till winter, I won't go till I have carried out my orders, and put the troops ashore."

In addition to the three possible landing places already named, was one to the east of the town named Lorambec, and it was determined to send a regiment to threaten a landing at this place, while the army, formed into three divisions, were to threaten the other points, and effect a landing at one or all of them, if it should be found possible.

On the next day, however, the 3rd of June, the surf was so high that nothing could be attempted. On the 4th there was a thick fog and a gale, and the frigate Trent struck on a rock, and some of the transports were nearly blown on shore. The sea was very heavy, and the vessels rolled tremendously at their anchors. Most of the troops suffered terribly from seasickness.

The next day, the weather continued thick and stormy. On the 6th there was fog, but towards noon the wind went down, whereupon the signal was made, the boats were lowered, and the troops took their places in them. Scarcely had they done so, when the wind rose again, and the sea got up so rapidly that the landing was postponed.

The next day the fog and heavy surf continued, but in the evening the sea grew calmer, and orders were issued for the troops to take to the boats, at two o'clock next morning. This was done, and the frigates got under sail, and steered for the four points at which the real or pretended attacks were to be made, and, anchoring within easy range, opened fire soon after daylight; while the boats, in three divisions, rowed towards the shore.

The division under Wolfe consisted of twelve companies of Grenadiers, with the Light infantry, Fraser's Highlanders, and the New England Rangers. Fresh Water Cove was a crescent-shaped beach a quarter of a mile long, with rocks at each end. On the shore above lay 1000 Frenchmen under Lieutenant Colonel de Saint Julien, with eight cannons, on swivels, planted to sweep every part of the beach. The intrenchments, behind which the troops were lying, were covered in front by spruce and fir trees, felled and laid on the ground with the tops outward.

Not a shot was fired until the English boats approached the beach, then, from behind the leafy screen, a deadly storm of grape and musketry was poured upon them. It was clear at once that to advance would be destruction, and Wolfe waved his hand as a signal to the boats to sheer off.

On the right of the line, and but little exposed to the fire, were three boats of the Light Infantry under Lieutenants Hopkins and Brown, and Ensign Grant, who, mistaking the signal, or wilfully misinterpreting it, dashed for the shore directly before them. It was a hundred yards or so east of the beach--a craggy coast, lashed by the breakers, but sheltered from the cannon by a small projecting point.

The three young officers leapt ashore, followed by their men. Major Scott, who commanded the Light Infantry and Rangers, was in the next boat, and at once followed the others, putting his boat's head straight to the shore. The boat was crushed to pieces against the rocks. Some of the men were drowned, but the rest scrambled up the rocks, and joined those who had first landed. They were instantly attacked by the French, and half of the little party were killed or wounded before the rest of the division could come to their assistance.

Some of the boats were upset, and others stove in, but most of the men scrambled ashore, and, as soon as he landed, Wolfe led them up the rocks, where they formed in compact order and carried, with the bayonet, the nearest French battery.

The other divisions, seeing that Wolfe had effected a landing, came rapidly up, and, as the French attention was now distracted by Wolfe's attack on the left, Amherst and Lawrence were able to land at the other end of the beach, and, with their divisions, attacked the French on the right.

These, assaulted on both sides, and fearing to be cut off from the town, abandoned their cannon and fled into the woods. Some seventy of them were taken prisoners, and fifty killed. The rest made their way through the woods and marshes to Louisbourg, and the French in the other batteries commanding the landing places, seeing that the English were now firmly established on the shore, also abandoned the positions, and retreated to the town.

General Amherst established the English camp just beyond the range of the cannon on the ramparts, and the fleet set to work to land guns and stores at Flat Point Cove. For some days this work went on; but so violent was the surf, that more than a hundred boats were stove in in accomplishing it, and none of the siege guns could be landed till the 18th. While the sailors were so engaged, the troops were busy making roads and throwing up redoubts to protect their position.

Wolfe, with 1200 men, made his way right round the harbour, and took possession of the battery at Lighthouse Point which the French had abandoned; planted guns and mortars there, and opened fire on the battery on the islet which guarded the entrance to the harbour; while other batteries were raised, at different points along the shore, and opened fire upon the French ships. These replied, and the artillery duel went on night and day, until, on the 25th, the battery on the islet was silenced. Leaving a portion of his force in the batteries he had erected, Wolfe returned to the main army in front of the town.

In the meantime, Amherst had not been idle. Day and night a thousand men had been employed, making a covered road across a swamp to a hillock less than half a mile from the ramparts. The labour was immense, and the troops worked knee deep in mud and water.

When Wolfe had silenced the battery on the islet, the way was open for the English fleet to enter and engage the ships and town from the harbour, but the French took advantage of a dark and foggy night, and sank six ships across the entrance.

On the 25th, the troops had made the road to the hillock, and began to fortify themselves there, under a heavy fire from the French; while on the left, towards the sea, about a third of a mile from the Princess's Bastion, Wolfe, with a strong detachment, began to throw up a redoubt.

On the night of the 9th of July, 600 French troops sallied out and attacked this work. The English, though fighting desperately, were for a time driven back; but, being reinforced, they drove the French back into the town.

Each day the English lines drew closer to the town. The French frigate Echo, under cover of a fog, had been sent to Quebec for aid, but she was chased and captured. The frigate Arethuse, on the night of the 14th of July, was towed through the obstructions at the mouth of the harbour, and, passing through the English ships in a fog, succeeded in getting away. Only five vessels of the French fleet now remained in the harbour, and these were but feebly manned, as 2000 of the officers and seamen had landed, and were encamped in the town.

On the afternoon of the 16th a party of English, led by Wolfe, suddenly dashed forward, and, driving back a company of French, seized some rising ground within three hundred yards of the ramparts, and began to intrench themselves there. All night, the French kept up a furious fire at the spot, but, by morning, the English had completed their intrenchment, and from this point pushed on, until they had reached the foot of the glacis.

On the 21st, the French man of war Celebre was set on fire by the explosion of a shell. The wind blew the flames into the rigging of two of her consorts, and these also caught fire, and the three ships burned to the water's edge. Several fires were occasioned in the town, and the English guns, of which a great number were now in position, kept up a storm of fire night and day.

On the night of the 23rd, six hundred English sailors silently rowed into the harbour, cut the cables of the two remaining French men of war, and tried to tow them out. One, however, was aground, for the tide was low. The sailors therefore set her on fire, and then towed her consort out of the harbour, amidst a storm of shot and shell from the French batteries.

The French position was now desperate. Only four cannon, on the side facing the English batteries, were fit for service. The masonry of the ramparts was shaken, and the breaches were almost complete. A fourth of the garrison were in hospital, and the rest were worn out by toil. Every house in the place was shattered by the English artillery, and there was no shelter either for the troops or the inhabitants.

On the 26th, the last French cannon was silenced, and a breach effected in the wall; and the French, unable longer to resist, hung out the white flag. They attempted to obtain favourable conditions, but Boscawen and Amherst insisted upon absolute surrender, and the French, wholly unable to resist further, accepted the terms.

Thus fell the great French stronghold on Cape Breton. The defence had been a most gallant one; and Drucour, the governor, although he could not save the fortress, had yet delayed the English so long before the walls, that it was too late in the season, now, to attempt an attack on Canada itself.

Wolfe, indeed, urged that an expedition should at once be sent against Quebec, but Boscawen was opposed to this, owing to the lateness of the season, and Amherst was too slow and deliberate, by nature, to determine suddenly on the enterprise. He, however, sailed with six regiments for Boston, to reinforce Abercromby at Lake George.

Wolfe carried out the orders of the general, to destroy the French settlements on the Gulf of Saint Lawrence--a task most repugnant to his humane nature. After this had been accomplished, he sailed for England.

When Amherst had sailed with his expedition to the attack of Louisbourg, he had not left the colonists in so unprotected a state as they had been in the preceding year. They, on their part, responded nobly to the call, from England, that a large force should be put in the field. The home government had promised to supply arms, ammunition, tents, and provisions, and to make a grant towards the pay and clothing of the soldiers.

Massachusetts, as usual, responded most freely and loyally to the demand. She had already incurred a very heavy debt by her efforts in the war, and had supplied 2500 men--a portion of whom had gone with Amherst--but she now raised 7000 more, whom she paid, maintained, and clothed out of her own resources, thus placing in the field one-fourth of her able-bodied men. Connecticut made equal sacrifices, although less exposed to danger of invasion; while New Hampshire sent out one-third of her able-bodied men.

In June the combined British and provincial force, under Abercromby, gathered on the site of Fort William Henry. The force consisted of 6367 officers and soldiers of the regular army, and 9054 colonial troops.

Abercromby himself was an infirm and incapable man, who owed his position to political influence. The real command was in the hands of Brigadier General Lord Howe--a most energetic and able officer, who had, during the past year, thoroughly studied forest warfare, and had made several expeditions with the scouting parties of Rogers and other frontier leaders. He was a strict disciplinarian, but threw aside all the trammels of the traditions of the service. He made both officers and men dress in accordance with the work they had before them. All had to cut their hair close, to wear leggings to protect them from the briars, and to carry in their knapsacks thirty pounds of meal, which each man had to cook for himself. The coats, of both the Regulars and Provincials, were cut short at the waist, and no officer or private was allowed to carry more than one blanket and a bear skin.

Howe himself lived as simply and roughly as his men. The soldiers were devoted to their young commander, and were ready to follow him to the death.

"That's something like a man for a general," Nat said enthusiastically, as he marched, with the Royal Scouts, past the spot where Lord Howe was sitting on the ground, eating his dinner with a pocket knife.

"I have never had much hope of doing anything, before, with the regulars in the forest, but I do think, this time, we have got a chance of licking the French. What do you say, captain?"

"It looks more hopeful, Nat, certainly. Under Loudon and Webb things did not look very bright, but this is a different sort of general altogether."

On the evening of the 4th of July baggage, stores, and ammunition were all on board the boats, and the whole army embarked at daybreak on the 5th. It was indeed a magnificent sight, as the flotilla started. It consisted of 900 troop boats, 135 whale boats, and a large number of heavy flatboats carrying the artillery. They were in three divisions, the regulars in the centre, the provincial troops on either flank.

Each corps had its flags and its music, the day was fair and bright, and, as the flotilla swept on past the verdure-clad hills, with the sun shining brilliantly down on the bright uniforms and gay flags, on the flash of oars and the glitter of weapons, a fairer sight was seldom witnessed.

At five in the afternoon, they reached Sabbath Day Point, twenty-five miles down the lake, where they halted some time for the baggage and artillery. At eleven o'clock they started again, and by daybreak were nearing the outlet of the lake.

An advanced party of the French were watching their movements, and a detachment was seen, near the shore, at the spot where the French had embarked on the previous year. The companies of Rogers and James Walsham landed, and drove them off, and by noon the whole army was on shore.

The troops started in four columns, but so dense was the forest, so obstructed with undergrowth, that they could scarcely make their way, and, after a time, even the guides became confused in the labyrinth of trunks and boughs, and the four columns insensibly drew near to each other.

Curiously, the French advanced party, 350 strong, who had tried to retreat, also became lost in the wood, and, not knowing where the English were, in their wanderings again approached them. As they did so Lord Howe, who, with Major Putnam, and 200 rangers and scouts, was at the head of the principal column, suddenly came upon them. A skirmish followed. Scarcely had it begun when Lord Howe dropped dead, shot through the breast. For a moment, something like a panic seized the army, who believed that they had fallen into an ambush, and that Montcalm's whole force was upon them. The rangers, however, fought steadily, until Rogers' Rangers and the Royal Scouts, who were out in front, came back and took the French in the rear. Only about 50 of these escaped, 148 were captured, and the rest killed or drowned in endeavouring to cross the rapids.

The loss of the English was small in numbers, but the death of Howe inflicted an irreparable blow upon the army. As Major Mante, who was present, wrote:

"In Lord Howe, the soul of General Abercromby's army seemed to expire. From the unhappy moment that the general was deprived of his advice, neither order nor discipline was observed, and a strange kind of infatuation usurped the place of resolution."

The loss of its gallant young general was, indeed, the destruction of an army of 15,000 men. Abercromby seemed paralysed by the stroke, and could do nothing, and the soldiers were needlessly kept under arms all night in the forest, and, in the morning, were ordered back to the landing place.

At noon, however, Bradstreet was sent out to take possession of the sawmill, at the falls which Montcalm had abandoned the evening before. Bradstreet rebuilt the two bridges, which had been destroyed by the enemy, and the army then advanced, and in the evening occupied the deserted encampment of the French.

Montcalm had, for some days, been indecisive as to his course. His force was little more than a fourth of that of the advancing foe. He had, for some time, been aware of the storm which was preparing against him. Vaudreuil, the governor, had at first intended to send a body of Canadians and Indians, under General Levis, down the valley of the Mohawk to create a diversion, but this scheme had been abandoned, and, instead of sending Levis, with his command, to the assistance of Montcalm, he had kept them doing nothing at Montreal.

Just about the hour Lord Howe was killed, Montcalm fell back with his force from his position by the falls, and resolved to make a stand at the base of the peninsula on which Ticonderoga stands. The outline of the works had already been traced, and the soldiers of the battalion of Berry had made some progress in constructing them. At daybreak, just as Abercromby was drawing his troops back to the landing place, Montcalm's whole army set to work. Thousands of trees were hewn down, and the trunks piled one upon another, so as to form a massive breastwork. The line followed the top of the ridge, with many zigzags, so that the whole front could be swept by a fire of musketry and grape. The log wall was eight or nine feet high, and the upper tier was formed of single logs, in which notches were cut to serve as loopholes. The whole space in front was cleared of trees, for the distance of a musket shot, the trees being felled so that their tops turned outwards, forming an almost impenetrable obstacle, while, immediately in front of the log wall, the ground was covered with heavy boughs, overlapping and interlaced, their points being sharpened. This position was, in fact, absolutely impregnable against an attack, in front, by infantry.

It was true that Abercromby might have brought up his artillery, and battered down the breastwork, or he might have planted a battery on the heights which commanded the position, or he might have marched a portion of his army through the woods, and placed them on the road between Ticonderoga and Crown Point, and so have cut off the whole French army, and forced them to surrender, for they had but eight days' provisions. But Howe was dead, there was no longer leading or generalship, and Abercromby, leaving his cannon behind him, marched his army to make a direct attack on the French intrenchment.

In the course of the night Levis, with 400 of his men, arrived, and the French were in readiness for the attack. The battalions of La Sarre and Languedoc were posted on the left under Bourlamaque, Berry and Royal Roussillon in the centre under Montcalm, La Reine, Beam, and Guienne on the right under Levis. A detachment of volunteers occupied the low ground between the breastwork and the outlet of Lake George, while 450 Canadian troops held an abattis on the side towards Lake Champlain, where they were covered by the guns of the fort.

Until noon, the French worked unceasingly to strengthen their position, then a heavy fire broke out in front, as the rangers and light infantry drove in their pickets. As soon as the English issued from the wood, they opened fire, and then the regulars, formed in columns of attack, pushed forward across the rough ground with its maze of fallen trees. They could see the top of the breastwork, but not the men behind it, and as soon as they were fairly entangled in the trees, a terrific fire opened upon them. The English pushed up close to the breastwork, but they could not pass the bristling mass of sharpened branches, which were swept by a terrific crossfire from the intrenchment. After striving for an hour, they fell back. Abercromby, who had remained at the mill a mile and a half in the rear, sent orders for them to attack again.

Never did the English fight with greater bravery. Six times did they advance to the attack, but the task set them was impossible. At five in the afternoon, two English columns made an assault on the extreme right of the French, and, although Montcalm hastened to the spot with his reserves, they nearly succeeded in breaking through, hewing their way right to the very foot of the breastwork, and renewing the attack over and over again, the Highland regiment, which led the column, fighting with desperate valour, and not retiring until its major and twenty-five of the officers were killed or wounded, and half the men had fallen under the deadly fire.

At six o'clock another desperate attempt was made, but in vain; then the regulars fell back in disorder, but, for an hour and a half, the provincials and rangers kept up a fire, while their comrades removed the wounded. Abercromby had lost in killed, wounded, and missing 1944 officers and men, while the loss of the French was 377.

Even now, Abercromby might have retrieved his repulse, for, with 13,000 men still remaining, against 3300 unwounded Frenchmen, he could still have easily forced them to surrender, by planting cannons on the heights, or by cutting off their communication and food.

He did neither, but, at daybreak, re-embarked his army, and retired with all speed down the lake. Montcalm soon received large reinforcements, and sent out scouting parties. One of these caught a party commanded by Captain Rogers in an ambush, but were finally driven back, with such heavy loss that, from that time, few scouting parties were sent out from Ticonderoga.

In October, Montcalm, with the main portion of his army, retired for the winter to Montreal; while the English fell back to Albany.

While Abercromby was lying inactive at the head of Lake George, Brigadier General Forbes had advanced from Virginia against Fort Duquesne, and, after immense labour and hardships, succeeded in arriving at the fort, which the French evacuated at his approach, having burnt the barracks and storehouses, and blown up the fortifications. A stockade was formed, and a fort afterwards built there. This was called Fort Pitt, and the place itself, Pittsburg. A small garrison was left there, and the army, after having collected and buried the bones of Braddock's men, retired to Virginia. The general, who, though suffering terribly from disease, had steadfastly carried out the enterprise in the face of enormous difficulties, died shortly after the force returned to the settlements.

Another successful enterprise, during the autumn, had been the capture of Fort Frontenac, and the gaining of a foothold by the English on Lake Ontario.

Thus, the campaign of 1758 was, on the whole, disastrous to the French. They had held their own triumphantly at Ticonderoga, but they had lost their great fortress of Louisbourg, their right had been forced back by the capture of Fort Duquesne, and their line of communication cut by the destruction of Fort Frontenac.

Chapter 18: Quebec.

In the following spring, the French prepared to resist the serious attack which they expected would be made by way of Lake Champlain and Ontario. But a greater danger was threatening them, for, in the midst of their preparations, the news arrived from France that a great fleet was on its way, from England, to attack Quebec. The town was filled with consternation and surprise, for the Canadians had believed that the navigation of the Saint Lawrence was too difficult and dangerous for any hostile fleet to attempt. Their spirits rose however when, a few days later, a fleet of twenty-three ships, ladened with supplies from France, sailed up the river.

A day or two later, the British fleet was at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence, and the whole forces of the colony, except three battalions posted at Ticonderoga, and a strong detachment placed so as to resist any hostile movement from Lake Ontario, were mustered at Quebec. Here were gathered five French battalions, the whole of the Canadian troops and militia, and upwards of a thousand Indians, in all amounting to more than sixteen thousand.

The position was an extremely strong one. The main force was encamped on the high ground below Quebec, with their right resting on the Saint Charles River, and the left on the Montmorenci, a distance of between seven and eight miles. The front was covered by steep ground, which rose nearly from the edge of the Saint Lawrence, and the right was covered by the guns of the citadel of Quebec. A boom of logs, chained together, was laid across the mouth of the Saint Charles, which was further guarded by two hulks mounted with cannon. A bridge of boats, crossing the river a mile higher up, connected the city with the camp.

All the gates of Quebec, except that of Saint Charles, which faced the bridge, were closed and barricaded. A hundred and six cannon were mounted on the walls, while a floating battery of twelve heavy pieces, a number of gunboats, and eight fire ships formed the river defences.

The frigates, which had convoyed the merchant fleet, were taken higher up the river, and a thousand of their seamen came down, from Quebec, to man the batteries and gunboats.

Against this force of sixteen thousand men, posted behind defensive works, on a position almost impregnable by nature, General Wolfe was bringing less than nine thousand troops. The steep and lofty heights, that lined the river, rendered the cannon of the ships useless to him, and the exigencies of the fleet, in such narrow and difficult navigation, prevented the sailors being landed to assist the troops.

A large portion of Montcalm's army, indeed, consisted of Canadians, who were of little use in the open field, but could be trusted to fight well behind intrenchments.

Wolfe was, unfortunately, in extremely bad health when he was selected, by Pitt, to command the expedition against Quebec; but under him were Brigadier Generals Monckton, Townshend, and Murray, all good officers.

The fleet consisted of twenty-two ships of war, with frigates and sloops, and a great number of transports. It was, at first, divided into three squadrons. That under Admiral Durell sailed direct for the Saint Lawrence, to intercept the ships from France, but arrived at its destination a few days too late. That of Admiral Holmes sailed for New York, to take on board a portion of the army of Amherst and Abercromby. That of Admiral Saunders sailed to Louisbourg, but, finding the entrance blocked with ice, went on to Halifax, where it was joined by the squadron with the troops from New York. They then sailed again to Louisbourg, where they remained until the 6th of June, 1759, and then joined Durell at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence.

Wolfe's force had been intended to be larger, and should have amounted to fourteen thousand men; but some regiments which were to have joined him from the West Indies were, at the last moment, countermanded, and Amherst, who no doubt felt some jealousy, at the command of this important expedition being given to an officer who had served under his orders at the taking of Louisbourg, sent a smaller contingent of troops than had been expected.

Among the regiments which sailed was that of James Walsham. After the fight at Ticonderoga, in which upwards of half of his force had fallen, the little corps had been broken up, and the men had returned to duty with their regiments. Owing to the number of officers who had fallen, James now stood high on the list of lieutenants. He had had enough of scouting, and was glad to return to the regiment, his principal regret being that he had to part from his two trusty scouts.

There was great joy, in the regiment, when the news was received that they were to go with the expedition against Quebec. They had formed part of Wolf''s division at Louisbourg, and, like all who had served with him, regarded with enthusiasm and confidence the leader whose frail body seemed wholly incapable of sustaining fatigue or hardship, but whose indomitable spirit and courage placed him ever in the front, and set an example which the bravest of his followers were proud to imitate.

From time to time, James had received letters from home. Communication was irregular; but his mother and Mr. Wilks wrote frequently, and sometimes he received half a dozen letters at once. He had now been absent from home for four years, and his mother told him that he would scarcely recognize Aggie, who was now as tall as herself. Mrs. Walsham said that the girl was almost as interested as she was in his letters, and in the despatches from the war, in which his name had several times been mentioned, in connection with the services rendered by his scouts.

Richard Horton had twice, during James's absence, returned home. The squire, Mrs. Walsham said, had received him very coolly, in consequence of the letter he had written when James was pressed as a seaman, and she said that Aggie seemed to have taken a great objection to him. She wondered, indeed, that he could stay an hour in the house after his reception there; but he seemed as if he didn't notice it, and took especial pains to try and overcome Aggie's feeling against him.

While waiting at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence, Admiral Durell had succeeded in obtaining pilots to take the fleet up the river. He had sailed up the river to the point where the difficult navigation began, and where vessels generally took on board river pilots. Here he hoisted the French flag at the masthead, and the pilots, believing the ships to be a French squadron, which had eluded the watch of the English, came off in their boats, and were all taken prisoners, and forced, under pain of death, to take the English vessels safely up.

The first difficulty of the passage was at Cape Tourmente, where the channel describes a complete zigzag. Had the French planted some guns on a plateau, high up on the side of the mountains, they could have done great damage by a plunging fire; but Vaudreuil had neglected to take this measure, and the fleet passed up in safety, the manner in which they were handled and navigated astonishing the Canadians, who had believed it to be impossible that large ships could be taken up.

On the 26th, the whole fleet were anchored off the Island of Orleans, a few miles below Quebec. The same night, a small party landed on the island. They were opposed by the armed inhabitants, but beat them off, and, during the night, the Canadians crossed to the north shore. The whole army then landed.

From the end of the island, Wolfe could see the full strength of the position which he had come to attack. Three or four miles in front of him, the town of Quebec stood upon its elevated rock. Beyond rose the loftier height of Cape Diamond, with its redoubts and parapets. Three great batteries looked threateningly from the upper rock of Quebec, while three others were placed, near the edge of the water, in the lower town. On the right was the great camp of Montcalm, stretching from the Saint Charles, at the foot of the city walls, to the gorge of the Montmorenci. From the latter point to the village of Beauport, in the centre of the camp, the front was covered with earthworks, along the brink of a lofty height; and from Beauport to the Saint Charles were broad flats of mud, swept by the fire of redoubts and intrenchments, by the guns of a floating battery, and by those of the city itself.

Wolfe could not see beyond Quebec, but, above the city, the position was even stronger than below. The river was walled by a range of steeps, often inaccessible, and always so difficult that a few men could hold an army in check.

Montcalm was perfectly confident of his ability to resist any attack which the British might make. Bougainville had long before examined the position, in view of the possibility of an English expedition against it, and reported that, with a few intrenchments, the city would be safe if defended by three or four thousand men. Sixteen thousand were now gathered there, and Montcalm might well believe the position to be impregnable.

He was determined to run no risk, by advancing to give battle, but to remain upon the defensive till the resources of the English were exhausted, or till the approach of winter forced them to retire. His only source of uneasiness lay in the south, for he feared that Amherst, with his army, might capture Ticonderoga and advance into the colony, in which case he must weaken his army, by sending a force to oppose him.

On the day after the army landed on the island, a sudden and very violent squall drove several of the ships ashore, and destroyed many of the flatboats. On the following night, the sentries at the end of the island saw some vessels coming down the river. Suddenly these burst into flames. They were the fire ships, which Vaudreuil had sent down to destroy the fleet. They were filled with pitch, tar, and all sorts of combustibles, with shell and grenades mixed up with them, while on their decks were a number of cannon, crammed to the mouth with grapeshot and musketballs.

Fortunately for the English, the French naval officer in command lost his nerve, and set fire to his ship half an hour too soon; the other captains following his example. This gave the English time to recover from the first feeling of consternation at seeing the fire ships, each a pillar of flame, advancing with tremendous explosion and noise against them. The troops at once got under arms, lest the French should attack them, while the vessels lowered their boats, and the sailors rowed up to meet the fire ships. When they neared them, they threw grapnels on board, and towed them towards land until they were stranded, and then left them to burn out undisturbed.

Finding that it would be impossible to effect a landing, under the fire of the French guns, Wolfe determined, as a first step, to seize the height of Point Levi opposite Quebec. From this point he could fire on the town across the Saint Lawrence, which is, here, less than a mile wide.

On the afternoon of the 29th, Monckton's brigade crossed, in the boats, to Beaumont on the south shore. His advanced guard had a skirmish with a party of Canadians, but these soon fell back, and no further opposition was offered to the landing.

In the morning a proclamation, issued by Wolfe, was posted on the doors of the parish churches. It called upon the Canadians to stand neutral in the contest, promising them, if they did so, full protection to their property and religion; but threatening that, if they resisted, their houses, goods, and harvest should be destroyed, and their churches sacked.

The brigade marched along the river to Point Levi, and drove off a body of French and Indians posted there, and, the next morning, began to throw up intrenchments and to form batteries. Wolfe did not expect that his guns here could do any serious damage to the fortifications of Quebec. His object was partly to discourage the inhabitants of the city exposed to his fire, partly to keep up the spirits of his own troops by setting them to work.

The guns of Quebec kept up a continual fire against the working parties, but the batteries continued to rise, and the citizens, alarmed at the destruction which threatened their houses, asked the governor to allow them to cross the river, and dislodge the English. Although he had no belief that they would succeed, he thought it better to allow them to try. Accordingly, some fifteen hundred armed citizens, and Canadians from the camp, with a few Indians, and a hundred volunteers from the regulars, marched up the river, and crossed on the night of the 12th of July.

The courage of the citizens evaporated very quickly, now they were on the same side of the river as the English, although still three miles from them. In a short time a wild panic seized them. They rushed back in extreme disorder to their boats, crossed the river, and returned to Quebec.

The English guns soon opened, and carried destruction into the city. In one day eighteen houses, and the cathedral, were burned by exploding shells; and the citizens soon abandoned their homes, and fled into the country.

The destruction of the city, however, even if complete, would have advanced Wolfe's plans but little. It was a moral blow at the enemy, but nothing more.

On the 8th of July, several frigates took their station before the camp of General Levis, who, with his division of Canadian militia, occupied the heights along the Saint Lawrence next to the gorge of Montmorenci. Here they opened fire with shell, and continued it till nightfall. Owing to the height of the plateau on which the camp was situated, they did but little damage, but the intention of Wolfe was simply to keep the enemy occupied and under arms.

Towards evening, the troops on the island broke up their camp, and, leaving a detachment of marines to hold the post, the brigades of Townshend and Murray, three thousand strong, embarked after nightfall in the boats of the fleet, and landed a little below the Montmorenci, At daybreak, they climbed the heights, and, routing a body of Canadians and Indians who opposed them, gained the plateau and began to intrench themselves there.

A company of rangers, supported by the regulars, was sent into the neighbouring forests; to prevent the parties from cutting bushes for the fascines, to explore the bank of the Montmorenci, and, if possible, to discover a ford across the river.

Levis, with his aide-de-camp, a Jacobite Scotchman named Johnston, was watching the movements of Wolfe from the heights above the gorge. Levis believed that no ford existed, but Johnston found a man who had, only that morning, crossed. A detachment was at once sent to the place, with orders to intrench themselves, and Levis posted eleven hundred Canadians, under Repentigny, close by in support.

Four hundred Indians passed the ford, and discovered the English detachment in the forest, and Langlade, their commander, recrossed the river, and told Repentigny that there was a body of English, in the forest, who might be destroyed if he would cross at once with his Canadians. Repentigny sent to Levis, and Levis to Vaudreuil, then three or four miles distant.

Before Vaudreuil arrived on the spot, the Indians became impatient and attacked the rangers; and drove them back, with loss, upon the regulars, who stood their ground, and repulsed the assailants. The Indians, however, carried thirty-six scalps across the ford.

If Repentigny had advanced when first called upon, and had been followed by Levis with his whole command, the English might have suffered a very severe check, for the Canadians were as much superior to the regulars, in the forest, as the regulars to the Canadians in the open.

Vaudreuil called a council of war, but he and Montcalm agreed not to attack the English, who were, on their part, powerless to injure them. Wolfe's position on the heights was indeed a dangerous one. A third of his force was six miles away, on the other side of the Saint Lawrence, and the detachment on the island was separated from each by a wide arm of the river. Any of the three were liable to be attacked and overpowered, before the others could come to its assistance.

Wolfe, indeed, was soon well intrenched, but, although safe against attack, he was powerless to take the offensive. The fact, however, that he had taken up his position so near their camp, had discomfited the Canadians, and his battery played, with considerable effect, on the left of their camp.

The time passed slowly. The deep and impassable gulf of the Montmorenci separated the two enemies, but the crests of the opposite cliffs were within easy gunshot of each other, and men who showed themselves near the edge ran a strong chance of being hit. Along the river, from the Montmorenci to Point Levi, continued fighting went on between the guns of the frigates, and the gunboats and batteries on shore. The Indians swarmed in the forest, near the English camp, and constant skirmishing went on between them and the rangers.

The steady work of destruction going on in the city of Quebec, by the fire from Point Levi, and the ceaseless cannonade kept up by the ships and Wolfe's batteries; added to the inactivity to which they were condemned, began to dispirit the Canadian militia, and many desertions took place, the men being anxious to return to their villages and look after the crops; and many more would have deserted, had it not been for the persuasion of the priests, and the fear of being maltreated by the Indians, whom the governor threatened to let loose upon any who should waver in their resistance.

On the 18th of July a fresh move was made by the English. The French had believed it impossible for any hostile ships to pass the batteries of Quebec; but, covered by a furious cannonade from Point Levi, the man of war Sutherland, with a frigate and several small vessels, aided by a favouring wind, ran up the river at night and passed above the town. Montcalm at once despatched six hundred men, under Dumas, to defend the accessible points in the line of precipices above Quebec, and on the following day, when it became known that the English had dragged a fleet of boats over Point Levi, and had launched them above the town, a reinforcement of several hundreds more was sent to Dumas.

On the night of the 20th Colonel Carleton, with six hundred men, rowed eighteen miles up the river, and landed at Pointe aux Trembles on the north shore. Here, many of the fugitives from Quebec had taken refuge, and a hundred women, children and old men were taken prisoners by Carleton, and brought down the next day with the retiring force. Wolfe entertained the prisoners kindly, and sent them, on the following day, with a flag of truce into Quebec.

On the night of the 28th, the French made another attempt to burn the English fleet, sending down a large number of schooners, shallops, and rafts, chained together, and filled, as before, with combustibles.

This time, the fire was not applied too soon, and the English fleet was for some time in great danger, but was again saved by the sailors, who, in spite of the storm of missiles, vomited out by cannon, swivels, grenades, shell, and gun and pistol barrels loaded up to the muzzle, grappled with the burning mass, and towed it on shore.

It was now the end of July, and Wolfe was no nearer taking Quebec than upon the day when he first landed there. In vain he had tempted Montcalm to attack him. The French general, confident in the strength of his position, refused to leave it.

Wolfe therefore determined to attack the camp in front. The plan was a desperate one, for, after leaving troops enough to hold his two camps, he had less than five thousand men to attack a position of commanding strength, where Montcalm could, at an hour's notice, collect twice as many to oppose him.

At a spot about a mile above the gorge of the Montmorenci a flat strip of ground, some two hundred yards wide, lay between the river and the foot of the precipices, and, at low tide, the river left a flat of mud, nearly half a mile wide, beyond the dry ground.

Along the edge of the high-water mark, the French had built several redoubts. From the river, Wolfe could not see that these redoubts were commanded by the musketry of the intrenchments along the edge of the heights above, which also swept with their fire the whole face of the declivity, which was covered with grass, and was extremely steep. Wolfe hoped that, if he attacked one of the redoubts, the French would come down to defend it, and that a battle might be so brought on; or that, if they did not do so, he might find a spot where the heights could be stormed with some chance of success. At low tide, it was possible to ford the mouth of the Montmorenci, and Wolfe intended that the troops from his camp, on the heights above that river, should cross here, and advance along the strand to cooperate with Monckton's brigade, who were to cross from Point Levi.

On the morning of the 31st of July, the Centurion, of 64 guns; and two armed transports, each with 14 guns, stood close in to one of the redoubts, and opened fire upon it; while the English batteries, from the heights of the Montmorenci, opened fire across the chasm upon the French lines.

At eleven o'clock, the troops from Point Levi put off in their boats, and moved across the river, as if they intended to make a landing between Beauport and the city. For some hours, Montcalm remained ignorant as to the point on which the English attack was to be made, but became presently convinced that it would be delivered near the Montmorenci, and he massed the whole of his army on that flank of his position.

At half-past five o'clock the tide was low, and the English boats dashed forward, and the troops sprang ashore on to the broad tract of mud, left bare by the tide; while, at the same moment, a column 2000 strong moved down from the height towards the ford at the mouth of the Montmorenci. The first to land were thirteen companies of Grenadiers, and a detachment of Royal Americans, who, without waiting for the two regiments of Monckton's brigade, dashed forward against the redoubt at the foot of the hill. The French at once abandoned it, but the Grenadiers had no sooner poured into it, than a storm of bullets rained down upon them, from the troops who lined the heights above.

Without a moment's hesitation, the Grenadiers and Americans dashed forward, and strove to climb the steep ascent, swept as it was by a terrific hail of bullets and buckshot from the French and Canadians. Numbers rolled, dead or wounded, to the bottom of the hill, but the others struggled on.

But at this moment, the cloud, which had been threatening all day, suddenly opened, and the rain poured down in a torrent. The grassy slopes instantly became so slippery that it was absolutely impossible to climb them, and the fire from above died away, as the wet rendered the firelocks unserviceable.

The Grenadiers fell back into the redoubt. Wolfe, who had now arrived upon the spot, saw that it was absolutely impossible to carry the heights under the present conditions, and ordered the troops to retreat. Carrying off many of the wounded with them, they fell back in good order. Those of the Grenadiers and Americans who survived recrossed, in their boats, to the island; the 15th Regiment rowed back to Point Levi; and the 78th Highlanders, who belonged to Monckton's brigade, joined the column from below the Montmorenci, and slowly retired along the flats and across the ford.

The loss fell entirely upon the Grenadiers and Americans, and was, in proportion to their number, enormous--four hundred and forty-three, including one colonel, eight captains, twenty-one lieutenants, and three ensigns, being killed, wounded, or missing. The blow to the English was a severe one, and even Wolfe began to despair, and meditated leaving a portion of his troops on Isle aux Coudres and fortifying them there, and sailing home, with the rest, to prepare another expedition in the following year.

In the middle of August, he issued a third proclamation to the Canadians, declaring, as they had refused his offers of protection, and had practised the most unchristian barbarity against his troops on all occasions, he could no longer refrain, in justice to himself and his army, in chastising them as they deserved. The barbarities consisted in the frequent scalping and mutilating of sentinels, and men on outpost duty, which were perpetrated alike by the Canadians and Indians.

Wolfe's object was twofold: first, to cause the militia to desert, and secondly, to exhaust the colony. Accordingly the rangers, light infantry and Highlanders were sent out, in all directions, to waste the settlements wherever resistance was offered. Farm houses and villages were laid in ashes, although the churches were generally spared. Wolfe's orders were strict that women and children were to be treated with honour.

"If any violence is offered to a woman, the offender shall be punished with death."

These orders were obeyed, and, except in one instance, none but armed men, in the act of resistance, were killed.

Vaudreuil, in his despatches home, loudly denounced these barbarities; but he himself was answerable for atrocities incomparably worse, and on a far larger scale, for he had, for years, sent his savages, red and white, along a frontier of 600 miles, to waste, burn, and murder at will, and these, as he was perfectly aware, spared neither age nor sex.

Montcalm was not to be moved from his position by the sight of the smoke of the burning villages. He would not risk the loss of all Canada, for the sake of a few hundred farm houses.

Seeing the impossibility of a successful attack below the town, Wolfe determined to attempt operations on a large scale above it. Accordingly, with every fair wind and tide, ships and transports ran the gauntlet of the batteries of Quebec, and, covered by a hot fire from Point Levi, generally succeeded, with more or less damage, in getting above the town. A fleet of flatboats was also sent up, and 1200 troops marched overland, under Brigadier Murray, to embark in them.

To meet this danger above the town, Bougainville was sent from the camp at Beaufort with 1500 men. Murray made another descent at Pointe-aux-Trembles, but was repulsed with loss. He tried a second time at another place, but a body of ambushed Canadians poured so heavy a fire into the boats, that he was forced to fall back again with considerable loss. His third attempt was more successful, for he landed at Deschambault, and burned a large building filled with stores, and with all the spare baggage of the officers of the French regular troops.

Vaudreuil now regretted having sent the French frigates up the river, and withdrawing their crews to work in the batteries. Had they been kept just above the town, they could have overpowered the English vessels as they passed up. The sailors were now sent up to man their ships again; but Admiral Holmes, who had taken command of the ships of war above Quebec, was already too strong for them, and the sailors were recalled to Quebec.

Both armies were suffering. Dysentery and fever had broken out in the English camp, and the number of effective men was greatly reduced. Upon the other hand, the French were suffering from shortness of supplies. The English frigates above the town prevented food being brought down from Montreal in boats, and the difficulties of land carriage were very great.

The Canadians deserted in great numbers, and Montcalm's force had been weakened by the despatch of Levis, to assist in checking the advance of Amherst. The latter had captured Ticonderoga and Crown Point. Niagara had also been taken by the English. Amherst, however, fell back again, and Levis was able to rejoin Montcalm.

But the greatest misfortune which befell the English was the dangerous illness of Wolfe, who, always suffering from disease, was for a time utterly prostrate. At the end of August, however, he partially recovered, and dictated a letter to his three brigadier generals, asking them to fix upon one of three plans, which he laid before them, for attacking the enemy. The first was that the army should march eight or ten miles up the Montmorenci, ford the river, and fall upon the rear of the enemy. The second was to cross the ford at the mouth of the Montmorenci, and march along the shore, until a spot was found where the heights could be climbed. The third was to make a general attack from the boats upon Beauport.

Monckton, Townshend, and Murray met in consultation, and considered all the plans to be hopeless; but they proposed that an attempt should be made to land above the town, and so to place the army between Quebec and its base of supplies, thereby forcing Montcalm to fight or to surrender.

The attempt seemed a desperate one, but Wolfe determined to adopt it. He had not much hope of its succeeding, but should it not do so, there was nothing for him but to sail, with his weakened army, back to England. He therefore determined at last to make the attempt, and implored his physician to patch him up, so that he could, in person, take the command.

"I know perfectly well that you cannot cure me," he wrote; "but pray make me up, so that I may be without pain for a few days, and able to do my duty. That is all I want."

On the 3rd of September, Wolfe took the first steps towards the carrying out of his plans, by evacuating the camp at Montmorenci. Montcalm sent a strong force to attack him, as he was moving; but Monckton at Point Levi saw the movement, and, embarking two battalions in boats, made a feint of landing at Beauport. Montcalm recalled his troops to repulse the threatened attack, and the English were able to draw off from Montmorenci without molestation.

On the night of the 4th, a fleet of flatboats passed above the town, with the baggage and stores. On the 5th the infantry marched up by land, and the united force, of some 3600 men, embarked on board the ships of Admiral Holmes.

The French thought that the abandonment of Montmorenci, and the embarkation of the troops, was a sign that the English were about to abandon their enterprise, and sail for England. Nevertheless, Montcalm did not relax his vigilance, being ever on the watch, riding from post to post, to see that all was in readiness to repel an attack. In one of his letters at this time, he mentioned that he had not taken off his clothes since the 23d of June.

He now reinforced the troops under Bougainville, above Quebec, to 3000 men. He had little fear for the heights near the town, believing them to be inaccessible, and that a hundred men could stop a whole army. This he said, especially, in reference to the one spot which presented at least a possibility of being scaled. Here Captain de Vergor, with a hundred Canadian troops, were posted. The battalion of Guienne had been ordered to encamp close at hand, and the post, which was called Anse du Foulon, was but a mile and a half distant from Quebec. Thus, although hoping that the English would soon depart, the French, knowing the character of Wolfe, made every preparation against a last attack before he started.

From the 7th to the 12th, Holmes' fleet sailed up and down the river, threatening a landing, now at one point and now at another, wearing out the French, who were kept night and day on the qui vive, and were exhausted by following the ships up and down, so as to be ready to oppose a landing wherever it might be made.

James Walsham's regiment formed part of Monckton's brigade, and his colonel had frequently selected him to command parties who went out to the Canadian villages, as, from the knowledge he had acquired of irregular warfare, he could be trusted not to suffer himself to be surprised by the parties of Canadians or Indians, who were always on the watch to cut off detachments sent out from the British camp. There were still ten men in the regiment who had formed part of his band on the lakes. These were drafted into his company, and, whatever force went out, they always accompanied him.

Although James had seen much, and heard more, of the terrible barbarities perpetrated by the Canadians and their Indian allies on the frontier, he lamented much the necessity which compelled Wolfe to order the destruction of Canadian villages; and when engaged on this service, whether in command of the detachment, or as a subaltern if more than one company went out, he himself never superintended the painful work; but, with his ten men, scouted beyond the village, and kept a vigilant lookout against surprise. In this way, he had several skirmishes with the Canadians, but the latter never succeeded in surprising any force to which he was attached. Walsham and his scouts were often sent out with parties from other regiments, and General Monckton was so pleased with his vigilance and activity, that he specially mentioned him to General Wolfe, at the same time telling him of the services he had performed on the lakes, and the very favourable reports which had been made by Johnson, Monro, Lord Howe, and Abercromby, of the work done by the corps which he had organized and commanded.

"I wish we had a few more officers trained to this sort of warfare," General Wolfe said. "Send him on board the Sutherland tomorrow. I have some service which he is well fitted to carry out."

James accordingly repaired on board the Sutherland, and was conducted to the general's cabin.

"General Monckton has spoken to me in high terms of you, Lieutenant Walsham, and he tells me that you have been several times mentioned in despatches, by the generals under whom you served; and you were with Braddock as well as with Johnson, Howe, and Abercromby, and with Monro at the siege of Fort William Henry. How is it that so young an officer should have seen so much service?"

James informed him how, having been pressed on board a man of war, he had been discharged, in accordance with orders from home, and, hearing that his friends were going to obtain a commission for him, in a regiment under orders for America, he had thought it best to utilize his time by accompanying General Braddock as a volunteer, in order to learn something of forest warfare; that, after that disastrous affair, he had served with Johnson in a similar capacity, until, on his regiment arriving, he had been selected to drill a company of scouts, and had served with them on the lakes, until the corps was broken up when the regiment sailed for Canada.

"In fact, you have seen more of this kind of warfare than any officer in the army," General Wolfe said. "Your special services ought to have been recognized before. I shall have you put in orders, tomorrow, as promoted to the rank of captain. And now, I am about to employ you upon a service which, if you are successful, will give you your brevet majority.

"There must be some points at which those precipices can be climbed. I want you to find out where they are. It is a service of great danger. You will go in uniform, otherwise, if caught, you would meet with the fate of a spy; but at the same time, even in uniform you would probably meet with but little mercy, if you fell into the hands of the Canadians or Indians. Would you be willing to undertake such a duty?"

"I will try, sir," James said. "Do you wish me to start tonight?"

"No," the general replied. "You had better think the matter over, and let me know tomorrow how you had best proceed. It is not an enterprise to be undertaken without thinking it over in every light. You will have to decide whether you will go alone, or take anyone with you; when and how you will land; how you will regain the ships. You will, of course, have carte blanche in all respects."

After James had returned on shore, he thought the matter over in every light. He knew that the French had many sentries along the edge of the river, for boats which, at night, went over towards that side of the river, were always challenged and fired upon. The chance of landing undetected, therefore, seemed but slight; nor, even did he land, would he be likely, at night, to discover the paths, which could be little more than tracks up the heights.

Had he been able to speak Canadian French, the matter would have been easy enough, as he could have landed higher up the river and, dressed as a Canadian farmer, have made his way through the French lines without suspicion. But he knew nothing of French, and, even had he spoken the language fluently, there was sufficient difference between the Canadian French and the language of the old country, for the first Canadian who spoke to him to have detected the difference.

Nor could he pass as an Indian; for, although he had picked up enough of the language to converse with the redskin allies of the English on the lakes, the first Indian who spoke to him would detect the difference; and, indeed, it needed a far more intimate acquaintance with the various tribes, than he possessed, for him to be able to paint and adorn himself so as to deceive the vigilant eyes of the French Indians.

Had his two followers, Nat and Jonathan, been with him, they could have painted and dressed him so that he could have passed muster, but, in their absence, he abandoned the idea as out of the question. The prospect certainly did not seem hopeful.

After long thought, it seemed to him that the only way which promised even a chance of success would be for him to be taken prisoner by the French soldiers. Once fairly within their lines, half the difficulty was over. He had learned to crawl as noiselessly as an Indian, and he doubted not that he should be able to succeed in getting away from any place of confinement in which they might place him. Then he could follow the top of the heights, and the position of the sentries or of any body of men encamped there would, in itself, be a guide to him as to the existence of paths to the strand below.

The first step was the most difficult. How should he manage to get himself taken prisoner? And this was the more difficult, as it was absolutely necessary that he should fall into the hands of French regulars, and not of the Canadians, who would finish the matter at once by killing and scalping him.

The next morning, he again went off to the Sutherland. He was in high spirits, for his name had appeared in orders as captain, and as appointed assistant quartermaster general on the headquarter staff. On entering the general's cabin, he thanked him for the promotion.

"You have earned it over and over again," the general said. "There are no thanks due to me. Now, have you thought out a plan?"

James briefly stated the difficulties which he perceived in the way of any other scheme than that of getting himself taken prisoner by the French, and showed that that was the only plan that seemed to offer even a chance of success.

"But you may not be able to escape," Wolfe said.

"I may not," James replied, "and in that case, sir, I must of course remain a prisoner until you take Quebec, or I am exchanged. Even then you would be no worse off than you are at present, for I must, of course, be taken prisoner at some point where the French are in force, and where you do not mean to land. My presence there would give them no clue whatever to your real intentions, whereas, were I taken prisoner anywhere along the shore, they would naturally redouble their vigilance, as they would guess that I was looking for some way of ascending the heights."

"How do you propose being taken?" Wolfe asked.

"My idea was," James replied, "that I should land with a party near Cap Rouge, as if to reconnoitre the French position there. We should, of course, be speedily discovered, and would then retreat to the boats. I should naturally be the last to go, and might well manage to be cut off."

"Yes," Wolfe replied, "but you might also, and that far more easily, manage to get shot. I don't think that would do, Captain Walsham. The risks would be twenty to one against your escaping being shot. Can you think of no other plan?"

"The only other plan that I can think of," James said, "might involve others being taken prisoners. I might row in towards Cap Rouge in broad daylight, as if to examine the landing place, and should, of course, draw their fire upon the boat. Before starting, I should fire two or three shots into the boat close to the water line, and afterwards plug them up with rags. Then, when their fire became heavy, I should take the plugs out and let the boat fill. As she did so, I could shout that I surrendered, and then we could drift till we neared the shore in the water-logged boat, or swim ashore. I can swim well myself, and should, of course, want four men, who could swim well also, picked out as the crew."

"The plan is a dangerous one," Wolfe said, "but less so than the other."

"One cannot win a battle without risking life, sir," James said quietly. "Some of us might, of course, be hit, but as we risk our lives whenever we get within range of the enemy, I do not see that that need be considered; at any rate, sir, I am ready to make the attempt, if the plan has your approval."

"I tell you frankly, Captain Walsham, that I think your chances of success are absolutely nil. At the same time, there is just a faint possibility that you may get ashore alive, escape from the French, discover a pathway, and bring me the news; and, as the only chance of the expedition being successful now depends upon our discovering such a path, I am not justified in refusing even this faint chance."

The general touched a bell which stood on the table before him.

"Will you ask the captain to come here," he said to the officer who answered the summons.

"Captain Peters," he said when the captain appeared, "I want you to pick out for me four men, upon whom you can thoroughly rely. In the first place they must be good swimmers, in the second place they must be able to hold their tongues, and lastly they must be prepared to pass some months in a French prison. A midshipman, with the same qualifications, will be required to go with them."

The captain naturally looked surprised at so unusual a request.

"Captain Walsham is going to be taken prisoner by the French," General Wolfe explained, "and the only way it can be done is for a whole boat's crew to be taken with him," and he then detailed the plan which had been arranged. "Of course, you can offer the men any reward you may think fit, and can promise the midshipman early promotion," he concluded.

"Very well, general. I have no doubt I can find four men and a midshipman willing to volunteer for the affair, especially as, if you succeed, their imprisonment will be a short one. When will the attempt be made?"

"If you can drift up the river as far as Cap Rouge before daylight," James said, in answer to an inquiring look from the general, "we will attempt it tomorrow morning. I should say that the best plan would be for me to appear opposite their camp when day breaks, as if I was trying to obtain a close view of it in the early morning."

"The sooner the better," General Wolfe said. "Every day is of importance. But how do you propose to get back again, that is, supposing that everything goes well?"

"I propose, general, that I should conceal myself somewhere on the face of the heights. I will spread a handkerchief against a rock or tree, so that it will not be seen either from above or below, but will be visible from the ships in the river. I cannot say, of course, whether it will be near Cap Rouge or Quebec; but, if you will have a sharp lookout kept through a glass, as the ships drift up and down, you are sure to see it, and can let me know that you do so by dipping the ensign. At night I will make my way down to the shore, and if, at midnight exactly, you will send a boat for me, I shall be ready to swim off to her, when they show a lantern as they approach the shore. Of course, I cannot say on what day I may be in a position to show the signal, but at, any rate, if a week passes without your seeing it, you will know that I have failed to make my escape, or that I have been killed after getting out."

Chapter 19: A Dangerous Expedition.

The details of the proposed expedition being thus arranged, the captain left the cabin with James, and the latter paced to and fro on the quarterdeck, while the captain sent for the boatswain and directed him to pick out four men who could swim well, and who were ready to volunteer for desperate service.

While the captain was so engaged, James saw a naval officer staring fixedly at him. He recognized him instantly, though more than four years had elapsed since he had last seen him. He at once stepped across the quarterdeck.

"How are you, Lieutenant Horton? It is a long time since we last parted on the Potomac."

Horton would have refused the proffered hand, but he had already injured himself very sorely, in the eyes of the squire, by his outburst of ill feeling against James, so he shook hands and said coldly:

"Yes, your position has changed since then."

"Yes," James said with a laugh, "but that was only a temporary eclipse. That two months before the mast was a sort of interlude for which I am deeply thankful. Had it not been for my getting into that smuggling scrape, I should have been, at the present moment, commencing practice as a doctor, instead of being a captain in his majesty's service."

The words were not calculated to improve Horton's temper. What a mistake he had made! Had he interfered on James Walsham's behalf--and a word from him, saying that James was the son of a medical man, and was assuredly mixed up in this smuggling affair only by accident--he would have been released. He had not spoken that word, and the consequence was, he had himself fallen into bad odour with the squire, and James Walsham, instead of drudging away as a country practitioner, was an officer of rank equal to himself, for he, as second lieutenant in the Sutherland, ranked with a captain in the army.

Not only this, but whenever he went to Sidmouth he had heard how James had been mentioned in the despatches, and how much he was distinguishing himself. Everything seemed to combine against him. He had hated James Walsham from the day when the latter had thrashed him, and had acted as Aggie's champion against him. He had hated him more, when he found Aggie installed as the squire's heiress, and saw how high James stood in her good graces, and that he had been taken up by the squire.

He had hoped that he had gained the advantage over him, when he had come back a naval officer, while James was still a schoolboy, and had kept aloof from the house while he devoted himself to the young heiress. Everything had seemed going on well with his plans, until the very circumstance which, at the time, seemed so opportune, namely, the pressing James as a seaman on board the Thetis, had turned out so disastrous. The letter, in which he had suffered his exultation to appear, had angered the squire, had set Mrs. Walsham and her friend the ex-sergeant against him, and had deeply offended Aggie. It had, too, enabled the squire to take instant measures for procuring James's discharge, and had now placed the latter in a position equal to his own.

James, on his part, did not like Richard Horton, but he felt no active animosity against him. He had got the best of it in that first quarrel of theirs, and, although he had certainly felt very sore and angry, at the time Richard was staying at the Hall, and seemed to have taken his place altogether as Aggie's friend, this feeling had long since died away, for he knew, from the letters of Mr. Wilks, that Aggie had no liking whatever for Richard Horton.

"You were at Sidmouth in the spring, I heard," he said. "You found my mother looking well, I hope?"

"Yes, I was there a fortnight before we sailed," Richard said. "I think she was looking about as usual."

For a few minutes, they talked in a stiff and somewhat constrained tone, for Richard could not bring himself to speak cordially to this man, whom he regarded as a dangerous rival. Presently, the captain came up to them.

"I have picked four volunteers for your work, Captain Walsham. They were somewhat surprised, at first, to find that they were required for a bout in a French prison; but sailors are always ready for any hare-brained adventure, and they made no objection whatever, when I explained what they would have to do. Next to fighting a Frenchman, there's nothing a sailor likes so much as taking him in. Young Middleton goes in command of the boat. He is a regular young pickle, and is as pleased at the prospect as if a French prison were the most amusing place in the world. He knows, of course, that there will be some considerable danger of his being shot before he is taken prisoner; but I need hardly say that the danger adds to the interest of the scheme. It's a risky business you have undertaken, Captain Walsham, terribly risky; but, if you succeed, you will have saved the expedition from turning out a failure, and we shall all be under obligations to you for the rest of our lives.

"Has Captain Walsham told you what he is undertaking, Mr. Horton?"

"No, sir."

"He is going to get taken prisoner, in the gig, in order that he may, if possible, give the French the slip again, find out some way down that line of cliffs, and so enable the general to get into the heart of the French expedition. It is a grand scheme, but a risky one.

"The chances are a hundred to one against you, Captain Walsham."

"That is just what the general said," James replied, with a smile. "I don't think, myself, they are more than five to one against me; but, even if they were a thousand, it would be worth trying, for a thousand lives would be cheaply sacrificed to ensure the success of this expedition."

"There are not many men who would like to try it," the captain said. "I say honestly I shouldn't, myself. Anything in the nature of duty, whether it's laying your ship alongside a Frenchman of twice her weight of metal, or a boat expedition to cut out a frigate from under the guns of the battery, I should be ready to take my share in; but an expedition like yours, to be carried out alone, in cold blood and in the dark, I should have no stomach for. I don't want to discourage you, and I honour your courage in undertaking it; but I am heartily glad that the general did not propose to me, instead of to you, to undertake it."

"You would have done it if he had, sir," James said, smiling, "and so would any officer of this expedition. I consider myself most highly honoured in the general entrusting me with the mission. Besides, you must remember that it is not so strange, to me, as it would be to most men. I have been for four years engaged in forest warfare, scouting at night in the woods, and keeping my ears open to the slightest sound which might tell of a skulking redskin being at hand. My eyes have become so accustomed to darkness, that, although still very far short of those of the Indians, I can see plainly where one unaccustomed to such work would see nothing. I am accustomed to rely upon my own senses, to step noiselessly, or to crawl along on the ground like an Indian. Therefore, you see, to me this enterprise does not present itself in the same light as it naturally would to you."

"You may make light of it," the captain said, "but it's a dangerous business, look at it as you will. Well, if you go through it safely, Captain Walsham, you will be the hero of this campaign."

Late in the afternoon the tide turned, and the vessels began to drift up the river. The four sailors had, of course, mentioned to their comrades the service upon which they were about to be engaged. The captain had not thought it necessary to enjoin secrecy upon them, for there was no communication with the shore, no fear of the knowledge spreading beyond the ship; besides, the boat had to be damaged, and this alone would tell the sailors, when she was lowered in the water, that she was intended to be captured.

A marine was called up to where the captain's gig was hanging from the davits. James pointed out a spot just below the waterline, and the man, standing a yard or two away, fired at it, the ball making a hole through both sides of the boat. Another shot was fired two or three inches higher, and the four holes were then plugged up with oakum.

All was now in readiness for the attempt. James dined with Captain Peters, the first lieutenant and four officers of the general's staff being also present, General Wolfe himself being too ill to be at table, and Admiral Holmes having, early in the morning, gone down the river to confer with Admiral Saunders.

"I drink good health and a safe return to you, Captain Walsham, for our sake as well as yours. As a general thing, when an officer is chosen for dangerous service, he is an object of envy by all his comrades; but, for once, I do not think anyone on board would care to undertake your mission."

"Why, sir, your little midshipman is delighted at going with me. He and I have been chatting the matter over, and he is in the highest glee."

"Ah! He has only got the first chance of being shot at," Captain Peters said. "That comes in the line of duty, and I hope there isn't an officer on board a ship but would volunteer, at once, for that service. But your real danger only begins when his ends.

"By the way," he asked, as, after dinner was over, he was walking up and down the quarterdeck, talking to James, "have you and Lieutenant Horton met before? I thought you seemed to know each other when I came up, but, since then I have noticed that, while all the other officers of the ship have been chatting with you, he has kept aloof."

"We knew each other at home, sir," James said, "but we were never very good friends. Our acquaintanceship commenced, when we were boys, with a fight. I got the best of it, and Horton has never, I think, quite forgiven me."

"I don't like the young fellow," Captain Peters said shortly. "I know he was not popular in the Thetis, and they say he showed the white feather out in the East. I wouldn't have had him on board, but the first lord asked me, as a personal favour, to take him. I have had no reason to complain of him, since he joined, but I know that he is no more popular, among my other officers, than he was in the Thetis."

"I never heard a word against him, sir," James said earnestly. "His uncle, Mr. Linthorne, has large estates near Sidmouth, and has been the kindest friend to me and mine. At one time, it was thought that Horton would be his heir, but a granddaughter, who had for years been missing, was found; but still Horton will take, I should think, a considerable slice of the property, and it would grieve the squire, terribly, if Horton failed in his career. I think it's only a fault of manners, sir, if I may say so, and certainly I myself know nothing whatever against him."

"I don't know," Captain Peters replied thoughtfully. "Just before I sailed, I happened to meet an old friend, and over our dinner I mentioned the names of my officers. He told me he knew this Mr. Linthorne well, and that Horton had gone to sea with him for the first time as a midshipman, and that there was certainly something queer about him as a boy, for Linthorne had specially asked him to keep his eye upon him, and had begged him, frankly, to let him know how he conducted himself. That rather set me against him, you know."

"I don't think that was anything," James urged. "I do not much like Horton, but I should not like you to have a false impression of him. It was a mere boyish affair, sir--in fact, it was connected with that fight with me. I don't think he gave a very strictly accurate account of it, and his uncle, who in some matters is very strict, although one of the kindest of men, took the thing up, and sent him away to sea. Horton was certainly punished severely enough, for that stupid business, without its counting against him afterwards."

"I like the way you speak up in his defence, Captain Walsham, especially as you frankly say you don't like him, and henceforth I will dismiss the affair from my mind, but I should say that he has never forgiven it, although you may have done so."

"That's natural enough," James laughed, "because I came best out of it."

To Richard Horton, the news that James Walsham was about to undertake a desperate enterprise, which, if he succeeded in it, would bring him great honour and credit, was bitter in the extreme, and the admiration expressed by the other officers, at his courage in undertaking it, added to his anger and disgust. He walked moodily up and down the quarterdeck all the afternoon, to think the matter over, and at each moment his fury increased. Could he in any way have put a stop to the adventure, he would instantly have done so, but there was no possible way of interfering.

The thought that annoyed him most was of the enthusiasm with which the news of the successful termination of the enterprise would be received at Sidmouth. Already, as he knew, Aggie regarded James as a hero, and the squire was almost as proud of his mention in despatches as if he had been his own son; but for this he cared but little. It was Aggie's good opinion Richard Horton desired to gain. James Walsham still thought of her as the girl of twelve he had last seen, but Richard Horton knew her as almost a woman, and, although at first he had resolved to marry her as his uncle's heiress, he now really cared for her for herself.

On the visit before James had left home, Richard had felt certain that his cousin liked him; but, since that time, he had not only made no progress, but he felt that he had lost rather than gained ground. The girl was always friendly with him, but it was the cool friendliness of a cousin, and, somehow, Richard instinctively felt James Walsham was the cause.

In vain he had angrily told himself that it was absurd to suppose that his cousin could care for this fellow, whom she had only seen as an awkward boy, who had been content to stop away from the house, and never go near her for weeks. Still, though he told himself it was absurd, he knew that it was so. When the conversation happened to turn upon James, she seldom took any part in it; but Richard knew that it was not from indifference as to the subject. There was a soft flush on her cheek, a light in her eyes, which he had never been able to call up; and, many a time, he had ground his teeth in silent rage, when the squire and Mr. Wilks were discussing the news received in James's last letter, and expressing their hopes that, ere long, he would be back from foreign service.

Although by no means fond of encountering danger, Richard felt that he would gladly pick an open quarrel with the man he regarded as his rival, and shoot him like a dog--for in those days, duels were matters of everyday occurrence--but there was no possibility of doing this, at the present juncture; and, moreover, he knew that this would be the worst possible way of ridding himself of him; for, were James to fall by his hands, his chances of winning Aggie would be hopelessly extinguished.

"No," he said to himself, "that is out of the question; but I will do something. Come what may, he shall never go back to Sidmouth."

The squadron drifted up beyond Cap Rouge, and anchored, at the top of the flood, an hour before daybreak. The gig was lowered, and James Walsham, amid many good wishes and hearty farewells from the officers, took his place in her, by the side of the midshipman.

"Look out for my signal," he said. "Any time, after today, you may see it."

"We will see it if you make it, my boy," said the captain, who had come on deck to see him off. "Don't you fear about that. If you make your signal, you may rely upon it, our boat will be ashore for you that night."

Another moment, and the boat pulled away from the side of the ship.

"Take it easy, lads," young Middleton said, "only just dip your oars in the water. We have but three miles to row, with the stream, and don't want to be there till the day begins to show."

The oars had been muffled, and, noiselessly, the boat dropped down the stream, until she neared Cap Rouge, then they rowed in towards the French shore. The day was just beginning to break, in the east, as they neared the spot where the French camp was situated. It stood high up on the plateau; but there were a small number of tents on the low ground, by the river, as some batteries had been erected here. They were but two hundred yards from the shore when a French sentry challenged. They gave no answer, and the soldier at once fired.

"Keep about this distance out," James ordered. "Row quietly. I will stand up, as if I were watching the shore."

As soon as the shot was fired, it was answered by shots from other sentries. A minute later, a drum was heard to beat sharply, and then, in the faint light, a number of French soldiers could be seen, running at full speed towards the shore. The shots fell thickly round the boat, and one of the men dropped his oar, as a bullet struck him on the shoulder.

"Pull out the plugs," James said.

The oakum was pulled out and thrown overboard, and the water rushed in.

"Now turn her head from the shore, as if we were trying to escape."

So rapidly did the water rush in through the four holes that, in a minute, the gunwale was nearly level with the water.

"Turn her over now," James said, and in a moment the boat was upset, and the men clinging to the bottom.

A shout of exultation rose from the shore, as the boat was seen to upset, and the firing at once ceased.

"Swim towards the shore, and push the boat before you," the young midshipman said. "They won't fire any more now, and we have finished the first part of our business."

Pushing the boat before them, the men made their way slowly towards the shore, striking the land half a mile below the point where they had overturned. The French soldiers had followed them down the bank, and surrounded them as they landed. The holes in the boat explained for themselves the cause of the disaster.

An officer stepped forward.

"You are our prisoners," he said to James.

The latter bowed.

"It is the fortune of war," he said. "Your men are better shots than I gave them credit for," and he pointed to the holes in the boat.

He spoke in English, but the officer guessed his meaning.

Some of the Indians and Canadians soon came flocking down, and, with angry gestures, demanded that the prisoners should be shot; but the French officer waived them off, and placed a strong guard of his own men around them, to prevent their being touched by the Indians. The young midshipman spoke French fluently, having been specially selected by the captain for that reason; but it had been agreed, between him and James, that he should not betray his knowledge of the language, as he might, thereby, pick up information which might be useful.

They were at once conducted before Bougainville.

"Do you speak French?" he asked.

James shook his head. The midshipman looked as if he had not understood the question.

"It is clear," the French officer said to those standing around him, "that they came in to reconnoitre the landing place, and thought, in the dim light, they could run the gauntlet of our sentries' fire. It was more accurate than they gave them credit for."

"The boat was struck twice, you say?"

"Yes, general," the officer who conducted them into the tent replied. "Two balls right through her, and one of the men was hit on the shoulder."

"The reconnaissance looks as if Wolfe meant to attempt a landing here," Bougainville said. "We must keep a sharp lookout. I will send them on to Quebec, for the general to question them. He will find someone there who speaks their language. I will send, at once, to tell him we have captured them. But I can't very well do so, till we have a convoy going, with regulars to guard it. If they were to go in charge of Canadians, the chances of their arriving alive in Quebec would be slight.

"Let the sailors be placed in a tent in your lines, Chateaudun, and place a sentry over them, to see that the Indians don't get at them. The two officers can have the tent that Le Boeuf gave up yesterday. You can put a sentry there, but they can go in and out as they like. There is no fear of their trying to escape; for, if they once went outside the lines of the regulars, the Indians and Canadians would make short work of them."

The officer led James and the midshipman to a tent in the staff lines, whose owner had ridden to Quebec, on the previous night, with despatches, and motioned to them that it was to be theirs. He also made signs to them that they could move about as they chose; but significantly warned them, by a gesture, that if they ventured beyond the tents, the Indians would make short work of them.

For a time, the prisoners made no attempt to leave the tent, for the Indians stood scowling at a short distance off, and would have entered, had not the sentry on duty prevented them from doing so.

"Do not talk too loudly," James said. "It is probable that, in a camp like this, there is someone who understands English. Very likely they are playing the same game with us that we are with them. They pretend there is no one who can speak to us; but, very likely, there may be someone standing outside now, trying to listen to what we say."

Then, raising his voice he went on:

"What abominable luck I have! Who could have reckoned upon the boat being hit, twice, at that distance? I thought we had fairly succeeded. The general will be in a nice way, when he finds we don't come back."

"Yes," Middleton rejoined, "and to think that we are likely to spend the winter in prison, at Quebec, instead of Old England. I am half inclined to try and escape!"

"Nonsense!" James replied. "It would be madness to think of such a thing. These Indians can see in the dark, and the moment you put your foot outside the lines of these French regulars, you would be carried off and scalped. No, no, my boy; that would be simply throwing away our lives. There is nothing for it, but to wait quietly, till either Wolfe takes Quebec, or you are exchanged."

The prisoners were treated with courtesy by the French officers, and comfortable meals were provided. In the evening, they went outside the tent for a short time, but did not venture to go far, for Indians were still moving about, and the hostile glances, which they threw at the prisoners, were sufficient to indicate what would happen to the latter, if they were caught beyond the protection of the sentry.

"Bougainville was right in supposing that prisoners would not be likely to attempt to escape," James said, in a low voice. "The look of those Indians would be quite sufficient to prevent anyone from attempting it, under ordinary circumstances. It is well that my business will take me down the river towards Quebec, while they will make sure that I shall have made up the river, with a view of making my way off to the ships, the next time they go up above Cap Rouge."

"It will be risky work getting through them," the midshipman remarked; "but all the same, I wish I was going with you, instead of having to stick here in prison."

"It would be running too great a risk of spoiling my chance of success," James said. "I am accustomed to the redskins, and can crawl through them as noiselessly as they could themselves. Besides, one can hide where two could not. I only hope that, when they find I have gone, they won't take it into their heads to revenge my escape upon you."

"There is no fear of that," the midshipman said. "I shall be sound asleep in the tent, and when they wake me up, and find you are gone, I shall make a tremendous fuss, and pretend to be most indignant that you have deserted me."

The two prisoners had eaten but little of the meals served to them that day, putting the greater portion aside, and hiding it in the straw which served for their beds, in order that James might take with him a supply, for it might be three or four days before he could be taken off by the ships' boats.

"I suppose you won't go very far tonight?" the midshipman said, suddenly.

"No," James replied. "I shall hide somewhere along the face of the cliff, a mile or so away. They are not likely to look for me down the river at all; but, if they do, they will think I have gone as far as I can away, and the nearer I am to this place, the safer."

"Look here," the midshipman said. "I am going strictly to obey orders; but, at the same time, it is just possible that something may turn up that you ought to know, or that might make me want to bolt. Suppose, for instance, I heard them say that they meant to shoot us both in the morning--it's not likely, you know; still, it's always as well to be prepared for whatever might happen--if so, I should crawl out of camp, and make my way along after you. And if so, I shall walk along the edge, and sometimes give two little whistles like this; and, if you hear me, you answer me."

"Don't be foolish, Middleton," James said seriously. "You would only risk your life, and mine, by any nonsense of that sort. There can't be any possible reason why you should want to go away. You have undertaken to carry this out, knowing that you would have, perhaps, to remain a prisoner for some time; and having undertaken it, you must keep to the plans laid down."

"But I am going to, Captain Walsham. Still, you know, something might turn up."

"I don't see that anything possibly could turn up," James insisted; "but, if at any future time you do think of any mad-brained attempt of escaping, you must take off your shoes, and you must put your foot down, each time, as gently as if the ground were covered with nails; for, if you were to tread upon a twig, and there were an Indian within half a mile of you, he would hear it crack. But don't you attempt any such folly. No good could possibly come of it, and you would be sure to fall into the hands of the savages or Canadians; and you know how they treat prisoners."

"I know," the boy said; "and I have no wish to have my scalp hanging up in any of their wigwams."

It was midnight, before the camp was perfectly still, and then James Walsham quietly loosened one of the pegs of the canvas, at the back of the tent, and, with a warm grasp of the midshipman's hand, crawled out. The lad listened attentively, but he could not hear the slightest sound. The sentinel was striding up and down in front of the tent, humming the air of a French song as he walked. Half an hour passed without the slightest stir, and the midshipman was sure that James was, by this time, safely beyond the enemy's camp.

He was just about to compose himself to sleep, when he heard a trampling of feet. The sentry challenged, the password was given, and the party passed on towards the general's tent. It was some thirty yards distant, and the sentry posted there challenged.

"I wonder what's up?" the midshipman said to himself; and, lifting the canvas, he put his head out where James had crawled through.

The men had halted before the general's tent, and the boy heard the general's voice, from inside the tent, ask sharply, "What is it?"

"I regret to disturb you, Monsieur le General; but we have here one of the Canadian pilots, who has swam ashore from the enemy's fleet higher up the river, and who has important news for you."

The midshipman at once determined to hear what passed. He had already taken off his shoes; and he now crawled out from the tent, and, moving with extreme caution, made his way round to the back of the general's tent, just as the latter, having thrown on his coat and lighted a candle, unfastened the entrance. The midshipman, determined to see as well as hear what was going on, lifted up the flap a few inches behind, and, as he lay on the ground, peered in. A French officer had just entered, and he was followed by a Canadian, whom the midshipman recognized at once, as being the one who piloted the Sutherland up and down the river.

"Where do you come from?" Bougainville asked.

"I swam ashore two hours ago from the English ship Sutherland," the Canadian said.

"How did you manage to escape?"

"I would have swam ashore long ago, but at night I have always been locked up, ever since I was captured, in a cabin below. Tonight the door opened quietly, and someone came in and said:

"'Hush!--can you swim?'

"'Like a fish,' I said.

"'Are you ready to try and escape, if I give you the chance?'

"'I should think so,' I replied.

"'Then follow me, but don't make the slightest noise.'

"I followed him. We passed along the main deck, where the sailors were all asleep in their hammocks. A lantern was burning here, and I saw, by its light, that my conductor was an officer. He led me along till we entered a cabin--his own, I suppose.

"'Look,' he whispered, 'there is a rope from the porthole down to the water. If you slide quietly down by it, and then let yourself drift till you are well astern of the ship, the sentry on the quarterdeck will not see you. Here is a letter, put it in your cap. If you are fired at, and a boat is lowered to catch you, throw the paper away at once. Will you swear to do that?'

"I said I would swear by the Virgin.

"'Very well,' he went on; 'if you get away safely and swim to shore, make your way without a minute's delay to the French camp at Cap Rouge, and give this letter to the general. It is a matter of the most extreme importance.'

"This is the letter, general."

He handed a small piece of paper, tightly folded up, to Bougainville, who opened it, and read it by the light of the candle.

He gave a sharp exclamation.

"Quick!" he exclaimed. "Come along to the tent of the prisoners. I am warned that the capture was a ruse, and that the military officer is a spy, whose object here is to discover a landing place. He is to escape the first opportunity."

The three men at once ran out from the tent. The instant they did so, the midshipman crawled in under the flap, rushed to the table on which the general had thrown the piece of paper, seized it, and then darted out again, and stole quietly away in the darkness. He had not gone twenty yards, when a volley of angry exclamations told him that the French general had discovered that the tent was empty.

The night was a dark one, and to prevent himself from falling over tent ropes, the midshipman threw himself down and crawled along on his hands and knees, but he paused, before he had gone many yards, and listened intently. The general was returning to his tent.

"It is no use doing anything tonight," he said. "Even an Indian could not follow the track of a waggon. At daybreak, Major Dorsay, let the redskins know that the prisoners have escaped, and offer a reward of fifty crowns for their recapture, dead or alive--I care not which. Let this good fellow turn in at the guard tent. I will talk to him in the morning. Good night!"

The midshipman kept his eyes anxiously on the dim light that could be faintly seen through the tent. If the general missed the paper, he might guess that it had been taken by the fugitives, and might order an instant search of the camp. He gave a sigh of relief, when he saw the light disappear the moment the French officer had entered the tent, and then crawled away through the camp.

Chapter 20: The Path Down The Heights.

As the midshipman crawled away from the tent of the French general, he adopted the precautions which James had suggested, and felt the ground carefully for twigs or sticks each time he moved. The still-glowing embers of the campfires warned him where the Indians and Canadians were sleeping, and, carefully avoiding these, he made his way up beyond the limits of the camp. There were no sentries posted here, for the French were perfectly safe from attack from that quarter, and, once fairly beyond the camp, the midshipman rose to his feet, and made his way to the edge of the slopes above the Saint Lawrence. He walked for about a mile, and then paused, on the very edge of the sharp declivity, and whistled as agreed upon.

A hundred yards further, he repeated the signal. The fourth time he whistled he heard, just below him, the answer, and a minute later James Walsham stood beside him.

"You young scamp, what are you doing here?"

"It was not my fault, Captain Walsham, it wasn't indeed; but I should have been tomahawked if I had stayed there a moment longer."

"What do you mean by 'you would have been tomahawked,'" James asked angrily, for he was convinced that the midshipman had made up his mind, all along, to accompany him.

"The pilot of the Sutherland swam ashore, with the news that you had been taken prisoner on purpose, and were really a spy."

"But how on earth did he know that?" James asked. "I took care the man was not on deck, when we made the holes in the boat, and he does not understand a word of English, so he could not have overheard what the men said."

"I am sorry to say, sir, that it is a case of treachery, and that one of our officers is concerned in it. The man said that an officer released him from his cell, and took him to his cabin, and then lowered him by a rope through the porthole."

"Impossible!" James Walsham said.

"It sounds impossible, sir; but I am afraid it isn't, for the officer gave him a note to bring to the general, telling him all about it, and that note I have got in my pocket now."

The midshipman then related the whole circumstances of his discovery.

"It is an extraordinary affair," James said. "However, you are certainly not to blame for making your escape when you did. You could not have got back into your tent till too late; and, even could you have done so, it might have gone hard with you, for of course they would have known that you were, what they would call an accomplice, in the affair."

"I will go on if you like, sir," the boy said, "and hide somewhere else, so that if they track me they will not find you."

"No, no," James said, "I don't think there's any fear of our being tracked. Indian eyes are sharp; but they can't perform miracles. In the forest it would be hopeless to escape them, but here the grass is short and the ground dry, and, without boots, we cannot have left any tracks that would be followed, especially as bodies of French troops have been marching backwards and forwards along the edge of these heights for the last fortnight. I won't say that it is impossible that they can find us, but it will not be by our tracks.

"Now, come down to this bush where I was lying. We will wait there till daylight breaks. It is as far down as I dare go by this light, but, when we can see, we will find a safer place further down."

Cautiously they made their way down to a clump of bushes, twenty feet below the edge, and there, lying down, dozed until it became light enough to see the ground. The slope was very steep, but bushes grew here and there upon it, and by means of these, and projecting rocks, they worked their way down some thirty feet lower, and then sat down among some bushes, which screened them from the sight of anyone who might be passing along the edge of the river, while the steep slope effectually hid them from anyone moving along above.

"Is there any signature to that letter," James asked presently.

The midshipman took the piece of paper out and looked at it.

"No, there is no signature," he said; "but I know the handwriting. I have seen it in orders, over and over again."

James was silent a few minutes.

"I won't ask you who it is, though I fear I know too well. Look here, Middleton, I should like you to tear that letter up, and say no more about it."

"No, sir," the boy said, putting the paper in his pocket. "I can't do that. Of course I am under your orders, for this expedition; but this is not an affair in which I consider that I am bound to obey you. This concerns the honour of the officers of my ship, and I should not be doing my duty if I did not, upon my return, place this letter in the hands of the captain. A man who would betray the general's plans to the enemy, would betray the ship, and I should be a traitor, myself, if I did not inform the captain. I am sorry, awfully sorry, that this should happen to an officer of the Sutherland, but it will be for the captain to decide whether he will make it public or not.

"There is one thing. If it was to be anyone, I would rather that it was he than anyone else, for there isn't a man on board can abide him. No, sir, I am sorry, but I cannot give up the letter, and, even if you had torn it up when you had it in your hand just now, I should have reported the whole thing to the captain, and say I could swear to the handwriting."

James was silent. The boy was right, and was only doing his duty in determining to denounce the act of gross treachery which had been perpetrated. He was deeply grieved, however, to think of the consequences of the discovery, and especially of the blow that it would be, to the squire, to hear that his nephew was a traitor, and indeed a murderer at heart, for, had not his flight taken place before the discovery was made, he would certainly have been executed as a spy.

The day passed quietly. That the Indians were searching for him, far and wide, James Walsham had no doubt, and indeed, from their hiding place he saw several parties of redskins moving along on the river bank, carefully examining the ground.

"It's lucky we didn't move along there," he said to his companion, "for the ground is so soft that they would assuredly have found our tracks. I expect that they think it possible that we may have been taken off, in a boat, during the night."

"I hope they will keep on thinking so," the midshipman said. "Then they will give up looking for us."

"They won't do that," James replied; "for they will be sure that they must have seen our tracks, had we passed along that muddy bank. Fortunately, they have no clue to where we really are. We might have gone east, west, or north, and the country is so covered with bush that anything like a regular search is absolutely impossible."

"I hope we ain't going to be very long, before we get on board again," the midshipman said, as he munched the small piece of bread James served out to him for his dinner. "The grub won't last more than two days, even at this starvation rate, and that one bottle of water is a mockery. I could finish it all, straight off. Why, we shall be as badly off as if we were adrift at sea, in a boat."

"Not quite so bad," James replied. "We can chew the leaves of some of these bushes; besides, people don't die of hunger or thirst in four days, and I hope, before that, to be safely on board."

Not until it was perfectly dark did they leave their hiding place, and, by the aid of the bushes, worked their way up to the top of the ascent again. James had impressed on his companion that, on no account, was he to speak above a whisper, that he was to stop whenever he did, and, should he turn off and descend the slope, he was at once to follow his example. The midshipman kept close to his companion, and marvelled how assuredly the latter walked along, for he himself could see nothing.

Several times, James stopped and listened. Presently, he turned off to the right, saying "hush!" in the lowest possible tone, and, proceeding a few paces down the slope, noiselessly lay down behind the bush. The midshipman imitated his example, though he wondered why he was so acting, for he could hear nothing. Two or three minutes later he heard a low footfall, and then the sound of men speaking in a low voice, in some strange tongue. He could not see them, but held his breath as they were passing. Not till they had been gone some minutes did James rise, and pursue his course.

"Two Indians," he said, "and on the search for us. One was just saying to the other he expected, when they got back to camp, to find that some of the other parties had overtaken us."

Another mile further, and they saw the light of several fires ahead.

"That is a French battery," James said. "We must make a detour, and get to the other side of it; then I will crawl back, and see if there is any path down to the river."

The detour was made, and then, leaving the midshipman in hiding a few paces from the edge, James crawled back. He soon saw, by the fires, that the battery was manned by sailors from the French fleet, and he had little fear of these discovering him. Keeping well below them, he came presently upon a narrow path. Above him, he could hear a French sentry walking. He followed the path down, with the greatest caution, stepping with the most extreme care, to avoid displacing a stone. He found the path was excessively steep and rugged, little more, indeed, than a sheep track. It took him half an hour to reach the bottom, and he found that, in some places, sappers had been lately at work obliterating the path, and that it could scarcely be considered practicable for men hampered with their arms and ammunition.

Another half hour's work took him to the top again, and a few minutes later he rejoined his companion.

"That won't do," he said. "We must try again. There is a path, but the troops could scarcely climb it if unopposed, and certainly could not do so without making such a noise as would attract the notice of the sentinels above."

"That is the battery they call Sillery," the midshipman said. "They have fired at us over and over again from there, as we went up or down the river. There is another about a mile further on. It is called Samos."

Upon reaching the Samos battery, James again crept up and reconnoitred. The way down, however, was even more difficult than at Sillery. There was, indeed, no regular path, and so steep was the descent that he doubted whether it would be possible for armed men to climb it. Even he, exceptionally strong and active as he was, and unencumbered with arms, had the greatest difficulty in making his way down and up again and, indeed, could only do so by grasping the trunks of trees and strong bushes.

"It can't be done there," he said to the midshipman when he joined him again. "And now we must look for a hiding place. We must have been five or six hours since we started, and the nights are very short. At any rate, we cannot attempt another exploration before morning."

"I wish we could explore the inside of a farm house and light upon something to eat and drink," the midshipman said.

"It's no use wishing," James replied. "We can't risk anything of that sort and, probably, all the farm houses are full of troops. We have got a little bread left. That will hold us over tomorrow comfortably."

"It may hold us," Middleton said; "but it certainly won't hold me comfortably. My idea of comfort, at the present time, would be a round of beef and a gallon of ale."

"Ah! You are an epicure," James laughed. "If you had had three or four years of campaigning in the forest, as I have had, you would learn to content yourself on something a good deal less than that."

"I might," the boy said; "but I have my doubts about it. There's one comfort. We shall be able to sleep all day tomorrow, and so I sha'n't think about it. As the Indians did not find our tracks yesterday, they are not likely to do so today."

They were some time before they found a hiding place, for the descent was so steep that they had to try several times, before they could get down far enough to reach a spot screened by bushes, and hidden from the sight of anyone passing above. At last they did so, and soon lay down to sleep, after partaking of a mouthful of water each, and a tiny piece of bread. They passed the day for the most part in sleep, but the midshipman woke frequently, being now really parched with thirst. Each time, he chewed a few leaves from the bush in which they were lying, but derived but small comfort from it.

"It's awful to think of tomorrow," he said, as evening approached. "Even supposing you find a way down tonight, it must be midnight tomorrow before we are taken off."

"If I find a way down," James said, "I will, if possible, take you down with me, and then we can take a long drink at the river; but, at any rate, I will take the bottle down with me, and bring it up full for you. The next place to try is the spot where we saw some tents, as we went up the river. There is no battery there, and the tents can only have been pitched there because there was some way down to the water. It cannot be more than half a mile away, for it was not more than a mile from Fort Samos."

"Can't I go with you?" the midshipman said. "I will be as quiet as a cat; and, if you find it is a good path, and come up to fetch me down, you see there will be a treble risk of being seen."

"Very well," James agreed. "Only mind, if you set a stone rolling, or break a twig, it will cost us both our lives, to say nothing of the failure of our expedition."

"I will be as quiet as a mouse. You see if I ain't," the midshipman said confidently; "and I will try not to think, even once, of the water below there, so as not to hurry."

Together they crept cautiously along the edge of the ridge, until they came to a clump of some fifteen tents. As they approached they could see, by the light of the fires, that the encampment was one of Canadian troops.

James had not intended to move forward until all were asleep, but the men were all chatting round the fires, and it did not seem to him that a sentry had, as yet, been placed on the edge of the descent. He therefore crept forward at once, followed closely by the midshipman, keeping, as far as possible, down beyond the slope of the descent.

Presently, he came to a path. He saw at once that this was very different from the others--it was regularly cut, sloping gradually down the face of the sharp descent, and was wide enough for a cart to pass. He at once took his way down it, moving with the greatest caution, lest a sentry should be posted some distance below. It was very dark, for, in many places, the trees met overhead.

About halfway down he suddenly came to a stop, for, in front of him, rose a bank breast high. Here, if anywhere, a sentry should have been placed, and, holding his companion's arm, James listened intently for some time.

"Mind what you are doing," he said in a whisper. "This is a breastwork and, probably, the path is cut away on the other side. Fortunately, we are so far down the hill now, that there is not much risk of their hearing any slight noise we might make. You stand here, till I find out what's on the other side."

James climbed over the breastwork, and cautiously let himself go on the other side. He fell some five or six feet.

"Come on," he said in a low voice. "Lower yourself down by your arms. I can reach your legs then."

The gap cut in the path was some ten feet across, and six feet deep. When, with some difficulty, they clambered up on the other side, they found the path obstructed by a number of felled trees, forming a thick abattis. They managed to climb the steep hillside, and kept along it until past the obstruction. Then they got on to the path again, and found it unbroken to the bottom.

"So far, so good," James said. "Now, do you stop here, while I crawl forward to the water. The first thing to discover is whether they have a sentinel stationed anywhere near the bottom of this path."

The time seemed terribly long to Middleton before James returned, though it was really but a few minutes.

"All right!" he said, as he approached him. "There is no one here, though I can hear some sentries farther up the river. Now you can come forward, and have a drink. Fortunately, the river is high."

After having satisfied their thirst, Middleton asked:

"Where are you going now? I don't care how far we have got to march, for, after that drink, I feel ready for anything."

"It won't do to hide anywhere near," James said; "for, if the boat which comes to take us off were to be seen, it would put them on their guard, and there would be plenty of sentries about here in future. No, we will keep along at the foot of the precipice till we are about halfway, as far as we can tell, between Samos and Sillery, and then we will climb up, as high as we can get, and show our signal in the morning. But you must be careful as we walk, for, as I told you, there are some sentries posted by the water's edge, higher up."

"I will be careful, don't you fear," the midshipman said. "There is not much fear of a fellow, walking about in the dark without boots, not being careful. I knocked my toe against a rock, just now, and it was as much as I could do not to halloa. I will be careful in future, I can tell you."

An hour's walking brought them to a spot where the hill was rather less steep than usual. They climbed up, until they gained a spot some fifty feet above the level of the river, and there sat down in a clump of bushes.

"As soon as it's daylight, we will choose a spot where we can show a signal, without the risk of it's being seen from below," James said. "We mustn't go to sleep, for we must move directly the dawn commences, else those sentries below might make us out."

At daybreak they shifted their position, and gained a spot completely hidden from below, but from which an entire view of the river could be obtained.

"Tide will be low in a couple of hours," the midshipman said. "There are the fleet below. They will come up with the first flood, so, in three or four hours, they will be abreast of us. I hope they will make out our signal."

"I have no fear of that," James replied. "They are sure to keep a sharp lookout for it."

Presently the tide grew slacker, and, half an hour later, the ships were seen to hoist their sails, and soon began to drop slowly up the river. When they approached, James fastened his handkerchief against the trunk of a tree, well open to view from the river, and then stood with his eyes fixed on the approaching ships. Just as the Sutherland came abreast of the spot where they were standing, the ensign was dipped. James at once removed his handkerchief.

"Now," he said, "Middleton, you can turn in and take a sleep. At twelve o'clock tonight there will be a boat below for us."

Two or three hours after darkness had fallen, James and his companion made their way down the slope, and crawled out to the water's edge. There was no sentry within hearing, and they sat down, by the edge of the river, until suddenly a light gleamed for an instant, low down on the water, two or three hundred yards from the shore.

They at once stepped into the river, and, wading out for some little distance, struck out towards where they had seen the light. A few minutes' swimming, and they saw something dark ahead. Another few strokes took them alongside, and they were hauled into the boat.

The slight noise attracted the attention of a sentry, some little distance along the shore, and his qui vive came sharply across the water, followed a few seconds later by the flash of his gun.

The crew now bent to their oars, and, a quarter of an hour later, the boat was alongside the Sutherland, which, with her consorts, was slowly drifting up the stream. General Wolfe and the admiral were on deck, and anxiously waiting the arrival of the boat. The former, in his anxiety, hailed the boat as it approached.

"Is Captain James Walsham on board?"

"Yes, sir," James replied.

"Bravo, bravo!" the general cried, delighted.

"Bravo!" he repeated, seizing James Walsham's hand as he stepped on deck. "I did not expect to see you again, Captain Walsham, at least until we took Quebec. Now, come to my cabin at once and tell me all about it. But perhaps you are hungry."

"I am rather hungry, general," James said quietly. "We have had nothing to eat but a crust of bread for three days."

"We? Who are we?" the general asked quickly.

"Mr. Middleton and myself, sir. He escaped after I had left, and joined me."

"The galley fires are out," the admiral said, "but you shall have some cold meat in my cabin, instantly."

James was at once led to the cabin, where, in two or three minutes, food and a bottle of wine were placed before him. The general would not allow him to speak a word, till his hunger was satisfied. Then, when he saw him lay down his knife and fork, he said:

"Now, Captain Walsham, in the first place, have you succeeded--have you found a practicable path down to the river?"

"I have found a path, sir. It is cut in one place, and blocked with felled trees, but the obstacles can be passed. There are some Canadians, in tents, near the top of the path, but they seem to keep a very careless watch, and no sentry is placed at the bottom, or on the edge of the river anywhere near."

"Admirable, admirable!" Wolfe exclaimed. "At last there is a chance of our outreaching Montcalm. And you were not seen examining the path? Nothing occurred to excite their suspicion, and lead them to keep a better lookout in future?"

"No, sir," James replied. "They have had no suspicion of my presence anywhere near. The spot where I was taken off was two miles higher. I moved away in order that, if we were seen swimming off to the boat, no suspicion should occur that we had been reconnoitring the pathway."

"That is right," the general said. "Now, tell me the whole story of what you have been doing, in your own way."

James related his adventures, up to the time when he was joined by the midshipman.

"But what made Mr. Middleton escape?" the admiral asked. "I thought that his instructions were precise, that he was to permit himself to be taken prisoner, and was to remain quietly in Quebec, until we could either exchange him or take the place."

"That was how he understood his instructions, sir," James said; "but I would rather that you should question him, yourself, as to his reasons for escaping. I may say they appear to me to be perfectly valid, as an occurrence took place upon which it was impossible for Captain Peters to calculate, when he gave them."

James then finished the report of his proceedings, and General Wolfe expressed his great satisfaction at the result.

"I will put you in orders, tomorrow, for your brevet-majority," he said; "and never was the rank more honourably earned."

The admiral rang a hand bell.

"Send Mr. Middleton to me. Where is he?"

"He is having supper in Captain Peters' cabin."

"Ask Captain Peters if he will be good enough to come in with him."

A minute later Captain Peters entered, followed by the midshipman.

"I suppose, Peters, you have been asking young Middleton the reason why he did not carry out his instructions?"

"I have, admiral," Captain Peters said gravely, "and I was only waiting until you were disengaged to report the circumstance to you. He had better tell you, sir, his own way."

Captain Peters then took a seat at the table, while the midshipman related his story, in nearly the same words in which he had told it to James. When he told of the account the Canadian pilot had given of his escape, the admiral exclaimed:

"But it seems altogether incredible. That some one has unbolted the man's cabin from the outside seems manifest, and it is clear that either gross treachery, or gross carelessness, enabled him to get free. I own that, although the sergeant of marines declares positively that he fastened the bolts, I think that he could not have done so, for treachery seems almost out of the question. That an officer should have done this seems impossible; and yet, what the man says about the cabin, and being let out by a rope, would seem to show that it must have been an officer."

"I am sorry to say, sir," Middleton said, "that the man gave proofs of the truth of what he was saying. The officer, he said, gave him a paper, which I heard and saw the general reading aloud. It was a warning that Captain Walsham had purposely allowed himself to be captured, and that he was, in fact, a spy. The French officer, in his haste, laid down the paper on the table when he rushed out, and I had just time to creep under the canvas, seize it, and make off with it. Here it is, sir. I have showed it to Captain Peters."

The admiral took the paper and read it, and handed it, without a word, to General Wolfe.

"That is proof conclusive," he said. "Peters, do you know the handwriting?"

"Yes," Captain Peters said gravely. "I recognized it at once, as did Mr. Middleton. It is the handwriting of Lieutenant Horton."

"But what on earth could be the motive of this unhappy young man?" the admiral asked.

"I imagine, sir, from what I saw on the evening before Captain Walsham set out, and, indeed, from what Captain Walsham said when I questioned him, that it was a case of private enmity against Captain Walsham."

"Is this so, Captain Walsham?" General Wolfe asked.

"I have no enmity against him, sir," James said, "though I own that his manner impressed me with the idea that he regarded me as an enemy. The fact is, we lived near each other as boys, and we had a fight. I got the best of it. He gave an account of the affair, which was not exactly correct, to his uncle, Mr. Linthorne, a wealthy landowner and a magistrate. The latter had me up at the justice room; but I brought forward witnesses, who gave their account of the affair. Mr. Linthorne considered that his nephew--whom he had at that time regarded as his heir--had not given a correct account, and was so angry that he sent him to sea.

"I would say, sir," he said earnestly, "that, were it possible, I should have wished this unhappy affair to be passed over."

"Impossible!" the admiral and general said together.

"I fear it is impossible now, sir," James said gravely; "but it might have been stopped before."

"Captain Walsham wanted me to tear up the note," the midshipman put in; "but, though I was awfully sorry such a thing should happen to an officer of the Sutherland, I was obliged to refuse to do so, as I thought it was my duty to hand the note to you."

"Certainly it was, Mr. Middleton," the admiral said. "There can be no question about that."

"I wonder that you even suggested such a thing, Captain Walsham," the general remarked. "This was not a private affair. The whole success of the enterprise was jeopardized."

"It was, sir," James said quietly; "but you must remember that, at the time I asked Mr. Middleton to tear up the note, it had ceased to be jeopardized, for I had got fairly away. I am under great obligations to Mr. Linthorne, and would do much to save him pain. I regarded this act, not as one of treason against the country, but as one of personal enmity to myself, and I am sure that Lieutenant Horton, himself, did not think of the harm that his letter might do to the cause, but was blinded by his passion against me."

"Your conduct does credit to your heart, Captain Walsham, if not to your head," General Wolfe said.

The admiral rang the bell.

"Tell Lieutenant Horton that I wish to speak to him, and order a corporal, with a file of marines, to be at the door."

The messenger found Lieutenant Horton pacing the quarterdeck with hurried steps. On the receipt of the message, instead of going directly to the admiral's cabin, he ran down below, caught something from a shelf by his berth, placed it in the breast of his coat, and then went to the admiral's cabin. The corporal, with the two marines, had already taken his station there. The young officer drew a deep breath, and entered.

A deadly fear had seized him, from the moment he saw the signal of James Walsham, although it seemed impossible to him that his treachery could have been discovered. The sudden summons at this hour of the night confirmed his fears, and it was with a face almost as pale as death that he entered the cabin.

"Lieutenant Horton," the admiral said, "you are accused of having assisted in the escape of the pilot, who was our prisoner on board this ship. You are further accused of releasing him with the special purpose that the plans which General Wolfe had laid, to obtain information, might be thwarted."

"Who accuses me?" Richard Horton asked. "Captain Walsham is my enemy. He has for years intrigued against me, and sought to do me harm. He was the companion of smugglers, and was captured by the Thetis, and had the choice of being sent to prison, and tried for his share in the killing of some of the coast guards, or of going before the mast. I was a lieutenant in the Thetis at the time, and I suppose, because I did not then interfere on his behalf, he has now trumped up this accusation against me, an accusation I defy him to prove."

"You are mistaken, Lieutenant Horton," the admiral said. "Captain Walsham is not your accuser. Nay, more, he has himself committed a grave dereliction of duty in trying to screen you, and by endeavouring to destroy the principal evidence against you. Mr. Middleton overheard a conversation between the Canadian pilot and the French general, and the former described how he had been liberated by an English officer, who assisted him to escape by a rope from the porthole in his cabin."

"I do not see that that is any evidence against me," Richard Horton said. "In the first place, the man may have been lying. In the second place, unless he mentioned my name, why am I suspected more than any other officer? And, even if he did mention my name, my word is surely as good as that of a Canadian prisoner. It is probable that the man was released by one of the crew--some man, perhaps, who owed me a grudge--who told him to say that it was I who freed him, in hopes that some day this outrageous story might get about."

"Your suggestions are plausible, Mr. Horton," the admiral said coldly. "Unfortunately, it is not on the word of this Canadian that we have to depend.

"There, sir," he said, holding out the letter; "there is the chief witness against you. Captain Peters instantly recognized your handwriting, as Mr. Middleton had done before him."

Richard Horton stood gazing speechlessly at the letter. So confounded was he, by the unexpected production of this fatal missive, that he was unable to utter a single word of explanation or excuse.

"Lay your sword on the table, sir," the admiral said, "and retire to your cabin, where you will remain, under close arrest, till a court martial can be assembled."

Richard Horton unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, and left the cabin without a word.

"It would have been better to send a guard with him," Captain Peters said; "he might jump overboard, or blow his brains out."

"Quite so, Peters," the admiral said. "The very thing that was in my mind, when I told him to retire to his cabin--the very best thing he could do, for himself and for the service. A nice scandal it would be, to have to try and hang a naval officer for treachery.

"I am sure you agree with me, general?"

"Thoroughly," the general said. "Let him blow his brains out, or desert; but you had best keep a sharp lookout that he does not desert at present. After we have once effected our landing, I should say keep as careless a watch over him as possible; but don't let him go before. It is bad enough that the French know that Captain Walsham went ashore for the purpose of discovering a landing place; but it would be worse were they to become aware that he has rejoined the ships, and that he was taken off by a boat within a couple of miles of the spot where we mean to land."

The admiral was right. Richard Horton had, when summoned to the cabin, hastily placed a pistol in his bosom, with the intention of blowing out his brains, should he find that the discovery he dreaded had been made. Had the marines posted outside the cabin been ordered to accompany him, he would at once have carried his purpose into execution; but, finding himself free, he walked to his cabin, still determined to blow out his brains before morning; but, the impulse once past, he could not summon up resolution to carry his resolve into effect. He would do it, he said to himself, before the court martial came on. That would be time enough.

This was the decision he arrived at when the morning dawned upon him, lying despairing in his cot.

Chapter 21: The Capture Of Quebec.

On the day on which he received James' report, Wolfe issued his orders for the attack. Colonel Burton, at Point Levi, was to bring up every man who could be spared, to assist in the enterprise, and that officer accordingly marched to the spot indicated for embarkation, after nightfall, with 1200 men.

As night approached, the main fleet, under Admiral Saunders, below Quebec, ranged itself opposite Beauport, and opened a tremendous cannonade, while the boats were lowered, and filled with sailors and marines. Montcalm, believing that the movements of the English above the town were only a feint, and that their main body was still below it, massed his troops in front of Beauport, to repel the expected landing.

To Colonel Howe, of the Light Infantry, was given the honour of leading the little party, who were to suddenly attack Vergor's camp, at the head of the path. James Walsham, knowing the way, was to accompany him as second in command. Twenty-four picked men volunteered to follow them. Thirty large troop boats, and some boats belonging to the ships, were in readiness, and 1700 men took their places in them.

The tide was still flowing, and, the better to deceive the French, the vessels and boats were allowed to drift upwards for a little distance, as if to attempt to effect a landing above Cap Rouge. Wolfe had, that day, gained some intelligence which would assist him to deceive the enemy, for he learned that a number of boats, laden with provisions from Quebec, were coming down with the tide.

Wolfe was on board the Sutherland. He was somewhat stronger than he had been for some days, but felt a presentiment that he would die in the approaching battle. About two o'clock, the tide began to ebb, and two lanterns--the signal for the troops to put off--were shown in the rigging of the Sutherland.

Fortune favoured the English. Bougainville had watched the vessels, until he saw them begin to drift down again with the stream, and, thinking that they would return again with the flood, as they had done for the last seven days, allowed his weary troops to retire to their camp. The battalion of Guienne, instead of encamping near the heights, had remained on the Saint Charles; and Vergor, an incapable and cowardly officer, had gone quietly to bed, and had allowed a number of the Canadians under him to go away to their village, to assist in getting in the harvest.

For two hours, the English boats drifted down with the stream. As they neared their destination, they suddenly were challenged by a French sentry. An officer, who spoke the language replied, "France."

"A quel regiment?"

"De la reine," the officer replied, knowing that a part of that regiment was with Bougainville. The sentry, believing that they were the expected provision boats, allowed them to pass on.

A few hundred yards further, another sentry challenged them. The same officer replied in French, "Provision boats. Don't make a noise; the English will hear us."

A few minutes later, the boats rowed up to the strand, at the foot of the heights. Vergor had placed no sentry on the shore, and the troops landed unchallenged. Guided by James Walsham, Colonel Howe, with his twenty-four volunteers, led the way. As silently as they could, they moved up the pathway, until they gained the top, and saw before them the outline of the tents. They went at them with a rush. Vergor leaped from his bed, and tried to run off, but was shot in the heel and captured. His men, taken by surprise, made little resistance. One or two were caught, but the rest fled.

The main body of the troops were waiting, for the most part, in the boats by the edge of the bank. Not a word was spoken as the men listened, almost breathlessly, for a sound which would tell them whether the enterprise had succeeded. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the musketry on the top of the heights, followed by a loud British cheer. Then all leapt from the boats, and each man, with his musket slung at his back, scaled the rocks as best he might. The narrow path had been made impassable by trenches and abattis, but the obstructions were soon cleared away, and the stream of soldiers poured steadily up.

As soon as a sufficient number had gained the plateau, strong parties were sent off to seize the batteries at Samos and Sillery, which had just opened fire upon the boats and ships. This was easily done, and the English footing on the plateau was assured. As fast as the boats were emptied of the men, they rowed back to the ships to fetch more, and the whole force was soon on shore. The day began to break a few minutes after the advanced troops had gained the heights, and, before it was fairly daylight, all the first party were drawn up in line, ready to resist attack. But no enemy was in sight. A body of Canadians, who had sallied from the town on hearing the firing, and moved along the strand towards the landing place, had been quickly driven back, and, for the present, no other sign of the enemy was to be seen.

Wolfe reconnoitred the ground, and found a suitable place for a battle, at a spot known as the Plains of Abraham, from a pilot of that name who had owned a piece of land there, in the early days of the colony. It was a tract of grass, with some cornfields here and there, and studded by clumps of bushes. On the south, it was bounded by the steep fall down to the Saint Lawrence; on the north, it sloped gradually down to the Saint Charles.

Wolfe led his troops to this spot and formed them in line, across the plateau and facing the city. The right wing rested on the edge of the height, along the Saint Lawrence, but the left did not extend far enough to reach the slopes down to the Saint Charles. To prevent being outflanked on this wing, Brigadier Townshend was stationed here, with two battalions, drawn up at right angles to the rest, and facing the Saint Charles. Webb's regiment formed the reserve, the 3d battalion of Royal Americans were left to guard the landing, and Howe's light infantry occupied a wood, far in the rear of the force, to check Bougainville should he approach from that direction. Wolfe, with his three brigadiers, commanded the main body, which, when all the troops had arrived, numbered less than three thousand five hundred men.

Quebec was less than a mile distant from the spot where the troops were posted, in order of battle, but an intervening ridge hid it from the sight of the troops. At six o'clock, the white uniforms of the battalion of Guienne, which had marched up in hot haste from their camp on the Saint Charles, made their appearance on the ridge, and halted there, awaiting reinforcements. Shortly afterwards, there was an outbreak of hot firing in the rear, where the light troops, under Colonel Howe, repulsed a detachment of Bougainville's command, which came up and attacked them.

Montcalm had been on the alert all night. The guns of Saunders' fleet thundered unceasingly, opposite Beauport, and its boats hovered near the shore, threatening a landing. All night, the French troops remained in their intrenchments. Accompanied by the Chevalier Johnston, he remained all night in anxious expectation. He felt that the critical moment had come, but could not tell from which direction the blow was to arrive. He had sent an officer to Vaudreuil, whose quarters were near Quebec, begging him to send word instantly, should anything occur above the town.

Just at daybreak, he heard the sound of cannon from that direction. This was the battery at Samos, opening fire upon the English ships. But no word came from Vaudreuil and, about six o'clock, Montcalm mounted and, accompanied by Johnston, rode towards the town. As he approached the bridge across the Saint Charles, the country behind the town opened to his view, and he presently saw the red line of British troops, drawn up on the heights above the river, two miles away. Instantly, he sent Johnston off, at full gallop, to bring up the troops from the centre and left. Vaudreuil had already ordered up those on the right. Montcalm rode up to Vaudreuil's quarters, and, after a few words with the governor, galloped over the bridge of the Saint Charles towards the seat of danger.

It must have been a bitter moment for him. The fruits of his long care and watching were, in a moment, snatched away, and, just when he hoped that the enemy, foiled and exhausted, were about to return to England, he found that they had surmounted the obstacles he had deemed impregnable, and were calmly awaiting him on a fair field of battle. One who saw him said that he rode towards the field, with a fixed look, uttering not a word.

The army followed in hot haste, crossed the Saint Charles, passed through Quebec, and hurried on to the ridge, where the battalion of Guienne had taken up its position. Nothing could have been stronger than the contrast which the two armies afforded. On the one side was the red English line, quiet and silent, save that the war pipes of the Highlanders blew loud and shrilly; on the other were the white-coated battalions of the regular army of France, the blue-clad Canadians, the bands of Indians in their war paint and feathers, all hurried and excited by their rapid march, and by the danger which had so unexpectedly burst upon them.

Now the evils of a divided command were apparent. Vaudreuil countermanded Montcalm's orders for the advance of the left of the army, as he feared that the English might make a descent upon Beauport. Nor was the garrison of Quebec available, for Ramesay, its commander, was under the orders of Vaudreuil and, when Montcalm sent to him for twenty-five field guns from one of its batteries, he only sent three, saying that he wanted the rest for his own defence.

Montcalm held a council of war with all his officers, and determined to attack at once. For this he has been blamed. That he must have fought was certain, for the English, in the position which they occupied, cut him off from the base of his supplies; but he might have waited for a few hours, and in that time he could have sent messengers, and brought up the force of Bougainville, which could have marched, by a circuitous route, and have joined him without coming in contact with the English.

Upon the other hand, Montcalm had every reason to believe that the thirty-five hundred men he saw before him formed a portion, only, of the English army, that the rest were still on board the fleet opposite Beauport, and that a delay would bring larger reinforcements to Wolfe than he could himself receive. He was, as we know, mistaken, but his reasoning was sound, and he had, all along, believed the English army to be far more numerous than it really was. He was doubtless influenced by the fact that his troops were full of ardour, and that any delay would greatly dispirit the Canadians and Indians.

He therefore determined to attack at once. The three field pieces, sent by Ramesay, opened fire upon the English line with canister, while fifteen hundred Canadians and Indians crept up among the bushes and knolls, and through the cornfield, and opened a heavy fire. Wolfe threw out skirmishers in front of the line, to keep these assailants in check, and ordered the rest of the troops to lie down to avoid the fire.

On the British left, the attack was most galling. Bands of the sharpshooters got among the thickets, just below the edge of the declivity down to the Saint Charles, and from these, and from several houses scattered there, they killed and wounded a considerable number of Townshend's men.

Howe was called up, with his light troops, from the rear; and he, and the two flank battalions of Townshend, dashed at the thickets, and, after some sharp fighting, partially cleared them, and took and burned some of the houses.

Towards ten o'clock, the French advanced to the attack. Their centre was formed of regular troops, only, with regulars and Canadian battalions on either flank. Two field pieces which, with enormous labour, the English had dragged up the path from the landing place, at once opened fire with grape upon the French line.

The advance was badly conducted. The French regulars marched steadily on, but the Canadians, firing as they advanced, threw themselves on the ground to reload, and this broke the regularity of the line. The English advanced some little distance, to meet their foes, and then halted.

Not a shot was fired until the French were within forty paces, and then, at the word of command, a volley of musketry crashed out along the whole length of the line. So regularly was the volley given, that the French officers afterwards said that it sounded like a single cannon shot. Another volley followed, and then the continuous roar of independent firing.

When the smoke cleared off a little, its effects could be seen. The French had halted where they stood, and, among them, the dead and wounded were thickly strewn. All order and regularity had been lost under that terrible fire, and, in three minutes, the line of advancing soldiers was broken up into a disorderly shouting mob. Then Wolfe gave the order to charge, and the British cheer, mingled with the wild yell of the Highlanders, rose loud and fierce. The English regiments advanced with levelled bayonets. The Highlanders drew their broadswords and rushed headlong forward.

The charge was decisive. The French were swept helplessly before it, and the battle was at an end, save that the scattered parties of Canadians and Indians kept up, for some time, a fire from the bushes and cornfields.

Their fire was heaviest on the British right, where Wolfe himself led the charge, at the head of the Louisbourg Grenadiers. A shot shattered his wrist. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and kept on. Another shot struck him, but he still advanced. When a third pierced his breast, he staggered and sat down. Two or three officers and men carried him to the rear, and then laid him down, and asked if they should send for a surgeon.

"There is no need," he said. "It is all over with me."

A moment later, one of those standing by him cried out:

"They run, see how they run!"

"Who run?" Wolfe asked.

"The enemy, sir. They give way everywhere."

"Go, one of you, to Colonel Burton," Wolfe said. "Tell him to march Webb's regiment down to the Charles River, to cut off their retreat from the bridge;" then, turning on his side, he said:

"Now, God be praised, I will die in peace!" and, a few minutes later, he expired.

Montcalm, still on horseback, was borne by the tide of fugitives towards the town. As he neared the gate, a shot passed through his body.

It needed some hard work before the Canadians, who fought bravely, could be cleared out from the thickets. The French troops did not rally from their disorder till they had crossed the Saint Charles. The Canadians retired in better order.

Decisive as the victory was, the English, for the moment, were in no condition to follow it up. While on the French side Montcalm was dying, and his second in command was mortally wounded; on the English, Wolfe was dead and Monckton, second in rank, badly wounded, and the command had fallen upon Townshend, at the moment when the enemy were in full flight. Knowing that the French could cut the bridge of boats across the Saint Charles, and so stop his pursuit, and that Bougainville was close at hand, he halted his troops, and set them to work to intrench themselves on the field of battle.

Their loss had been six hundred and sixty-four, of all ranks, killed and wounded; while the French loss was estimated at about double that number. In point of numbers engaged, and in the total loss on both sides, the fight on the Plains of Abraham does not deserve to rank as a great battle, but its results were of the most extreme importance, for the victory transferred Canada from France to England.

Vaudreuil, after joining his force with that of Bougainville, would have still vastly outnumbered the English, and could, by taking up a fresh position in their rear, have rendered himself impregnable, until the winter forced the English to retire; while the latter had no means of investing or besieging Quebec. But his weakness was now as great as his presumption had been before, and, on the evening of the battle, he abandoned the lines of Beauport, and, leaving all his tents and stores behind him, retreated hastily, or rather it may be said fled, for as the Chevalier Johnston said of it:

"It was not a retreat, but an abominable flight, with such disorder and confusion that, had the English known it, three hundred men sent after us would have been sufficient to have cut all our army to pieces. The soldiers were all mixed, scattered, dispersed, and running as hard as they could, as if the English army were at their heels."

The flight was continued, until they reached the impregnable position of Jacques Cartier on the brink of the Saint Lawrence, thirty miles from the scene of action.

Montcalm died in Quebec the next morning. Levis soon arrived at Jacques Cartier from Montreal, and took the command, and at once attempted to restore order, and persuaded Vaudreuil to march back to join Bougainville, who had remained firmly with his command, at Cap Rouge, while the horde of fugitives swept by him. Vaudreuil, before leaving, had given orders to Ramesay to surrender, if Quebec was threatened by assault, and Levis, on his march to its relief, was met by the news that, on the morning of the 18th, Ramesay had surrendered.

The garrison was utterly dispirited, and unwilling to fight. The officers were even more anxious to surrender than the men, and, on the fleet approaching the walls Ramesay obeyed Vaudreuil's orders, and surrendered. Townshend granted favourable conditions, for he knew that Levis was approaching, and that his position was dangerous in the extreme. He therefore agreed that the troops and sailors of the garrison should march out from the place, with the honours of war, and were to be carried to France, and that the inhabitants should have protection in person and property, and free exercise of religion.

The day after the capture of Quebec, James Walsham returned on board ship. The thought of Richard Horton, awaiting the court martial, which would assuredly award him the sentence of death for his treachery, was constantly in his mind. He remembered the conversation between Captain Peters and the admiral, and General Wolfe's words: "I should say, keep as careless a watch over him as possible," and he determined, if possible, to aid him in making his escape, confident that, in the general exultation at the success of the enterprise, no one would trouble greatly about the matter, and that the admiral would be only too pleased that an inquiry should be avoided, which could but end in the disgrace and execution of a naval officer.

James was relieved when, on his arrival, he found that Richard Horton was still in confinement, for he feared that he might have carried out the other alternative spoken of by the admiral, and might have committed suicide.

"Captain Peters," he said, going up to that officer, "I should be obliged if you would give me an order to see Lieutenant Horton."

"Can't do it, my lad. The admiral's orders are precise. Nobody is to be admitted to see him, without an order signed by himself."

James accordingly sought the admiral's cabin.

"What do you want to see him for, eh?" the admiral asked.

James hesitated. He would not tell an untruth in the matter, and yet he could think of no excuse which could answer, without doing so.

"I want to see him, sir, to have some conversation with him."

"Ah!" the admiral said, looking at him keenly. "Conversation, eh! You are not going to take him a pistol, or poison, or anything of that sort, to help him to put an end to his wretched existence?"

"No, indeed, sir," James said warmly.

"Humph! You are not thinking, I hope," he said, with a twinkle of the eye, "of helping him to escape?"

James was silent.

"Well, well," the admiral said hastily, "that's not a fair question to ask. However, I will tell you in confidence that, if he should escape, which is the most unlikely thing in the world, you know, no one would be particularly sorry, and there would be no great fuss made about it. Everyone in the navy here would feel it cast a slur upon the service if, at a time like this, a naval officer were tried and shot for treachery. However, if it must be it must.

"Here is an order for you to see him. If it was anyone else, I might have my doubts about granting it, but as you are the man against whom he played this scurvy trick, I feel safe in doing so.

"There you are, my lad. Give me your hand. You are a fine fellow, Major Walsham, a very fine fellow."

Immediately upon entering Quebec, James had purchased a large turn-screw, some ten yards of fine but strong rope, and three or four bladders. When he procured the order, he went to his cabin, took off his coat, wound the rope round his body, and then, putting on his coat, placed the flattened bladders under it and buttoned it up, slipping the turn-screw up his sleeve, and then proceeded to the prisoner's cabin. The sentry at once admitted him, on producing the admiral's order.

Richard Horton was lying down on his berth, and started with surprise as his visitor entered.

"I am glad you have come to see me, James Walsham, for I have been wishing to speak to you, and I thought you would come. I have been thinking much for the last two days. I know that it is all up with me. The proofs are too strong, and I will not face a court martial, for I have the means--I know I may tell you safely--of avoiding it. The hour that brings me news that the court is ordered to assemble, I cease to live.

"When a man is at that point, he sees things more clearly, perhaps, than he did before. I know that I have wronged you, and, when the admiral said that you had done all in your power to shield me, I felt more humiliated than I did when that fatal letter was produced. I know what you have come for--to tell me that you bear me no malice. You are a fine fellow, Walsham, and deserve all your good fortune, just as I deserve what has befallen me. I think, if it had not been for the squire taking me up, I should never have come to this, but might have grown up a decent fellow. But my head was turned. I thought I was going to be a great man, and this is what has come of it."

"I have come partly, as you suppose, to tell you that I bear you no malice, Richard Horton. I, too, have thought matters over, and understand your feeling against me. That first unfortunate quarrel, and its unfortunate result, set you against me, and, perhaps, I never did as much as I might to turn your feelings the other way. However, we will not talk more of that. All that is past and over. I come to you, now, as the nephew of the man who has done so much for me. I have brought with me the means of aiding your escape."

"Of aiding my escape, Walsham! You must be mad! I am too securely fastened here; and, even were it not so, I would not accept a kindness which would cost you your commission, were it known."

"As to the second reason, you may make your mind easy. From words which dropped, from the admiral, I am sure that everyone will be so glad, at your escape, that no very strict inquiry will be made. In the next place, your fastenings are not so very secure. The porthole is screwed down as usual."

"Yes," Horton said; "but, in addition, there are a dozen strong screws placed round it."

"Here is a long turn-screw which will take them out as quickly as the carpenter put them in," James said, producing the tool; "and here," and he opened his coat, "is a rope for lowering yourself down into the water."

"You are very good, James," Horton said quietly; "but it is no use. I can't swim."

"I know you could not, as a boy," James replied, "and I thought it likely enough that you have not learned since; but I think, with these, you may make a shift to get ashore," and he produced four bladders and some strong lashing. "If you blow these out, fasten the necks tightly, and then lash them round you, you can't sink. The drift of the tide will take you not very far from the point below, and, if you do your best to strike out towards the shore, I have no doubt you will be able to make it. You must lower yourself into the water very quietly, and allow yourself to float down, till you are well astern of the vessel."

Richard Horton stood for a minute or two, with his hand over his eyes; then he said in a broken voice:

"God bless you, Walsham. I will try it. If I am shot, 'tis better than dying by my own hand. If I escape, I will do my best to retrieve my life. I shall never return to England again, but, under a new name, may start afresh in the colonies. God bless you, and make you happy."

The young men wrung each other hands, with a silent clasp, and James returned to his own cabin.

The next morning, the officer of marines reported to Captain Peters that the prisoner was missing. The porthole was found open, and a rope hanging to the water's edge. The captain at once took the report to the admiral.

"A bad job," the admiral said, with a twinkle of the eye. "A very bad job! How could it have happened?"

"The sentries report, sir, that they heard no noise during the night, and that the only person who visited the cabin, with the exception of the sergeant with the prisoner's food, was Major Walsham, with your own order."

"Yes, now I think of it, I did give him an order; but, of course, he can have had nothing to do with it. Horton must have managed to unscrew the porthole, somehow, perhaps with a pocketknife, and he might have had a coil of rope somewhere in his cabin. Great carelessness, you know. However, at a time like this, we need not bother our heads about it. He's gone, and there's an end of it."

"He could not swim, sir," the captain said. "I heard him say so, once."

"Then most likely he's drowned," the admiral remarked briskly. "That's the best thing that could happen. Enter it so in the log book: 'Lieutenant Horton fell out of his cabin window, while under arrest for misconduct; supposed to have been drowned.' That settles the whole matter."

Captain Peters smiled to himself, as he made the entry. He was convinced, by the calm manner in which the admiral took it, that he more than suspected that the prisoner had escaped, and that James Walsham had had a hand in getting him off.

Shortly after Quebec surrendered, Townshend returned to England with the fleet, leaving Murray in command of the army at Quebec. In the spring, Levis advanced with eight or nine thousand men against Quebec; and Murray, with three thousand, advanced to meet him, and gave battle nearly on the same ground on which the previous battle had been fought. The fight was a desperate one; but the English, being outflanked by the superior numbers of the French, were driven back into Quebec, with the loss of a third of their number.

Quebec was now besieged by the French until, in May, an English fleet arrived, and destroyed the vessels which had brought down the stores and ammunition of Levis from Montreal. The French at once broke up their camp, and retreated hastily; but all hope was now gone, the loss of Quebec had cut them off from France.

Amherst invaded the country from the English colonies, and the French were driven back to Montreal, before which the united English forces, 17,000 strong, took up their position; and, on the 8th of September, 1760, Vaudreuil signed the capitulation, by which Canada and all its dependencies passed to the English crown. All the French officers, civil and military, and the French troops and sailors, were to be sent back to France, in English ships.

James Walsham was not present at the later operations round Quebec. He had been struck, in the side, by a shot by a lurking Indian, when a column had marched out from Quebec, a few days after its capture; and, for three or four weeks, he lay between life and death, on board ship. When convalescence set in, he found that he was already on blue water, all the serious cases being taken back by the fleet when, soon after the capture of Quebec, it sailed for England.

The voyage was a long one, and, by the time the fleet sailed with their convoy into Portsmouth harbour, James had recovered much of his strength. An hour after landing, he was in a post chaise on his way home. It seemed strange, indeed, to him, as he drove through the little town, on his way up to the Hall. He had left it, in the beginning of 1755, a raw young fellow of eighteen. He returned, in the last month of 1759, a man of twenty-three, with the rank of major, and no inconsiderable share of credit and honour.

He stopped the vehicle at the lodge gate, had his baggage taken out there, and proceeded on foot towards the Hall, for he was afraid that, if he drove straight up to the door, the sudden delight of seeing him would be too much for his mother.

John Petersham opened the door, and, recognizing him at once, was about to exclaim loudly, when James made a motion for him to be silent.

"Show me quietly into the squire's study, John," he said, grasping the butler's hand with a hearty squeeze, "and don't say anything about my being here, until he has seen my mother. They are all well, I hope?"

"All well, sir, and right glad they will be to see you; for Mrs. Walsham, and all of them, have been fretting sorely since the news came that you were badly wounded."

"I have had a narrow shave of it," James said; "but, thank God, I am as well now as ever!"

As he spoke, he opened the door of the study, and entered. The squire, who was reading the paper, looked up, and leapt to his feet with a cry of satisfaction.

"My dear boy, I am glad--thank God you are back again! What a relief your coming will be to us all!"

And he shook James warmly by both hands.

"I should hardly have known you, and yet you are not so much changed, either. Dear, dear, how delighted your mother will be! You have not seen her yet?"

"No, sir," James said. "I dismissed the post chaise at the gate, and walked up quietly. I was afraid, if I drove suddenly up, the shock might be too much for her."

"Quite right!" the squire said. "We must break it to her quietly. Wilks must do it--or no, he shall tell Aggie, and she shall tell your mother."

He rang the bell, and John, who had been expecting a summons, instantly appeared.

"Tell Mr. Wilks I want to speak to him, John."

The old soldier speedily appeared, and his delight was as great as if James had been his son. He went off to break the news, and, in a short time, Mrs. Walsham was in the arms of her son.

Major Walsham went no more to the wars, nor did he follow his original intention of entering the medical profession. Indeed, there was no occasion for him to do either. For Aggie insisted on his leaving the army; and she had a very strong voice in the matter. James had not long been home before he and the young lady came to an understanding. Before speaking to her, James had consulted his old friend.

"You know how I feel," he said; "but I don't know whether it would be right. You see, although I am major in the service, I have nothing but my pay. I owe everything to the squire, and he would naturally look very much higher for a husband for his granddaughter."

"Don't you be a fool, James Walsham," Mr. Wilks said. "I made up my mind that you should marry Aggie, ever since the day when you got her out of the sea. The squire has known, for years, what I thought on the subject. You will meet with no opposition from him, for he is almost as proud of you as I am. Besides, he thinks only of Aggie's happiness, and, unless I am greatly mistaken, that young lady has fully made up her mind on the subject."

This was indeed the case, for Aggie, when James had settled the point with her, made no hesitation in telling him that she had regarded him as her special property since she had been a child.

"I considered it all settled, years and years ago," she said demurely, "and I was quite aggrieved, I can tell you, when, on your arrival, you just held out your hand to me, instead of--well, instead of doing the same to me as to your mother."

"You shall have no reason for complaint, that way, in the future, Aggie, I promise you. But how could I tell? The last time I saw you, you were flirting, as hard as you could, with someone else."

"Well, sir, whose fault was that? You chose to make yourself disagreeable, and stay away, and what was I to do? I should do the same in the future, I can tell you, if you neglected me in the same way."

"I sha'n't give you the chance, Aggie. You can rely upon that."

The squire was fully prepared for the communication which James had to make to him, and, as there were no reasons for waiting, the ceremony took place very shortly afterwards.

The squire never asked any questions about his nephew. The official report had come home that Lieutenant Horton had died of drowning, while under arrest, but the squire forbore all inquiry, and, to the end of his life, remained in ignorance of the disgraceful circumstances.

Perhaps, in his heart, the news was a relief to him. He had never been fond of Richard as a lad, and his confidence, once shaken, had never been restored. He had intended to carry out his promise to leave him twenty thousand pounds; but he was well pleased that all that belonged to him should descend to his granddaughter. Mr. Wilks was the only resident at the Hall who ever learned, from James, the facts of Richard Horton's disgrace.

Years afterwards a few lines, without signature or address, came to James from America. The writer said that he was sure that he would be glad to hear that, under a changed name, he was doing very well.

"I shall never return to England," he ended, "nor ever forget your kindness and generosity."

The marriage of the young people made but few changes at the Hall. The squire proposed to give Aggie, at once, a sum which would have purchased an estate in the neighbourhood; but he was delighted to find that she, and James, had made up their minds that the party at the Hall should not be broken up.

"What do you want to send us away for, grandpapa?" she asked. "You three will be happier for having us with you, and James and I will be happier for having you with us. What nonsense to talk about buying another estate! We might get a little house up in London. It would make a change, for James and me to spend two or three months every year there, but of course this will be our home."

And so it was arranged, and so matters continued until, in the lapse of time, the seniors passed away, and James Walsham and his wife, and it may be said their children, became the sole occupants of the Hall, the estate having been largely increased, by the purchase of adjoining property, by the squire before his death. James Walsham might have represented his county in Parliament had he chosen, but he was far too happy in his country life, varied by a few months passed every year in town, to care about taking part in the turmoil of politics. He did much for Sidmouth, and especially for its fishermen, and, to the end of his life, retained a passionate love for the sea.

Table of Contents

True To The Old Flag

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I.

A FRONTIER FARM.

CHAPTER II.

AN INDIAN RAID.

CHAPTER III.

THE REDSKIN ATTACK.

CHAPTER IV.

THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON.

CHAPTER V.

BUNKER'S HILL.

CHAPTER VI.

SCOUTING.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE FOREST.

CHAPTER VIII.

QUEBEC.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SURPRISE OF TRENTON.

CHAPTER X.

A TREACHEROUS PLANTER.

CHAPTER XI.

THE CAPTURE OF PHILADELPHIA.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SETTLER'S HUT.

CHAPTER XIII.

SARATOGA.

CHAPTER XIV.

RESCUED!

CHAPTER XV.

THE ISLAND REFUGE.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE GREAT STORM.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SCOUT'S STORY.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE SIEGE OF SAVANNAH.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN AN AMERICAN PRISON.

CHAPTER XX.

THE WAR IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE END OF THE STRUGGLE.

True To The Old Flag

PREFACE.

MY DEAR LADS:

You have probably been accustomed to regard the war between England and her colonies in America as one in which we were not only beaten but, to some extent, humiliated. Owing to the war having been an unsuccessful one for our arms, British writers have avoided the subject, and it has been left for American historians to describe. These, writing for their own countrymen, and drawing for their facts upon gazettes, letters, and other documents emanating from one side only, have, naturally, and no doubt insensibly, given a very strong color to their own views of the events, and English writers have been too much inclined to accept their account implicitly. There is, however, another and very different side to the story, and this I have endeavored to show you. The whole of the facts and details connected with the war can be relied upon as accurate. They are drawn from the valuable account of the struggle written by Major Steadman, who served under Howe, Clinton, and Cornwallis, and from other authentic contemporary sources. You will see that, although unsuccessful,and success was, under the circumstances, a sheer impossibility,the British troops fought with a bravery which was never exceeded, and that their victories in actual conflict vastly outnumbered their defeats. Indeed, it may be doubted whether in any war in which this country has been engaged have our soldiers exhibited the qualities of endurance and courage to a higher degree.

Yours very sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.

CHAPTER I.

A FRONTIER FARM.

"Concord, March 1, 1774.

"MY DEAR COUSIN:

I am leaving next week with my husband for England, where we intend to pass some time visiting his friends. John and I have determined to accept the invitation you gave us last summer for Harold to come and spend a few months with you. His father thinks that a great future will, ere many years, open in the West, and that it is therefore well the boy should learn something of frontier life. For myself, I would rather that he stayed quietly at home, for he is at present over-fond of adventure; but as my husband is meditating selling his estate here and moving West, it is perhaps better for him.

"Massachusetts is in a ferment, as indeed are all the Eastern States, and the people talk openly of armed resistance against the Government. My husband, being of English birth and having served in the king's army, cannot brook what he calls the rebellious talk which is common among his neighbors, and is already on bad terms with many around us. I myself am, as it were, a neutral. As an American woman, it seems to me that the colonists have been dealt with somewhat hardly by the English Parliament, and that the measures of the latter have been high-handed and arbitrary. Upon the other hand, I naturally incline toward my husband's views. He maintains that, as the king's army has driven out the French, and gives protection to the colony, it is only fair that the colonists should contribute to its expenses. The English ask for no contributions toward the expense of their own country, but demand that, at least, the expenses of the protection of the colony shall not be charged upon the heavily taxed people at home. As to the law that the colony shall trade only with the mother country, my husband says that this is the rule in the colonies of Spain, France, Portugal, and the Netherlands, and that the people here, who can obtain what land they choose and till it without rent, should not grumble at paying this small tax to the mother country. However it be, I fear that troubles will come, and, this place being the head and focus of the party hostile to England, my husband, feeling himself out of accord with all his neighbors, saying a few loyal gentlemen like himself, is thinking much and seriously of selling our estate here and of moving away into the new countries of the West, where he will be free from all the disputation and contentious talk which occupies men's time here.

"Indeed, cousin, times have sadly changed since you were staying here with us five years ago. Then our life was a peaceful and quiet one; now there is nothing but wrangling and strife. The dissenting clergy are, as my husband says was the case in England before the great civil war, the fomenters of this discontent. There are many busybodies who pass their time in stirring up the people by violent harangues and seditious writings; therefore everyone takes one side or the other, and there is neither peace nor comfort in life.

"Accustomed as I have always been to living in ease and affluence, I dread, somewhat, the thought of a life on the Indian frontier. One has heard so many dreadful stories of Indian fights and massacres that I tremble a little at the prospect; but I do not mention this to John, for as other women are, like yourself, brave enough to support these dangers, I would not appear a coward in his eyes. You will see, cousin, that, as this prospect is before us, it is well that Harold should learn the ways of a frontier life. Moreover, John does not like the thought of leaving him here while we are in England; for, as he says, the boy might learn to become a rebel in his absence; therefore, my dear cousin, we have resolved to send him to you. An opportunity offers, in the fact that a gentleman of our acquaintance is, with his family, going this week West, with the intention of settling there, and he will, he tells us, go first to Detroit, whence he will be able to send Harold forward to your farm. The boy himself is delighted at the thought, and promises to return an accomplished backwoodsman. John joins me in kind love to yourself and your husband, and believe me to remain,

"Your Affectionate Cousin,

"MARY WILSON."

Four months after the date of the above letter a lad some fifteen years old was walking with a man of middle age on the shores of Lake Huron. Behind them was a large clearing of about a hundred acres in extent; a comfortable house, with buildings for cattle, stood at a distance of some three hundred yards from the lake; broad fields of yellow corn waved brightly in the sun; and from the edge of the clearing came the sound of a woodsman's ax, showing that the proprietor was still enlarging the limits of his farm. Surrounding the house, at a distance of twenty yards, was a strong stockade some seven feet in height, formed of young trees, pointed at the upper end, squared, and fixed firmly in the ground. The house itself, although far more spacious and comfortable than the majority of backwood farmhouses, was built in the usual fashion, of solid logs, and was evidently designed to resist attack.

William Welch had settled ten years before on this spot, which was then far removed from the nearest habitation. It would have been a very imprudent act, under ordinary circumstances, to have established himself in so lonely a position, so far removed from the possibility of assistance in case of attack. He settled there, however, just after Pontiac, who was at the head of an alliance of all the Indian tribes of those parts, had, after the long and desperate siege of Fort Pitt, made peace with us upon finding that his friends, the French, had given up all thought of further resistance to the English, and had entirely abandoned the country. Mr. Welch thought, therefore, that a permanent peace was likely to reign on the frontier, and that he might safely establish himself in the charming location he had pitched upon, far removed from the confines of civilization.

The spot was a natural clearing of some forty acres in extent, sloping down to the water's edge, and a more charming site could hardly have been chosen. Mr. Welch had brought with him three farm laborers from the East, and, as time went on, he extended the clearing by cutting down the forest giants which bordered it.

But in spite of the beauty of the position, the fertility of the soil, the abundance of his crops, and the advantages afforded by the lake, both from its plentiful supply of fish and as a highway by which he could convey his produce to market, he had more than once regretted his choice of location. It was true that there had been no Indian wars on a large scale, but the Indians had several times broken out in sudden incursions. Three times he had been attacked, but, fortunately, only by small parties, which he had been enabled to beat off. Once, when a more serious danger threatened him, he had been obliged to embark, with his wife and child and his more valuable chattels, in the great scow in which he carried his produce to market, and had to take refuge in the settlements, to find, on his return, his buildings destroyed and his farm wasted. At that time he had serious thoughts of abandoning his location altogether, but the settlements were extending rapidly toward him, and, with the prospect of having neighbors before long and the natural reluctance to give up a place upon which he had expended so much toil, he decided to hold on; hoping that more quiet times would prevail, until other settlers would take up land around him.

The house had been rebuilt more strongly than before. He now employed four men, and had been unmolested since his return to his farm, three years before the date of this story. Already two or three locations had been taken up on the shores of the lake beyond him, a village had grown up thirty-five miles away, and several settlers had established themselves between that place and his home.

"So you are going out fishing this morning, Harold?" Mr. Welch said. "I hope you will bring back a good supply, for the larder is low. I was looking at you yesterday, and I see that you are becoming a first-rate hand at the management of a canoe."

"So I ought to be," the boy said, "considering that for nearly three months I have done nothing but shoot and fish."

"You have a sharp eye, Harold, and will make a good backwoodsman one of these days. You can shoot nearly as well as I can now. It is lucky that I had a good stock of powder and lead on hand; firing away by the hour together, as you do, consumes a large amount of ammunition. See, there is a canoe on the lake; it is coming this way, too. There is but one man in it; he is a white, by his clothes."

For a minute or two they stood watching the boat, and then, seeing that its course was directed toward the shore, they walked down to the edge of the lake to meet it.

"Ah, Pearson! is that you?" Mr. Welch asked. "I thought I knew your long, sweeping stroke at a distance. You have been hunting, I see; that is a fine stag you have got there. What is the news?"

"About as bad as can be, Master Welch," the hunter said. "The Iroquois have dug up the tomahawk again and are out on the war-path. They have massacred John Brent and his family. I heard a talk of it among some hunters I met ten days since in the woods. They said that the Iroquois were restless and that their chief, War Eagle, one of the most troublesome varmints on the whole frontier, had been stirring 'em up to war. He told 'em, I heard, that the pale-faces were pushing further and further into the Injun woods, and that, unless they drove 'em back, the redskin hunting grounds would be gone. I hoped that nothing would come of it, but I might have known better. When the redskins begin to stir there's sure to be mischief before they're quiet again."

The color had somewhat left Mr. Welch's cheeks as the hunter spoke.

"This is bad news, indeed, Pearson," he said gravely. "Are you sure about the attack on the Brents?"

"Sartin sure," the hunter said. "I met their herder; he had been down to Johnson's to fetch a barrel of pork. Just when he got back he heard the Injun yells and saw smoke rising in the clearing, so he dropped the barrel and made tracks. I met him at Johnson's, where he had just arrived. Johnson was packing up with all haste and was going to leave, and so I said I would take my canoe and come down the lake, giving you all warning on the way. I stopped at Burns' and Hooper's. Burns said he should clear out at once, but Hooper talked about seeing it through. He's got no wife to be skeary about, and reckoned that, with his two hands, he could defend his log hut. I told him I reckoned he would get his har raised if the Injuns came that way; but, in course, that's his business."

"What do you advise, Pearson? I do not like abandoning this farm to the mercy of the redskins."

"It would be a pity, Master Welch, that's as true as Gospel. It's the likeliest clearing within fifty miles round, and you've fixed the place up as snug and comfortable as if it were a farm in the old provinces. In course the question is what this War Eagle intends to do. His section of the tribe is pretty considerable strong, and although at present I aint heard that any others have joined, these Injuns are like barrels of gunpowder: when the spark is once struck there's no saying how far the explosion may spread. When one band of 'em sees as how another is taking scalps and getting plunder and honor, they all want to be at the same work. I reckon War Eagle has got some two hundred braves who will follow him; but when the news spreads that he has begun his work, all the Iroquois, to say nothing of the Shawnees, Delawares, and other varmint, may dig up the hatchet. The question is what War Eagle's intentions are. He may make a clean sweep down, attacking all the outlying farms and waiting till he is joined by a lot more of the red reptiles before attacking the settlements. Then, on the other hand, he may think himself strong enough to strike a blow at Gloucester and some other border villages at once. In that case he might leave the outlying farms alone, as the news of the burning of these would reach the settlements and put 'em on their guard, and he knows, in course, that if he succeeds there he can eat you all up at his leisure."

"The attack upon Brent's place looks as if he meant to make a clean sweep down," Mr. Welch said.

"Well," the hunter continued thoughtfully, "I don't know as I sees it in that light. Brent's place was a long way from any other. He might have wished to give his band a taste of blood, and so raise their spirits, and he might reasonably conclude that naught would be known about it for days, perhaps weeks to come. Then, again, the attack might have been made by some straggling party without orders. It's a dubious question. You've got four hands here, I think, and yourself. I have seen your wife shoot pretty straight with a rifle, so she can count as one, and as this young un, here, has a good idea, too, with his shooting-iron, that makes six guns. Your place is a strong one, and you could beat off any straggling party. My idea is that War Eagle, who knows pretty well that the place would make a stout fight, won't waste his time by making a regular attack upon it. You might hold out for twenty-four hours; the clearing is open and there aint no shelter to be had. He would be safe to lose a sight of men, and this would be a bad beginning, and would discourage his warriors greatly. No, I reckon War Eagle will leave you alone for the present. Maybe he will send a scout to see whether you are prepared; it's as likely as not that one is spying at us somewhere among the trees now. I should lose no time in driving in the animals and getting well in shelter. When they see you are prepared they will leave you alone; at least, for the present. Afterward there's no sayingthat will depend on how they get on at the settlements. If they succeed there and get lots of booty and plenty of scalps, they may march back without touching you; they will be in a hurry to get to their villages and have their feasts and dancing. If they are beaten off at the settlements I reckon they will pay you a visit for sure; they won't go back without scalps. They will be savage like, and won't mind losing some men for the sake of having something to brag about when they get back. And now, Master Welch, I must be going on, for I want to take the news down to the settlements before War Eagle gets there, and he may be ahead of me now, for aught I know. I don't give you no advice as to what you had best do; you can judge the circumstances as well as I can. When I have been to the settlements and put them on their guard, maybe I shall be coming back again, and, in that case, you know Jack Pearson's rifle is at your disposal. You may as well tote this stag up to the house. You won't be doing much hunting just for the present, and the meat may come in handy."

The stag was landed, and a minute later the canoe shot away from shore under the steady stroke of the hunter's powerful arms. Mr. Welch at once threw the stag over his shoulders and, accompanied by Harold, strode away toward the house. On reaching it he threw down the stag at the door, seized a rope which hung against the wall, and the sounds of a large bell, rung in quick, sharp strokes, summoned the hands from the fields. The sound of the woodman's ax ceased at once, and the shouts of the men, as they drove the cattle toward the house, rose on the still air.

"What is the matter, William?" Mrs. Welch asked as she ran from the house.

"I have bad news, my dear. The Indians are out again, and I fear we may have trouble before us. We must hope that they will not come in this direction, but must be prepared for the worst. Wait till I see all the hands and beasts in the stockade, and then we can talk the matter over quietly."

In a few minutes the hands arrived, driving before them the horses and cattle.

"What is it, boss?" they asked. "Was that the alarm bell sure enough?"

"The Indians are out again," Mr. Welch said, "and in force. They have massacred the Brents and are making toward the settlements. They may come this way or they may not; at any rate, we must be prepared for them. Get the beasts into the sheds, and then do you all take scythes and set to work to cut down that patch of corn, which is high enough to give them shelter; there's nothing else which will cover them within a hundred yards of the house. Of course you will take your rifles with you and keep a sharp lookout; but they will have heard the bell, if they are in the neighborhood, and will guess that we are on the alert, so they are not likely to attempt a surprise. Shut one of the gates and leave the other ajar, with the bar handy to put up in case you have to make a run for it. Harold will go up to the lookout while you are at work."

Having seen that all was attended to, Mr. Welch went into the house, where his wife was going about her work as usual, pale, but quiet and resolute.

"Now, Jane," he said, "sit down, and I will tell you exactly how matters stand, as far as Pearson, who brought the news, has told me. Then you shall decide as to the course we had better take."

After he had told her all that Pearson had said, and the reasons for and against expecting an early attack, he went on:

"Now, it remains for you, my dear, to decide whether we shall stay and defend the place till the last against any attack that may be made, or whether we shall at once embark in the scow and make our way down to the settlements."

"What do you think, William?" his wife asked.

"I scarcely know, myself," he answered; "but, if I had quite my own way, I should send you and Nelly down to the settlements in the scow and fight it out here with the hands."

"You certainly will not have your own way in that," his wife said. "If you go of course I go; if you stay I stay. I would a thousand times rather go through a siege here, and risk the worst, than go down to Gloucester and have the frightful anxiety of not knowing what was happening here. Besides, it is very possible, as you say, that the Indians may attack the settlement itself. Many of the people there have had no experience in Indian war, and the redskins are likely to be far more successful in their surprise there than they would be here. If we go we should have to leave our house, our barns, our stacks, and our animals to the mercy of the savages. Your capital is pretty nearly all embarked here now, and the loss of all this would be ruin to us. At any rate, William, I am ready to stay here and to risk what may come if you are. A life on the frontier is necessarily a life of danger, and if we are to abandon everything and to have to commence life afresh every time the Indians go on the war-path, we had better give it up at once and return to Massachusetts."

"Very well, my dear," her husband said gravely. "You are a true frontiersman's wife; you have chosen as I should have done. It is a choice of evils; but God has blessed and protected us since we came out into the wildernesswe will trust and confide in him now. At any rate," he went on more cheerfully, "there is no fear of the enemy starving us out. We got in our store of provisions only a fortnight since, and have enough of everything for a three-months' siege. There is no fear of our well failing us; and as for ammunition, we have abundance. Seeing how Harold was using powder and ball, I had an extra supply when the stores came in the other day. There is plenty of corn in the barn for the animals for months, and I will have the corn which the men are cutting brought in as a supply of food for the cows. It will be useful for another purpose, too; we will keep a heap of it soaked with water and will cover the shingles with it in case of attack. It will effectually quench their fire arrows."

The day passed off without the slightest alarm, and by nightfall the patch of corn was cleared away and an uninterrupted view of the ground for the distance of a hundred yards from the house was afforded. When night fell two out of the four dogs belonging to the farm were fastened out in the open, at a distance of from seventy to eighty yards of the house, the others being retained within the stockade. The garrison was divided into three watches, two men being on the alert at a time, relieving each other every three hours. Mr. Welch took Harold as his companion on the watch. The boy was greatly excited at the prospect of a struggle. He had often read of the desperate fights between the frontier settlers and the Indians, and had longed to take a share in the adventurous work. He could scarcely believe that the time had come and that he was really a sharer in what might be a desperate struggle.

The first watch was set at nine, and at twelve Mr. Welch and Harold came on duty. The men they relieved reported that all was silent in the woods, and that they had heard no suspicious cries of any kind. When the men had returned to their room Mr. Welch told Harold that he should take a turn round the stockade and visit the dogs. Harold was to keep watch at the gate, to close it after he went out, to put up the bar, and to stand beside it ready to open it instantly if called upon.

Then the farmer stepped out into the darkness and, treading noiselessly, at once disappeared from Harold's sight. The latter closed the gate, replaced the heavy bar, and stood with one hand on this and the other holding his rifle, listening intently. Once he thought he heard a low growling from one of the dogs, but this presently ceased, and all was quiet again. The gate was a solid one, formed of strong timbers placed at a few inches apart and bolted to horizontal bars.

Presently he felt the gate upon which his hand rested quiver, as if pressure was applied from without. His first impulse was to say, "Is that you?" but Mr. Welch had told him that he would give a low whistle as he approached the gate; he therefore stood quiet, with his whole attention absorbed in listening. Without making the least stir he peered through the bars and made out two dark figures behind them. After once or twice shaking the gate, one took his place against it and the other sprang upon his shoulders.

Harold looked up and saw a man's head appear against the sky. Dim as was the light, he could see that it was no European head-gear, a long feather or two projecting from it. In an instant he leveled his rifle and fired. There was a heavy fall and then all was silent. Harold again peered through the bars. The second figure had disappeared, and a black mass lay at the foot of the gate.

In an instant the men came running from the house, rifles in hand.

"What is it?" they exclaimed. "Where is Mr. Welch?"

"He went out to scout round the house, leaving me at the gate," Harold said. "Two men, I think Indians, came up; one was getting over the gate when I shot him. I think he is lying outsidethe other has disappeared."

"We must get the master in," one of the men said. "He is probably keeping away, not knowing what has happened. Mr. Welch," he shouted, "it is all safe here, so far as we know; we are all on the lookout to cover you as you come up."

Immediately a whistle was heard close to the gate. This was cautiously opened a few inches, and was closed and barred directly Mr. Welch entered.

Harold told him what had happened.

"I thought it was something of the sort. I heard Wolf growl and felt sure that it was not at me. I threw myself down and crept up to him and found him shot through the heart with an Indian arrow. I was crawling back to the house when I heard Harold's shot. Then I waited to see if it was followed by the war-whoop, which the redskins would have raised at once, on finding that they were discovered, had they been about to attack in force. Seeing that all was quiet, I conjectured that it was probably an attempt on the part of a spy to discover if we were upon the alert. Then I heard your call and at once came on. I do not expect any attack to-night now, as these fellows must have been alone; but we will all keep watch till the morning. You have done very well, Harold, and have shown yourself a keen watchman. It is fortunate that you had the presence of mind neither to stir nor to call out when you first heard them; for, had you done so, you would probably have got an arrow between your ribs, as poor Wolf has done."

When it was daylight, and the gate was opened, the body of an Indian was seen lying without; a small mark on his forehead showed where Harold's bullet had entered; death being instantaneous. His war-paint and the embroidery of his leggings showed him at once to be an Iroquois. Beside him lay his bow, with an arrow which had evidently been fitted to the string for instant work. Harold shuddered when he saw it and congratulated himself on having stood perfectly quiet. A grave was dug a short distance away, the Indian was buried, and the household proceeded about their work.

The day, as was usual in households in America, was begun with prayer, and the supplications of Mr. Welch for the protection of God over the household were warm and earnest. The men proceeded to feed the animals; these were then turned out of the inclosure, one of the party being always on watch in the little tower which they had erected for that purpose some ten or twelve feet above the roof of the house. From this spot a view was obtainable right over the clearing to the forest which surrounded it on three sides. The other hands proceeded to cut down more of the corn, so as to extend the level space around the house.

CHAPTER II.

AN INDIAN RAID.

That day and the next passed quietly. The first night the man who was on watch up to midnight remarked to Mr. Welch, when he relieved him, that it seemed to him that there were noises in the air.

"What sort of noises, Jacksoncalls of night-birds or animals? If so, the Indians are probably around us."

"No," the man said; "all is still round here, but I seem to feel the noise rather than hear it. I should say that it was firing, very many miles off."

"The night is perfectly still, and the sound of a gun would be heard a long way."

"I cannot say that I have heard a gun; it is rather a tremble in the air than a sound."

When the man they had relieved had gone down and all was still again, Mr. Welch and Harold stood listening intently.

"Jackson was right," the farmer said; "there is something in the air. I can feel it rather than hear it. It is a sort of murmur no louder than a whisper. Do you hear it, Harold?"

"I seem to hear something," Harold said. "It might be the sound of the sea a very long way off, just as one can hear it many miles from the coast, on a still night at home. What do you think it is?"

"If it is not fancy," Mr. Welch replied, "and I do not think that we should all be deceived, it is an attack upon Gloucester."

"But Gloucester is thirty-five miles away," Harold answered.

"It is," Mr. Welch replied; "but on so still a night as this sounds can be heard from an immense distance. If it is not this, I cannot say what it is."

Upon the following night, just as Mr. Welch's watch was at an end, a low whistle was heard near the gate.

"Who is there?" Mr. Welch at once challenged.

"Jack Pearson, and the sooner you open the gate the better. There's no saying where these red devils may be lying round."

Harold and the farmer instantly ran down and opened the gate.

"I should advise you to stop down here," the hunter said as they replaced the bars. "If you did not hear me you certainly would not hear the redskins, and they'd all be over the palisade before you had time to fire a shot. I'm glad to see you safe, for I was badly skeared lest I should find nothing but a heap of ashes here."

The next two men now turned out, and Mr. Welch led his visitor into the house and struck a light.

"Halloo, Pearson! you must have been in a skirmish," he said, seeing that the hunter's head was bound up with a bloodstained bandage.

"It was all that," Pearson said, "and wuss. I went down to Gloucester and told 'em what I had heard, but the darned fools tuk it as quiet as if all King George's troops with fixed bayonets had been camped round 'em. The council got together and palavered for an hour, and concluded that there was no chance whatever of the Iroquois venturing to attack such a powerful place as Gloucester. I told 'em that the redskins would go over their stockade at a squirrel's jump, and that as War Eagle alone had at least 150 braves, while there warn't more than 50 able-bodied men in Gloucester and all the farms around it, things would go bad with 'em if they didn't mind. But bless yer, they knew more than I did about it. Most of 'em had moved from the East and had never seen an Injun in his war-paint. Gloucester had never been attacked since it was founded nigh ten years ago, and they didn't see no reason why it should be attacked now. There was a few old frontiersmen like myself among 'em who did their best to stir 'em up, but it was no manner of good. When the council was over we put our heads together, and just went through the township a-talking to the women, and we hadn't much difficulty in getting up such a skear among 'em that before nightfall every one of 'em in the farms around made their husbands move into the stockade of the village.

"When the night passed off quietly most of the men were just as savage with us as if it had been a false alarm altogether. I p'inted out that it was not because War Eagle had left 'em alone that night that he was bound to do so the next night or any night after. But in spite of the women they would have started out to their farms the fust thing in the morning, if a man hadn't come in with the news that Carter's farm had been burned and the whole of the people killed and scalped. As Carter's farm lay only about fifteen miles off this gave 'em a skear, and they were as ready now to believe in the Injuns as I had tried to make 'em the night before. Then they asked us old hands to take the lead and promised to do what we told 'em, but when it came to it their promises were not worth the breath they had spent upon 'em. There were eight or ten houses outside the stockade, and in course we wanted these pulled down; but they wouldn't hear of it. Howsomever, we got 'em to work to strengthen the stockades, to make loop-holes in the houses near 'em, to put up barricades from house to house, and to prepare generally for a fight. We divided into three watches.

"Well, just as I expected, about eleven o'clock at night the Injuns attacked. Our watch might just as well have been asleep for any good they did, for it was not till the redskins had crept up to the stockade all round and opened fire between the timbers on 'em that they knew that they were near. I'll do 'em justice to say that they fought stiff enough then, and for four hours they held the line of houses; every redskin who climbed the stockade fell dead inside it. Four fires had been lighted directly they attacked to enable us to keep 'em from scaling the stockade, but they showed us to the enemy, of course.

"The redskins took possession of the houses which we had wanted to pull down, and precious hot they made it for us. Then they shot such showers of burning arrows into the village that half of the houses were soon alight. We tried to get our men to sally out and to hold the line of stockade, when we might have beaten 'em off if all the village had been burned down; but it were no manner of good; each man wanted to stick to his wife and family till the last. As the flames went up every man who showed himself was shot down, and when at last more than half our number had gone under the redskins brought up fagots, piled 'em against the stockade outside, and then the hull tribe came bounding over. Our rifles were emptied, for we couldn't get the men to hold their fire, but some of us chaps as knew what was coming gave the redskins a volley as they poured in.

"I don't know much as happened after that. Jack Robins and Bill Shuter, who were old pals of mine, and me made up our minds what to do, and we made a rush for a small gate that there was in the stockade, just opposite where the Injuns came in. We got through safe enough, but they had left men all round. Jack Robins he was shot dead. Bill and I kept straight on. We had a grapple with some of the redskins; two or three on 'em went down, and Bill and I got through and had a race for it till we got fairly into the forest. Bill had a ball in the shoulder, and I had a clip across the head with a tomahawk. We had a council, and Bill went off to warn some of the other settlements and I concluded to take to the water and paddle back to you, not knowing whether I should find that the redskins had been before me. I thought anyway that I might stop your going down to Gloucester, and that if there was a fight you would be none the worse for an extra rifle."

Mr. Welch told the hunter of the visit of the two Indian spies two nights before.

"Waal," the hunter said, "I reckon for the present you are not likely to be disturbed. The Injuns have taken a pile of booty and something like two hundred scalps, counting the women and children, and they moved off at daybreak this morning in the direction of Tottenham, which I reckon they'll attack tonight. Howsomever, Bill has gone on there to warn 'em, and after the sack of Gloucester the people of Tottenham won't be caught napping, and there are two or three old frontiersmen who have settled down there, and War Eagle will get a hot reception if he tries it. As far as his band is concerned, you're safe for some days. The only fear is that some others of the tribe, hurrying up at hearing of his success, may take this place as they go past. And now I guess I'll take a few hours' sleep. I haven't closed an eye for the last two nights."

A week passed quietly. Pearson, after remaining two days, again went down the lake to gather news, and returned a day later with the intelligence that almost all the settlements had been deserted by their inhabitants. The Indians were out in great strength and had attacked the settlers at many points along the frontier, committing frightful devastations.

Still another week passed, and Mr. Welch began to hope that his little clearing had been overlooked and forgotten by the Indians. The hands now went about their work as usual, but always carried arms with them, while one was constantly stationed on the watch-tower. Harold resumed his fishing; never, however, going out of sight of the house. Sometimes he took with him little Nelly Welch; it being considered that she was as safe in the canoe as she was in the house, especially as the boat was always in sight, and the way up from the landing to the house was under cover of the rifles of the defenders; so that, even in case of an attack, they would probably be able to make their way back.

One afternoon they had been out together for two or three hours; everything looked as quiet and peaceable as usual; the hands were in the fields near the house, a few of the cows grazing close to the gate. Harold had been successful in his fishing and had obtained as many fish as he could carry. He stepped out from the canoe, helped Nelly to land, slung his rifle across his back, and picked up the fish, which were strung on a withe passed through their gills.

He had made but a few steps when a yell arose, so loud and terrible that for a moment his heart seemed to stop beating. Then from the cornfields leaped up a hundred dark figures; then came the sharp crack of rifles, and two of the hands dashed down at full speed toward the house. One had fallen. The fourth man was in the watch-tower. The surprise had been complete. The Indians had made their way like snakes through the long corn, whose waving had been unperceived by the sentinel, who was dozing at his post, half-asleep in the heat of the sun. Harold saw in a moment that it was too late for him to regain the house; the redskins were already nearer to it than he was.

"Now, Nelly! into the boat againquick!" he said. "We must keep out of the way till it's all over."

Nelly was about twelve years old, and her life in the woods had given her a courage and quickness beyond her years. Without wasting a moment on cries or lamentations, she sprang back into the canoe. Harold took his place beside her, and the light craft darted rapidly out into the lake. Not until he was some three or four hundred yards from the shore did Harold pause to look round. Then, when he felt he was out of gunshot distance, he ceased paddling. The fight was raging now around the house; from loop-holes and turret the white puffs of smoke darted angrily out. The fire had not been ineffectual, for several dark forms could be seen lying round the stockade, and the bulk of the Indians, foiled in their attempt to carry the place at a rush, had taken shelter in the corn and kept up a scattering fire round the house, broken only on the side facing the lake, where there was no growing crop to afford them shelter.

"They are all right now," Harold said cheerfully.

"Do not be anxious, Nelly; they will beat them off, Pearson is a host in himself. I expect he must have been lying down when the attack was made. I know he was scouting round the house all night. If he had been on the watch, those fellows would never have succeeded in creeping up so close unobserved."

"I wish we were inside," Nelly said, speaking for the first time. "If I were only with them, I should not mind."

"I am sure I wish we were," Harold agreed. "It is too hard being useless out here when such a splendid fight is going on. Ah! they have their eyes on us!" he exclaimed as a puff of smoke burst out from some bushes near the shore and a ball came skipping along on the surface of the water, sinking, however, before it reached it.

"Those Indian muskets are no good," Harold said contemptuously, "and the trade powder the Indians get is very poor stuff; but I think that they are well within range of my rifle."

The weapon which Harold carried was an English rifle of very perfect make and finish, which his father had given him on parting.

"Now," he said, "do you paddle the canoe a few strokes nearer the shore, Nelly. We shall still be beyond the range of that fellow. He will fire again and I shall see exactly where he is lying."

Nelly, who was efficient in the management of a canoe, took the paddle, and dipping it in the water the boat moved slowly toward the shore. Harold sat with his rifle across his knees, looking intently over the bows of the boat toward the bush from which the shot had come.

"That's near enough, Nelly," he said.

The girl stopped paddling, and the hidden foe, seeing that they did not mean to come nearer the shore, again fired. Harold's rifle was in an instant against his shoulder; he sat immovable for a moment and then fired.

Instantly a dark figure sprang from the bush, staggered a few steps up the slope, and then fell headlong.

"That was a pretty good shot," Harold said. "Your father told me, when I saw a stag's horns above a bush, to fire about two feet behind them and eighteen inches lower. I fired a foot below the flash, and I expect I hit him through the body. I had the sight at three hundred yards and fired a little above it. Now, Nelly, paddle out again. See!" he said, "there is a shawl waving from the top of the tower. Put your hat on the paddle and wave it."

"What are you thinking of doing, Harold?" the girl asked presently.

"That is just what I have been asking myself for the last ten minutes," Harold replied. "It is quite clear that as long as the siege is kept up we cannot get back again, and there is no saying how long it may last. The first thing is, what chance is there of their pursuing us? Are there any other canoes on the lake within a short distance?"

"They have one at Braithwaite's," the girl said, "four miles off; but look, there is Pearson's canoe lying by the shore."

"So there is!" Harold exclaimed. "I never thought of that. I expect the Indians have not noticed it. The bank is rather high where it is lying. They are sure to find it, sooner or later. I think, Nelly, the best plan would be to paddle back again so as to be within the range of my rifle while still beyond the reach of theirs. I think I can keep them from using the boat until it is dark."

"But after it is dark, Harold?"

"Well, then, we must paddle out into the lake so as to be well out of sight. When it gets quite dark we can paddle in again and sleep safely anywhere a mile or two from the house."

An hour passed without change. Then Nelly said: "There is a movement in the bushes near the canoe." Presently an arm was extended and proceeded to haul the canoe toward the shore by its head-rope. As it touched the bank an Indian rose from the bushes and was about to step in, while a number of puffs of smoke burst out along the shore and the bullets skipped over the water toward the canoe, one of them striking it with sufficient force to penetrate the thin bark a few inches above the water's edge. Harold had not moved, but as the savage stepped into the canoe he fired, and the Indian fell heavily into the water, upsetting the canoe as he did so.

A yell of rage broke from his comrades.

"I don't think they will try that game again as long as it is daylight," Harold said. "Paddle a little further out again, Nelly. If that bullet had hit you it would have given you a nasty blow, though I don't think it would have penetrated; still we may as well avoid accidents."

After another hour passed the fire round the house ceased.

"Do you think the Indians have gone away?" Nelly asked.

"I am afraid there is no chance of that," Harold said. "I expect they are going to wait till night and then try again. They are not fond of losing men, and Pearson and your father are not likely to miss anything that comes within their range as long as daylight lasts."

"But after dark, Harold?"

"Oh, they will try all sorts of tricks; but Pearson is up to them all. Don't you worry about them, dear."

The hours passed slowly away until at last the sun sank and the darkness came on rapidly. So long as he could see the canoe, which just floated above the water's edge, Harold maintained his position; then taking one paddle, while Nelly handled the other, he sent the boat flying away from the shore out into the lake. For a quarter of an hour they paddled straight out. By this time the outline of the shore could be but dimly perceived. Harold doubted whether it would be possible to see the boat from shore, but in order to throw the Indians off the scent, should this be the case, he turned the boat's head to the south and paddled swiftly until it was perfectly dark.

"I expect they saw us turn south," he said to Nelly. "The redskins have wonderful eyes; so, if they pursue at all, they will do it in that direction. No human being, unless he borrowed the eyes of an owl, could see us now, so we will turn and paddle the other way."

For two hours they rowed in this direction.

"We can go in to shore now," Harold said at last. "We must be seven or eight miles beyond the house."

The distance to the shore was longer than they expected, for they had only the light of the stars to guide them and neither had any experience in night traveling. They had made much further out into the lake than they had intended. At length the dark line of trees rose in front of them, and in a few minutes the canoe lay alongside the bank and its late occupants were stretched on a soft layer of moss and fallen leaves.

"What are we going to do to-morrow about eating?" Nelly asked.

"There are four or five good-sized fish in the bottom of the canoe," Harold replied. "Fortunately we caught more than I could carry, and I intended to make a second trip from the house for these. I am afraid we shall not be able to cook them, for the Indians can see smoke any distance. If the worst comes to the worst we must eat them raw, but we are sure to find some berries in the wood to-morrow. Now, dear, you had better go to sleep as fast as you can; but first let us kneel down and pray God to protect us and your father and mother."

The boy and girl knelt in the darkness and said their simple prayers. Then they lay down, and Harold was pleased to hear in a few minutes the steady breathing which told him that his cousin was asleep. It was a long time before he followed her example. During the day he had kept up a brave front and had endeavored to make the best of their position, but now that he was alone he felt the full weight of the responsibility of guiding his companion through the extreme danger which threatened them both. He felt sure that the Indians would prolong the siege for some time, as they would be sure that no re-enforcements could possibly arrive in aid of the garrison. Moreover, he by no means felt so sure as he had pretended to his companion of the power of the defenders of the house to maintain a successful resistance to so large a number of their savage foes. In the daylight he felt certain they could beat them off, but darkness neutralizes the effect both of superior arms and better marksmanship. It was nearly midnight before he lay down with the determination to sleep, but scarcely had he done so when he was aroused by an outburst of distant firing. Although six or seven miles from the scene of the encounter, the sound of each discharge came distinct to the ear along the smooth surface of the lake, and he could even hear, mingled with the musketry fire, the faint yells of the Indians. For hours, as it seemed to him, he sat listening to the distant contest, and then he, unconsciously to himself, dozed off to sleep, and awoke with a start, to find Nelly sitting up beside him and the sun streaming down through the boughs. He started to his feet.

"Bless me!" he exclaimed, "I did not know that I had been asleep. It seems but an instant ago that I was listening"and here he checked himself"that is, that I was wide awake, and here we are in broad daylight."

Harold's first care was to examine the position of the canoe, and he found that fortunately it had touched the shore at a spot where the boughs of the trees overhead drooped into the water beyond it, so that it could not be seen by anyone passing along the lake. This was the more fortunate as he saw, some three miles away, a canoe with three figures on board. For a long distance on either side the boughs of the trees drooped into the water, with only an opening here and there such as that through which the boat had passed the night before.

"We must be moving, Nelly. Here are the marks where we scrambled up the bank last night. If the Indians take it into their heads to search the shore both ways, as likely enough they may do, they will be sure to see them. In the first place let us gather a stock of berries, and then we will get into the boat again and paddle along under this arcade of boughs till we get to some place where we can land without leaving marks of our feet. If the Indians find the place where we landed here, they will suppose that we went off again before daylight."

For some time they rambled in the woods and succeeded in gathering a store of berries and wild fruit. Upon these Nelly made her breakfast, but Harold's appetite was sufficiently ravenous to enable him to fall to upon the fish, which, he declared, were not so bad, after all. Then they took their places in the canoe again and paddled on for nearly a mile.

"See, Harold!" Nelly exclaimed as she got a glimpse through the boughs into the lake, "there is another canoe. They must have got the Braithwaite boat. We passed their place coming here, you know. I wonder what has happened there."

"What do you think is best to do, Nelly?" Harold asked. "Your opinion is just as good as mine about it. Shall we leave our canoe behind, land, and take to the woods, or shall we stop quietly in the canoe in shelter here, or shall we take to the lake and trust to our speed to get away? in which case, you know, if they should come up I could pick them off with my gun before they got within reach.

"I don't think that would do," the girl said, shaking her head. "You shoot very well, but it is not an easy thing to hit a moving object if you are not accustomed to it, and they paddle so fast that if you miss them once they would be close alongsideat any rate we should be within reach of their gunsbefore you could load again. They would be sure to catch us, for although we might paddle nearly as fast for a time, they would certainly tire us out. Then, as to waiting here in the canoe, if they came along on foot looking for us we should be in their power. It is dreadful to think of taking to the woods with Indians all about, but I really think that would be our safest plan."

"I think so too, Nelly, if we can manage to do it without leaving a track. We must not go much further, for the trees are getting thinner ahead and we should be seen by the canoes."

Fifty yards further Harold stopped paddling.

"Here is just the place, Nelly."

At this point a little stream of three or four feet wide emerged into the lake; Harold directed the boat's head toward it. The water in the stream was but a few inches deep.

"Now, Nelly," he said, "we must step out into the water and walk up it as far as we can goit will puzzle even the sharpest redskin to find our track then."

They stepped into the water, Harold taking the head-rope of the canoe and towing the light boatwhich, when empty, did not draw more than two inches of waterbehind him. He directed Nelly to be most careful as she walked not to touch any of the bushes, which at times nearly met across the stream.

"A broken twig or withered leaf would be quite enough to tell the Indians that we came along this way," he said. "Where the bushes are thick you must manage to crawl under them. Never mind about getting wetyou will soon dry again."

Slowly and cautiously they made their way up the stream for nearly a mile. It had for some distance been narrowing rapidly, being only fed by little rills from the surrounding swamp land. Harold had so far looked in vain for some spot where they could land without leaving marks of their feet. Presently they came to a place where a great tree had fallen across the stream.

"This will do, Nelly," Harold said. "Now, above all things you must be careful not to break off any of the moss or bark. You had better take your shoes off; then I will lift you on to the trunk and you can walk along it without leaving a mark."

It was hard work for Nelly to take off her drenched boots, but she managed at last. Harold lifted her on to the trunk and said:

"Walk along as far as you can and get down as lightly as possible on to a firm piece of ground. It rises rapidly here and is, I expect, a dry soil where the upper end of the tree lies."

"How are you going to get out, Harold?"

"I can swing myself up by that projecting root."

Before proceeding to do so Harold raised one end of the canoe and placed it on the trunk of the tree; then, having previously taken off his shoes, he swung himself on to the trunk; hauling up the light bark canoe and taking especial pains that it did not grate upon the trunk, he placed it on his head and followed Nelly along the tree. He found, as he had expected, that the ground upon which the upper end lay was firm and dry. He stepped down with great care, and was pleased to see, as he walked forward, that no trace of a footmark was left.

"Be careful, Nelly," he exclaimed when he joined her, "not to tread on a stick or disturb a fallen leaf with your feet, and above all to avoid breaking the smallest twig as you pass. Choose the most open ground, as that is the hardest."

In about a hundred yards they came upon a large clump of bushes.

"Now, Nelly, raise those lower boughs as gently and as carefully as you can. I will push the canoe under. I don't think the sharpest Indian will be able to take up our track now."

Very carefully the canoe was stowed away, and when the boughs were allowed to fall in their natural position it was completely hidden from sight to every passer-by. Harold took up the fish, Nelly had filled her apron with the berries, and carrying their shoesfor they agreed that it would be safer not to put them onthey started on their journey through the deep forest.

CHAPTER III.

THE REDSKIN ATTACK.

Mr. Welch was with the men, two or three hundred yards away from the house, when the Indians suddenly sprang out and opened fire. One of the men fell beside him; the farmer stooped to lift him, but saw that he was shot through the head. Then he ran with full speed toward the house, shouting to the hands to make straight for the gate, disregarding the cattle. Several of these, however, alarmed at the sudden outburst of fire and the yells of the Indians, made of their own accord for the stables as their master rushed up at full speed. The Indians were but fifty or sixty yards behind when Mr. Welch reached his gate. They had all emptied their pieces, and after the first volley no shots had been fired save one by the watchman on the lookout. Then came the crack of Pearson's rifle just as Mr. Welch shut the gate and laid the bar in its place. Several spare guns had been placed in the upper chambers, and three reports rang out together, for Mrs. Welch had run upstairs at the first alarm to take her part in the defense.

In another minute the whole party, now six in all, were gathered in the upper room.

"Where are Nelly and Harold?" Mr. Welch exclaimed. "I saw the canoe close to the shore just before the Indians opened fire," the watchman answered.

"You must have been asleep," Pearson said savagely. "Where were your eyes to let them redskins crawl up through the corn without seeing 'em? With such a crowd of 'em the corn must have been a-waving as if it was blowing a gale. You ought to have a bullet in yer ugly carkidge, instead of its being in yer mate's out there."

While this conversation was going on no one had been idle. Each took up his station at a loop-hole, and several shots were fired whenever the movement of a blade of corn showed the lurking place of an Indian.

The instant the gate had been closed War Eagle had called his men back to shelter, for he saw that all chance of a surprise was now over, and it was contrary to all redskin strategy to remain for one moment unnecessarily exposed to the rifles of the whites. The farmer and his wife had rushed at once up into the lookout as the Indians drew off and, to their joy, saw the canoe darting away from shore.

"They are safe for the present, thank God!" Mr. Welch said. "It is providential indeed that they had not come a little further from the shore when the redskins broke out. Nothing could have saved them, had they fairly started for the house."

"What will they do, William?" asked his wife anxiously.

"I cannot tell you, my dear. I do not know what I should do myself under the circumstances. However, the boy has got a cool head on his shoulders, and you need not be anxious for the present. Now let us join the others. Our first duty is to take our share in the defense of the house. The young ones are in the hands of God. We can do nothing for them." "Well?" Pearson asked, looking round from his loop-hole as the farmer and his wife descended into the room, which was a low garret extending over the whole of the house. "Do you see the canoe?"

"Yes, it has got safely away," William Welch said; "but what the lad will do now is more than I can say."

Pearson placed his rifle against the wall. "Now keep your eyes skinned," he said to the three farm hands.

"One of yer's done mischief enough this morning already, and you'll get your har raised, as sure as you're born, unless you look out sharp. Now," he went on, turning to the Welches, "let us go down and talk this matter over. The Injuns may keep on firing, but I don't think they'll show in the open again as long as it's light enough for us to draw bead on 'em. Yes," he went on, as he looked through a loop-hole in the lower story over the lake, "there they are, just out of range."

"What do you think they will do?" Mrs. Welch asked.

The hunter was silent for a minute.

"It aint a easy thing to say what they ought to do, much less what they will do; it aint a good outlook anyway, and I don't know what I should do myself. The whole of the woods on this side of the lake are full of the darned red critters. There's a hundred eyes on that canoe now, and, go where they will, they'll be watched."

"But why should they not cross the lake and land on the other side?" Mr. Welch said.

"If you and I were in that canoe," the hunter answered, "that's about what we should do; but, not to say that it's a long row for 'em, they two young uns would never get across; the Injuns would have 'em before they had been gone an hour. There's my canoe lying under the bushes; she'd carry four, and would go three feet to their two."

"I had forgotten about that," William Welch said, and then added, after a pause: "The Indians may not find it."

"You needn't hope that," the hunter answered; "they have found it long before this. I don't want to put you out of heart; but I tell ye ye'll see them on the water before many minutes have passed."

"Then they are lost," Mrs. Welch said, sinking down in her chair and bursting into tears.

"They air in God's hands, ma'am," the hunter said, "and it's no use trying to deceive you."

"Would it be of any use," William Welch asked, after a pause, "for me to offer the redskins that my wife and I will go out and put ourselves in their hands if they will let the canoe go off without pursuit?"

"Not it," the hunter replied decidedly. "You would be throwing away your own lives without saving theirs, not to mention, although that doesn't matter a straw, the lives of the rest of us here. It will be as much as we can do, when they attack us in earnest, to hold this place with six guns, and with only four the chance would be worth nothing. But that's neither here nor there. You wouldn't save the young ones if you gave yourselves up. You can't trust the word of an Injun on the war-path, and if they went so far as not to kill 'em they would carry 'em off; and, after all, I aint sure as death aint better for 'em than to be brought up as Injuns. There," he said, stopping suddenly as a report of a musket sounded at some little distance off, "the Injuns are trying their range against 'em. Let's go up to the lookout."

The little tower had a thick parapet of logs some three feet high, and, crouching behind this, they watched the canoe. "He's coming nearer in shore, and the girl has got the paddle," Pearson muttered. "What's he doing now?" A puff of smoke was seen to rise near the border of the lake; then came the sharp crack of Harold's rifle. They saw an Indian spring from the bushes and fall dead.

"Well done, young un!" Pearson exclaimed. "I told yer he'd got his head screwed on the right way. He's keeping just out of range of their guns, and that piece of his can carry twice as far as theirs. I reckon he's thought of the canoe, and means to keep 'em from using it. I begins to think, Mr. Welch, that there's a chance for 'em yet. Now let's talk a little to these red devils in the corn."

For some little time Pearson and William Welch turned their attention to the Indians, while the mother sat with her eyes fixed upon the canoe.

"He is coming closer again," she exclaimed presently.

"He's watching the canoe, sure enough," Pearson said. Then came the volley along the bushes on the shore, and they saw an Indian rise to his feet.

"That's just where she lies!" Pearson exclaimed; "he's getting into it. There! well done, young un."

The sudden disappearance of the Indian and the vengeful yell of the hidden foe told of the failure of the attempt.

"I think they're safe, now, till nightfall. The Injuns won't care about putting themselves within range of that 'ere rifle again."

Gradually the fire of the Indians ceased, and the defenders were able to leave the loop-holes. Two of the men went down and fastened up the cattle, which were still standing loose in the yard inside the stockade; the other set to to prepare a meal, for Mrs. Welch could not take her eyes off the canoe.

The afternoon seemed of interminable length. Not a shot was fired. The men, after taking their dinner, were occupied in bringing some great tubs on to the upper story and filling them to the brim with water from the well. This story projected two feet beyond the one below it, having been so built in order that, in case of attack, the defenders might be able to fire down upon any foe who might cross the stockade and attack the house itself; the floor boards over the projecting portion were all removable. The men also brought a quantity of the newly cut corn to the top of the house, first drenching it with water.

The sun sank, and as dusk was coming on the anxious watchers saw the canoe paddle out far into the lake.

"An old frontiersman couldn't do better," Pearson exclaimed. "He's kept them out of the canoe as long as daylight lasted; now he has determined to paddle away and is making down the lake," he went on presently. "It's a pity he turned so soon, as they can see the course he's taking."

They watched until it was completely dark; but, before the light quite faded, they saw another canoe put out from shore and start in the direction taken by the fugitives.

"Will they catch them, do you think?" Mrs. Welch asked.

"No, ma'am," Pearson said confidently. "The boy's got sense enough to have changed his course after it gets dark, though whether he'll make for shore or go out toward the other side is more than I can say. You see, they'll know that the Injuns are all along this side of the lake; but then, on the other hand, they'll be anxious about us and 'll want to keep close at hand. Besides, the lad knows nothing of the other side; there may be Injuns there, for aught he knows, and it's a skeary thing for a young un to take to the forest, especially with a gal in his charge. There aint no saying what he'll do. And now we've got to look after ourselves; don't let us think about 'em at present. The best thing as we can do for them, as well as for ourselves, is to hold this here place. If they live they'll come back to it sooner or later, and it 'll be better for 'em to find it standing, and you here to welcome 'em, than to get back to a heap of ruins and some dead bodies."

"When will the redskins attack, do you think?" the farmer asked.

"We may expect 'em any time, now," the hunter answered. "The Injuns' time of attack is generally just before dawn, but they know well enough they aint likely to ketch us asleep any time, and, as they know exactly what they have got to do they'll gain nothing by waiting. I wish we had a moon; if we had, we might keep 'em out of the stockade. But thereit's just as well it's dark, after all; for, if the moon was up, the young ones would have no chance of getting away."

The garrison now all took their places at the loop-holes, having first carried the wet fodder to the roof and spread it over the shingles. There was nothing to do now but to wait. The night was so dark that they could not see the outline of the stockade. Presently a little spark shot through the air, followed by a score of others. Mr. Welch had taken his post on the tower, and he saw the arrows whizzing through the air, many of them falling on the roof. The dry grass dipped in resin, which was tied round the arrow-heads, was instantly extinguished as the arrows fell upon the wet corn, and a yell arose from the Indians.

The farmer descended and told the others of the failure of the Indians' first attempt.

"That 'ere dodge is a first-rate un," Pearson said. "We're safe from fire, and that's the only thing we've got to be afeared on. You'll see 'em up here in a few minutes."

Everything was perfectly quiet. Once or twice the watchers thought that they could hear faint sounds, but could not distinguish their direction. After half an hour's anxious waiting a terrible yell was heard from below, and at the doors and windows of the lower rooms came the crashing blows of tomahawks.

The boards had already been removed from the flooring above, and the defenders opened a steady fire into the dark mass that they could faintly make out clustered round the windows and doors. At Pearson's suggestion the bullets had been removed from the guns and heavy charges of buckshot had been substituted for them, and yells of pain and surprise rose as they fired. A few shots were fired up from below, but a second discharge from the spare guns completed the effect from the first volley. The dark mass broke up and, in a few seconds, all was as quiet as before.

Two hours passed, and then slight sounds were heard. "They've got the gate opened, I expect," Pearson said. "Fire occasionally at that; if we don't hit 'em the flashes may show us what they're doing."

It was as he had expected. The first discharge was followed by a cry, and by the momentary light they saw a number of dark figures pouring in through the gate. Seeing that concealment was no longer possible, the Indians opened a heavy fire round the house; then came a crashing sound near the door.

"Just as I thought," Pearson said. "They're going to try to burn us out."

For some time the noise continued, as bundle after bundle of dried wood was thrown down by the door. The garrison were silent; for, as Pearson said, they could see nothing, and a stray bullet might enter at the loop-holes if they placed themselves there, and the flashes of the guns would serve as marks for the Indians.

Presently two or three faint lights were seen approaching.

"Now," Pearson said, "pick 'em off as they come up. You and I'll take the first man, Welch. You fire just to the right of the light, I will fire to the left; he may be carrying the brand in either hand."

They fired together, and the brand was seen to drop to the ground. The same thing happened as the other two sparks of light approached; then it was again quiet. Now a score of little lights flashed through the air.

"They're going to light the pile with their flaming arrows," Pearson said. "War Eagle is a good leader."

Three or four of the arrows fell on the pile of dry wood. A moment later the flames crept up and the smoke of burning wood rolled up into the room above. A yell of triumph burst from the Indians, but this changed into one of wrath as those above emptied the contents of one of the great tubs of water on to the pile of wood below them. The flames were instantly extinguished.

"What will they do next?" Mrs. Welch asked.

"It's like enough," Pearson replied, "that they'll give the job up altogether. They've got plenty of plunder and scalps at the settlements, and their attacking us here in such force looks as if the hull of 'em were on their way back to their villages. If they could have tuk our scalps easy they would have done it; but War Eagle aint likely to risk losing a lot of men when he aint sartin of winning, after all. He has done good work as it is, and has quite enough to boast about when he gets back. If he were to lose a heap of his braves here it would spoil the success of his expedition. No, I think as he will give it up now."

"He will be all the more anxious to catch the children," Mrs. Welch said despondently.

"It can't be denied, ma'am, as he will do his best that way," Pearson answered. "It all depends, though, on the boy. I wish I was with him in that canoe. Howsomever, I can't help thinking as he will sarcumvent 'em somehow."

The night passed without any further attack. By turns half the garrison watched while the other lay down, but there was little sleep taken by any. With the first gleam of daylight Mrs. Welch and her husband were on the lookout.

"There's two canoes out on the lake," Pearson said. "They're paddling quietly; which is which I can't say."

As the light became brighter Pearson pronounced, positively, that there were three men in one canoe and four in the other.

"I think they're all Injuns," he said. "They must have got another canoe somewhere along the lake. Waal, they've not caught the young uns yet."

"The boats are closing up to each other," Mrs. Welch said. "They're going to have a talk, I reckon. Yes, one of 'em's turning and going down the lake, while the other's going up. I'd give a heap to know where the young uns have got to."

The day passed quietly. An occasional shot toward the house showed that the Indians remained in the vicinity and, indeed, dark forms could be seen moving about in the distant parts of the clearing.

"Will it be possible," the farmer asked Pearson, when night again fell, "to go out and see if we can discover any traces of them?"

"Worse than no use," Pearson said positively. "We should just lose our har without doing no good whatever. If the Injuns in these woodsand I reckon altogether there's a good many hundred of 'emcan't find 'em, ye may swear that we can't. That's just what they're hoping, that we'll be fools enough to put ourselves outside the stockade. They'll lie close round all night, and a weasel wouldn't creep through 'em. Ef I thought there was jest a shadow of chance of finding them young uns I'd risk it; but there's no chancenot a bit of it."

A vigilant watch was again kept up all night, but all was still and quiet. The next morning the Indians were still round them.

"Don't ye fret, ma'am!" Pearson said, as he saw how pale and wan Mrs. Welch looked in the morning light. "You may bet your last shilling that they're not caught 'em."

"Why are you so sure?" Mrs. Welch asked. "They may be dead by this time."

"Not they, ma'am! I'm as sartin as they're living and free as I am that I'm standing here. I know these Injuns' ways. Ef they had caught 'em they'd jest have brought 'em here and would have fixed up two posts, jest out of rifle range, and would have tied them there and offered you the choice of giving up this place and your scalps or of seeing them tortured and burned under your eyes. That's their way. No, they aint caught 'em alive, nor they aint caught 'em dead neither; for, ef they had they'd have brought their scalps to have shown yer. No, they've got away, though it beats me to say how. I've only got one fear, and that is that they might come back before the Injuns have gone. Now I tell ye what we had better dowe better keep up a dropping fire all night and all day to-morrow, and so on, until the redskins have gone. Ef the young uns come back across the lake at night, and all is quiet, they'll think the Injuns have taken themselves off; but, if they hear firing still going on, they'll know well enough that they're still around the house."

William Welch at once agreed to this plan, and every quarter of an hour or so all through the night a few shots were fired. The next morning no Indians could be seen, and there was a cessation of the dropping shots which had before been kept up at the house.

"They may be in hiding," Pearson said in the afternoon, "trying to tempt us out; but I'm more inclined to think as how they've gone. I don't see a blade of that corn move; I've had my eyes fixed on it for the last two hours. It are possible, of course, that they're there, but I reckon not. I expect they've been waiting, ever since they gave up the attack, in hopes that the young uns would come back; but now, as they see that we're keeping up a fire to tell them as how they're still round us, they've given it up and gone. When it gets dark to-night I'll go out and scout round."

At ten o'clock at night Pearson dropped lightly from the stockade on the side opposite to the gate, as he knew that, if the Indians were there, this would be the point that they would be watching; then, crawling upon his stomach, he made his way slowly down to the lake. Entering the water and stooping low, he waded along the edge of the bushes for a distance of a mile; then he left the water and struck into the forest. Every few minutes he could hear the discharge of the rifles at the house; but, as before, no answering shots were heard. Treading very cautiously, he made a wide détour and then came down again on the clearing at the end furthest from the lake, where the Indians had been last seen moving about. All was still. Keeping among the trees and moving with great caution, he made his way, for a considerable distance, along the edge of the clearing; then he dropped on his hands and knees and entered the cornfield, and for two hours he crawled about, quartering the ground like a dog in search of game. Everywhere he found lines where the Indians had crawled along to the edge nearest to the house, but nowhere did he discover a sign of life. Then, still taking great care, he moved down toward the house and made a circuit of it a short distance outside the stockade; then he rose to his feet.

"Yer may stop shooting," he shouted. "The pesky rascals are gone." Then he walked openly up to the gate; it was opened at once by William Welch.

"Are you sure they have gone?" he asked.

"Sure as gospel," he answered, "and they've been gone twenty-four hours at least."

"How do you know that?"

"Easy enough. I found several of their cooking places in the woods; the brands were out, and even under the ashes the ground was cold, so they must have been out for a long time. I could have walked straight on to the house, then, but I thought it safer to make quite sure by searching everywhere, for they might have moved deeper into the forest, and left a few men on guard here, in case the young uns should come back. But it aint so; they've gone, and there aint a living soul anywhere nigh the clearing. The young uns can come back now, if they will, safely enough."

Before doing anything else the farmer assembled the party together in the living room, and there solemnly offered up thanks to God for their deliverance from danger, and implored his protection for the absent ones. When this was over he said to his wife:

"Now, Jane; you had better lie down and get a few hours' sleep. It is already two o'clock, and there is no chance whatever of their returning tonight, but I shall go down to the lake and wait till morning. Place candles in two of the upper windows. Should they be out on the lake they will see them and know that the Indians have not taken the house."

Morning came, without any signs of the absent ones. At daybreak Pearson went out to scout in the woods, and returned late in the afternoon with the news that the Indians had all departed, and that, for a distance of ten miles at least, the woods were entirely free.

When it became dark the farmer again went down to the lake and watched until two, when Pearson took his place. Mr. Welch was turning to go back to the house when Pearson placed his hand on his shoulder.

"Listen!" he said; and for a minute the men stood immovable.

"What was it?" the farmer asked.

"I thought I heard the stroke of a paddle," Pearson said; "it might have been the jump of a fish. There! there it is again!" He lay down and put his ear close to the water. "There's a canoe in the lake to the north'ard. I can hear the strokes of the paddle plainly."

Mr. Welch could hear nothing. Some minutes passed, then Pearson exclaimed:

"There! I saw a break in the water over there! There it is!" he said, straining his eyes in the darkness. "That's a canoe, sure enough, although they have ceased paddling. It's not a mile away."

Then he rose to his feet and shouted "Halloo!" at the top of his voice. An answering shout faintly came back across the water. He again hailed loudly, and this time the answer came in a female voice.

"It's them, sure enough. I can swear to Nelly's voice."

William Welch uncovered his head and, putting his hand before his face, returned fervent thanks to God for the recovery of his child. Then he dashed off at full speed toward the house. Before he reached it however, he met his wife running down to meet him, the shouts having informed her that something was seen. Hand in hand they ran down to the water's edge. The canoe was now swiftly approaching. The mother screamed:

"Nelly! is that you?"

"Mamma! mamma!" came back in the girl's clear tones.

With a low cry of gladness Mrs. Welch fell senseless to the ground. The strain which she had for four days endured had been terrible, and even the assurances of Pearson had failed to awaken any strong feeling of hope in her heart. She had kept up bravely and had gone about her work in the house with a pale, set face, but the unexpected relief was too much for her. Two minutes later the bow of the canoe grated on the shore, and Nelly leaped into her father's arms.

"Where is mamma?" she exclaimed. "She is here, my dear, but she has fainted. The joy of your return has been too much for her."

Nelly knelt beside her mother and raised her head, and the farmer grasped Harold's hand.

"My brave boy," he said, "I have to thank you for saving my child's life. God bless you!"

He dipped his hat in the lake and sprinkled water in his wife's face. She soon recovered and, a few minutes afterward, the happy party walked up to the house, Mrs. Welch being assisted by her husband and Pearson. The two young ones were soon seated at a table, ravenously devouring food, and, when their hunger was satisfied, they related the story of their adventures, the whole of the garrison being gathered round to listen. After relating what had taken place up to the time of their hiding the canoe, Harold went on:

"We walked about a quarter of a mile until we came to a large clump of underwood. We crept in there, taking great pains not to break a twig or disturb a leaf. The ground was, fortunately, very dry, and I could see that our footprints had not left the smallest marks. There we have lain hid ever since. We had the fish and the berries, and, fortunately, the fruit was ripe and juicy and quenched our thirst well enough, and we could, sometimes, hear the firing by day, and always at night. On the day we took refuge we heard the voices of the Indians down toward the lake quite plainly, but we have heard nothing of them since. Last night we heard the firing up to the middle of the night, and then it suddenly stopped. To-day I crept out and went down to the lake to listen; but it seemed that everything was still. Nelly was in a terrible way, and was afraid that the house had been taken by the Indians, but I told her that could not be, for that there would certainly have been a tremendous lot of firing at last, whereas it stopped, after a few shots, just as it had been going on so long. Our provisions were all gone and Nelly was getting very bad for want of water. I, of course, got a drink at the lake this morning. So we agreed that, if everything was still again to-night, we would go back to the place where we had hidden the canoe, launch it, and paddle here. Everything was quiet, so we came along as we had arranged. When I saw the lights in the windows I made sure all was right: still it was a great relief when I heard the shout from the shore. I knew, of course, that it wasn't a redskin's shout. Besides, Indians would have kept quiet till we came alongside."

Very hearty were the commendations bestowed on the boy for his courage and thoughtfulness.

"You behaved like an old frontiersman," Pearson said. "I couldn't have done better myself. You only made one blunder from the time you set out from shore."

"What was that?" Harold asked.

"You were wrong to pick the berries. The redskins, of course, would find where you had landed, they'd see the marks where you lay down, and would know that you had paddled away again. Had it not been for their seeing the tracks you made in picking the berries they might have, supposed you had started before daybreak, and had gone out of sight across the lake; but them marks would have shown 'em that you did not take to your canoe until long after the sun was up, and therefore that you couldn't have made across the lake without their seeing you, but must either have landed or be in your canoe under shelter of the trees somewhere along the shore. It's a marvel to me that they didn't find your traces, however careful you were to conceal 'em. But that's the only error you made, and I tell you, young un, you have a right to be proud of having outwitted a hull tribe of redskins."

CHAPTER IV.

THE FIGHT AT LEXINGTON.

Harold remained for four months longer with his cousin. The Indians had made several attacks upon settlements at other points of the frontier, but they had not repeated their incursion in the neighborhood of the lake. The farming operations had gone on regularly, but the men always worked with their rifles ready to their hand. Pearson had predicted that the Indians were not likely to return to that neighborhood. Mr. Welch's farm was the only one along the lake that had escaped, and the loss the Indians had sustained in attacking it had been so heavy that they were not likely to make an expedition in that quarter, where the chances of booty were so small and the certainty of a desperate resistance so great.

Other matters occurred which rendered the renewal of the attack improbable. The news was brought by a wandering hunter that a quarrel had arisen between the Shawnees and the Iroquois, and that the latter had recalled their braves from the frontier to defend their own villages in case of hostilities breaking out between them and the rival tribe.

There was no occasion for Harold to wait for news from home, for his father had, before starting, definitely fixed the day for his return, and when that time approached Harold started on his eastward journey, in order to be at home about the date of their arrival. Pearson took him in his canoe to the end of the lake and accompanied him to the settlement, whence he was able to obtain a conveyance to Detroit. Here he took a passage in a trading boat and made his way by water to Montreal, thence down through Lake Champlain and the Hudson River to New York, and thence to Boston.

The journey had occupied him longer than he expected, and Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were already in their home at Concord when he arrived. The meeting was a joyful one. His parents had upon their return home found letters from Mr. Welch and his wife describing the events which had happened at the farm, speaking in the highest terms of the courage and coolness in danger which Harold had displayed, and giving him full credit for the saving of their daughter's life.

Upon the day after Harold's return two gentlemen called upon Captain Wilson and asked him to sign the agreement which a number of colonists had entered into to resist the mother country to the last. This Captain Wilson positively refused to do.

"I am an Englishman," he said, "and my sympathies are wholly with my country. I do not say that the whole of the demands of England are justifiable. I think that Parliament has been deceived as to the spirit existing here. But I consider that it has done nothing whatever to justify the attitude of the colonists. The soldiers of England have fought for you against French and Indians and are still stationed here to protect you. The colonists pay nothing for their land; they pay nothing toward the expenses of the government of the mother country; and it appears to me to be perfectly just that people here, free as they are from all the burdens that bear so heavily on those at home, should at least bear the expense of the army stationed here. I grant that it would have been far better had the colonists taxed themselves to pay the extra amount, instead of the mother country taxing them; but this they would not do. Some of the colonists paid their quota, others refused to do so, and this being the case, it appears to me that England is perfectly justified in laying on a tax. Nothing could have been fairer than the tax that she proposed. The stamp-tax would in no way have affected the poorer classes in the colonies. It would have been borne only by the rich and by those engaged in such business transactions as required stamped documents. I regard the present rebellion as the work of a clique of ambitious men who have stirred up the people by incendiary addresses and writings. There are, of course, among them a large number of menamong them, gentlemen, I place youwho conscientiously believe that they are justified in doing nothing whatever for the land which gave them or their ancestors birth; who would enjoy all the great natural wealth of this vast country without contributing toward the expense of the troops to whom it is due that they enjoy peace and tranquility. Such, gentlemen, are not my sentiments. You consider it a gross hardship that the colonists are compelled to trade only with the mother country. I grant that it would be more profitable and better for us had we an open trade with the whole world; but in this England only acts as do all other countries toward their colonies. France, Spain, Portugal, and the Netherlands all monopolize the trade of their colonies; all, far more than does England, regard their colonies as sources of revenue. I repeat, I do not think that the course that England has pursued toward us has been always wise, but I am sure that nothing that she has done justifies the spirit of disaffection and rebellion which is ripe throughout these colonies."

"The time will come, sir," one of the gentlemen said, "when you will have reason to regret the line which you have now taken."

"No, sir," Captain Wilson said haughtily. "The time may come when the line that I have taken may cost me my fortune, and even my life, but it will never cause me one moment's regret that I have chosen the part of a loyal English gentleman."

When the deputation had departed Harold, who had been a wondering listener to the conversation, asked his father to explain to him the exact position in which matters stood.

It was indeed a serious one. The success of England, in her struggle with France for the supremacy of North America had cost her a great deal of money. At home the burdens of the people were extremely heavy. The expense of the army and navy was great, and the ministry, in striving to lighten the burdens of the people, turned their eyes to the colonies. They saw in America a population of over two million people, subjects of the king, like themselves, living free from rent and taxes on their own land and paying nothing whatever to the expenses of the country. They were, it is true, forced to trade with England, but this obligation was set wholly at naught. A gigantic system of smuggling was carried on. The custom-house officials had no force at their disposal which would have enabled them to check these operations, and the law enforcing a trade with England was virtually a dead letter.

Their first step was to strengthen the naval force on the American coast and by additional vigilance to put some sort of check on the wholesale smuggling which prevailed. This step caused extreme discontent among the trading classes of America, and these set to work vigorously to stir up a strong feeling of disaffection against England. The revenue officers were prevented, sometimes by force, from carrying out their duties.

After great consideration the English government came to the conclusion that a revenue sufficient to pay a considerable proportion of the cost of the army in America might be raised by means of a stamp-tax imposed upon all legal documents, receipts, agreements, and licensesa tax, in fact, resembling that on stamps now in use in England. The colonists were furious at the imposition of this tax. A Congress, composed of deputies from each State, met, and it was unanimously resolved that the stamp-tax should not be paid. Meetings were everywhere held, at which the strongest and most treasonable language was uttered, and such violent threats were used against the persons employed as stamp-collectors that these, in fear of their lives, resigned their posts.

The stamp-tax remained uncollected and was treated by the colonists as if it were not in existence.

The whole of the States now began to prepare for war. The Congress was made permanent, the militia drilled and prepared for fighting, and everywhere the position grew more and more strained. Massachusetts was the headquarters of disaffection, and here a total break with the mother country was openly spoken of. At times the more moderate spirits attempted to bring about a reconciliation between the two parties. Petitions were sent to the Houses of Parliament, and even at this time had any spirit of wisdom prevailed in England the final consequences might have been prevented. Unfortunately the majority in Parliament were unable to recognize that the colonists had any rights upon their side. Taxation was so heavy at home that men felt indignant that they should be called upon to pay for the keeping up of the army in America, to which the untaxed colonists, with their free farms and houses, would contribute nothing. The plea of the colonists that they were taxed by a chamber in which they were unrepresented was answered by the statement that such was also the case with Manchester, Leeds, and many other large towns which were unrepresented in Parliament.

In England neither the spirit nor the strength of the colonists was understood. Men could not bring themselves to believe that these would fight rather than submit, still less that if they did fight it would be successfully. They ignored the fact that the population of the States was one-fourth as large as that of England; that by far the greater proportion of that population were men trained, either in border warfare or in the chase, to the use of the rifle; that the enormous extent of country offered almost insuperable obstacles to the most able army composed of regular troops, and that the vast forests and thinly populated country were all in favor of a population fighting as guerrillas against trained troops. Had they perceived these things the English people would have hesitated before embarking upon such a struggle, even if convinced, as assuredly the great majority were convinced, of the fairness of their demands. It is true that even had England at this point abandoned altogether her determination to raise taxes in America the result would probably have been the same. The spirit of disaffection in the colony had gone so far that a retreat would have been considered as a confession of weakness, and separation of the colonists from the mother country would have happened ere many years had elapsed. As it was, Parliament agreed to let the stamp-tax drop, and in its place established some import duties on goods entering the American ports.

The colonists, however, were determined that they would submit to no taxation whatever. The English government, in its desire for peace, abandoned all the duties with the exception of that on tea; but even this concession was not sufficient to satisfy the colonists. These entered into a bond to use no English goods. A riot took place at Boston, and the revenue officers were forced to withdraw from their posts. Troops were dispatched from England and the House of Commons declared Massachusetts to be in a state of rebellion.

It must not be supposed that the colonists were by any means unanimous in their resistance to England. There were throughout the country a large number of gentlemen, like Captain Wilson, wholly opposed to the general feeling. New York refused to send members to the Congress, and in many other provinces the adhesion given to the disaffected movement was but lukewarm. It was in the New England provinces that the spirit of rebellion was hottest. These States had been peopled for the most part by Puritansmen who had left England voluntarily, exiling themselves rather than submit to the laws and religion of the country, and among them, as among a portion of the Irish population of America at the present time, the feeling of hatred against the government of England was, in a way, hereditary.

So far but few acts of violence had taken place. Nothing could be more virulent than the language of the newspapers of both parties against their opponents, but beyond a few isolated tumults the peace had not been broken. It was the lull before the storm. The great majority of the New England colonists were bent upon obtaining nothing short of absolute independence; the loyalists and the English were as determined to put down any revolt by force.

The Congress drilled, armed, and organized; the English brought over fresh troops and prepared for the struggle. It was December when Harold returned home to his parents, and for the next three months the lull before the storm continued.

The disaffected of Massachusetts had collected a large quantity of military stores at Concord. These General Gage, who commanded the troops at Boston, determined to seize and destroy, seeing that they could be collected only for use against the Government, and on the night of April 19 the grenadier and light infantry companies of the various regiments, 800 strong, under command of Lieutenant Colonel Smith of the Tenth Regiment, and Major Pitcairne of the Marines, embarked in boats and were conveyed up Charles River as far as a place called Phipps' Farm. There they landed at midnight, having a day's provisions in their haversacks, and started on their march to Concord, twenty miles distant from Boston.

The design had been discovered by some of the revolutionary party in the town, and two of their number were dispatched on horseback to rouse the whole country on the way to Concord, where the news arrived at two o'clock in the morning.

Captain Wilson and his household were startled from sleep by the sudden ringing of the alarm-bells, and a negro servant, Pompey, who had been for many years in their service, was sent down into the town, which lay a quarter of a mile from the house, to find out what was the news. He returned in half an hour.

"Me tink all de people gone mad, massa. Dey swarming out of deir houses and filling de streets, all wid guns on deir shoulders, all de while shouting and halloing 'Down wid de English! Down wid de redcoats! dey shan't have our guns; dey shan't take de cannon and de powder.' Dere were ole Massa Bill Emerson, the preacher, wid his gun in his hands, shouting to de people to stand firm and to fight till de last; dey all shout, 'We will!' Dey bery desperate; me fear great fight come on."

"What are you going to do, father?" Harold asked.

"Nothing, my boy. If, as it is only too likely, this is the beginning of a civil war, I have determined to offer my services to the government. Great numbers of loyalists have sent in their names offering to serve if necessary, and from my knowledge of drill I shall, of course, be useful. To-day I can take no active part in the fight, but I shall take my horse and ride forward to meet the troops and warn the commanding officer that resistance will be attempted here."

"May I go with you, father?"

"Yes, if you like, my boy. Pompey, saddle two horses at once. You are not afraid of being left alone, Mary?" he said, turning to his wife. "There is no chance of any disturbance here. Our house lies beyond the town, and whatever takes place will be in Concord. When the troops have captured the guns and stores they will return."

Mrs. Wilson said she was not frightened and had no fear whatever of being left alone. The horses were soon brought round, and Captain Wilson and his son mounted and rode off at full speed. They made a détour to avoid the town, and then, gaining the highroad, went forward at full speed. The alarm had evidently been given all along the line. At every village the bells were ringing, the people were assembling in the streets, all carrying arms, while numbers were flocking in from the farmhouses around. Once or twice Captain Wilson was stopped and asked where he was going.

"I am going to tell the commander of the British force, now marching hither, that if he advances there will be bloodshedthat it will be the beginning of civil war. If he has orders to come at all hazards, my words will not stop him; if it is left to his discretion, possibly he may pause before he brings on so dire a calamity."

It was just dawn when Captain Wilson and Harold rode into Lexington, where the militia, 130 strong, had assembled. Their guns were loaded and they were ready to defend the place, which numbered about 700 inhabitants.

Just as Captain Wilson rode in a messenger ran up with the news that the head of the British column was close at hand. Some of the militia had dispersed to lie down until the English arrived. John Parker, who commanded them, ordered the drums to beat and the alarm-guns to be fired, and his men drew up in two ranks across the road.

"It is too late now, Harold," Captain Wilson said. "Let us get out of the line of fire."

The British, hearing the drums and the alarm-guns, loaded, and the advance company came on at the double. Major Pitcairne was at their head and shouted to the militia to lay down their arms.

It is a matter of dispute, and will always remain one, as to who fired the first shot. The Americans assert that it was the English; the English say that as they advanced several shots were fired at them from behind a stone wall and from some of the adjoining houses, which wounded one man and hit Major Pitcairne's horse in two places.

The militia disregarded Major Pitcairne's orders to lay down their arms. The English fired; several of the militia were killed, nine wounded, and the rest dispersed. There was no further fighting and the English marched on, unopposed, to Concord.

As they approached the town the militia retreated from it. The English took possession of a bridge behind the place and held this while the troops were engaged in destroying the ammunition and gun-carriages. Most of the guns had been removed and only two twenty-four pounders were taken. In destroying the stores by fire the court-house took flames. At the sight of this fire the militia and armed countrymen advanced down the hill toward the bridge. The English tried to pull up the planks, but the Americans ran forward rapidly. The English guard fired; the colonists returned the fire. Some of the English were killed and wounded and the party fell back into the town. Half an hour later Colonel Smith, having performed the duty that he was sent to do, resumed the homeward march with the whole of his troops.

Then the militiamen of Concord, with those from many villages around and every man in the district capable of bearing arms, fell upon the retiring English.

The road led through several defiles, and every tree, every rock, every depression of ground was taken advantage of by the Americans. Scarcely a man was to be seen, but their deadly fire rained thick upon the tired troops. This they vainly attempted to return, but they could do nothing against an invisible foe, every man of whom possessed a skill with his rifle far beyond that of the British soldier. Very many fell and the retreat was fast becoming a rout, when, near Lexington, the column met a strong re-enforcement which had been sent out from Boston. This was commanded by Lord Percy, who formed his detachment into square, in which Colonel Smith's party, now so utterly exhausted that they were obliged to lie down for some time, took refuge. When they were rested the whole force moved forward again toward Boston, harassed the whole way by the Americans, who from behind stone walls and other places of shelter kept up an incessant fire upon both flanks, as well as in the front and rear, against which the troops could do nothing. At last the retreating column safely arrived at Boston, spent and worn out with fatigue. Their loss was 65 men killed, 136 wounded, 49 missing.

Such was the beginning of the war of independence. Many American writers have declared that previous to that battle there was no desire for independence on the part of the colonists, but this is emphatically contradicted by the language used at the meetings and in the newspapers which have come down to us. The leaders may not have wished to go so farmay not have intended to gain more than an entire immunity from taxation and an absolute power for the colonists to manage their own affairs. But experience has shown that when the spark of revolution is once lighted, when resistance to the law has once commenced, things are carried to a point far beyond that dreamed of by the first leaders.

Those who commenced the French Revolution were moderate men who desired only that some slight check should be placed on the arbitrary power of the kingthat the people should be relieved in some slight degree from the horrible tyranny of the nobles, from the misery and wretchedness in which they lived. These just demands increased step by step until they culminated in the Reign of Terror and the most horrible scenes of bloodshed and massacre of modern times.

Men like Washington and Franklin and Adams may have desired only that the colonists should be free from imperial taxation, but the popular voice went far beyond this. Three years earlier wise counsels in the British Parliament might have averted a catastrophe and delayed for many years the separation of the colonies from their mother country. At the time the march began from Boston to Concord the American colonists stood virtually in armed rebellion. The militia throughout New England were ready to fight. Arms, ammunition, and military stores were collected in Rhode Island and New Hampshire. The cannon and military stores belonging to the Crown had been carried off by the people, forty cannon being seized in Rhode Island alone. Such being the case, it is nonsense to speak of the fray at Lexington as the cause of the Revolutionary War. It was but the spark in the powder. The magazine was ready and primed, the explosion was inevitable, and the fight at Lexington was the accidental incident which set fire to it.

The efforts of American writers to conceal the real facts of the case, to minimize the rebellious language, the violent acts of the colonists, and to make England responsible for the war because a body of troops were sent to seize cannon and military stores intended to be used against them are so absurd, as well as so untrue, that it is astonishing how wide a credence such statements have received.

From an eminence at some distance from the line of retreat Captain Wilson and his son watched sorrowfully the attack upon the British troops. When at last the combatants disappeared from sight through one of the defiles Captain Wilson turned his horse's head homeward.

"The die is cast," he said to his wife as she met him at the door. "The war has begun, and I fear it can have but one termination. The colonists can place forces in the field twenty times as numerous as any army that England can spare. They are inferior in drill and in discipline, but these things, which are of such vast consequence in a European battlefield, matter but little in such a country as this. Skill with the rifle and knowledge of forest warfare are far more important. In these points the colonists are as superior to the English soldiers as they are in point of numbers. Nevertheless, my dear, my duty is plain. I am an Englishman and have borne his Majesty's commission, and I must fight for the king. Harold has spoken to me as we rode home together, and he wishes to fight by my side. I have pointed out to him that as he was born here he can without dishonor remain neutral in the struggle. He, however, insists that as a royal subject of the king he is entitled to fight for him. He saw to-day many lads not older than himself in the rebel ranks, and he has pleaded strongly for permission to go with me. To this I have agreed. Which would you prefer, Maryto stay quietly here, where I imagine you would not be molested on account of the part I take, or will you move into Boston and stop with your relations there until the struggle has ended one way or the other?"

As Mrs. Wilson had frequently talked over with her husband the course that he would take in the event of civil war actually breaking out, the news that he would at once offer his services to the British authorities did not come as a shock upon her. Even the question of Harold accompanying his father had been talked over; and although her heart bled at the thought of husband and son being both engaged in such a struggle, she agreed to acquiesce in any decision that Harold might arrive at. He was now nearly sixteen, and in the colonies a lad of this age is, in point of independence and self-reliance, older than an English boy. Harold, too, had already shown that he possessed discretion and coolness as well as courage, and although now that the moment had come Mrs. Wilson wept passionately at the thought of their leaving her, she abstained from saying any word to dissuade them from the course they had determined upon. When she recovered from her fit of crying she said that she would accompany them at once to Boston, as in the first place their duties might for some time lie in that city, and that in any case she would obtain far more speedy news there of what was going on throughout the country than she would at Concord. She would, too, be living among her friends and would meet with many of the same convictions and opinions as her husband's, whereas in Concord the whole population would be hostile.

Captain Wilson said that there was no time to be lost, as the whole town was in a tumult. He therefore advised her to pack up such necessary articles as could be carried in the valises, on the horses' backs.

Pompey and the other servants were to pack up the most valuable effects and to forward them to a relation of Mrs. Wilson's who lived about three miles from Boston. There they would be in safety and could be brought into the town, if necessary. Pompey and two other old servants were to remain in charge of the house and its contents. Jake, an active young negro some twenty-three or twenty-four years old, who was much attached to Harold, whose personal attendant and companion he had always been, was to accompany them on horseback, as was Judy, Mrs. Wilson's negro maid.

As evening fell the five horses were brought round, and the party started by a long and circuitous route, by which, after riding for nearly forty miles, they reached Boston at two o'clock next morning.

CHAPTER V.

BUNKER'S HILL.

The excitement caused by the news of the fight at Concord was intense and, as it spread through the colonies, the men everywhere rushed to arms. The fray at Lexington was represented as a wanton outrage, and the fact wholly ignored that the colonists concerned in it were drawn up in arms to oppose the passage of the king's troops, who were marching on their legitimate duty of seizing arms and ammunition collected for the purpose of warring against the king. The colonial orators and newspaper writers affirmed then, as they have affirmed since, that, up to the day of Lexington, no one had a thought of firing a shot against the Government. A more barefaced misstatement was never made. Men do not carry off cannon by scores, and accumulate everywhere great stores of warlike ammunition, without a thought of fighting. The colonists commenced the war by assembling in arms to oppose the progress of British troops obeying the orders of the Government. It matters not a whit on which side the first shot was fired. American troops have, many times since that event, fired upon rioters in the streets, under circumstances no stronger than those which brought on the fight at Lexington.

From all parts of New England the militia and volunteers poured in, and in three days after the fight, twenty thousand armed men were encamped between the rivers Mystic and Roxburgh, thus besieging Boston. They at once set to work throwing up formidable earthworks, the English troops remaining within their intrenchments across the neck of land joining Boston with the mainland.

The streets of Boston were crowded with an excited populace when Captain Wilson and his party rode into it at two in the morning. No one thought of going to bed, and all were excited to the last degree at the news of the battle. All sorts of reports prevailed. On the colonial side it was affirmed that the British, in their retreat, had shot down women and children; while the soldiers affirmed that the colonists had scalped many of their number who fell in the fight. The latter statement was officially made by Lord Percy in his report of the engagement.

Captain Wilson rode direct to the house of his wife's friends. They were still up, and were delighted to see Mary Wilson, for such exaggerated reports had been received of the fight that they were alarmed for her safety. They belonged to the moderate party, who saw that there were faults on both sides and regretted bitterly both the obstinacy of the English Parliament in attempting to coerce the colonists and the determination of the latter to oppose, by force of arms, the legitimate rights of the mother country.

Until the morning the events of the preceding day were talked over; a few hours' repose was then taken, after which Captain Wilson went to the headquarters of General Gage and offered his services. Although Boston was the headquarters of the disaffected party, no less than two hundred men came forward as volunteers in the king's service, and Captain Wilson was at once appointed to the command of a company of fifty men. Before leaving the army he had taken part in several expeditions against the Indians, and his knowledge of forest warfare rendered him a valuable acquisition. Boston was but poorly provisioned, and, as upon the day when the news of Lexington reached New York two vessels laden with flour for the use of the troops at Boston were seized by the colonists and many other supplies cut off, the danger of the place being starved out was considerable. General Gage, therefore, offered no opposition to the exit from the city of those who wished to avoid the horror of a siege, and a considerable portion of the population made their way through to the rebel lines. Every day brought news of fresh risings throughout the country; the governors of the various provinces were powerless; small garrisons of English troops were disarmed and made prisoners; and the fortress of Ticonderoga, held only by fifty men, was captured by the Americans without resistance. In one month after the first shot was fired the whole of the American colonies were in rebellion.

The news was received in England with astonishment and sorrow. Great concessions had been made by Parliament, but the news had reached America too late to avoid hostilities. Public opinion was divided; many were in favor of granting at once all that the colonists demanded, and many officers of rank and position resigned their commissions rather than fight against the Americans. The division, indeed, was almost as general and complete as it had been in the time of our own civil war. In London the feeling in favor of the colonists was strong, but in the country generally the determination to repress the rising was in the ascendant. The colonists had, with great shrewdness, dispatched a fast-sailing ship to Europe upon the day following the battle of Lexington, giving their account of the affair, and representing it as a massacre of defenseless colonists by British troops; and the story thus told excited a sympathy which would not, perhaps, have been extended to them had the real facts of the case been known. Representatives from all the colonies met at Philadelphia to organize the national resistance; but as yet, although many of the bolder spirits spoke of altogether throwing off allegiance to England, no resolution was proposed to that effect.

For the first six weeks after his arrival at Boston, Captain Wilson was engaged in drilling his company. Harold was, of course, attached to it, and entered with ardor upon his duties. Captain Wilson did not attempt to form his men into a band of regular soldiers; accuracy of movement and regularity of drill would be of little avail in the warfare in which they were likely to be engaged. Accuracy in shooting, quickness in taking cover, and steadiness in carrying out any general orders were the principal objects to be attained. Most of the men had already taken part in frontier warfare. The majority of them were gentlemenEnglishmen who, like their captain, had come out from home and purchased small estates in the country. The discipline, therefore, was not strict, and, off duty, all were on terms of equality.

Toward the end of May and beginning of June considerable re-enforcements arrived from England, and, as a step preparatory to offensive measures, General Gage, on June 12, issued a proclamation offering, in his Majesty's name, a free pardon to all who should forthwith lay down their arms, John Hancock and General Adams only excepted, and threatening with punishment all who should delay to avail themselves of the offer. This proclamation had no effect whatever.

Near the peninsula of Boston, on the north, and separated from it by the Charles River, which is navigable and about the breadth of the Thames at London Bridge, is another neck of land called the Peninsula of Charlestown. On the north bank, opposite Boston, lies the town of Charlestown, behind which, in the center of the peninsula, rises an eminence called Bunker's Hill. Bunker's Hill is sufficiently high to overlook any part of Boston and near enough to be within cannon-shot. This hill was unoccupied by either party, and about this time the Americans, hearing that General Gage had come to a determination to fortify it, resolved to defeat his resolution by being the first to occupy it.

About nine in the evening of June 16 a detachment from the colonial army, one thousand strong, under the command of Colonel Prescott, moved along the Charlestown road and took up a position on a shoulder of Bunker's Hill, which was known as Breed's Hill, just above the town of Charlestown. They reached this position at midnight. Each man carried a pick and shovel, and all night they worked vigorously in intrenching the position. Not a word was spoken, and the watch on board the men-of-war in the harbor were ignorant of what was going on so near at hand. At daybreak the alarm was given, and the Lively opened a cannonade upon the redoubt. A battery of guns was placed on Copp's Hill, behind Boston, distant twelve hundred yards from the works, and this, also, opened fire. The Americans continued their work, throwing up fresh intrenchments; and, singularly, only one man was killed by the fire from the ships and redoubt. A breastwork was carried down the hill to the flat ground which, intersected by fences, stretched away to the Mystic. By nine o'clock they had completed their intrenchments.

Prescott sent off for re-enforcements, but there was little harmony among the colonial troops. Disputes between the contingents of the various provinces were common; there was no head of sufficient authority to enforce his orders upon the whole; and a long delay took place before the re-enforcements were sent forward.

In the meantime the English had been preparing to attack the position. The Fifth, Thirty-eighth, Forty-third, and Fifty-second regiments, with ten companies of the grenadiers and ten of the light infantry, with a proportion of field artillery, embarked in boats, and, crossing the harbor, landed on the outward side of the peninsula, near the Mystic, with a view of outflanking the American position and surrounding them. The force was under the command of Major General Howe, under whom was Brigadier General Piggott.

Upon seeing the strength of the American position, General Howe halted, and sent back for further re-enforcements. The Americans improved the time thus given them by forming a breastwork in front of an old ditch. Here there was a post-and-rail fence. They ran up another by the side of this and filled the space between the two with the new-mown hay, which, cut only the day before, lay thickly over the meadows.

Two battalions were sent across to re-enforce Howe, while large re-enforcements, with six guns, arrived to the assistance of Prescott. The English had now a force consisting, according to different authorities, of between 2000 and 2500 men. The colonial force is also variously estimated, and had the advantage both in position and in the protection of their intrenchments, while the British had to march across open ground. As individual shots the colonists were immensely superior, but the British had the advantages given by drill and discipline.

The English lines advanced in good order, steadily and slowly, the artillery covering them by their fire. Presently the troops opened fire, but the distance was too great and they did but little execution. Encumbered with their knapsacks they ascended the steep hill toward the redoubt with difficulty, covered, as it was, by grass reaching to the knees. The colonists did not fire a shot until the English line had reached a point about one hundred and fifty yards from the intrenchments. Then Prescott gave the order, and from the redoubt and the long line of intrenchments flanking it flashed a line of fire. Each man had taken a steady aim with his rifle resting on the earthwork before him, and so deadly was the fire that nearly the whole front line of the British fell. For ten minutes the rest stood with dogged courage, firing at the hidden foe, but these, sheltered while they loaded and only exposing themselves momentarily while they raised their heads above the parapets to fire, did such deadly execution that the remnant of the British fell back to the foot of the hill.

While this force, which was under the command of General Pigott, had been engaged, another division under Howe himself moved against the rail fence. The combat was a repetition of that which had taken place on the hill. Here the Americans reserved their fire until the enemy were close; then, with their muskets resting on the rails, they poured in a deadly fire, and, after in vain trying to stand their ground, the troops fell back to the shore.

Captain Wilson was standing with Harold on Copp's Hill watching the engagement.

"What beautiful order they go in!" Harold said, looking admiringly at the long lines of red-coated soldiers.

"It is very pretty," Captain Wilson said sadly, "and may do in regular warfare; but I tell you, Harold, that sort of thing won't do here. There is scarce a man carrying a gun behind those intrenchments who cannot with certainty hit a bull's-eye at one hundred and fifty yards. It is simply murder, taking the men up in regular order against such a foe sheltered by earthworks."

At this moment the long line of fire darted out from the American intrenchments.

"Look there!" Captain Wilson cried in a pained voice. "The front line is nearly swept away! Do you see them lying almost in an unbroken line on the hillside? I tell you, Harold, it is hopeless to look for success if we fight in this way. The bravest men in the world could not stand such a fire as that."

"What will be done now?" Harold asked as the men stood huddled upon the shore.

"They will try again," Captain Wilson said. "Look at the officers running about among them and getting them into order."

In a quarter of an hour the British again advanced both toward the redoubt and the grass fence. As before the Americans withheld their fire, and this time until the troops were far closer than before, and the result was even more disastrous. Some of the grenadier and light infantry companies who led lost three-fourths, others nine-tenths of their men. Again the British troops recoiled from that terrible fire. General Howe and his officers exerted themselves to the utmost to restore order when the troops again reached the shore, and the men gallantly replied to their exhortations. Almost impossible as the task appeared, they prepared to undertake it for the third time. This time a small force only was directed to move against the grass fence, while the main body, under Howe, were to attack the redoubt on the hill.

Knapsacks were taken off and thrown down, and each man nerved himself to conquer or die. The ships in the harbor prepared the way by opening a heavy cannonade. General Clinton, who was watching the battle from Copp's Hill, ran down to the shore, rowed across the harbor, and put himself at the head of two battalions. Then, with loud cheers, the troops again sprang up the ascent. The American ammunition was running short, many of the men not having more than three or four rounds left, and this time they held their fire until the British troops were within twenty yards. These had not fired a shot, the order being that there was to be no pause, but that the redoubt was to be carried with the bayonet. For a moment they wavered when the deadly volley was poured in upon them. Then, with a cheer, they rushed at the intrenchments. All those who first mounted were shot down by the defenders, but the troops would not be denied, and, pouring over the earthworks leaped down upon the enemy.

For a few minutes there was a hand-to-hand fight, the Americans using the butt-ends of their muskets, the English their bayonets. The soldiers were exhausted with the climb up the hill and their exertions under a blazing sun, and the great majority of the defenders of the redoubt were, therefore, enabled to retreat unharmed, as, fresh and active, they were able to outrun their tired opponents, and as the balls served out to the English field-pieces were too large, the artillery were unable to come into action.

The colonists at the rail fence maintained their position against the small force sent against them till the main body at the redoubt had made their escape. The British were unable to continue the pursuit beyond the isthmus.

In the whole history of the British army there is no record of a more gallant feat than the capture of Bunker's Hill, and few troops in the world would, after two bloody repulses, have moved up the third time to assail such a position, defended by men so trained to the use of the rifle. Ten hundred and fifty-four men, or nearly half their number, were killed and wounded, among whom were 83 officers. In few battles ever fought was the proportion of casualties to the number engaged so great. The Americans fought bravely, but the extraordinary praise bestowed upon them for their valor appears misplaced. Their position was one of great strength, and the absence of drill was of no consequence whatever in such an engagement. They were perfectly sheltered from the enemy's fire while engaged in calmly shooting him down, and their loss, up to the moment when the British rushed among them, was altogether insignificant. Their casualties took place after the position was stormed and on their retreat along the peninsula, and amounted in all to 145 killed and captured and 304 wounded. It may be said that both sides fought well; but, from the circumstances under which they fought, the highest credit is due to the victors.

The battle, however, though won by the English, was a moral triumph for the Americans, and the British Parliament should at once have given up the contest. It was, from the first, absolutely certain that the Americans, with their immense superiority in numbers, could, if they were only willing to fight, hold their vast country against the British troops, fighting with a base thousands of miles away. The battle of Bunker's Hill showed that they were so willingthat they could fight sternly and bravely: and this point once established, it was little short of madness for the English government to continue the contest. They had not even the excuse of desiring to wipe out the dishonor of a defeat. Their soldiers had won a brilliant victory and had fought with a determination and valor never exceeded, and England could have afforded to say, "We will fight no more. If you, the inhabitants of a vast continent, are determined to go alone, are ready to give your lives rather than remain in connection with us, go and prosper. We acknowledge we cannot subdue a nation in arms."

From the height of Copp's Hill it could be seen that the British had suffered terribly. Captain Wilson was full of enthusiasm when he saw the success of the last gallant charge of the English soldiers, but he said to Harold:

"It is a disastrous victory. A few such battles as these and the English army in America would cease to exist."

But although they were aware that the losses were heavy they were not prepared for the truth. The long grass had hidden from view many of those who fell, and when it was known that nearly half of those engaged were killed or wounded the feeling among the English was akin to consternation.

The generalship of the British was wholly unworthy of the valor of the troops. There would have been no difficulty in placing some of the vessels of light draught so far up the Mystic as to outflank the intrenchments held by the colonists. Indeed, the British troops might have been landed further up the Mystic, in which case the Americans must have retreated instantly to avoid capture. Lastly, the troops, although fighting within a mile of their quarters, were encumbered with three days' provisions and their knapsacks, constituting, with their muskets and ammunition, a load of 125 pounds. This was, indeed, heavily handicapping men who had, under a blazing sun, to climb a steep hill, with grass reaching to their knees, and intersected by walls and fences.

American writers describe the defenders of the position as inferior in numbers to the assailants, but it is due to the English to say that their estimate of the number of the defenders of the intrenchments differs very widely from this. General Gage estimated them as being fully three times as numerous as the British troops. It is probable that the truth lies between the two accounts.

Captain Wilson returned with Harold, greatly dispirited, to his house.

"The lookout is dreadfully bad," he said to his wife, after describing the events of the day. "So far as I can see there are but two alternativeseither peace or a long and destructive war with failure at its end. It is even more hopeless trying to conquer a vast country like this, defended by irregulars, than if we had a trained and disciplined army to deal with. In that case two or three signal victories might bring the war to a conclusion; but fighting with irregulars, a victory means nothing beyond so many of the enemy killed. There are scarcely any cannon to take, no stores or magazines to capture. When the enemy is beaten he disperses, moves off, and in a couple of days gathers again in a fresh position. The work has no end. There are no fortresses to take, no strategical positions to occupy, no great roads to cut. The enemy can march anywhere, attack and disperse as he chooses, scatter, and re-form when you have passed by. It is like fighting the wind."

"Well, John, since it seems so hopeless, cannot you give it up? Is it too late?"

"Altogether too late, Mary, and if I were free tomorrow I would volunteer my services again next day. It is not any the less my duty to fight in my country's cause because I believe the cause to be a losing one. You must see that yourself, dear. If England had been sure to win without my aid, I might have stood aloof. It is because everyone's help is needed that such services as I can render are due to her. A country would be in a bad way whose sons were only ready to fight when their success was a certainty."

The Congress determined now to detach Canada from the English side and prepared a force for the invasion of that colony, where the British had but few regular troops.

Captain Wilson was one morning summoned to headquarters. On his return he called together four or five of the men best acquainted with the country. These had been in their early days hunters or border scouts, and knew every foot of the forest and lakes.

"I have just seen the general," Captain Wilson said. "A royalist brought in news last night that the rebels are raising a force intended to act against Montreal. They reckon upon being joined by a considerable portion of the Canadians, among whom there is, unfortunately, a good deal of discontent. We have but two regiments in the whole colony. One of these is at Quebec. The rebels, therefore, will get the advantage of surprise, and may raise the colony before we are in a condition to resist. General Howe asked me to take my company through the woods straight to Montreal. We should be landed a few miles up the coast at night. I suppose some of you know the country well enough to be able to guide us."

Several of the men expressed their ability to act as guides.

"I've fought the Injuns through them woods over and over again," said one of them, a sinewy, weather-beaten man of some sixty years old, who was known as Peter Lambton. He had for many years been a scout attached to the army and was one of the most experienced hunters on the frontier. He was a tall, angular man, except that he stooped slightly, the result of a habit of walking with the head bent forward in the attitude of listening. The years which had passed over him had had no effect upon his figure. He walked with a long, noiseless tread, like that of an Indian, and was one of the men attached to his company in whom, wisely, Captain Wilson had made no attempt to instill the very rudiments of drill. It was, the captain thought, well that the younger men should have such a knowledge of drill as would enable them to perform simple maneuvers, but the old hunters would fight in their own waya way infinitely better adapted for forest warfare than any that he could teach them. Peter and some of his companions were in receipt of small pensions, which had been bestowed upon them for their services with the troops. Men of this kind were not likely to take any lively interest in the squabbles as to questions of taxation, but when they found that it was coming to fighting they again offered their services to the government as a matter of course. Some were attached to the regular troops as scouts, while others were divided among the newly raised companies of loyalists.

Peter Lambton had for the last four years been settled at Concord. During the war with the French he had served as a scout with the regiment to which Captain Wilson belonged, and had saved that officer's life when with a portion of his company, he was surrounded and cut off by hostile Indians. A strong feeling of friendship had sprung up between them, and when, four years before, there had been a lull in the English fighting on the frontier, Peter had retired on his pension and the savings which he had made during his many years' work as a hunter, and had located himself in a cottage on Captain Wilson's estate. It was the many tales told him by the hunter of his experiences in Indian warfare that had fired Harold with a desire for the life of a frontier hunter, and had given him such a knowledge of forest life as had enabled him to throw off the Indians from his trail. On Harold's return the old hunter had listened with extreme interest to the story of his adventures and had taken great pride in the manner in which he had utilized his teachings. Peter made his appearance in the city three days after the arrival of Captain Wilson there.

"I look upon this here affair as a favorable occurrence for Harold," he said to Captain Wilson. "The boy has lots of spirits, but if it had not been for this he might have grown up a regular town greenhorn, fit for nothing but to walk about in a long coat and to talk pleasant to women; but this 'll jest be the making of him. With your permission, cap, I'll take him under my charge and teach him to use his eyes and his ears, and I reckon he'll turn out as good an Injun fighter as you'll see on the frontier."

"But it is not Indians that we are going to fight Peter," Captain Wilson said. "I heartily wish it was."

"It 'll be the same thing," Peter said; "not here, in course; there 'll be battles between the regulars and the colonists, regular battles like that at Quebec, where both parties was fools enough to march about in the open and get shot down by hundreds. I don't call that fighting; that's jest killing, and there aint no more sense in it than in two herd of buffalo charging each other on the prairie. But there 'll be plenty of real fightingexpeditions in the woods and Injun skirmishes, for you'll be sure that the Injuns'll join in, some on one side and some on the other; it aint in their nature to sit still in their villages while powder's being burned. A few months of this work will make a man of him, and he might have a worse teacher than Peter Lambton. You jest hand him over to my care, cap, and I'll teach him all I know of the ways of the woods, and I tell yer there aint no better kind of edication for a young fellow. He larns to use the senses God has given him, to keep his head when another man would lose his presence of mind, to have the eye of a hawk and the ear of a hound, to get so that he scarcely knows what it is to be tired or hungry, to be able to live while other men would starve, to read the signs of the woods like a printed book, and to be in every way a man and not a tailor's figure."

"There is a great deal in what you say, old friend," Captain Wilson answered, "and such a training cannot but do a man good. I wish with all my heart that it had been entirely with red foes that the fighting was to be done. However, that cannot be helped, and as he is to fight he could not be in better hands than yours. So long as we remain here I shall teach him what drill I can with the rest of the company, but when we leave this town and the work really begins, I shall put him in your charge to learn the duties of a scout."

The young negro Jake had also enlisted, for throughout the war the negroes fought on both sides, according to the politics of their masters. There were only two other negroes in the company, and Captain Wilson had some hesitation in enlisting them, but they made good soldiers. In the case of Jake, Captain Wilson knew that he was influenced in his wish to join solely by his affection for Harold, and the lad's father felt that in the moment of danger the negro would be ready to lay down his life for him.

There was great satisfaction in the band when they received news that they were at last about to take the field. The long inaction had been most wearisome to them, and they knew that any fighting that would take place round Boston would be done by the regular troops. Food, too, was very scarce in town, and they were heartily weary of the regular drill and discipline. They were, then, in high spirits as they embarked on board the Thetis sloop-of-war and sailed from Boston harbor.

It was a pitiful parting between Mrs. Wilson and her husband and son. It had been arranged that she should sail for England in a ship that was leaving in the following week and should there stay with her husband's family, from whom she had a warm invitation to make their home her own until the war was over.

The Thetis ran out to sea. As soon as night fell her bow was turned to land again, and about midnight the anchor was let fall near the shore some twenty miles north of Boston. The landing was quickly effected, and with three days' provisions in their knapsacks the little party started on their march.

One of the scouts who had come from that neighborhood led them by paths which avoided all villages and farms. At daybreak they bivouacked in a wood and at nightfall resumed the march. By the next morning they had left the settlements behind, and entered a belt of swamp and forest extending west to the St. Lawrence.

CHAPTER VI.

SCOUTING.

A party of six men were seated around a fire in the forest which covered the slopes of the northern shore of Lake Champlain. The spot had been chosen because a great tree had fallen, bringing down several others in its course, and opening a vista through which a view could be obtained of the surface of the lake. The party consisted of Peter Lambton, Harold, Jake, Ephraim Potter, another old frontiersman, and two Indians.

The company under Captain Wilson had made its way safely to the St. Lawrence after undergoing considerable hardships in the forest. They had been obliged to depend entirely on what game they could shoot and such fish as they could catch in the rivers whose course they followed. They had, however, reached Montreal without loss, and there they found that General Carleton had in all about 500 regulars and about 200 volunteers who had recently been engaged.

It was clear that if the people of Canada were as hostile to the connection with England as were those of the other colonies, the little force at the disposal of the English general could do nothing to defend the colony against the strong force which the Americans were collecting for its invasion. Fortunately this was not the case. Although the Canadians were of French descent and the province had been wrested by arms from France, they for the most part preferred being under English rule to joining the insurgent colonies. They had been in no way oppressed by England, their property had been respected, and above all things no attempt had ever been made to interfere with their religion. In the New England provinces the hard Puritan spirit of the early fathers had never ceased to prevail. Those who had fled from England to obtain freedom of worship had been intolerant persecutors of all religion different from their own. The consequence was that the priests of Canada were wholly opposed to any idea of union with the insurgent colonists. Their influence over the people was great, and although these still objected to the English rule and would have readily taken up arms against it under other circumstances, they had too little sympathy with the New Englanders to join in their movement, which, if successful, would have placed Canada under the rule of the United States instead of that of England.

The upper classes of Canadians were almost to a man loyal to the English connection. They had been well treated and enjoyed a greater state of independence than had been the case under French rule. Moreover, they were for the most part descended from old French families, and their sympathies were entirely opposed to popular insurrection. Thus, when Captain Wilson and his party reached Montreal, they found that, in spite of the paucity of English troops under the command of General Carleton, the position was not so bad as had been feared by General Gage. It was possible, and indeed probable, that Upper Canada might fall into the hands of the Americans, and that even Quebec itself might be captured; but unless the people joined the Americans the success of the latter would be but temporary. With the spring the navigation of the river would be open and re-enforcements would arrive from England. The invaders would then be at a disadvantage. Separated from home by a wide tract of forest-covered country, they would have the greatest difficulty in transporting artillery, ammunition, and stores, and, fighting as an army in invasion, they would be placed in a very different position to that occupied by the colonists fighting on their own ground. It was probable that for a time the tide of invasion would succeed.

The Indians of the Five Nations, as those dwelling near the British frontier at this point were called, had volunteered their services to the general to cross the frontier to recapture Ticonderoga and Crown Point, which had been seized by the Americans, and to carry the war into the colonies. But General Carleton, an exceedingly humane and kind-hearted man, shrank from the horrors that such a warfare would entail upon the colonists. He accepted the services of the Indians as far as the absolute defense of Canada from invasion, but refused to allow them to cross the frontier.

On the arrival of Captain Wilson with his little force he was ordered to march at once to the fort of St. John's, which was held by a party of regular troops.

On arriving at that place the two scouts had been sent down toward Lake Champlain to watch the proceedings of the enemy. Harold had obtained leave from his father to accompany the scouts, and Jake had been permitted to form one of the party. Peter Lambton had grumbled a little at this last addition to the number. He knew Jake's affection for his young master, and the great strength of the negro would have rendered him useful in a hand-to-hand fight, but he was altogether unaccustomed to forest work, and his habit of bursting into fits of laughter on the smallest provocation, as is the manner of his race, enraged the scout to the last degree. Indeed, he had not left the fort above an hour when he turned savagely on the negro.

"Look-ee here," he said, "if that's the way ye're a-going on, the sooner ye turns yer face and tramps back to the fort the better. When you were at Concord it done no harm to make as much noise as a jackass braying whenever you opened that mouth of yours, but it won't do in the forests. It would cost us our har and your wool ef yer were to make that noise with the enemy anywhere within fifteen miles of yer. I aint a-going, if I knows it, to risk my sculp on such a venture as this; still less I aint a-going to see this young chap's life thrown away. His father hez put him in my charge, and I aint a-going to see him sacrificed in no such way. So ye've got to make up yer mind; yer have got to keep that mouth of yours shut tight or yer've got to tramp back to the fort."

Jake gave many promises of silence, and although at first he often raised his voice to a point far exceeding that considered by the hunters safe in the woods, he was each time checked by such a savage growl on the part of Peter, or by a punch in the ribs from Harold, that he quickly fell into the ways of the others and never spoke above a loud whisper.

At a short distance from the fort they were joined by the two Indians, who were also out on a scouting expedition on their own account. They had previously been well known both to Peter and Ephraim. They were warriors of the Seneca tribe, one of the Five Nations. They had now been for two days on the north shore of Lake Champlain. They were sitting round a fire eating a portion of a deer which had been shot by Harold that morning. So far they had seen nothing of the enemy. They knew that 3000 men, under Schuyler and Montgomery, had marched to the other end of the lake. The colonists had been sending proclamations across the frontier to the inhabitants, saying that they were coming as friends to free them from the yoke of England and calling upon them to arise and strike for freedom. They were also in negotiation with some of the chiefs of the Five Nations and with other Indian tribes to induce them to join with them.

"I propose," Peter said when the meal was finished and he had lighted his pipe, "to go down the lake and see what they're doing. Deer Tail here tells me that he knows where there's a canoe. He, Harold, and me will go and reconnoiter a bit; the other three had best wait here till we comes back with news. In course, chief," he continued to the other Indian, after explaining to him in his own language what he intended to do, "you'll be guided by circumstancesyou can see a long way down the lake, and ef anything should lead you to think that we're in trouble, you can take such steps as may seem best to you. It's mighty little I should think of the crowd of colonists; but ef, as you say, a number of the warriors of the Five Nations, indignant at the rejection, of their offers by the English general, have gone down and joined the colonists, it'll be a different affair altogether."

The Elk, as the second Seneca chief was called, nodded his assent. In a few words Peter told Harold what had been arranged. Jake looked downcast when he heard that he was not to accompany his master, but as he saw the latter had, since leaving the fort, obeyed without questioning every suggestion of the scout, he offered no remonstrance.

A quarter of an hour later Peter rose, Deer Tail followed his example, and Harold at once took up his rifle and fell in in their steps. There was but little talk in the woods, and the matter having been settled, it did not enter the mind either of Peter or of the Indian to say a word of adieu to their comrades. Harold imitated their example, but gave a nod and a smile to Jake as he started.

Half an hour's tramp took them to the shore of the lake. Here they halted for a minute while the Indian closely examined the locality. With the wonderful power of making their way straight through the forest to the required spot, which seems to be almost an instinct among Indians, Deer Tail had struck the lake within two hundred yards of the point which he aimed at. He led the way along the shore until he came to a spot where a great maple had fallen into the lake; here he turned into the forest again, and in fifty yards came to a clump of bushes; these he pushed aside and pointed to a canoe which was lying hidden among them. Peter joined him, the two lifted the boat out, placed it on their shoulders, and carried it to the lake. There were three paddles in it. Peter motioned Harold to take his place in the stern and steer, while he and the Indian knelt forward and put their paddles in the water.

"Keep her along on the right shore of the lake, about fifty yards from the trees. There's no fear of anyone lurking about near this end."

The canoe was light and well made, and darted quickly over the water under the strokes of the two paddlers. It was late in the afternoon when they started, and before they had gone many miles darkness had fallen. The canoe was run in close to shore, where she lay in the shadow of the trees until morning. Just as the sun rose the redskin and Peter simultaneously dipped their paddles in the water and sent the canoe under the arches of the trees. They had at the same instant caught sight of four canoes making their way along the lake.

"Them's Injuns," Peter whispered. "They're scouting to see if the lake's free. If the general could have got a couple of gunboats up the Sorrel the enemy could never have crossed the lake, and it would have given them a month's work to take their guns round it. It's lucky we were well under the trees or we should have been seen. What had we best do, Deer Tail?"

For two or three minutes the scouts conversed together in the Indian tongue.

"The Seneca agrees with me," Peter said. "It's like enough there are Injuns scouting along both shores. We must lay up here till nightfall. Ef we're seen they'd signal by smoke, and we should have them canoes back again in no time. By their coming I expect the expedition is starting, but it won't do to go back without being sure of it."

The canoe was paddled to a spot where the bushes grew thickly by the bank. It was pushed among these, and the three, after eating some cooked deer's flesh which they had brought with them, prepared to pass the day.

"The Seneca and I'll keep watch by turns," the scout said. "We'll wake you if we want ye."

Harold was by this time sufficiently accustomed to the ways of the woods to obey orders at once without offering to take his turn at watching, as his inclination led him to do, and he was soon sound asleep. It was late in the afternoon when he was awoke by the scout touching him.

"There's some critters coming along the bank," he said in a whisper. "They aint likely to see us, but it's best to be ready."

Harold sat up in the canoe, rifle in hand, and, listening intently, heard a slight sound such as would be produced by the snapping of a twig. Presently he heard upon the other side of the bushes, a few yards distant, a few low words in the Indian tongue. He looked at his companions. They were sitting immovable, each with his rifle directed toward the sound, and Harold thought it would fare badly with any of the passers if they happened to take a fancy to peer through the bushes. The Indians had, however, no reason for supposing that there were any enemies upon the lake, and they consequently passed on without examining more closely the thicket by the shore. Not until it was perfectly dark did Peter give the sign for the continuance of the journey. This time, instead of skirting the lake, the canoe was steered out toward its center. For some time they paddled, and then several lights were seen from ahead.

"I thought so," the scout said. "They've crossed to the Isle La Motte and they're making as many fires as if they war having a sort of picnic at home. We must wait till they burns out, for we daren't go near the place with the water lit up for two or three hundred yards round. It won't be long, for I reckon it must be past eleven o'clock now."

The fires were soon seen to burn down. The paddles were dipped in the water and the canoe approached the island.

"I'd give something," Peter said, "to know whether there's any redskins there. Ef there are, our chance of landing without being seen aint worth talking of; ef there aint we might land a hull fleet; at any rate we must risk it. Now, Harold, the chief and me'll land and find out how many men there are here, and, ef we can, how long they're likely to stop. You keep the canoe about ten yards from shore, in the shadow of the trees, and be ready to move close the instant you hear my call. I'll jest give the croak of a frog. The instant we get in you paddle off without a word. Ef ye hears any shouts and judges as how we've been seen, ye must jest act upon the best of yer judgment."

The boat glided noiselessly up to the shore. All was still there, the encampment being at the other side of the island. The two scouts, red and white, stepped noiselessly on to the land. Harold backed the canoe a few paces with a quick stroke upon the paddle, and seeing close to him a spot where a long branch of a tree dipped into the water, he guided the canoe among the foliage and there sat without movement, listening almost breathlessly.

Ere many minutes had elapsed he heard footsteps coming along the shore. They stopped when near him. Three or four minutes passed without the slightest sound, and then a voice said, in tones which the speaker had evidently tried to lower, but which were distinctly audible in the canoe:

"I tell yer, redskin, it seems to me as how you've brought us here on a fool's errand. I don't see no signs of a canoe, and it aint likely that the British would be along the lake here, seeing as how there's a score of canoes with your people in them scouting ahead."

"I heard canoe," another voice said, "first at other end of the island and then coming along here."

"And ef yer did," the first speaker said, "likely enough it was one of the canoes of your people."

"No," the Indian answered. "If canoe come back with news, would have come straight to fires."

"Well, it aint here, anyway," the first speaker said, "and I don't believe yer ever heard a canoe at all. It's enough to make a man swear to be called up jest as we were making ourselves comfortable for the night on account of an Injun's fancies. I wonder at the general's listening to them. However, we've got our orders to go round the island and see ef there's any canoe on either shore; so we'd better be moving, else we shall not get to sleep before morning."

Harold held his breath as the group passed opposite to him. Fortunately the trunk of the tree grew from the very edge of the water, and there were several bushes growing round it, so that at this point the men had to make a slight détour inland. Harold felt thankful indeed that he had taken the precaution of laying his canoe among the thick foliage, for although the night was dark it would have been instantly seen had it been lying on the surface of the lake. Even as it was, a close inspection might have detected it, but the eyes of the party were fixed on the shore, as it was there, if at all, that they expected to find an empty canoe lying.

Harold was uneasy at the discovery that there were still some redskins on the island. It was possible, of course, that the one he had heard might be alone as a scout, but it was more likely that others of the tribe were also there.

After landing, Peter and the Seneca made their way across the island to the side facing the American shore. Creeping cautiously along, they found a large number of flat-bottomed boats, in which the Americans had crossed from the mainland, and which were, Peter thought, capable of carrying 2000 men. They now made their way toward the spot where the forces were encamped. The fires had burned low, but round a few of them men were still sitting and talking. Motioning to the Seneca to remain quiet, Peter sauntered cautiously out on to the clearing where the camp was formed. He had little fear of detection, for he wore no uniform, and his hunter's dress afforded no index to the party to which he was attached.

A great portion of the Americans were still in their ordinary attire, it having been impossible to furnish uniforms for so great a number of men as had been suddenly called to arms throughout the colonies.

From the arbors of boughs which had been erected in all directions, he judged that the force had been already some days upon the island. But large numbers of men were sleeping in the open air, and picking his way cautiously among them, he threw himself down at a short distance from one of the fires by which three or four men were sitting.

For some time they talked of camp matters, the shortness of food, and want of provisions.

"It is bad here," one said presently; "it will be worse when we move forward. Schuyler will be here tomorrow with the rest of the army, and we are to move down to Isle-aux-Noix, at the end of the lake, and I suppose we shall land at once and march against St. John's. There are only a couple of hundred Britishers there, and we shall make short work of them."

"The sooner the better, I say," another speaker remarked. "I am ready enough to fight, but I hate all this waiting about. I want to get back to my farm again."

"You are in a hurry, you are," the other said. "You don't suppose we are going to take Canada in a week's time, do you. Even if the Canadians join us, and by what I hear that aint so sartin after all, we shall have to march down to Quebec, and that's no child's play. I know the country there. It is now September 4. Another month and the winter will be upon us, and a Canadian winter is no joke, I can tell you."

"The more reason for not wasting any more time," the other one grumbled. "If Montgomery had his way we should go at them quickly enough, but Schuyler is always delaying. He has kept us waiting now since the 17th of last month. We might have been halfway to Quebec by this time."

"Yes," the other said, "if the Britishers had run away as we came; but we have got St. John's and Fort Chamblée to deal with, and they may hold out some time. However, the sooner we begin the job the sooner it will be over, and I am heartily glad that we move tomorrow."

Peter had now obtained the information he required, and rising to his feet again, with a grumbling remark as to the hardness of the ground, he sauntered away toward the spot where he had left the Indian. Just as he did so a tall figure came out from an arbor close by. A fire was burning just in front, and Peter saw that he was a tall and handsome man of about forty years of age. He guessed at once that he was in the presence of the colonial leader.

"You are, like myself," the newcomer said, "unable to sleep, I suppose?"

"Yes, general," Peter answered. "I found I could not get off, and so I thought I'd stretch my legs in the wood a bit. They're lying so tarnal thick down there by the fires, one can't move without treading on 'em."

"Which regiment do you belong to?"

"The Connecticut," Peter replied, for he knew by report that a regiment from this province formed part of the expedition.

"As good men as any I have," the general said cordially. "Their only fault is that they are in too great a hurry to attack the enemy."

"I agree with the rest, general," Peter said. "It's dull work wasting our time here when we're wanted at home. I enlisted for six months, and the sooner the time's up the better, say I."

"You have heard nothing moving?" the general asked. "One of the Chippewas told me that he heard a canoe out in the lake. Ah! here he is."

At that moment five or six men, headed by an Indian, issued from the wood close by. It was too late for Peter to try to withdraw, but he stepped aside a pace or two as the party approached.

"Well, have you found anything?" the general asked.

"No find," the Chippewa said shortly.

"I don't believe as there ever was a canoe there," the man who followed him said. "It was jest a fancy of the Injun's."

"No fancy," the Indian asserted angrily. "Canoe there. No find."

"It might have been one of our own canoes," Montgomery said in a conciliatory tone. "The Indians are seldom mistaken. Still, if no one has landed it matters not either way."

"Only as we have had a tramp for nothing," the colonist said. "However, there's time for a sleep yet. Hullo!" he exclaimed as his eye fell on Peter Lambton. "What, Peter! Why, how did you get here? Why, I thought as howGeneral," he exclaimed, sharply turning to Montgomery, "this man lives close to me at Concord. He's a royalist, he is, and went into Boston and joined the corps they got up there!"

"Seize him!" Montgomery shouted, but it was too late.

As the man had turned to speak to the general, Peter darted into the wood. The Chippewa, without waiting to hear the statement of the colonist, at once divined the state of things, and uttering his war-whoop dashed after the fugitive. Two or three of the colonists instantly followed, and a moment later three or four Indians who had been lying on the ground leaped up and darted like phantoms into the wood.

The general no sooner grasped the facts than he shouted an order for pursuit, and a number of the men most accustomed to frontier work at once followed the first party of pursuers. Others would have done the same, but Montgomery shouted that no more should go, as they would only be in the others' way, and there could not be more than two or three spies on the island.

After the Chippewa's first war-cry there was silence for the space of a minute in the forest. Then came a wild scream, mingled with another Indian yell; a moment later the leading pursuers came upon the body of the Chippewa. His skull had been cleft with a tomahawk and the scalp was gone.

As they were clustered round the body two or three of the Indians ran up. They raised the Indian wail as they saw their comrade and with the rest took up the pursuit.

Peter and the Seneca were now far among the trees, and as their pursuers had nothing to guide them, they reached the spot where they had left the canoe unmolested.

On the signal being given, Harold instantly paddled to the shore. Not a word was spoken until the canoe was well out in the lake. Occasional shots were heard on shore as the pursuers fired at objects which they thought were men. Presently a loud Indian cry rose from the shore.

"They see us," Peter said. "We're out of shot and can take it easy." The redskin said a few words. "You're right, chief. The chief says," he explained to Harold, "that as there are redskins on the island they have probably some canoes. The moon's jest getting up beyond that hill, and it'll be light enough to see us half across the lake. It would not matter if the water was free; but what with Injuns prowling along the shores and out on the lake, we shall have to use our wits to save our har. Look!" he exclaimed two or three minutes later as two columns of bright flame at a short distance from them shot up at the end of the island. "They're Injun signals. As far as they can be seen Injuns will know that there are enemies on the lake. Now, paddle your hardest, Harold, and do you, chief, keep your eyes and your ears open for sights and sounds."

Under the steady strokes of the three paddles the bark canoe sped rapidly over the water. When the moon was fairly above the edge of the hill they halted for a moment and looked back. The two columns of fire still blazed brightly on the island, which was now three miles astern, and two dark spots could be seen on the water about halfway between them and it.

"You can paddle, my lads," Peter Lambton said to the distant foes, "but you'll never ketch us. I wouldn't heed you if it weren't for the other varmint ahead."

He stood up in the canoe and looked anxiously over the lake.

"It's all clear as far as I can see at present," he said.

"Can't we land, Peter, and make our way back on foot?"

"Bless you," Peter said, "there aint a native along the shore there but has got his eye on this canoe. We might as well take her straight back to the island as try to land. Better; for we should get a few hours before they tried and shot us there, while the Injuns would not give us a minute. No, we must just keep to the water; and now paddle on again, but take it quietly. It's no odds to let them varmints behind gain on us a little. You needn't think about them. When the danger comes we shall want every ounce of our strength."

For half an hour they paddled steadily on. The pursuing canoes were now less than a mile behind them.

"I'd give a good deal," muttered the scout, "for a few black clouds over the moon; we'd make for shore then and risk it. It will be getting daylight before long. Ah!" he exclaimed, pausing suddenly as the chief stopped rowing, "a canoe on each side is rowing out to cut us off."

Harold was now paddling forward, while the scout had the place at the stern. The former was surprised to feel the canoe shooting off from its former course at right angles toward the shore; then, curving still more round, they began to paddle back along the lake. The canoes which had been pursuing them were nearly abreast of each other. They had embarked from opposite sides of the island, but they had been gradually drawing together, although still some distance apart, when Peter turned his canoe. Seeing his maneuver, both turned to head him off, but by so doing they occupied an entirely different position in relation to each other, one canoe being nearly half a mile nearer to them than the other.

"Take it easy," Peter said. "These varmints will cut us off and we've got to fight, but we can cripple the one nearest to us before the other comes up."

The boats were now darting over the water in a line which promised to bring the leading canoe almost in collision with that of Peter. When within two hundred yards of each other Peter ceased rowing.

"Now," he said, "Harold, see if you can pick one of them fellows off. It's no easy matter, traveling at the pace they are. You fire first."

Harold took a steady aim and fired. A yell of derision told that he had missed. The Indians stopped paddling. There was a flash and a ball struck the canoe. At the same moment Peter fired.

"There's one down!" he exclaimed.

The Seneca fired, but without result; and the three unwounded Indians in the canoefor it had contained four menreplied with a volley.

Harold felt a burning sensation, as if a hot iron passed across his arm.

"Hit, boy?" Peter asked anxiously as he gave a short exclamation.

"Nothing to speak of," Harold replied.

"The varmints are lying by, waiting for' the other canoe. Paddle straight at 'em."

The Indians at once turned the boat and paddled to meet their companions, who were fast approaching.

"Now," Peter exclaimed, "we've got 'em in a linea steady aim this time."

The three rifles spoke out; one of the Indians fell into the boat and the paddle of another was struck from his grasp.

"Now," the scout shouted, "paddle away! We've got 'em all fairly behind us."

Day broke just as they were again abreast of the island. One canoe was following closely, two others were a mile and a half behind, while the one with which they had been engaged had made for the shore.

"What do you mean to do?" Harold asked Peter.

"I mean to run as close as I can round the end of the island, and then make for the place where they must have embarked on the mainland. They may have seen the signal fires there, but will not know what has been going on. So now row your best. We must leave the others as far behind as possible."

For the first time since they started the three paddlers exerted themselves to the utmost. They had little fear that there were any more canoes on the island, for, had there been, they would have joined in the chase. It was only necessary to keep so far from the end of the island as would take them out of reach of the fire. Several shots were discharged as they passed, but these fell short as the canoe shot along at its highest rate of speed, every stroke taking it further from its nearest pursuer.

At the end of an hour's paddling this canoe was a mile and a half behind. Its rowers had apparently somewhat abated their speed in order to allow the other two boats to draw up to them, for the result of the encounter between their comrades and the fugitives had not been of a nature to encourage them to undertake a single-handed contest with them.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE FOREST.

"See, Peter!" Harold exclaimed; "there is a whole fleet of boats ahead."

"I sees 'em," Peter said, "and have seed 'em for the last quarter of an hour. It's Schuyler, with the rest of what they calls their army. Steer a little out of the course; we must pass close by 'em. They won't suspect nothing wrong and will suppose we are merely carrying a message."

In half an hour they were abreast of the flotilla, consisting of flatboats laden with troops. With them were two or three Indian canoes. Peter steered so as to pass at a distance of a hundred and fifty yards. They rowed less strongly now, but still vigorously. There was a shout from the boat.

"All well on the island?"

"All well," Peter shouted back, waving his hand, and without further word the canoe passed on. "There! do you hear that?" Peter exclaimed. "They're firing shots from the canoes to call their attention. The chances are they won't hear them, for the rattle of their oars and the talking and the row they're making are enough to drown the sound of a cannon. Now put it on again as hard as you can. Another hour will take us to the landing place."

They could see, when the flotilla came up to the pursuing boats, that the canoes which accompanied it turned their heads and joined in the pursuit, but they were now near three miles ahead and there was no chance whatever of their being overtaken. They slackened their speed slightly as they approached the land, and rowed up to the landing place without any signs of extraordinary haste. A few men were loitering about.

"What's the news from the island?" one asked as they landed.

"All well there," Peter said.

"Did you see anything of Schuyler?"

"Yes, we met him about halfway across."

"What have you come for?"

"General Montgomery says that no spare flints have been sent over for the firelocks."

"I'll swear that some went," one of the men exclaimed, "for I packed a sack of them myself in one of the boats."

"I s'pose they have been mislaid," Peter said. "Perhaps some of the stores have got heaped over 'em. Ef you are quite sartin, we have had our journey for nothing."

"As sartin as life," the man replied. "I'll swear to the sackful of flints; and tarnation heavy they was, too."

"Well, then, I need not trouble about it further," Peter said. "We'll take a rest and paddle back in an hour or two. Was there any marks on the sack, so as I may tell the general how to look for it?"

"Marks!" the man repeated. "Why, it had 'Flints' written on it in big black letters six inches long. It must turn up, anyhow. They'll find it when they come to shift the stores."

Then, accompanied by his two companions, Peter strolled quietly through the little village. Stopping at a small store, he purchased some flour and tea; then he followed the road inland and was soon out of sight of the village; he stopped for a moment and then shook his head.

"It's no use trying to hide our trail here," he said. "The road's an inch thick in dust, and do what we will they'll be able to see where we turn off. It's our legs as we have got to trust to for a bit. We've got a good half hour's start of the canoes; they were a long three miles behind when we struck the shore."

Leaving the road, he led the way with a long, swinging stride across the cultivated land. Twenty minutes' walk took them into the forest, which extended from the shore of the lake many miles inland.

"Take off your boots, Harold," he said as he entered the wood. "Them heels will leave marks that a redskin could pick up at a run. Now tread, as near as you can, in the exact spot where the Seneca has trodden before you. He'll follow in my track, and you may be sure that I'll choose the hardest bits of ground I can come across. There, the varmints are on shore!"

As he spoke an angry yell rose from the distant village. At a long, steady pace, which taxed to the utmost Harold's powers as a walker, they kept their way through the woods, not pursuing a straight course, but turning, winding, and zigzagging every few minutes. Harold could not but feel impatient at what seemed to him such a loss of time, especially when a yell from the edge of the wood told that the Indians had traced them thus farshowed, too, that they were far nearer than before. But, as Peter, afterward explained to him, all this turning and winding made it necessary for the Indians to follow every step, as they would an animal, to guess the direction they had taken. The weather had been dry and the ground was hard; therefore the most experienced trapper would be obliged to proceed very slowly on the trail and would frequently be for a time at fault; whereas, had they continued in a straight line, the Indians could have followed at a run, contenting themselves with seeing the trail here and there. They came across two or three little streams running down toward the lake. These they followed, in some cases up, in others down, for a considerable distance, leaving the bed where the bushes grew thick and hid the marks of their feet as they stepped out from the water. Harold would gladly have gone at a run, but Peter never quickened his pace. He knew that the Indians could not pick up the trail at a rate faster than that at which they were going, and that great delay would be caused at each of the little streams, as it would be uncertain whether they had passed up or down.

As the time passed the Indian yells, which had, when they first entered the wood, sounded so alarmingly near, died away, and a perfect stillness reigned in the forest. It was late in the afternoon before Peter halted.

"We can rest now," he said. "It'll be hours before the critters can be here. Now let us have some tea."

He began to look for some dried sticks. Harold offered to assist.

"You sit down," the scout said. "A nice sort of fire we should get with sticks of your picking up! Why, we should have a smoke that would bring all the Injuns in the woods on to us. No, the sticks as the Seneca and me'll pick up won't give as much smoke as you can put in a teacup; but I wouldn't risk even that if we was nigh the lake, for it might be seen by any redskins out in a canoe. But we are miles back from the lake, and there aint no other open space where they could get a view over the tree-tops."

Harold watched the Indian and the scout collecting dry leaves and sticks, and took particular notice, for future use, of the kinds which they selected. A light was struck with a flint and steel, and soon a bright blaze sprang up, without, so far as Harold could see, the slightest smoke being given off. Then the hunter produced some food from his wallet, and a tin pot. He had at the last spring they passed filled a skin which hung on his shoulder with water, and this was soon boiling over the fire. A handful of tea was thrown in and the pot removed. Some flour, mixed with water, was placed on a small iron plate, which was put on the red-hot ashes. A few cakes were baked, and with these, the cold venison, and the tea an ample meal was made.

After nearly an hour's halt they again proceeded on their way. A consultation had taken place between Peter and the Seneca as to the best course to be pursued. They could, without much difficulty or risk, have continued the way through the woods beyond the lake, but it was important that they should reach the other side by the evening of the following day, to give warning of the intended attack by the Americans. There were, they knew, other redskins in the woods besides those on their trail, and the nearer they approached the shore the greater the danger. They had determined that they would at all hazards endeavor to obtain another canoe and cross the lake. Until nightfall they continued their course, and then, knowing that their trail could no longer be followed, they made down to the lake. They were many miles distant from it, and Harold was completely worn out when at last he saw a gleam of water through the trees. He was not yet to rest. Entering the lake, they began wading through it at a few feet from the edge.

After an hour's walking thus they entered the bushes, which thickly covered the shore, and made their way through these until they came to a spot sufficiently open for them to lie down; and Harold, wrapping himself in the blanket which he carried over his shoulder, was sound asleep in less than a minute. When he woke the sun was shining brightly.

"Get up, youngster! We're in luck," the scout said. "Here's a canoe with two of the varmints making toward the shore. By the way they're going they'll land not far off."

The scout led the way, crawling on his hands and knees, to the water's edge, to where the Seneca was sitting watching the canoe through a cover of green leaves. The course that the boat was taking would lead it to a point some three hundred yards from where they were sitting.

"We shall have no difficulty in managing them," Harold said, and grasped his rifle eagerly.

"Not too fast," Peter said. "The chances are that the varmints have friends on shore. Like enough they have been out fishing."

The shore formed a slight sweep at this point, and the bushes in which they were hidden occupied the point at one extremity. In the center of the little bay there was a spot clear from bushes; to this the canoe was directed. As it approached the shore two other Indians appeared at the water's edge. One of them asked a question, and in reply a paddler held up a large bunch of fish.

"Just as I thought. Like enough there are a dozen of them there," said Peter.

On reaching the shore the men sprang out, taking their fish with them. The canoe was fastened by its head-rope to the bushes, and the Indians moved a short distance inland.

"There is their smoke," Peter said, indicating a point some thirty feet from the lake, but so slight was it that, even when it was pointed out to him, Harold could hardly make out the light mist rising from among the bushes. Presently he looked round for the Seneca, but the Indian had disappeared.

"He's gone scouting," Peter said in answer to Harold's question. "Ef there are only four of them it would be an easy job, but I expect there's more of the red varmints there."

In ten minutes the Seneca returned as noiselessly as he had gone. He opened his hand and all the fingers twice; the third time he showed only three fingers.

"Thirteen," Peter said. "Too many of them even for a sudden onslaught."

The Indian said a few words to Peter; the latter nodded, and Deer Tail again quietly stole away.

"He's going to steal the boat," Peter said. "It's a risky job, for where it lies it can be seen by 'em as they sit. Now, you and me must be ready with our shooting irons to cover him, if need be. Ef he's found out before he gets the boat he'll take to the woods and lead them away from us; but ef he's fairly in the boat, then we must do our best for him. Ef the wust comes to the wust, I reckon we can hold these bushes agin 'em for some time; but in the end I don't disguise from ye, youngster, they'll beat us."

Harold now sat intently watching the canoe. It seemed an age to him before he saw a hand emerge from the bushes and take hold of the head-rope. The motion given to the canoe was so slight as to be almost imperceptible; it seemed as if it was only drifting gently before the slight breeze which was creeping over the surface of the lake. Half its length had disappeared from the open space, when an Indian appeared by the edge of the water. He looked at the canoe, looked over the lake, and withdrew again. The hand had disappeared in the bushes on his approach. The movement of the canoe, slight as it was, had caught his eye, but, satisfied that it was caused only by the wind, he had returned to his fire again. The hand appeared again through the bushes, and the canoe was drawn along until hidden from the sight of those sitting by the fire. Again the watchful Indian appeared, but the boat was lying quietly by the bushes at the full length of its head-rope. He stooped down to see that this was securely fastened and again retired. Harold held his breath, expecting that every moment the presence of the Seneca would be discovered. Scarcely had the Indian disappeared than the Seneca crawled out from the bushes. With a sweep of his knife he cut the rope of the canoe and noiselessly entered it, and as he did so gave a shove with his foot, which sent it dancing along the shore toward the spot where Harold and his companion were hidden. Then he seized the paddle, and in half a dozen strokes brought it within reach of them. Harold and Peter stepped into it; as they did so there was a sudden shout. The Indian had again strolled down to look at the canoe, whose movements, slight as they had been, had appeared suspicious to him. He now, to his astonishment, saw it at the point with two white men and an Indian on board. He had left his gun behind him and, uttering his war-cry, bounded back for it.

"Round the p'int, quick!" Peter exclaimed. "They'll riddle us in the open."

Two strokes took the canoe round the projecting point of bushes, and she then darted along the shore, driven by the greatest efforts of which the three paddlers were capable. Had the shore been open the Indians would have gained upon them, but they were unable to force their way through the thick bushes at anything like the rate at which the canoe was flying over the water. The first start was upward of a hundred yards, and this was increased by fifty before the Indians, arriving at the point, opened fire. The distance was beyond anything like an accurate range with Indian guns. Several bullets struck the water round the canoe.

"Now steer out," Peter said as the firing suddenly ceased. "They're making a détour among the bushes, and 'll come down ahead of us if we keep near the shore."

Two or three more shots were fired, but without effect, and the canoe soon left the shore far behind.

"Now," Peter said, "I think we're safe. It's not likely they've another canoe anywhere near on this side, as most of 'em would have gone with the expedition. Ef the firing has been heard it will not attract much attention, being on this side, and I see nothing in the way of a boat out in the lake. Still, these redskins' eyes can see 'most any distance. Now, chief," he went on to the Indian in his native language, "the young un and I'll lie down at the bottom of the boat; do you paddle quietly and easily, as ef you were fishing. The canoe with a single Indian in it will excite no suspicion, and even ef you see other canoes, you had better keep on in that way unless you see that any of 'em are intending to overhaul you."

The chief nodded assent. Peter and Harold stretched themselves at full length in the canoe, and the Indian paddled quietly and steadily on. For an hour not a word was spoken in the canoe. Harold several times dozed off to sleep. At last the Seneca spoke:

"Many boats out on waterAmerican army."

Harold was about to raise his head to look out when Peter exclaimed: "Lie close, Harold! Ef a head were shown now it would be wuss than ef we had sat up all the time. We know there are Injun canoes with the flats, and they may be watching us now. We may be a long way off, but there's no saying how far a redskin's eyes can carry. Can you see where they are going to, chief?" he asked the Seneca. "Are they heading for Isle-aux-Noix, as we heard 'em say they were going to do?"

The Seneca nodded.

"Going to island."

"Then," Peter said, "the sooner we're across the lake the better."

The Seneca again spoke, and after a consultation with Peter laid in his paddle.

"What is he doing now?" Harold asked.

"Our coarse lies pretty near the same way as theirs," Peter said. "The island is but a short distance from the shore, near the mouth of the Sorrel, so where we're going would take us right across their line. We fooled them yesterday, but are not likely to do it again to-day. So the chief has stopped paddling and makes as if he were fishing. I doubt whether it will succeed, for he would hardly be fishing so far out. But we'll soon see. It's better so than to turn and paddle in any other direction, as that would be sure to excite their suspicions."

The fleet of boats had already passed the spot where the canoe would have crossed had she been going directly across the lake when she was first seen, and was therefore now ahead of it. The great flotilla kept on as if the canoe with its single occupant in its rear had not excited suspicion. The Seneca, however, knew that sharp eyes must be upon him. The manner in which the canoe had baffled pursuit the day before must have inflicted a severe blow upon the pride of the Indians, and although, having driven them off the lake, they could have no reason for suspecting that their foes could have obtained a fresh canoe, the Seneca knew that their vigilance would not sleep for a moment. Therefore, although bending over the side of the canoe as if watching his lines, his eyes were never off the boats.

"There are canoes making for the shore both ways," he said at last. "It is time that my white brother should take the paddle."

Peter and Harold at once sat up in the boat and looked round the lake, which at this point was about ten miles wide. The canoe was four miles from the eastern side; the flotilla was a mile further up the lake and the same distance nearer to the western shore. Four or five canoes were detaching themselves from the flotilla, apparently rowing direct for the shore. It would have been easy for the canoe to have regained the eastern side long before she could have been cut off, but here they might find the Chippewas. The Indians whose boat they had taken would assuredly follow along the shores of the lake in hopes that something might occur to drive them back. Besides, had they landed there, they would be unable to carry in time the news of the approaching attack upon St. John's. For the same reason it was important to land up the lake near the Canadian end.

Peter rapidly took in the situation. He saw that it was possible, and only just possible, to reach the shore at a point opposite to that at which they now were before the hostile canoes could cut them off from it. If they headed them there they would be obliged to run down to the other end of the lake before effecting a landing, while he could not calculate on being able to beat all the canoes, most of which carried four paddlers, who would strain every nerve to retrieve their failure of the previous day.

Not a word was spoken as the boat darted through the water. Harold, unaccustomed to judge distances, could form no idea whether the distant canoes would or would not intercept them. At present both seemed to him to be running toward the shore on nearly parallel courses, and the shorter distance that the Indians would have to row seemed to place them far ahead. The courses, however, were not parallel, as the Indians were gradually turning their canoes to intercept the course of that which they were pursuing. As the minutes went by and the boats converged more and more toward the same point, Harold saw how close the race would be. After twenty minutes' hard paddling the boats were within a quarter of a mile of each other, and the courses which they were respectively taking seemed likely to bring them together at about a quarter of a mile from the shore. There were three Indian canoes, and these kept well together. So close did the race appear that Harold expected every moment to see Peter sweep the head of the canoe round and make a stern chase of it by running down the lake. This Peter had no intention of doing. The canoes, he saw, traveled as fast as his own and could each spare a man to fire occasionally, while he and his companions would be obliged to continue paddling. Better accustomed to judge distances than Harold, he was sure, at the speed at which they were going, he would be able to pass somewhat ahead of his foes.

"Row all you know, Harold," he said. "Now, chief, send her along."

Harold had been rowing to the utmost of his strength, but he felt by the way the canoe quivered at every stroke that his companions were only now putting out their extreme strength. The boat seemed to fly through the water, and he began to think for the first time that the canoe would pass ahead of their pursuers. The latter were clearly also conscious of the fact, for they now turned their boats' heads more toward the shore, so that the spot where the lines would meet would be close to the shore itself. The canoes were now within two hundred yards of each other. The Indians were nearer to the shore, but the oblique line that they were following would give them about an equal distance to row to the point for which both were making. Harold could not see that there was the slightest difference in the rate at which they were traveling. It seemed to him that the four canoes would all arrive precisely at the same moment at the land, which was now some five or six hundred yards distant.

Another two minutes' paddling, and when the canoes were but seventy or eighty yards apart, Peter, with a sweep with his paddle, turned the boat's head nearly half round and made obliquely for the shore, so throwing his pursuers almost astern of him. The shore was but three hundred yards distant; they were but fifty ahead of their pursuers. The latter gave a loud yell at seeing the change in the position in the chase. They had, of course, foreseen the possibility of such a movement, but had been powerless to prevent it. But they were prepared, for on the instant one man in each canoe dropped his paddle and, standing up, fired. It is a difficult thing to take aim when standing in a canoe dancing under the vigorous strokes of three paddlers. It was the more difficult since the canoes were at the moment sweeping round to follow the movement of the chase. The three balls whistled closely round the canoe, but no one was hit.

The loss of three paddlers for even so short a time checked the pace of the canoes. The Indians saw that they could not hope to overtake their foes, whose canoe was now but a few lengths from shore. They dropped their paddles, and each man seized his rifle. Another moment, and the nine pieces would have poured their fire into the canoe about fifty yards ahead of them, when from the bushes on the shore three puffs of smoke shot out, and three of the Indians fell, one of them upsetting his boat in his fall. A yell of surprise and dismay broke from them, the guns were thrown down, the paddles grasped again, and the heads of the canoes turned from the shore. The Indians in the overturned boat did not wait to right it, but scrambled into the other canoes, and both were soon paddling at the top of their speed from the shore, not without further damage, for the guns in the bushes again spoke out, and Peter and the Seneca added their fire the instant they leaped from the boat to shore, and another of the Indians was seen to fall. Harold was too breathless when he reached the bank to be able to fire. He raised his gun, but his hands trembled with the exertion that he had undergone, and the beating of his heart and his short, panting breath rendered it impossible for him to take a steady aim. A minute later Jake burst his way through the bushes.

"Ah, Massa Harold!" he exclaimed. "Bress de Lord dat we was here! What a fright you hab giben me, to be sure! We hab been watching you for a long time. Ephraim and de redskin dey say dey saw little spot far out on lake, behind all dose boats; den dey say other boats set off in chase. For a long time Jake see nothing about dat, but at last he see dem. Den we hurry along de shore, so as to get near de place to where de boats row; ebery moment me tink dat dey catch you up. Ephraim say no, bery close thing, but he tink you come along first, but dat we must shoot when dey come close. We stand watch for some time, den Ephraim say dat you no able to get to dat point. You hab to turn along de shore, so we change our place and run along, and sure 'nough de boat's head turns, and you come along in front of us. Den we all shoot, and the redskins dey tumble over."

"Well, Jake, it is fortunate indeed that you were on the spot, for they could scarcely have missed all of us. Besides, even if we had got to shore safely, they would have followed us, and the odds against us would have been heavy."

"That ar war a close shave, Peter," Ephraim said; "an all-fired close shave I call it."

"It war, Ephraim, and no mistake."

"Why didn't yer head down along the lake?"

"Because I got news that the colonists air going to attack St. John's to-morrow, and I want to get to the fort in time to put 'em on their guard. Besides, both sides of the lake are sure to be full of hostile Injuns. Those canoes paddled as fast as we did, and in the long run might have worn us out."

"Did you have a fight on the lake two nights ago? Me and the redskin thought we heard firing."

"We had a skirmish with 'em," Peter said; "a pretty sharp shave it war, too, but we managed to slip away from them. Altogether we've had some mighty close work, I can tell yer, and I thought more than once as we were going to be wiped out."

While they were speaking the men had already started at a steady pace through the woods, away from the lake, having first drawn up the canoe and carefully concealed it.

It was late at night when they reached Fort St. John. A message was at once dispatched to a party of the Senecas who were at their village, about sixteen miles away. They arrived in the morning and, together with a portion of the garrison, moved out and took their place in the wooded and marshy ground between the fort and the river. Scouts were sent along the Sorrel, and these returned about one o'clock, saying that a large number of boats were coming down the lake from Isle-aux-Noix. It had been determined to allow the colonists to land without resistance, as the commander of the fort felt no doubt of his ability, with the assistance of his Indian allies, to repulse their attack. Some twelve hundred men were landed, and these at once began to advance toward the fort, lead by their two generals, Schuyler and Montgomery. Scarcely had they entered the swamp, when from every bush a fire was opened upon them. The invaders were staggered, but pushed forward, in a weak and undecided way, as far as a creek which intercepted their path. In vain General Montgomery endeavored to encourage them to advance. They wavered and soon began to fall back, and in an hour from the time of their landing they were again gathered on the bank of the river. Here they threw up a breastwork, and, as his numbers were greatly inferior, the British officer in command thought it unadvisable to attack them. After nightfall the colonists took to their boats and returned to Isle-aux-Noix, their loss in this their first attempt at the invasion of Canada being nine men.

A day or two later the Indians again attempted to induce General Carleton to permit them to cross the frontier and carry the war into the American settlements, and upon the general's renewed refusal they left the camp in anger and remained from that time altogether aloof from the contest.

St. John's was now left with only its own small garrison. Captain Wilson was ordered to fall back with his company to Montreal, it being considered that the garrison of St. John's was sufficient to defend that place for a considerable time. As soon as the Indians had marched away, having sent word to the colonists that they should take no further part in the fight, Montgomerywho was now in command, Schuyler having fallen sicklanded the whole of the force and invested the fort. An American officer, Ethan Allen, had been sent with a party to try to raise the colonists in rebellion in the neighborhood of Chamblée. He had with him 30 Americans and was joined by 80 Canadians. Dazzled by the success which had attended the surprise of Ticonderoga, he thought to repeat the stroke by the conquest of Montreal. He crossed the river in the night about three miles below the city. Peter and some other scouts, who had been watching his movements, crossed higher up and brought the news, and 36 men of the Twenty-sixth Regiment, Captain Wilson's company, and 200 or 300 loyal Canadians, the whole under the command of Major Campbell, attacked Ethan Allen. He was speedily routed and, with 38 of his men, taken prisoner. The siege of St. John's made but little progress. The, place was well provisioned, and the Americans encamped in the low, swampy ground around it suffered much from ill health. The men were mutinous and insolent, the officers incapable and disobedient. So far the invasion of Canada, of which such great things had been hoped by the Americans, appeared likely to turn out a complete failure.

CHAPTER VIII.

QUEBEC.

General Carleton, seeing that Montgomery's whole force was retained idle before St. John's, began to hope that the winter would come to his assistance before the invaders had made any serious progress. Unfortunately he had not reckoned on the utter incapacity of the officer in command of Fort Chamblée. Major Stopford of the Seventh Regiment had 160 men and a few artillerymen, and the fort was strong and well provided with provisions. American spies had found the inhabitants around the place favorable to the Americans. Major Brown was sent down by Montgomery with a small detachment, and, being joined by the inhabitants, sat down before the fort. They had only two six-pounders, and could have effected nothing had the fort been commanded by a man of bravery and resources. Such was not the character of its commander, who, after a siege of only a day and a half, surrendered the place with all its stores, which were of inestimable value to the invaders, who were upon the edge of giving up the siege of the fort; their ammunition being entirely exhausted; but the six tons of gunpowder, the seventeen cannon, mortars, and muskets which fell into their hands enabled them to carry on the siege of St. John's with renewed vigor. There was no excuse whatever for the conduct of Major Stopford in allowing these stores to fall into the hands of the Americans; as, even had he not possessed the courage to defend the fort, he might, before surrendering, have thrown the whole of the ammunition into the river, upon which there was a safe sally-port, where he could have carried on the operation entirely unmolested by the enemy. The colors of the Seventh Regiment were captured and sent to Congress as the first trophy of the war.

The siege of St. John's was now pushed on by Montgomery with vigor. Colonel Maclean, with 800 Indians and Canadians, attempted to relieve it, crossing the St. Lawrence in small boats. On nearing the other bank, they were received by so heavy a fire by the Americans posted there that they were obliged to retire without effecting a landing. Provisions and ammunition were now running short in St. John's, there was no hope whatever of relief from the outside, and the officer commanding was therefore obliged to surrender on November 14, after a gallant defense.

As there were only some fifty or sixty regulars in Montreal, General Carleton was unable to defend that town, and, upon the news of the fall of St. John's, he at once retired to Quebec, and Montreal was occupied by the Americans. In the meantime another expedition had been dispatched by the Americans under Arnold. This officer, with 1500 men, had started for Quebec from a point 130 miles north of Boston. Suffering enormous fatigue and hardship, the force made its way up the river; past rapids, cataracts, and through swamps they dragged and carried their boats and stores. They followed the bed of the river up to its source, and then, crossing the watershed, descended the Chaudière and Duloup rivers on to the St. Lawrence, within a few miles of Quebec.

This was a wonderful marchone scarcely equaled in the annals of military history. Crossing the St. Lawrence in canoes, Arnold encamped with his little force upon the heights of Abraham. Such a daring attempt could not have been undertaken had not the Americans been aware of the extreme weakness of the garrison at Quebec, which consisted only of 50 men of the Seventh Regiment, 240 of the Canadian militia, a battalion of seamen from the ships-of-war, under the command of Captain Hamilton of the Lizard, 250 strong, and the colonial volunteers, under Colonel Maclean.

The fortifications were in a ruinous condition. It was fortunate that Colonel Maclean, who had come from the Sorrel, upon the surrender of St. John's, by forced marches, arrived on the very day on which Arnold appeared before the city. Directly he arrived Arnold attacked the city at the gate of St. Louis, but was sharply repulsed. He then desisted from active operations and awaited the arrival of Montgomery, who was marching down from Montreal. The flotilla in which Carleton was descending the river was attacked by the Americans, who came down the Sorrel, and was captured, with all the troops and military stores which it was bringing down. General Carleton himself escaped in a small boat under cover of night, and reached Quebec.

Captain Wilson's company had been attached to the command of Colonel Maclean, and with it arrived in Quebec in safety.

Upon the arrival of Montgomery with his army the city was summoned to surrender. A strong party in the town were favorable to the invaders, but General Carleton treated the summons with contempt, and turned all the inhabitants who refused to join in the defense of the city outside the town.

The winter had now set in in earnest, and the difficulties of the besiegers were great. Arnold's force had been much weakened by the hardships that they had undergone, Montgomery's by desertions; the batteries which they erected were overpowered by the fire of the defenders, and the siege made no progress whatever. The men became more and more disaffected and mutinous. Many of them had nearly served the time for which they had enlisted, and Montgomery feared that they would leave him when their engagement came to an end. He in vain tempted the besieged to make a sally. Carleton was so certain that success would come by waiting that he refused to allow himself to hazard it by a sortie.

The weather was fighting for him, and the besiegers had before them only the alternatives of taking the place by storm or abandoning the siege altogether. They resolved upon a storm. It was to take place at daybreak on December 31. Montgomery determined to make four attackstwo false and two real ones. Colonel James Livingstone, with 200 Canadians, was to appear before St. John's gate, and a party under Colonel Brown were to feign a movement against the upper town, and from high ground there were to send up rockets as the signal for the real attacks to commencethat led by Montgomery from the south and that under Arnold from the northwestboth against the lower town.

The false attacks were made too soon, the rockets being fired half an hour before the main columns reached their place of attack. The British were not deceived; but, judging these attacks to be feints, left but a small party to oppose them and marched the bulk of their forces down toward the lower town. Their assistance, however, came too late, for, before they arrived, the fate of the attack was already decided. The Americans advanced under circumstances of great difficulty. A furious wind, with cutting hail, blew in their faces; the ground was slippery and covered with snow.

Half an hour before the English supports arrived on the spot Montgomery, with his leading company, reached the first barricade, which was undefended; passing through this, they pressed on toward the next. The road leading to it was only wide enough for five or six persons abreast. On one side was the river, on the other a steep cliff; in front was a log hut with loop-holes for musketry, and a battery of two three-pounders. It was held by a party of 30 Canadians and 8 militiamen under John Coffin, with 9 sailors under Bairnsfeather, the captain of the transport, to work the guns. Montgomery, with 60 men, pushed on at a run to carry the battery; but, when within fifty yards Bairnsfeather discharged his pieces, which were loaded with grape-shot, with deadly aim. Montgomery, his aid-de-camp Macpherson, Lieutenant Cheeseman, and 10 others fell dead at the first discharge, and with them the soul of the expedition fled. The remaining officers endeavored to get the men to advance, but none would do so, and they fell back without losing another man. So completely cowed were they that they would not even carry off the bodies of their general and his companions. These were brought into Quebec next day and buried with the honors of war by the garrison.

The force under Arnold was far stronger than that under Montgomery. The Canadian guard appointed to defend the first barrier fled at the approach, but the small body of sailors fought bravely and were all killed or wounded. Arnold was shot through the leg and disabled. Morgan, who commanded the advanced companies, led his men on and carried the second barrier after an obstinate resistance. They were attacking the third when Maclean with his men from the upper town arrived. The British then took the offensive, and drove the enemy back, and a party, going round, fell upon their rear. Fifty were killed in Arnold's column, 400 taken prisoners, and the rest retreated in extreme disorder.

Thus ended the assault upon Quebecan assault which was all but hopeless from the first, but in which Americans showed but little valor and determination. In fact, throughout the war, it may be said that the Americans, when fighting on the defensive behind trees and intrenchments, fought stubbornly; but that they were feeble in attack and wholly incapable of standing against British troops in the open.

It would now have been easy for Carleton to have sallied out and taken the offensive, but he preferred holding Quebec quietly. He might have easily driven the Americans from their position before the walls; but, with the handful of troops under his orders, he could have done nothing toward carrying on a serious campaign in the open.

Until spring came, and the rivers were opened, no re-enforcements could reach him from England, while the Americans could send any number of troops into Canada. Carleton, therefore, preferred to wait quietly within the walls of Quebec, allowing the winter, hardships, and disunion to work their natural effects upon the invaders.

Arnold sent to Washington to demand 10,000 more troops, with siege artillery. Several regiments were sent forward, but artillery could not be spared. Eight regiments entered Canada, but they found that, instead of meeting, as they had expected, an enthusiastic reception from the inhabitants, the population was now hostile to them. The exactions of the invading army had been great, and the feeling in favor of the English was now all but universal.

On May 5 two frigates and a sloop-of-war made their way up the river to Quebec. The Americans endeavored to embark their sick and artillery above the town. Re-enforced by the marines, the garrison sallied out and attacked the enemy, who fled with precipitation, leaving their provisions, cannon, five hundred muskets, and two hundred sick behind them. The British pursued them until they reached the mouth of the Sorrel.

The arrival of the fleet from England brought news of what had taken place since Captain Wilson's company had marched from Boston, a short time after the battle of Bunker's Hill. Immediately after the battle the colonists had sent two deputies, Penn and Lee, with a petition to Parliament for the restoration of peace. This petition was supported by a strong body in Parliament. The majority, however, argued that, from the conduct of the Americans, it was clear that they aimed at unconditional, unqualified, and total independence. In all their proceedings they had behaved as if entirely separated from Great Britain. Their professions and petition breathed peace and moderation; their actions and preparations denoted war and defiance; every attempt that could be made to soften their hostility had been in vain; their obstinacy was inflexible; and the more England had given in to their wishes, the more insolent and overbearing had their demands become. The stamp tax had been repealed, but their ill will had grown rather than abated. The taxations on imports had been entirely taken off save on one small item; but, rather than pay this, they had accumulated arms and ammunition, seized cannon belonging to the king, and everywhere prepared for armed resistance. Only two alternatives remained for the British nation to adopteither to coerce the colonists to submission or to grant them their entire independence.

These arguments were well founded. The concessions which had been made had but encouraged the colonists to demand more. No good whatever would have come from entering into negotiation; there remained but the two alternatives. It would have been far better had Parliament, instead of deciding on coercion, withdrawn altogether from the colonies, for although hitherto the Americans had shown no great fighting qualities, it was clear that so small an army as England could spare could not permanently keep down so vast a country if the people were determined upon independence. They might win every battle,might overpower every considerable force gathered against them,but they could only enforce the king's authority over a mere fractional portion of so great an area. England, however, was unaccustomed to defeat; her spirit in those days was proud and high; and by a large majority Parliament voted for the continuance of the war. The next step taken was one unworthy of the country. It tended still further to embitter the war, and it added to the strength of the party in favor of the colonists at home. Attempts were made by the government to obtain the services of large numbers of foreign troops. Negotiations were entered into with Russia, Holland, Hesse, and other countries. Most of these proved ineffectual, but a considerable number of troops was obtained from Hesse.

The news of these proceedings excited the Americans to renewed efforts. The force under Washington was strengthened, and he took possession of Dorchester Heights, commanding the town of Boston. A heavy cannonade was opened on the city. The British guns answered it, but the American position gave them an immense advantage. General Howe, who was in command, at first thought of attempting to storm the heights, but the tremendous loss sustained at the battle of Bunker's Hill deterred him from the undertaking. His supineness during the past four months had virtually lost the American colonies to England. He had under his command 8000 troops, who could have routed, with ease, the undisciplined levies of Washington. Instead of leading his men out against the enemy, he had suffered them to be cooped up for months in the city, and had failed to take possession of the various heights commanding the town. Had he done this Boston might have resisted a force many times as strong as that which advanced against it, and there was now nothing left for the English but to storm the heights with enormous loss or to evacuate the city.

The first was the alternative which had been chosen when the Americans seized Bunker's Hill; the second was that which was now adopted.

Having adopted this resolution, Howe carried it out in a manner which would in itself be sufficient to condemn him as a military leader. Nothing was done to destroy the vast stores of arms and ammunition, and two hundred and fifty pieces of cannon were left for the colonists to use against England. No steps were taken to warn ships arriving from England of the surrender of the town. The consequence was that, in addition to the vast amount of stores captured in the town, numbers of the British storeships fell into the hands of the Americansamong them a vessel which, in addition to carbines, bayonets, gun-carriages, and other stores, had on board more than seventy tons of powder, while Washington's whole stock was all but exhausted.

But worse even than this hurried and unnecessary abandonment of vast munitions of war was the desertion of the loyalist population. Boston was full of loyalists, among whom were many of the wealthier and better-born persons in the colony, who, from the commencement of the troubles had left their homes, their fortunes, and their families to rally round the standard of their sovereign. The very least that Howe could have done for these loyal men would have been to have entered into some terms of capitulation with Washington, whereby they might have been permitted to depart to their homes and to the enjoyment of their property. Nothing of the sort was attempted, and the only choice offered to a loyalist was to remain in the town, exposed to certain insult and ill treatment, perhaps to death, at the hands of the rebels, or to leave in the transports for England or Halifax and to be landed here penniless and starving.

Howe's conduct in this was on a piece with his behavior throughout the campaign; but he was little, if at all, inferior to the other generals, who vied with each other in incapacity and folly. Never in the whole history of England were her troops led by men so inefficient, so sluggish, and so incapable as those who commanded her armies in the American Revolutionary War.

The first ships from England which arrived at Quebec were followed, a few days later, by the Niger and Triton, convoy transports, with troops. The British now took the offensive in earnest. From the west Captain Forster marched from Detroit, with 40 men of the Eighth Regiment, 100 Canadians, and some Indians, against a pass called the Cedars, situated fifteen leagues above Montreal. This was held by 400 men with two cannon. As soon as the British force opened fire the Americans surrendered. The following day Forster's force, advancing, came upon 140 men under Major Sherbourne, who were marching to re-enforce the garrison at the Cedars. These were forced to retreat and 100 of them taken prisoners.

Arnold, with 700 men, advanced against the British force. The British officer, fearing that in case of an attack the Indians with him might massacre the prisoners, released the whole of them, 474 in number, under the promise that an equal number of British prisoners should be returned. This engagement was shamefully broken by the Americans, who raised a number of frivolous excuses, among others that prisoners taken by the British were ill treatedan accusation which excited the indignation of the prisoners themselves, some of whom wrote to members of Congress, stating that nothing could be kinder or more courteous than the treatment which they received.

While Forster was advancing toward Montreal from the west, Carleton was moving up against the Americans at Sorrel from Quebec. At the death of Montgomery, Wooster had taken the command of the main American force. He had been succeeded by Thompson, but the latter dying of smallpox, Sullivan took his place. The new commander determined to take the offensive against the English, and dispatched a force of about 2000 men to attack General Fraser, who held a post at a place called Three Rivers.

A Canadian peasant brought news to General Fraser of the approach of the Americans, and as he had received re-enforcements from below he determined to anticipate their attack. His movements were completely successful. Some of the Americans fought well, but the rest dispersed with but little resistance. Two hundred were killed and 150 taken prisoners. The rest succeeded in returning to Sorrel.

The main body of the British army now came up the river in their ships, and, as they approached Sorrel, Sullivan broke up his camp and retreated. At the same time Arnold, who commanded at Montreal, evacuated the town and joined Sullivan's army at St. John's.

Had the English pushed forward with any energy the whole of the American army of invasion would have fallen into their hands. They were completely broken in spirits, suffering terribly from sickness, and were wholly incapable of making any defense. Burgoyne, who commanded the advance of the English army, moved forward very slowly, and the Americans were enabled to take to their boats and cross, first to Isle-aux-Noix and then to Crown Point. An American historian, who saw them after they landed, says: "At the sight of so much privation and distress I wept until I had no more power to weep. I did not look into a tent or hut in which I did not find either a dead or dying man. Of about 5000 men full half were invalids. In little more than two months they had lost by desertion and death more than 5000 men."

Captain Wilson and his company were not present with the advance of the British troops. General Howe, after evacuating Boston, had sailed with his army to Halifax, there to wait until a large body of re-enforcements should be sent in the spring from England. General Carleton had, in his dispatches, mentioned favorably the services which the little company of loyalists from Boston had performed, and Lord Howe wrote requesting that the company should be sent down by ship to Halifax, as he was about to sail from New York to undertake operations on a large scale, and should be glad to have with him a body of men accustomed to scouting and acquainted with the country. Accordingly, the company was embarked in a transport and reached Halifax early in June. On the 11th they sailed with the army and arrived at Sandy Hook on the 29th. On July 3 the army landed on Staten Island, opposite Long Island, and soon afterward Lord Howe, brother of General Howe, arrived with the main army from England, raising the total force to nearly 30,000 men. It consisted of two battalions of light infantry, two of grenadiers, the Fourth, Fifth, Tenth, Seventeenth, Twenty-second, Twenty-third, Twenty-seventh, Thirty-fifth, Thirty-eighth, Fortieth, Forty-second, Forty-third, Forty-fourth, Forty-fifth, Forty-ninth, Fifty-second, Fifty-fifth, Sixty-third, and Sixty-fourth regiments of foot, part of the Forty-sixth and Seventy-first regiments, and the Seventeenth Regiment of light dragoons. There were, besides, two battalions of volunteers from New York, each 1000 strong. Had this force arrived, as it should have done, three months earlier, it might have achieved great things; but the delay had enabled the Americans to make extensive preparations to meet the coming storm.

Lord Howe brought with him a communication from Parliament, giving him and his brother full power to treat with the Americans on any terms which they might think fit. Upon his arrival Lord Howe addressed a letter to Dr. Franklin, informing him of the nature of his communication, expressing hopes that he would find in America the same disposition for peace that he brought with him, and requesting his aid to accomplish the desired end. Dr. Franklin, in answer, informed Lord Howe that, "prior to the consideration of any proposition for friendship or peace, it would be required that Great Britain should acknowledge the independence of America, should defray the expense of the war, and indemnify, the colonists for all damages committed."

After such a reply as this Lord Howe had no alternative but to commence hostilities, which he did by landing the army in Gravesend Bay, Long Island. The enemy offered no opposition to the landing, but retreated at once, setting fire to all the houses and granaries, and taking up a position on the wooded heights which commanded the line by which the English must advance.

The American main force, 15,000 strong, was posted on a peninsula between Mill Creek and Wallabout Bay, and had constructed a strong line of intrenchments across the end of the peninsula. The intrenchments were strengthened by abattis and flanked by strong redoubts. Five thousand remained to guard this post, and 10,000, under General Puttenham, advanced to hold the line of wooded hills which run across the island.

In the center of the plain, at the foot of these hills, stood the village of Flatbush.

The Hessian division of the British army, under General De Heister, advanced against this, while General Clinton, with the right wing of the English army, moved forward to attack the enemy's left.

This force marched at nine o'clock at night on August 26; General Sir William Howe himself accompanied it. The line of hills trended away greatly to the left, and the enemy had neglected to secure the passes over the hills on this flank; consequently, at nine o'clock in the morning, the British passed the range of hills without resistance, and occupied Bedford in its rear. Had Sir William Howe now pushed on vigorously, the whole of Puttenham's force must have been captured.

In the meantime the Hessians from Flatbush attacked the center of the Americans, and after a warm engagement, routed them and drove them into the woods with a loss of three pieces of cannon.

On the British left General Grant also advanced, and at midnight carried a strong pass on the enemy's left. Retiring, they held a still stronger position further back and offered a fierce resistance until the fires at Bedford showed that the English had obtained a position almost in their rear, when they retreated precipitately.

The victory was a complete one, but it had none of the consequences which would have attended it had the English pushed forward with energy after turning the American left. Six pieces of cannon were captured and 2000 men killed or taken prisoners. The English lost 70 killed and 230 wounded.

So impetuously did the English attack that even Sir William Howe admitted that they could have carried the intrenchments. He alleges he did not permit them to do so, because he intended to take the position by regular approaches and wished therefore to avoid the loss of life which an immediate assault would have occasioned. On the 27th and 28th regular approaches were commenced, but on the 29th, under cover of a fog, the Americans embarked in boats and succeeded in carrying the whole of their force, without the loss of a man, across to the mainland.

The escape of this body of men was disgraceful in the extreme to the English commanders. They had a great fleet at their disposal, and had they placed a couple of frigates in the East River, between Long Island and New York, the escape would have been impossible, and General Washington and his army of 15,000 men must have been taken prisoners. Whether this misfortune would have proved conclusive of the war it is now too late to speculate; but so splendid an opportunity was never before let slip by an English general, and the negligence was the more inexcusable inasmuch as the fleet of boats could be seen lying alongside of the American position. Their purpose must have been known, and they could at any moment have been destroyed by the guns of a ship-of-war taking up its position outside them.

Lord Howe dispatched the American General Sullivan, who had been taken prisoner on Long Island, to Congress, repeating his desire to treat. A committee of three members accordingly waited on Lord Howe, who informed them that it was the most ardent wish of the king and the government of Great Britain to put an end to the dissatisfaction between the mother country and the colonists. To accomplish this desire every act of Parliament which was considered obnoxious to the colonists should undergo a revisal, and every just cause of complaint should be removed, if the colonists would declare their willingness to submit to the authority of the British government. The committee replied that it was not America which had separated herself from Great Britain, but Great Britain had separated herself from America. The latter had never declared herself independent until the former had made war upon her, and even if Congress were willing to place America in her former situation, it could not do so, as the Declaration of Independence had been made in consequence of the congregated voice of the whole people, by whom alone it could be abolished. The country was determined not to return under the domination of England.

The negotiations were therefore broken off. Lord Howe published a declaration to the people of America, giving the answer of the committee to his offer of reconciliation. He acquainted them with the fact that the parent country was willing to receive into its bosom and protection all who might be willing to return to their former obedience. In taking this step, Lord Howe was convinced that a majority of the inhabitants of America were still willing to enter into an accommodation of the differences between the two powers, and the conviction was not ill founded. The declaration, however, produced but little effect, for the dominant section, that resolved to break off all connection with England, had acquired the sole management of affairs, and no offers which could possibly have been made would have been accepted by them.

Convinced that all further negotiations would be ineffectual, Lord Howe prepared to carry his army across from Long Island to New York, where the American army had taken up their post after the retreat from Long Island. The armies were separated by the East River, with a breadth of about thirteen hundred yards. A cannonade was kept up for several days. On September 13 some ships-of-war were brought up to cover the passage. Washington, seeing the preparations, began to evacuate the city and to abandon the strong intrenchments which he had thrown up. At eleven o'clock on the morning of the 15th the men-of-war opened a heavy fire, and Clinton's division, consisting of 4000 men in eighty-four boats, sailed up the river, landed on Manhattan Island at a place called Kipp's Bay, and occupied the heights of Inclenberg, the enemy abandoning their intrenchments at their approach. General Washington rode toward Kipp's Bay to take command of the troops stationed there, but found the men who had been posted at the lines running away, and the brigades which should have supported them flying in every direction, heedless of the exertions of their generals.

Puttenham's division of 4000 men was still in the lower city, and would be cut off unless the British advance should be checked. Washington therefore made the greatest efforts to rally the fugitives and to get them to make a stand to check the advancing enemy, but in vain; for, as soon as even small bodies of redcoats were seen advancing, they broke and fled in panic.

Howe, as usual, delayed giving orders for an advance, and thus permitted the whole of Puttenham's brigade, who were cut off and must have been taken prisoners, to escape unharmed. And thus, with comparatively little loss, the Americans drew off, leaving behind them only a few heavy cannon and some bayonets and stores. So rapid had been their flight at the approach of the English that only fifteen were killed, two men falling on the English side.

CHAPTER IX.

THE SURPRISE OF TRENTON.

The Americans, finding that they were not pursued, rallied from their panic and took up a position at Harlem and Kingsbridge. So great was the disorganization among them that had the British advanced at once they would have taken the place with scarcely any loss, strong as it was by nature and by the intrenchments which Washington had prepared. Great numbers deserted, disputes broke out between the troops of the various States, insubordination prevailed, and the whole army was utterly disheartened by the easy victories which the British had obtained over them. Washington reported the cowardice of his troops to Congress, who passed a law inflicting the punishment of death for cowardice.

Before leaving New York the Americans had made preparations for burning the whole town, but the speediness of their retreat prevented the preparations being carried into effect. Fire was set to it in several places and a third of the town was destroyed.

The position taken up by the enemy was so strong that it was determined to operate in the rear. Some redoubts were thrown up to cover New York during the absence of the main part of the British force.

A portion of the British army was landed at a point threatening the retreat of the Americans, and a series of skirmishes of no great importance took place. The enemy fell back from their most advanced works, but no general move was undertaken, although, as the numbers on both sides were about even and the superior fighting powers of the English had been amply demonstrated, there could have been no doubt as to the result of a general battle. Lord Howe, however, wasted the time in a series of petty movements, which, although generally successful, had no influence upon the result and served only to enable the Americans to recover from the utter depression which had fallen upon them after the evacuation of Long Island and the loss of New York.

Gradually the Americans fell back across a country so swampy and difficult that it was now no longer possible to bring on a general action. Their retreat had the effect of isolating the important positions of Kingsbridge and Fort Washington. The latter post was of the utmost importance, inasmuch as it secured the American intercourse with the Jersey shore. The fortifications were very strong and stood upon rising and open ground. It was garrisoned by 3000 of the best American troops under the command of Colonel Magaw. Washington was gradually withdrawing his army, and had already given orders that Fort Washington should be evacuated; but General Lee, who was second in command, so strongly urged that it should be retained that, greatly against his own judgment, he was obliged to consent to its being defended, especially as Colonel Magaw insisted that the fort could stand a siege. On the night of November 14 the British passed some troops across the creek, and Lord Howe summoned the place to surrender on pain of the garrison being put to the sword. Magaw had upon the previous day received large numbers of re-enforcements, and replied that he should defend the fort. Soon after daybreak on the 16th the artillery opened on both sides. Five thousand Hessians, under the command of General Knyphausen, moved up the hill, penetrated some of the advanced works of the enemy, and took post within a hundred yards of the fort. The second division, consisting of the guards and light infantry, with two battalions of Hessians and the Thirty-third Regiment, landed at Island Creek, and after some stiff fighting forced the enemy from the rocks and trees up the steep and rugged mountain. The third and fourth divisions fought their way up through similar defenses. So steep was the hill that the assailants could only climb it by grasping the trees and bushes, and so obstinate was the defense that the troops were sometimes mixed up together.

The bravery and superior numbers of the British troops bore down all resistance, and the whole of the four divisions reached their places round the fort. They then summoned it to surrender, and its commander, after half an hour's consideration, seeing the impossibility of resisting the assault which was threatened, opened the gates.

Upon the English side about 800 men were killed and wounded, of whom the majority were Hessians. These troops fought with extreme bravery. The American loss, owing to their superior position, was about 150 killed and wounded, but the prisoners taken amounted to over 3000.

On the 18th Lord Howe landed a strong body on the Jersey shore under Lord Cornwallis, who marched to Fort Lee and surprised it. A deserter had informed the enemy of his approach and the garrison had fled in disorder, leaving their tents, provisions, and military stores behind them. Lord Cornwallis, pushing forward with great energy, drove the Americans out of New Jersey. Another expedition occupied Rhode Island.

Cold weather now set in and the English went into winter quarters. Their success had been complete, without a single check, and had they been led vigorously the army of Washington might on two occasions have been wholly destroyed. In such a case the moderate portion of the population of the colonies would have obtained a hearing, and a peace honorable to both parties might have been arrived at.

The advantage gained by the gallantry of the British troops was, however, entirely neutralized by the lethargy and inactivity of their general, and the colonists had time given them to recover from the alarm which the defeat of their troops had given them, to put another army in the field, and to prepare on a great scale for the following campaign.

The conduct of General Howe in allowing Washington's army to retire almost unmolested was to the officers who served under him unaccountable. His arrangements for the winter were even more singularly defective. Instead of concentrating his troops he scattered them over a wide extent of country at a distance too great to support each other, and thus left it open to the enemy to crush them in detail.

General Howe now issued a proclamation offering a free pardon to all who surrendered, and great numbers of colonists came in and made their submission. Even in Philadelphia the longing for peace was so strong that General Washington was obliged to send a force there to prevent the town from declaring for England.

During the operations which had taken place since the landing of the British troops on Long Island Captain Wilson's company had taken but little part in the operations. All had been straightforward work and conducted on the principles of European warfare. The services of the volunteers as scouts had not, therefore, been called into requisition. The success which at first attended the expedition had encouraged Captain Wilson to hope, for the first time since the outbreak of the Revolution, that the English might obtain such decisive successes that the colonists would be willing to accept some propositions of peace such as those indicated by Lord Howea repeal of all obnoxious laws, freedom from any taxation except that imposed by themselves, and a recognition of the British authority. When he saw that Lord Howe, instead of actively utilizing the splendid force at his disposal, frittered it away in minor movements and allowed Washington to withdraw with his beaten army unmolested, his hopes again faded, and he felt that the colonists would in the long run succeed in gaining all that they contended for.

When the army went into winter quarters the company was ordered to take post on the Delaware. There were four frontier posts, at Trenton, Bordentown, White Horse, and Burlington. Trenton, opposite to which lay Washington with the main body of his army, was held by only 1200 Hessians, and Bordentown, which was also on the Delaware, was, like Trenton, garrisoned by these troops. No worse choice could have been made. The Hessians were brave soldiers, but their ignorance of the language and of the country made them peculiarly unsuitable troops for outpost work, as they were unable to obtain any information. As foreigners, too, they were greatly disliked by the country people.

Nothing was done to strengthen these frontier posts, which were left wholly without redoubts or intrenchments into which the garrison could withdraw in case of attack.

Captain Wilson's little company were to act as scouts along the line of frontier. Their headquarters were fixed at Bordentown, where Captain Wilson obtained a large house for their use. Most of the men were at home at work of this kind, and Peter Lambton, Ephraim, and the other frontiersmen were dispatched from time to time in different directions to ascertain the movements and intentions of the enemy. Harold asked his father to allow him, as before, to accompany Peter. The inactivity of a life at a quiet little station was wearisome, and with Peter he was sure of plenty of work, with a chance of adventure. The life of exercise and activity which he had led for more than a year had strengthened his muscles and widened his frame, and he was now able to keep up with Peter, however long and tiresome the day's work might be. Jake, too, was of the party. He had developed into an active soldier, and although he was but of little use for scouting purposes, even Peter did not object to his accompanying him, for the negro's unfailing good temper and willingness to make himself useful had made him a favorite with the scout.

The weather was now setting in exceedingly cold. The three men had more than once crossed the Delaware in a canoe and scouted in the very heart of the enemy's country. They were now sitting by the bank, watching some drifting ice upon the river.

"There won't be many more passages of the river by water," Peter remarked. "Another ten days, and it'll be frozen across."

"Then we can cross on foot, Peter."

"Yes, we can do that," the scout said, "and so can the enemy. Ef their general has got any interprise with him, and ef he can get them chaps as he calls soldiers to fight, he'll be crossing over one of these nights and capturing the hull of them Hessians at Trenton. What General Howe means by leaving 'em there is more nor I can think; he might as well have sent so many babies. The critters can fight, and fight well, too, and they're good soldiers; but what's the good of 'em in a frontier post? They know nothing of the country; they can't speak to the people, nor ask no questions, nor find out nothing about what's doing the other side of the river. They air no more than mere machines. What was wanted was two or three battalions of light troops, who would make friends with the country people and larn all that's doing opposite. If the Americans are sharp they'll give us lots of trouble this winter, and you'll find there won't be much sitting quiet for us at Bordentown. Fortunately Bordentown and Trenton aint far apart, and one garrison ought to be able to arrive to the assistance of the other before it's overpowered. We shall see. Now, I propose that we cross again to-night and try and find out what the enemy's doing. Then we can come back and manage for you to eat your Christmas dinner with yer father, as you seem to have bent yer mind upon that, though why it matters about dinner one day more than another is more nor I can see."

That night the three scouts crossed the river in the canoe. Avoiding all houses, they kept many miles straight on beyond the river and lay down for a few hours before morning dawned; then they turned their faces the other way and walked up to the first farmhouse they saw.

"Can we have a drink of milk?" the hunter asked.

"You can," the farmer replied, "and some breakfast if you like to pay for it. At first I was glad to give the best I had to those who came along, but there have been such numbers going one way and the other, either marching to join the army or running away to return to their homes, that I should be ruined if I gave to all comers."

"We're ready to pay," Peter said, drawing some money from his pocket.

"Then come in and sit down."

In a few minutes an excellent breakfast was put before them.

"You are on your way to join the army, of course?" the farmer asked.

"Jest that," Peter replied. "We think it's about our time to do a little shooting, though I don't suppose there'll be much done till the spring."

"I don't know," the farmer said. "I should not be surprised if the general wakes up them Germans when the Delaware gets frozen. I heard some talk about it from some men who came past yesterday. Their time was expired, they said, and they were going home. I hear, too, that they are gathering a force down near Mount Holly, and I reckon that they are going to attack Bordentown."

"Is that so?" Peter asked. "In that case we might as well tramp in that direction. It don't matter a corn-shuck to us where we fight, so as it's soon. We've come to help lick these British, and we means to do it."

"Ah!" the farmer said, "I have heard that sentiment a good many times, but I have not seen much come of it yet. So far, it seems to me as the licking has been all the other way."

"That's so," Peter agreed. "But everyone knows that the Americans are just the bravest people on the face of the habitable arth. I reckon their dander's not fairly up yet; but when they begin in arnest you'll see what they'll do."

The farmer gave a grunt which might mean anything. He had no strong sympathies either way, and the conduct of the numerous deserters and disbanded men who had passed through his neighborhood had been far from impressing him favorably.

"I don't pretend to be strong either for the Congress or the king. I don't want to be taxed, but I don't see why the colonists should not pay something toward the expenses of the government; and now that Parliament seems willing to give all we ask for, I don't see what we want to go on fighting for."

"Waal!" Peter exclaimed in a tone of disgust, "you're one of the half-hearted ones."

"I am like the great majority of the people of this country. We are of English stock and we don't want to break with the Old Country; but the affairs have got into the hands of the preachers, and the newspaper men, and the chaps that want to push themselves forward and make their pile out of the war. As I read it, it's just the civil war in England over again. We were all united at the first against what we considered as tyranny on the part of the Parliament, and now we have gone setting up demands which no one dreamed of at first and which most of us object to now, only we have no longer the control of our own affairs."

"The great heart of this country beats for freedom," Peter Lambton said.

"Pooh!" said the farmer contemptuously. "The great heart of the country wants to work its farms and do its business quietly. The English general has made fair offers, which might well be accepted; and as for freedom, there was no tyranny greater than that of the New England States. As long as they managed their own affairs there was neither freedom of speech nor religion. No, sir; what they call freedom was simply the freedom to make everyone else do and think like the majority."

"Waal, we won't argue it out," Peter said, "for I'm not good at argument, and I came here to fight and not to talk. Besides, I want to get to Mount Holly in time to jine in this battle, so I guess we'll be moving."

Paying for the breakfast, they started at once in the direction of Mount Holly, which lay some twenty-five miles away. As they approached the place early in the afternoon they overtook several men going in the same direction. They entered into conversation with them, but could only learn that some 450 of the militia from Philadelphia and the counties of Gloucester and Salem had arrived on the spot. The men whom they had overtaken were armed countrymen who were going to take a share in the fight on their own account.

Entering the place with the others, Peter found that the information given him was correct.

"We better be out of this at once," he said to Harold, "and make for Bordentown."

"You don't think that there is much importance in the movement," Harold said as they tramped along.

"There aint no importance whatever," Peter said, "and that's what I want to tell 'em. They're never thinking of attacking the two thousand Hessians at Bordentown with that ragged lot."

"But what can they have assembled them for within twelve miles of the place?" Harold asked.

"It seems to me," the hunter replied, "that it's jest a trick to draw the Germans out from Bordentown and so away from Trenton. At any rate, it's well that the true account of the force here should be known. These things gets magnified, and they may think that there's a hull army here."

It was getting dusk when they entered Bordentown, and Harold was glad when he saw the little town, for since sunset on the evening before they had tramped nearly sixty miles. The place seemed singularly quiet. They asked the first person they met what had become of the troops, and they were told that Colonel Donop, who commanded, had marched an hour before with his whole force of 2000 men toward Mount Holly, leaving only 80 men in garrison at Bordentown.

"We are too late," Harold said. "They have gone by the road and we kept straight through the woods and so missed them."

"Waal, I hope no harm 'ill come of it. I suppose they mean to attack at daylight, and in course that rabble will run without fighting. I hope, when the colonel sees as how thar's no enemy ther worth speaking of, he'll march straight back again."

Unfortunately this was not the case. The militia, according to their orders, at once dispersed when their outposts told them of the approach of the British, but the German officer, instead of returning instantly, remained for two days near Mount Holly, and so gave time to Washington to carry out his plans.

Captain Wilson's company had gone out with the force, and Peter and his companions had the house to themselves that night. Harold slept late, being thoroughly fatigued by his long march the day before, carrying his rifle, blanket, and provisions. Peter woke him at last.

"Now, young un, you've had a good sleep; it's eleven o'clock. I'm off to Trenton to see what's doing there. Will you go with me, or will you stop here on the chance of eating your dinner with your father?"

"Oh, it's Christmas Day," Harold said, stretching. "Well, what do you think, Peterare they likely to come back or not?"

"They ought to be back, there's no doubt about that, but whether they will or not is a different affair altogether. I've never seed them hurry themselves yet, not since the war began; things would have gone a good deal better if they had; but time never seems of no consequence to them. They marched twelve miles last night, and I reckon it's likely they'll halt to-day and won't be back till to-morrow. I feel oneasy in my mind about the whole affair, for I can't see a single reason for the enemy sending that weak force to Mount Holly, unless it was to draw away the troops from here, and the only motive there could be for that would be because they intended to attack Trenton."

"Very well, Peter, I will go with you."

Accompanied by Jake they set out at once for Trenton. On arriving there they found no particular signs of vigilance. Since the Hessians had reached Trenton their discipline had much relaxed. A broad river separated them from the enemy, who were known to be extremely discontented and disorganized. They had received instruction on no account to cross the river to attack the colonials, and the natural consequence of this forced inactivity had manifested itself. Discipline was lax, and but a slight watch was kept on the movements of the enemy across the stream. Ignorant of the language of the people, they were incapable of distinguishing between those who were friendly and those who were hostile to the Crown, and they behaved as if in a conquered country; taking such necessaries as they required without payment, and even sending parties to a considerable distance on plundering expeditions.

Peter, on his arrival, proceeded to the headquarters of Colonel Rhalle, who was in commandan officer of great bravery and energy. One of his officers was able to speak English, and to him Peter reported the departure of the force from Bordentown, of which Colonel Rhalle was already aware, and the weakness of the American force at Mount Holly. He stated, also, his own belief that it was merely a feint to draw off Colonel Donop, and that preparatory to an attack on Trenton. The officer treated the information lightly, and pointing to the mass of ice floating down the river asked whether it would be possible for boats to cross.

"When the river freezes," he said, "there may be some chance of attack. Till then we are absolutely safe."

Peter, shaking his head, rejoined his companions and told them of the manner in which his advice had been received.

"But it would be difficult to cross the river," Harold said. "Look at the masses of ice on the water."

"It would be difficult," the hunter admitted, "but not by no manner of means impossible. Determined men could do it. Waal, I've done my duty and can do no more. Ef the night passes off quietly we'll cross again before daybreak and go right into the Yankee camp and see what they're up to. Now, Harold, you can take it easy till nightfall; there's naught to be learned till then, and as we shall be on foot all night ye may as well sleep to-day."

Returning to a spot on the banks of the river at a short distance from the town, they made a fire, on which Jake cooked some steaks of venison they had procured. After smoking a pipe, the hunter set the example by stretching himself on the ground near the fire and going to sleep. Used as he was to night marches, he had acquired the faculty of going to sleep at any hour at will. Jake and Harold were some time before they followed his example, but they too were at last asleep. At sunset they were on their feet again, and after taking supper proceeded along the river.

The night passed off quietly, and Harold became convinced that his companion's fears were unfounded. Toward morning he suggested that it was time to be crossing the river.

"I'm not going yet," the hunter said. "Before I start we'll go down to Trenton Ferry, a mile below the town. Ef they come over at all, it's likely enough to be there. There'll be time then to get back and cross before it's light; It's six o'clock now."

They kept along the road by the river until they were within a quarter of a mile of the ferry. Presently they saw a dark mass ahead.

"Jerusalem!" Peter exclaimed. "There they are."

They immediately discharged their rifles and ran back at full speed to the outposts, which were but a quarter of a mile from the town. The Americans had also pressed forward at full speed, and the outposts, who had been alarmed by the discharge of the rifles, were forced at once to abandon the post and to run into the town, whither they had, on hearing the rifles, already sent in one of their number with the news. Here all was in confusion. The Hessian leader was trying to collect his troops, who were hurrying in from their quarters, but many of them thought more of storing their plunder away in the wagons than of taking their places in the ranks.

Washington had crossed with 2500 men and a few field-pieces, and upon gaining the Jersey side had divided his troops into two detachments, one of which marched by the river side, the other by an upper road. Hurrying forward they surrounded the town, and placing their field-pieces in the road, opened fire on the astonished Hessians. Rhalle had by this time succeeded in assembling the greater part of his force and charged the Americans with his usual courage. He received, however, a mortal wound as he advanced. His troops immediately lost heart, and finding their retreat cut off at once surrendered. A body of Hessian light horse succeeded in making their escape. The casualties were few on either side, but 1000 prisoners were taken. Two other divisions of the Americans had attempted to cross, the one at Bordentown, the other at Mackenzie's Ferry, but both had failed, owing to the quantity of floating ice. Washington retired across the Delaware the same afternoon.

The consequences of this success were great. The spirits of the Americans, which had fallen to the lowest ebb in consequence of the uninterrupted series of defeats, rose greatly. They found that the British were not invincible, and that, if unable to oppose them in great battles, they might at least inflict heavy losses on them and weary them out with skirmishes and surprises. The greatest joy reigned throughout the various States; fresh levies were ordered; the voices of the moderate party, which had been gaining strength, were silenced, and the determination to continue the war vigorously was in the ascendency.

The lesson given at Trenton was wholly lost upon the English commander-in-chief. Instead of at once ordering General Leslie to advance from Princeton and to hold the enemy in check by reoccupying and fortifying Trenton, he allowed Colonel Donop to abandon Bordentown and to fall back to Princetonthus laying it open to Washington to cross the Delaware again and carry the war into New Jersey. Washington, after waiting eight days, seeing the indecision and ineptitude of the British general, again crossed with 4000 men and occupied Trenton.

Peter Lambton and his two companions were not among the prisoners taken at Trenton. On entering the town Harold was about to join the Hessians assembling under Colonel Rhalle, but Peter gave a violent tug to his coat.

"Come along, young un!" he said. "The darned fools have let themselves be caught in a trap and they'll find there's no way out of it. In ten minutes the Americans will be all round the place, and as I don't wish to spend a year or two in a Yankee prison at present, I'm going to make tracks at once. Fighting aren't no good now. Men who'll let 'emselves be caught in a trap like this'll never be able to cut their way out of it. Come on!"

Much against his will Harold yielded to Peter's wishes, and the three kept straight on through the town by the river side and issued into the country beyond before the Americans had surrounded it. A minute or two after leaving the town the light horse galloped past.

"There are some more out of the hole, and I reckon that's about all. There, do you hear the guns? The Yanks have brought their artillery overI reckon the fight won't last long."

For two or three minutes there was a roar of musketry; then this suddenly ceased.

"I thought as much," Peter said. "They've surrendered. If they had only kept together and fought well, they should have cut their way through the enemy. Lord! what poor things regular soldiers are in the dark! A frontiersman would just as soon fight in the dark as in the light; but here are the men who climbed up the hill to Fort Washingtonand that was no child's playno better nor a pack of women when they're attacked half-asleep and half-awake, just as day is breaking."

The three comrades walked to Bordentown, which, they were relieved to find, had not been attacked. A few miles beyond this place they met Colonel Donop marching back at full speed with his corps, having received the news of the disaster at Trenton from the horsemen who had fled. They joined their company and marched to Princeton.

A fortnight later Lord Cornwallis, with the forces at Brunswick, under General Grant, advanced to Princeton and then moved forward to attack the army at Trenton. General Washington on his approach retired from the town and, crossing a rivulet at the back of it, took post on some high ground there, with the apparent intention of defending himself against an attack. It was late in the afternoon, and a heavy cannonade was kept up till night-time. Lord Cornwallis determined to attack next morning. At two in the morning Washington retired suddenly, leaving his fires burning. Quitting the main road he made a long circuit through Allentown and marched with all speed toward Princeton, which place he intended to surprise. When Lord Cornwallis advanced he had left the Seventeenth, Fortieth, and Fifty-fifth regiments there.

On arriving at Trenton he had sent word back for the Seventeenth and Fifty-fifth to advance to Maidenhead, a village halfway between Princeton and Trenton. Colonel Mawhood, who commanded, marched at daylight, but scarcely had he started when he met Washington advancing with his army. The morning was foggy, and it was at first supposed that the enemy were a body of British troops marching back to Princeton, but it was soon found that the force was a hostile one. Its strength could not be seen on account of the fog, and he determined to engage it. Possessing himself of some high ground, he sent his wagons back to Princeton and ordered the Fortieth Regiment to come out to his assistance.

As the Americans advanced, the artillery on both sides opened fire. The leading columns of the colonists soon snowed signs of disorder. The Seventeenth Regiment fixed bayonets and with great gallantry charged the enemy in front of them, driving them back with considerable slaughter; and so far did they advance that they were separated from the other battalions, and cutting their way through the American force the regiment pursued its march to Maidenhead. The Fortieth and Fifty-fifth fought stoutly, but were unable to make their way through the American force, and fell back to Brunswick, while the Americans occupied Princeton. At daybreak Lord Cornwallis discovered the retreat of the American army, and being apprehensive for the safety of Brunswick, where great stores of the army were accumulated, marched with all haste toward that town.

Brigadier Matthew, the officer commanding there, on hearing of the approach of the enemy, at once dispatched the store wagons toward the rear and drew up his small command to defend the place to the last. The gallant resistance before Princeton had delayed the Americans so long that the van of the army of Cornwallis was already close to their rear as they approached Brunswick. Seeing this, Washington abandoned his design on that town and crossed the Millstone River, breaking down the bridge at Kingston to stop pursuit.

Washington now overran East and West Jersey, penetrated into Essex County, and making himself master of the country opposite to Staten Island, thus regained almost all the district which the English had taken from him in the autumn.

All this greatly heightened the spirit and courage of the Americans, while the loyalists and the English troops were disheartened and disgusted at seeing an army of 30,000 fine troops kept inactive, while the enemy, with but 4000 men, who were wholly incapable of opposing an equal number of English troops, were allowed to wander unchecked, to attack and harass the English pickets, and to utilize the whole of the resources of their country. Had General Howe entertained a fixed desire to see English authority overthrown in America he could not have acted in a manner more calculated to carry those wishes into effect.

CHAPTER X.

A TREACHEROUS PLANTER.

It must not be supposed that the whole of the time was spent in scouting and fighting. Between the armies lay a band of no man's land. Here, as elsewhere, the people of the country were divided in their opinions, but generally made very little display of these, whatever they might be. It is true that, as a rule, non-combatants were but little interfered with; still, a warm and open display of sympathy with one side or the other was likely to be attended by the loss of cattle and damage to crops when the other party got the upper hand. In some other States feeling ran much higher. In the Carolinas the royalists were most cruelly persecuted. Their property was destroyed and they were, in many cases, shot down without mercy; but generally, throughout the colonies, a considerable latitude of opinion was allowed. This was especially so in the zone between the armies in the Jerseys. None could tell what the positions of the armies a week hence might be, and any persecution inflicted by the one party might lead to retaliation upon a shift of positions a few weeks later. A general toleration therefore reigned.

Next to Peter Lambton, Harold's greatest friend in the corps was a young man named Harvey. He was of good family and belonged to New York. Being a strong loyalist, he had, like many other gentlemen, enlisted for service under the old flag. He had, naturally, many acquaintances among the county families, and Harold often accompanied him in his visits to one or other of them.

During the winter, when things were quiet, the duties of the scouts were light, and it was the habit among them that one-third should be on outpost duty at a time, the rest being free to move about as they liked. The scouts had no fixed order of position. They went out alone or in twos or threes, as it pleased them, their duty simply being to watch everything that was going on along the enemy's line of outposts, to bring the earliest news of any intended movements, and to prevent dashing parties of the enemy's horsemen from making raids into or behind the British lines. They were not, of course, expected to check bodies of cavalry starting on a raid, but simply to obtain information of their having left their lines and of the direction taken, and then to hurry back to the British posts, whence a force of cavalry would be sent out to intercept or check the invaders. Many dashing exploits were performed by the cavalry on both sides in the way of getting behind their opponents' quarters, cutting off provision trains, attacking small posts, and carrying off straggling parties.

One of the houses to which Harold used most frequently to accompany his friend Harvey was situated nearly halfway between the rival armies, and was about eight miles from either. The ownerMr. Jacksonwas a man of considerable wealth, and the house was large and well appointed. He had, before the troubles began, a fine business as a lawyer in New York; but, as the outbreak of hostilities put a stop to all business of a legal kind in that city, he had retired to his country house. Although himself born in England, he professed to be entirely neutral, but his family were undisguisedly loyal. It consisted of his wife and two daughters, girls of seventeen and eighteen years old.

When the English army advanced to the neighborhood of his property Mr. Jackson was always ready to offer his hospitality to the officers of the corps which might be stationed near him, and he similarly opened his house to the Americans when they, in turn, advanced as the British turned back. Being, as he always made a point of saying, perfectly neutral in the struggle, he was glad to meet gentlemen, irrespective of the opinions they held. The line taken by Mr. Jackson was the one which was very largely pursued among the inhabitants of the country houses and farms scattered over what was, throughout the war, a debatable land. So frequent were the changes of the position of the armies that none could say who might be in possession in a week's time, and it was, therefore, an absolute necessity for those who wished to live unmolested to abstain from any stronger show of partisanship.

As is always the case in struggles of this kind, the female population were more enthusiastic in their partisanship and more pronounced in their opinions than the men; and although, upon the arrival of a troop of cavalry or a detachment of foot belonging to the other side, the master of the house would impartially offer what hospitality he was capable of, it was not difficult to perceive, by the warmth or coldness of the female welcome, what were the private sentiments of the family.

Harold was not long in discovering, from the frequency with which Harvey proposed an excursion to the Jacksons' and from his conduct there, that Isabelle, the eldest daughter, was the object which mainly attracted him. The families had long been friends, and Harvey, although now serving as a simple scout, was of a position equal to her own. The friends were always cordially received by Mr. Jackson, and Harold was soon as intimate there as his comrade. They usually left their quarters a little before dusk and started back late at night. Often as Mr. Jackson pressed them to stay, they never accepted his invitation.

The scouts, from their activity and ubiquitousness, were the bêtes-noirs of the Americans, whose most secret plans were constantly detected and foiled by the sagacity and watchfulness of these men, whose unerring rifles made frequent gaps in the ranks of the officers. They therefore spared no pains, whenever there was a chance, of killing or capturing any of these most troublesome foes, and Harvey and Harold knew that a report of their presence at the Jacksons' would suffice to bring a party of horsemen from the American lines. Their visits, therefore, were always made after dark, and at irregular intervals, and, in spite of their inclination to the contrary they made a point of returning at night to their quarters.

Other visitors were often present at the Jacksons', the sons and daughters of neighbors, and there was generally music and singing, and sometimes the young people stood up for a dance.

The scouts wore no regular uniform, although there was a general similarity in their attire, which was that of an ordinary backwoods hunter. When off duty they were allowed to dress as they pleased, and at Mr. Jackson's the two friends were attired in the ordinary dress of colonists of position. At these little gatherings political subjects were never discussed, and a stranger spending an evening there would not have dreamed that the house stood between two hostile armies; that at any moment a party of horsemen belonging to one side or other might dash into the courtyard, and that even those laughing and talking pleasantly together might be of opinions diametrically opposed.

Harvey and Harold were introduced to visitors simply as friends from New York, and, although the suspicions as to their character and position might be strong, no one thought of asking questions.

"I do not like that fellow Chermside," Harvey said one night, as he and his friend were returning to their quarters.

They were mounted; for, although when on duty the scouts worked on foot, many of them, who were men of property, kept horses which they used when not engaged. Harvey had two horses, and one of these was always at Harold's service.

"I am not surprised you don't like him," Harold replied with a laugh, "and I imagine the dislike is mutual. When two gentlemen are paying attentions to one young lady they seldom appreciate each other's merits very cordially."

"I don't think it is entirely that," Harvey laughed. "Isabella and I understand each other, and I have no fear of his rivalry; but I do not like him."

"I do not think I like him myself," Harold said more seriously; "and yet I do not know why I should not. When he has been there alone with us and the family, he has frequently used expressions showing his strong leaning toward the loyalists' side."

"I don't put much faith in that," Harvey said. "He knows how strongly Mr. Jackson and the girls lean toward the Crown, and would say anything that he thought would please Isabelle. I have spoken to her and she thinks that he is sincere; in fact, she has rather a good opinion of him. However, we shall see. It was rather curious that that party of Morgan's cavalry should have ridden up the other night and searched the house two hours after we left. You see, we had agreed to sleep there that night, and only changed our minds after the others had all left, when we remembered that we were both for duty early next morning. It might have been a coincidence, of course, but it had an ugly look. I think Mr. Jackson thought so, too, for he did not ask us to stop to-night; anyhow, I wish Chermside's plantation was not so near this and that he did not drop in so often."

A week later they paid another visit. When dinner was over Harold was chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. Harvey was sitting at the piano, where the eldest girl was playing, and the younger was looking out of window.

"We are going to have another fall of snow," she said. "There is not a star to be seen. Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly.

"What is it, my dear?" Mr. Jackson asked.

"There is a rocket gone up from the woods."

"A rocket!" Mr. Jackson repeated.

"Yes, papa; there are the stars falling now."

"That is a curious thing," Mr. Jackson said, while the others went to the window. They stood watching for some minutes, but nothing was to be seen.

"I do not like that rocket," Mr. Jackson said as they left the window. "It means something. It can only be a signal. People don't let off rockets for amusement nowadays. Did you meet anyone on the road?" "No, sir," Harvey said, "not a soul."

"I do not like it," their host repeated. "It means mischief of some sort or other. I do not wish to seem inhospitable, but my advice to you is, get on your horses at once and ride to your quarters. You are on duty to-morrow, and you told me you would pass near here on your way toward the enemy's lines. You might look in as you go past and hear whether anything came of it. If I mistake not, we shall have another visit from Morgan's horse this evening."

Much against their inclination the young men followed Mr. Jackson's advice.

The next day they, with Peter and Jake, stopped at the house as they passed.

"I was right," their host said, as the two young men entered. "An hour after you left twenty of Morgan's horse rode up here. They would not take my word that we were alone, but searched the house from top to bottom, and were evidently greatly disappointed at finding no one. I have been making inquiries this morning and find that all the servants were in the house at the time my daughter saw the rocket, so I hope that I have no traitor here. Still, it is clear that someone must be keeping watch over your movements."

"Have you asked, sir," Harvey said, after a pause, "whether anyone came after we had arrived?"

"I do not see how anyone could come, but I will ask."

He rang the bell and a negro servant appeared.

"Did anyone come to the house yesterday, Caesar, after these gentleman cameany beggar or peddler, or anyone of that sort?"

"No, sir; no one came except Massa Chermside. He get off his horse and ask if you, hab any visitors. I said that Massa Harvey and Massa Wilson were here. He say he call again another night when the family alone, and rode off."

"Just what I expected, sir," Harvey said, when the servant left the room. "I have always doubted that fellow's honesty."

"Oh, nonsense!" Mr. Jackson replied. "You must be mad, Harvey. Chermside's father was an old friend of mine, and I have known the young fellow since he was a child. I should as soon suspect one of my own daughters of being capable of such an act of gross treachery as laying a plot to bring the American cavalry down upon guests of mine. The idea is preposterous. Bless me, how amused the girls will be at your suspecting their old playfellow!"

"I hope I may be mistaken, sir," Harvey said, "but Harold's opinion of him agrees with mine; and, in talking it over last night, we both put our finger on him as the man who fired the rocket. Well, now, we must be pushing on. We are bound for the ford where Morgan's horse must have come over, and shall hear from our fellows there whether they rode straight here after crossing, as, if so, there can be no doubt whatever that the rocket was a signal."

Upon arriving at the ford they found that Morgan's horse had only crossed an hour before the time at which they arrived at Mr. Jackson's. One of the scouts had instantly taken word to the nearest cavalry outpost, but the enemy had recrossed the river before these had arrived on the spot.

After three days on duty at the front, the party returned to their lines, and the next time that the young men rode out to their friends they took with them Jake and Peter, to whom they related the circumstances.

The scouts proceeded on foot and separated from the others a mile before reaching the house, having arranged that Peter should scout round it, while Jake should proceed to the plantation of Mr. Chermside and keep a sharp lookout there.

They had arranged with Mr. Jackson that no mention of the rocket should be made to anyone, however intimate with the family.

"I am glad to see you again," the host said, as they entered the room where the family were assembled, "although I own that these two raids of Morgan's horse have made me uneasy. The girls have been immensely amused at your suspicions of young Chermside."

"How could you think such a thing?" Isabelle said. "He was here on the following evening, and was as indignant as we were at the thought of treachery being at work. He quite agreed with us that the coming of the Yankees could hardly have been accidental."

"You said nothing about the rocket, I hope?" Harvey asked.

"No, we kept quite silent about that, as you made such a point of it; but it seemed ridiculous with him. But I shall be in a fright, now, every time you come."

"We have brought two of our men with us," Harvey said, "and they are scouting round, so we shall hear if another rocket goes up; and, even if the person who let it up suspects that the last was seen,as he might do from our having left so suddenly,and tries some other plan to warn the enemy, we can trust our men to fire a shot and so give us warning in time. We have told the groom not to take the saddles off the horses, as we may stop but a short time."

At eight o'clock a disturbance was heard outside, and Jake entered the room, dragging with him by main force the young planter.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Jackson asked, as they rose from their seats in surprise.

"Me tell you, sar," Jake answered. "Me had orders from Massa Harold to watch outside ob de house ob dis feller and see what going on dere. About half an hour after me got dere a nigger come along running from dis direction. Dat no business of Jake's, so he stood in de trees and let him pass. He go into de house; five minutes afterward dis feller he come out and he walk away. Jake follow him bery quiet to see what him after. He walk more dan a mile, den he get on to de oder side of dat big hill; den me see him stop, and Jake tink it time to interfere, so he ran up and catch him. He had put dis ting against a stump of a tree, and had him pistol in him hand, and was on de point of firing it close to dis ting, so as to light him."

As Jake spoke he held out a rocket. Several times while Jake had been speaking the planter had tried to interrupt him, but each time Jake, who had not released his hold of him, gave him so violent a shake that he was fain to be silent.

"This is a scandalous indignity," he exclaimed furiously when Jake finished. "What do you mean, sir," he demanded of Harvey, "by setting this nigger to watch my abode? I will have satisfaction for this treatment."

"It seems, sir," Mr. Jackson said, signing to Harvey to be silent, "that you have been detected in a gross act of treachery. My friends have suspected you of it, but I indignantly denied it. Could we believe, I and my family, that you, whom we have known as a child, would betray our guests to the Americans? Loyalists and republicans are alike welcome here. I do not ask my friends their opinions. My house is neutral ground, and I did not think that anyone who used it would have had the treachery to turn it into a trap; still less did I imagine you would do so. These gentlemen would be perfectly within their right did they take you out and hang you from the nearest tree; but, for my sake, I trust that they will not do so; but should the American cavalry ever again visit this house under circumstances which may lead it to be supposed that they have been brought here to capture my guests, I shall let them punish you as you deserve. No word of mine will be raised in your favor. Now, sir, go, and never again enter this house, where the loathing and contempt that I feel for you will, I know, be shared by the ladies of my family."

At a nod from Harold Jake released his hold of the captive, who, without a word, turned and left the room.

Not a word was spoken for a minute or two after he had left. The youngest girl was the first to speak.

"The wretch!" she exclaimed. "To think that Herbert Chermside should turn out such a mean traitor! Papa, I would have let them hang him at once. It would have served him right. Now he may do us all harm."

"I do not know that you are not right, Ada," Mr. Jackson replied gravely. "I am far from saying that I acted wisely. Young Chermside has many friends among the Americans, and it is possible that he may work us harm. However, my position as a neutral is well established. Officers on both sides have at times been welcomed here, and his report, therefore, that our friends here are often with us can do us no harm. Henceforth he must be regarded as an enemy, and there will always be danger in these visits. So long as the American outposts are within an hour's ride he can have the road watched; and, although he is not likely to venture upon signaling with rockets, he may send or take word on horseback. A bonfire, too, might be lit at the other side of the hill to call them over. Altogether you will never be safe from home except when you have a strong body of your own troops between this and the river."

"I am glad to say," Harvey said, "that in consequence of the news of Morgan's raids on this side a body of 200 infantry and a troop of cavalry are to move to-morrow and take up their position by the ford, so we shall be safe from any surprise from that direction."

"I am very glad to hear it," Mr. Jackson said. "It will relieve me of a great anxiety. But pray be watchful when you are in this neighborhood. You have made a bitter enemy, and, after what he has proved himself capable of, we cannot doubt that he would hesitate at nothing. I understand," he went on with a smile toward his eldest daughter, "what is at the bottom of his conduct, and, as I have long suspected his hopes in that quarter, I am not surprised that he is somewhat hostile to you. Still, I never for a moment deemed him capable of this."

The next day Mr. Jackson learned that his neighbor had left his plantation, and had told his servants that he was not likely to return for some time.

Shortly after this a series of bad luck attended the doings of the British scouts. Several parties were killed or captured by the enemy, and they were constantly baffled by false reports, while the Americans appeared to forestall all their movements. It was only when enterprises were set on foot and carried out by small bodies that they were ever successful, anything like combined action by the orders of the officers constantly turning out ill.

"There must be a traitor somewhere," Peter said upon the return of a party from an attempt which, although it promised well, had been frustrated, to carry off a number of cattle from one of the American depots. "It aint possible that this can be all sheer bad luck. It aint no one in our company, I'll be bound. We aint had any new recruits lately, and there aint a man among us whom I could not answer for. There must be a black sheep in Gregory's or Vincent's corps. The enemy seem up to every move, and, between us, we have lost more than thirty men in the last few weeks. There aint no doubt about itthere's a traitor somewhere and he must be a clever one, and he must have pals with him, or he couldn't send news of what we are doing so quickly. It beats me altogether, and the men are all furious."

"I've been talking with some of our men," Peter said a few days afterward, "and we agree that we are bound to get to the bottom of this matter. We're sartin sure that the traitor don't belong to us. What we propose is this, that the hull of us shall go up together, without saying a word to a soul, and scatter ourselves along the river at all the points where a chap going with a message to the enemy would be likely to cross. The night we go out we'll get the three captains all to give orders to their men for an expedition, so that whoever it is that sends messages from here would be sure to send over word to the Yankees; and it'll be hard if we don't ketch him. What do you say?"

"I think the plan is a very good one," Harold answered. "If you like, I will go with my father and ask Gregory and Vincent to send their men."

Captain Wilson at once went to these officers. They were as much irritated and puzzled as were their men by the failures which had taken place, and agreed that, next evening, an order should be issued for the men of the three corps to act in combination, and to allow it to leak out that they intended to surprise an American post situated near the river, twenty-one miles distant. Captain Wilson's scouts, instead of going with the others, were to act on their own account.

On the day arranged, as soon as it became dark, the forty scouts quietly left their quarters in small parties and made their way toward the river, striking it at the point where a messenger would be likely to cross upon his way to give warning to the American post of the attack intended to be made upon it. They took post along the river, at a distance of fifty or sixty yards apart, and silently awaited the result. Several hours passed and no sound broke the stillness of the woods. An hour before dawn Peter Lambton heard a slight crack, as that of a breaking twig. It was some distance back in the woods, but it seemed to him, by the direction, that the man who caused it would strike the river between himself and Jake, who was stationed next to him. He noiselessly stole along toward the point. Another slight sound afforded him a sure indication of the direction in which the man, whoever he might be, was approaching. He hastened his steps, and a minute later a negro issued from the wood close to him. He stood for an instant on the river bank and was about to plunge in, when Peter threw his arms around him.

Although taken by surprise, the negro struggled desperately and would have freed himself from the grip of the old scout had not Jake run up instantly to his comrade's assistance. In a minute the negro was bound and two shots were then fired, the concerted signal by which it would be known along the line that a capture had been effected. In a few minutes the whole body was assembled. The negro, who refused to answer any questions, was carried far back into the woods and a fire was lighted.

"Now, nigger," Peter said, taking, as captor, the lead in the matter, "jest tell us right away where you was going and who sent you."

The negro was silent.

"Now, look ye here, darky, you're in the hands of men who are no jokers. Ef you tell us at once who put ye on to this trick no harm will happen to you; but ef ye don't we'll jest burn the skin off your body, bit by bit."

Still the negro was silent.

"Half a dozen of yez," Peter said, "as have got iron ramrods shove them into the fire. We'll soon find this nigger's tongue."

Not a word was spoken until the ramrods were heated red-hot.

"Now," Peter said, "two of yez clap your ramrods against this darky's flanks."

The negro struggled as the men approached him, and gave a terrific yell as the hot iron was applied to his sides.

"I will tell you, sarsoh! have mercy upon me and I will tell you eberything!"

"I thought," Peter said grimly, "that you'd find a tongue soon enough. Now, then, who sent you?"

"My massa," the negro answered.

"And who is your master?"

The negro was again silent, but as, at a nod from Peter, the men again raised the ramrods, he blurted out:

"Massa Chermside."

The name was known to many of the scouts, and a cry of anger broke from them.

"I thought as much," Harvey said. "I suspected that scoundrel was at the bottom of it all along. Where is he?" he asked the negro.

"Me not know, sar."

"You mean you won't say," Peter said. "Try the vartue of them ramrods again."

"No, no!" the negro screamed. "Me swear me do not know where him be. You may burn me to death if you will, but I could not tell you."

"I think he is speaking the truth," Harvey said. "Wait a minute. Have you done this before?" he asked the negro.

"Yes, sar. Eight or ten times me swim de river at night."

"With messages to the Americans?"

"Yes, sar; messages to American officers."

"Have you any written messageany letter?"

"No, sar, me never take no letter. Me only carry dis." And he took out from his hair a tiny ball of paper smaller than a pea.

It was smoothed out, and upon it, were the words, "General Washington."

"Where I go, sar, I show dem dis, and dey know den dat de message can be believed."

"But how do you get the message? How do you see your master?"

"Master's orders were dat me and two oders were to meet him ebery night, after it got dark, at a tree a mile from de place where de soldiers are. Sometimes he no come. When he come he gibs each of us a piece of money and tell us to carry a message across the river. We start by different ways, swim across de water in different places, take de message, and come back to de plantation."

"A pretty business!" Peter said. "Now you must come back with us to the post and tell your story to the commanding officer. Then we must see if we can't lay hands on this rascally master of yours."

Upon the news being told, the general in command sent a party out, who, after searching the house and out-buildings of the plantation in vain, set fire to them and burned them to the ground. The negroes were all carried away and employed to labor for the army. The town and all the surrounding villages were searched, but no trace could be obtained of the missing man. One of the men of Gregory's corps of scouts disappeared. He had recently joined, but his appearance, as a man with beard and whiskers, in no way agreed with that of the planter. He might, however, have been disguised, and his disappearance was in itself no proof against him, for the scouts were under no great discipline, and when tired of the service often left without giving notice of their intention of doing so. It was, moreover, possible that he might have fallen by an enemy's bullet.

The strongest proof in favor of the deserter being Chermside was that, henceforth, the scouts were again as successful as before, often surprising the enemy successfully.

Now that the ford nearest Mr. Jackson's was strongly guarded, the young men had no apprehension of any surprise, although such an event was just possible, as the cavalry on both sides often made great circuits in their raids upon each other's country. That Chermside was somewhere in the neighborhood they believed; having, indeed, strong reason for doing so, as a rifle was one evening fired at them from the wood as they rode over, the ball passing between their heads. Pursuit, at the time, was impossible. But the next day a number of scouts searched the woods without success. Soon after they heard that Chermside had joined the Americans and obtained a commission in a body of their irregular horse.

Harvey was now formally engaged to Isabelle Jackson, and it was settled that the wedding should take place in the early spring at New York. When not on duty he naturally spent a good deal of his time there, and Harold was frequently with him. Since he had been fired at in the woods Isabelle had been in the highest state of nervous anxiety lest her lover's enemy should again try to assassinate him, and she begged Harold always to come over with him, if possible, as the thought of his riding alone through the wood filled her with anxiety.

Although he had no order to do so, Jake, whenever he saw Harold and his friend canter off toward the Jacksons, shouldered his rifle and went out after them to the house, where, so long as they stayed, he scouted round and round with the utmost vigilance. Very often Harold was ignorant of his presence there; but when, after his return, he found, by questioning him, how he had been employed, he remonstrated with him on such excessive precaution.

"Can't be too cautious, massa," Jake said. "You see dat fellow come one of dese days."

Jake's presentiment turned out correct. One evening when, with several friends, the young men were at Mr. Jackson's the sound of the report of a rifle was heard at a short distance.

"That must be Jake's rifle!" Harold exclaimed.

"Quick, Harvey, to your horse!"

It was too late. As they reached the door a strong party of American cavalry dashed up to it.

"Surround the house!" an officer shouted. "Do not let a soul escape!"

The young men ran upstairs again.

"We are caught," Harvey said. "Escape is cut off. The Yankee cavalry are all round the house. Good-by, Isabelle. We shall meet one of these days again, dear." The girl threw herself into his arms.

"Be calm, love!" he said. "Do not let this scoundrel have the satisfaction of triumphing over you."

A moment later Chermside, accompanied by several soldiers, entered the room.

"I am sorry to disturb so pleasant a party," he said in a sneering voice, "but if Americans choose to entertain the enemies of their country they must expect these little disagreeables."

Mr. Jackson abruptly turned his back upon him, and no one else spoke, although he was personally well known to all.

"These are the two men," he said to the soldiers"two of the most notorious scouts and spies on the frontier. We will take them to headquarters, where a short shrift and two strong ropes will be their lot."

"The less the word spy is in the mouth of such a pitiful traitor as yourself the better, I should say," Harvey said quietly; and, walking forward with Harold, he placed himself in the hands of the soldiers.

No one else spoke. Isabelle had fainted when she heard the threat of execution against her lover. Ada stood before her with a look of such anger and contempt on her young face that Chermside fairly winced under it.

"To horse!" he said sullenly, and, turning, followed his men and prisoners downstairs.

The troop, Harold saw, numbered some 200 sabers. They had with them a number of riderless horses, whose accouterments showed that they belonged to an English regiment; most of the men, too, had sacks of plunder upon their horses. They had evidently made a successful raid, and had probably attacked a post and surprised and driven off the horses of a squadron of cavalry, and were now on their return toward their lines.

"This is an awkward business, Harold," Harvey said as, in the midst of their captors, they galloped off from the Jacksons'. "Of course it's all nonsense about our being hung. Still, I have no wish to see the inside of a prison, where we may pass years before we are exchanged. Once handed over to the authorities we shall be safe; but I shall not feel that we are out of danger so long as we are in this scoundrel's hands. Fortunately there are officers of superior rank to himself with the squadron, otherwise I have no doubt at all that he would hang us at once."

Such was indeed the case, and Chermside was, at that moment, fuming intensely at the chance which had thrown his rival in his hands at a time when he was powerless to carry out his vengeance. He had, indeed, ventured to suggest that it would be less trouble to hang the prisoners at once, but the major in command had so strongly rebuked him for the suggestion that he had at once been silenced.

"I blush that I should have heard such words from the mouth of an American officer. It is by such deeds, sir, that our cause is too often disgraced. We are soldiers fighting for the independence of our countrynot lawless marauders. Had these men been taken in their civilian dress over on our side of the river they would have been tried and hung as spies; but they were on neutral ground, and, in fact, in the rear of their own posts. There is no shadow of defense for such an accusation. Should I ever hear a similar suggestion I shall at once report your conduct to General Washington, who will know how to deal with you."

"I wonder what has become of Jake," Harold said to his comrade. "I trust he was not shot down."

"Not he," Harvey said. "He made off after firing his rifle, you may be sure, when he saw that there was nothing to be done. The fellow can run like a hare, and I have no doubt that, by this time, he has either got back to the village and given the alarm there or has made for the ford. There are 100 cavalry there now as well as the infantry. Jake will be there in an hour from the time he started. The dragoons will be in the saddle five minutes later, and it is just possible they may cut off our retreat before we have crossed the river. Peter is on duty there, and, if he happens to be at the post when Jake arrives, he will hurry up with all the scouts he can collect."

Jake had taken flight as Harvey supposed. He had, after firing his rifle, taken to the wood, and had remained near the house long enough to see which way the cavalry rode when they started. Then he made for the post at the ford at the top of his speed. It was less than an hour from starting when he arrived there, and three minutes later the cavalry trumpets were blowing "To horse!" After giving his message to the officer in command Jake went into the village, where the sounds of the trumpet brought all the soldiers into the street.

"Hullo, Jake! is that you?" a familiar voice asked. "What the tarnal is up now?"

Jake hastily related what had taken place.

"Tarnation!" Peter exclaimed. "This is a bad job. They're making, no doubt, for Finchley's Ford, fifteen mile down the river. With an hour's start they're sure to be there before us."

"What are you going to do, Peter? Are you thinking of running wid de cavalry?"

"Thinking of running to the moon!" the scout said contemptuously. "You can run well, I don't deny, Jake, but you couldn't run fifteen mile with the dragoons; and, if you could, you'd get there too late. Yer bellows are going pretty fast already. Now don't stand staring there, but hurry through the camp and get all our boys together. Tell them to meet by the water side. Get Gregory and Vincent's men as well as our own. There's twenty or thirty altogether in the place."

Without asking a question Jake ran off to carry out the orders, and, in a few minutes, twenty-four men were collected together on the bank.

"Now, you fellows," Peter said, "we've got to rescue these two chaps out of the hands of the Yankees. Them who don't want to jineand mind you the venture is a risky onehad better say so at once and stop behind."

No one moved.

"What I propose is this: we'll take the ferryboat, which aint no good to no one, seeing as how the Yankees are on one side of the river and we the other, and we'll drop down the stream about ten mile. Then we'll land on their side of the river and strike inland, hiding the boat under the bushes somewhere. They'll halt for the night when they're safe across the river. There's five or six hundred of their infantry camped on the ford. There's two hundred on our side, but the Yankees'll ride through in the dark and get across before the redcoats are awake. Now, I propose that, after we've landed, we make a sweep round until we get near the Yanks' camp. Then the rest'll wait and two or three of us'll go in and see if we can't get the young fellows out of wherever they've put 'em. Then we'll jine you and make a running fight of it back to the boat."

The others assented. The boat was amply large enough for all, and, pulling her out into the stream, they dropped down, keeping under shelter of the trees on the British side. Half an hour after they had started they heard the faint sound of distant musketry.

"There," Peter said, "the Yanks are riding through the British camp, close to the ford."

A few more shots were heard, and then all was silent. The stream was swift, for it was swollen by recent rains, and at three in the morning the boat touched the bank about a mile above the ford. The party disembarked noiselessly and, fastening the boat to a tree, moved along toward the camp.

When they were within four or five hundred yards of the village Peter chose Jake and two others of his band, and, telling the rest to remain where they were, ready for action, he struck inland. He made a détour and came in at the back of the camp.

Here there were no sentries, as the only danger to be apprehended was upon the side of the river. Peter therefore entered boldly. In front of the principal house a sentry was walking up and down, and he, in the free-and-easy manner usual in the American army, gladly entered into conversation with the newcomers.

"All pretty quiet about here?" Peter asked. "We're from the West, and have jest come down to do a little fighting with the Britishers. I reckon they aint far off now?"

"They are just across the river," the sentry said. "Have you come far?"

"We've made something like two hundred mile this week, and mean to have a day or two's rest before we begin. We've done some Injun fighting, my mates and me, in our time, and we says to ourselves it was about time we burned a little powder against the redcoats. Things seem quiet enough about here. Nothing doing, eh?"

"Not much," the sentry said; "just skirmishes. Some of our cavalry came across through the redcoats late to-night. I hear they have got a quantity of plunder and some fine horses, and they have brought in a couple of the British scouts."

"And what have they done with 'em?" Peter asked. "Strung 'em up, I suppose."

"No, no; we aint fighting Indians now; we don't hang our prisoners. No, they are safe under guard over there in the cavalry camp, and will be taken to headquarters to-morrow."

"Waal," Peter said, stretching himself, "I feel mighty tired and shall jest look for a soft place for an hour's sleep before morning."

So saying he sauntered away, and the sentry resumed his walk.

Peter and his three companions now moved off toward the spot where, as the sentry had indicated, the cavalry were encamped. They were not in tents, but were sleeping wrapped up in their blankets. Two tents had been erected, lent probably by the infantry on the spot. One was much larger than the other, and sentries were placed before each. They had some difficulty in making their way, for the night was dark, and the cavalry had picketed their horses without order or regularity. In their search they had to use great caution to avoid stumbling over the sleeping men, but at last they saw the tents faintly against the sky. They crawled cautiously up. There were two sentries on the smaller tent.

"Now, Jake," Peter whispered, "you're the blackest and so had better do the trick. Don't cut a hole in the tent, for they'd be safe to hear the canvas tear. Crawl under. It's, been put up in haste and aint likely to be pinned down very tight. They're safe to be bound, and when you've cut the cords and given them time to get the use of their feet, then crawl along and jine us."

Jake did as he was instructed. One of the sentries was pacing up and down before the entrance, the other making a circuit round the tent. The circle was a somewhat large one to avoid stumbling over the tent ropes. Jake, watching his opportunity, had no difficulty in crawling up and squeezing himself under the canvas before the sentry returned.

"Hush!" he whispered, as he let the canvas fall behind him. "It's Jake."

Both the captives were fast asleep. Jake, feeling about in the darkness, found them, one after the other, and, putting his hands on their mouths to prevent them making an exclamation, he woke them, and soon cut the cords with which they were bound hand and foot. Then in whispers he told them what had happened. They chafed their limbs to produce circulation, for they had been tightly tied, and then, one by one, they crawled out of the tent.

Harvey went first and was safely across before the sentry returned. Harold followed; but, as he went, in his hurry he struck a tent rope.

"What's that?" the sentry in front asked sharply. "Bill, was that you?"

"No," his comrade replied. "Something's up. Look into the tent."

And, so saying, he ran round behind, while the sentry in front rushed into the tent and, kicking about with his feet, soon found that it was empty.

Jake, on hearing the exclamation, at once crawled from the tent; but, as he did so, the sentry, running round, saw him and leveled his rifle. Before he could fire a shot was heard and the man fell dead.

Jake started to his feet and joined his friends. The other sentry also discharged his rifle, and the whole camp awoke and sprang to their feet. The horses, alarmed at the sudden tumult, plunged and kicked; men shouted and swore, everyone asking what was the matter. Then loud cries were heard that the sentry was shot and the prisoners had escaped.

Running closely together and knocking down all who stood in their way, the fugitives hurried in the darkness until at the edge of the camp, and then started at full speed.

The trumpets were now sounding to horse, and several shots were fired after them. Many of the horses had not been unsaddled, and mounted men at once dashed off. Several had seen the little party rush away, and the horsemen were speedily on their track. The six men ran at the top of their speed and were soon close to their hidden friends.

"This way! this way! I see them!" shouted a voice, which Harold and Harvey recognized as that of their enemy, who, a minute later, galloped up with half a dozen troopers. It was not until he was within a few yards that his figure was clearly discernible; then Peter Lambton's rifle flashed out, and the planter fell from his horse with a bullet in his brain.

Jake and the other two men also fired, and the horsemen, astonished at their number, reined in their horses to await the coming up of more of their comrades.

In another minute the fugitives were with their friends, and, at a rapid trot, the whole ran up the river bank toward the spot where they had hidden their boat.

The country was covered with brushwood and forest and, as the cavalry, now swollen to a considerable force, advanced, they were greeted by so heavy a fire that, astonished at this strong force of foes upon their side of the river, and not knowing how numerous they might be, they halted and waited for the infantry to come up. Long before the enemy were prepared to advance against the unknown foe the scouts reached their boat and crossed safely to the other side.

Shortly after this adventure Mr. Jackson and his family moved for the winter to New York, where, soon after their arrival, the wedding between Harvey and Isabella took place, the former retiring from the corps of scouts.

CHAPTER XI.

THE CAPTURE OF PHILADELPHIA.

During the course of the spring of 1777 a large number of loyal colonists had volunteered their services. They had been embodied into battalions, and when the army prepared to take the field they were placed in garrisons in New York and other places, thus permitting the employment of the whole of the British force in the field. The Americans had occupied themselves in strongly fortifying the more defensible positions, especially those in a mountain tract of country called the Manor of Courland. This was converted into a sort of citadel, where large quantities of provisions, forage, and stores of all kinds were collected. About fifty miles from New York, up the North River, was a place called Peekskill, which served as a port to the Manor of Courland. The country was so difficult and mountainous that General Howe shrank from engaging his army in it. He determined, however, to attack and destroy Peekskill, and a party of 500 men, under the command of Colonel Bird of the Fifteenth Regiment, were sent up the river in two transports to destroy it. The garrison, consisting of 800 men, set fire to the place and withdrew without firing a shot. The British completed the destruction of the stores and returned to New York.

A little later 2000 men were sent on a similar expedition against the town of Danbury, another place on the confines of Courland Manor, where great stores had also been collected. They proceeded up the East River and landed at Camp's Point. They started on foot at ten o'clock at night, and after a ten hours' march arrived at eight o'clock at Danbury. The enemy evacuated the place on their approach, and the English set fire to the great magazines filled with stores of all kinds.

The news of the march of the English had spread rapidly, and the enemy assembled from all quarters and posted themselves under the command of General Arnold at a town called Ridgefield, through which the English would have to pass on their return. Here they threw up intrenchments. It was late in the afternoon when the English, fatigued with the long march, arrived at this spot. They did not hesitate, but when the Americans opened fire they boldly assailed the intrenchments and carried them with the bayonet. They were unable to march further, and lying down so as to form an oblong square, slept till morning. All night the Americans continued to come up in great force, and in the morning as the troops advanced a terrible fire was opened upon them from the houses and stone walls in which the country abounded. The British had to fight every foot of their way. General Wooster had brought up some field-artillery on the side of the Americans. Gradually the column fought its way forward until it arrived within half a mile of Camp's Point. Here two strong bodies of the enemy barred their way. The column was by this time greatly exhausted; the men had had no real rest for three days and two nights, and several dropped on the road with fatigue. Brigadier General Erskine picked out 400 of those who were in the best condition and attacked the two bodies of the enemy with such vigor that he put them utterly to flight, and the column, again advancing, reached their destination without further molestation. Nearly 200 men, including 10 officers, were killed and wounded on the part of the British; the loss of the Americans was still greater, and General Wooster and some field officers were among the slain.

Many other skirmishes took place with varied success. The Americans at Bondwick, seven miles from Brunswick, 1200 in number, were surprised and routed by Cornwallis, while on the other hand the American Colonel Meigs carried out a most dashing expedition by crossing to Long Island and destroying a quantity of stores at a place called Sag Harbor, burning a dozen brigs and sloops which lay there, taking 90 prisoners, and returning safely across the Sound.

In June Washington with 8000 men was encamped in a strong position at Middlebrook. General Howe, although he had 30,000 men, hesitated to attack him here. By a feigned retreat he succeeded in drawing General Washington from his stronghold and inflicted a decisive defeat on 3000 of his men. Washington fell back to his position in the mountains, and General Howe retired altogether from Jersey and withdrew his troops to Staten Island. A dashing feat was executed at this time by Colonel Barton of the American army. Learning that General Prescott, who commanded at Rhode Island, had his headquarters at a distance of a mile from his troops, he crossed from the mainland in two boats, seized the general in his bed, and carried him off through the British fleet. The object of this dashing enterprise was to obtain a general to exchange for the American General Lee, who had been captured by the British.

General Howe, in June, again marched against Washington and again fell back without doing anything. Had he, instead of thus frittering away his strength, marched to the Delaware, crossed that river, and advanced against Philadelphia, Washington would have been forced to leave his stronghold and either fight in the open or allow that important city to fall into the hands of the English.

General Howe now embarked his army in transports. Had he sailed up the North River to Albany he would have effected a junction with General Burgoyne's army, which was advancing from Canada, and with the united force could have marched through America from end to end as he chose. Instead of doing so he sailed down to Chesapeake Bay and there disembarked the whole army, which had been pent up in transports from July 3 to August 24. Not till September 11 did they advance in earnest toward Philadelphia. The Americans thus had ample time to take up a strong position and fortify it. This they did on the other side of Brandywine Creek. Under cover of a cannonade the British advanced, mastered the fort, and carried the intrenchments. General Sullivan, with a considerable force, had now arrived, accompanied by General Washington himself. He took up his position a short distance from the Brandywine, his artillery well placed and his flanks covered with woods.

The following afternoon the British attacked. The Americans fought well, but the British were not to be denied, and rushing forward drove the enemy from their position into the woods in their rear. Here they made a stand and were only dislodged after a desperate resistance. The greater portion of them fled in all directions. Washington himself, with his guns and a small force, retreated eight miles from Chester and then marched by Derby to Philadelphia. Here he waited three days rallying his troops, and then, having recruited his stores from the magazines, marched away.

All this time the British remained inactive on the ground they had won. In the battle the Americans lost 300 killed, 600 wounded, and 400 prisoners. Several guns were also taken. The British lost 100 killed and 400 wounded.

On September 20 they advanced toward Philadelphia. The American General Wayne had concealed himself in the woods with 1500 men, with the intention of harassing the rear of the British army. News of this having been obtained, Major General Grey was dispatched at once to surprise him; he ordered his men not to load, but to rely wholly on the bayonet. The success of the expedition was complete. General Wayne's outpost was surprised and the British troops rushed into his encampment. Three hundred of the Americans were killed or wounded and 100 taken prisoners. The rest escaped through the woods. On the English side 1 officer was killed and 7 privates killed and wounded.

The capture of Philadelphia was an important advantage to the British, but it could not be thoroughly utilized until the fleet could come up the river to the town. The American Congress, which had sat at Philadelphia until General Howe approached the town, had taken extensive measures for rendering the passage impracticable. Three rows of chevaux-de-frise, composed of immense beams of timber bolted and fastened together and stuck with iron spikes, were sunk across the channel, and these lines were protected by batteries. At these forts were fourteen large rowboats, each carrying a heavy cannon, two floating batteries carrying nine guns each, and a number of fireships and rafts.

The forts commanding the chevaux-de-frise were abandoned on the approach of the British, and Captain Hammond of the Roebuck succeeded, in spite of the opposition of the enemy's boats and batteries, in making an opening through the chevaux-de-frise sufficiently wide for the fleet to pass.

Large numbers of troops having been sent away from Germantown, a place seven miles from Philadelphia, where the main body of the British army were posted, General Washington determined to attempt the surprise of that position. For this purpose he re-enforced his army by drawing 1500 troops from Peekskill and 1000 from Virginia, and at daybreak on October 4, under cover of a thick fog, he made an attack on the troops posted at the head of the village.

Half of the British force lay on one side of the village, and half on the other, and had the attack upon the place succeeded the British army would have been cut in two. The village was held by the Fortieth Regiment, who, fighting obstinately, were driven back among the houses. The Americans were pushing forward in five heavy columns, when Lieutenant Colonel Musgrave, who commanded the Fortieth, threw himself into a large stone house. Here he offered a desperate resistance, and so impeded the advance of the enemy that time was given for the rest of the British troops to get under arms.

General Washington ordered a whole brigade of infantry to attack the house and turned four guns against it. Colonel Musgrave and his men resisted desperately and held the post until Major General Grey, with the Third Brigade, and Brigadier General Agnew, with the Fourth Brigade, came up and attacked the enemy with great spirit. The engagement was for some time very hot. At length a part of the right wing fell upon the enemy's flank, and the Americans retired with great precipitation. The fog was so dense that no pursuit could be attempted.

On the part of the English 600 were killed and wounded. The loss of the Americans amounted to between 200 and 300 killed, 600 wounded, and 400 taken prisoners. General Howe had on the previous night been acquainted with the intention of General Washington to attack the place, and had he taken the proper measures to have received them the American army would have been destroyed. He took no measures whatever, gave no warning to the army, and suffered the camp to be taken by surprise.

After this battle the fleet and army united, cleared away the chevaux-de-frise across the Delaware, and took the forts commanding them after some hard fighting.

The passage of the Delaware being thus opened and the water communication secured, the army went to their winter quarters at Philadelphia.

Captain Wilson, and his son had taken no part in any of these operations, as a short time after the capture of Harold and Harvey by the American cavalry the company had been disbanded. The men, when they entered the service, had volunteered for a year. This time already had been greatly exceededtwenty months had passed since the battle of Bunker's Hilland although the men were willing to continue to give their services so long as it appeared to them that there was a prospect of a favorable termination of the war, no such hope any longer remained in their minds. The great army which England had sent over had done nothing toward restoring the king's authority in the colonies, and if, after a year's fighting, its outposts were still within a few miles of New York, how could it be expected or even hoped that it could ever subdue a country containing hundreds of thousands of square miles? The retreat from the Delaware and the virtual handing over of New Jersey again to Washington was the finishing stroke which decided the volunteers to demand their discharge, according to the terms of their engagement. Except during the Canadian campaign they had had but little fighting, nor in such a warfare as that which General Howe was carrying on was there much scope for their services. Many of the gentlemen who formed the majority of the company, and who for the most part had friends and connections in England, sailed for that country; some had left wives and families on their estates when they took up arms; and most of them, despairing of the final success of the war, had instructed their agents to sell these estates for any sum that they would fetch; othersamong them Captain Wilsonnow followed their example. It was but a mere tithe of the value of the property that was obtained, for money was scarce in the colonies, and so many had sold out and gone to England, rather than take part on one side or the other of the fratricidal strife, that land and houses fetched but nominal prices.

Mrs. Wilson had long since gone to England, and her husband, having made arrangements for the disposal of his property, now determined to join her. Fortunately he possessed means, irrespective of his estate in America. This had come to him through his wife, and his own fortune and the money obtained by the sale of his commission had remained invested in English securities. While determined on this course for himself, he left it to his son to choose his own career. Harold was now nearly eighteen, and his life of adventure and responsibility had made a man of him. His father would have preferred that he should have returned with him to England, but Harold finally decided upon remaining. In war men's passions become heated, the original cause of quarrel sinks into comparative insignificance, and the desire for victory, the determination to resist, and a feeling of something like individual hatred for the enemy become predominant motives of the strife.

This was especially the case in the American war. On both sides there were many circumstances which heightened the passions of the combatants. The loyalists in the English ranks had been ruined by the action of their opponentsmany had been reduced from wealth to poverty, and each man felt a deep passion of resentment at what he regarded his personal grievance. Then, too, the persistent misrepresentations both of facts and motives on the part of the American writers and speakers added to the irritation. The loyalists felt that there were vast numbers throughout the colonies who agreed with them and regarded Congress as a tyrannical faction rather than the expression of the general will. In this, no doubt, they were to some extent mistaken, for by this time the vast majority of the people had joined heart and soul in the conflict. Men's passions had become so stirred up that it was difficult for any to remain neutral; and although there were still large numbers of loyalists throughout the States, the vast bulk of the people had resolved that the only issue of the contest was complete and entire separation from the mother country.

Harold had now entered passionately into the struggle. He was in constant contact with men who had been ruined by the war. He heard only one side of the question, and he was determined, so long as England continued the struggle, to fight on for a cause which he considered sacred. He was unable to regard the prospects of success as hopeless; he saw the fine army which England had collected; he had been a witness of the defeat of the Americans whenever they ventured to stand the shock of the British battalions; and in spite of the unsatisfactory nature of the first campaign, he could not bring himself to believe that such an army could fail.

When the company was disbanded he decided to continue to serve as a scout, but, sharing in the general disgust in the army at the incapacity of General Howe, he determined to take ship again for Canada and take service under General Burgoyne, who was preparing with a well-appointed army to invade the States from that side.

When he communicated his determination to Peter Lambton the latter at once agreed to accompany him.

"I've gone into this business," the hunter said, "and I mean to see it through. Settling down don't suit me. I aint got any friends at New York, and I'd be miserable just loafing about all day doing nothing. No, I'll see this business out to the end, and I'd much rather go with you than anyone else."

Jake was of the same opinion. Accustomed all his life to obey orders and to the life on his master's plantation, he would not have known what to do if left to his own devices. Captain Wilson pointed out to him that he could easily obtain work on the wharves of New York or as a laborer on a farm, but Jake would not listen to the proposal and was hurt at the thought that he could leave his young master's side as long as Harold continued in the war.

Accordingly, the day after Captain Wilson sailed for England the three comrades embarked in a ship for Halifax, whence another vessel took them to Quebec. They then sailed up the river to Montreal and took service as scouts in General Burgoyne's army.

For political reasons General Burgoyne had been appointed to the command of the expedition which had been, prepared, and General Carleton, naturally offended at being passed over, at once resigned the governorship. His long residence in Canada, his knowledge of the country, of the manners of its inhabitants and the extent of its resources, and his acquaintance with the character of the Indians, rendered him far more fit for command than was General Burgoyne. In military knowledge and experience, too, he was his superior, and had he retained a command the fate of the expedition would probably have been very different.

The army under General Burgoyne consisted of 7173 men, exclusive of artillerymen. Of these about half were Germans. The Canadians were called upon to furnish men sufficient to occupy the woods on the frontier and to provide men for the completion of the fortifications at Sorrel, St. John's, Chamblée, and Isle-aux-Noix, to furnish horses and carts for carriage, and to make roads when necessary. A naval force was to go forward with him on the lake. The Indian question had again to be decided. Several tribes volunteered to join the British. General Burgoyne hesitated, as General Carleton had done before, to accept their services, and only did so finally on the certainty that if he refused their offers they would join the Americans. He resolved to use them as little as possible. He knew that their object in all wars was murder and destruction, and although he wished to conquer the Americans, he did not desire to exterminate them.

On June 16, 1777, General Burgoyne advanced from St. John's. The naval force had preceded the army and opened a way for its advance. The troops were carried in a flotilla of boats, and under the protection of the fleet passed Lake Champlain and landed at Crown Point.

Harold and his companions had joined the army a fortnight previously, and as they crossed the lake with the fleet they could not but remember their last expedition there. At Crown Point they were joined by 1000 Indians, who marched round the lake, and at this place General Burgoyne gave them a great feast and afterward made a speech to them, exhorting them to abstain from all cruelty, to avoid any ill-treatment of unarmed combatants, and to take as prisoners all combatants who fell into their hands.

But while thus exhorting the Indians to behave with humanity and moderation, the general took a most ill-judged step, which not only did the English cause great harm, but was used by the Americans with much effect as a proof of the cruel way in which England warred against the colonists. He issued a proclamation threatening to punish with the utmost severity all who refused to attach themselves to the British cause, and at the same time he magnified the ferocity of the Indians; pointing out with great emphasis their eagerness to butcher those who continued hostile to the mother country, whose interests they had espoused.

This proclamation was naturally construed by the Americans as a threat to deliver over to the tender mercies of the Indians to slay, scalp, and destroy all who ventured to resist the authority of the king.

The Americans had fallen back on the approach of the British, and upon the landing being effected, the scouts were instantly sent forward.

Among the Indians who had joined at Crown Point were the Senecasamong them their old friend Deer Tail.

The scouts received no particular orders and were free to regulate their own movements. Their duty was to reconnoiter the country ahead and to bring in any information they might gather as to numbers and positions of the enemy.

Finding that Peter and his companions were about to start, Deer Tail said that, instead of waiting for the feast, he would take five of his warriors and accompany them.

It was at Ticonderoga that the Americans had prepared to make their first stand. The place lies on the western shore of the lake a few miles to the northward of the narrow inlet uniting Lake Champlain to Lake George. It was to reconnoiter the fort that the party now set out. News had been brought that the Americans had been executing great additional works, and the British general was anxious to learn the nature of these before he advanced.

It was certain that the enemy would on their side have sent out scouts to ascertain the movements of the royal army, and the party proceeded with the greatest care. They marched in the usual fashionin Indian file; the Seneca chief led the way, followed by one of his braves; then came Peter, Harold, and Jake; the other Senecas marched in the rear.

When they came within a few miles of the fort their progress was marked with profound caution. Not a word was spoken, their tread was noiseless, and the greatest pains were taken to avoid stepping on a twig or dried stick. The three scouts when they left St. John's had abandoned their boots and had taken to Indian moccasins. Several times slight murmurs were heard in the forest, and once a party of four American frontiersmen were seen in the wood. The party halted and crouched in the bushes. The Senecas turned toward Peter as if asking if an attack should be made, but the latter shook his head. A single shot would have been heard far away in the woods and their further progress would have been arrested. Their object now was not to fight, but to penetrate close to the American intrenchments.

When the enemy had passed on the party continued its way. As they neared the fort the caution observed increased. Several times they halted, while the Seneca, with one of his braves, crawled forward to see that all was clear. At last they stood on the edge of a great clearing. Before them, just within gunshot range, stood the fort of Ticonderoga. Peter Lambton was well acquainted with it, and beyond the fact that the space around had been cleared of all trees and the stockades and earthworks repaired, little change could be seen.

As he was gazing the Indian touched his shoulder and pointed to a high hill on the opposite side of the narrow straits. This had been cleared of trees and on the top a strong fort had been erected. Many cannon were to be seen along its crest, the roofs of huts, and a large number of men. Halfway up the hill was another battery and a third, still lower down, to sweep the landing.

"They've been working hard," the hunter said, "and the army'll have a mighty tough job before it. What do you think of that, Harold?"

"It is a very strong position," Harold said, "and will cost us a tremendous number of men to take it. The fort cannot be attacked till that hill has been carried, for its guns completely command all this clearing."

For some time they stood gazing at the works, standing well back among the trees, so as to be screened from all observation. At last Harold said:

"Look at that other hill behind. It is a good bit higher than that which they have fortified and must be within easy range both of it and the fort. I don't see any works theredo you?"

Peter and the Seneca chief both gazed long and earnestly at the hill and agreed that they could see no fortification there.

"It won't do to have any doubt about it," Peter said. "We must go round and have a look at it."

"We shall have to cross the river," Harold remarked.

"Ay, cross it we must," Peter said. "That hill's got to be inspected."

They withdrew into the wood again and made a circuitous deviation till they came down upon the river, two miles above Ticonderoga. They could not reach the water itself, as a road ran along parallel with it and the forest was cleared away for some distance. A number of men could be seen going backward and forward on the road.

Having made their observations, the scouts retired again into a thick part of the forest and waited till nightfall.

"How are we to get across?" Harold asked Peter. "It's a good long swim, and we could not carry our muskets and ammunition across."

"Easy enough," the scout said. "Didn't you notice down by the road a pile of planks? I suppose a wagon has broke down there, and the planks have been turned out and nobody has thought anything more about 'em. We'll each take a plank, fasten our rifle and ammunition on it, and swim across; there won't be any difficulty about that. Then, when we've seen what's on the top of that 'ere hill, we'll tramp round to the other end of the lake. I heard that the army was to advance half on each side, so we'll meet 'em coming."

When it was perfectly dark they left their hiding place and crossed the clearing to the spot where Peter had seen the planks. Each took one of them and proceeded to the river side. Peter, Harold, and Jake divested themselves of some of their clothes and fastened these with their rifles and ammunition to the planks. To the Indians the question of getting wet was one of entire indifference, and they did not even take off their hunting shirts. Entering the water the party swam noiselessly across to the other side, pushing their planks before them. On getting out they carried the planks for some distance, as their appearance by the water's edge might excite a suspicion on the part of the Americans that the works had been reconnoitered.

After hiding the planks in the bushes they made their way to Sugar Hill, as the eminence was called. The ascent was made with great circumspection, the Indians going on first. No signs of the enemy were met with, and at last the party stood on the summit of the hill. It was entirely unoccupied by the Americans.

"Well, my fine fellows," laughed the scout, "I reckon ye've been doing a grist of work, and ye might jest as well have been sitting down quietly smoking yer pipes. What on arth possessed ye to leave this hill unguarded?"

In point of fact General St. Clair, who commanded the Americans, had perceived that his position was commanded from this spot. He had only 3000 men under him, and he considered this number too small to hold Ticonderoga, Mount Independence, and Sugar Hill. The two former posts could afford no assistance to the garrison of a fort placed on Sugar Hill, and that place must therefore fall if attacked by the British. On the other hand, he hoped that, should the attention of the English not be called to the importance of the position by the erection of works upon it, it might be overlooked, and that General Burgoyne on his arrival might at once attack the position which he had prepared with so much care.

Having ascertained that the hill was unoccupied, Peter proposed at once to continue the march. Harold suggested to him that it would be better to wait until morning, as from their lofty position they would be able to overlook the whole of the enemy's lines of defense and might obtain information of vital importance to the general. Peter saw the advantage of the suggestion. Two of the Indians were placed on watch, and the rest of the party lay down to sleep. At daybreak they saw that the delay had been fully justified, for they had now a view of the water which separated Ticonderoga from Mount Independence, and perceived that the Americans had made a strong bridge of communication between these posts. Twenty-two piers had been sunk at equal distances, and between them boats were placed, fastened with chains to the piers. A strong bridge of planks connected the whole. On the Lake Champlain side of the bridge a boom, composed of great trees fastened together with double chains, had been placed. Thus, not only had communication been established across the stream, but an effectual barrier erected to the passage of the fleet. Fully satisfied with the result of their investigations, the party set out on their return.

CHAPTER XII.

THE SETTLER'S HUT.

Before starting they stood for a minute or two looking over the forest which they were to traverse. To Harold's eyes all appeared quiet and still. Here and there were clearings where settlers had established themselves; but, with these exceptions, the forest stretched away like a green sea.

"Tarnation!" Peter exclaimed. "We'll have all our work to get through safely; eh, chief?"

The Seneca nodded.

"What makes you say so?" Harold asked in surprise. "I see nothing."

Peter looked at him reproachfully.

"I'm downright ashamed of ye, lad. You should have been long enough in the woods by this time to know smoke when you see it. Why, there it is curling up from the trees in a dozenay, in a score of places. There must be hundreds of men out scouting or camping in them woods."

Harold looked fixedly again at the forests, but even now he could not detect the signs which were so plain to the scout.

"You may call me as blind as a bat, Peter," he said with a laugh, "but I can see nothing. Looking hard I imagine I can see a light mist here and there, but I believe it is nothing but fancy."

"It's clear enough to me, lad, and to the redskins. What do you say, chief?"

"Too much men," the Seneca replied sententiously.

For another minute or two he and Peter stood watching the forest, and then in a few words consulted together as to the best line to follow to avoid meeting the foe who, to their eyes, swarmed in the forest.

"It's mighty lucky," the hunter said as they turned to descend the hill, which was covered with trees to its very summit, "that they're white men and not redskins out in the woods, there. I don't say that there's not many frontiersmen who know the way of the woods as well as the redskins. I do myself, and when it comes to fighting we can lick 'em on their own ground; but in scouting we aint nowherenot the best of us. The redskin seems to have an instinct more like that of an animal than a man. I don't say as he can smell a man a mile off as a dog can do, but he seems to know when the enemy's about; his ears can hear noises which we can't; his eyes see marks on the ground when the keenest-sighted white man sees nothing. If that wood was as full of redskins as it is of whites to-day, our sculps wouldn't be worth a charge of powder."

"You are not going to follow the shores of the lake, I suppose?" Harold asked.

"No," Peter said. "They'll be as thick as peas down there, watching for the first sight of our fleet. No, we must just keep through the woods and be as still and as silent as if the trees had ears. You'd best look to the priming of yer piece before we goes further, for it's likely enough you'll have to use it before the day's done, and a miss-fire might cost you yer life. Tell that nigger of yourn that he's not to open his mouth again till I gives him leave."

With a long stealthy tread the party descended the mountain and took their way through the woods. Every hundred yards or so they stopped and listened intently. When any noise, even of the slightest kind, was heard, all dropped to the ground until the chief had scouted round and discovered the way was clear. Once or twice they heard the sound of men's voices and a distant laugh, but they passed on without seeing those who uttered them.

Presently they again heard voices, this time raised as if in angry dispute. The Seneca would, as before, have made a long détour to avoid them, but Peter said.

"Let's have a squint at what's going on, chief."

With redoubled caution they again advanced until they stood at the edge of the clearing. It was a patch of land some hundred yards wide, and extending from the shore of the lake nearly a quarter of a mile inland. In the center stood a log hut, neatly and carefully built. A few flowers grew around the house, and the whole bore signs of greater neatness and comfort than was usual in the cabins of the backwood settlers.

The point where the party had reached the edge of the wood was immediately opposite the house. Near it stood a group of some twenty men, one of whom, apparently their leader, was gesticulating angrily as he addressed a man who stood facing him.

"I tell ye, ye're a darned royalistye're a traitor to the country, and I've a mind to hang ye and all belonging to ye to the nearest bough."

"I tell you," the man answered calmly, but in the still air every word he said could be heard by those at the edge of the forest, "I hae naething to do with the trouble ane way or the ither. I am a quiet settler, whose business only is to mak a hame for my wife and bairn; but, if you ask me to drink success to the Congress and confusion to the king's troops, I tell you I willna do it; not even if you are brutal enough, but this I canna believe possible, to carry your threats into execution. I hae served my time in a king's regiment. With the bounty I received instead o' pension on my discharge I settled here wi' my wife and bairn, and no one shall say that Duncan Cameron was a traitor to his king. We do no harm to anyone; we tak no part for or against you; we only ask to be allowed to live in peace."

"That ye shall not," the man said. "The king's troops have got Injuns with 'em, and they're going to burn and kill all those who won't take part with 'em. It's time we should show 'em as we can play at that game, too. Now ye've either got to swear to be faithful to the States of America or up you go."

"I canna swear," the settler said firmly. "You may kill me if you will, but, if you are men, you will nae harm my wife and girl."

"We'll just do to you as the redskins'll do to our people," the man said. "We'll make a sweep of the hull lot of you. Here, you fellows, fetch the woman and girl out of the house and then set a light to it."

Four or five men entered the house. A minute later screams were heard and a woman and child were dragged out. The settler sprang toward them, but three or four men seized him.

"Now," the man said, stepping toward the house, "we'll show 'em a bonfire."

As he neared the door a crack of a rifle was heard and the ruffian fell dead in his tracks. A yell of astonishment and rage broke from his followers.

"Jerusalem, youngster! you've got us into a nice fix. Howsomever, since you've begun it, here goes."

And the rifle of the hunter brought down another of the Americans. These, following the first impulse of a frontiersman when attacked, fled for shelter to the house, leaving the settler, with his wife and daughter, standing alone.

"Ye'd best get out of the way," Peter shouted, "or ye may get a bit of lead that wasn't intended for ye."

Catching up his child, Cameron ran toward the forest, making for the side on which his unknown friends were placed, but keeping down toward the lake, so as to be out of their line of fire.

"Make down to 'em, Harold," Peter said. "Tell 'em they'd best go to some neighbor's and stop there for a day or two. The army'll be here to-morrow or next day. Be quick about it, and come back as fast as ye can. I tell ye we're in a hornets' nest, and it'll be as much as we can do to get out of it."

A scattering fire was now being exchanged between the redskins behind the shelter of the trees and the Americans firing from the windows of the log house. Harold was but two or three minutes absent.

"All right, Peter!" he exclaimed, as he rejoined them.

"Come along, then," the hunter said. "Now, chief, let's make up round the top of this clearing and then foot it."

The chief at once put himself at the head of the party, and the nine men strode away again through the forest. It was no longer silent. Behind them the occupants of the hut were still keeping up a brisk fire toward the trees, while from several quarters shouts could be heard, and more than once the Indian war-whoop rose in the forest.

"That's just what I was afeared of," Peter muttered. "There's some of those darned varmint with 'em. We might have found our way through the whites, but the redskins'll pick up our trail as sartin as if we were driving a wagon through the woods."

Going along at a swinging, noiseless trot the party made their way through the forest. Presently a prolonged Indian whoop was heard in the direction from which they had come. Then there were loud shouts and the firing ceased.

"One of the red reptiles has found our trail," Peter said. "He's with a party of whites, and they've shouted the news to the gang in the clearing. Waal, we may, calculate we've got thirty on our trail, and, as we can hear them all round, it'll be a sarcumstance if we git out with our sculps."

As they ran they heard shouts from those behind, answered by others on both flanks. Shots, too, were fired as signals to call the attention of other parties. Several times the Seneca chief stopped and listened attentively, and then changed his course as he heard suspicious noises ahead. Those behind them were coming up, although still at some distance in the rear. They could hear the sound of breaking trees and bushes as their pursuers followed them in a body.

"Ef it was only the fellows behind," Peter said, "we could leave them easy enough, but the wood seems alive with the varmint."

It was evident the alarm had spread through the forest, and that the bands scattered here and there were aware that an enemy was in their midst. The dropping fire, which the pursuers kept up, afforded an indication as to the direction in which they were making, and the ringing war-whoop of the hostile Indians conveyed the intelligence still more surely.

Presently there was a shout a short distance ahead, followed by the sound of a rifle ball as it whizzed close to Harold's head and buried itself in a tree that he was passing. In a moment each of the party had sheltered behind a tree.

"It's of no use, chief," Peter said. "We'll have the hull pack from behind upon us in five minutes. We must run for it and take our chances of being hit."

Swerving somewhat from their former line, they again ran on; bullets whisked round them, but they did not pause to fire a shot in return.

"Tarnation!" Peter exclaimed, as the trees in front of them opened and they found themselves on the edge of another clearing. It was considerably larger than that which they had lately left, being three hundred yards across, and extending back from the lake fully half a mile. As in the previous case, a log hut stood in the center, some two hundred yards back from the lake.

"There's nothing for it, chief," Peter said. "We must take to the house and fight it out there. There's a hull gang of fellows in the forest ahead, and they'll shoot us down if we cross the clearing."

Without a moment's hesitation the party rushed across the clearing to the hut. Several shots were fired as they dashed across the open, but they gained the place of refuge in safety. The hut was deserted. It had probably belonged to royalists, for its rough furniture lay broken on the ground; boxes and cupboards had been forced open, and the floor was strewn with broken crockery and portions of wearing apparel.

Harold looked round. Several of the party were bleeding from slight wounds.

"Now to the windows," Peter said as he barred the door. "Pile up bedding and anything else that ye can find against the shutters, and keep yerselves well under cover. Don't throw away a shot; we'll want all our powder, I can tell ye. Quickly, nowthere aint no time to be lost."

While some began carrying out his instructions below, others bounded upstairs and scattered themselves through the upper rooms. There were two windows on each side of the houseone at each end. Disregarding the latter, Peter and Harold took post at the windows looking toward the forest from which they had just come. The chief and another Indian posted themselves to watch the other side. At first no one was to be seen. The party who had fired at them as they ran across the open had waited for the coming up of the strong band who were following, before venturing to show themselves. The arrival of the pursuers was heralded by the opening of a heavy fire toward the house. As the assailants kept themselves behind trees, no reply was made, and the defenders occupied themselves by piling the bedding against the shutters, which they had hastily closed. Loop-holes had been left in the walls when the hut was first built; the moss with which they were filled up was torn out, and each man took his post at one of these. As no answering shot came from the house the assailants became bolder, and one or two ventured to show themselves from, behind shelter. In a moment Harold and Peter, whose rifles would carry more truly and much further than those of the Indians, fired.

"Two wiped out!" Peter said, as the men fell, and shouts of anger arose from the woods. "That'll make them careful."

This proof of the accuracy of the aim of the besieged checked their assailants, and for some time they were very careful not to expose themselves. From both sides of the forest a steady fire was maintained. Occasionally an answering shot flashed out from the house when one of the enemy incautiously showed an arm or a part of his body from behind the trees, and it was seldom the rifles were fired in vain. Four or five of the Americans were shot through the head as they leaned forward to fire, and after an hour's exchange of bullets the attack ceased.

"What are they going to do now?" Harold asked.

"I expect they're going to wait till nightfall," Peter said. "There's no moon, and they'll be able to work up all round the house. Then they'll make a rush at the door and lower windows. We'll shoot down a good many on 'em, and then they'll burst their way in or set fire to the hut, and there'll be an end of it. That's what'll happen."

"And you think there is no way of making our way out?" Harold asked.

"It's a mighty poor chance, if there's one at all," the hunter replied. "I should say by the fire there must be nigh a hundred of 'em now, and it's likely that, by nightfall, there'll be three times as many. As soon as it gets dusk they'll creep out from the woods and form a circle round the house and gradually work up to it. Now let's cook some vittles; we've had nothing to eat this morning yet, and it must be nigh eleven o'clock. I don't see why we should be starved, even if we have got to be killed to-night."

One of the party was left on watch on each side of the house, and the others gathered in the room below, where a fire was lit and the strips of dried deer flesh which they carried were soon frying over it. Harold admired the air of indifference with which his companions set about preparing the meat. Everyone was aware of the desperate nature of the position, but no allusion was made to it. The negro had caught the spirit of his companions, but his natural loquacity prevented his imitating their habitual silence.

"Dis bad affair, Massa Harold," he said. "We jess like so many coons up in tree, wid a whole pack ob dogs round us, and de hunters in de distance coming up wid de guns. Dis chile reckon dat some ob dem hunters will get hit hard before dey get us. Jake don't care one bit for himself, massa, but he bery sorry to see you in such a fix."

"It can't be helped, Jake," Harold said as cheerfully as he could. "It was my firing that shot which got us into it, and yet I cannot blame myself. We could not stand by and see those ruffians murder a woman and child."

"Dat's so, Massa Harold; dere was no possinbility of seeing dat. I reckon dat when dose rascals come to climb de stairs dey'll find it are bery hard work."

"I don't think they will try, Jake. They are more likely to heap brushwood against the door and windows and set it alight, and then shoot us down as we rush out. This hut is not like the one I had to defend against the Iroquois. That was built to repel Indians' attacks; this is a mere squatter's hut."

After the meal was over Peter and the Seneca chief went upstairs, looked through the loop-holes, and talked long and earnestly together; then they rejoined the party below.

"The chief and I are of opinion," Peter said to Harold, "that it are of no manner of use our waiting to be attacked here. They'd burn us out to a sartinty; we should have no show of a fight at all. Anything's better than that. Now, what we propose is that, directly it gets fairly dark, we'll all creep out and make for the lake. Even if they have formed their circle round us, they aint likely to be as thick there as they are on the other side. What they'll try to do, in course, is to prevent our taking to the forest; and there'll be such a grist of 'em that I don't believe one of us would get through alive if we tried it. Now they'll not be so strong toward the lake, and we might break through to the water. I don't say as there's much chance of our getting away, for I tell you fairly that I don't believe that there's any chance at all; but the chief, here, and his braves don't want their sculps to hang in the wigwams of the Chippewas, and I myself, ef I had the choice, would rather be drownded than shot down. It don't make much difference; but, of the two, I had rather. Ef we can reach the lake, we can swim out of gunshot range. I know you can swim like a fish, and so can Jake, and the Indians swim as a matter of course. Ef we dive at first we may get off; it'll be so dark they won't see us with any sartainty beyond fifty yards. When we're once fairly out in the lake we can take our chance."

"And is there a chance, Peter? Although, if there is none, I quite agree with you that I would rather be drowned than shot down. If one were sure of being killed by the first shot that would be the easiest death; but if we were only wounded they would probably hang us in the morning."

"That's so," the hunter said. "Waal, I can hardly say that there's a chance, and yet I can't say as how there aint. In the first place, they may have some canoes and come out after us; there's pretty safe to be some along the shore here. The settlers would have had 'em for fishing."

"But what chance will that give us?" Harold asked.

"Waal," the hunter replied, "I reckon in that case as our chance is a fair one. Ef we dive and come up close alongside we may manage to upset one of 'em, and, in that case, we might get off. That's one chance. Then ef they don't come out in canoes, we might swim three or four miles down the lake and take to land. They couldn't tell which way to go and would have to scatter over a long line. It's just possible as we might land without being seen. Once in the woods and we'd be safe. So you see, we have two chances. In course we must throw away our rifles and ammunition before we come to the water."

"At any rate," Harold said, "the plan is a hopeful one, and I agree with you that it is a thousand times better to try it than it is to stop here with the certainty of being shot down before morning."

The afternoon passed quietly. A few shots were fired occasionally from the wood, and taunting shouts were heard of the fate which awaited them when night approached.

A vigilant watch was kept from the upper windows, but Peter thought that it was certain the enemy would make no move until it became perfectly dark, although they would establish a strong cordon all round the clearing in case the besieged should try and break out. Harold trembled with impatience to be off as the night grew darker and darker. It seemed to him that at any moment the assailants might be narrowing the circle round the house, and, had he been a leader, he would have given the word long before the scout made a move.

At last Peter signaled that the time had come. It was perfectly dark when the bars were noiselessly removed from the door and the party stole out. Everything seemed silent, but the very stillness made the danger appear more terrible. Peter had impressed upon Harold and Jake the necessity for moving without making the slightest noise. As soon as they left the house the whole party dropped on their hands and knees. Peter and the Seneca chief led the way; two of the braves came next; Harold and Jake followed; the remaining Indians crawled in the rear. Peter had told his comrades to keep as close as possible to the Indians in front of them, and, grasping their rifles, they crept along the ground. As they led the way Peter and the Seneca carefully removed from before them every dried twig and threw it on one side.

The distance to be traversed from the hut to the water was about two hundred yards, and half of this was passed over before they encountered any obstacle. Then suddenly there was an exclamation, and Peter and the Seneca sprang to their feet, as they came in contact with two men crawling in the opposite direction. They were too close to use their rifles, but a crushing blow from the Seneca's tomahawk cleft down the man in front of him, while Peter drew his long knife from its sheath and buried it in the body of his opponent.

The others had also leaped to their feet, and each, as he did so, fired at the dark figures which rose around them. They had the advantage of the surprise; several scattered shots answered their volley, then, with their rifles clubbed, they rushed forward. For a moment there was a hand-to-hand fight. Harold had just struck down a man opposite to him when another sprang upon him; so sudden was the attack that he fell from the shock. But in an instant Jake buried his knife between his opponent's shoulders and dragged Harold to his feet.

"Run for your life, Massa Harold. De whole gang's upon us!"

And indeed the instant the first shot broke the silence of the woods a babel of sounds arose from the whole circuit of the clearing; shouts and yells burst out from hundreds of throats. There was no further use for concealment, and from all sides the men who had been advancing to the attack rushed in the direction where the conflict was taking place. This lasted but a few seconds. As Peter had expected, the line was thinner toward the lake than upon the other sides, and the rush of nine men had broken through it. Shouts were heard from the woods on either side extending down to the water, showing that the precaution had been taken by the assailants of leaving a portion of their force to guard the line of forest should the defenders break through the circle.

At headlong speed the little band rushed down to the water's side, dropped their ammunition pouches by its edge, threw their rifles a few yards into the water, to be recovered, perhaps, on some future occasion, and then dived in. The nearest of the pursuers were some thirty yards behind when they neared the water's edge. Swimming as far under water as they could hold their breath, each came to the surface for an instant, and then again dived. Momentarily as they showed themselves they heard the rattle of musketry behind, and the bullets splashed thickly on the water. The night, however, was so dark that the fire could only be a random one. Until far out from the shore they continued diving and then gathered together.

"We're pretty well out of range, now," Peter said, "and quite out of sight of the varmints. Now we can wait a bit and see what they do next."

The enemy were still keeping up a heavy fire from the shore, hallooing and shouting to each other as they fancied they caught a glimpse of their enemies.

"There must be two or three hundred of 'em," Peter said. "We've fooled 'em nicely, so far."

By the crashing of the bushes the fugitives could hear strong parties making their way along the shore in either direction. An hour passed, during which the fugitives floated nearly opposite the clearing.

"Hullo!" Peter exclaimed presently. "There's a canoe coming along the lake. I expect they got it from Cameron's."

As he spoke a canoe appeared round the point. Two men were standing up holding blazing torches; two others paddled; while two, rifle in hand, sat by them. Almost at the same moment another canoe, similarly manned, pushed out from the shore immediately opposite.

"I wish we had known of that canoe," Peter said; "it would have saved us a lot of trouble; but we had no time for looking about. I suspected them settlers must have had one laid up somewheres. Now," he went on, "let's make our plans. The canoes are sure to keep pretty nigh each other. They'll most likely think as we've gone down the lake and'll not be looking very sharply after us at present. It'll never do to let 'em pass us. Now Jake and I and two of the Injuns will take one canoe, and the chief and three of his braves the other. We must move round so as to get between 'em and the shore, and then dive and come up close to 'em. Now, Harold, do you swim out a bit further and then make a splash so as to call their attention. Do it once or twice till you see that they've got their eyes turned that way. Then be very quiet, so as to keep 'em watching for another sound. That'll be our moment for attacking 'em."

They waited till the two canoes joined each other and paddled slowly out from the shore. Then the eight swimmers started off to make their détour, while Harold swam quietly further out into the lake. The canoes were about three hundred yards from shore and were paddling very slowly, the occupants keeping a fixed look along the lake. There was perfect quiet on the shore now, and when Harold made a slight splash with his hand upon the water he saw that it was heard. Both canoes stopped rowing, the steerers in each case giving them a steer so that they lay broadside to the land, giving each man a view over the lake. They sat as quiet as if carved in stone. Again Harold made a splash, but this time a very slight one, so slight that it could hardly reach the ears of the listeners.

A few words were exchanged by the occupants of the boats.

"They are further out on the lake, Bill," one said.

"I am not sure," another answered. "I rather think the sound was further down. Listen again."

Again they sat motionless. Harold swam with his eyes fixed upon them. Every face was turned his way and none was looking shoreward. Then, almost at the same instant there was a shout from both boats. The men with torches seemed to lose their balance. The lights described a half circle through the air and were extinguished. A shout of astonishment broke from the occupants, mingled with the wild Seneca war-yell, and he knew that both canoes were upset.

There was a sound of a desperate struggle going on. Oaths and wild cries rose from the water. Heavy blows were struck, while from the shore arose loud shouts of dismay and rage. In two minutes all was quiet on the water. Then came Peter's shout:

"This way, Harold! We'll have the canoes righted and bailed in a minute. The varmin's all wiped out."

With a lightened heart Harold swam toward the spot. The surprise had been a complete success. The occupants of the canoes, intent only upon the pursuit and having no fear of attackfor they knew that the fugitives must have thrown away their rifleswere all gazing intently out on the lake, when, close to each canoe on the shore side, four heads rose from out of the water. In an instant eight hands had seized the gunwales, and, before the occupants were aware of their danger, the canoes were upset.

Taken wholly by surprise, the Americans were no match for their assailants. The knives of the latter did their work before the frontiersmen had thoroughly grasped what had happened. Two or three, indeed, had made a desperate fight, but they were no match for their opponents, and the struggle was quickly over.

On Harold reaching the canoes he found them already righted and half emptied of water. The paddles were picked up, and, in a few minutes, with a derisive shout of adieu to their furious enemy on the shore, the two canoes paddled out into the lake. When they had attained a distance of about half a mile from the shore they turned the boats heads and paddled north. In three hours they saw lights in the wood.

"There's the troops," Peter said. "Soldiers are never content unless they're making fires big enough to warn every redskin within fifty miles that they're coming."

As they approached the shore the challenge from the English sentinel came over the water:

"Who comes there?"

"Friends," Peter replied.

"Give the password."

"How on arth am I to give the password," Peter shouted back, "when we've been three days away from the camp?"

"If you approach without the password I fire," the sentinel said.

"I tell ye," Peter shouted, "we're scouts with news for the general."

"I can't help who you are," the sentinel said. "I have got my orders."

"Pass the word along for an officer," Harold shouted. "We have important news."

The sentry called to the one next him, and so the word was passed along the line. In a few minutes an officer appeared on the shore, and, after a short parley, the party were allowed to land, and Peter and Harold were at once conducted to the headquarters of General Burgoyne.

CHAPTER XIII.

SARATOGA.

"What is your report?" asked General Burgoyne, as the scouts were conducted into his tent.

"We have discovered, sir, that the Americans have strongly fortified Mount Independence, which faces Ticonderoga, and have connected the two places by a bridge across the river, which is protected by a strong boom. Both positions are, however, overlooked by Sugar Hill, and this they have entirely neglected to fortify. If you were to seize this they would have to retire at once."

The general expressed his satisfaction at the news and gave orders that steps should be taken to seize Sugar Hill immediately. He then questioned the scouts as to their adventures and praised them highly for their conduct.

The next day the army advanced, and at nightfall both divisions were in their places, having arrived within an hour or two of each other from the opposite sides of the lake. Sugar Hill was seized the same night, and a strong party were set to work cutting a road through the trees. The next morning the enemy discovered the British at work erecting a battery on the hill, and their general decided to evacuate both Ticonderoga and Mount Independence instantly. Their baggage, provisions, and stores were embarked in two hundred boats and sent up the river. The army started to march by the road.

The next morning the English discovered that the Americans had disappeared. Captain Lutwych immediately set to work to destroy the bridge and boom, whose construction had taken the Americans nearly twelve months' labor. By nine in the morning a passage was effected, and some gunboats passed through in pursuit of the enemy's convoy. They overtook them near Skenesborough, engaged and captured many of their largest craft, and obliged them to set several others on fire, together with a large number of their boats and barges.

A few hours afterward a detachment of British troops in gunboats came up the river to Skenesborough. The cannon on the works which the Americans had erected there opened fire, but the troops were landed, and the enemy at once evacuated their works, setting fire to their store-houses and mills. While these operations had been going on by water Brigadier General Fraser, at the head of the advance corps of grenadiers and light infantry, pressed hard upon the division of the enemy which had retired by the Hubberton Road, and overtook them at five o'clock in the morning.

The division consisted of fifteen hundred of the best colonial troops under the command of Colonel Francis. They were posted on strong ground and sheltered by breastworks composed of logs and old trees. General Fraser's detachment was inferior in point of numbers to that of the defenders of the position, but as he expected a body of the German troops under General Reidesel to arrive immediately, he at once attacked the breastworks. The Americans defended their post with great resolution and bravery. The re-enforcements did not arrive so soon as was expected, and for some time the British made no way.

General Reidesel, hearing the fire in front, pushed forward at full speed with a small body of troops. Among these was the band, which he ordered to play.

The enemy, hearing the music and supposing that the whole of the German troops had come up, evacuated the position and fell back with precipitation. Colonel Francis and many others were killed and two hundred taken prisoners. On the English side 120 men were killed and wounded.

The enemy from Skenesborough were pursued by Colonel Hill, with the Ninth Regiment, and were overtaken near Fort Anne. Finding how small was the force that pursued them in comparison to their own, they took the offensive. A hot engagement took place, and after three hours' fighting the Americans were repulsed with great slaughter and forced to retreat after setting fire to Fort Anne and Fort Edward.

In these operations the British captured 148 guns, with large quantities of stores. At Fort Edward General Schuyler was joined by General St. Clair, but even with this addition the total American strength did not exceed forty-four hundred.

Instead of returning from Skenesborough to Ticonderoga, whence he might have sailed with his army up to Lake George, General Burgoyne proceeded to cut his way through the woods to the lake. The difficulties of the passage were immense: swamps and morasses had to be passed, bridges had to be constructed over creeks, ravines, and gulleys. The troops worked with great vigor and spirit. Major General Phillips had returned to Lake George and transported the artillery, provisions, and baggage to Fort George and thence by land to a point on the Hudson River, together with a large number of boats for the use of the army in their intended descent to Albany.

So great was the labor entailed by this work that it was not until July 30 that the army arrived on the Hudson River. The delay of three weeks had afforded the enemy time to recover their spirits and recruit their strength. General Arnold arrived with a strong re-enforcement, and a force was detached to check the progress of Colonel St. Leger, who was coming down from Montreal by way of Lake Ontario and the Mohawk River to effect a junction with General Burgoyne.

General Burgoyne determined to advance at once. The army was already suffering from want of transportation, and he decided to send a body of troops to Bennington, twenty-four miles to the eastward of the Hudson River, where the Americans had large supplies collected. Instead of sending light infantry he dispatched six hundred Germansthe worst troops he could have selected for this purpose, as they were very heavily armed and marched exceedingly slowly. Several of the officers remonstrated with him, but with his usual infatuated obstinacy he maintained his disposition.

On approaching Bennington Colonel Baum, who commanded the Germans, found that a very strong force was gathered there. He sent back for re-enforcements, and five hundred more Germans, under Lieutenant Colonel Breyman, were dispatched to his assistance. Long, however, before these slowly moving troops could arrive Colonel Baum was attacked by the enemy in vastly superior numbers. The Germans fought with great bravery and several times charged the Americans and drove them back. Fresh troops continued to come up on the enemy's side, and the Germans, having lost a large number of men, including their colonel, were forced to retreat into the woods. The enemy then advanced against Colonel Breyman, who was ignorant of the disaster that had befallen Baum, and with his detachment had occupied twenty-four hours in marching sixteen miles. The Germans again fought well, but after a gallant resistance were obliged to fall back. In these two affairs they lost six hundred men.

In the meantime Colonel St. Leger had commenced his attack upon Fort Stanwix, which was defended by seven hundred men. The American General Herkimer advanced with one thousand men to its relief. Colonel St. Leger detached Sir John Johnson with a party of regulars and a number of Indians, who had accompanied him, to meet them. The enemy advanced incautiously and fell into an ambush. A terrible fire was poured into them, and the Indians then rushed down and attacked them hand to hand. The Americans, although taken by surprise, fought bravely and succeeded in making their retreat, leaving four hundred killed and wounded behind them.

Colonel St. Leger had no artillery which was capable of making any impression on the defenses of the fort. Its commander sent out a man who, pretending to be a deserter, entered the British camp and informed Colonel St. Leger that General Burgoyne had been defeated and his army cut to pieces, and that General Arnold, with two thousand men, was advancing to raise the siege. Colonel St. Leger did not credit the news, but it created a panic among the Indians, the greater portion of whom at once retired without orders, and St. Leger, having but a small British force with him, was compelled to follow their example, leaving his artillery and stores behind him.

On September 13 General Burgoyne, having with immense labor collected thirty days' provisions on the Hudson, crossed the river by a bridge of boats and encamped on the heights of Saratoga. His movements had been immensely hampered by the vast train of artillery which he took with him. In an open country a powerful force of artillery is of the greatest service to an army, but in a campaign in a wooded and roadless country it is of little utility and enormously hampers the operations of an army. Had General Burgoyne, after the capture of Ticonderoga, pressed forward in light order without artillery, he could unquestionably have marched to New York without meeting with any serious opposition, but the six weeks' delay had enabled the Americans to collect a great force to oppose them.

On the 19th, as the army were advancing to Stillwater, five thousand of the enemy attacked the British right. They were led by General Arnold and fought with great bravery and determination. The brunt of the battle fell on the Twentieth, Twenty-fourth, and Sixty-second regiments. For four hours the fight continued without any advantage on either side, and at nightfall the Americans drew off, each side having lost about six hundred men. After the battle of Stillwater the whole of the Indians with General Burgoyne left him and returned to Canada.

Hampered with his great train of artillery, unprovided with transportation, in the face of a powerful enemy posted in an exceedingly strong position, General Burgoyne could neither advance nor retreat. The forage was exhausted and the artillery horses were dying in great numbers. He had hoped that Sir William Howe would have sailed up the Hudson and joined him, but the English commander-in-chief had taken his army down to Philadelphia. Sir Henry Clinton, who commanded at New York, endeavored with a small force at his command to make a diversion by operating against the American posts on the Hudson River, but this was of no utility.

Burgoyne's army was now reduced to little more than five thousand men, and he determined to fall back upon the lakes. Before doing this, however, it would be necessary to dislodge the Americans from their posts on his left. Leaving the camp under the command of General Hamilton, Burgoyne advanced with fifteen hundred men against them. But scarcely had the detachment started when the enemy made a furious attack on the British left. Major Ackland, with the grenadiers, was posted here, and for a time defended himself with great bravery. The light infantry and Twenty-fourth were sent to their assistance, but, overpowered by numbers, the left wing was forced to retreat into their intrenchments. These the enemy, led by General Arnold, at once attacked with great impetuosity. For a long time the result was doubtful, and it was not until the American leader was wounded that the attack ceased. In the meantime the intrenchments defended by the German troops under Colonel Breyman had also been attacked. Here the fight was obstinate, but the German intrenchments were carried, Colonel Breyman killed, and his troops retreated with the loss of all their baggage and artillery. Two hundred prisoners fell into the hands of the Americans.

That night the British army was concentrated on the heights above the hospital. General Gates, who commanded the Americans, moved his army so as to entirely inclose the British, and the latter, on the night of October 8, retired to Saratoga, being obliged to leave all their sick and wounded in the hospital. These were treated with the greatest kindness by the Americans. An attempt was now made to retreat to Fort George or Fort Edward, but the Americans had taken up positions on each road and fortified them with cannon.

Only about thirty-five hundred fighting men now remained, of whom but one-half were British, and scarcely eight days' provisions were left. The enemy, four times superior in point of numbers, held every line of retreat and eluded every attempt of the British to force them to a general engagement.

The position was hopeless, and on October 13 a council of war was held and it was determined to open negotiations for a surrender. Two days were spent in negotiations, and it was finally agreed that the army should lay down its arms and that it should be marched to Boston, and there allowed to sail for England on condition of not serving again in North America during the contest. The Canadians were to be allowed to return at once to their own country. On the 16th the army laid down its arms. It consisted of thirty-five hundred fighting men and six hundred sick and nearly two thousand boatmen, teamsters, and other non-effectives.

Never did a general behave with greater incompetence than that manifested by General Burgoyne from the day of his leaving Ticonderoga, and the disaster which befell his army was entirely the result of mismanagement, procrastination, and faulty generalship.

Had Harold remained with the army until its surrender his share in the war would have been at an end, for the Canadians, as well as all others who laid down their arms, gave their word of honor not to serve again during the war. He had, however, with Peter Lambton and Jake, accompanied Colonel Baum's detachment on its march to Bennington. Scouting in front of the column, they had ascertained the presence of large numbers of the enemy, and had, by hastening back with the news, enabled the German colonel to make some preparations for resistance before the attack was made upon him. During the fight that ensued the scouts, posted behind trees on the German left, had assisted them to repel the attack from that quarter, and when the Germans gave way they effected their escape into the woods and managed to rejoin the army.

They had continued with it until it moved to the hospital heights after the disastrous attack by the Americans on their camp. General Burgoyne then sent for Peter Lambton, who was, he knew, one of his most active and intelligent scouts.

"Could you make your way through the enemy's lines down to Ticonderoga?" he asked.

"I could try, general," Peter said. "Me and the party who work with me could get through if anyone could, but more nor that I can't say. The Yanks are swarming around pretty thick, I reckon; but if we have luck we might make a shift to get through."

"I have hopes," the general said, "that another regiment, for which I asked General Carleton, has arrived there. Here is a letter to General Powell, who is in command, to beg him to march with all his available force and fall upon the enemy posted on our line of communication. Unless the new regiment has reached him he will not have a sufficient force to attempt this, but, if this has come up, he may be able to do so. He is to march in the lightest order and at full speed, so as to take the enemy by surprise. Twelve hours before he starts you will bring me back news of his coming, and I will move out to meet him. His operations in their rear will confuse the enemy and enable me to operate with a greater chance of success. I tell you this because, if you are surrounded and in difficulties, you may have to destroy my dispatch. You can then convey my instructions by word of mouth to General Powell if you succeed in getting through."

Upon leaving headquarters Peter joined his friends.

"It's a risksome business," he went on, after informing them of the instructions he had received, "but I don't know as it's much more risksome than stopping here. It don't seem to me that this army is like to get out of the trap into which their general has led 'em. Whatever he wanted to leave the lakes for is more nor I can tell. However, generaling aint my business, and I wouldn't change places with the old man to-day, not for a big sum of money. Now, chief, what do you say? How's this 'ere business to be carried out?"

The Seneca, with the five braves who had from the first accompanied them, were now the only Indians with the British army. The rest of the redskins, disgusted with the dilatory progress of the army and foreseeing inevitable disaster, had all betaken themselves to their homes. They were, moreover, angered at the severity with which the English general had endeavored to suppress their tendency to acts of cruelty on the defenseless settlers. The redskin has no idea of civilized warfare. His sole notion of fighting is to kill, burn, and destroy, and the prohibition of all irregular operations and of the infliction of unnecessary suffering was, in his eyes, an act of incomprehensible weakness. The Seneca chief remained with the army simply because his old comrade did so. He saw that there was little chance of plunder, but he and his braves had succeeded in fair fight in obtaining many scalps, and would, at least, be received with high honor on their return to their tribe.

A long discussion took place between the chief and Peter before they finally decided upon the best course to be pursued. They were ignorant of the country and of the disposition of the enemy's force, and could only decide to act upon general principles. They thought it probable that the Americans would be most thickly posted upon the line between the British army and the lakes, and their best chance of success would therefore be to make their way straight ahead for some distance, and then, when they had penetrated the American lines, to make a long détour round to the lakes.

Taking four days' provisions with them they started when nightfall had fairly set in. It was intensely dark, and in the shadows of the woods Harold was unable to see his hand before him. The Indians appeared to have a faculty of seeing in the dark, for they advanced without the slightest pause or hesitation and were soon in the open country. The greatest vigilance was now necessary. Everywhere they could hear the low hum which betokens the presence of many men gathered together. Sometimes a faint shout came to their ears, and for a long distance around the glow in the sky told of many fires. The party now advanced with the greatest caution, frequently halting while the Indians went on ahead to scout; and more than once they were obliged to alter their direction as they came upon bodies of men posted across their front. At last they passed through the line of sentinels, and, avoiding all the camps, gained the country in the Americans' rear.

They now struck off to the right, and by daybreak were far round beyond the American army, on their way to Ticonderoga. They had walked for fifteen hours when they halted, and it was not until late in the afternoon that they continued their journey. They presently struck the road which the army had cut in its advance, and keeping parallel with this through the forest they arrived the next morning at Fort Edward. A few hours' rest here and they continued their march to Ticonderoga. This place had been attacked by the Americans a few days previously, but the garrison had beaten off the assailants.

On the march they had seen many bodies of the enemy moving along the road, but their approach had in every case been detected in time to take refuge in the forest. On entering the fort Peter at once proceeded to General Powell's quarters and delivered the dispatch with which he had been intrusted. The general read it.

"No re-enforcements have arrived," the general said, "and the force here is barely sufficient to defend the place. It would be madness for me to set out on such a march with the handful of troops at my disposal."

He then questioned Peter concerning the exact position of the army, and the latter had no hesitation in saying that he thought the whole force would be compelled to lay down their arms unless some re-enforcements reached them from below.

This, however, was not to be. General Clinton captured Forts Montgomery and Clinton, the latter a very strong position, defended with great resolution by four hundred Americans. The Seventh and Twenty-sixth regiments and a company of grenadiers attacked on one side, the Sixty-third Regiment on the other. They had no cannon to cover their advance and had to cross ground swept by ten pieces of artillery. In no event during the war did the British fight with more resolution. Without firing a shot they pressed forward to the foot of the works, climbed over each other's shoulders on to the walls, and drove the enemy back. The latter discharged one last volley into the troops and then laid down their arms. Notwithstanding the slaughter effected by this wanton fire after all possibility of continuing a resistance was over, quarter was given and not one of the enemy was killed after the fort was taken. The British loss was 140 killed and wounded; 300 Americans were killed, wounded, or taken prisoners. The fleet attacked the American squadron on the river and entirely destroyed it. Beyond sending a flying squadron up the river to destroy the enemy's boats and stores of provisions, nothing further could be done to effect a diversion in favor of General Burgoyne.

Four days after Harold's arrival at Ticonderoga the news of the surrender of General Burgoyne reached the place. Upon the following day he suggested to Peter Lambton that they should visit the clearing of the ex-soldier Cameron and see whether their interference had saved him and his family. Upon arriving at the spot whence Harold had fired the shot which had brought discovery upon them, they saw a few charred stumps alone remaining of the snug house which had stood there. In front of it, upon the stump of a tree, Cameron himself was sitting in an attitude of utter depression.

They walked across the clearing to the spot, but although the sound of their footsteps must have reached his ear, the man did not look up until Harold touched him on the shoulder.

"What has happened?" he asked. "Who has done this ruin?"

The man still remained with his head bent down, as if he had not heard the question.

"We had hoped that you had escaped," Harold went on. "We were hidden in the wood when we saw those ruffians drive your wife and daughter out, and it was the shot from my rifle that killed their leader and brought them down on us; and a narrow escape we had of it; but we hoped that we had diverted them from their determination to kill you and your family."

Cameron looked up now.

"I thank ye, sir," he said. "I thank ye wi' a' my hairt for your interference on our behalf. I heerd how closely ye were beset that night and how ye escaped. They thought nae mair o' us, and when the royal army arrived the next day we were safe; but ye might as weel ha' let the matter gang onbetter, indeed, for then I should be deed instead o' suffering. This wark," and he pointed toward the remains of the house, "is redskin deviltry. A fortnight sin' a band o' Indians fell upon us. I was awa'. They killed my wife and burned my house and ha' carried off my bairn."

"Who were they?" Harold asked.

"I dinna ken," Cameron replied; "but a neebor o' mine whose place they attacked, and whom they had scalped and left for deed, told me that they were a band o' the Iroquois who had come down from Lake Michigan and advanced wi' the British. He said that they, with the other redskins, desairted when their hopes o' plunder were disappointed, and that on their way back to their tribes they burned and ravaged every settlement they cam' across. My neebor was an old frontiersman; he had fought against the tribe and knew their war-cry. He deed the next day. He was mair lucky than I am."

"The tarnal ruffians!" Peter exclaimed; "the murdering varmints! And to think of 'em carrying off that purty little gal of yours! I suppose by this time they're at their old game of plundering and slaying on the frontier. It's naught to them which side they fight on; scalps and plunder is all they care for."

The unfortunate settler had sat down again on the log, the picture of a broken-hearted man. Harold drew Peter a short distance away.

"Look here. Peter," he said. "Now Burgoyne's army has surrendered and winter is close at hand, it is certain that there will be no further operations here, except perhaps that the Americans will recapture the place. What do you say to our undertaking an expedition on our own account to try and get back this poor fellow's daughter? I do not know whether the Seneca would join us, but we threeof course I count Jakeand the settler might do something. I have an old grudge against these Iroquois myself, as you have heard; and for aught I know they may long ere this have murdered my cousins."

"The Seneca will jine," Peter said, "willing enough. There's an old feud between his tribe and the Iroquois. He'll jine fast enough. But mind, youngster, this aint no child's play; it aint like fighting them American clodhoppers. We'll have to deal with men as sharp as ourselves, who can shoot as well, hear as well, see as well, who are in their own country, and who are a hundred to one against us. We've got hundreds and hundreds of miles to travel afore we gets near 'em. It's a big job; but if, when ye thinks it all over, you're ready to go, Peter Lambton aint the man to hold back. As you say, there's naught to do this winter, and we might as well be doing this as anything else."

The two men then went back to the settler.

"Cameron," Harold said, "it is of no use sitting here grieving. Why not be up in pursuit of those who carried off your daughter?"

The man sprang to his feet.

"In pursuit!" he cried fiercely; "in pursuit! Do ye think Donald Cameron wad be sitting here quietly if he kenned where to look for his daughterwhere to find the murderers o' his wife? But what can I do? For three days after I cam' back and found what had happened I was just mad. I couldna think nor rest, nor do aught but throw mysel' on the ground and pray to God to tak' me. When at last I could think, it was too late. It wad hae mattered naething to me that they were a hundred to one. If I could ha' killed but one o' them I wad ha' died happy; but they were gone, and how could I follow themhow could I find them? Tell me where to look, monshow me the way; and if it be to the ends o' the airth I will go after them."

"We will do more, than that," Harold said. "My friend and myself have still with us the seven men who were with us when we were here before. Five are Senecas, the other a faithful negro who would go through fire and water for me. There is little chance of our services being required during the winter with the British army. We, are interested in you and in the pretty child we saw here, and, if you will, we will accompany you in the search for her. Peter Lambton knows the country well, and if anyone could lead you to your child and rescue her from those who carried her off, he is the man."

"Truly!" gasped the Scotchman. "And will ye truly gang wi' me to find my bairn? May the guid God o' heaven bless you!" and the tears ran down his cheeks.

"Git your traps together at once, man," Peter said. "Let's go straight back to the fort; then I'll set the matter before the chief, who will, I warrant me, be glad enough to jine the expedition. It's too late to follow the track of the red varmints; our best plan will be to make straight for the St. Lawrence; to take a boat if we can git one; if not, two canoes; and to make up the river and along the Ontario. Then we must sell our boat, cross to Erie, and git fresh canoes and go on by Detroit into Lake Huron, and so up in the country of these reptiles. We shall have no difficulty, I reckon, in discovering the whereabout of the tribe which has been away on this expedition."

The Scotchman took up the rifle.

"I am ready," he said, and without another word the party started for the fort.

Upon their arrival there a consultation was held with the Seneca. The prospect of an expedition against his hereditary foes filled him with delight, and three of his braves also agreed to accompany them. Jake received the news with the remark:

"All right, Massa Harold. It make no odds to dis chile whar he goes. You say de wordJake ready."

Half an hour sufficed for making the preparations, and they at once proceeded to the point where they had hidden the two canoes on the night when they joined General Burgoyne before his advance upon Ticonderoga. These were soon floating on the lake, and they started to paddle to the mouth of the Sorrel, down this river into the St. Lawrence, and thence to Montreal. Their rifles they had recovered from the lake upon the day following that on which Ticonderoga was first captured; Deer Tail having dispatched to the spot two of his braves, who recovered them without difficulty, by diving, and brought them back to the fort.

At Montreal they stayed but a few hours. An ample supply of ammunition was purchased and provisions sufficient for the voyage; and then, embarking in the two canoes, they started up the St. Lawrence. It was three weeks later when they arrived at Detroit, which was garrisoned by a British force. Here they heard that there had been continuous troubles with the Indians on the frontier; that a great many farms and settlements had been destroyed, and numbers of persons murdered.

Their stay at Detroit was a short one. Harold obtained no news of his cousins, but there were so many tales told of Indian massacres that he was filled with apprehension on their account. His worst apprehensions were justified when the canoes at length came within sight of the well-remembered clearing. Harold gave a cry as he saw that the farmhouse no longer existed. The two canoes were headed toward shore, and their occupants disembarked and walked toward the spot where the house had stood. The site was marked by a heap of charred embers. The outhouses had been destroyed, and a few fowls were the only living things to be seen in the fields.

"This here business must have taken place some time ago," Peter said, breaking the silence. "A month, I should say, or p'r'aps more."

For a time Harold was too moved to speak. The thought of his kind cousins and their brave girl all murdered by the Indians filled him with deep grief. At last he said:

"What makes you think so, Peter?"

"It's easy enough to see as it was after the harvest, for ye see the fields is all clear. And then there's long grass shooting up through the ashes. It would take a full month, p'r'aps six weeks, afore it would do that. Don't you think so, chief?"

The Seneca nodded.

"A moon," he said.

"Yes, about a month," replied Peter. "The grass grows quick after the rains."

"Do you think that it was a surprise, Peter?"

"No man can tell," the hunter answered. "If we had seen the place soon afterward we might have told. There would have been marks of blood. Or if the house had stood we could have told by the bullet-holes and the color of the splintered wood how it happened and how long back. As it is, not even the chief can give ye an idea."

"Not an attack," the Seneca said; "a surprise."

"How on arth do you know that, chief?" the hunter exclaimed in surprise, and he looked round in search of some sign which would have enabled the Seneca to have given so confident an opinion. "You must be a witch, surely."

"A chief's eyes are not blind," the redskin answered, with a slight smile of satisfaction at having for once succeeded when his white comrade was at fault. "Let my friend look up the hilltwo dead men there."

Harold looked in the direction in which the chief pointed, but could see nothing. The hunter exclaimed:

"There's something there, chief, but even my eyes couldn't tell they were bodies."

The party proceeded to the spot and found two skeletons. A few remnants of clothes lay around, but the birds had stripped every particle of flesh from the bones. There was a bullet in the forehead of one skull; the other was cleft with a sharp instrument.

"It's clear enough," the hunter said, "there's been a surprise. Likely enough the hull lot was killed without a shot being fired in defense."

CHAPTER XIV.

RESCUED!

Harold was deeply touched at the evidences of the fate which had befallen the occupants of his cousin's plantation.

"If there are any more of these to be found," pointing to their remains, "we might learn for a certainty whether the same fate befell them all."

The Seneca spoke a word to his followers and the four Indians spread themselves over the clearing. One more body was foundit was lying down near the water as if killed in the act of making for the canoe.

"The others are probably there," Peter said, pointing to the ruins. "The three hands was killed in the fields, and most likely the attack was made at the same moment on the house. I'm pretty sure it was so, for the body by the water lies face downward, with his head toward the lake. He was no doubt shot from behind as he was running. There must have been Injuns round the house then, or he would have made for that instead of the water."

The Seneca touched Peter on the shoulder and pointed toward the farm. A figure was seen approaching. As it came nearer they could see that he was a tall man, dressed in the deerskin shirt and leggings usually worn by hunters. As he came near Harold gave an exclamation:

"It is Jack Pearson!"

"It are Jack Pearson," the hunter said, "but for the moment I can't recollect ye, though yer face seems known. Why!" he exclaimed in changed tones, "it's that boy Harold growed into a man."

"It is," Harold replied, grasping the frontiersman's hand.

"And ye may know me, too," Peter Lambton said, "though it's twenty year since we fought side by side against the Mohawks."

"Why, old hoss, are you above ground still?" the hunter exclaimed heartily. "I'm glad to see you again, old friend. And what are you doing here, you and Harold and these Senecas? For they is Senecas, sure enough. I've been in the woods for the last hour, and have been puzzling myself nigh to death. I seed them Injuns going about over the clearing sarching, and for the life of me I couldn't think what they were a-doing. Then I seed 'em gathered down here, with two white men among 'em, so I guessed it was right to show myself."

"They were searching to see how many had fallen in this terrible business," Harold said, pointing to the ruins. The hunter shook his head.

"I'm afeared they've all gone under. I were here a week afterward; it were just as it is now. I found the three hands lying killed and sculped in the fields; the others, I reckon, is there. I has no doubt at all about Bill Welch and his wife, but it may be that the gal has been carried off."

"Do you think so?" Harold exclaimed eagerly. "If so, we may find her, too, with the other."

"What other?" Pearson, asked.

Harold gave briefly an account of the reason which had brought them to the spot and of the object they had in view.

"You can count me in," Pearson said. "There's just a chance that Nelly Welch may be in their hands still; and in any case I'm longing to draw a bead on some of the varmints to pay 'em for this," and he looked round him, "and a hundred other massacres round this frontier."

"I'm glad to hear ye say so," Peter replied. "I expected as much of ye, Jack. I don't know much of this country, having only hunted here for a few weeks with a party of Delawares twenty year afore the Iroquois moved so far west."

"I know pretty nigh every foot of it," Jack Pearson said. "When the Iroquois were quiet I used to do a deal of hunting in their country. It are good country for game."

"Well! shall we set out at once?" Harold asked, impatient to be off.

"We can't move to-night," Pearson answered; and Harold saw that Peter and the Indians agreed with him.

"Why not?" he asked. "Every hour is of importance."

"That's so," Peter said, "but there's no going out on the lake to-night. In half an hour we'll have our first snowstorm, and by morning it will be two foot deep."

Harold turned his eyes toward the lake and saw what his companions had noticed long before. The sky was overcast and a thick bank of hidden clouds was rolling up across the lake, and the thick mist seemed to hang between the clouds and the water.

"That's snow," Peter said. "It's late this year, and I'd give my pension if it was a month later."

"That's so," Pearson said. "Snow aint never pleasant in the woods, but when you're scouting round among Injuns it are a caution. We'd best make a shelter afore it comes on."

The two canoes were lifted from the water, unloaded, and turned bottom upward; a few charred planks, which had formed part of the roof of the outhouses, were brought and put up to form a sort of shelter. A fire was lit and a meal prepared. By this time the snow had begun to fall. After the meal was over pipes were lit and the two hunters earnestly talked over their plans, the Seneca chief throwing in a few words occasionally; the others listened quietly. The Indians left the matter in the hands of their chief, while Harold and Cameron knew that the two frontiersmen did not need any suggestion from them. As to Jake, the thought of asking questions never entered his mind. He was just at present less happy than usual, for the negro, like most of his race, hated cold, and the prospect of wandering through the woods in deep snow made him shudder as he crouched close to the great fire they had built.

Peter and Jack Pearson were of opinion that it was exceedingly probable that the Welches had been destroyed by the very band which had carried off little Janet Cameron. The bodies of Indians who had been on the war-path with the army had retired some six weeks before, and it was about that time, Pearson said, that the attack on the settlements had been made.

"I heard some parties of redskins who had been with the British troops had passed through the neighborhood, and there was reports that they were greatly onsatisfied with the results of the campaign. As likely as not some of that band may have been consarned in the attack on this place three year ago, and, passing nigh it, may have determined to wipe out that defeat. An Injun never forgives. Many of their braves fell here, and they could scarcely bring a more welcome trophy back to their villages than the scalps of Welch and his men."

"Now, the first thing to do," Peter said, "is to find out what particular chief took his braves with him to the war; then we've got to find his village; and there likely enough we'll find Cameron's daughter and maybe the girl from here. How old was she?"

"About fifteen," Pearson said, "and a fine girl, and a pretty girl, too. I dun know," he went on after a pause, "which of the chiefs took part in the war across the lakes, but I suspect it were War Eagle. There's three great chiefs, and the other two were trading on the frontier. It was War Eagle who attacked the place afore, and would be the more likely to attack it again if he came anywheres near it. He made a mess of it afore and 'd be burning to wipe out his failure if he had a chance."

"Where is his place?"

"His village is the furthest of them all from here. He lives up near the falls of Sault Ste. Marie, betwixt Lakes Superior and Huron. It's a village with nigh three hundred wigwams."

"It aint easy to see how it's to be done. We must make to the north shore of the lake. There'll be no working down here through the woods; but it's a pesky difficult jobabout as hard a one as ever I took part in."

"It is that," Pearson said; "it can't be denied. To steal two white girls out of a big Injun village aint a easy job at no time; but with the snow on the ground it comes as nigh to an impossibility as anything can do."

For another hour or two they talked over the route they should take and their best mode of proceeding. Duncan Cameron sat and listened with an intent face to every word. Since he had joined them he had spoken but seldom; his whole soul was taken up with the thought of his little daughter. He was ever ready to do his share and more than his share of the work of paddling and at the portages, but he never joined in the conversation; and of an evening, when the others sat round the fire, he would move away and pace backward and forward in anxious thought until the fire burned low and the party wrapped themselves in their blankets and went off to sleep.

All the time the conversation had been going on the snow had fallen heavily, and before it was concluded the clearing was covered deep with the white mantle. There was little wind, and the snow fell quietly and noiselessly. At night the Indians lay down round the fire, while the white men crept under the canoes and were soon fast asleep. In the morning it was still snowing, but about noon it cleared up. It was freezing hard, and the snow glistened as the sun burst through the clouds. The stillness of the forest was broken now by sharp cracking sounds as boughs of trees gave way under the weight of the snow; in the open it lay more than two feet deep.

"Now," Peter said, "the sooner we're off the better."

"I'll come in my own canoe," Pearson said. "One of the Injuns can come with me and we'll keep up with the rest."

"There is room for you in the other canoes," Harold said.

"Plenty of room," the hunter answered. "But you see, Harold, the more canoes the better. There aint no saying how close we may be chased, and by hiding up the canoes at different places we give ourselves so much more chance of being able to get to one or the other. They're all large canoes, and at a pinch any one of them might hold the hull party, with the two gals throwed in. But," he added to Harold in a low voice, "don't you build too much on these gals, Harold. I wouldn't say so while that poor fellow's listening, but the chance is a desperate poor one, and I think we'll be mighty lucky ef we don't leave all our scalps in that 'ere redskin village." The traps were soon placed in the canoes, and just as the sun burst out the three boats started. It was a long and toilsome journey. Stormy weather set in, and they were obliged to wait for days by the lake till its surface calmed. On these occasions they devoted themselves to hunting and killed several deer. They knew that there were no Indian villages near, and in such weather it would be improbable that any redskins would be in the woods. They were enabled, therefore, to fire without fear of the reports betraying their presence. The Senecas took the opportunity of fabricating snowshoes for the whole party, as these would be absolutely necessary for walking in the woods. Harold, Jake, and Duncan Cameron at once began to practice their use. The negro was comical in the extreme in his first attempts, and shouted so loudly with laughter each time that he fell head foremost into the snow that Peter said to him angrily:

"Look-a-here, Jake; it's dangerous enough letting off a rifle at a deer in these woods, but it has to be done because we must lay in a supply of food; but a musket-shot is a mere whisper to yer shouting. Thunder aint much louder than you laughingit shakes the hull place and might be heard from here well-nigh to Montreal. Ef you can't keep that mouth of your'n shut, ye must stop up the idée of learning to use them shoes and must stop in the canoe while we're scouting on shore."

Jake promised to amend, and from this time when he fell in the soft snow-wreaths he gave no audible vent to his amusement; but a pair of great feet, with the snow-shoes attached, could be seen waving above the surface until he was picked up and righted again.

Harold soon learned, and Cameron went at the work with grim earnestness. No smile ever crossed his face at his own accidents or at the wild vagaries of Jake, which excited silent amusement even among the Indians. In a short time the falls were less frequent, and by the time they reached the spot where they were determined to cross the lake at the point where Lakes Huron and Michigan join, the three novices were able to make fair progress in the snow-shoes.

The spot fixed upon was about twelve miles from the village of War Eagle, and the canoes were hidden at distances of three miles apart. First Pearson, Harold, and Cameron disembarked; Jake, Peter, and one of the Indians alighted at the next point; and the Seneca chief and two of his followers proceeded to the spot nearer to the Indian village. Each party as they landed struck straight into the woods, to unite at a point eight miles from the lake and as many from the village. The hunters had agreed that, should any Indians come across the tracks, less suspicion would be excited than would have been the case were they found skirting the river, as it might be thought that they were made by Indians out hunting.

Harold wondered how the other parties would find the spot to which Pearson had directed them, but in due time all arrived at the rendezvous. After some search a spot was found where the underwood grew thickly, and there was an open place in the center of the clump. In this the camp was established. It was composed solely of a low tent of about two feet high, made of deer's hides sewed together, and large enough to shelter them all. The snow was cleared away, sticks were driven into the frozen ground, and strong poles laid across them; the deerskin was then laid flat upon these. The top was little higher than the general level of the snow, an inch or two of snow was scattered over it, and to anyone passing outside the bushes the tent was completely invisible.

The Indians now went outside the thicket and with great care obliterated, as far as possible, the marks upon the snow. This could not be wholly done, but it was so far complete that the slightest wind which would send a drift over the surface would wholly conceal all traces of passage.

They had, before crossing the lake, cooked a supply of food sufficient for some days. Intense as was the cold outside, it was perfectly warm in the tent. The entrance as they crept into it was closed with a blanket, and in the center a lamp composed of deer's fat in a calabash with a cotton wick gave a sufficient light.

"What is the next move?" Harold asked.

"The chief 'll start, when it comes dusk, with Pearson," Peter said. "When they git close to the village he'll go in alone. He'll paint Iroquois before he goes."

"Cannot we be near at hand to help them in case of a necessity," Harold asked.

"No," Peter said. "It wouldn't be no good at all. Ef it comes to fighting they're fifty to one, and the lot of us would have no more chance than two. If they're found out, which aint likely, they must run for it, and they can get over the snow a deal faster than you could, to say nothing of Cameron and Jake. They must shift for themselves and 'll make straight for the nearest canoe. In the forest they must be run down sooner or later, for their tracks would be plain. No, they must go alone."

When night came on the Seneca produced his paints, and one of his followers marked his face and arms with the lines and flourishes in use by the Iroquois; then without a word of adieu he took his rifle and glided out from the tent, followed by Pearson. Peter also put on his snow-shoes and prepared to follow.

"I thought you were going to stay here, Peter."

"No, I'm going halfway with 'em. I'll be able to hear the sound of a gun. Then, ef they're trapped, we must make tracks for the canoes at once, for after following 'em to the lake they're safe to take up their back track to see where they've come from; so, ef I hear a gun, I'll make back here as quick as I can come."

When the three men had started silence fell on the tent. The redskins at once lay down to sleep, and Jake followed their example. Harold lay quiet thinking over the events which had happened to him in the last three years, while Cameron lay with his face turned toward the lamp with a set, anxious look on his face. Several times he crawled to the entrance and listened when the crack made by some breaking bough came to his ear. Hours passed and at last Harold dozed off, but Cameron's eyes never closed until about midnight the blanket at the entrance moved and Peter entered.

"Hae ye seen the ithers?" Cameron exclaimed.

"No, and were not likely to," Peter answered. "It was all still to the time I came away, and afore I moved I was sure they must have left the village. They won't come straight back, bless ye; they'll go 'way in the opposite direction and make a sweep miles round. They may not be here for hours yet; not that there's much chance of their tracks being traced. It has not snowed for over a week, and the snow round the village must be trampled thick for a mile and more, with the squaws coming and going for wood and the hunters going out on the chase. I've crossed a dozen tracks or more on my way back. Ef it wasn't for that we daren't have gone at all, for ef the snow was new fallen the sight of fresh tracks would have set the first Injun that come along a-wondering; and when a redskin begins to wonder he sets to to ease his mind at once by finding out all about it, ef it takes him a couple of days' sarch to do so. No, you can lie down now for some hours. They won't be here till morning."

So saying, the scout set the example by wrapping himself up and going to sleep, but Cameron's eyes never closed until the blanket was drawn on one side again and in the gray light of the winter morning the Seneca and Pearson crawled into the tent.

"What news?" Harold asked, for Cameron was too agitated to speak.

"Both gals are there," Pearson answered.

An exclamation of thankfulness broke from Harold. A sob of joy issued from the heart of the Scotchman, and for a few minutes his lips moved as he poured forth his silent thankfulness to God.

"Waal, tell us all about it," Peter said. "I can ask the chief any questions afterward."

"We went on straight enough to the village," the hunter began. "It are larger than when I saw it last, and War Eagle's influence in the tribe must have increased. I didn't expect to find no watch, the redskins having, so far as they knew, no enemies within five hundred mile of 'em. There was a lot of fires burning and plenty of redskins moving about among 'em. We kept on till we got quite close, and then we lay up for a time below a tree at the edge of the clearing. There were a sight too many of 'em about for the Seneca to go in yet awhile. About half an hour arter we got there we saw two white gals come outen one of the wigwams and stand for a while to warm theirselves by one of the fires. The tallest of the two, well-nigh a woman, was Nelly Welch. I knew her, in course. The other was three or four years younger, with yaller hair over her shoulders. Nelly seemed quiet and sad-like, but the other 'peared more at homeshe laughed with some of the redskin gals and even jined in their play. You see," he said, turning to Cameron, "she'd been captured longer and children's spirits soon rise again. Arter a while they went back to the wigwam." When the fires burned down and the crowd thinned, and there was only a few left sitting in groups round the embers, the Seneca started. For a long time I saw nothing of him, but once or twice I thought I saw a figure moving among the wigwams. Presently the fires burned quite down and the last Injun went off. I had begun to wonder what the chief was doing, when he stood beside me. We made tracks at once and have been tramping in a long circle all night. The chief can tell ye his part of the business hisself."

"Well, chief, what have you found out?" Peter asked.

The Indian answered in his native tongue, which Peter interpreted from time to time for the benefit of his white companions:

"When Deer Tail left the white hunter he went into the village. It was no use going among the men, and he went round by the wigwams and listened to the chattering of the squaws. The tribe were all well contented, for the band brought back a great deal of plunder which they had picked up on their way back from the army. They had lost no braves and everyone was pleased. The destruction of the settlement of the white man who had repulsed them before was a special matter for rejoicing. The scalps of the white man and his wife are in the village. War Eagle's son, Young Elk, is going to marry the white girl. There are several of the braves whose heads have been turned by the white skin and her bright eyes, but Young Elk is going to have her. There have been great feastings and rejoicings since the return of the warriors, but they are to be joined tomorrow by Beaver's band, and then they will feast again. When all was quiet I went to the wigwam where the white girls are confined. An old squaw and two of War Eagle's daughters are with them. Deer Tail had listened while they prepared for rest and knew on which side of the wigwam the tall white maiden slept. He thought that she would be awake. Her heart would be sad and sleep would not come to her soon, so he crept round there and cut a slit in the skin close to where she lay. He put his head in at the hole and whispered, 'Do not let the white girl be afraid; it is a friend. Does she hear him?' She whispered, 'Yes.' 'Friends are near,' he said. 'The young warrior Harold, whom she knows, and others, are at hand to take her away. The Iroquois will be feasting to-morrow night. When she hears the cry of a night-owl let her steal away with her little white sister and she will find her friends waiting.' Then Deer Tail closed the slit and stole away to his friend the white hunter. I have spoken."

"Jest what I expected of you, chief," Peter said warmly. "I thought as how you'd manage to git speech with 'em somehow. If there's a feast to-night, it's hard ef we don't manage to get 'em off."

"I suppose we must lie still all day, Peter."

"You must so," the hunter said. "Not a soul must show his nose outside the tent except that one of the redskins'll keep watch to be sure that no straggler has come across our tracks and followed 'em up. Ef he was to do that, he might bring the hull gang down on us. Ye'd best get as much sleep as ye can, for ye don't know when ye may get another chance."

At nightfall the whole party issued from the tent and started toward the Indian village. All arrangements had been made. It was agreed that Pearson and the Seneca should go up to the village, the former being chosen because he was known to Nelly. Peter and one of the redskins were to take post a hundred yards further back, ready to give assistance in case of alarm, while the rest were to remain about half a mile distant. Cameron had asked that he might go with the advance party, but upon Peter pointing out to him that his comparatively slow rate of progression in snow-shoes would, in case of discovery, lead to the recapture of the girls, he at once agreed to the decision. If the flight of the girls was discovered soon after leaving the camp, it was arranged that the Seneca and Peter should hurry at once with them to the main body, while the other two Indians should draw off their pursuers in another direction. In the event of anything occurring to excite the suspicion of the Indians before there was a chance of the girls being brought safely to the main body, they were to be left to walk quietly back to camp, as they had nothing to fear from the Indians. Peter and the Seneca were then to work round by a circuitous route to the boat, where they were to be joined by the main body, and to draw off until another opportunity offered for repeating the attempt.

It was eight o'clock in the evening when Pearson and the Seneca approached the village. The fires were burning high, and seated round them were all the warriors of the tribe. A party were engaged in a dance representing the pursuit and defeat of an enemy. The women were standing in an outer circle, clapping their hands and raising their voices in loud cries of applause and excitement as the dance became faster and faster. The warriors bounded high, brandishing their tomahawks. A better time could not have been chosen for the evasion of the fugitives. Nelly Welch stood close to a number of Indian girls, but slightly behind them. She held the hand of little Janet Cameron.

Although she appeared to share in the interest of the Indians in the dance, a close observer would have had no difficulty in perceiving that Nelly was preoccupied. She was, indeed, intently listening for the signal. She was afraid to move from among the others lest her absence should be at once detected, but so long as the noise was going on she despaired of being able to hear the signal agreed upon. Presently an Indian brave passed close to her, and as he did so whispered in her ear in English, "Behind your wigwamfriends there." Then he passed on and moved round the circle as if intending to take his seat at another point.

The excitement of the dance was momentarily increasing, and the attention of the spectators was riveted to the movements of the performers. Holding Janet's hand, Nelly moved noiselessly away from the place where she had been standing. The movement was unnoticed, as she was no longer closely watched, a flight in the depth of winter appearing impossible. She kept round the circle till no longer visible from the spot she had left. Then, leaving the crowd, she made her way toward the nearest wigwams. Once behind these the girls stole rapidly along under their shelter until they stood behind that which they usually inhabited. Two figures were standing there. They hesitated for a moment, but one of them advanced.

"Jack Pearson!" Nelly exclaimed, with a low cry of gladness.

"Jest that same, Nelly, and right glad to see you. But we've no time for greeting now; the hull tribe may be after us in another five minutes. Come along, pretty," he said, turning to Janet. "You'll find somebody ye know close at hand."

Two minutes later the child was in her father's arms, and after a moment's rapturous greeting between father and child and a very delighted one between Nelly Welch and her Cousin Harold, the flight was continued.

"How long a start do you think we may have?"

"Half an hour, maybe. The women may be some time afore they miss her, and they'll sarch for her everywhere afore they give the alarm, as they'll be greatly blamed for their carelessness."

There had been a pause in the flight for a few seconds when the Seneca and Pearson arrived with the girls at the point where Peter and the other Indian were posted, two hundred yards from the camp. Up to this point the snow was everywhere thickly trampled, but as the camp was left further behind the footprints would naturally become more scarce. Here Pearson fastened to the girls' feet two pairs of large moccasins; inside these wooden soles had been placed. They therefore acted to some extent like snowshoes and prevented the girls' feet from sinking deeply, while the prints which they left bore no resemblance to their own. They were strapped on the wrong way, so that the marks would seem to point toward the village rather than away from it. Both girls protested that they should not be able to get along fast in these encumbrances, but one of the men posted himself on either side of each and assisted them along, and as the moccasins were very light, even with the wooden soles inside, they were soon able to move with them at a considerable pace.

Once united the whole party kept along at the top of their speed. Peter Lambton assisted Cameron with Janet, and the girl, half-lifted from the ground, skimmed over the surface like a bird, only touching the snow here and there with the moccasins. Nelly Welch needed no assistance from Harold or Pearson. During the long winters she had often practiced on snow-shoes, and was consequently but little encumbered with the huge moccasins, which to some extent served the same purpose.

They had been nearly half an hour on their way when they heard a tremendous yell burst from the village.

"They've missed you," Peter said. "Now it's a fair race. We've got a good start and 'll git more, for they'll have to hunt up the traces very carefully, and it may be an hour, perhaps more, before they strike upon the right one. Ef the snow had been new fallen we should have had 'em arter us in five minutes; but even a redskin's eye will be puzzled to find out at night one track among such hundreds."

"I have but one fear," Pearson said to Harold.

"What is that?"

"I'm afeared that without waiting to find the tracks they may send off half a dozen parties to the lake. They'll be sure that friends have taken the gals away, and will know that their only chance of escape is by the water. On land we should be hunted down to a certainty, and the redskins, knowing that the gals could not travel fast, will not hurry in following up the trail. So I think they'll at once send off parties to watch the lake, and 'll like enough make no effort to take up the trail till to-morrow morning."

This was said in a low whisper, for although they were more than two miles from the village it was necessary to move as silently as possible.

"You had best tell the others what you think, Pearson. It may make a difference in our movements."

A short halt was called, and the Seneca and Peter quite agreed with Pearson's idea.

"We'd best make for the canoe that's furthest off. When the redskins find the others, which they're pretty sure to do, for they'll hunt every bush, they're likely to be satisfied and to make sure they'll ketch us at one or the other."

This much decided upon, they continued their flight, now less rapidly, but in perfect silence. Speed was less an object than concealment. The Indians might spread, and a party might come across them by accident. If they could avoid this, they were sure to reach their canoe before morning and unlikely to find the Indians there before them.

It was about twelve miles to the spot where they had hidden the canoe, and although they heard distant shouts and whoops ringing through the forest, no sound was heard near them.

CHAPTER XV.

THE ISLAND REFUGE.

The night was intensely cold and still and the stars shone brightly through the bare boughs overhead. "Are you sure you are going all right?" Nelly asked Harold. "It is so dark here that it seems impossible to know which way we are going." "You can trust the Indians," Harold said. "Even if there was not a star to be seen they could find their way by some mysterious instinct. How you are grown, Nelly! Your voice does not seem much changed, and I am longing to see your face."

"I expect you are more changed than I am, Harold," the girl answered. "You have been going through so much since we last met, and you seem to have grown so tall and big. Your voice has changed very much, too; it is the voice of a man. How in the world did you find us here?"

Pearson had gone on ahead to speak to the Seneca, but he now joined them again.

"You mustn't talk," he said. "I hope there's no redskins within five miles of us now, but there's never any saying where they may be."

There was, Harold thought, a certain sharpness in the hunter's voice, which told of a greater anxiety than would be caused by the very slight risk of the quietly spoken words being heard by passing redskins, and he wondered what it could be.

They were now, he calculated, within a mile of the hiding place where they had left the boat, and they had every reason for believing that none of the Indians would be likely to have followed the shore so far. That they would be pursued and that, in so heavily laden a canoe, they would have great difficulty in escaping, he was well aware, but he relied on the craft of the hunters and Senecas for throwing their pursuers off the trail.

All at once the trees seemed to open in front, and in a few minutes the party reached the river. A cry of astonishment and of something akin to terror broke from Harold. As far as the eye could reach the lake was frozen. Their escape was cut off.

"That's jest what I've been expecting," Pearson said. "The ice had begun to form at the edge when we landed, and three days and nights of such frost as we've had since was enough to freeze Ontario. What on arth's to be done?"

No one answered. Peter and the redskins had shared Pearson's anxiety, but to Harold and Cameron the disappointment was a terrible one; as to Jake, he left all the thinking to be done by the others. Harold stood gazing helplessly on the expanse of ice which covered the water. It was not a smooth sheet, but was rough and broken, as if, while it had been forming, the wind had broken the ice up into cakes again and again, while the frost as often had bound them together.

They had struck the river within a few hundred yards of the place where the canoe was hidden, and, after a short consultation between the Seneca chief, Peter Lambton, and Pearson, moved down toward that spot.

"What are you thinking of doing?" Harold asked when they gathered round the canoe.

"We're going to load ourselves with the ammunition and deer's flesh," Peter said, "and make for a rocky island which lies about a mile off here. I noticed it as we landed. There's nothing to do but to fight it out to the last there. It are a good place for defense, for the redskins won't like to come out across the open, and, even covered by a dark night, they'd show on this white surface."

"Perhaps they won't trace us."

"Not trace us!" the trapper repeated scornfully. "Why, when daylight comes, they'll pick up our track and follow it as easy as you could that of a wagon across the snow."

They were just starting when Harold gave a little exclamation.

"What is it, lad?"

"A flake of snow fell on my face."

All looked up. The stars had disappeared. Another flake and another fell on the upturned faces of the party.

"Let's thank the great God," Peter said quietly. "There's a chance for our lives yet. Half an hour's snow and the trail 'll be lost."

Faster and faster the snowflakes came down. Again the leaders consulted.

"We must change our plans, now," Peter said, turning to the others. "So long as they could easily follow our tracks it mattered nothing that they'd find the canoe here; but now it's altogether different. We must take it along with us."

The weight of the canoe was very small. The greater part of its contents had already been removed. There was a careful look round to see that nothing remained on the bank; then four of the men lifted it on their shoulders, and the whole party stepped out upon the ice. The snow was now falling heavily, and to Harold's eyes there was nothing to guide them in the direction they were following. Even the Indians would have been at a loss had not the Seneca, the instant the snow began to fall, sent on one of his followers at full speed toward the island. Harold wondered at the time what his object could be as the Indian darted off across the ice, but now he understood. Every minute or two the low hoot of an owl was heard, and toward this sound the party directed their way through the darkness and snow.

So heavy was the fall that the island rose white before them as they reached it. It was of no great extentsome twenty or thirty yards across, and perhaps twice that length. It rose steeply from the water to a height of from ten to fifteen feet. The ground was rough and broken, and several trees and much brushwood grew in the crevices of the rock.

The Seneca and the hunters made a rapid examination of the island, and soon fixed upon the spot for their camp. Toward one end the island was split in two, and an indentation ran some distance up into it. Here a clear spot was found some three or four feet above the level of the water. It was completely hidden by thick bushes from the sight of anyone approaching by water. There the canoe was turned over, and the girls, who were both suffering from the intense cold, were wrapped up in blankets and placed under its shelter. The camp was at the lower end of the island and would, therefore, be entirely hidden from view of Indians gathered upon the shore. In such a snowstorm light would be invisible at a very short distance, and Peter did not hesitate to light a fire in front of the canoe.

For three hours the snow continued to fall. The fire had been sheltered by blankets stretched at some distance above it. Long before the snow ceased it had sunk down to a pile of red embers. A small tent had now been formed of blankets for the use of the girls; brushwood had been heaped over this, and upon the brushwood snow had been thrown, the whole making a shelter which would be warm and comfortable in the bitterest weather. A pile of hot embers was placed in this little tent until it was thoroughly heated; blankets were then spread, and the girls were asked to leave the shelter of the canoe and take their place there.

The canoe itself was now raised on four sticks three feet from the ground; bushes were laid round it and snow piled on, thus forming the walls of which the canoe was the roof. All this was finished long before the snow had ceased falling, and this added a smooth white surface all over, so that, to a casual eye, both tent and hut looked like two natural ridges of the ground. They were a cheerful party which assembled in the little hut. The remainder of the embers of the fire had been brought in, and, intense as was the cold outside, it was warm and comfortable within. Tea was made and pipes filled, and they chatted some time before going to sleep.

Duncan Cameron was like a man transfigured. His joy and thankfulness for the recovery of his daughter were unbounded. Harold's pleasure, too, at the rescue of his cousin was very great, and the others were all gratified at the success of their expedition. It was true that the Indians had as yet gained no scalps, but Harold had promised them before starting that, should the expedition be successful, they should be handsomely rewarded.

"We mustn't reckon as we are safe yet," Peter said in answer to one of Harold's remarks. "The redskins aint going to let us slip through their fingers so easy as all that. They've lost our trail and have nothing but their senses to guide 'em, but an Injun's senses aint easily deceived in these woods. Ef this snow begins again and keeps on for two or three days they may be puzzled; but ef it stops they'll cast a circle round their camp at a distance beyond where we could have got before the snow ceased, and ef they find no new trails they'll know that we must be within that circle. Then, as to the boats, when they find as we don't come down to the two as they've discovered, and that we've not made off by land, they'll guess as there was another canoe hidden somewhere, and they'll sarch high and low for it. Waal, they won't find it; and then they'll suppose that we may have taken to the ice, and they'll sarch that. Either they'll git to open water or to the other side. Ef there's open water anywhere within a few miles they may conclude that we've carried a canoe, launched it there, and made off. In that case, when they've sarched everywhere, they may give it up. Ef there aint no such open water, they'll sarch till they find us. It aint likely that this island will escape 'em. With nine good rifles here we can hold the place against the hull tribe, and as they'd show up against the snow, they can no more attack by night than by day."

"I don't think our food will hold out beyond seven or eight days," Harold said.

"Jest about that," Peter answered; "but we can cut a hole in the ice and fish, and can hold out that way, if need be, for weeks. The wust of it is that the ice aint likely to break up now until the spring. I reckon our only chance is to wait till we git another big snowstorm and then to make off. The. snow will cover our trail as fast as we make it, and, once across to the other shore, we may git away from the varmints. But I don't disguise from you, Harold, that we're in a very awk'ard trouble, and that it 'll need all the craft of the chief, here, and all the experience of Pearson and me to get us out of it."

"The guid God has been vera merciful to us sae far," Duncan Cameron said; "he will surely protect us to the end. Had he na sent the snow just when he did, the savages could hae followed our trail at once; it was a miracle wrought in our favor. He has aided us to rescue the twa bairns frae the hands of the Indians, and we may surely trust in his protection to the end. My daughter and her friend hae, I am very sure, before lying down to sleep, entreated his protection. Let us a' do the same."

And the old soldier, taking off his cap, prayed aloud to God to heed and protect them.

Harold and the frontiersmen also removed their caps and joined in the prayer, and the Senecas looked on, silent and reverent, at an act of worship which was rare among their white companions.

As Peter was of opinion that there was no chance whatever of any search on the part of the Indians that night, and therefore there was no need to set a watch, the whole party wrapped themselves up in their blankets and were soon asleep.

When Harold woke next morning it was broad daylight. The Senecas had already been out and had brought news that a strong party of Indians could be seen moving along the edge of the forest, evidently searching for a canoe. One of the Indians was placed on watch, and two or three hours later he reported that the Indians were now entirely out of sight and were, when last seen, scouting along the edge of the forest.

"Now," Peter said, "the sooner we git another snowstorm the better. Ef we'd been alone we could have pushed on last night, but the gals was exhausted and would soon have died of the cold. Now, with a fresh start they'd do. Ef we can't cross the lake I calculate that we're about thirty mile from a p'int on the north shore below the falls of Ste. Marie, and we could land there and strike across through the woods for the settlement. It'd be a terrible long journey round the north of Huron, but we must try it ef we can't get across."

"But we could go off by night, surely," Harold said, "even if there is no fresh snow."

"We could do that," Peter replied; "no doubt of it. But ef they were to find our track the next day, ay, or within three days, they'd follow us and overtake us afore we got to the settlements. Ef we was alone, it'd be one thing; but with the gals it'd be another altogether. No, we must stop here till a snowstorm comes, even if we have to stop for a month. There's no saying how soon some of them Injuns may be loafing round, and we daren't leave a trail for 'em to take up."

They had scarcely ceased speaking when a low call from the Indian placed on watch summoned the chief to his side. A minute later the latter rejoined the group below and said a few words to Peter.

"Jest as I thought!" the latter grumbled, rising with his rifle across his arm. "Here are some of the varmints coming out this 'ere way. Likely enough it's a party of young braves jest scouting about on their own account, to try and get honor by discovering us when their elders have failed. It would have been better for them to have stopped at home."

The party now crept up to the top of the rock, keeping carefully below its crest.

"Ef you show as much as a hair above the top line," Peter said, "they'll see you, sartin."

"Would it not be well," Harold asked, "for one of us to show himself? There is no possibility of further concealment, and if they go off without any of them being killed the others might be less bitter against us than they would if they had lost some of their tribe."

Peter laughed scornfully.

"Ye haven't had much to do with Injuns, lad, but I should have thought you'd have had better sense nor that. Haven't these Injuns been a-murdering and a-slaying along the frontier all the summer, falling on defenseless women and children? Marcy and pity aint in their natur, and, fight or no fight, our scalps will dry in their wigwams if they get us into their power. They know that we can shoot and mean to, and that 'll make 'em careful of attacking us, and every hour is important. Now," he said to the others, "each of you cover a man and fire straight through your sights when I gives the word. There's others watching 'em, you may be sure, and ef the whole five go down together, it'll make 'em think twice afore they attack us again."

Peering between some loose rocks, so that he could see without exposing his head above the line, Harold watched the five Indians approaching. They had evidently some doubts as to the wisdom of the course they were pursuing, and were well aware that they ran a terrible risk standing there in the open before the rifles of those concealed, should the fugitives be really there. Nevertheless, the hope of gaining distinction and the fear of ridicule from those watching them on shore, should they turn back with their mission unaccomplished, inspired them with resolution. When within three hundred yards of the island they halted for a long time. They stood gazing fixedly; but, although no signs of life could be perceived, they were too well versed in Indian warfare to gain any confidence from the apparent stillness. Throwing themselves flat on the snow and following each other in single line, by which means their bodies were nearly concealed from sight in the track which their leader made through the light, yielding snow, they made a complete circuit of the island. They paused for some time opposite the little forked entrance in which the camp was situated, but apparently saw nothing, for they kept round until they completed the circuit.

When they reached the point from which they had started there was, apparently, a short consultation among them. Then they continued their course in the track that they had before made until they reached a spot facing the camp. Then they changed order, and, still prone in the snow, advanced abreast toward the island.

"The varmints have guessed that, if we are here, this is the place where we'd be hid," Peter whispered in Harold's ear.

As the Indians made their circuit the party in the island had changed their position so as always to keep out of sight. They were now on the top of the island, which was a sort of rough plateau. The girls had been warned, when they left them, to remain perfectly quiet in their shelter whatever noise they might hear. Peter and the Seneca watched the Indians through holes which they had made with their ramrods through a bank of snow. The others remained flat in the slight depression behind it. At the distance of one hundred and fifty yards the Indians stopped.

"The varmints see something!" Peter said. "Maybe they can make out the two snow heaps through the bushes; maybe they can see some of our footsteps in the snow. They're going to fire!" he exclaimed. "Up, lads! They may send a bullet into the hut whar the gals is hid."

In an instant the line of men sprang to their feet. The Indians, taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of a larger number of enemies than they expected, fired a hasty volley and then sprang to their feet and dashed toward the shore. But they were deadly rifles which covered them. Peter, Harold, and Pearson could be trusted not to miss even a rapidly moving object at that distance, and the men were all good shots. Not in regular order, but as each covered his man, the rifles were discharged. Four out of the five Indians fell, and an arm of the fifth dropped useless by his side; however, he still kept on. The whites reloaded rapidly, and Harold was about to fire again when Pearson put his hand on his shoulder.

"Don't fire! We've shown them that we can shoot straight. It's jest as well at present that they shouldn't know how far our rifles will carry."

The four Senecas dashed out across the snow and speedily returned, each with a scalp hanging at his belt.

A loud yell of anger and lamentation had risen from the woods skirting the shore as the Indians fell, but after this died away deep silence reigned.

"What will be their next move?" Cameron asked Peter, as they gathered again in their low hut, having placed one of the Indians on watch.

"We'll hear nothing of 'em till nightfall," Peter said. "Their first move, now they know as we're here, will be to send off to fetch up all the tribe who're in search of us. When it comes on dark they'll send scouts outside of us on the ice to see as we don't escapenot that they'd much mind ef we did, for they could track us through the snow and come up with us whenever they chose. No, they may be sure we'll stay where we are. It may be they'll attack us to-night, maybe not. It'd be a thing more risksome than redskins often undertake to cross the snow under the fire of nine rifles. I aint no doubt they'd try and starve us out, for they must know well enough that we can have no great store of provisions. But they know as well as we do that, if another snowstorm comes on, we might slip away from 'em without leaving a foot-mark behind. It's jest that thought as may make 'em attack."

"Well, we can beat them off, if they do," Harold said confidently.

"Waal, we may and we may not," the scout answered. "Anyhow we can kill a grist of 'em afore they turn us out on this 'ere island."

"That's sartin enough," Pearson put in; "but they're a strong tribe, and ef they can harden their hearts and make a rush it's all up with us. I allow that it's contrary to their custom, but when they see no other way to do with, they may try."

"I suppose if they do try a rush," Harold said, "they will do it against this end of the island?"

"Yes, you may bet your money on that," the scout answered. "In other places the rock goes pretty nigh straight up from the water, but here it's an easy landing. Being so close to 'em they're sure to know all about it; but even if they didn't, the chap that got away would tell 'em. I don't much expect an attack to-nightthe bands won't be back yet. They'll have a grand palaver to-night, and there'll be a big talk afore they decide what is best to be done; so I think we're safe for to-night. To-morrow we'll set to work and build a shelter for the pretty ones up above, where they'll be safe from stray shots. Then we'll throw up a breastwork with loose rocks on the top of the slope round this cove, so as to give it to 'em hot when they land."

"You have plenty of powder?" Harold asked.

"Dollops," Peter replied; "more'n we could fire away if we was besieged here for a month."

"Then you could spare me twenty pounds or so?"

"We could spare you a whole keg if you like; we've got three full. But what are you thinking of now, young un?"

"I was thinking," Harold answered, "of forming a line of holes, say three feet apart, in the ice across the mouth of the cove. If we were to charge them with powder and lay a train between them, we could, when the first dozen or so have passed the line, fire the train and break up the ice. This would prevent the others following, and give them such a bad scare that they would probably make off, and we could easily deal with those who had passed the line before we fired it."

"That's a good idea of yours, lad. A fust-rate idea. The ice must be a foot thick by this time, and ef you put in your charges eight inches and tamp 'em well down you'll shiver the ice for a long way round. The idea is a fust-rate one."

Pearson and Cameron assisted in the work, and the Indians, when Peter had explained the plan to them, gave deep gutteral exclamations of surprise and approval. The process of blasting was one wholly unknown to them.

"I will mak' the holes," Cameron said. "I hae seen a deal of blasting when I was in the army. I can heat the end of a ramrod in a fire and hammer it into the shape of a borer."

"A better way than that, Cameron," Harold said, "will be to heat the end of a ramrod white-hot. You will melt holes in the ice in half the time it would take you to bore them. That was what I was thinking of doing."

"Right you are, lad!" Pearson said. "Let's set about it at once."

A large fire was now lighted outside the hut, for there was no longer any occasion for secrecy. The ends of three or four of the ramrods were placed in the fire, and two lines of holes were bored in the ice across the mouth of the little cove. These lines were twelve feet apart, and they calculated that the ice between them would be completely broken up, even if the fractures did not extend a good way beyond the lines. The holes were of rather larger diameter than the interior of a gun barrel. It was found that the ice was about fifteen inches thick, and the holes were taken down ten inches. Three or four charges of powder were placed in each; a stick of a quarter of an inch in diameter was then placed in each hole, and pounded ice was rammed tightly in around it until the holes were filled up, a few drops of water being poured in on the top, so as to freeze the whole into a solid mass. There was no fear of the powder being wetted, for the frost was intense. Then the sticks were withdrawn and the holes left filled with powder. With the heated ramrods little troughs were sunk half an inch deep, connecting the tops of the holes; lines of powder were placed in these trenches; narrow strips of skin were laid over them, and the snow was then thrown on again. The two lines of trenches were connected at the ends at the shore, so that they could be fired simultaneously.

While the men were occupied with this work the girls had cooked some venison steaks and made some cakes.

It was just nightfall when they had finished, and all sat down and enjoyed a hearty meal. Peter and one of the Senecas undertook the watch for half the night, when they were to be relieved by Pearson and the chief. The early part of the night passed off quietly, but an hour before morning the party were aroused by the sharp crack of two rifles. Seizing their arms, all rushed out.

"What is it, Pearson?"

"Two of their scouts," Pearson answered, pointing to two dark bodies on the snow at a distance of about one hundred yards. "I suppose they wanted to see ef we was on the watch. We made 'em out almost as soon as they left the shore, but we let 'em come on until we was sartin of our aim. There aint no more about as we can see, so ye can all turn in again for another hour or two."

There was no fresh alarm before morning, and, when the sun rose, it shone over a wide expanse of snow, unbroken save where lay the bodies of the two Indianswhose scalps already hung at the belt of the Senecaand those of their four comrades who had fallen in the first attack.

The day passed quietly. Toward the afternoon two Indians were seen approaching from the shore. They were unarmed and held their hands aloft as a sign of amity. Peter and Pearson at once laid down their guns, left the island, and advanced to meet them. They were Indian chiefs of importance.

"Why have my white brothers stolen in at night upon the village of War Eagle and slain his young men?"

"It is what you have been doing all last year, chief," Pearson, who spoke the dialect better than Peter, replied. "But we injured no one. We didn't kill women and children, as your warriors have done in the white villages. We only came to take what you had stolen from us, and ef your young men have been killed it's only because they tried to attack us."

"The white men must see," the chief said, "that they cannot get away. The water is hard, and their canoe will not swim in it. The snow is deep, and the tender feet cannot walk through it. My warriors are very numerous, and the white men cannot fight their way through them. The white settlements are very far away, and their friends cannot reach them; and it will be many months before the water softens, and long before that the white men will have eaten their moccasins."

"Waal, chief," Pearson said, "we're in a tight hole, I grant you; but I'm far from allowing that we aint no chances left to us yet. What do you propose? I suppose you've some proposition to make."

"Let the white men leave behind them their guns and their powder and the maidens they have taken from War Eagle's camp; then let them go in peace. They shall not be harmed."

Pearson gave a short laugh.

"War Eagle must think the white men are foolish. What's to prevent the red warriors from taking all our scalps when our arms are in their hands?"

"The word of a great chief," War Eagle said. "War Eagle never lies."

"You may not lie, chief," Pearson said bluntly, "but I've known many a treaty broken afore now. You and your people may not touch us, but there's other redskins about, and I wouldn't give a beaver's skin for our sculps ef we were to take the back trail to the settlements without arms in our hands. Besides that, we've among us the father of the gal who was stole far away off from Lake Champlain, and a relative of hers whose parents you've killed down on the lake. Ef we were to agree to give up our arms, it stands to reason it aint likely they'd agree to give up the gals. No, no, chief; your terms aren't reasonable. But I tell ye what we will do; ef you'll give us your word that neither you nor your tribe'll molest us in our retreat we'll go back to the settlements, and 'll engage that, when we get back there, we'll send you nine of the best rifles money can buy, with plenty of powder and ball, and blankets and such like."

The chief waved his hand in contemptuous refusal of the terms.

"There are six of my young men's scalps at your girdles, and their places are empty. War Eagle has spoken."

"Very well, chief," Pearson said. "Ef nothing but sculps will content you, to fighting it must come; but I warn you that your tribe'll lose a good many more afore they get ours."

So saying, without another word, they separated, each party making their way back to their friends.

"What on earth can he have proposed such terms as those for?" Harold asked, when Pearson had related what had taken place between him and the chief. "He must have known we should not accept them."

"I expect," Pearson said, "he wanted to see who we were and to judge what sort of spirit we had. It may be, too, that there was a party among the tribe who had no stomachs for the job of attacking this place, and so he was obliged to make a show of offering terms to please 'em; but he never meant as they should be accepted. No, I take it they'll wait a few days to see what hunger'll do. They must be pretty sure that we've not a very large supply of food."

CHAPTER XVI.

THE GREAT STORM.

"Let us overhaul our packages," Harold said, "and see what provisions we have left. It would be as well to know how we stand."

It was found that they had a sufficient supply of flour to last, with care, for a fortnight. The meal was nearly exhausted; of tea they had an abundance; the sugar was nearly out, and they had three bottles of spirits.

"Could we not make the flour last more than the fourteen days by putting ourselves on half rations?" Harold asked.

"We might do that," Peter said, "but I tell you the rations would be small even for fourteen days. We've calkilated according to how much we eat when we've plenty of meat, but without meat it'd be only a starvation ration to each. Fortunately we've fish-hooks and lines, and by making holes in the ice we can get as many fish as we like. Waal, we can live on them alone, if need be, and an ounce or two of flour, made into cakes, will be enough to go with 'em. That way the flour would last us pretty nigh two months. I don't say that, if the wust comes to the wust, we might not hold on right to the spring on fish. The lake's full of 'em, and some of 'em have so much oil in 'em that they're nigh as good as meat."

"Do you think, Peter, that if the Indians make one great attack and are beaten off they will try again?"

"No one can say," Peter answered. "Injun natur' can't never be calkilated on. I should say if they got a thundering beating they aint likely to try again; but there's never no saying."

"The sooner they attack and get it o'er the better," Cameron said. "I hae na slept a wink the last twa nights. If I doze off for a moment I wake up, thinking I hear their yells. I am as ready to fight as ony o' you when the time comes, but the thought o' my daughter, here, makes me nervous and anxious. What do you say, Jake?"

"It all de same to Jake, Massa Cameron. Jake sleeps bery sound, but he no like de tought ob eating nothing but fish for five or six months. Jake neber bery fond ob fish."

"You'll like it well enough when you get used to it, Jake," Pearson said. "It's not bad eating on a pinch, only you want to eat a sight of it to satisfy you. Well, let's see how the fish'll bite."

Four holes were cut in the ice at a short distance apart. The hooks were attached to strong lines and baited with deer's flesh, and soon the fishing began. The girls took great interest in the proceeding. Nelly was an adept at the sport, having generally caught the fish for the consumption of the household at home. She took charge of one of the lines, Harold of another, while Jake and one of the Senecas squatted themselves by the other holes. There had been some discussion as to whether the fishing should take place on the side of the island facing the shore or behind the rocks, but the former was decided upon. This was done because all were anxious that the expected attack should take place as soon as possible, and the event was likely to be hastened when the Indians saw that they were provided with lines and were thus able to procure food for a considerable time.

It was soon manifest that, if they could live upon fish, they need feel no uneasiness as to its supply. Scarcely had the lines been let down than fish were fast to them. Harold and the other men soon had trout, from three to six pounds, lying on the ice beside them, but Nelly was obliged to call Pearson to her assistance, and the fish, when brought to the surface, was found to be over twenty pounds in weight. An hour's fishing procured them a sufficient supply for a week's consumption. There was no fear as to the fish keeping, for in a very short time after being drawn from the water they were frozen stiff and hard. They were hung up to some boughs near the huts, and the party were glad enough to get into shelter again, for the cold was intense.

As before, the early part of the night passed quietly; but toward morning Peter, who was on watch, ran down and awakened the others.

"Get your shooting-irons and hurry up," he said. "The varmints are coming this time in arnest."

In a minute everyone was at the post assigned to him. A number of dark figures could be seen coming over the ice.

"There's nigh two hundred of 'em," Peter said. "War Eagle has brought the whole strength of his tribe."

Contrary to their usual practice the Indians did not attempt to crawl up to the place they were about to attack, but advanced at a run across the ice. The defenders lost not a moment in opening fire, for some of their rifles would carry as far as the shore.

"Shoot steady," Peter said. "Don't throw away a shot."

Each man loaded and fired as quickly as he could, taking a steady aim, and the dark figures which dotted the ice behind the advancing Indians showed that the fire was an effectual one. The Indians did not return a shot. Their chief had, no doubt, impressed upon them the uselessness of firing against men lying in shelter, and had urged them to hurry at the top of their speed to the island and crush the whites in a hand-to-hand fight.

It was but three or four minutes from the time the first shot was fired before they were close to the island. They made, as Peter had expected, toward the little cove, which was indeed the only place at which a landing could well be effected. Harold ran down and hid himself in a bush at the spot where the train terminated, carrying with him a glowing brand from the fire.

"War Eagle means to have our sculps this time," Peter said to Pearson. "I never seed an uglier rush. White men couldn't have done better."

The Indians had run in scattered order across the ice, but they closed up as they neared the cove. As they rushed toward it four fell beneath the shots of half the defenders, and another four a few seconds later from a volley by the other section.

In a wonderfully short time the first were ready again, and the Indians wavered at the slaughter and opened fire upon the breastwork, behind which the defenders were crouching. Those behind pressed on, and, with terrific yells, the mass of Indians bounded forward.

Harold had remained inactive, crouching behind the bush. He saw the head of the dark mass rush past him and then applied the brand to the train.

There was a tremendous explosion. Yells and screams rent the air, and in an instant a dark line of water, twenty feet wide, stretched across the mouth of the cove.

In this were pieces of floating ice and numbers of Indians struggling and yelling. Some made only a faint struggle before they sank, while others struck out for the side furthest from the island.

The main body of the Indians, appalled by the explosion, checked themselves in their course and at once took to flight; some, unable to check their impetus, fell into the water upon the wounded wretches who were struggling there. Those who had crossed stood irresolute, and then, turning, leaped into the water. As they struggled to get out on the opposite side the defenders maintained a deadly fire upon them, but, in two or three minutes, the last survivor had scrambled out, and all were in full flight toward the shore.

"I think we've seen the last of the attacks," Peter said, as they came down from their breastwork and joined Harold in the cove. "That was a first-rate notion of yours, lad. Ef it hadn't been for that we should have been rubbed out, sure enough; another minute and we'd have gone down. They were in arnest and no mistake; they'd got steam up and was determined to finish with us at once, whatever it cost 'em."

The instant the attack had ceased Cameron had hastened to the hut where the girls were lying, to assure them that all danger was over and that the Indians were entirely defeated. In an hour a fresh skim of ice had formed across the streak of water, but, as through its clear surface many of the bodies of the Indians could be seen, the men threw snow over it, to spare the girls the unpleasantness of such a sight every time they went out from the cove. The bodies of all the Indians who had fallen near the island were also covered with snow. Those nearer the shore were carried off by the Iroquois in their retreat.

"I suppose, Peter," Harold said as they sat round the fire that evening, "you have been in quite as awkward scrapes as this before and have got out all right?"

"Why, this business aint nothing to that affair we had by Lake Champlain. That were as bad a business, when we was surrounded in that log hut, as ever I went throughand I've been through a good many. Pearson and me nigh got our har raised more nor once in that business of Pontiac's. He were a great chief and managed to get up the biggest confederation agin us that's ever been known. It were well for us that that business didn't begin a few years earlier when we was fighting the French; but you see, so long as we and they was at war the Indians hoped as we might pretty well exterminate each other, and then they intended to come in and finish off whoever got the best of it. Waal, the English they drove the French back and finally a treaty was made in Europe by which the French agreed to clear out.

"It was jest about this time as Pontiac worked upon the tribes to lay aside their own quarrels and jine the French in fighting agin us. He got the Senecas, and the Delawares, and the Shawnees, the Wyandots, and a lot of other tribes from the lakes and the hull country between the Niagara River and the Mississippi.

"Jack Pearson and me, we happened to be with the Miamis when the bloody belt which Pontiac were sending round as a signal for war arrived at the fort there. Jack and me knew the redskins pretty well, and saw by their manner as something unusual had happened. I went to the commandant of the fort and told him as much. He didn't think much of my news. The soldier chaps always despises the redskins till they see 'em come yelling along with their tomahawks, and then as often as not it's jest the other way. Howsumdever, he agreed at last to pay any amount of trade goods I might promise to the Miamis if the news turned out worth finding out. I discovered that a great palaver was to be held that evening at the chief's village, which was a mile away from the fort.

"I'd seen a good deal of the Miamis and had fought with 'em against the Shawnees, so I could do as much with 'em as most. Off Pearson and I goes to the chief; and I says to him, 'Look ye here, chief, I've good reasons to believe you've got a message from Pontiac and that it means trouble. Now don't you go and let yourself be led away by him. I've heard rumors that he's getting up a great confederation agin the English. But I tell you, chief, if all the redskins on this continent was to jine together, they couldn't do nothing agin the English. I don't say as you mightn't wipe out a number of little border forts, for no doubt you might; but what would come of it? England would send out as many men as there are leaves in the forest, who would scorch up the redskin nations as a fire on the prairie scorches up the grass. I tell yer, chief, no good can come on it. Don't build yer hopes on the French; they've acknowledged that they're beaten and are all going out of the country. It'd be best for you and your people to stick to the English. They can reward their friends handsomely, and ef you jine with Pontiac, sooner or later trouble and ruin will come upon you. Now I can promise you, in the name of the officer of the fort, a good English rifle for yerself and fifty guns for your braves and ten bales of blankets ef yer'll make a clean breast of it, and first tell us what deviltry Pontiac is up to and next jine us freelyor anyway hold aloof altogether from this conspiracy till yer see how things is going.'

"Waal, the chief he thought the matter over and said he'd do his best at the palaver that night, but till that was over, and he knew what the council decided on, he couldn't tell me what the message was. I was pretty well satisfied, for Prairie Dog were a great chief in his tribe, and I felt pretty sartin he'd git the council to go the way he wanted. I told him I'd be at the fort and that the governor would expect a message after the council was over.

"It was past midnight when the chief came with four of his braves. He told us that the tribe had received a bloody belt from Pontiac and a message that the Mingoes and Delawares, the Wyandots and Shawnees were going to dig up the hatchet against the whites, and calling upon him and his people to massacre the garrison of the fort and then march to jine Pontiac, who was about to fall upon Detroit and Fort Pitt. They were directed to send the belt on to the tribes on the Wabash, but they loved the English and were determined to take no part against them; so they delivered the belt to their friend the white commander, and hoped that he'd tell the great king in England that the Miamis were faithful to him. The governor highly applauded their conduct and said he'd send the news to the English governor at New York, and at once ordered the presents which I promised to be delivered to the chief for himself and his braves. When they'd gone he said:

"'You were right, Peter. This news is important indeed, and it's clear that a terrible storm's about to bust upon the frontier. Whether the Miamis will keep true is doubtful; but now I'm on my guard they'll find it difficult to take the fort. But the great thing is to carry the news of what's happened to Detroit, to put them on their guard. Will you and Pearson start at once?'

"In course we agreed, though it was clear that the job was a risksome one, for it wouldn't be no easy matter to journey through the woods with the hull redskin tribes on the war-path.

"The commander wanted me to carry the belt with me, but I said, 'I might jest as well carry my death warrant to the first redskins as I come across.' Major Gladwin, who commanded at Detroit, knew me, and I didn't need to carry any proof of my story. So, afore the Miamis had been gone half an hour, Jack and me took the trail for Detroit. We had got a canoe hid on the lake a few miles away, and we was soon on board. The next morning we seed a hull fleet of canoes coming down the lake. We might have made a race with 'em, but being fully manned the chances was as they'd have cut us off, and seeing that at present war had not been declared, we judged it best to seem as if we weren't afeared. So we paddles up to 'em and found as they were a lot of Wyandots whose hunting-grounds lay up by Lake Superior. In course I didn't ask no questions as to whar they was going, but jest mentioned as we was on our way down to Detroit. 'We're going that way, too,' the chief said, 'and 'll be glad to have our white brothers with us.' So we paddled along together until, about noon, they landed. Nothing was said to us as how we were prisoners, but we could see as how we was jest as much captives as ef we'd been tied with buckskin ropes.

"Jack and me talked it over and agreed as it was no manner o' use trying to make our escape, but that as long as they chose to treat us as guests we'd best seem perfectly contented and make no show of considering as they was on the war-path; although, seeing as they had no women or children with 'em, a baby could have known as they were up to no good.

"The next morning they started again at daybreak, and after paddling some hours landed and hid away their canoes and started on foot. Nothing was said to us, but we saw as we was expected to do as they did. We went on till we was within ten mile of Detroit and then we halted. I thought it were best to find out exactly how we stood, so Jack and I goes up to the chief and says that as we was near Detroit we would jest say good-by to him and tramp in.

"'Why should my white brothers hurry?' he said. 'It is not good for them to go on alone, for the woods are very full of Indians.' 'But,' I said, 'the hatchet's buried between the whites and the redskins, so there's no danger in the woods.' The chief waved his hand. 'My white brothers have joined the Wyandots, and they will tarry with them until they go into Detroit. There are many redskins there, and there will be a grand palaver. The Wyandots will be present.'

"Jack and me made no signs of being dissatisfied, but the position weren't a pleasant one, I can tell you. Here was the redskins a-clustering like bees around Detroit, ready to fall upon the garrison and massacre 'em, and we, who was the only men as knew of the danger, was prisoners among the redskins. It was sartin, too, that though they mightn't take our lives till they had attacked the garrison, they was only keeping us for the pleasure of torturing us quietly arterward. The situation was plain enough; the question was, what were to be done? There was about sixty of the varmints around us sitting by their fires and looking as ef they didn't even know as we was there, but we knew as sharp eyes was watching us and that, afore we'd gone five yards, the hull lot would be on our track.

"Jack and me didn't say much to each other, for we knew how closely we was watched and didn't want 'em to think as we was planning our escape, so after a few words we sat down by one of the fires till it got time to lie down for the night; but we had both been a-thinking. We saw, when we lay down, that the Injuns lay pretty well around us, while two on 'em, with their rifles ready to hand, sat down by a fire close by and threw on some logs, as if they intended to watch all night.

"It was a goodish-size clearing as they'd chose for a camping-ground, and we should have had to run some distance afore we got to the shelter of the trees. The moon too was up, and it were well-nigh as light as day, and anxious as we was to git away, we agreed that there were no chance of sliding off, but that it'd be better to wait till next day.

"When we woke our guns was gone. We complained to the chief, who said coldly that his young men would carry the guns and give 'em back to us when we got to Detroit. It were no use saying more, for he might at any moment have ordered us to be bound, and it were better to keep the use of our legs as long as we could.

"For two days we stayed there, not seeing the shadow of a chance of gitting away. Several redskin runners come in and spoke to the chief, and we got more and more anxious to be off. We was still allowed to walk about, provided we didn't go near the edge of the clearing; whenever we went that way two Injuns, who kept guard by turns over us, shouted to us to go no furder.

"The third morning, after a runner had come in, the chief gave the word for a move and we set out. We saw they wasn't taking the direct line to Detroit, although still going in that direction, and after two hours' marching through the woods we got down on to the Detroit River. Here was a big encampment, and some three or four hundred Shawnees and Delawares was gathered here. A chief come up to us as we entered the open. He gave an order to the Wyandots, and in a minute we was bound hand and foot, carried to a small wigwam, and chucked down inside like two logs of wood.

"After a little talk Jack and I agreed as after all we had a better chance of escaping now than when we was watched by a hull tribe, and we concluded that there weren't no time to be lost. The Wyandots had no doubt been brought up in readiness to strike the blow, and even if we'd known nothing about the belt we'd have been, sure that mischief was intended when these three bands of red varmints had gathered so close to the fort. It was sartin we couldn't do nothing till night, but we both strained our cords as much as possible to get 'em to stretch a bit and give us a better chance of slipping out of 'em. No one come near us for some time, and as we could hear the sound of voices we guessed that a great council was taking place, and we agreed at once to loosen the knots, so as to be in readiness for work, as like enough they'd put a sentry over us at night.

"It was a risky thing to try, for we might be disturbed at any minute. Still we thought it were our only chance, so Jack set to work with his teeth at my knots and in a quarter of an hour had loosened them; then I undone his. We unbound our thongs and then fastened 'em up again so that to the eye they looked jest the same as before but really with a jerk they'd fall off.

"I must teach you how to do that, Harold, some time; ye may find it of use. The knots was tied up as tightly as before, and it would have needed a close examination to see that we was not tied as tight as ever. Not a word was spoken and, we was as quiet as mice, for we could hear two redskins talking outside. You may guess we was pretty slick about it; and I don't know as ever I felt so thankful as when we laid ourselves down again, jest as we had been throwed, without the slit in the tent having opened and a red face peered in.

"A quarter of an hour later a redskin come in and looked at us. Seeing, as it seemed to him, as we hadn't moved, he went out again. Jest before nightfall two on 'em came in together, rolled us over, and looked at the knots; they found as these was all right; then one sat down jest in the door of the tent and the other took his place outside. We waited some hours.

"At last the fires burned low and the camp got quiet. We knew it was well-nigh hopeless to wait for 'em all to be asleep, for redskin natur' is a restless one, and especially when there's anything on hand they'll turn out two or three times in the night to smoke their pipes by the fires, and they'd be the more restless since, as we'd seen, there was only four or five wigwams and all would be sleeping on the ground. At last I thought the time were come and gave Jack a nudge, and we both sat up.

"It were a ticklish moment, young un, I can tell ye, for we knew that it were scarce possible to get off without the alarm being raised. Ef the wigwam had stood close to the edge of the forest it would have been compar'tively easy, for once among the trees we might have hoped to have outrun 'em, though the moon was so pesky bright; but unfortunately it was built not far from the river, and we should have to cross the hull clearing to gain the woods. The chances weren't good, I can tell you, but it was clear as we had to try 'em. We had purposely moved about pretty often, so that our movements would not attract the attention of the Injun now. It didn't take a minute to slip out of the cords, which, tight as they looked, really were not fastened at all, there being two loose double ends between our arms and our bodies. We could see the outside sentry through the open door, and we waited till he turned his back and looked out on the river. Then suddenly I gripped the redskin sitting at the entrance by the neck with both my hands, pretty tight, as you may reckon, and Jack ketched his knife from his belt and buried it in his body.

"That was soon over, and not a sound made as would have startled a mouse. Then, standing up, I made a spring on to the sentry, while Jack used his knife as before. We let him drop softly down and prepared to bolt, when of a sudden the war-whoop sounded not twenty feet away. One of the redskins, finding the ground hard, I suppose, was strolling up to speak to the sentry when he saw us tackle him. For a moment he were too much surprised to holler, but when he did he gave a yell as brought the hull tribe to their feet. Jack had taken up the sentry's rifle.

"'Ye'd better have held yer tongue,' he said as he leveled on the redskin, and before the whoop was out of his lips the bullet hit him and he went down like a log. It didn't need to look round to see as there was no chance of getting to the trees, for two hundred redskins was between us and them. 'We must take to the river, Jack,' I said. It were but thirty yards away. I expected every moment, as we run, to hear the rifle bullets whistle round us, but I guess Pontiac had given orders that no gun was to be fired lest it might be heard at the fort. Anyhow, not a shot was fired and we got down safe to the bank."

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SCOUT'S STORY.

"Luckily enough there was a canoe lying close at our feet. 'Shove it out, Jack,' says I, 'and then keep along the bank.' We gave it a shove with all our strength and sent it dancing out into the river. Then we dived in and swum down close under the bank. There was bushes growing all along, and we came up each time under 'em. The redskins was some little distance behind us as we reached the river, and in course thought we had throwed ourselves flat in the canoe. In a minute or two they got another and paddled off to it, and we soon heard the shout they raised when they found it was empty. By this time we was a hundred yards below the spot where we had taken to the water, and knowing as they would be off along the bank and would find us in no time, we scrambled straight up and made for the trees.

"We was within fifty yards of the edge of the forest, and none of the redskins was near us, as the hull body Had clustered down at the spot where we had jumped in. We hadn't fairly set foot on the bank afore they saw us and, with a whoopwhich sometimes wakes me even now in my sleep and makes me sit up with the sweat on my foreheadthey started. I could run faster then than I can now, and ye may guess I went my best. We plunged into the trees and went as hard as we could foot it, the redskins being fifty or sixty yards behind.

"Our hope was to find a place with a thickish underwood. It was darker a deal under the trees than in the clearing, still it was not dark enough to hide us from redskin eyes. We run straight, for we knew they could see us, and arter about four hundred yards we come upon a place where the undergrowth grew thick. Here we began to dodge 'em, turning now one way and now another, keeping always low in the bushes. They had lost us by sight now, but there was so many of 'em that we pretty nigh despaired of getting through. Some of 'em had tried to follow us, but the best part had run straight on for a bit, and then, when sure they had headed us, scattered right and left, so that they were ahead of us now as well as on our traces, and we could hear 'em shouting all round us, so we did the only thing there was to be done and made the best of our way back to the clearing, keeping low and taking good care not to cross any patch where the moonlight through the trees fell on the ground.

"It were lucky for us that it was a camp of braves. Had it been an ordinary redskin encampment there would have been squaws, and boys, and wuss still, dogs, who would have seed us the moment we got back; but being all braves on the war-path the hull gang had started arter us, and not a soul had remained in the clearing. We did not rest there long, you may be sure, but made straight down to the water. There we picked out a canoe, crossed the river, and got into the shade of the trees the other side. Then we kept along down it till we got close to the fort of Detroit.

"We could see a good many smoldering fires out afore it, and guessed that a strong body of redskins, pretending to be friends, had camped there. We made round 'em and reached the gate of the fort safe. The sentries wouldn't let us in, but when a sergeant was fetched it turned out as he knew us, seeing that we had been scouting out from thar in the summer. Pretty thankful we was when the gate closed arter us. Our news would keep, so we waited till morning afore we saw the major, and then told him the whole history of the matter, and how Pontiac had raised all the tribes east of the Mississippi against us.

"We found that Pontiac had been into the camp with fifty of his warriors three days afore, professing great friendship, and had said that in two or three days he would call again and pay a formal visit.

"Detroit then was but a trading post, defended by a stockade twenty feet high and twelve hundred yards in circumference. About fifty houses of traders and storekeepers stood within it. The garrison was composed of 120 men of the Eighteenth Regiment and 8 officers. They had three gunstwo six-pounders, and a three-pounderand three mortars, but their carriages was so old and rotten that they was of no real service. Two vessels, mounting some small guns, lay in the river off the fort. The governor was a good soldier, but he was naturally startled at hearing that there was something like a thousand redskins in the woods round; but he said that now he had warning he was not afraid of 'em. A messenger was sent off in a canoe to carry the tidings east and to ask for re-enforcements, and the traders was all told to get their arms ready.

"At eight o'clock in the morning Pontiac was seen a-coming with three hundred warriors. There had been no declaration of war, and the redskins was supposed to be friendly, so the major didn't like to be the first to commence hostilities, as folks who knew nothing of it might likely enough have raised an outcry about massacring the poor Injuns. Howsumever, he called all the troops under arms and disposed 'em behind the houses. The traders, too, with their rifles, were drawn up ready. The gates was opened when Pontiac arrived, and he and his warriors entered. They had left their rifles behind them, as they pretended that their mission was a peaceful one, but they had all got their tomahawks and knives under their blankets. They advanced in a body toward where Major Gladwin and his officers was standing in front of his quarters.

"Jack and me and two or three scouts who happened to be in the fort stood just behind, careless like, with our rifles, so that, in case of any sudden attack, we could keep them back for a moment or two. I noticed that Pontiac carried in his hand a wampum belt. I noticed it because it was green on one side and white on the other, and it turned out arterward that when he twisted that belt with two hands it was to be the signal for an attack.

"Pontiac spoke soft for a time. He was a fine redskin; that can't be denied. He was a Catawba by birth, but had been adopted into the tribe of Ottawas and had risen to be their chief. He were a great brave and one of the best speakers I ever heard. He was a wise chief, as you may guess by the way he got all the tribes to lay aside their private quarrels and make common cause against us. I watched him close. He kept his eyes on the major and spoke as cool and as calm as if he had nothing on his mind; but I could see the warrior glancing about, wondering, no doubt, what had become of the soldiers. Presently the chief changed his tone and began to pretend as he was in a rage at some grievance or other.

"The major jest put his whistle to his lips, and in a moment from behind the houses the soldiers and traders marched out, rifle in hand. You never saw a more disgusted crew than them redskins. I'll do Pontiac justice to say that he never so much as moved, but jest went on talking as if he hadn't noticed the troops at all. The major answered him in the same way, and after half an hour's talk the redskins went out again without so much as a knife having been shown. Major Gladwin gave Jack and me papers testifying as how we had saved Detroit from destruction, and sent an account of it to Governor Amherst, and to this day Jack and me draws special pensions for that 'ere business, besides what we earned as British scouts."

"That was an adventure, Peter!" Harold said. "They did not take Detroit after all, did they?" "No; we beat 'em off handsome when they tried it. Then they laid siege to Fort Pitt and tried very hard there, too, but the place held out till some troops who had come up marched out from here and raised the siege. At some of the little places they succeeded. Lots of settlers was massacred. At Fort Sandusky Ensign Paulli and the garrison was massacred by a party of Hurons and Ottawas who come in as friends. This was on the same day as they had intended to do for us at Detroit.

"At St. Joseph's an English ensign with fourteen soldiers was killed by the Pottawatomies, but nowhere did Pontiac obtain any real successes. The French in Illinois were preparing to leave, and he couldn't git no assistance from them. After the siege of Fort Pitt was raised peace was patched up again. Pontiac's confederacy, finding as they hadn't got none of the successes he promised 'em, was beginning to break up, and the English saw no chance of doing any good by hunting the redskins among the forests, so both parties was willing for peace.

"Pontiac never gave any more trouble, and some years arterward, coming into one of the towns, he was killed by an Injun who had a private grudge agin' him. And now I'm longing for a quiet pipe, and you'd better turn in. There's no saying whether we'll have a quiet night of it".

A fortnight passed without further incident. Then the sky became overcast, and Peter and the Indians agreed that snow would soon fall. All hands were at once set to work to make up their stores into packages. The deerskins and blankets were tied in bundles; besides these there were only two kegs of powder and about two hundred pounds of frozen fish.

Harold was in high glee at the thought that their imprisonment was to come to an end, although there was no doubt that the attempt would be a hazardous one, as the backwoodsmen were sure that the instant the snow began to fall the Indians would be out in great numbers round the island, to prevent the defenders taking advantage of the storm.

Several times Harold observed the two backwoodsmen talking with the Seneca chief and looking at the sky, and he thought that their countenances expressed some anxiety.

"What is it, Peter?" he asked at length. "Don't you think we shall have a snowstorm?"

"We may have snow," Peter said, "but I think it's more than a snowstorm that's coming. The clouds are flying past very fast, and it seems to me as ef we're in for a big gale of wind."

"But that will drift the snow and cover our footsteps almost as well as a snowstorm," Harold said.

"Yes, it 'll do all that," the scout answered.

"What is the objection to it, Peter?"

"In the first place, lad, ef it don't snow we may stop where we are, for there'd be no chance of getting through the Injuns unless it snowed so thick you couldn't see five feet away. It'll be difficult enough, anyhow. There'll be four or five hundred of the varmints out, for they'll bring even their boys with 'em, so as to form a pretty close line round the island. Our only chance'll be for the Senecas to go first, and to silence, afore they can give the alarm, any they might meet on our line. That might be done in a heavy snowstorm, but without snow it would be impossible. In the next place, even if we got through 'em, we'd have to carry our canoe."

"Why?" Harold asked, surprised. "What good could the canoe be to us, with the lake frozen hard?"

"You see, the wind is on the shore here, lad, and when it does blow on these lakes it blows fit to take the har off your head. It's as much as a man can do to make way agin' it, and I doubt whether the gals could face it, even with our help. As to carrying a canoe in its teeth, it couldn't be done."

"But why carry the canoe at all, Peter? That's what I cannot understand."

"Waal, you see, lad, the force of the wind acting on sech a big sheet of ice will move it, and like enough you'd see it piled up in a bank forty feet high on this side of the lake, and there'll be a strip of clear water half a mile wide on the other. That's why we must take the canoe."

Harold was silent. In the face of such a probability it was clear that they must encumber themselves with the canoe.

The prevision of the scout proved well founded. Before evening the wind was blowing with tremendous force. Small flakes of snow were driven before it, inflicting stinging blows on the face and eyes of those who ventured out of shelter. As it became dark the lookout announced that he could, see large numbers of Indians starting from the shore at some distance to the right and left of them, showing that the redskins were fully alive to the possibility of the garrison of the island taking advantage of the storm, which would hide their trail, to effect their escape.

Every hour the fury of the gale increased, and it was unanimously agreed that until it diminished it would be impossible for the girls, and for men carrying a canoe, to face it.

Two men were placed on watch at the mouth of the cove, where mines similar to the first had been sunk in the ice in a semicircle some little distance outside that before exploded. This precaution had been taken on the day succeeding the great repulse of the enemy, although the scouts felt assured that the attempt would not be repeated. But it was thought possible that the Indians might toward morning, if they found the whites did not attempt to pass them, take advantage of the storm to attempt a surprise.

After it became dark Cameron and Harold, as was their custom, went into the girls' hut to chat until it was time to turn in. The deerskin and blankets had again been unrolled, and the covering of snow kept the interior warm in spite of the storm without.

"What is that noise?" Nelly asked in a pause of the conversation.

"I don't know," Harold answered. "I have heard it for some time."

All were silent, intent upon listening. Even above the fury of the gale a dull grinding sound, with occasional crashes, could be heard.

"I think it must be the ice," Harold said. "I will go out and see."

On issuing from the hut he was for a time blinded by the force of the wind and the flying particles of snow. The din was tremendous. He made his way with difficulty in the teeth of the storm to the edge of the rocks. Then he started in surprise. A great bank of cakes and fragments of ice was heaped up against the wall of the rock, crashing and grinding against each other as they were pressed onward by fresh additions from beyond. Already the bank was nearly level with the top of the rock, and some of the vast blocks, two feet in thickness, had been thrust on to it. The surface of the lake beyond was no longer a brilliant white. Every particle of snow had been swept away and the dull gray of the rough ice lay unbroken.

He made his way at once to the hut of the men, and just as he reached the entrance Peter (who had also been out to reconnoiter) came up, and before Harold had turned to speak he put his head into the hut.

"Turn out!" he said. "I tell ye we're in a fix. This aint no common gale. I don't know as ever I've been in a worse one."

"What's the use of turning out?" Pearson asked. "We can't do nothing, and it's warmer here a sight than it is outside."

"I tell ye ye've got to go. The ice is breaking up fast and it's level with the top of the island already. Unless I'm mistaken there'll be forty foot of ice piled over this island afore an hour."

This was, indeed, alarming news. And in a minute the occupants of the hut were all in the open air.

"You can call in your scouts, Seneca. There aint no fear of an attack to-night. No mortal soulnot even an Injuncould stand the force of the wind out on the lake."

A very short examination sufficed to show the truth of Peter's anticipations.

Already the upper part of the bank was sliding over the rock, and it was clear that in a very short time the whole would be covered.

"What is to be done, Peter?" Harold shouted.

"We must take to the canoe. There's clear water on the other side."

Harold crossed the island and saw that what Peter said was correct. A broad strip of black water stretched away in the darkness toward the shore. The whole ice-sheet was moving bodily before the wind, and as the island stood up in its course the ice to windward of it was forced up over it, while under its lee the lake was clear. Not a moment was lost. The canoe was got out, carried over the rocks, and carefully lowered into the water under shelter of the island. All the stores and provisions were lowered into it. A deerskin was spread on the bottom, and the girls, having been helped down into the boat, were told to lie down and were then covered with blankets. The men wrapped themselves up in skins and blankets and took their places in the canoe, the four Indians taking paddles.

Quickly as the preparations had been made, there were but a few feet of the island uncovered by the ice, as the last man descended into the boat and they pushed off and, after a couple of strokes, lay with the boat's head facing toward the island at a distance of fifty yards from it. Although somewhat sheltered from the wind, the Indians were obliged to paddle hard to maintain their position. Harold wondered at first that they had not kept closer to the island, but he soon understood their reason for keeping at a distance. The massive blocks of ice, pressed forward by, the irresistible force behind, began to shoot from the top of the island into the water, gliding far on beneath the surface with the impetus of the fall, and then shooting up again with a force which would have destroyed the canoe at once had they touched it.

Soon a perfect cataract of ice was falling. Peter and Pearson took their places on each side of the bow of the canoe, with poles to push off the pieces as they drifted before the gale toward the shore. The work required the utmost strength and care. One touch from the sharp-edged blocks would have ripped open the side of the bark canoe like a knife, and in the icy cold water, encumbered by floating fragments of ice, even the best swimmer could not have gained the solid ice. The peril was great, and it needed all the strength and activity of the white men and the skill of the paddlers to avoid the danger which momentarily threatened them. So quickly did the blocks float down upon them that Pearson thought it might be impossible to avoid them all. The skins, therefore, were hung round the boat, dropping some inches into the water, and these, although they could not have prevented the boat from being stove in, by the larger fragments, yet protected its sides from the contact of the smaller ones.

For upward of an hour the struggle continued, and Harold felt something like despair at the thought of a long night passed in such a struggle. Presently sounds like the booming of cannon were heard above the gale.

"What is that?" he shouted to the Seneca chief, next to whom he was sitting.

"Ice break up," the chief replied. "Break up altogether."

This proved to be the case. As the ice was driven away from the further side of the lake the full force of the wind played upon the water there, and as the streak widened a heavy sea soon got up. The force of the swell extended under the ice, aiding the effect of the wind above, and the vast sheet began to break up. The reports redoubled in strength, and frequently the ice was seen to heave and swell. Then, with a sound like thunder, it broke and great cakes were forced one on the top of another, and soon, instead of a level plain of ice, a chaos of blocks were tossing about on the waves.

Harold watched the change with anxiety. No longer was the channel on either side marked by regular defined lines, but floating pieces encroached upon it, and, looking toward the shore, the channel appeared to be altogether lost. The danger was overwhelming, but the Indians, paddling with increased strength, urged the boat forward until within a few yards of the island.

A few minutes before such an approach would have assured the immediate destruction of the boat. But Harold saw with surprise that, almost simultaneously with the breaking up of the ice-sheet, the fall of blocks from the island had ceased. A moment's reflection showed him the reason of this phenomenon. With the break-up of the ice-field the pressure from behind had suddenly ceased. No longer were the blocks piled on the island pushed forward by the tremendous pressure of the ice-field. The torrent was stayed and they could approach the island with safety. As soon as they were assured that this was so the canoe was brought close to the rocks.

Pearson leaped ashore, climbed the rocks and the ice piled twenty feet above them, and with his pole convinced himself that at this point there were no loose blocks likely to fall. Having satisfied himself on this head, he descended again and took his place in the boat. This was moored by a rope a few feet long to a bush growing from a fissure in the rock close to the water's edge. He and Peter remained on watch with their poles, to fend off any pieces of ice which might be brought round by the waves, while the rest of the crew, wrapping themselves up in their blankets, lay down at the bottom of the boat.

The next morning the storm still raged, and the lake presented the appearance of an angry sea. Sheltered under the lee of the island, the party were protected from its effects, although the light canoe rose and fell on the heavy swell. The ice had wholly disappeared from the lake, the pieces having been ground to atoms against each other in the storm. Along the line of shore there was a great bank of ice as high as the tree-tops.

"The ways of the Lord are won'erful," Duncan Cameron said. "The storm which threatened to be our destruction has proved our salvation. When it abates we shall be able to paddle down the lake without fear of interruption."

"Yes," Peter said, "the varmints are not likely to follow us. In the first place, unless they thought of taking their canoes into the forest when the storm first began, which aint likely, as they was a-thinking only of cutting off our escape, they'd 've been smashed into tinder. In the second place, they couldn't ketch us if they had canoes, for, as we've eight paddles, counting them we made out of the seats when we was on shore, we'd be able to laugh at 'em. And lastly, they've had such a taste of the quality of our rifles that, even if they had a dozen canoes on hand, I doubt if they'd care to attack us. No, sir; when this storm's over we have nothing to do but paddle down to the settlements at the other end of the lake."

Toward the afternoon the storm abated, and next morning the sun was shining brilliantly and the waves had gone down sufficiently to enable the canoe to start on her voyage.

"Now, boys," Pearson said cheerfully, "ef ye don't want to git froze up again you'd best be sharp, for I can tell ye about thirty-six hours of this weather and the lake'll be solid again."

Five minutes later the canoe with its eight sturdy paddlers started on its way, speeding like an arrow from the ice-covered island which had done them such good service in their greatest need.

"Now, Jake," Peter said, "the more strength you put into that paddle of yourn the sooner you'll have a piece of meat atween your jaws."

The negro grinned.

"Don't talk ob him, Massa Peter; don't say a word about him until I see him. Fish bery good when dere's noting else to eat, but Jake never want to see him again. He hab eat quite enough for the rest ob his life."

Cameron, who was not accustomed to the use of the paddle, sat in the stern with the two girls; but the others were all used to the exercise, and the boat literally bounded along at each stroke from the sinewy arms, and by nightfall they had reached the opposite shore. After some hours' work together two of them had rested, and from that time they took it by turns, six paddles being kept constantly going.

Without any adventure they arrived safely at the end of the lake. The clearing where Nelly had lived so long, and where her father and mother had been killed, was passed in the night, much to Harold's satisfaction, as he was afraid that she would have been terribly upset at the many sad memories which the sight of the place could not but call up. On their way down they had seen many gaps in the forest caused by the gale, but it was not until they reached their landing place that the full effect of its destructive force was visible. Several scows and other boats lay wrecks upon the shore, every house in the little village was leveled to the ground, the orchards were ruined, palings and fences torn down, and the whole place strewn with fragments.

A few people were moving among the ruins. They gazed with a dull apathy upon the new-comers, apparently dazed by the misfortune that had befallen them. Harold learned, on questioning them, that twenty-seven persons had been killed and the majority of the survivors more or less seriously injured. With the exception of the few whom they saw, about all the survivors had been taken off to the town in boats down the river, or in wagons lent by neighbors whose villages, sheltered in the woods, had escaped the ravages of the gale. After a few hours' halt, having obtained meat and other stores, they proceeded on their way to Detroit.

Here Nelly had several friends, who had long believed her to have fallen at the massacre at the farm. By them she was gladly received, and she took up her abode in a family with some daughters of her own age. Harold found that there was a considerable sum of money in the bank in her father's name, and from this, after a consultation with her, a sum of money sufficient to provide the Seneca and his followers with blankets, powder, and Indian finery for years was drawn and bestowed upon them.

A day or two afterward the Indians left for their own country, highly gratified with the success of the expedition and proud of the numerous scalps which hung from each of their girdles.

Harold learned that there was but little fighting going on along the Canadian frontier. The winter had set in again with extreme severity; the St. Lawrence would be frozen, and he would have no means of leaving Canada; he was therefore well content to settle down until the spring at Detroit, where he received numerous and hearty invitations to stay, for any time, from the various friends of his cousins. Jake, of course, remained with him. Peter went up to Montreal, where he had some relatives residing; Harold promising to call for him on his way East in the spring. Pearson, after a few days' stay in Detroit, started again with a comrade on a hunting expedition. Cameron and his daughter also spent the winter at Detroit.

The months passed very pleasantly to Harold. Since the war began he had had no period of rest or quiet, and he now entered with zest into the various amusements, sleighing, and dancing, which helped to while away the long winter in America. He also joined in many hunting parties, for in those days game abounded up to the very edge of the clearings. Moose were abundant, and the hunt of these grand deer was full of excitement. Except when the snow is on the ground these animals can defy their pursuers, but the latter with their snowshoes go lightly over the frozen snow, in which the moose sink heavily.

There were many discussions as to the future of Nelly. Several of her friends would gladly have adopted her as a member of their family, but Harold warmly urged that she should go to England and take up her abode with his mother, who was her nearest relative, and Nelly, somewhat to the surprise of her friends, finally agreed to this proposal. A purchaser was readily found for the farm, which was an excellent one, and the proceeds of the sale, with the amount of savings in the bank, gave her a little fortune of some twenty-five hundred pounds.

When the spring came and the navigation of the lake was open, Harold, Nelly, the Camerons, and Jake started in a ship for Montreal. There they were joined by Peter and sailed down to Quebec, where Nelly and the Camerons took passage for England. Very deep was the gratitude which Duncan expressed to the friends who had restored his daughter to him. He had had enough of the colonies, and intended to spend the rest of his life among his own people in Scotland. Harold, Peter, and Jake sailed to join the English army in the South.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE SIEGE OF SAVANNAH.

After the surrender of General Burgoyne at Saratoga the English Parliament made another effort to obtain peace, and passed an act renouncing all rights to tax the colonists and yielding every point as to which they had been in dispute. Commissioners were sent over with full authority to treat, and had the colonists been ready nominally to submit to England, a virtual independence, similar to that possessed by Canada and the Australian colonies at the present time, would have been granted. As a very large body of the Americans had from the first been desirous of coming to terms, and as the paralyzed state of trade caused great and general distress, it is probable that these terms might have been accepted had it not been for the intervention of France. That power had all along encouraged the rebellion. She had smarted under the loss of Canada, and although her rule in her own colonies was far more arbitrary than that of England in America, she was glad to assist in any movement which could operate to the disadvantage of this country. Hitherto, nominally she had remained neutral, but now, fearing that the offers of the English would induce the colonists to make peace, she came forward, recognized their independence, and engaged herself to furnish a large fleet for their assistance.

The colonists joyfully accepted the offer, seeing that the intervention of France in the struggle would completely alter its conditions. Heretofore the British had been enabled to send over men and stores at will, but were they blockaded by a French fleet their difficulties would be immensely increased.

As there had been no cause of quarrel between England and France, this agreement was an act of wanton hostility on the part of the latter. On obtaining information of the signature of the treaty between France and the colonies, the English ambassador was recalled from Paris and both countries prepared vigorously for war.

The first result was that the English deemed it prudent to evacuate Philadelphia and retreat to New York. Washington endeavored to cut off their retreat, and a battle took place at Freehold Court House, in which the Americans were worsted. Washington drew off his army, and the British army continued its march to New York without further opposition. Early in May the French sent off a fleet of twelve ships of the line and six frigates, carrying a large number of troops commanded by Count D'Estaing. An English fleet, under Admiral Byron, was lying at Portsmouth, and this sailed on June 9 in pursuit; for it was not until that time that information was received of the intended destination of the French fleet.

D'Estaing reached the American coast upon the very day on which the English army re-entered New York, and after making a demonstration before that town the French fleet sailed for Rhode Island to expel the British troops, under Sir Robert Pigott, who held it.

Lord Howe sailed with the fleet from New York to give battle to that of D'Estaing. For two days the fleets maneuvered in sight of each other. Howe, being inferior in force, wished to gain the weather-gauge before fighting. Failing to do this, on the third day he offered battle, but a tremendous storm prevented the engagement and dispersed both fleets. The French vessels retired to Boston and the English to New York.

Taking advantage of the departure of the French fleet, Sir Robert attacked the American force, which had crossed to Rhode Island to act with the French, and drove them from it. While crossing the Atlantic the fleet under Admiral Byron had met with a tremendous storm, which had entirely dispersed it, and the vessels arrived singly at New York. When their repairs were completed the whole set out to give battle to the French, but D'Estaing, finding that by the junction of the two English fleets he was now menaced by a superior force, sailed away to the West Indies.

After his departure an expedition was sent down along the coast to Georgia and East Florida. This met with great success. Savannah was captured and the greater part of South Carolina was occupied. The majority of the inhabitants joyfully welcomed the troops and many companies of volunteers were raised.

Harold had arrived in New York early in the spring. He had been offered a commission, but he preferred remaining with his two comrades in the position of scout. In this way he had far greater independence, and while enjoying pay and rations sufficient for his maintenance, he was to a great extent master of his own movements. At an earlier period of the war he was offered by General Howe a commission in the army, and his father would have been glad had he accepted it. Harold, however, although determined to fight until the struggle between the colonists and the mother country came to an end one way or the other, had no great liking for the life of an officer in the regular army, but had resolved at the conclusion of the war to settle down upon a farm on the lakesa life for which he felt far more fitted than for the strict discipline and regularity of that of an officer in the army.

As, with the exception of the attack by the French fleet and American army upon Rhode Island, both parties remained quiet all through the summer of 1778, the year passed uneventfully to him, and the duties of the scouts were little more than nominal. During the winter fighting went on in the Carolinas and Georgia with varied success.

In the spring of 1779 Harold and his comrades were, with a party of scouts, sent down to Georgia, where constant skirmishes were going on and the services of a body of men accustomed to outpost duty were required. They were landed in May and joined General Prevost's force on the island of St. John, situated close to the mainland and connected with it by a bridge of boats, at the end of which on the mainland a post had been erected. Shortly afterward General Prevost left for Savannah, taking with him most of the troops, which were carried away in the sloops which had formed the bridge of boats. On the American side General Lincoln commanded a considerable army, which had been dispatched by Congress to drive the English from that State and the Carolinas.

Lieutenant Colonel Maitland, who commanded the post on the mainland, was left with only a flat-boat to keep up his communication with the island. He had under his command the first battalion of the Seventy-first Highlanders, now much weakened in numbers, part of a Hessian regiment, some provincial volunteers, and a detachment of artillery, the whole not exceeding 500 effective men. Hearing that General Lincoln was advancing against him, Colonel Maitland sent all his sick, baggage, and horses across to the island, and placed the post as far as possible in a defensive position. Most of the scouts who had come down from New York had accompanied General Prevost to Savannah, but Harold, with Peter Lambton, Jake, and three or four others, had been ordered to remain with Colonel Maitland, and were sent out to reconnoiter when the enemy were known to be approaching.

"This is something like our old work, Peter, upon Lake Champlain," Harold said, as with his two comrades he took his way in the direction from which the enemy were advancing.

"Ay, lad, but they've none of the redskins with 'em, and there'll be no great difficulty in finding out all about 'em. Besides, we've got Jake with us, and jest about here Jake can do better nor we can. Niggers swarm all over the country and are as ready to work for one side as the other, jest as their masters go. All Jake has got to do is to dress himself as a plantation nigger and stroll into their camp. No question will be asked him, as he will naturally be taken for a slave on some neighboring estate. What do you say, Jake?"

Jake at once assented, and when they approached the enemy he left his comrades and carried their plan into execution. He was away six hours, and returned saying that the enemy were 5000 strong, with eight pieces of artillery.

"We must hurry back," Peter said. "Them are big odds agin' us. Ef all our troops was regulars, I don't say as they might not hold the place; but I don't put much count on the Germans, and the colonists aint seen no fighting. However, Colonel Maitland seems a first-rate officer. He has been real sharp in putting the place into a state of defense, and I reckon ef the Yankees thinks as they're going to eat us up without trouble they'll be mistaken."

Jake reported that the enemy were on the point of marching forward, and the scouts hurried back to give Colonel Maitland news of their coming.

It was late in the afternoon when they reached the post.

"At what time do you think they will arrive here?" the colonel asked, when Jake had made his report. "Dey be pretty close by dark, for sure," Jake replied.

"But I don't think, sir," Peter added, "they'll attack before morning. They wouldn't be likely to try it in the dark, not knowing the nature of the place."

The commander was of the same opinion, but to prevent the possibility of surprise he placed pickets at some distance round the fort, the scouts being, of course, of the party.

The night passed quietly, but at seven in the morning Peter, Harold, and Jake, who were at some distance in advance of the others, saw the enemy approaching. They fired their pieces and fell back upon the outposts. Their position was rather to the right of the line of defense. The pickets were about to fall back when 70 men, being two companies of the Seventy-first under Captain Campbell, were sent out to feel the enemy.

"We're going to have a skirmish," Peter said. "I know these Highlanders. Instead of jest firing a bit and then falling back, they'll be sticking here and fighting as if they thought they could lick the hull army of the Yankees."

It was as Peter predicted. The Highlanders took post behind a hedge and maintained a desperate resistance to the advance of the enemy. Harold and his comrades for some time fought with them.

"It's time for us to be out of this," Peter said presently. "Let's jest get back to the fort."

"We cannot fall back till they do, Peter"

"I don't see that," Peter said. "We're scouts, and I don't see no advantage in our chucking away our lives because these hot-headed Highlanders choose to do so. Peter Lambton's ready to do a fair share of fighting, but when he's sure that fighting aint no good, then he goes."

And suiting the action to the word, Peter rose from his recumbent position and began to make his way back to the camp, taking advantage of every bit of cover.

Harold could not help laughing. For an instant he remained irresolute, and then, seeing the overwhelming forces with which the enemy were approaching, he called to Jake and followed Peter's example. So obstinately did the Highlanders fight that they did not retreat until all their officers were killed or wounded, and only 11 men out of the two companies succeeded in regaining the camp.

The whole force of the enemy now advanced against the works, and halting at a distance of three hundred yards opened a tremendous fire from their cannon on the intrenchments. The defenders replied, but so overwhelming was the force of the assailants that the Hessians abandoned the portion of the works committed to them and fell back.

The enemy pressed forward and had already gained the foot of the abattis, when Colonel Maitland brought up a portion of the Seventy-first upon the right, and these gallant troops drove the Americans back with slaughter. Colonel Maitland and his officers then threw themselves among the Hessians and succeeded in rallying them and bringing them back to the front. The provincial volunteers had also fought with great bravery. They had for a time been pressed backward, but finally maintained their position.

The Americans, finding that all their efforts to carry the post were unavailing, fell back to the forest. On the English side the loss amounted to 129. The Americans fought in the open and suffered much more heavily.

The position of matters was suddenly changed by the arrival of Count D'Estaing with a fleet of forty-one ships-of-war off the coast. The American general, Lincoln, at once proposed to him to undertake a combined movement to force the English to quit Georgia. The arrival of the French fleet was wholly unexpected, and the Experiment, a frigate of fifty guns, commanded by Sir James Wallace, having two or three ships under his convoy, fell in with them off the mouth of the Savannah River. Although the Experiment had been much crippled by a gale through which she had recently passed, Sir James Wallace would not haul down his flag and opposed a desperate resistance to the whole of the French fleet, and did not surrender until the Experiment was completely dismasted and riddled with shot.

Upon the news that the French fleet was off the mouth of the river, Captain Henry, who commanded the little squadron of four small English ships, fell back to Savannah after removing all the buoys from the river. He landed his guns from the ships and mounted them on the batteries, and the marines and blue-jackets were also put on shore to assist in the defense. Two of the brigs of war were sunk across the channel below the town to prevent the French frigates coming up. A boom was laid across above the town to prevent fire-rafts from being sent down.

D'Estaing landed the French troops at the mouth of the river, and, marching to the town, summoned General Prevost to surrender. The English commander, who had sent off a messenger to Colonel Maitland, ordering him to march instantly to his assistance with the force under him, which now amounted to 800 men, asked for twenty-four hours before giving an answer. D'Estaing, who knew that General Lincoln was close at hand, made sure that Prevost would surrender without resistance, and so granted the time asked for. Before its expiration Colonel Maitland, after a tremendous march, arrived at the town. As the French commanded the mouth of the river he had been obliged to transport his troops in boats through the marshes by a little creek, which for two miles was so shallow that the troops were forced to wade waist-deep, dragging the boats by main force through the mud.

Upon the arrival of this re-enforcement General Prevost returned an answer to Count D'Estaing that the town would be defended to the last. Some time was spent by the enemy in landing and bringing up heavy artillery from the ships, and the French and Americans did not begin their works against the town until September 23. The garrison had utilized the time thus afforded to them to erect new defenses. The allied force of the assailants consisted of more than 10,000 Americans and 5000 French troops, while the garrison, including regulars, provincial corps, sailors, militia, and volunteers, did not exceed 2500.

Nevertheless, they did not allow the enemy to carry on their work without interruption. Several sorties were made. The first of these, under Major Graham of the Sixteenth Regiment, reached the lines of the enemy and threw them into confusion. Large re-enforcements came up to their assistance, and as Graham's detachment fell back upon the town, the enemy incautiously pursued it so close up to the British lines that both artillery and musketry were brought to bear upon them, and they lost a large number of men before they could regain their works. On the morning of October 4 the batteries of the besiegers opened fire with fifty-three pieces of heavy artillery and fourteen mortars. General Prevost sent in a request to Count D'Estaing that the women and children might be permitted to leave the town and embark on board vessels lying in the river, there to await the issue of the fight; but the French commander refused the request in a letter couched in insulting terms.

The position of Savannah was naturally strong. The river protected one of its sides and a deep swamp, partially flooded by it, covered another. The other two were open to the country, which in front of them was for several miles level and clear of wood. The works which had been thrown up on these sides were extremely strong. When the French first landed there were but ten pieces of cannon upon the fortifications, but so incessantly did the garrison work that before the conclusion of the siege nearly one hundred pieces of artillery were mounted on the redoubts and batteries erected round the town. Upon the side of the swamp there was not much fear of attack, but three redoubts were erected to prevent a surprise from this direction. The defense on the right face of the town was conducted by Colonel Maitland. The defense on the left, consisting of two strong redoubts and several batteries, was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Cruger. In the center were several strong works, of which General Prevost himself took the special supervision. The whole British line, except where the swamp rendered no such defense necessary, was surrounded by a thick abattis. The French fire made no sensible impression upon the English defenses, and finding that the British artillery equaled his own, D'Estaing determined to discontinue the attack by regular approaches and to carry the place by storm. His position was a perilous one. He had already spent a long time before the place, and at any moment the English fleet might arrive from the West Indies and attack his fleet, which was weakened by the men and guns which had been landed to carry on the siege. He therefore determined to risk an assault rather than remain longer before the town. To facilitate the attack an officer with 5 men on October 8 advanced to the abattis and set fire to it. The wood, however, was still green, and the flames were easily extinguished.

The attack was fixed for the following morning. Bodies of the American militia were to feign attacks upon the center and left, while a strong force of the combined armies was to make a real attack in two columns upon the right. The troops composing the two columns consisted of 3500 French soldiers and 950 Americans. The principal force, commanded by Count D'Estaing in person, assisted by General Lincoln, was to attack the Springfield redoubt, which was situated at the extreme right of the British central line of defense and close to the edge of the swamp. The other column, under the command of Count Dillon, was to move silently along the margin of the swamp, pass the three redoubts, and get into the rear of the British lines.

The troops were in motion long before daylight. The attempt to burn the abattis had excited the suspicion of the English that an assault might be intended, and accordingly pickets were thrown out in front of the intrenchments and the scouts were ordered to keep a sharp watch among the trees which grew in and near the swamp.

Harold with his friends had accompanied Colonel Maitland's column in its march to Savannah and had labored vigorously at the defenses, being especially occupied in felling trees and chopping wood for the abattis. Before daybreak they heard the noise made by the advance of the enemy's columns through the wood and hurried back to the Springfield redoubt, where the garrison at once stood to arms. In this redoubt were a corps of provincial dismounted dragoons, supported by the South Carolina regiment.

Just as daylight appeared the column led by Count D'Estaing advanced toward the Springfield redoubt, but the darkness was still so intense that it was not discovered until within a very short distance of the works. Then a blaze of musketry opened upon it, while a destructive cross-fire was poured in from the adjoining batteries. So heavy was the fire that the head of the column was almost swept away. The assailants kept on with great bravery until they reached the redoubt; here a desperate hand-to-hand contest took place. Captain Tawse fell with many of his men, and for a moment a French and an American standard were planted upon the parapet; nevertheless the defenders continued to cling to the place and every foot was desperately contested.

At this moment Colonel Maitland, with the grenadiers of the Sixtieth Regiment and the marines, advanced and fell upon the enemy's column, already shaken by the obstinate resistance it had encountered and by its losses by the fire from the batteries. The movement was decisive. The assailants were driven headlong from the redoubt and retreated, leaving behind them 637 of the French troops killed and wounded and 264 of the Americans.

In the mean time the column commanded by Count Dillon mistook its way in the darkness and was entangled in the swamp, from which it was unable to extricate itself until it was broad daylight and it was fully exposed to the view of the garrison and to the fire from the British batteries. This was so hot and so well directed that the column was never able even to form, far less to penetrate into the rear of the British lines.

When the main attack was repulsed Count Dillon drew off his column, also. No pursuit was ordered as, although the besiegers had suffered greatly, they were still three times more numerous than the garrison.

A few days afterward the French withdrew their artillery and re-embarked on board ship.

The siege of Savannah cost the allies 1500 men, while the loss of the garrison was only 120. The pleasure of the garrison at their successful defense was marred by the death of Colonel Maitland, who died from the effects of the unhealthy climate and of the exertions he had made.

A few days after the raising of the siege the French fleet was dispersed by a tempest, and Count D'Estaing, with the majority of the ships under his command, returned to France.

During the course of this year there were many skirmishes round New York, but nothing of any great importance took place. Sir Henry Clinton, who was in supreme command, was unable to undertake any offensive operations on a large scale, for he had not received the re-enforcements from home which he had expected. England, indeed, had her hands full, for in June Spain joined France and America in the coalition against her and declared war. Spain was at that time a formidable marine power, and it needed all the efforts that could be made by the English government to make head against the powerful fleets which the combined nations were able to send to sea against them. It was not only in Europe that the Spaniards were able to give effective aid to the allies. They were still a power on the American continent, and created a diversion, invading West Florida and reducing and capturing the town and fort of Mobile.

In the spring of 1780 Sir Henry Clinton sent down an expedition under the command of Lord Cornwallis to capture Charleston and reduce the State of South Carolina. This town was extremely strongly fortified. It could only be approached by land on one side, while the water, which elsewhere defended it, was covered by the fire of numerous batteries of artillery. The water of the bay was too shallow to admit of the larger men-of-war passing, and the passage was defended by Fort Moultrie, a very formidable work. Admiral Arbuthnot, with the Renown, Romulus, Roebuck, Richmond, Blonde, Raleigh, and Virginia frigates, with a favorable wind and tide ran the gantlet of Fort Moultrie, succeeded in passing up without great loss, and co-operated on the sea face with the attack of the army on the land side.

A force was landed on Sullivan's Island, on which Fort Moultrie stood, and the fort, unprepared for an attack in this direction, was obliged to surrender. The American cavalry force which had been collected for the relief of the town was defeated by the English under General Tarleton. The trenches were pushed forward with great vigor, and the batteries of the third parallel opened at short range on the town with great execution. The advances were pushed forward at the ditch, when the garrison, seeing that further resistance was impossible, surrendered. Five thousand prisoners were taken, 1000 American and French seamen, and ten French and American ships-of-war.

With the fall of Charleston all resistance ceased in South Carolina. The vast majority of the inhabitants made their submission to the British government and several loyalist regiments were raised.

Colonel Tarleton, with 170 cavalry and 100 mounted infantry, was dispatched against an American force under Colonel Burford, consisting of 350 infantry, a detachment of cavalry, and two guns, which had taken post on the border of North Carolina. Tarleton came up with him, and after a sharp action the Americans were entirely defeated. One hundred and thirteen were killed on the spot and 207 made prisoners, of whom 103 were badly wounded.

For some months the irregular operations were continued, the Americans making frequent incursions into the Carolinas. The British troops suffered greatly from the extreme heat and the unhealthiness of the climate.

In August the American General Gates advanced toward Camden, and Lord Cornwallis also moved out to that town, which was held by a British garrison. The position there was not hopeful. Nearly 800 were sick, and the total number of effectives was under 2000, of whom 500 were provincials. The force under General Gates amounted to 6000 men, exclusive of the corps of Colonel Sumpter, 1000 strong, which were maneuvering to cut off the English retreat. Cornwallis could not fall back on Charleston without abandoning the sick and leaving all his magazines and stores in the hands of the enemy, besides which a retreat would have involved the abandonment of the whole State with the exception of Charleston. He therefore decided upon giving battle to the enemy, who were posted at Rugeley's Mills, a few miles distant, leaving the defense of Camden to Major M'Arthur, with some provincials and convalescent soldiers and a detachment of the Sixty-third Regiment, which was expected to arrive during the night.

The army marched in the following order: The first division, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Webster, consisting of four companies of light infantry and the Twenty-third and Thirty-third regiments, preceded by an advanced guard of 40 cavalry. The second division, consisting of provincial troops and two battalions of the Seventy-first Regiment, followed as a reserve. The dragoons of the legion formed the rear guard. The force marched at ten o'clock on the night of August 16, intending to attack at daybreak the next morning, but it happened that at the very same hour in which the British set out, General Gates, with his force, was starting from Rugeley's Mills with the intention of attacking Camden in the morning.

At two o'clock in the night the advanced guards of the two armies met and fired into each other. In the confusion some prisoners were taken on both sides, and the generals, finding that the two armies were face to face, halted and waited till morning. Lord Cornwallis placed Webster's division on the right; the second division, which was under the command of Lord Rawdon, on the left; the battalion known as the Volunteers of Ireland were on the right of Lord Rawdon's division and communicated with the Thirty-third Regiment on the left of Webster. In the front line were two six-pounders and two three-pounders under the command of Lieutenant Macleod, R. A. The Seventy-first, with two six-pounders, was in reserve, one battalion being placed behind each wing. The dragoons were held in reserve, to charge in the event of a favorable opportunity.

The flanks of the English position were covered by swamps, which somewhat narrowed the ground and prevented the Americans from utilizing fully their great superiority of numbers. The Americans were also formed in two lines.

Soon after daybreak Lord Cornwallis ordered Colonel Webster to advance and charge the enemy. So fiercely did the English regiments attack that the Virginia and North Carolina troops who opposed them quickly gave way, threw down their arms, and fled. General Gates and General Casswell in vain attempted to rally them. They ran like a torrent and spread through the woods in every direction. Lord Rawdon began the action on the left with no less vigor and spirit than Lord Cornwallis on the right, but here and in the center the contest was more obstinately maintained by the Americans.

Their reserves were brought up, and the artillery did considerable execution. Their left flank was, however, exposed by the flight of the troops of Carolina and Virginia, and the light infantry and Twenty-third Regiment were halted in the pursuit, and, wheeling around, came upon the flank of the enemy, who, after a brave resistance of nearly three-quarters of an hour, were driven into total confusion and forced to give way on both sides. Their rout was continued by the cavalry, who continued their pursuit twenty-two miles from the field of action.

Between eight and nine hundred of the enemy were killed and about 1000, many of whom were wounded, were taken prisoners. Among these were Major General Baron de Kalb and Brigadier General Rutherford. All the baggage, stores, and camp packages, a number of colors, and several pieces of cannon were taken. General Gates, finding himself unable to rally the militia, fled first to Charlotte, 90 miles from the seat of action, and then to Hillsborough, 180 from Camden. General Gist, alone of all the American commanders, was able to keep together about 100 men, who, flying across the swamp on their right, through which they could not be pursued by the cavalry, made their escape in a body. The loss of the British troops amounted to 69 killed, 245 wounded, and 11 missing. The loss of the Americans in killed, wounded, and prisoners exceeded the number of British regular troops engaged by at least 300. It was one of the most decisive victories ever won.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN AN AMERICAN PRISON.

Upon the morning after the victory of Camden Lord Cornwallis dispatched Colonel Tarleton with the light infantry and the German legion, 350 men in all, to attack Colonel Sumpter, who, with 800 men and two pieces of cannon, had, upon hearing late at night of General Gates' defeat, marched away at all speed. Thinking himself out of danger he halted at midday to rest his men. The British came upon them by surprise. One hundred and fifty were killed or wounded and 300 made prisoners. The rest scattered as fugitives. Two guns, one thousand stand of arms, and all the stores and baggage were taken, and 250 prisoners, some of them British soldiers and the rest loyal militiamen, whom Sumpter had captured near Camden, were released.

Lord Cornwallis, after obtaining supplies for his troops and taking steps for the pacification of the State, was about to move forward into North Carolina, when he received news of the destruction of a column under Major Fergusson. This officer, with a detachment of 150 British regulars and 800 provincials, was attacked by 5000 mounted partisans, most of them border men accustomed to forest fighting. Fergusson took up a position on a hill called King's Mountain. This from its height would have been a good position for defense, but being covered with wood it offered great opportunities for the assailants, who dismounted and fought behind trees in accordance with the tactics taught them in Indian warfare. Again and again the English charged with the bayonet, each time driving their assailants back, but these instantly recommenced their destructive fire from their shelter behind the trees. In little over an hour from the commencement of the fight 150 of the defenders were killed and many more wounded. Still they repulsed every attack until their commander fell dead; then the second in command, judging further resistance in vain, surrendered.

On the news of this misfortune Lord Cornwallis fell back, as the western frontiers of South Carolina were now exposed to the incursions of the band which had defeated Fergusson. In the retreat the army suffered terribly. It rained for several days without intermission. The soldiers had no tents, and the water was everywhere over their shoes. The continued rains filled the rivers and creeks prodigiously and rendered the roads almost impassable. The climate was most unhealthy, and for many days the troops were without rum. Sometimes the army had beef and no bread, sometimes bread and no beef. For five days it was supported on Indian corn, which was collected in the fields, five ears being served out as a daily allowance to each two soldiers. They had to cook it as they could, and this was generally done by parching it over the fire. One of the officers of the quartermaster's department found some of the loyal militia grating their corn. This was done by breaking up a canteen and punching holes in the bottom with their bayonets, thus making a kind of rasp. The idea was communicated to the adjutant general and afterward adopted for the army.

The soldiers supported their hardships and privations cheerfully, as their officers were no better provided than themselves and the fare of Lords Cornwallis and Rawdon was the same as their own.

The toilsome march came to an end at last, and the army had rest after its labors. The only other incident of importance which occurred was an action between a force under Colonel Tarleton and one of considerably superior strength under General Sumpter, strongly posted on a commanding position. The British attack was repulsed, but General Sumpter, being badly wounded, was carried off the field during the night, and the force under his command at once dispersed.

No other event occurred, and the army passed its time in winter quarters till the spring of 1781. During this winter the enemies of Great Britain were re-enforced by the accession of the Dutch. At this time the efforts which England was called upon to make were indeed great. In Europe France, Spain, and Holland were banded against her; in India our troops were waging a desperate war with Hyder Ali; while they were struggling to retain their hold on their American colonies. Here, indeed, the operations had for the last two years languished. The re-enforcements which could be spared were extremely small, and although the British had almost uniformly defeated the Americans in every action in which there was any approach to equality between the forces engaged, they were unable to do more than hold the ground on which they stood. Victorious as they might be, the country beyond the reach of their rifles swarmed with their enemies, and it became increasingly clear to all impartial observers that it was impossible for an army which in all did not amount to more than 20,000 men to conquer a continent in arms against them.

Harold was not present at the later events of the campaign of 1780. He and Jake had been with the column of Major Fergusson. Peter Lambton had not accompanied him, having received a bullet wound in the leg in a previous skirmish, which, although not serious, had compelled him to lay up for a time.

"Me no like de look ob dis affair, Massa Harold," Jake said, as the Americans opened fire upon the troops gathered at the top of King's Mountain. "Dese chaps no fools; dey all backwoodsmen; dey know how to fight de redskins; great hunters all ob dem."

"Yes," Harold agreed, "they are formidable opponents, Jake. I do not like the look of things. These men are all accustomed to fighting in the woods, while our men have no idea of it. Their rifles are infinitely superior to these army muskets, and every man of them can hit a deer behind the shoulder at the distance of 150 yards, while at that distance most of our men would miss a haystack."

The scouts and a few of the provincials who had been accustomed to forest warfare, took up their position behind trees and fought the advancing enemy in their own way. The mass of the defenders, however, were altogether puzzled by the stealthy approach of their foes, who advanced from tree to tree, seldom showing as much as a limb to the fire of the defenders, and keeping up a deadly fire upon the crowd of soldiers.

Had there been time for Major Fergusson, before being attacked, to have felled a circle of trees and made a breastwork round the top of the hill, the result might have been different. Again and again the British gallantly charged down with the bayonet, but the assailants, as they did so, glided away among the trees after firing a shot or two into the advancing troops, and retreated a hundred yards or so, only to recommence their advance as soon as the defenders retired again to their position. The loss of the assailants was very slight, the few who fell being for the most part killed by the rifles of the scouts.

"It am no use, Massa Harold," Jake said. "Jest look how dem poor fellows am being shot down. It's all up wid us dis time."

When upon the fall of Major Fergusson his successor in command surrendered the post, the defenders were disarmed. The Kentucky men, accustomed only to warfare against Indians, had no idea of the usages of war and treated the prisoners with great brutality. Ten of the loyalist volunteers of Carolina they hung at once upon trees. There was some discussion as to the disposal of the rest. The border men, having accomplished their object, were anxious to disperse at once to their homes. Some of them proposed that they should rid themselves of all further trouble by shooting them all. This was overruled by the majority. Presently the prisoners were all bound, their hands being tied behind them, and a hundred of the border men surrounded them and ordered them to march across the country.

Jake and several other negroes who were among the captives were separated from the rest, and, being put up at auction, were sold as slaves. Jake fell to the bid of a tall Kentuckian who, without a word, fastened a rope round his neck, mounted his horse, and started for his home. The guards conducted the white prisoners to Woodville, eighty miles from the scene of the fight. This distance was accomplished in two days' march. Many of the unfortunate men, unable to support the fatigue, fell and were shot by their guards; the rest struggled on, utterly exhausted, until they arrived at Woodville, where they were handed over to a strong force of militia gathered there. They were now kindly treated, and by more easy marches were taken to Richmond, in Virginia, where they were shut up in prison. Here were many English troops, for the Americans, in spite of the terms of surrender, had still retained as prisoners the troops of General Burgoyne.

Several weeks passed without incident. The prisoners were strongly guarded and were placed in a building originally built for a jail and surrounded by a very high wall. Harold often discussed with some of his fellow-captives the possibility of escape. The windows were all strongly barred, and even should the prisoners break through these they would only find themselves in the courtyard. There would then be a wall thirty feet high to surmount, and at the corners of this wall the Americans had built sentry-boxes, in each of which two men were stationed night and day. Escape, therefore, seemed next to impossible.

The sentries guarding the prison and at the gates were furnished by an American regiment stationed at Richmond. The wardens in the prison were, for the most part, negroes. The prisoners were confined at night in separate cells; in the daytime they were allowed, in parties of fifty, to walk for two hours in the courtyard. There were several large rooms in which they sat and took their meals, two sentries with loaded muskets being stationed in each room. Thus, although monotonous, there was little to complain of; their food, if coarse, was plentiful, and the prisoners passed the time in talk, playing cards, and in such games as their ingenuity could invent.

One day when two of the negro wardens entered with, the dinners of the room to which Harold belonged, the latter was astounded at recognizing in one of them his faithful companion Jake. It was with difficulty that he suppressed an exclamation of gladness and surprise. Jake paid no attention to him, but placed the great tin dish heaped up with yams, which he was carrying, upon the table, and, with an unmoved face, left the room. A fortnight passed without a word being exchanged between them. Several times each day Harold saw the negro, but the guards were always present, and although, when he had his back to the latter, Jake sometimes indulged in a momentary grin or a portentous wink, no further communication passed between them.

One night at the end of that time Harold, when on the point of going to sleep, thought he heard a noise as of his door gently opening. It was perfectly dark, and, after listening for a moment he laid his head down again, thinking that he had been mistaken, when he heard close to the bed the words in a low voice:

"Am you asleep, Massa Harold?"

"No, Jake," he exclaimed directly. "Ah, my good fellow! how have you got here?"

"Dat were a bery easy affair," Jake said. "Me tell you all about it."

"Have you shut the door again, Jake? There is a sentry coming along the passage every five minutes."

"Me shut him, massa, but dere aint no fastening on dis side, so Jake will sit down wid him back against him."

Harold got up and partly dressed himself and then sat down by the side of his follower.

"No need to whisper," Jake said. "De walls and de doors bery thick; no one hear. But de sentries on de walls hear if we talk too loud."

The windows were without glass, which was in those days an expensive article in America, and the mildness of the climate of Virginia rendered glass a luxury rather than a necessity. Confident that even the murmur of their voices would not be overheard if they spoke in their usual way, Jake and Harold were enabled to converse comfortably.

"Well, massa," Jake said, "my story am not a long one. Dat man dat bought me he rode in two days someting like one hundred miles. It wor a lucky ting dat Jake had tramp on his feet de last four years, else soon enough he tumble down, and den de rope round him neck hang him. Jake awful footsore and tired when he git to de end ob dat journey. De Kentucky man he lib in a clearing not far from a village. He had two oder slaves; dey hoe de ground and work for him. He got grown-up son, who look after dem while him fader away fighting. Dey not afraid ob de niggers running away, because dere plenty redskin not far away, and nigger scalp jest as good as white man's. De oder way dere wor plenty ob villages, and dey tink nigger git caught for sure if he try to run away. Jake make up his mind he not stop dere bery long. De Kentuckian was a bery big, strong man, but not so strong as he was ten years ago, and Jake tink he more dan a match for him. Jake pretty strong himself, massa?"

"I should think you were, Jake," Harold said. "There are not many men, white or black, who can lift as great a weight as you can."

"For a week Jake work bery hard. Dat Kentuckian hab a way ob always carrying his rifle about on his arm, and as long as he do dat dere no chance ob a fair fight. De son he always hab a stick, and he mighty free wid it. He hit Jake seberal times, and me say to him once, 'Young man, you better mind what you do.' Me suppose dat he not like de look dat I gib him. He speak to his fader, and he curse and swear awful, and stand wid de rifle close by and tell dat son ob his to larrup Jake. Dat he do, massa, for some time. Jake not say noting, but he make a note ob de affair in his mind. De bery next day de son go away to de village to buy some tings he want. De fader he come out and watch me at work; he curse and swear as usual; he call me lazy hound and swear he cut de flesh from my back; presently he come quite close and shake him fist in Jake's face. Dat was a foolish ting to do. So long as he keep bofe him hands on de gun he could say what he like quite safe, but when he got one hand up lebel wid Jake's nose, dat different ting altogether. Jake throw up his hand and close wid him. De gun tumble down and we wrastle and fight. He strong man for sure, but Jake jest a little stronger. We roll ober and ober on de ground for some minutes; at last Jake git de upper hand and seize de white man by de t'roat, and he pretty quick choke him life out. Den he pick up de gun and wait for de son; when he come back he put a bullet t'rough him. Den he go to de hut and git food and powder and ball and start into de woods. De oder niggers dey take no part in de affair. Dey look on while the skirmish lasts, but not interfere one way or oder. When it ober me ask dem if dey like to go wid me, but dey too afraid ob de redskins; so Jake start by himse'f. Me hab plenty ob practice in de woods and no fear ob meeting redskins, except when dey on de warpath. De woods stretch a bery long way all ober de country, and Jake trabel in dem for nigh t'ree weeks. He shoot deer and manage bery well; see no redskin from the first day to de last; den he come out into de open country again, hundreds ob miles from de place where he kill dat Kentuckian. He leab his gun behind now and trabel for Richmond, where he hear dat de white prisoners was kept. He walk all night and at day sleep in de woods or de plantations, and eat ears ob corn. At last he git to Richmond. Den he gib out dat him massa wanted him to fight on de side ob de English and dat he run away. He go to de prison and offer to work dere. Dey tink him story true, and as he had no massa to claim him dey say he State property, and work widout wages like de oder niggers here; dey all forfeited slaves whose massas had jined de English. Dese people so pore dey can't afford to pay white man, so dey take Jake as warden, and by good luck dey put him in to carry de dinner to de bery room where Massa Harold was."

"And have you the keys to lock us up?"

"No, massa, de niggers only cook de dinners and sweep de prison and de yard, and do dat kind ob job; de white wardensdere's six ob demdey hab de keys."

"Then how did you manage to get here, Jake?"

"Dat not bery easy matter, Massa Harold. Most ob de wardens drink like fish; but de head man, him dat keep de keys, he not drink. For some time Jake not see him way, but one night when he lock up de prisoners he take Jake round wid him, and Jake carried de big bunch ob keysone key to each passage. When he lock up de doors here and hand de key to Jake to put on de bunch agin, Jake pull out a hair ob him head and twist it round de ward ob de key so as to know him agin. Dat night me git a piece ob bread and work him up wid some oil till he quite like putty, den me steal to de chief warden's room, and dere de keys hang up close to him bed. Jake got no shoes on, and he stole up bery silent. He take down de bunch ob keys and carry dem off. He git to quiet place and strike a light, and search t'rough de keys till he find de one wid de hair round it; den he take a deep impression ob him wid de bread; den he carry back the keys and hang 'em up. Jake not allowed to leabe de prison. We jest as much prisoners as de white men, so he not able to go out to git a key made; but in de storeroom dere's all sorts ob tools, and he git hold ob a fine file; den he look about among de keys in de doors ob all de storerooms and places which wor not kept locked up. At last he find a key jest de right size, and dough de wards were a little different dey was ob de right shape. Jake set to work and filled off de knobs and p'ints which didn't agree wid de shape in de bread. Dis morning, when you was all out in de yard, me come up quietly and tried de key and found dat it turned de lock quite easy. Wid a fedder and some oil me oil de lock and de key till it turned widout making de least, noise. Den to-night me waited till de sentry come along de corridor, and den Jake slip along and here he is."

"Capital, Jake!" Harold said. "And now what is the next thing to do? Will it be possible to escape through the prison?"

"No, Massa Harold, dere am t'ree doors from de prison into de yard and dere's a sentry outside ob each, and de main guard ob twenty men are down dere, too. No possible to git out ob doors widout de alarm being given."

"With the file, Jake, we might cut through the bars."

"We might cut t'rough de bars and git down into de courtyard; dat easy enough, massa. Jake could git plenty ob rope from de storeroom, but we hab de oder wall to climb."

"You must make a rope-ladder for that, Jake."

"What sort ob a ladder dat, massa?"

Harold explained to him how it should be made.

"When you have finished it, Jake, you should twist strips of any sort of stuff, cotton or woolen, round and round each of the wooden steps, so that it will make no noise touching the wall as we climb it. Then we want a grapnel."

"Me no able to make dat, massa."

"Not a regular grapnel, Jake, but you might manage something which would do."

"What sort ob ting?" Jake asked.

Harold sat for some time in thought.

"If the wall were not so high it would be easy enough, Jake, for we could do it by fastening the rope within about three inches of the end of a pole six feet long and three inches thick. That would never pull over the wall, but it is too high to throw the pole over."

"Jake could t'row such a stick as dat ober easy enough, massano difficulty about dat; but me no see how a stick like dat balance massa's weight."

"It would not balance it, Jake, but the pull would be a side pull and would not bring the stick over the wall. If it were only bamboo it would be heavy enough."

"Bery well, Massa Harold; if you say so, dat's all right. Jake can git de wood easy enough; dere's plenty ob pieces among de firewood dat would do for us."

"Roll it with strips of stuff the same way as the ladder steps, so as to prevent it making a noise when it strikes the wall. In addition to the ladder we shall want a length of rope long enough to go from this window to the ground, and another length of thin rope more than twice the height of the wall."

"Bery well, Massa Harold, me understand exactly what's wanted; but it'll take two or t'ree days to make de ladder, and me can only work ob a night." being caught. We must choose a dark and windy night. Bring two files with you, so that we can work together, and some oil."

"All right, massa. Now me go."

"Shut the door quietly, Jake, and do not forget to lock it behind you," Harold said, as Jake stole noiselessly from the cell.

A week passed without Jake's again visiting Harold's cell. On the seventh night the wind had got up and whistled around the jail, and Harold, expecting that Jake would take advantage of the opportunity, sat down on his bed without undressing, and awaited his coming. It was but half an hour after the door had been locked for the night that it quietly opened again.

"Here me am, sar, wid eberyting dat's wanted; two files and some oil, de rope-ladder, de short rope for us to slide down, and de long thin rope and de piece ob wood six feet long and thick as de wrist."

They at once set to work with the files, and in an hour had sawn through two bars, making a hole sufficiently wide for them to pass. The rope was then fastened to a bar, Harold took off his shoes and put them in his pocket and then slid down the rope into the courtyard. With the other rope Jake lowered the ladder and pole to him and then slid down himself. Harold had already tied to the pole, at four inches from one end, a piece of rope some four feet long, so as to form a loop about half that length. The thin rope was put through the loop and drawn until the two ends came together.

Noiselessly they stole across the yard until they reached the opposite wall. The night was a very dark one, and although they could make out the outline of the wall above them against the skyline, the sentry-boxes at the corners were invisible. Harold now took hold of the two ends of the rope, and Jake, stepping back a few yards from the wall, threw the pole over it. Then Harold drew upon the rope until there was a check, and he knew that the pole was hard up against the edge of the wall. He tied one end of the rope-ladder to an end of the double cord and then hauled steadily upon the other. The rope running through the loop drew the ladder to the top of the wall. All this was done quickly and without noise.

"Now, Jake, do you go first," Harold said. "I will hold the rope tight below, and do you put part of your weight on it as you go up. When you get to the top, knot it to the loop and sit on the wall until I come up."

In three minutes they were both on the wall, the ladder was hauled up and dropped on the outside, while the pole was shifted to the inside of the wall; then they descended the ladder and made across the country.

"Which way we go, massa?" Jake asked.

"I have been thinking it over," Harold replied, "and have decided on making for the James River. We shall be there before morning and can no doubt find a boat. We can guide ourselves by the stars, and when we get into the woods the direction of the wind will be sufficient."

The distance was about twenty miles, but although accustomed to scouting at night, they would have had difficulty in making their way through the woods by morning had they not struck upon a road leading in the direction in which they wanted to go.

Thus it was still some hours before daylight when they reached the James River. They had followed the road all the way, and at the point where it reached the bank there was a village of considerable size, and several fishermen's boats were moored alongside. Stepping into one of these, they unloosed the head-rope and pushed out into the stream. The boat was provided with a sail. The mast was soon stepped and the sail hoisted.

Neither Harold nor Jake had had much experience in boat-sailing, but the wind was with them and the boat ran rapidly down the river, and before daylight they were many miles from their point of starting. The banks of the James River are low and swampy, and few signs of human habitation were seen from the stream. It widened rapidly as they descended and became rougher and rougher. They therefore steered into a sheltered spot behind a sharp bend of the river and anchored.

In the locker they found plenty of lines and bait, and, setting to work, had soon half a dozen fine fish at the bottom of the boat. They pulled up the kedge and rowed to shore and soon made a fire, finding flint and steel in the boat. The fish were broiled over the fire upon sticks. The boat was hauled in under some overhanging bushes, and, stretching themselves in the bottom, Harold and Jake were soon fast asleep.

The sun was setting when they woke.

"What you going to do, sar?" Jake asked. "Are you tinking ob trabeling by land or ob sailing to New York?"

"Neither, Jake," Harold answered. "I am thinking of sailing down the coast inside the line of keys to Charleston. The water there is comparatively smooth, and as we shall be taken for fishermen it is not likely that we shall be overhauled. We can land occasionally and pick a few ears of corn to eat with our fish, and as there is generally a breeze night and morning, however still and hot the day, we shall be able to do it comfortably. I see that there is an iron plate here which has been used for making a fire and cooking on board, so we will lay in a stock of dry wood before we start."

The journey was made without any adventure. While the breeze lasted they sailed; when it fell calm they fished, and when they had obtained a sufficient supply for their wants they lay down and slept under the shade of their sail stretched as an awning. Frequently they passed within hail of other fishing-boats, generally manned by negroes. But beyond a few words as to their success, no questions were asked. They generally kept near the shore, and when they saw any larger craft they either hauled the boat up or ran into one of the creeks in which the coast abounds. It was with intense pleasure that at last they saw in the distance the masts of the shipping in Charleston harbor.

Two hours later they landed. They fastened the boat to the wharf and made their way into the town unquestioned. As they were walking along the principal street they saw a well-known figure sauntering leisurely toward them. His head was bent down and he did not notice, them until Harold hailed him with a shout of "Halloo, Peter, old fellow! How goes it?"

Peter, although not easily moved or excited, gave a yell of delight which astonished the passers-by.

"Ah, my boy!" he exclaimed, "this is a good sight for my old eyes. Here have I been a-fretting and a-worrying myself for the last three months, and cussing my hard luck that I was not with you in that affair on King's Mountain. At first, when I heard of it, I says to myself, 'The young un got out of it somehow. He aint going to be caught asleep.' Waal, I kept on hoping and hoping you'd turn up, till at last I couldn't deceive myself no longer and was forced to conclude that you'd either been rubbed out or taken prisoner. About a month ago we got from the Yankees a list of the names of them they'd captured, and glad I was to see yours among 'em. As I thought as how you weren't likely to be out as long as the war lasted, I was a-thinking of giving it up and going to Montreal and settling down there. It was lonesome like without you, and I missed Jake's laugh, and altogether things didn't seem natural like. Jake, I'm glad to see ye. Your name was not in the list, but I thought it likely enough they might have taken you and set you to work, and made no account of ye."

"That is just what they did; but he got away after settling his score with his new master, and then made for Richmond, where I was in prison; then he got me loose, and here we are. But it is a long story, and I must tell it you at leisure."

CHAPTER XX.

THE WAR IN SOUTH CAROLINA.

The fishing-boat was disposed of for a few pounds, and Harold and Jake were again fitted out in the semi-uniform worn by the scouts. On December 13, the very day after their arrival, a considerable detachment of troops, under General Leslie, arrived, and on the 19th marched, 1500 strong, to join Lord Cornwallis. Harold and his mates accompanied them, and the united army proceeded northwest, between the Roanoke and Catawba rivers. Colonel Tarleton was detached with a force of 1000 men, consisting of light and German legion infantry, a portion of the Seventh Regiment and of the first battalion of the Seventy-first, 350 cavalry, and two field-pieces. His orders were to pursue and destroy a force of some 800 of the enemy under General Morgan. The latter, finding himself pressed, drew up his troops for action near a place called the Cowpens. Then ensued the one action in the whole war in which the English, being superior in numbers, suffered a severe defeat.

Tarleton, confident of victory, led his troops to the attack without making any proper preparations for it. The infantry advanced bravely, and, although the American infantry held the ground for a time with great obstinacy, they drove them back and the victory appeared to be theirs. Tarleton now sent orders to his cavalry to pursue, as his infantry were too exhausted, having marched at a rapid pace all night, to do so. The order was not obeyed, and Major Washington, who commanded the American cavalry, advanced to cover his infantry. These rallied behind their shelter and fell upon the disordered British infantry. Thus suddenly attacked when they believed that victory was in their hands, the English gave way and were driven back. A panic seized them and a general rout ensued. Almost the whole of them were either killed or taken prisoners.

Tarleton in vain endeavored to induce his German legion cavalry to charge; they stood aloof and at last fled in a body through the woods. Their commander and 14 officers remained with Tarleton, and with these and 40 men of the Seventeenth Regiment of dragoons he charged the whole body of the American cavalry and drove them back upon the infantry.

No partial advantage, however brilliant, could retrieve the misfortune of the day. All was already lost, and Tarleton retreated with his gallant little band to the main army under Lord Cornwallis, twenty-five miles from the scene of action. The British infantry were all killed, wounded, or taken prisoners, with the exception of a small detachment which had been left in the rear, and who fell back hastily as soon as the news of the result of the action reached them. The legion cavalry returned to camp without the loss of a man.

The defeat at Cowpens had a serious influence on the campaign. It deprived Lord Cornwallis of the greater portion of his light infantry, who were of the greatest utility in a campaign in such a country, while the news of the action had an immense influence in raising the spirits of the colonists. Hitherto they had uniformly met with ill success when they opposed the British with forces even approaching an equality of strength. In spite of their superior arms and superior shooting, they were unable to stand the charge of the British infantry, who had come almost to despise them as foes in the field. The unexpected success urged them to fresh exertions and brought to their side vast numbers of waverers.

General Morgan, who was joined by General Greene, attempted to prevent Cornwallis passing the fords of the Catawba. It was not till February 1 that the river had fallen sufficiently to render a passage possible. Colonel Webster was sent with his division to one of the principal fords, with orders to open a cannonade there and make a feint of crossing, while the general himself moved toward a smaller and less-known ford. General Davidson, with 300 Americans, was watching this point, but the brigade of guards were ordered to commence the passage and were led by their light infantry companies under Colonel Hall. The river was five hundred yards across, and the stream so strong that the men, marching in fours, had to support one another to enable them to withstand its force. The ford took a sharp turn in the middle of the river.

The night being dark, the guards were not perceived until they had reached this point, when the enemy immediately opened fire upon them. The guide at once fled, without his absence being noticed until it was too late to stop him. Colonel Hall, not knowing of the bend in the ford, led his men straight forward toward the opposite bank, and although their difficulties were much increased by the greater depth of water through which they had to pass, the mistake was really the means of saving them from much loss, as the Americans were assembled to meet them at the head of the ford, and would have inflicted a heavy loss upon them as they struggled in the stream. They did not perceive the change in the direction of the column's march until too late, and the guards, on landing, met them as they came on and quickly routed and dispersed them. The British lost 4 killed, among whom was Colonel Hall, and 36 wounded.

The rest of the division then crossed. Colonel Tarleton, with the cavalry, was sent against 500 of the Americans who had fallen back from the various fords, and, burning with the desire to retrieve the defeat of the Cowpens, the legion horse charged the enemy with such fury that they were completely routed, 50 of them being killed.

Morgan and Greene withdrew their army through the Roanoke River, hotly pursued by the English. For a few days the British army remained at Hillsborough, but no supplies of food sufficient for its maintenance could be found there, so it again fell back. General Greene, being re-enforced by a considerable force, now determined to fight, and accordingly advanced and took up a position near Guilford Court House.

The American force consisted of 4243 infantry and some 3000 irregularsfor the most part backwoodsmen from the frontierwhile the British force amounted to 1445, exclusive of their cavalry, who, however, took little part in the fight. About four miles from Guilford the advanced guards of the army met and a sharp fight ensuedthe Americans, under Colonel Lee, maintaining their ground stanchly until the Twenty-third Regiment came up to the assistance of Tarleton, who commanded the advance.

The main American force was posted in an exceedingly strong position. Their first line was on commanding ground, with open fields in front; on their flanks were woods, and a strong fence ran along in front of their line. The second line was posted in a wood three hundred yards in rear of the first, while four hundred yards behind were three brigades drawn up in the open ground round Guilford Court House. Colonel Washington, with two regiments of dragoons and one of riflemen, formed a reserve for the right flank; Colonel Lee, with his command, was in reserve on the left.

As soon as the head of the British column appeared in sight two guns upon the road opened fire upon them and were answered by the English artillery. While the cannonade continued the British formed in order of attack. The Seventy-first, with a provincial regiment, supported by the first battalion of the guards, formed the right; the Twenty-third and Thirty-third, led by Colonel Webster, with the grenadiers and second battalion of guards, formed the left. The light infantry of the guards and the cavalry were in reserve.

When the order was given to advance the line moved forward in perfect steadiness, and at 150 yards the enemy opened fire. The English did not fire a shot till within 80 yards, when they poured in a volley and charged with the bayonet. The first line of the enemy at once fell back upon the second; here a stout resistance was made. Posted in the woods and sheltering themselves behind trees, they kept up for some time a galling fire which did considerable execution. General Leslie brought up the right wing of the first battalion of guards into the front line and Colonel Webster called up the second battalion. The enemy's second line now fell back on their third, which was composed of their best troops, and the struggle was a very obstinate one.

The Americans, from their vastly superior numbers, occupied so long a line of ground that the English commanders, in order to face them, were obliged to leave large gaps between the different regiments. Thus it happened that Webster, who with the Thirty-third Regiment, the light infantry, and the second battalion of guards turned toward the left, found himself separated from the rest of the troops by the enemy, who pushed in between him and the Twenty-third. These again were separated from the guards. The ground was very hilly, the wood exceedingly thick, and the English line became broken up into regiments separated from each other, each fighting on its own account and ignorant of what was going on in other parts of the field.

The second battalion of guards was the first that broke through the wood into the open grounds of Guilford Court House. They immediately attacked a considerable force drawn up there, routed them, and took their two cannon with them; but, pursuing them with too much ardor and impetuosity toward the woods in the rear, were thrown into confusion by a heavy fire from another body of troops placed there, and being instantly charged by Washington's dragoons, were driven back with great slaughter and the cannon were retaken.

At this moment the British guns, advancing along the road through the wood, issued into the open and checked the pursuit of the Americans by a well-directed fire. The Seventy-first and the Twenty-third now came through the wood. The second battalion of guards rallied and again advanced, and the enemy were quickly repulsed and put to flight. The two guns were recaptured, with two others.

Colonel Webster, with the Thirty-third, returned across the ravine through which he had driven the enemy opposed to him, and rejoined the rest of the force. The Americans drew off in good order. The Twenty-third and Twenty-first pursued with the cavalry for a short distance and were then recalled. The fight was now over on the center and left, but on the right heavy firing was still going on. Here General Leslie, with the first battalion of guards and a Hessian regiment, had been greatly impeded by the excessive thickness of the woods, which rendered it impossible to charge with the bayonet. As they struggled through the thicket the enemy swarmed around them, so that they were at times engaged in front, flanks, and rear. The enemy were upon an exceedingly steep rise, and lying along the top of this they poured such a heavy fire into the guards that these suffered exceedingly; nevertheless they struggled up to the top and drove the front line back, but found another far more numerous drawn up behind. As the guards struggled up to the crest they were received by a tremendous fire on their front and flanks and suffered so heavily that they fell into confusion. The Hessian regiment, which had suffered but slightly, advanced in compact order to the left of the guards, and, wheeling to the right, took the enemy in the flank with a very heavy fire. Under cover of this the guards re-formed and moved forward to join the Hessians and complete the repulse of the enemy opposed to them. They were again attacked both in the flank and the rear, but at last they completely dispersed the troops surrounding them and the battle came to an end.

This battle was one of the most obstinate and well-contested throughout the war, and the greatest credit is due to the British, who drove the enemy, three times their own number, from the ground chosen by them and admirably adapted to their mode of warfare.

The loss, as might have been expected, was heavy, amounting to 93 killed and 413 woundednearly a third of the force engaged. Between two and three hundred of the enemy's dead were found on the field of battle, and a great portion of their army was disbanded. The sufferings of the wounded on the following night were great. A tremendous rain fell, and the battle had extended over so large an area that it was impossible to find and collect them. The troops had had no food during the day and had marched several miles before they came into action. Nearly 50 of the wounded died during the night.

Decisive as the victory was, its consequences were slight. Lord Cornwallis was crippled by his heavy loss, following that which the force had suffered at the Cowpens. The two battles had diminished the strength of his little force by fully half. Provisions were difficult to obtain, and the inhabitants, some of whom had suffered greatly upon previous occasions for their loyal opinions, seeing the weakness of the force and the improbability of its being enabled to maintain itself, were afraid to lend assistance or to show their sympathy, as they would be exposed on its retreat to the most cruel persecutions by the enemy.

Three days after the battle Lord Cornwallis retired, leaving 70 of the wounded, who were unable to move, under the protection of a flag of truce. From Guilford Court House he moved his troops to Wilmington, in North Carolina, a seaport where he hoped to obtain provisions and stores, especially clothing and shoes.

General Greene, left unmolested after his defeat, reassembled his army, and receiving re-enforcements, marched at full speed to attack Lord Rawdon at Camden, thinking that he would, with his greatly superior force, be able to destroy him in his isolated situation. The English commander fortified his position and the American general drew back and encamped on Hobkirk Hill, two miles distant, to await the coming of his heavy baggage and cannon, together with some re-enforcements. Lord Rawdon determined to take the initiative, and marching out with his whole force of 900 men, advanced to the attack. The hill was covered at its foot by a deep swamp, but the English marched round this and stormed the position. The Americans made an obstinate resistance, but the English climbed the hill with such impetuosity, in spite of the musketry and grape-shot of the enemy, that they were forced to give way. Several times they returned to the attack, but were finally driven off in confusion. One hundred prisoners were taken, and Lord Rawdon estimated that 400 of the enemy were killed and wounded. The American estimate was considerably lower, and as the Americans fought with all the advantage of position, while the English were exposed during their ascent to a terrible fire, which they were unable to return effectively, it is probable that the American loss, including the wounded, was inferior to that of the English, whose casualties amounted to 258.

Harold and his companions did not take part either in the battle of Guilford Court House or in that of Hobkirk Hill, having been attached to the fort known as Ninety-six, because a milestone with these figures upon it stood in the village. The force here was under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Cruger, who had with him 150 men of a provincial corps known as Delancey's, 200 of the second battalion of the New Jersey volunteers, and 200 local loyalists. The post was far advanced, but so long as Lord Rawdon remained at Camden its position was not considered to be dangerous. The English general, however, after winning the battle of Hobkirk Hill, received news of the retirement of Lord Cornwallis toward Wilmington, and seeing that he would thereby be exposed to the whole of the American forces in South Carolina and would infallibly be cut off from Charleston, he determined to retire upon that port. Before falling back he sent several messengers to Colonel Cruger, acquainting him of his intention. But so well were the roads guarded by the enemy that none of the messengers reached Ninety-six.

Colonel Cruger, being uneasy at the length of time which had elapsed since he had received any communication, sent Harold and the two scouts out with instructions to make their way toward the enemy's lines and, if possible, to bring in a prisoner. This they had not much difficulty in doing. Finding out the position of two parties of the Americans, they placed themselves on the road between them. No long time elapsed before an American officer came along. A shot from Peter's rifle killed his horse, and before the officer could recover his feet, he was seized by the scouts. They remained hidden in the wood during the day and at night returned with their prisoner to Ninety-six, thirty miles distant, avoiding all villages where resistance could be offered by hostile inhabitants.

From the prisoner Colonel Cruger learned that Lord Rawdon had retreated from Camden and that he was therefore entirely isolated. The position was desperate, but he determined to defend the post to the last, confident that Lord Rawdon would, as soon as possible, undertake an expedition for his release.

The whole garrison was at once set to work, stockades were erected, earthworks thrown up, a redoubtformed of casks filled with earthconstructed, and the whole strengthened by ditches and abattis. Blockhouses were erected in the village to enable the troops to fire over the stockades, and covered communications made between various works. The right of the village was defended by a regular work called the Star. To the left was a work commanding a rivulet from which the place drew its supply of water.

Colonel Cruger offered the volunteers, who were a mounted corps, permission to return to Charleston, but they refused to accept the offer, and, turning their horses into the woods, determined to share the fate of the garrison. In making this offer the colonel was influenced partly by motives of policy, as the stock of provisions was exceedingly scanty, and he feared that they would not last if the siege should be a long one. Besides this, he feared that, as had already too often happened, should the place fall, even the solemn engagement of the terms of the surrender would not be sufficient to protect the loyalists against the vengeance of their countrymen.

On May 21 General Greene, with his army, appeared in sight of the place and encamped in a wood within cannon-shot of the village. He lost no time, and in the course of the night threw up two works within seventy paces of the fortifications. The English commander did not suffer so rash and disdainful a step to pass unpunished. The scouts, who were outside the works, brought in news of what was being done, and also that the working parties were protected by a strong force.

The three guns which constituted the entire artillery of the defenders were moved noiselessly to the salient angle of the Star opposite the works, and at eleven o'clock in the morning these suddenly opened fire, aided by musketry from the parapets. The covering force precipitately retreated, and 30 men sallied out from the fort, carried the intrenchments, and bayoneted their defenders. Other troops followed, the works were destroyed, and the intrenching tools carried into the fort. General Greene, advancing with his whole army, arrived only in time to see the last of the sallying party re-enter the village.

"I call that a right-down good beginning," Peter Lambton said, in great exultation. "There's nothing like hitting a hard blow at the beginning of the fight. It raises your spirits and makes t'other chap mighty cautious. You'll see next time they'll begin their works at a much more respectful distance."

Peter was right. The blow checked the impetuosity of the American general, and on the night of the 23d he opened his trenches at a distance of four hundred yards. Having so large a force, he was able to push forward with great rapidity, although the garrison made several gallant sorties to interfere with the work.

On June 3 the second parallel was completed. A formal summons was sent to the British commander to surrender. This document was couched in the most insolent language and contained the most unsoldierlike threats of the consequences which would befall the garrison and its commander if he offered further resistance. Colonel Cruger sent back a verbal answer that he was not frightened by General Greene's menaces and that he should defend the post until the last.

The American batteries now opened with a heavy cross-fire, which enfiladed several of the works. They also pushed forward a sap against the Star fort and erected a battery, composed of gabions, thirty-six yards only from the abattis and raised forty feet high so as to overlook the works of the garrison. The riflemen posted on its top did considerable execution and prevented the British guns being worked during the day.

The garrison tried to burn the battery by firing heated shot into it, but from want of proper furnaces they were unable to heat the shot sufficiently, and the attempt failed. They then protected their parapets as well as they could by sand-bags with loop-holes, through which the defenders did considerable execution with their rifles.

Harold and his two comrades, whose skill with their weapons was notorious, had their post behind some sand-bags immediately facing the battery, and were able completely to silence the fire of its riflemen, as it was certain death to show a head above its parapet.

The enemy attempted to set fire to the houses of the village by shooting blazing arrows into them, a heavy musketry and artillery fire being kept up to prevent the defenders from quenching the flames. These succeeded, however, in preventing any serious conflagration, but Colonel Cruger ordered at once that the whole of the houses should be unroofed. Thus the garrison were for the rest of the siege without protection from the rain and night air, but all risk of a fire, which might have caused the consumption of their stores, was avoided.

While the siege had been going on the town of Augusta had fallen, and Lieutenant Colonel Lee, marching thence to re-enforce General Greene, brought with him the British prisoners taken there. With a scandalous want of honorable feeling he marched these prisoners along in full sight of the garrison, with all the parade of martial music, and preceded by a British standard reversed.

If the intention was to discourage the garrison it failed entirely in its effect. Fired with indignation at so shameful a sight, they determined to encounter every danger and endure every hardship rather than fall into the hands of an enemy capable of disgracing their success by so wanton an insult to their prisoners.

The Americans, strengthened by the junction of the troops who had reduced Augusta, began to make approaches against the stockaded fort on the left of the village, which kept open the communication of the garrison with their water supply. The operations on this side were intrusted to Colonel Lee, while General Greene continued to direct those against the Star.

On the night of June 9 a sortie was made by two strong parties of the defenders. That to the right entered the enemy's trenches and penetrated to a battery of four guns, which nothing but the want of spikes and hammers prevented them from destroying. Here they discovered the mouth of a mine intended to be carried under one of the defenses of the Star.

The division on the left fell in with the covering party of the Americans, killed a number of them, and made their commanding officer a prisoner.

On the 12th Colonel Lee determined to attempt a storm of the stockade on the left, and sent forward a sergeant and six men, with lighted combustibles, to set fire to the abattis. The whole of them were killed before effecting their purpose. A number of additional cannon now arrived from Augusta, and so heavy and incessant a fire was opened upon the stockade from three batteries that on the 17th it was no longer tenable, and the garrison evacuated it in the night.

The suffering of the garrison for want of water now became extreme. With great labor a well had been dug in the fort, but no water was found, and none could be procured except from the rivulet within pistol-shot of the enemy. In the day nothing could be done, but at night negroes, whose bodies in the darkness were not easily distinguished from the tree-stumps which surrounded them, went out and at great risk brought in a scanty supply. The position of the garrison became desperate. Colonel Cruger, however, was not discouraged, and did his best to sustain the spirits of his troops by assurances that Lord Rawdon was certain to attempt to relieve the place as soon as he possibly could do so.

At length one day, to the delight of the garrison, an American royalist rode right through the pickets under the fire of the enemy and delivered a verbal message from Lord Rawdon to the effect that he had passed Orangeburg and was on his march to raise the siege.

Lord Rawdon had been forced to remain at Charleston until the arrival of three fresh regiments from Ireland enabled him to leave that place in safety and march to the relief of Ninety-six. His force amounted to 1800 infantry and 150 cavalry. General Greene had also received news of Lord Rawdon's movements, and, finding from his progress that it would be impossible to reduce the fort by regular approaches before his arrival, he determined to hazard an assault.

The American works had been pushed up close to the forts, and the third parallel had been completed, and a mine and two trenches extended within a few feet of the ditch. On the morning of June 18 a heavy cannonade was begun from all the American batteries. The Whole of the batteries and trenches were lined with riflemen, whose fire prevented the British from showing their heads, above the parapets. At noon two parties of the enemy advanced under cover of their trenches and made a lodgment in the ditch. These were followed by other parties with hooks to drag down the sand-bags and tools to overthrow the parapet. They were exposed to the fire of the block-houses in the village, and Major Green, the English officer who commanded the Star fort, had his detachment in readiness behind the parapet to receive the enemy when they attempted to storm.

As the main body of Americans did not advance beyond the third parallel and contented themselves with supporting the parties in the ditch with their fire, the commander of the fort resolved to inflict a heavy blow. Two parties, each 30 strong, under the command of Captains Campbell and French, issued from the sally-port in the rear, entered the ditch, and, taking opposite directions, charged the Americans who had made the lodgment with such impetuosity that they drove everything before them until they met. The bayonet alone was used and the carnage was greattwo-thirds of those who entered the trenches were either killed or wounded.

General Greene, finding it useless any longer to continue the attempt, called off his troops, and on the following day raised the siege and marched away with all speed, having lost at least 300 men in the siege. Of the garrison 27 were killed and 58 wounded.

On the 21st Lord Rawdon arrived at Ninety-six and, finding that it would be hopeless for him to attempt to overtake the retreating enemy, who were marching with great speed, he drew off the garrison of Ninety-six and fell back toward the coast.

A short time afterward a sharp fight ensued between a force under Colonel Stewart and the army of General Greene. The English were taken by surprise and were at first driven back, but they recovered from their confusion and renewed the fight with great spirit, and after a desperate conflict the Americans were repulsed. Two cannon and 60 prisoners were taken; among the latter Colonel Washington, who commanded the reserve. The loss on both sides was about equal, as 250 of the British troops were taken prisoners at the first outset. The American killed considerably exceeded our own. Both, parties claimed the victory; the Americans because they had forced the British to retreat; the British because they had ultimately driven the Americans from the field and obliged them to retire to a strong position seven miles in the rear This was the last action of the war in South Carolina.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE END OF THE STRUGGLE.

Being unable to obtain any supplies at Wilmington, Lord Cornwallis determined to march on into Virginia and to effect a junction with the British force under General Arnold operating there. Arnold advanced to Petersburg and Cornwallis effected a junction with him on May 20. The Marquis de la Fayette, who commanded the colonial forces here, fell back. Just at this time the Count de Grasse, with a large French fleet, arrived off the coast, and, after some consultation with General Washington, determined that the French fleet and the whole American army should operate together to crush the forces under Lord Cornwallis.

The English were hoodwinked by reports that the French fleet was intended to operate against New York, and it was not until they learned that the Count de Grasse had arrived with twenty-eight ships of the line at the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay that the true object of the expedition was seen. A portion of the English fleet encountered them, but after irregular actions, lasting over five days, the English drew off and retired to New York. The commander-in-chief then attempted to effect a diversion, in order to draw off some of the enemy who were surrounding Cornwallis. The fort of New London was stormed after some desperate fighting, and great quantities of ammunition and stores and fifty pieces of cannon taken. General Washington did not allow his attention to be distracted. Matters were in a most critical condition, for although to the English the prospect of ultimate success appeared slight indeed, the Americans were in a desperate condition. Their immense and long-continued efforts had been unattended with any material success. It was true that the British troops held no more ground now than they did at the end of the first year of the war, but no efforts of the colonists had succeeded in wresting that ground from them. The people were exhausted and utterly disheartened. Business of all sorts was at a standstill. Money had ceased to circulate, and the credit of Congress stood so low that its bonds had ceased to have any value whatever. The soldiers were unpaid, ill fed, and mutinous. If on the English side it seemed that the task of conquering was beyond them, the Americans were ready to abandon the defense from sheer exhaustion. It was then of paramount necessity to General Washington that a great and striking success should be obtained to animate the spirits of the people.

Cornwallis, seeing the formidable combination which the French and Americans were making to crush him, sent message after message to New York to ask for aid from the commander-in-chief, and received assurances from him that he would at once sail with 4000 troops to join him. Accordingly, in obedience to his orders, Lord Cornwallis fortified himself at Yorktown.

On September 28 the combined army of French and Americans, consisting of 7000 of the former and 12,000 of the latter, appeared before Yorktown and the post at Gloucester. Lord Cornwallis had 5960 men, but so great had been the effects of the deadly climate in the autumn months that only 4017 men were reported as fit for duty.

The enemy at once invested the town and opened their trenches against it. From their fleet they had drawn an abundance of heavy artillery, and on October 9 their batteries opened a tremendous fire upon the works. Each day they pushed their trenches closer, and the British force was too weak, in comparison with the number of its assailants, to venture upon sorties. The fire from the works was completely overpowered by that of the enemy, and the ammunition was nearly exhausted. Day after day passed and still the promised re-enforcements did not arrive. Lord Cornwallis was told positively that the fleet would set sail on October 8, but it came not, nor did it leave port until the 19th, the day on which Lord Cornwallis surrendered.

On the 16th, finding that he must either surrender or break through, he determined to cross the river and fall on the French rear with his whole force and then turn northward and force his way through Maryland, Pennsylvania, and the Jerseys. In the night the light infantry, the greater part of the guards, and part of the Twenty-third were embarked in boats and crossed to the Gloucester side of the river before midnight. At this critical moment a violent storm arose which prevented the boats returning. The enemy's fire reopened at daybreak, and the engineer and principal officers of the army gave it as their opinion that it was impossible to resist longer. Only one eight-inch shell and a hundred small ones remained. The defenses had in many places tumbled to ruins, and no effectual resistance could be opposed to an assault.

Accordingly Lord Cornwallis sent out a flag of truce and arranged terms of surrender. On the 24th the fleet and re-enforcements arrived off the mouth of the Chesapeake. Had they left New York at the time promised, the result of the campaign would have been different.

The army surrendered as prisoners of war until exchanged, the officers with liberty to proceed on parole to Europe and not to serve until exchanged. The loyal Americans were embarked on the Bonito, sloop of war, and sent to New York in safety, Lord Cornwallis having obtained permission to send off the ship without her being searched, with as many soldiers on board as he should think fit, so that they were accounted for in any further exchange. He was thus enabled to send off such of the inhabitants and loyalist troops as would have suffered from the vengeance of the Americans.

The surrender of Lord Cornwallis' army virtually ended the war. The burden entailed on the people in England by the great struggle against France, Spain, Holland, and America, united in arms against her, was enormous. So long as there appeared any chance of recovering the colony the English people made the sacrifices required of them, but the conviction that it was impossible for them to wage a war with half of Europe and at the same time to conquer a continent had been gaining more and more in strength. Even the most sanguine were silenced by the surrender of Yorktown, and a cry arose throughout the country that peace should at once be made.

As usual under the circumstances, a change of ministry took place. Negotiations for peace were at once commenced, and the war terminated in the acknowledgment of the entire independence of the United States of America.

Harold with his companions had fallen back to Charleston with Lord Rawdon after the relief of Ninety-six, and remained there until the news arrived that the negotiations were on foot and that peace was now certain. Then he took his discharge and sailed at once for England, accompanied by Jake; Peter Lambton taking a passage to Canada to carry out his intention of settling at Montreal.

Harold was now past twenty-two, and his father and mother did not recognize him when, without warning, he arrived at their residence in Devonshire. It was six years since his mother had seen him, when she sailed from Boston before its surrender in 1776.

For a year he remained quiet at home, and then carried out his plan of returning to the American continent and settling in Canada.

Accompanied by Jake, he sailed for the St. Lawrence and purchased a snug farm on its banks, near the spot where it flows from Lake Ontario.

He greatly improved it, built a comfortable house upon it, and two years later returned to England, whence he brought back his Cousin Nelly as his wife.

Her little fortune was used in adding to the farm, and it became one of the largest and best managed in the country. Peter Lambton found Montreal too crowded for him and settled down on the estate, supplying it with fish and game so long as his strength enabled him to go about, and enjoying the society of Jack Pearson, who had married and established himself on a farm close by. As years went on and the population increased the property became very valuable, and Harold, before he died, was one of the wealthiest and most respected men in the colony. So long as his mother lived he and his wife paid occasional visits to England, but after her death his family and farm had so increased that it was inconvenient to leave them; his father therefore returned with him to Canada and ended his life there. Jake lived to a good old age and was Harold's faithful friend and right-hand man to the last.

THE END.

Table of Contents

REDSKIN AND COW-BOY

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I. AN ADVERTISEMENT.

CHAPTER II. TERRIBLE NEWS.

CHAPTER III. THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

CHAPTER IV. AN EXPLOSION.

CHAPTER V. ACROSS THE SEA.

CHAPTER VI. A HORSE DEAL.

CHAPTER VII. AMONG THE COW-BOYS.

CHAPTER VIII. A RATTLESNAKE DIET.

CHAPTER IX. A ROUND-UP.

CHAPTER X. A RACE.

CHAPTER XI. A FIRE ON THE PLAINS.

CHAPTER XII. AN INDIAN RAID.

CHAPTER XIII. RESCUED.

CHAPTER XIV. SURROUNDED BY RED-SKINS.

CHAPTER XV. WITH THE WAGGON TEAMS.

CHAPTER XVI. A MINING EXPEDITION.

CHAPTER XVII. CARRIED OFF.

CHAPTER XVIII. THE BRIGANDS' HAUNT.

CHAPTER XIX. A FIGHT AND A RESCUE.

CHAPTER XX. THE AVENGER.

REDSKIN AND COW-BOY

THE MEETING IN THE INN GARDEN AT EL PASO.

REDSKIN AND COW-BOY

A TALE OF

THE WESTERN PLAINS

BY

G. A. HENTY

Author of "Held Fast for England;" "The Dash for Khartoum;" "By Right of Conquest;" "True to the Old Flag;" "In Freedom's Cause;" &c.

WITH TWELVE PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY

ALFRED PEARSE

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1896

COPYRIGHT, 1891,

BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.

PREFACE.

MY DEAR LADS,

There are but few words of preface needed to a story that is not historical. The principal part of the tale is laid among the cow-boys of the Western States of America, a body of men unrivalled in point of hardihood and devotion to work, as well as in reckless courage and wild daring. Texas, which twenty-five years ago was the great ranching state, is no longer the home of the typical cow-boy, but he still exists and flourishes in New Mexico and the northern States and Territories. The picture I have given of their life can be relied upon, and its adventures and dangers are in no degree coloured, as I have taken them from the lips of a near relative of my own who was for some years working as a cow-boy in New Mexico. He was an actor in many of the scenes described, and so far from my having heightened or embellished them, I may say that I have given but a small proportion of the perilous adventures through which he went, for had I given them in full it would, I am sure, have seemed to you that the story was too improbable to be true. In treating of cow-boy life, indeed, it may well be said that truth is stranger than fiction.

Yours sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.

CHAPTER I.

AN ADVERTISEMENT.

CEDAR GULCH was, in 1851, a flourishing camp. There had been some good finds by the first prospectors, and a rush had of course followed. In many cases first discoveries proved illusive, but it was not so at Cedar Gulch. The ground turned out well, and although no extraordinary finds were made, the average was good all over the bottom, and there were few who were not doing fairly well.

The scene was a busy one. Several hundreds of men were hard at work on the flat, which in winter was the bed of a wide stream, but which in summer was a mere thread of water among the rocks, scarce enough for washing purposes.

Everywhere were piles of stones and rubbish that had been brought up from the shafts; men toiled at windlasses; others emptied the buckets as they came up into swinging troughs or cradles; others again kept these supplied with water, and swung or rocked them, taking off the large stones that the motion brought to the surface, while the slush and mud ran out at the lower end. New-comers moved about watching the work with eager eyes, wishing that they had had the luck to get there among the early arrivals, and to take up a claim, for every foot of ground far down the valley had already been occupied, and there was now no getting into a claim except by purchasing a share or altogether buying out the present holders.

One of the claims that was doing best was held by three men who had worked in partnership for the last two years, and who had been among the first to arrive at Cedar Gulch. They were known among the others as English Bill, Sim Howlett, and Limping Frank. Sim Howlett was perhaps the leader of the party. He had been one of the earliest gold-diggers, and was a square, powerfully built man. He was a man of few words, but the words when spoken were forcible. He was by no means quarrelsome, but was one whom few cared to quarrel with, even in a place where serious quarrels were of constant occurrence, and where revolvers cracked so often that the sound of a fray excited but little attention.

English Bill was a tall wiry man, hot of temper, but a general favourite. Generous with his money, always ready to lend a helping hand to anyone who was down on his luck, he also was a capital worker, and had, in spite of his rough clothes and the use of language as rough as that of his companions, a certain air which told that, like many others in the diggings, he was a gentleman by birth. Why these two men should have taken up with Limping Frank as a comrade was a matter of surprise to those who knew them. They were both men in the prime of life, while he was at least ten years their senior. His hair was already white; his face was that of a student rather than a miner, with a gentle and almost womanly expression. His frame was slight, and looked altogether incapable of hard work, and he walked with a distinct limp, the result of a bullet wound in the hip. And yet there were men in the gulch who, having known the trio at other diggings, declared that they would rather quarrel either with English Bill or Sim Howlett than with Limping Frank, and as some of them were desperate fellows, and noted pistol shots, their report was quite sufficient to secure respect for a man who otherwise would have been regarded with pity or contempt.

Very little of the hard work of the partnership fell upon Frank. He cooked, looked after the shanty, did what washing and mending to the clothes was necessary, and occasionally came down and assisted to work the cradle and sort the stuff. They generally addressed him as doctor. Not that he made any profession of medical knowledge; but he was always ready to give his services in case of sickness, and many a miner had he pulled through fevers which, had it not been for his nursing and care, would have proved fatal.

"I can't make out what yer mean by saying I had best not quarrel with that little old atomy you call Limping Frank," a big, powerful fellow who had recently arrived at the camp said to one who had been talking over with him the characteristics of several of the miners. "I ain't very pertiklar who I quarrels with; but what on arth there can be in that little chap to make one keep clear of him beats me. Can he shoot?"

"You bet," the other replied. "He could put a bullet plumb between your eyes ten times following, the length of the long saloon up there. There ain't no better shot nor quicker anywhere on the slopes."

"But he don't look as if he could speak up for himself," the other said.

"No; and he doesn't speak up for himself, though his mates would be ready enough to speak up for him if anyone said anything to him. There is nothing quarrelsome about him. He is always for peace and order. He is a sort of Judge Lynch all to himself. He has cleared out one or two camps I have been at. When a chap gets too bad for anything, and takes to shooting over and above what is usual and right, 'specially if he draws on quiet sort of chaps and becomes a terror, then Limping Frank comes out. I was down at Dead Man's Gulch when there was a gang of three or four men who were a terror to the place. They had stretched out seven or eight between them, and Texan Jack, as the worst of them was called, one day shot down a young fellow who had just come into camp, for no reason at all, as far as any one knew.

"I happened to be in the saloon five minutes afterwards, when Limping Frank came in. Texan Jack was standing drinking there with two of his mates, laughing and jawing. You would scarcely have known that little chap if you had seen him then! He had been nursing a mate of mine only the night before, and as I had been sitting near him I thought what a gentle sort of face he had—more like a woman's than a man's. But now his eyes were wide open and his lips closed, and there was just a set look in his face that I knew meant mischief—for I had seen him once before when his dander was up—and I put my hand into my back pocket for my pistol, for I knew there was going to be a muss. He stopped in the middle of the room, and he said in a loud, clear voice that made every one look sharp round, 'Texan Jack, murderer and villain, we have borne with you too long. If you are a man, draw.' Texan Jack stared with astonishment.

"'Are you mad, you little fool?' he said.

"'Draw, or I will shoot you down as you stand,' Limping Frank said, and the Texan saw that he meant mischief. Frank had no weapon in his hand, for he was not one to take an advantage. The Texan carried his weapon up his sleeve, but quick as he was with it, Frank was as quick, and the two pistols cracked pretty well at the same moment. Frank got a ball in the shoulder, but the Texan fell dead with a bullet in the centre of his forehead. His two mates drew in a moment, but Frank's revolver cracked twice as quick as you could count them, and there were just three bodies lying dead in a heap. Then he put up his pistol, and said in his ordinary quiet voice, 'I don't like these things, but we must have peace and order. Will some of you tell the others that they had better git.' And you bet they did git. Limping Frank never said another word about it, but got his arm in a sling, and half an hour afterwards I saw him quietly cooking his mates' dinner while they were both standing by blowing him up for starting out without them to back him."

"What did he say?" the new-comer asked.

"I heard him say, 'It is no use your going on like that, mates. If you had gone down he would have got his friends, and then there would have been a general fight, and several would have got hurt. When you have murderers like these you don't want a fight—you want an execution; and having a sort of natural knack with the pistol, I took it upon myself to be executioner.'

"There was another case, although it didn't happen at the camp I was at, in which a woman was murdered by a half-breed Mexican. I did not hear the circumstances, but it was a shocking bad case. She left a child behind her, and her husband, a little German, went clean off his head.

"Next morning Limping Frank was missing. All that was known was that he had bought a horse of a man who had come in late the night before, and was gone. His two mates looked high and low for him, but said at last they guessed he would turn up again. It was well-nigh two months before he came back. He brought back with him a watch and some trinkets that had been stolen from the murdered woman, and it seems that he had followed the fellow right down into New Mexico, and had shot him there. The man who told me said he never made any talk about it, but was at work as usual the morning after he came back. I tell you I would rather quarrel with Sim Howlett and English Bill together than I would get that little man's dander up. He is a peacemaker too, he is, and many a quarrel he has smoothed down. At one camp we were in we made him a sort of judge, and whenever there was a dispute about claims, or tools, or anything else, we went to him and he decided, and no judge could have gone into the case fairer or given a better judgment; and though, in course, those he decided against were not pleased, they had to put up with it. In the first place, the camp was with him; and in the second, there ain't much use disputing with a judge who can shoot as straight as he can, and is ready to do it if necessary."

The three partners had finished their day's work, and sat down to a meal of tea, steak, and corn-cakes that Limping Frank had prepared for them.

"We shall have to be moving from here soon," the Englishman said. "Another week and our claim will be worked out. We have not done badly, on the whole. The question is, had we better buy up somebody else's claim and go on working here, or make a start for some fresh field?"

"I vote for a move," Sim Howlett said. "I don't say the claim hasn't panned out well, but there is no excitement about it. The gold lies regular right through the gravel, and it is almost as bad as working for wages. You can always tell within an ounce or so what there will be when you come to clean up the cradle. I like a bit of excitement. Nothing one day and eight or ten ounces the next."

"It comes to the same thing in the long run," the Englishman said. "We don't get very much forwarder. Grub costs a lot of money, and then what there is over and above slips through our fingers somehow. The gambling-tables take a large share of mine; and your weakness for champagne, Sim, when you break out about once a month, makes a hole in yours; and as to Frank's, he spends half his in getting meat for soups and wines and medicines for his patients."

"What is one to do?" Frank said apologetically. "One cannot see people die for want of ordinary necessaries. Besides, Bill, you give away a lot too."

"Only my money is not so well spent as yours, doctor."

"Well, no, I don't think it is."

"I suppose it comes to the same thing in the end. I don't want to lay by money. What should I do with it if I had it?"

"You don't want to lay by money because you are strong, and can go on earning it for years yet; and you both know very well that if you had a hundred thousand dollars you would chuck it all away in six months."

Sim Howlett laughed aloud.

"Perhaps you are right, doctor," English Bill said. "But if your argument means anything, it means that we are fools for working as hard as we do."

"Not at all," the doctor said gently. "You don't earn more than you want, as is shown by the fact that you lay by so little, and that we haven't more than enough dust in our sack to keep us for a month or two if we don't happen to strike it in the next claim we take up. No; I think we earn just enough. If you earned three times as much you would go three times as often to that cursed gambling-table, and it would be bad for your temper. If Sim earned three times as much he would go on the spree three times as often, and it would be bad for his health. If I were to earn three times as much, I should have three times as many patients to attend to, and I couldn't stand such a strain; so you see we are just right as we are," and he nodded pleasantly to his two comrades.

"You are the most perplexing beggar I ever came across, doctor," the Englishman said, "and I have seen some rum specimens during the twenty years I have been knocking about in the States."

The little man nodded as if it had been a compliment.

"I know, Bill. That is what I think myself sometimes; there is a tile just a little loose somewhere."

"Not at all, not at all," Bill said hotly; while Sim Howlett growled that he would like to hear any one else say so.

"Not off, you know," Frank said, "but just a little loose. I know, dear boys. You see my machine gets muddled up. It may work right enough sometimes, but the chances are that a cog has got bent, or that there is a little twist in a crank, and the thing never works quite even. It just catches, you know—rattles now and then. You may look it all over as much as you like, but you cannot spot where it is. You say it wants grease, but you may pour bucketfuls over it and it makes no difference. There"—and he broke off—"they are at it again up in that saloon."

Two or three pistol-shots rang out in the evening air.

"Things are not going on as they ought to," he went on quietly. "That is another machine that wants regulating. There are more bad men in this camp than there ought to be."

"Don't you worry yourself," Bill said hastily. "You cannot expect a mining camp to be a sort of paradise, doctor, and all the bad men kept outside. Things have been going on pretty smooth of late. It has been quite a peaceful camp."

"I don't like the ways of that man Symonds the gambler," the doctor said meditatively, with his head a little on one side.

"He is a bad lot," Sim Howlett agreed; "but he is going. I heard tell yesterday that he said he was going down to Frisco at the end of the week; and if he doesn't go, Bill and I will get a dozen other fellows to go with us and tell him that he had better git, or the air of this camp is likely to be unhealthy for him."

"Well, if that is so we need not think any more about it," the doctor said. "I dreamt last night I saw him with a bullet mark in the centre of his forehead; but perhaps that was a mistake, or the mark will not come at present. It will come sooner or later," he added musingly, "but perhaps not for a good time yet."

"Well, well," Sim Howlett broke in, "we are wandering about like green hands lost in a sage-bush. We started by talking about whether, when we have worked up our claim, we shall stop here or foot it."

"If we foot it, where do you propose to go, Sim?"

"I heard this morning that they are doing well in that new place they call Gold Run. Then, again, you know we have always had a fancy for a month's prospecting up at the head of the Yuba. The gold must come from somewhere, though nobody has ever hit the spot yet."

"I am ready to go where you like, Sim," the doctor said; "but as I have often told you before, you miners are altogether wrong in your notions, as any one can see with half an eye by the fact, that whether you are down here in the bottom of a gulch, or whether you are up on those flats, 2000 feet above us, you always find gravel. Now those flats were once the bed of a great river, that was when the mountains round were tens of thousands of feet higher than they are now; they must have been all that or there would never be water enough for such a river as that must have been. That river must have rolled on for thousands of years, for the gravel, which you can see in some places is 500 feet thick, is all water-worn; whether it is big boulders or little stones, it has all been rolled about.

"Well, in time these mountains were all worn away. There wasn't water then for the big river, and the water from the hills, as you see them now, began to cut fresh channels, and this Yuba, which is one of them, lies a thousand feet below the old gravel bed. In some places it has crossed the old bed, and the gold that came down from the former mountains into the gravel has been washed down into these valleys. You will never find, as you all dream of doing, a quartz vein stuck full of gold. There may have been veins like that in the old mountains, but the quartz veins that you find now, and lots of them have been assayed, are all very poor; they have got gold in them, but scarce enough to pay for working even when they get the best machinery. I fancy gold goes off with depth, though why it should I cannot say, and that these quartz veins which near the surface had big nuggets, and were choke-full of small stuff, just pettered away to nothing as they went deeper. That is why I think, Sim, that you will find no quartz reefs worth working anywhere now, and why you are less likely to find much pay dirt in the upper gorges, because the water there has not gone through the old gravel fields as it has in its windings lower down."

"But according to that, doctor, we should find it richest of all if we were to sink in the bed of the river down by the plains."

"Not at all, not at all, Bill. From the point where the Yuba's course leaves the old gravel bed of the big river and makes its own way through hills down to the plains it has picked up no more gold. As you know the big nuggets are generally found pretty high up, as was natural they should be, for as soon as the new river washed them out of the old bed they would sink down in some convenient hole; and as in the course of ages the Yuba cut down deeper and deeper, they would go down too. Their weight would prevent their rolling far; the light stuff would wash down, moving onwards with the sands and gravel. And so, as you search lower down, you get better surface washings, but find less coarse gold."

"I dare say you are right, doctor," Sim Howlett said yawning, "so we won't go prospecting up in the hills, though some nice little finds have been made up there in spite of what you say. I vote we leave it open until we have cleared up, and then look round. A new rush may be started before a week is over, and if we are ready to move at once we may manage to take up claims in the thick of it; if one isn't pretty early at a new place, one may just as well stay away altogether. There is the horn. The mail is late to-night. I will go out and see if I can get hold of a Sacramento paper—one sees all about the new places there. Not that one need swallow all they say, for the lies about what is being got are tremendous. One fellow strikes it rich, and then they put it in that every fellow in the camp is making from four to ten ounces a day. I believe most of these lies come from the store-keepers. Of course, it is to their interest to get up a rush to places where they have set up their stores, and if a newspaper man comes along they lay it on thick. Well, here goes;" and throwing on his wide-awake, Sim Howlett sauntered off.

In a quarter of an hour he returned with a newspaper. "Here you are, Bill, you may as well do the reading. I am out of practice, and the doctor is not to be depended upon, and will miss the very bits we want to know."

Taking the paper the Englishman read the columns devoted to reports from the mining camps. A stranger would have thought from the perusal that every miner on the Pacific slope must have been making a fortune, so brilliant were the accounts of the gold that was being obtained in every mining camp. "John Wilkins and party obtained at their week's clear-up 304 ounces of gold, including many fine nuggets. Many others have met with almost equal good fortune; the sand on the shoulder is panning out very rich."

Such was a sample of the descriptions. The three men were unmoved by them. They knew too well how untrustworthy were the reports. Many were, as has been said, the work of the store-keepers; others were the invention of miners desirous of disposing of their claims to new-comers, and shifting to more promising regions. Little was said of the fabulous prices of provisions, of the fever that decimated some of the camps, of the total abandonment of others; and yet even the miners, although knowing by frequent experience that no dependence could be placed on these reports, were prone to cling to the hope that this time they were correct, and the roads were thronged by parties who, having failed at one camp, were making their way to a distant location of which they had heard brilliant reports, and who were met, perhaps, on their way by parties coming from that very camp to the one they had just quitted.

"It sounds well," the doctor said with a quiet smile when the reading was concluded.

"Sounds be blowed!" Sim growled. "They are thundering lies. What do they say of this camp?—read it again, Bill."

"It is difficult to get at the exact state of things at Cedar Gulch. Men who are doing well are always reticent as to their earnings; but there is little doubt that all are doing well, and that while those working in companies are obtaining very large results, the average through the camp is not less than from two to three ounces a day."

"The camp is not doing badly," Sim remarked. "There are mighty few here who ain't earning their grub. I don't believe there is one who is making from three to four ounces a day, not regular. Of course if he comes on a pocket, or strikes the bed rock, he may earn a good bit over that, ten times as much perhaps in a day; but take it all round, an ounce, or at most an ounce and a quarter, would be the outside."

English Bill nodded. "I should say an ounce at the outside. There are scores who ain't earning half an ounce regular, and there are a few who have to run into debt for their grub. Well, there is nothing very tempting in that lot of notices. We have tried a good many of them in the last two years, and at any rate we have got another week before we need make up our minds. I expect it will come again, Bill, to what it has come to half a dozen times before. Write all the names on a piece of paper, put them into a bag, let the doctor draw one, and go for it. It is as good a plan as another, and the doctor's luck has always pulled us through."

Sim and the Englishman stretched themselves upon their blankets and lay there smoking, while Limping Frank squatted down by the side of the solitary candle and began to look at the small portion of the paper devoted to general news. This was soon finished, and then he ran his eye over the advertisements. These principally related to articles in demand by miners—patent rockers and cradles, picks and shovels, revolvers and bowie-knives, iron houses for stores, tents, clothing, waterproof boots, and flannel shirts. Then there was a column of town lots in Sacramento, notices of steamers starting for San Francisco, notices of stolen horses, offers of rewards for the capture of notorious criminals, and advertisements for missing friends.

"Bill," he said presently.

"Hello!" said the Englishman with a start. He had just laid his pipe down and was already dozing.

"Didn't you once say your name was Tunstall?"

"Yes, that's it, though I have pretty well forgotten it. What is it?"

"Well, there is an advertisement here that may relate to you."

"What is it, say? I haven't been running off with a horse, or shooting a sheriff, so I don't know why they are advertising for me."

"Five hundred dollars reward. The above sum will be paid by James Campbell, attorney, San Francisco, to any one who will give him information as to the whereabouts of William Tunstall, who was last heard of four years ago in California. The said William Tunstall is entitled to property in England under the will of his brother, the late Edgar Tunstall of Byrneside, Cumberland."

"That's me," the Englishman said, sitting upright and staring at the doctor. "Well, well, so Edgar has gone, poor lad! Well, I am sorry."

Sim Howlett had also roused himself at the news. "Well, Bill, I was going to congratulate you," he said; "but that doesn't seem the light you take the news in."

"No, I am not thinking of money," the other said. "I could have had that long ago if I had chosen to take it. I was thinking of my brother. It is twenty years since I saw him, and I don't suppose I should have ever seen him again any way; but it is a shock to know that he has gone. It never was his fault, and I am sorry now I held off so. I never thought of this. It has come to me sometimes that when I got old and past work I might go back to the old place and end my days there; but I never thought that he would go before me. I am sorry, mates, more sorry than I can say."

"How was it, Bill?" the doctor asked. "Don't tell us if you don't like; it is no business of ours. Here in the diggings there are few men who talk of old times. Their eyes are all on the future, and what they will do with their wealth when they gain it; but no one asks another as to his past history. The answer might sometimes be a pistol-shot. Here we three have been living together for more than two years and not one of us has wanted to know what the others were before we met. It is quite an accident that I know your name. You gave it when you gave evidence as to the murder of that old German that we hung Red Hugh for. It struck me it was an odd name then, but I never thought of it again until I saw it in the paper. And you said once—it was Christmas Day, I remember—you said there was a home for you in England if you liked to go to it."

"I will tell you the story," the Englishman said. "I would have told it to you long ago, only there was nothing in it to tell you. It was just what has happened ten thousand times, and will happen as often again. My father was one of the largest land-owners in Cumberland. I was his eldest son. We never got on well together. He was cold and haughty, a hard landlord, and a despot at home. We should have quarrelled earlier than we did; but I was sent to Rugby, and often did not even come home for the holidays, for I had a good many friends in those days. I went back when I was eighteen, and was to have gone to college a month or two later. I made a fool of myself, as boys do, and fancied I was in love with one of our tenants' daughters.

"Some meddling busybody—I always thought it was the parson's wife, for she drove along one evening just as I was saying good-bye to the girl at the stile—told my father about it, and there was a frightful row. For once he got in a passion, and I lost my temper too. It was really a harmless flirtation, I think, and would have died out when I went off to college. However, when my father swore that if I ever spoke to her again he would turn me out of the house, I said he might do as he liked, and that I would marry her when I came of age. He ordered me to leave the house and never see his face again; said that I was no longer his son, and might go to the devil, or words to that effect. So, being just as obstinate in my way as he was in his, I went, and never did see him again. Of course, I went first to see the girl. She was frightened out of her life when she heard of what had happened, said that her father would be turned out of his house, and all sorts of things, and at any rate she would have nothing more to say to me.

"So I walked to Liverpool, and took my berth in the first sailing ship to the States. My brother Edgar, who was two years younger than I, was away at the time. We had always been capital friends. Ten years later, when my father died, he advertised for me, and, the name being an uncommon one, someone pointed it out to me, and I answered. He wrote most affectionately, and lamented that our father had died without forgiving me, and had not only cut me entirely out of his will, but had, knowing his affection for me, inserted a clause that should he endeavour to alter the purport of the will, or to hand over by deed or otherwise any part or share of the estates to me, the property should revert at once to a distant relative. Edgar said, however, that he had consulted his lawyers, and they were of opinion that this clause in no way affected his power to dispose of his income drawn from the estate, and that he proposed to share this equally with me.

"I wrote back that while I was obliged to him for his offer I should not accept it, for, as the property was not entailed, our father had a perfect right to leave it as he liked. He had left it to him, and there was an end of it. We exchanged several letters, but I was just as obstinate as my father had been. I was too busy or too lazy for letter-writing. Somehow no one writes here, and then one is constantly on the move. Anyhow, I had one or two letters from him which I never answered. The last was three or four years ago. And now he is dead, and I suppose has left me some of the property I would not take during his lifetime. Of course I was a fool, and an obstinate fool, all along, but one never acknowledges this until it is too late."

The others made no remark for some time.

"Well, anyhow, Bill, you ought to go down to Frisco and see this lawyer."

"I will think it over," the other said as, after relighting his pipe, he lay back on the blankets again; "there is no hurry for a day or two."

No further mention was made of the matter until the claim was cleared up, but that evening Bill returned to the subject. "I have thought it over, and I suppose I had better go down to Frisco. I don't think I shall take this money. I should be like a fish out of water in England, and should be miserable there. If I take anything it will be a thousand pounds or so. I should sink that in buying a snug little place on the foothills, and I should put somebody on to work it and plant it up with fruit-trees or vines, or that sort of thing, and then some day when I get too old for knocking about I shall settle down there; and I needn't say that my home will also be yours, mates. I sha'n't be much more than a week away. I shall come back here, and if you hear of anything before I return leave a line with the store-keeper telling me where you are off to. I have my kit packed, and if I start in half an hour I shall catch the night coach as it comes along past the top of the gulch."

Sim Howlett made no comment, but simply observed, "I expect you will find us here." But just as Bill was starting the doctor put his hand on his arm and said, "Don't do anything hasty, mate. You see you made rather a mess of your life by putting your foot down before when it seems there was no occasion for it. There is never any good comes of making up your mind in a hurry when there is no need for it. When you see a man slipping his hand round towards his back trouser-pocket, I allow that is not the time for thinking. You have got to act, and to act mighty sharp too, or you will get a bullet in you before you have drawn; but in a thing of this sort it makes no difference whether you decide now or six months hence. You need only write and say that you are found, and ask for particulars and so on, and when you have got them you can take your time about giving an answer. Many men before now have refused a good thing and been sorry for it afterwards. Your brother, according to your own account, has acted kindly and well towards you. Why should you refuse what he wished you to have, merely because you think that it ought to have come to you in the first place? That is all I have to say, Bill;" and he walked slowly back to the tent, while Bill started at a steady pace up the long steep hill from the gulch to the plateau above, along which ran one of the principal roads from Sacramento through the mining district.

"We shall miss him, Sim," Limping Frank said as he and his mate lighted their pipes after their meal that evening. "It seems kinder lonely without him after sitting down regularly for two years now."

"He ain't gone yet," Sim growled, "and I don't think as he is going. What Bill said he will stick to, you bet."

"Oh, yes! he means what he says, Sim. Bill has gone away from here with the fixed idea of going down there, writing a letter or two, coming back here, waiting for his money to come over, investing it in a farm, and going on working with us just as before; but, bless you, it is one thing to make up your mind and another to carry it out."

"What is to prevent his carrying it out, doctor?"

"Lots of things, Sim. When a man once gets mixed up in a will, or in any kind of law business, he ceases to be a free agent."

"Ceases to be what, doctor?"

"Well, he ceases to be his own master. Bill thinks he has only got to go into a lawyer's office, and say,—'Here I am. I am the chap mentioned in that advertisement. I dare say my brother has left me a good lot, but I don't want it. Just write and tell them to send me on five thousand dollars, that's all I want out of it. I am going back to Sacramento to-morrow. When the money comes pay it into the bank there for me.' Then he thinks that he will have a day's spree at Frisco, and come back by steamer next day."

"And why shouldn't he? What is to hinder him?"

"Well, it won't be like that, Sim, at all. When he goes in and says 'I am William Tunstall,' the lawyer will say, 'I am heartily glad to see you, sir. Allow me to congratulate you;' and he will shake Bill by the hand, and Bill will say to himself, 'This is just as it should be. Five minutes will do this job. I will go out and look up two or three friends who are in from the mines, and we will have a bottle of champagne a-piece over this business.' Just as he has thought that over the lawyer will say to him, 'Of course you are in a position to prove that you are the Mr. Tunstall advertised for.' Bill will say, 'Oh, yes! here are my brother's letters.' Then the lawyer will smile and nod and say, 'Most satisfactory,' and then he will add, 'Of course, you are in a position to prove that you are the person to whom these letters were sent? Of course, I don't doubt it for a moment, but letters do get lost, you know, and fall into other people's hands. In a matter of this kind we must proceed in a legal and business way.' Then Bill will say, 'Of course, I can prove that. There is Sim Howlett and Frank Bennett, my mates. They know I am Bill Tunstall.' 'They knew you before you came out here, I suppose?' 'Oh, no! but they have known me for two years.' 'Known you as William Tunstall?' 'Yes, of course,' Bill will say, beginning to get riled. Then the lawyer will point out to him that we can only say that he called himself Will Tunstall, and that as the last of these letters he has got is dated earlier than that it comes to the fact that there is only his word to go upon, and that the law requires very much stronger proofs of identity than this. Then Bill will get mad, and will say the money can go to the deuce, and that he sha'n't trouble any more about it."

"What then, doctor?" Sim Howlett asked as his companion stopped.

"Ah! well, that I cannot say. He may come straight off without doing anything more, or the lawyer may get him to talk it over. As to that I cannot say; but you may be quite sure that if Bill is to touch a penny of the money left to him he will have to go back to England to prove who he is, and it is like enough he may not succeed when he gets there. By what he says he was only at home just occasionally during his school holidays. He was little more than a boy when he left, and after twenty years' knocking about on the plains and here it is like enough he may not be able to find a soul to recognize him."

CHAPTER II.

TERRIBLE NEWS.

WILLIAM TUNSTALL returned to Cedar Gulch the very day upon which his mates began to expect him. Having finished up the work in their claim on the previous day they strolled up the hill to meet the coach on the chance of his coming.

"Well, mate, how goes it?" Sim Howlett asked.

"Well, it doesn't go at all, Sim."

"How is that?"

"Well, the lawyer was civil, and all that, but if I had let him he would have made me believe that I was not Will Tunstall at all. I showed him my brother's letters, which ought to have satisfied anyone, and he hinted that these might have come into my possession anyhow, that Tunstall might be dead, or that his kit, with these letters in it, might have been stolen."

"That is the very thing the doctor said he would be after," Sim Howlett exclaimed in great admiration at the latter's perspicacity.

"I suppose he didn't say he thought so, Bill?" the doctor asked.

"No, he knew better than that, doctor. He kept on saying that he was quite satisfied, but that other people wouldn't be satisfied. Then he asked about references, who could I refer to? Could I refer to anyone who had known me as William Tunstall before the date of these letters? I said that I had been knocking about on the plains and doing trapping and Indian fighting for years, and that I was known as English Bill, and that I did not suppose there were half a dozen fellows ever did know my name, and that, for aught I knew, they had all been scalped, shot, or hung long ago. He said, in that case I should have to go to England to prove my claim. I said I would see the claim at the bottom of the sea first, and then I left him.

"I met some fellows, and made a night of it, but in the morning the lawyer turned up at the hotel just as I had finished breakfast. I had told him the hotel where I was staying. He said it was no use being hasty. I said I wasn't hasty, and we were near having a row again. Then he said that he had only had instructions to find me, and did not know how much was left me under the will, or anything about it, except what he had put in the advertisement. At any rate he would write to the people who had instructed him in England and tell them that a gentleman representing himself to be William Tunstall had called, and that he possessed letters from the late Mr. Edgar Tunstall. That in the present state of affairs I declined to make the voyage to England for the purpose of proving my identity, but that he had my address, and could communicate further with me upon receiving instructions from them.

"I told him to say that I didn't want the money, and was not going to put myself out one way or the other about it. He listened, and shook his head, just the way the doctor does when he don't agree with you. Then he remarked that he would not do anything rash if he were in my place. I told him it was no odds to me whether he would or would not, and as I had just time to catch the steamer I wasn't going to waste any more time jawing over it, so off I came, and here I am. Well, what is doing here? Has there been any fresh rush?"

"Nary one. The doctor and I think we cannot do better than stay here. I was talking with Halkett and his partners this afternoon. They don't get on well together. Halkett said they would sell out if they could get a fair price. They are getting out about six ounces a day. No great thing, but they are only half-way down at present. It is in four shares, for two of the gang are on day wages. Of course, I said that it wasn't much of a thing to buy, as they were only getting an ounce a piece, and besides, the shaft is badly timbered. Still, if they would say what they wanted for it we would talk it over with you when you got back. Halkett was evidently anxious to sell, and said they would take a hundred ounces for it right out. Of course I said that was too much, but I think it is a bargain, so does the doctor. They have got through the worst half, and there is the best behind. It don't always turn out rich on the bed-rock here; it didn't with us. Still, there is the chance of it; and if it only keeps as it is now, and we take on a couple of men to work with us, we should, after paying them and keeping ourselves, be making three ounces a day anyhow, and it will take us a couple of months to get to the bottom, and perhaps more."

"How do we stand after the clear-up, doctor?" for Frank was the treasurer of the party.

"We got twenty ounces at the last clear-up, and we had eighty-nine before, so if we give him his price we should have nine ounces left."

"It will take fifty or sixty dollars," Sim Howlett said, "to make that shaft safe. Halkett is the only one of the lot that knows anything about that, and it has been done in a very slovenly style. I shouldn't like to work down there until we have strengthened it all the way down. I told Halkett the other day that if he didn't mind it would be caving in. I think that is partly why they are selling."

"Well, I think we couldn't do better than take it, Sim; but you must get them to knock a few ounces off, otherwise we shan't have enough to repair the shaft, and from what you say we must do that before we go to work in the bottom. Let us go and make a bargain at once."

"That will never do, Bill," Sim Howlett said; "that would look as if we had made up our mind to take it, and they wouldn't come down an ounce. No, no, we will have our meal, and wait an hour or two, then I will stroll round to Halkett's tent and say that as we calculate it would cost a heap of money to make the shaft safe we do not see our way to it, though we might otherwise have taken to the job. Then you will see to-morrow morning, when they knock off for breakfast, Halkett will come round here and make some proposal."

So indeed it turned out. Soon after breakfast Halkett came to the tent door. "Look here, boys," he said, "I want to get out of this lot. The men I am working with ain't worth shucks. The three of them don't do a fair man's work, and I am sick of it. But I have been talking to them, and they won't take less than twenty-five ounces a share, and they have been talking to some men who have pretty well made up their minds to give it. If I had the dust I would buy the others out, but I haven't. If you will buy the other three out at their terms I will keep my share and work partners with you. I have got enough dust to pay my share of retimbering the shaft. What do you say?"

The doctor had gone off to take some broth to two of his patients. The other two looked at each other, and then Sim Howlett said: "Well, this is how it stands, Halkett. My mate here and I would have no objection to work with you; but it is this way: we and the doctor have chummed together, and have never taken anyone else in with us, partly because we are quite content as it is, and partly because the doctor can't do his share of the work—he hasn't got it in him. We don't want to go away from here now, and we have dust enough to buy your three partners out. I suppose we should want to work four at that shaft. I don't know what you have been working six for, except that three of your lot are of no use."

"That is about it," Halkett said.

"So you see we should have to take on a man to do the doctor's work."

"Well, you would have to do that if you worked it yourselves."

"So we should," Sim Howlett assented. "What do you say, Bill?"

"Halkett's proposal seems a fair one, Sim; it seems to me we can't do better than accept it. We must consult the doctor, Halkett. He is sure to agree, but we should not like to do it without speaking to him; that would not be fair. But you may consider it a bargain."

"Very well, I will go back and tell them I have made the agreement with you. Then I will come back and bring you fifteen ounces of dust, which is all I have got; I don't want them to know that I am going to stop in it. If I do, like enough they will cut up rusty, so I want you to make it up and hand the hundred ounces over clear; then they will hand me my share, and I can give you the other ten ounces. They will leave the camp as soon as they get their money. Somebody has been blowing to them about a find he has made prospecting among the hills, and I fancy they mean going off with him, and it would be no use letting on that I am going to stop in the partnership until they have gone. They are just the sort of fellows to think that I had been somehow besting them, and if they said so there would be trouble, and I don't want to do any of them harm."

The doctor on his return fell in, as a matter of course, with his mates' arrangement.

At dinner-time Halkett and his partners came in, and the dust was weighed out and handed over to them. Sim Howlett and Tunstall spent the afternoon in making a careful examination of the shaft, and in deciding upon the best plan for strengthening it. Halkett's former partners left a couple of hours after they got the money, and on the following morning the new proprietors of the claim set to work. The first step was to make an arrangement with a man who had horses, to haul timber from a little saw-mill that had been erected two miles away, and as soon as this began to arrive, the work of strengthening the shaft was set about. It took the three men, and another whom they had taken on at daily pay, a week, and at the end of that time it was pronounced safe against any pressure it was likely to have to bear.

The advertisement in the Sacramento paper had been noticed by others than by those for whom it was intended, and there happened to be among the miners who had worked at various times in the same diggings with William Tunstall another who had been on the jury when he had mentioned his name. He did not, however, notice the advertisement until a day or two after the newspaper had arrived in camp.

"There," he said to some mates who were sitting round the fire, "that is just like my luck; there is five hundred dollars slipped clean through my fingers because I did not happen to see this here paper before."

"How is that, Jones?"

"Why, here is five hundred dollars offered for information as to the whereabouts of William Tunstall."

"And who is William Tunstall? I never heard of him."

"Why, English Bill; that is his name sure enough; he gave it on a jury we served on together. I told him then I had never heard the name before. That is how I came to remember it."

"Well, why are you too late? Why don't you write off at once and say he is here, and claim the money?"

"Because he is gone, mate. Sim Howlett asked Black Johnson yesterday, when I was standing by, if he knew of a good man he could take on for a week's work, as he was single-handed, for of course Limping Frank don't count in the way of work. I asked him if English Bill was laid up, and he said, No; he had gone the night before down to Frisco. I wondered then at his starting just before they had cleaned up their claim. Now it is clear enough, he had seen this advertisement."

"Bolted?" one of the other men asked.

"Bolted! no," Jones said in a tone of contemptuous disgust. "You don't suppose English Bill has been cutting anyone's throat, do you? or robbing some digger of his swag? No, he has gone down to Frisco to see the chap that put this into the paper. Why, look here," and he read the advertisement aloud; "he has come into a fortune, I expect. They would never have taken the trouble to advertise for him if it hadn't been a big sum. You bet English Bill has struck it rich; like enough it is a thundering big ranche, with two or three hundred thousand head of cattle."

"They don't have estates like that in England," another digger put in. "I was chatting with an Englishman at Holly Creek. He said land was worth a heap there, but it was all cultivated and hedged in, and he didn't suppose as there was a man in the whole country who had got as much as five thousand head of cattle. However, cattle or not, I expect it is a big thing English Bill has come in for, and we shan't see him in here again."

The news spread quickly through the camp. It was discussed by the men as they worked the rockers, by the gamblers up at the saloon, and in the tents when the work was done. Sim Howlett was soon questioned, but was surly, and little could be got from him. Limping Frank was no more communicative. He was accosted frequently, as he went from the tents with his soups and medicines, with "Well, Frank, so I hear your mate has come in for a big thing, and gone down to Frisco. Jack Jones saw the advertisement for him in the paper."

"If Jack Jones saw it, of course it was there," the doctor said with his quiet smile; "couldn't have seen it otherwise, could he? Yes, Bill has gone off. I am glad to hear that it is a big thing; hadn't heard it before. It will be a surprise to him, for he didn't expect it would be a big thing. Didn't think it would be worth troubling about, you see. However, I daresay he will be back in a week or two, and then no doubt he will tell you all about it."

Cedar Gulch was greatly disappointed when English Bill reappeared in his ordinary red shirt, high boots, and miner's hat, and went to work on the following afternoon as if nothing had happened. There had been a general idea that if he came back he would appear in store-clothes and a high hat, and perhaps come in a carriage with four horses all to himself, and that he would stand champagne to the whole camp, and that there would be generally a good time. He himself, when questioned on the subject, turned the matter off by saying he had not thought the thing worth bothering about; that he could not get what there was without going to England to fetch it, and that it might go to the bottom of the sea before he took that trouble.

The only person to whom he said more was the man who ran the gambling-table. Things had been lately going on more quietly there, and the gambler had postponed his departure to San Francisco. Bill Tunstall spent, as the doctor said, no inconsiderable portion of his earnings at the gambling-tables, and had struck up an acquaintance with Symonds. The latter was, like many of his class, a man of quiet and pleasant manners. For his profession a nerve of iron was required, for pistols were frequently drawn by disappointed miners, flushed with drink and furious at their losses, and the professional gambler had his life constantly in his hands. The accusation, "You cheated me!" was the sure signal for one or two pistol shots to ring out in sharp succession, then a body would be carried out, and play resumed.

Symonds bore no worse reputation than others of the class. It was assumed, of course, that he would cheat if he had the chance; but with a dozen men looking on and watching every movement of the fingers, even the cleverest gambler generally played fair. These men were generally, by birth and education, far above those with whom they played. They had fallen from the position they had once occupied; had, perhaps, in the first place been victims of gamblers, just as they now victimized others; had been cast out from society as detected cheats or convicted swindlers; but now, thanks to nerve, recklessness of life, and sleight of hand, they reaped a fortune, until the bullet of a ruined miner, or the rope of Judge Lynch, cut short their career.

Symonds was not unpopular among the miners. He was liberal with his money, had many times spared men who, according to the code of the diggings, had forfeited their lives by an insult or by a shot that had missed its aim. He had often set men on their legs again who had lost their all to him; and if there was a subscription raised for some man down with fever, or for a woman whose husband had been killed in a shaft, Symonds would head the list with a handsome sum. And yet there were few men more feared. Magnanimous on some occasions, he was ruthless on others. He was a dead shot, and handled his pistol with a lightning speed, that in nine cases out of ten enabled him to fire first; and while he would contemptuously spare a man who was simply maddened by ruin and drink, the notorious bully, the terror of a camp, a man who deliberately forced a quarrel upon him, relying upon his strength or skill, would be shot down without hesitation.

Thus in nine cases out of ten the feeling of the communities among whom he plied his vocation was in his favour. While he himself was a dangerous man, he rid the camp of others who were still more obnoxious, and the verdict after most of these saloon frays was, "Served him right;" but as a rule men avoided discussing Symonds or his affairs. It was dangerous to do so, for somehow he seemed always to learn what was said of him, and sooner or later the words were paid for.

Will Tunstall knew that he was a dangerous man, and had no doubt that he was an utterly unscrupulous one, but he himself never drank while he played, and was never out of temper when he lost, therefore he had no reason whatever to fear the man, and Symonds had always been civil and pleasant with him, recognizing that there was something in him that placed him somewhat apart from the rough crowd. He met him one afternoon soon after his return.

"Is it true all this they are saying about you, Bill?" Symonds asked.

"Well, it is true enough that I was advertised for, and went down to Frisco to see a man there about it. Of course it is all nonsense as to what they are saying about the value of it. It is some family property that might have come to me long ago if I hadn't kicked over the traces; but I am not going to trouble about it. I shall have all the bother and expense of going to England to prove who I am, and I wouldn't do it if it were ten times as much."

"Come and have a glass of cham, Bill. My own story is a good deal like yours. I daresay I might be master of a good estate in the old country now, if I hadn't gone a mucker."

"It is too early to drink," Will said; "if I did drink it would be just a cocktail. The champagne you get is poison."

"Just as you like. By the way, if I can be of any use to you let me know. It is an expensive run home to England from here, and if you have need for a thousand dollars, I could let you have them. I have had a good run of luck this last six months. It would be a business transaction, you know, and you could pay me a couple of hundred for the use of it. It is of no use losing a good thing for the want of funds."

"Thank you, Symonds. I have enough to take me home if I have to go; but I am very much obliged for the offer all the same."

"It is business," the other said carelessly, "and there are no thanks due. If you change your mind let me know; mind I owe you a cocktail next time we meet in the saloon."

The gambler went on. Will Tunstall looked after him with a little wonder at the offer he had made. "It is a good-natured thing to offer, for, of course, if I went to England he could not make anything out of me beyond the interest of the money, and he would get more than that putting it on house property in Frisco. He is a queer card, and would look more at home in New York than in Cedar Gulch!"

SYMONDS AND BILL TUNSTALL HAVE A TALK.

The gambler's dress, indeed, was out of place with the surroundings. Like most of his class he dressed with scrupulous neatness; his clothes were well made, and fitted him; he wore a white shirt, the only one in the camp, and abstained from the diamond studs and rings, and heavy gold watch-chain that was generally affected by professional gamblers. He was tall, as tall as Tunstall himself, though not so broad or so strongly built; but his figure was well knit, there was in his walk and action an air of lightness and activity, and he had more than once shown that he possessed an altogether unusual amount of muscular strength.

"It is a pity that the fellow is what he is," Will Tunstall said when he turned away; "what a soldier he would have made, with his strength, and pluck, and wonderful coolness!"

This little conversation was followed by several others. Somehow or other they met more frequently than they had done before, and one evening, when there was no play in the saloon, Symonds asked him to come in and have a chat with him in his private room at the hotel. For some time they chatted on different subjects. Symonds had brought out a box of superb cigars, and a bottle of such claret as Will Tunstall had not drunk for years, saying carelessly as he did so, "I always carry my own tipple about with me. It would ruin my nerves to drink the poison they keep at these places."

After a time he brought the subject round to the legacy. "I have been thinking over what you said about not going back, and I think you are wrong, if you don't mind my saying so. What have you got to look forward to here? Toil and slave year after year, without ever getting a step further, living all the time a life harder than that of the poorest labourer at home. It is well enough now, I suppose. You are seven or eight and thirty, just about my own age; in another ten years you will be sorry you let the chance slip. Of course it is different with me. As far as money goes, I could give it up now, but I cannot go back again. Men don't take to my sort of life," he said with some bitterness, "unless they have got a pretty bad record behind them; but I shall give it up before very long, unless I am wiped out first. Then I'll go and settle in South America, or some place of that sort, buy an estate, and set up as a rich and virtuous Englishman whose own climate doesn't agree with him."

Then he carelessly changed the subject again, but it was reverted to once or twice in the course of the evening, and before Will left he had said enough to enable his companion to gather a fair estimate of the value of the property, and the share he was likely to have of it.

The new claim turned out fairly well, improving somewhat in depth, and yielding a good though not an extraordinary profit to the partners. Some four months after Will Tunstall had been down to San Francisco, he received a bulky letter from the attorney there. It contained an abstract of his brother's will. This left him half the property, with a statement saying that he considered it to be his brother's by right, and inclosed with it was a copy of a letter written a few days before his death. It ran as follows:—

"MY DEAR WILL,—You have wandered about long enough. It is high time for you to come back to the old place that you ought never to have left. I shall not see you again, for I have long been suffering from heart-disease, and the doctors tell me the end may come any day. I have had the opinion of some of the best authorities, and they all say that, thanks to some peculiar wording in the will, which I don't understand in the slightest, the prohibition to divide with you is only binding during my lifetime, and that nothing is said that restricts my right to leave it as I please. I don't suppose the contingency of your surviving me ever entered into our father's mind, and probably he thought that you would never be heard of again. However, you see it has turned out otherwise. You have wandered and roughed it, and gone through dangers of all sorts, and are still, you tell me, strong and healthy. I have lived quietly and comfortably with every luxury, and without a day's trouble, save my terrible grief when my wife died, and the ever-constant regret that you were not here beside me; yet I am dying, but that enables me at last to redress to some extent the cruel wrong you have suffered.

"I have left you half the estate, and it makes me happy to think that you will come back again to it. I have appointed you sole guardian of my boy. He is only twelve years old, and I want you to be a father to him. The estate is large enough for you both, and I hope that you may, on your return, marry, and be happy here; if not, I suppose it will all go to him at your death. In any case, I pray you to come home, for the boy's sake, and for your own. It is my last request, and I hope and believe that you will grant it. You were always good to me when we were boys together, and I feel sure that you will well supply my place to Hugh. God bless you, old fellow! Your affectionate brother,

EDGAR."

With these documents was a letter from the solicitors to the family saying that they had heard from their agents at San Francisco that he had presented himself in answer to their advertisement, and had shown them the letters of the late Mr. Edgar Tunstall. They therefore forwarded him copies of the will, and of Mr. Tunstall's letter, and begged him to return home without delay, as his presence was urgently required. They assumed, of course, that they were writing to Mr. William Tunstall, and that when he arrived he would have no difficulty whatever in proving his identity.

"I think I must go, boys," he said as, after reading his brother's letter three or four times, he folded the papers up, and put them in his pocket. "My brother has made me guardian of his boy, and puts it so strongly that I think I must go over for a bit. I don't suppose I shall have to stop; although the lawyers say that I am urgently required there; but, mind, I mean to do just what I said. I shall take a thousand pounds or so, and renounce the rest. A nice figure I should make setting up at home as a big land-owner. I should be perfectly miserable there. No, you take my word for it, I shall be back here in six months at the outside. I shall get a joint guardian appointed to the boy; the clergyman of the place, or some one who is better fitted to see after his education and bringing up than I am. When he gets to seventeen or eighteen, and a staunch friend who knows the world pretty well may be really of use to him, I shall go over and take him on his travels for two or three years. Bring him out here a bit, perhaps. However, that is in the distance. I am going now for a few months; then you will see me back here. I wish I wasn't going; it is a horrible nuisance, but I don't see that I can get out of it."

"Certainly you cannot, Bill; it is your plain duty. We don't go by duty much in these diggings, and it will be pleasant to see somebody do a thing that he doesn't like because it is right. We shall miss you, of course—miss you badly. But we all lose friends, and nowhere so much as here; for what with drink and fever and bullets the percentage wiped out is large. You are going because, in fact, you can't help yourself. We shall be glad when you come back; but if you don't come back, we shall know that it was because you couldn't. Yes, I know you have quite made up your mind about that; but circumstances are too strong for men, and it may be that, however much you may wish it, you won't be able to come. Well, we shall be clearing up the claim in another two or three days, so it could not come at a better time if it had to come."

The work was continued to the end of the week, and then, the last pan of dirt having been washed, the partners divided the result. Each week's take had been sent down by the weekly convoy to the bank at Sacramento, for robberies were not uncommon, and prudent men only retained enough gold-dust by them for their immediate wants. But adding the dust and nuggets acquired during the last and best week's work to the amount for which they had the bank's receipt, the four partners found that they had, after paying all their expenses, two hundred and fifty ounces of gold.

"Sixty-two ounces and a half each," the doctor said. "It might have been better, it might have been worse. We put in twenty-five each four months ago, so we have got thirty-seven ounces each for our work, after paying expenses, and each drawing half an ounce a day to spend as he liked. This we have, of course, all of us laid by."

There was a general laugh, for not one of them had above an ounce or two remaining.

"Well, it isn't bad anyhow, doctor," William Tunstall said. "Sixty-two ounces apiece will make roughly £250, which is as much as we have ever had before on winding up a job. My share will be enough to lake me to England and back."

"Yes, provided you don't drop it all in some gambling saloon at Sacramento or San Francisco," the doctor said.

"I shan't do that, doctor. I have lost big sums before now in a night's play, I confess; but I knew I could set to work and earn more. Now I have got an object before me."

That afternoon English Bill went round the camp saying good-bye to his acquaintances, and although it was very seldom that he drank too much, the standing treat and being treated in turn was too much for his head, and it was with a very unsteady step indeed that he returned late in the evening to his tent. Sim Howlett, who had started with him, had succumbed hours before, and had been carried down from the saloon by a party who were scarcely able to keep on their own legs.

When Will Tunstall woke in the morning he had but a vague idea of the events of the latter part of the evening. He remembered hazily that there had been many quarrels and rows, but what they had been about he knew not, though he felt sure that there had been no shooting. He had a dim recollection that he had gone into Symonds' room at the hotel, where he had some champagne, and a talk about his trip to England and about the people there.

"What the deuce could have set me talking about them?" he wondered in his mind. He was roused from these thoughts by the doctor.

"If you are going to catch this morning's coach, Bill, you must pull yourself together."

"All right!" he said, getting on to his feet. "I shall be myself when I have put my head in a bucket of water. I'm afraid I was very drunk last night."

"Well, you were drunk, Bill. I have never seen you drunk but once before since we were partners; but I suppose no one ever did get out of a mining camp where he had been working for some time, and had fairly good luck, without getting pretty well bowled over after going the rounds to say good-bye. Now, then, Sim, wake up! Bill will be off in a quarter of an hour. I have got breakfast ready."

Sim Howlett needed no second call. It was no very unusual thing for him to be drunk overnight and at work by daybreak the following morning. So after stretching himself and yawning, and following Will's example of having a wash, he was ready to sit down to breakfast with an excellent appetite. Will, however, did poor justice to the doctor's efforts, and ten minutes later the trio started off to meet the coach. There were many shouts of "Good-bye, mate! good luck to yer!" from the men going down to the diggings, but they were soon beyond the camp. Few words were said as they went up the hill, for the three men were much attached to each other, and all felt the parting. Fortunately they had but two or three minutes to wait before the coach came in sight.

"Just you look out for me in about six months' time, mates; but I'll write directly I get home, and tell you all about things. I shall direct here, and you can get someone to ask for your letters and send them after you if you have moved to a new camp."

With a last grasp of the hand, Tunstall climbed up to the top of the coach, his bundle was thrown up to him, the coachman cracked his whip, the horses started again at a gallop, and Sim Howlett and his mate went down to Cedar Gulch without another word being spoken between them.

Three days later, as they were breakfasting in their tent, for they had not yet made up their minds what they should do, a miner entered.

"Hello, Dick! Back from your spree? How did you get on at Frisco?"

"Yes, I have just got off the coach. I have got some bad news to tell you, mates."

"Bad news! Why, what is that, Dick?" Sim Howlett asked.

"Well, I know it will hit you pretty hard, mates, for I know you thought a heap of him. Well, lads, it is no use making a long story of it, but your mate, English Bill, has been murdered."

The two men started to their feet—Sim Howlett with a terrible imprecation, the doctor with a cry like the scream of a woman.

"It is true, mates, for I saw the body. I should have been up yesterday, but I had to wait for the inquest to say who he was. I was going to the coach in the morning when I saw half a dozen men gathered round a body on the footway of a small street. There was nothing unusual in that at Sacramento. I don't know what made me turn off to have a look at the body. Directly I saw it I knew who it was. It was English Bill, so I put off coming, and stopped to the inquest. He hadn't been killed fair, he had been shot down from behind with a bullet in the back of his head. No one had heard the shot particular. No one thinks anything of a shot in Sacramento. No one seemed to know anything about him, and the inquest didn't take five minutes. Of course they found a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown."

Sim Howlett listened to the narration with his hands clenched as if grasping a weapon, his eyes blazing with fury, and muttering ejaculations of rage and horror. The doctor hardly seemed to hear what was said. He was moving about the tent in a seemingly aimless way, blinded with tears. Presently he came upon his revolver, which he thrust into his belt, then he dropped his bag of gold-dust inside his shirt, and he then picked up his hat.

"Come along, Sim," he said in hurried tones, touching his companion on the arm.

"Come along!" Sim repeated. "Where are you going?"

"To Sacramento, of course. We will hunt him down, whoever did it. I will find him and kill him if it takes years to do it."

"I am with you," Sim said; "but there is no coach until to-night."

"There is a coach that passes through Alta at twelve o'clock. It is fifteen miles to walk, but we shall be there in time, and it will take us into Sacramento by midnight."

Sim Howlett snatched up his revolver, secured his bag of gold-dust, and said to the man who had brought the news, "Fasten up the tent, Dick, and keep an eye on it and the traps. The best thing will be for you to fix yourself here until we come back."

"That will suit me, Sim. I got rid of all my swag before I left. You will find it all right when you return."

They had but four hours to do the distance across a very broken and hilly country, but they were at Alta a quarter of an hour before the coach was due. It taxed Sim Howlett's powers to the utmost, and even in his rage and grief he could not help looking with astonishment at his companion, who seemed to keep up with him without difficulty. They ran down the steep hills and toiled up the formidable ascents. The doctor's breath came quick and short, but he seemed almost unconscious of the exertions he was making. His eyes were fixed in front of him, his face was deadly pale, his white hair damp with perspiration. Not a word had been spoken since the start, except that, towards the end of the journey, Howlett had glanced at his watch and said they were in good time and could take it easy. His companion paid no attention, but kept on at the top of his speed.

When the coach arrived it was full, but the doctor cried out, "It is a matter of life and death; we must go! We will give five ounces apiece to any one who will give us up their places and go on by the next coach."

Two men gladly availed themselves of the offer, and at midnight the two companions arrived at Sacramento. The doctor's strength had given way when the necessity for exertion was over, and he had collapsed.

"Perhaps someone has got a flask with him?" Sim Howlett suggested. "My mate and I have just heard of the murder of an old chum of ours at Sacramento, and we are on our way down to find out who did it and to wipe him out. We have had a hard push for it, and, as you see, it has been too much for my mate, who is not over strong."

Half a dozen bottles were instantly produced, and some whiskey poured down the doctor's throat. It was not long before he opened his eyes, but remained for some time leaning upon Sim Howlett's shoulder.

"Take it easy, doctor, take it easy," the latter said as he felt the doctor straightening himself up. "You have got to save yourself. You know we may have a long job before us."

There was nothing to do when they entered the town but to find a lodging for the night. In the morning they commenced their search. It was easy to find the under-sheriff who had conducted the inquest. He had but little to tell. The body had been found as they had already heard. There were no signs of a struggle. The pockets were all turned inside out. The sheriff supposed that the man had probably been in a gambling-house, had won money there, and had been followed and murdered. Their first care was to find where Will Tunstall was buried, and then to order a stone to be erected at his head. Then they spent a week visiting every gambling-den in Sacramento, but nowhere could they find that anyone at all answering to their mate's description had been gambling there on the night before he was killed.

They then found the hotel where he had put up on the arrival of the coach. He had gone out after breakfast and had returned alone to dinner, and had then gone out again. He had not returned; it was supposed that he had gone away suddenly, and as the value of the clothes he had left behind was sufficient to cover his bill, no inquiries had been made. At the bank they learned that in the course of the afternoon he had drawn his portion of the joint fund on the order signed by them all. At another hotel they learned that a man certainly answering to his description had come in one evening a week or so before with a gentleman staying at the house. They did not know who the gentleman was; he was a stranger, but he was well dressed, and they thought he must have come from Frisco. He had left the next day. They had not noticed him particularly, but he was tall and dark, and so was the man who came in with him. The latter was in regular miner's dress. They had not sat in the saloon, but had gone up to the stranger's bed-room, and a bottle of spirits had been taken up there. They did not notice what time the miner left, or whether the other went out with him. The house was full, and they did not bother themselves as to who went in or out. It was from a German waiter they learned all this, after having made inquiries in vain two or three times previously at this hotel.

As soon as they left the place the doctor seized Sim's arm. "We have got a clew at last, Sim."

"Not much of a clue, doctor; still there is something to go upon. We have got to hunt out this man."

"Do you mind going back to the camp to-night, Sim?"

"No, I don't mind; but what for, doctor?"

"You go and see whether Symonds is still there, and if not, find out what day and hour he left."

"Good heavens! you don't suspect him?"

"I feel sure, Sim, just as sure as if I had seen it. The description fits him exactly. Who else could Bill have known dressed like a gentleman that he would have gone up to drink with when he had £250 about him. You know he had got rather thick with that villain before he left the camp, and likely enough the fellow may have got out of him that he was going to draw his money from the bank, and thought that it was a good bit more than it was. At any rate go and see."

Two days later Sim Howlett returned with the news that Symonds had left two or three hours after Tunstall had done so. He had said that he had a letter that rendered it necessary that he should go to Frisco, and had hired a vehicle, driven to Alta, and caught the coach there. He had not returned to the camp.

"That settles it, Sim. When I find Symonds the gambler, I find the murderer of Bill Tunstall. I have been thinking it over. It may be months before I catch him. He may have gone east into Colorado or south into Mexico, but I am going to find him and kill him. I don't think it is any use for us both to hunt; it may take months and years."

"Perhaps he thinks he is safe, and hasn't gone far. He may think that poor Bill will be picked up and buried, and that no one will be any the wiser. We would have thought that he had gone off to England; and so it would have been if Dick hadn't happened to come along and turn off to look at the body. Like enough he will turn up at Cedar Gulch again."

"He may," the doctor said thoughtfully, "and that is the more reason why you should stop about here. You would hear of his coming back to any of the mining camps on the slopes. But I don't think he will. He will feel safe, and yet he won't feel quite safe. Besides, you know, I dreamt that I should kill him. However, if he does come back anywhere here I leave him to you, Sim. Shoot him at sight as if he were a mad dog. You don't want any fair play with a fellow like that. When you tell the boys the story they will all say you did right. I will write to you from time to time to let you know where I am. If you have killed him let me know. I shall come back to you as soon as I have found him."

And so it was settled; for, eager as Sim Howlett was for vengeance, he did not care for the thought of years spent in a vain search, and believed that his chance of meeting Symonds again was as good among the mining camps as elsewhere.

CHAPTER III.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

HAD the circumstances of William Tunstall's leaving his home been more recent, or had the son of Edgar Tunstall been older, the news that William Tunstall had returned and had taken up his residence at Byrneside as master of the portion of the estate left him by his brother, and as guardian to the young heir to the remainder, would have caused a good deal of interest and excitement in the county. The twenty years, however, that had elapsed since Will Tunstall had left home, and the fact that when he went away he was but a lad quite unknown personally to his father's acquaintances, deprived the matter of any personal interest. It had generally been thought that it was hard that he should have been entirely cut out of his father's will, and the clause forbidding his brother to make any division of the property was considered particularly so, especially as it was known that Edgar was attached to his brother, and would have gladly shared the property with him.

But William had been away twenty years, and no one had a personal interest in him. Ten years had elapsed since he had been finally disinherited by his father's will. Beyond a feeling of satisfaction that justice had been done, and that there would not be a long minority at Byrneside, the news that the eldest son had returned created no excitement.

Messrs. Randolph & Son of Carlisle, who were business agents for half the estates in the county, reported well of the new-comer. They had never seen him as a boy, but they expressed themselves as agreeably surprised that the long period he had passed knocking about among rough people in the States had in no way affected him unfavourably. His manners were particularly good, his appearance was altogether in his favour, he was a true Cumberland man, tall and powerful like his father and brother, though somewhat slighter in build.

He was accompanied by his wife. Yes, they had seen her. They had both dined with them. They had not been previously aware that Mr. Tunstall was married. Their client, Mr. Edgar Tunstall, had not mentioned the fact to them. They were not prepared to give any decided opinion as to Mrs. Tunstall. She had spoken but little, and struck them as being nervous; probably the position was a novel one for her. There were, they understood, no children.

Messrs. Randolph, father and son, old-fashioned practitioners, had from the first considered the scruples of their agents in San Francisco to be absurd. Mr. Tunstall had presented himself as soon as they had advertised. He had produced the letters of his brother as proof of his identity, and had offered to bring forward witnesses who had known him for years as William Tunstall. What on earth would they have had more than that? Mr. Tunstall had had reason already for resentment, and it was not surprising that he had refused to set out at once for England when he found his identity so absurdly questioned. So they had immediately sent off the abstract of the will and a copy of Edgar Tunstall's letter, and were much gratified when in due time Mr. Tunstall had presented himself at their office, and had personally announced his arrival.

It was indeed a relief to them; for, had he not arrived, various difficulties would have arisen as to his moiety of the estate, there being no provision in the will as to what was to be done should he refuse to accept it. Moreover, application must have been made to the court for the appointment of fresh guardians for the boy. Altogether they were glad that a business that might have been troublesome was satisfactorily settled. Mr. Tunstall, after introducing himself, had produced the letters he had received from his brother, with the abstract of the will and copy of the letter they had sent him.

He had said smilingly, "I don't know whether this is sufficient, gentlemen, for I am not up in English law. If it is necessary I can, of course, get a dozen witnesses from the States to prove that I have been always known as William Tunstall; though I generally passed, as is the custom there, under a variety of nicknames, such as English Bill, Stiff Bill, and a whole lot of others. It will naturally take some little time and great expense to get witnesses over, especially as men are earning pretty high wages in California at present; but, of course, it can be managed if necessary."

"I do not see that there is any necessity for it," Mr. Randolph said. "Besides, no doubt we shall find plenty of people here to identify you."

"I don't know that, Mr. Randolph. You see I was little more than a boy when I went away. I had been at Rugby for years, and often did not come home for the holidays. Twenty years have completely changed me in appearance, and I own that I have but a very faint recollection of Byrneside. Of course I remember the house itself, and the stables and grounds; but as to the neighbours, I don't recollect any of them. Neither my brother nor myself dined in the parlour when my father had dinner parties; but it seems to me that, after all, the best proof of my identity is my correspondence with my brother. Certainly, he would not have been deceived by any stranger, and the fact that we exchanged letters occasionally for some years seems to me definite proof that he recognized me as his brother."

"Undoubtedly so," Mr. Randolph said. "That in itself is the strongest proof that can be brought. We mentioned that in our letter to Mr. Campbell in San Francisco. His doubts appeared to us, I may say, to be absurd."

"Not altogether absurd, Mr. Randolph. California has been turned pretty well topsy-turvy during the last four or five years, and he was not to be blamed for being suspicious. May I ask you if you have come across my letters to my brother among his papers?"

"No, we have not done so. In fact, your brother told us that he had not preserved them, for as you were wandering about constantly the addresses you gave were no benefit, and that beyond the fact that you were in California he had no idea where you could be found. That is why it became necessary to advertise for you."

"It is unfortunate that he did not keep them, Mr. Randolph, for in that case, of course, I could have told you most of their contents, and that would have been an additional proof of my identity."

"There is not the least occasion for it, Mr. Tunstall. We are perfectly and entirely satisfied. Mr. Edgar's recognition of you as his brother, your possession of his letters, the fact that you answered at once to the advertisement in California, your knowledge of your early life at Rugby, and so on, all tend to one plain conclusion; in fact, no shadow of doubt was entertained by my son or myself from the first. I congratulate you very heartily on your return, because to some extent the very hard treatment which was dealt to you by your father, Mr. Philip Tunstall, has now been atoned for. Of course you only received a short abstract of your brother's will; the various properties which fall to you are detailed in full in it. Byrneside itself goes to his son; but against that may be set off a sum invested in good securities, and equal to the value of the house and home park, so that you can either build or purchase a mansion as good as Byrneside. We may tell you also that the estates were added to in your father's time, and that other properties have been bought by your brother, who, owing to the death of his wife and the state of his health, has for some years led a very secluded life, investing the greater part of his savings in land. So that, in fact, your moiety of the estates will be quite as large as the elder son's portion you might have expected to receive in the ordinary course of events."

"What sort of boy is my nephew, Mr. Randolph?"

"I have seen him two or three times when I have been over at Byrneside. Of course I did not notice him particularly, but he is a bright lad, and promises to grow into a very fine young man. I fancy from something his father let drop that his disposition resembles yours. He is very fond of outdoor exercises, knows every foot of the hills round Byrneside, and though but eleven or twelve years old he is perfectly at home on horseback, and he is a good shot. He has, in fact, run a little wild. His father spoke of him as being warmhearted and of excellent impulses, but lamented that, like you, he was somewhat quick-tempered and headstrong."

"Edgar ought not to have selected me for his guardian, Mr. Randolph."

"I said almost as much, Mr. Tunstall, when I drew out the will; but Mr. Edgar remarked that you had doubtless got over all that long ago, and would be able to make more allowance for him and to manage him far better than anyone else could do."

"I shall try and merit Edgar's confidence, Mr. Randolph. I have suffered enough from my headstrong temper, and have certainly learnt to control it. I shall not be hard upon him, never fear."

"Are you going over to Byrneside at once, Mr. Tunstall?"

"No; I shall go up to London to-morrow morning. I want a regular outfit before I present myself there for inspection. Besides, I would rather that you should give notice to them at Byrneside that I have returned. It is unpleasant to arrive at a place unannounced, and to have to explain who you are."

"Perhaps you would like to see the will, and go through the schedule?"

"Not at all, Mr. Randolph. There will be plenty of time for that after my return."

"You will excuse my asking if you want any money for present use, Mr. Tunstall?"

"No, thank you; I am amply provided. I was doing very well at the diggings when your letters called me away, and I have plenty of cash for present purposes."

"You will, I hope, dine with us to-day, Mr. Tunstall."

"I thank you. I should have been very happy, but I have my wife with me. I have left her at the 'Bull.'"

"Oh, indeed! I was not aware—"

"That I was married? Yes, I have been married for some years. I did not think it necessary to mention it to Edgar, as he would only have used it as an additional argument why I should accept his generous offers."

"We shall be very glad, Mrs. Randolph and myself, if you will bring Mrs. Tunstall with you."

And so Mrs. Tunstall came. She was a dark woman, and, as Mr. Randolph and his wife agreed, was probably of Mexican or Spanish blood, and spoke English with a strange accent. She had evidently at one time been strikingly pretty, though now faded. She had rather a worn, hard expression on her face, and impressed Mr. Randolph, his wife, son, and daughter-in-law less favourably than the lawyer had thought it right to say to those who made inquiries about her; but she had, as they said, spoken but little, and had seemed somewhat nervous and ill at ease.

Mr. Tunstall did not appear for some time at Byrneside. He went down to Rugby to see his nephew, who had, in accordance with his father's wish, been placed there a month or two after his death. The holidays were to begin a week later, and Hugh was delighted when his uncle told him that he and his aunt were thinking of going to the Continent for a few months before settling down at Byrneside, and would take him with them.

Hugh was very much pleased with his new relative. "He is a splendid fellow," he told his school-boy friends. "Awful jolly to talk to, and has been doing all sorts of things—fighting Indians, and hunting buffalo, and working in the gold diggings. Of course he didn't tell me much about them; there wasn't time for that. He tipped me a couple of sovs. I am sure we shall get on first-rate together." And so during the summer holidays Hugh travelled with his uncle and aunt in Switzerland and Italy. He did not very much like his aunt. She seemed to try to be kind to him, and yet he thought she did not like him. His uncle had taken him about everywhere, and had told him lots of splendid yarns.

At Christmas they would be all together at Byrneside. His uncle had been very much interested in the place, and was never tired of his talk about his rambles there. He remembered the pool where his father had told him they both used to fish as boys, and about Harry Gowan the fisherman who used to go out in his boat, and who was with them when that storm suddenly broke when the boat was wrecked on the island and they were all nearly drowned. He was very glad to hear that Gowan was still alive; and that James Wilson, who was then under stableman and used to look after their ponies, was now coachman; and that Sam, the gardener's boy who used to show them where the birds' nests were, was now head-gardener; and that Mr. Holbeach the vicar was still alive, and so was his sister Miss Elizabeth; and that, in fact, he remembered quite well all the people who had been there when he was a boy. Altogether it had been a glorious holiday.

His uncle and aunt returned with him when it was over, the former saying he had had enough of travelling for the present, and instead of being away, as he had intended, for another couple of months he should go down home at once. They went with him as far as Rugby, dropped him there, and then journeyed north. On their arrival at Byrneside, where they had not been expected, Mr. Tunstall soon made himself extremely popular. Scarcely had they entered the house when he sent out for James the coachman, and greeted him with the greatest heartiness.

"I should not have known you, James," he said, "and I don't suppose you would have known me?"

"No, sir; I cannot say as I should. You were only a slip of a lad then, though you didn't think yourself so. No, I should not have known you a bit."

"Twenty years makes a lot of difference, Jim. Ah, we had good fun in those days! Don't you remember that day's ratting we had when the big stack was pulled down, and how one of them bit you in the ear, and how you holloaed?"

"I remember that, sir. Mr. Edgar has often laughed with me about it."

"And you remember how my poor brother and I dressed up in sheets once, and nearly scared you out of your life, Jim?"

"Ay, ay; I mind that too, sir. That wasn't a fair joke, that wasn't."

"No, that wasn't fair, Jim. Ah! well, I am past such pranks now. Well, I am very glad to see you again after all these years, and to find you well. I hear that Sam is still about the old place, and is now head-gardener. You may as well come out and help me find him while Mrs. Tunstall is taking off her things."

Sam was soon found, and was as delighted as James at Mr. Tunstall's recollection of some of their bird-nesting exploits. After a long chat with him, Mr. Tunstall returned to the house, where a meal was already prepared.

"You need not wait," he said, after the butler had handed the dishes. "I have not been accustomed to have a man-servant behind my chair for the last twenty years, and can do without it now."

He laid down his knife and fork with an air of relief as the door closed behind the servant.

"Well, Lola," he said in Spanish, "everything has gone off well."

"Yes," she said, "I suppose it has," in the same language. "It is all very oppressive. I wish we were back in California again."

"You used to be always grumbling there," he said savagely. "I was always away from you, and altogether you were the most ill-used woman in the world. Now you have got everything a woman could want. A grand house, and carriages, and horses; the garden and park. What can you want more?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I shall get accustomed to it in time," she said, "but so far I do not like it. It is all stiff and cold. I would rather have a little hacienda down on the Del Norte, with a hammock to swing in, and a cigarette between my lips, and a horse to take a scamper on if I am disposed, and you with me, than live in this dreary palace."

"Baby! you will get accustomed to it in time, and you can have a hammock here if you like, though it is not often that it is warm enough to use it. And you can smoke cigarettes all day. It would shock them if you were an Englishwoman, but in a Mexican they will think it right and proper enough. And you have got your guitar with you, so you can have most of your pleasures; and as for the heat, there is sure to be some big glass houses where they grow fruit and flowers, and you can have one of them fitted up with Mexican plants, and hang your hammock there; and it won't need a very long stretch of imagination to fancy that you are at your hacienda on the Del Norte."

"If you can manage that it will be nice," the woman said.

"Anything can be managed in this country when we have got money to pay for it."

"At any rate it will be a comfort to know that there is no fear of your being shot here. Every time you went away from me, if it was only for a week or two, I knew I might never see you again, and that you might get shot by some of those drunken miners. Well, I shall be free of all that now, and I own that I was wrong to grumble. I shall be happy here with you, and I see that it was indeed fortunate that you found those papers on the body of the man you came across dead in the woods."

She looked closely at him as she spoke.

"Well, that is a subject that there is no use talking about, Lola. It was a slice of luck; but there is an English proverb, that walls have ears, and it is much better that you should try and forget the past. Remember only that I am William Tunstall, who has come back here after being away twenty years."

She nodded. "I shall not forget it. You know, you always said I was a splendid actress, and many a fool with more dollars than wit have I lured on, and got to play with you in the old days at Santa Fé."

"There, there, drop it, Lola," he said; "the less we have of old memories the better. Now we will have the servants in, or they will begin to think we have gone to sleep over our meal." And he struck the bell which the butler, when he went out, had placed on the table beside him.

"Have you been over the house?" he asked when they were alone again.

"Not over it all. The old woman—she called herself the housekeeper—showed me a great room which she said was the drawing-room, and a pretty little room which had been her mistress's boudoir, and another room full of books, and a gallery with a lot of ugly pictures in it, and the bed-room that is to be ours, and a lot of others opening out of it."

"Well, I will go over them now with you, Lola. Of course I am supposed to know them all. Ah! this is the boudoir. Well, I am sure you can be comfortable here, Lola. Those chairs are as soft and easy as a hammock. This will be your sanctum, and you can lounge and smoke, and play your guitar to your heart's content. Yes, this is a fine drawing-room, but it is a deal too large for two of us; though in summer, with the windows all open, I daresay it is pleasant enough." Having made a tour of the rooms that had been shown Lola, they came down to the hall again.

"Now let us stroll out into the garden," he said. "You will like that." He lit a cigar, and Lola a cigarette. The latter was unfeignedly delighted with the masses of flowers and the beautifully kept lawns, and the views from the terrace, with a stretch of fair country, and the sea sparkling in the sunshine two miles away.

"Here comes the head-gardener, Lola, my old friend. This is Sam, Lola," he said, as the gardener came up and touched his hat. "You know you have heard me speak of him. My wife is delighted with the garden, Sam. She has never seen an English garden before."

"It is past its best now, sir. You should have seen it two months ago."

"I don't think it could be more beautiful," Lola said; "there is nothing like this in my country. We have gardens with many flowers, but not grass like this, so smooth and so level. Does it grow no higher?"

"Oh, it grows fast enough, and a good deal too fast to please us, and has to be cut twice a week."

"I see you are looking surprised at my wife smoking," William Tunstall said with a smile. "In her country all ladies smoke. Show her the green-houses; I think they will surprise her even more than the garden."

The long ranges of green-houses were visited, and Sam was gratified at his new mistress's delight at the flowers, many of which she recognized, and still more at the fruit—the grapes covering the roofs with black and yellow bunches; the peaches and nectarines nestling against the walls.

"The early sorts are all over," Sam said; "but I made a shift to keep these back, though I did not think there was much chance of any but the grapes being here when you got back, as we heard that you would not be home much before Christmas."

"We changed our mind, you see, Sam, and I am glad we did, for if we had come then, Mrs. Tunstall would have been frightened at the cold and bleakness. I'll tell you what I want done, Sam. I want this conservatory next the house filled as much as possible with Mexican and South American plants. Of course, you can put palms and other things that will stand heat along with them. I want the stages cleared away, and the place made to look as much like a room as possible. Mrs. Tunstall will use it as a sitting-room."

"I think we shall have to put another row of pipes in, Mr. William. Those plants will want more heat than we have got here."

"Then we must put them in. My wife will not care how hot it is, but of course we don't want tropical heat. I should put some rockery down the side here to hide the pipes, and in the centre we will have a fountain with water plants, a foot or two below the level of the floor, and a low bank of ferns round. That is the only change, as far as I can see, that we shall want in the house. I shall be going over to Carlisle in a day or two, and I'll arrange with somebody there to make the alterations."

"Very well, Mr. William, if you will get some masons to do the rockery and fountain, I can answer for the rest; but I think I shall need a good many fresh plants. We are not very strong in hot subjects. Mr. Edgar never cared for them much."

"If you will make out a list of what you want, and tell me who is the best man to send to, Sam, I will order them as soon as you are ready to put them in."

And so, when Hugh returned at Christmas for the holidays, he was astonished at finding his aunt swinging in a hammock, smoking a cigarette, slung near a sparkling little fountain, and surrounded by semi-tropical plants. The smoking did not surprise him, for he had often seen her with a cigarette during their trip together; but the transformation of the conservatory astonished him.

"Well, Hugh, what do you think of it?" she asked, smiling at his surprise.

"It is beautiful!" he said; "it isn't like a green-house. It is just like a bit out of a foreign country."

"That is what we tried to make it, Hugh. You see, on the side next to the house where there is a wall, we have had a Mexican view painted with a blue sky, such as we have there, and mountains, and a village at the foot of the hills. As I lie here I can fancy myself back again, if I don't look up at the sashes overhead. Oh, how I wish one could do without them, and that it could be covered with one great sheet of glass!"

"It would be better," Hugh admitted, "but it is stunning as it is. Uncle told me, as he drove me over from Carlisle, that he had been altering the conservatory, and making it a sort of sitting-room for you, but I never thought that it would be like this. What are those plants growing on the rocks?"

"Those are American aloes, they are one of our most useful plants, Hugh. They have strong fibres which we use for string, and they make a drink out of the juice fermented; it is called pulque, and is our national drink, though of late years people drink spirits too, which are bad for them, and make them quarrelsome."

During the holidays Hugh got over his former dislike for his aunt, and came to like her more than his uncle. She was always kind and pleasant with him, while he found that, although his uncle at times was very friendly, his temper was uncertain. The want of some regular occupation, and the absence of anything like excitement, told heavily upon a man accustomed to both. At first there was the interest in playing his part: of meeting people who had known him in his boyhood, of receiving and returning the visits of the few resident gentry within a circuit of ten miles, of avoiding mistakes and evading dangers; but all this was so easy that he soon tired of it. He had tried to make Lola contented, and yet her lazy contentment with her surroundings irritated him.

She had created a good impression upon the ladies who had called. The expression of her face had softened since her first visit to Carlisle, and the nervous expression that had struck Mr. Randolph then had disappeared. Her slight accent, and the foreign style of her dress, were interesting novelties to her visitors, and after the first dinner-party given in their honour, at which she appeared in a dress of dull gold with a profusion of rich black lace, she was pronounced charming. Her husband, too, was considered to be an acquisition to the county. Everyone had expected that he would have returned, after so long an absence, rough and unpolished, whereas his manners were quiet and courteous.

He was perhaps less popular among the sturdy Cumberland squires than with their wives. He did not hunt; he did not shoot. "I should have thought," one of his neighbours said to him, "that everyone who had been living a rough life in the States would have been a good shot."

"A good many of us are good shots, perhaps most of us, but it is with the pistol and rifle. Shot-guns are not of much use when you have a party of Red-skins yelling and shooting round you, and it is not a handy weapon to go and fetch when a man draws a revolver on you. As to shooting little birds, it may be done by men who live on their farms and like an occasional change from the bacon and tinned meat that they live on from year's end to year's end. Out there a hunter is a man who shoots game—I mean deer and buffalo and bear and other animals—for the sake of their skins, although, of course, he does use the meat of such as are eatable. With us a good shot means a man who can put a ball into a Red-skin's body at five hundred yards certain, and who with a pistol can knock a pipe out of a man's mouth ten yards away, twenty times following; and it isn't only straightness of shooting, but quickness of handling, that is necessary. A man has to draw, and cock, and fire, in an instant. The twinkling of an eye makes the difference of life or death.

"Oh, yes! I am a good shot, but not in your way. I went away from here too young to get to care about tramping over the country all day to shoot a dozen or two of birds, and I have never been in the way of learning to like it since. I wish I had, for it seems an important part of country life here, and I know I shall never be considered as a credit to the county unless I spend half my time in winter riding after foxes or tramping after birds; but I am afraid I am too old now ever to take to those sports. I heartily wish I could, for I find it dull having no pursuit. When a man has been earning his living by hunting, or gold digging, or prospecting for mines all his life, he finds it hard to get up in the morning and know that there is nothing for him to do but just to look round the garden or to go out for a drive merely for the sake of driving."

When summer came Mr. Tunstall found some amusements to his taste. If there was a wrestling match anywhere in the county or in Westmoreland he would be present, and he became a regular attendant at all the race-courses in the north of England. He did not bet. As he said to a sporting neighbour, who always had a ten-pound note on the principal races, "I like to bet when the chances are even, or when I can match my skill against another man's; but in this horse-racing you are risking your money against those who know more than you do. Unless you are up to all the tricks and dodges, you have no more chance of winning than a man has who gambles with a cheat who plays with marked cards. I like to go because it is an excitement; besides, at most of the large meetings there is a little gambling in the evening. In Mexico and California everyone gambles more or less. It is one of the few ways of spending money, and I like a game occasionally." The result was that Mr. Tunstall was seldom at home during the summer.

When Hugh came home his aunt said: "I have been talking to your uncle about you, and he does not care about going away this year. He has taken to have an interest in horse-racing. Of course it is a dull life for him here after leading an active one for so many years, and I am very glad he has found something to interest him."

"I should think that it is very dull for you, aunt."

"I am accustomed to be alone, Hugh. In countries where every man has to earn his living, women cannot expect to have their husbands always with them. They may be away a month at a time up in the mountains, or at the mines, or hunting in the plains. I am quite accustomed to that. But I was going to talk about you. I should like a change, and you and I will go away where we like. Not, of course, to travel about as we did last year, but to any seaside place you would like to go to. We need not stop all the time at one, but can go to three or four of them. I have been getting some books about them lately, and I think it would be most pleasant to go down to Devonshire. There seem to be lots of pretty watering-places there, and the climate is warmer than in the towns on the east coast."

"I should like it very much, aunt; but I should like a fortnight here first, if you don't mind. My pony wants exercise terribly, Jim says. He has been out at grass for months now; besides, I shall forget how to ride if I don't have some practice."

So for the next fortnight Hugh was out from morning until night either riding or sailing with Gowan, and then he went south with his aunt and spent the rest of his holidays in Devonshire and Cornwall. He had a delightful time of it, his aunt allowing him to do just as he liked in the way of sailing and going out excursions. She always took rooms overlooking the sea, and was well content to sit all day at the open window; seldom moving until towards evening, when she would go out for a stroll with Hugh. Occasionally she would take long drives with him in a pony-carriage; but she seldom proposed these expeditions. As Hugh several times met with schoolfellows, and always struck up an acquaintance a few hours after arriving at a place with some of the boatmen and fishermen, he never found it dull. At first he was disposed to pity his aunt and to urge her to go out with him; but she assured him that she was quite contented to be alone, and to enjoy the sight of the sea and to breathe the balmy air.

"I have not enjoyed myself so much, Hugh," she said when the holidays were drawing to a close, "since I was a girl."

"I am awfully glad of that, aunt. I have enjoyed myself tremendously; but it always seems to me that it must be dull for you."

"You English never seem to be happy unless you are exerting yourselves, Hugh; but that is not our idea of happiness. People in warm climates find their pleasure in sitting still, in going out after the heat of the day is over for a promenade, and in listening to the music, just as we have been doing here. Besides it has been a pleasure to me to see that you have been happy."

When the summer holidays had passed away, Hugh returned to Rugby, and Lola went back to Cumberland.

CHAPTER IV.

AN EXPLOSION.

AT Christmas Hugh found that things were not so pleasant at home. There was nothing now to take his uncle away from Byrneside, and the dullness of the place told upon him. His outbursts of ill-temper were therefore more frequent than they had been the last holidays Hugh had spent at home. He sat much longer in the dining-room over his wine, after his wife and Hugh had left him, than he did before, and was sometimes moody, sometimes bad-tempered when he joined them. Hugh's own temper occasionally broke out at this, and there were several quarrels between him and his uncle; but there was a savage fierceness in the latter's manner that cowed the boy, and whatever he felt he learned to hold his tongue; but he came more and more to dislike his uncle, especially as he saw that when angry he would turn upon his aunt and speak violently to her in her own language. Sometimes she would blaze out in return, but generally she continued to smoke her cigarette tranquilly as if utterly unconscious that she was spoken to.

So for the next two years matters went on. During the summer holidays Hugh seldom saw his uncle, who was more and more away from home, being now a constant attendant at all the principal race-courses in the country. Even in winter he was often away in London, to Hugh's great satisfaction, for when he was at home there were frequent quarrels between them, and Hugh could see that his uncle habitually drank a great deal more wine than was good for him. Indeed it was always in the evening that these scenes occurred. At other times his uncle seemed to make an effort to be pleasant with him.

In summer Hugh went away with his aunt for a time, but he spent a part of his holidays at Byrneside, for of all exercises he best loved riding. His pony had been given up, but there were plenty of horses in the stables, for although William Tunstall did not care for hunting, he rode a good deal, and was an excellent horseman.

"What have you got in the stable, James?" Hugh asked one day on his return from the school.

"I have got a set of the worst-tempered devils in the country, Master Hugh. Except them two ponies that I drives your aunt out with, there isn't a horse in the stables fit for a Christian to ride. They are all good horses, first-rate horses, putting aside their tempers; but your uncle seems to delight in buying creatures that no one else will ride. Of course he gets them cheap. He doesn't care how wicked they are, and he seems to enjoy it when they begin their pranks with him. I thought at first he would get his brains dashed out to a certainty, but I never saw a man keep his seat as he does. He told me once, that when a man had been breaking bronchos—that is what he called them, which means, he said, wild horses that had never been backed—he could sit anything, and that English horses were like sheep in comparison.

"Of course, it is no use saying no to you, Master Hugh; but if you want to go out, you must stick to that big meadow. You must mount there, and you must promise me not to go beyond it. I have been letting the hedges grow there on purpose for the last two years, and no horse will try to take them. The ground is pretty soft and you will fall light. You have been getting on with your riding the last three years, and have had some pretty rough mounts, but none as bad as what we have got in the stables now. I shall always go out with you myself with one of the men in case of accident, and I can put you up to some of their tricks before you mount."

Hugh was more than fifteen now, and was very tall and strong for his age. He had ridden a great deal when he had been at home during the summer, and in the winter when the weather was open, and had learned to sit on nasty-tempered animals, for these had gradually taken the place of his father's steady hunters; but this year he found that the coachman's opinion of those now under his charge was by no means exaggerated. In spite of doing his best to keep his seat, he had many heavy falls, being once or twice stunned; but he stuck to it, and by the end of the holidays flattered himself that he could ride the worst-tempered animal in the stable. He did not go away this year, begging his aunt to remain at home.

"It is a splendid chance of learning to ride well, aunt," he said. "If I stick at it right through these two months every day I shall really have got a good seat, and you know it is a lot better my getting chucked off now than if I was older. You see boys' bones ain't set, and they hardly ever break them, and if they do they mend up in no time."

His aunt had at first very strongly opposed his riding any of the animals in the stable, and he had been obliged to bring in James to assure her that some of them were not much worse than those he had ridden before, and that a fall on the soft ground of the meadow was not likely to be very serious, but it was only on his giving her his solemn promise that he would not on any account go beyond the meadow that she finally consented. On his return at Christmas he found his uncle at home, and apparently in an unusually pleasant humour. A frost had set in that seemed likely to be a long one, and the ground was as hard as iron.

"I hear, Hugh," his uncle said the second morning at breakfast, "that you are becoming a first-rate rider. I am glad to hear it. Out in the Western States every man is a good rider. You may say that he lives on horseback, and it comes natural even to boys to be able to sit bare-backed on the first horse that comes to hand. Of course it is not so important here, still a man who is a really good rider has many advantages. In the first place, all gentlemen here hunt, and a man who can go across any country, and can keep his place in the front rank, has much honour among his neighbours; in the second place, he is enabled to get his horses cheap. A horse that will fetch two hundred if he is free from vice can be often picked up for twenty if he gets the reputation of being bad-tempered. There is another accomplishment we all have in the west, and that is to be good pistol-shots. As we cannot ride, and there is nothing else to do, I will teach you, if you like."

Hugh accepted the offer with lively satisfaction, heedless of an exclamation of dissent from his aunt. When he had left the room William Tunstall turned savagely upon his wife.

"What did you want to interfere for? Just attend to your own business or it will be the worse for you."

"It is my own business," she said fearlessly. "I like that boy, and I am not going to see him hurt. Ever since you told me, soon after we first came here, that by his father's will the whole property came to you if Hugh died before he came of age, I have been anxious for him. I don't want to interfere with your way of going on. Lead your own life, squander your share of the property if you like, it is nothing to me; when it is spent I am ready to go back to our old life, but I won't have the boy hurt. I have always accepted your story as to how you became possessed of the papers without question. I know you have killed a score of men in what you call fair fight, but I did not know that you were a murderer in cold blood. Anyhow the boy sha'n't be hurt. I believe you bought those horses knowing that he would try them, and believing they would break his neck. They haven't, but no thanks to you. Now you have offered to teach him pistol-shooting. It is so easy for an accident to take place, isn't it? But I warn you that if anything happens to him, I will go straight to the nearest magistrate and tell him who you really are, and that I am certain there was no accident, but a murder."

The man was white with fury, and advanced a step towards her.

"Have you gone mad?" he asked between his teeth. "By heavens!—"

"No, you won't," she interrupted. "Don't make the threat, because I might not forgive you if you did. Do you think I am afraid of you? You are not in California or Mexico now. People cannot be shot here without inquiry. I know what you are thinking of; an accident might happen to me too. I know that any love you ever had for me has died out long ago, but I hold to my life. I have placed in safe hands—never mind where I have placed it—a paper telling all the truth. It is to be opened if I die suddenly and without sending for it. In it I say that if my death is said to have been caused by an accident, it would be no accident, but murder; and that if I die suddenly, without visible cause, that I shall have been poisoned. Do you think I don't know you, and that knowing you I would trust my life altogether in your hands? There, that is enough, we need not threaten each other. I know you, and now you know me. We will both go our own way."

And she walked out of the room leaving her husband speechless with fury at this open and unexpected revolt. Half an hour later his dog-cart was at the door and he left for London. Hugh was astonished when, on his return from a walk down to Gowan's cottage, he found that his uncle had gone up to town.

"Why, I thought, aunt, he was going to be at home all the holidays, and he said that he was going to teach me pistol-shooting."

"Your uncle often changes his mind suddenly. I will teach you pistol-shooting, Hugh. Most Mexican women can use a pistol in case of need. I cannot shoot as he does, but I can teach you to shoot fairly, and after that it is merely a matter of incessant practice. If you ever travel I daresay you will find it very useful to be able to use a pistol cleverly. There are two or three revolvers upstairs and plenty of ammunition, so if you like we will practise in the conservatory; it is too cold to go out. You had better go and ask James to give you some thick planks, five or six of them, to set up as targets. If he has got such a thing as an iron plate it will be better still. I don't want to spoil my picture. The place is forty feet long, which will be a long enough range to begin with."

Half an hour later the sharp cracks of a revolver rang out in the conservatory, and from that time to the end of the holidays Hugh practised for two or three hours a day, the carrier bringing over fresh supplies of ammunition twice a week. He found at first that the sharp recoil of the revolver rendered it very difficult for him to shoot straight, but in time he became accustomed to this, and at the end of a fortnight could put every shot in or close to the spot he had marked as a bull's-eye. After the first day his aunt laid aside her pistol, and betook herself to her favourite hammock, where, sometimes touching her guitar, sometimes glancing at a book, she watched his progress.

At the end of the fortnight she said: "You begin to shoot fairly straight. Keep on, Hugh, and with constant practice, you will be able to hit a half-crown every time. In the West it is a common thing for a man to hold a copper coin between his finger and thumb for another to shoot at. I have seen it done scores of times, but it will take you some time to get to that. You must remember that there is very seldom time to take a steady deliberate aim as you do. When a man shoots he has got to shoot quickly. Now, practise standing with your face the other way, and then turn and fire the instant your eye catches the mark. After that you must practise firing from your hip. Sometimes there is no time to raise the arm. Out in the West a man has got to do one of two things, either not to carry a revolver at all, or else he must be able to shoot as quickly as a flash of lightning."

"I don't suppose I am ever going to the West, aunt; still I should like to be able to shoot like that, for if one does a thing at all one likes to do it well."

HUGH PRACTICES SHOOTING WITH HIS REVOLVER.

And so to the end of the holidays the revolver practice went on steadily every morning, Hugh generally firing seventy or eighty cartridges. He could not do this at first, for the wrench of the recoil strained his wrist, but this gained strength as he went on. Before he went back to school he himself thought that he was becoming a very fair shot, although his aunt assured him that he had hardly begun to shoot according to western notions.

Mrs. Tunstall had one day, a year before this, driven over to Carlisle, and, somewhat to the surprise of Mr. Randolph, had called upon him at his office.

"Mr. Randolph," she began, "I do not know anything about English law. I want to ask you a question."

"Certainly, my dear madam."

"If a married woman was to leave a sealed letter in the hands of a lawyer, could he retain possession of it for her, even if her husband called upon him to give it up?"

"It is a nice question, Mrs. Tunstall. If the lawyer was acting as the fiduciary agent of a lady he would at any rate see that her wishes were complied with; whether he could absolutely hold the paper against the husband's claim is a point upon which I am not prepared at present to give an answer. But anyhow there are ways of evading the law; for instance, he could pass it on to a third party, and then, unless the husband had been absolutely informed by his wife that she had handed over this document to him, the husband would be powerless, the lawyer would simply declare that he had no such document. Are you asking for your own sake, Mrs. Tunstall, or in the interest of a friend?"

"In my own interest, Mr. Randolph. I have a written paper here. I have not signed it yet, because I believe it is necessary to sign papers in the presence of witnesses."

"It depends upon the nature of the paper, Mrs. Tunstall; but in all cases it is a prudent step, for then no question as to the authenticity can arise."

"And it is not necessary for the witnesses of the signature to read the contents of the document?"

"By no means; they simply witness the signature."

"Well, Mr. Randolph, this is the document I want to leave in safe hands, so that it can be opened after my death, unless I previously request, not by letter, but by word of mouth, that it should be returned to me. I know of no one else to whom I could commit the paper, which is, in my opinion, a very important one; the only question is whether, as you are Mr. Tunstall's solicitor, you would like to take it."

"Frankly, without knowing the nature of the contents, Mrs. Tunstall, I should certainly prefer not to undertake such a charge. Should it remain in my hands, or rather in the hands of our firm—for we may sincerely trust that there would be no occasion for opening it until very many years after my death—it might be found to contain instructions which could hardly be carried out by a firm situated as we are with regard to Mr. Tunstall."

"I see that, Mr. Randolph."

There was a pause, and then the lawyer said: "Will you be going up to town shortly, Mrs. Tunstall?"

"Yes, in the course of a month or so I shall be passing through London with Hugh."

"Will the matter keep until then?"

"Certainly, there is no great hurry about it; but I wish the packet placed in safe hands, where it would be opened in the event of my death, unless I recall it before that."

"In that case, Mrs. Tunstall, I will give you the address of the firm who do my London business. They are an old established firm of the highest respectability, and the document will be perfectly safe in their hands until you demand it back, or until they hear of your demise. I will give you a letter of introduction to them."

Accordingly when Mrs. Tunstall went up to town the next time with Hugh she called upon the firm of solicitors, whose place of business was in Essex Street, and upon reading Mr. Randolph's letter, which stated that she was the wife of one of his clients, a gentleman of means, she was courteously received, and they at once agreed to take charge of any document she might place in their hands, upon the understanding that if she did not write or call for it, it should be opened when they heard of her death, and its contents, whatever they might be, acted upon.

"You will stand in the position of our client, Mrs. Tunstall, and we will do all in our power to carry out your wishes as expressed in this document, whatever it may be. It is no unusual matter for a will to be left with us under precisely similar circumstances."

"If the packet should be opened under the conditions I name," Mrs. Tunstall said, "you will probably not regret having undertaken its charge, for I can assure you that it may put a considerable amount of business in your hands. But how will you know of my death?"

"Mr. Randolph or his successor would inform us. Of course we shall request him to do so."

"And as soon as he knows of the event," Mrs. Tunstall added, "it is of the utmost importance that the paper should be opened as soon as possible after my death."

"We will request Mr. Randolph to inform us by telegraph immediately he receives the news. But, pardon me, you look well and healthy, and are young to be making such careful provisions for an event that may be far distant."

"That may or may not be far distant," she said, "but for certain important reasons I wish to be prepared for it at all points. I will now sign it in your presence, Mr. Curtice. I have not yet put my signature to it."

"Very well, Mrs. Tunstall. Two of my clerks shall witness your signature. It may be many years before any question as to the authenticity of the signature may arise; so I shall be a witness also."

The document was a lengthy one, written on sixteen pages of foolscap. Two of the clerks were called in.

"Now if you will turn that last page down, Mrs. Tunstall, so that its contents cannot be seen, you can sign your name and we will witness it." This was done. "Now, Mrs. Tunstall, if you will put a sheet of brown paper over the other sheets, and place your initials on the margin at the bottom, we will put ours, so that no question can arise as to the whole of them forming part of the document signed by you. Now, madam, if you will fold it up and place it in this envelope I will attach my seal. I presume you do not carry a seal?"

"No, sir."

"I think it would be more satisfactory that you should affix a seal of some sort, no matter how common a thing it may be. Mr. Carter, will you go up into the Strand with this lady, and take her to some shop where she can purchase a seal? It does not matter what it is, Mrs. Tunstall; any common thing, with a bird or a motto or anything else upon it. These things are not cut in duplicate, therefore if you seal the envelope in two or three places with it and take the seal away with you, it will be a guarantee to you, should you ever require it to be returned, that it has not been opened. In the meantime I will get a small strong-box similar to those you see round the room, and have your name painted on it. When it is completed I shall put the envelope in it, lock it up, and place it in our strong-room downstairs."

The seal was purchased and fixed, and Mrs. Tunstall took her departure, satisfied that she had left the document in safe hands. Mr. Curtice talked the matter over with his partner. The latter laughed.

"Women love a little mystery, Curtice. I suppose she has got a little property in her own right, and does not mean to leave it to her husband, and is afraid he may get hold of her will and find out how she has left it."

"I don't think it is that," Mr. Curtice said, "although, of course, it may be. I should say she was a foreigner—a Spaniard or Italian; she spoke with a slight accent. Besides, the thing extends over sixteen pages of foolscap."

"That is likely enough if she made the will herself, Curtice. She may have gone into a whole history as to why she has not left her money to her husband."

"Possibly, but I don't think so. You mark my words, Harris, if that packet ever comes to be opened there will be some rum disclosures in it. That woman was no fool, and there is no doubt about her being thoroughly in earnest. She said it was likely to give us some work when it was opened, and I believe her. I will write a letter to Randolph and ask him to give us a few particulars about this client he has introduced to us."

When he received Mr. Randolph's reply, stating briefly the history of Mr. William Tunstall, the husband of the lady he had introduced to them, Mr. Curtice was more convinced than before that the delivery of this packet into his charge was not a mere freak, and offered to bet his partner a new hat that the document was not merely a will, but that it would turn out something altogether unusual.

Mr. Randolph congratulated himself on his forethought, when, a year after Mrs. Tunstall's visit, Mr. Tunstall came into the office.

"I am just on my way up to town," he said. "I wish you would let me have a couple of hundred in advance on the next rents."

"Certainly, Mr. Tunstall. You have already had £200 on them, you know."

"Yes, I know; but I have been a little unlucky lately, and have got an account I want to settle. By the way," he said carelessly, as he placed the bank-notes in his pocket-book, "Mrs. Tunstall asked me to get from you the letter or packet she left in your charge."

"A letter, Mr. Tunstall? I think there must be some mistake. Mrs. Tunstall has certainly left nothing whatever in my charge."

"Oh! I suppose I misunderstood her. I only made up my mind to start a short time before I came off, and did not pay much attention to what she was saying; but it was something about a letter, and she mentioned your name; there were half a dozen commissions she wanted me to execute for her in London, and I suppose they all got mixed up together. I daresay it is of no consequence one way or the other. Well, thanks for the money—now I am off."

"I am very much afraid that William Tunstall is a liar," Mr. Randolph said to himself thoughtfully after his client had left. "He has found out that his wife has intrusted some document or other to someone, and he guessed naturally enough that she had most likely come to me with it, and he played a bold stroke to get it. I do not like the way he has fallen into of spending all his time going about the country to race-courses. I don't believe he has been at home two months this year. Besides, he sounded me last time he was here about raising a few thousands on a mortgage. He is not turning out well. I thought when he first came back that his wanderings had done him no harm. No doubt I had been prepossessed in his favour by his refusal to accept Edgar's offers to divide the rents with him, but I was too hasty. I am afraid there will be trouble at Byrneside. It is very fortunate Edgar put my name in as trustee for his son, so that his share of the property is safe whatever happens to the other; but I hate to see a man of a good old family like the Tunstalls going wrong. I wonder what this mysterious document his wife wanted to leave with me is? It must be something of great importance, or he would never have come to me and lied in order to get it into his hands. It is a queer business."

Hugh did not see his uncle when he was at home for the summer holidays. His aunt seemed to take his absence as a matter of course.

"Don't you expect uncle home soon?" he asked her one day.

"I never expect him," she said quietly.

"I think it a shame he stays away so, leaving you all by yourself, aunt!" Hugh said indignantly.

"I am accustomed to it by this time, Hugh; and, upon the whole, I think perhaps he is better away than here while you are at home. You see you do not get on very well together."

"Well, aunt, I am sure I don't want any rows."

"I don't say you do, Hugh; but still there are rows. You see he is passionate, and you are passionate, and it is very much better you should be apart. As for me, I have always been accustomed to his being away from me a good deal ever since we married, and it does not trouble me at all. I would much rather have you all to myself. Your being here makes it a very pleasant time for me; we ride together, drive together, and practise shooting together. It is all a change to me, for except when you are here I seldom stir beyond the gardens."

Hugh had indeed no doubt that his aunt was more comfortable when his uncle was away, for he heard from Wilson that when Mr. Tunstall was at home there were constant quarrels between him and his wife.

"He ain't like your father, Mr. Hugh. Ah! he was a gentleman of the right sort! Not that your uncle is a bad master. He is hasty if everything is not quite right, but in general he is pleasant spoken and easy to get on with. He is popular with the gentry, though of late they have held off a bit. I hear it said they don't hold to a gentleman spending all his life on the race-courses and leaving his wife by herself. Your aunt is well liked, and would be better liked if she would only go abroad and visit; but she never drives out unless when you are here, and people have given up calling. It is a bad job; but I hope when you come of age, Mr. Hugh, we shall have the old times back again, when the Tunstalls were one of the first families in the county, and took the lead of pretty nigh everything."

"Well, they have five years to wait for that, Wilson. I am just sixteen now, and I mean when I do come of age and am my own master to travel about for a bit before I settle down into a country squire."

"Well, I suppose that is natural enough, Mr. Hugh, though why people want to be running off to foreign parts is more than I can make out. Anyhow, sir, I hope you won't be bringing a foreign wife back with you."

"There is no fear of that"—Hugh laughed—"at least according to my present ideas. But I suppose that is a thing no one can settle about until their time comes. At any rate aunt is a foreigner, and I am sure no one could be kinder or nicer than she is."

"That she is, Mr. Hugh. I am sure everyone says that. Still, you see, there is drawbacks. Her ways are different from the ways of the ladies about here, and that keeps her apart from them. She don't drive about, and call, and make herself sociable like, nor see to the charities down in the village. It ain't as she doesn't give money, because I know that whenever the rector says there is a case wants help she is ready enough with her purse; but she don't go among them or know anything about them herself. No, Mr. Hugh; your aunt is a wonderful nice lady, but you take my advice and bring home an English wife as mistress of the Hall."

When he came home for the Christmas holidays Hugh found his uncle again at home. For a time matters went on smoothly. Mr. Tunstall made an evident endeavour to be friendly with him, talked to him about his life at school, asked whether he wished to go to the university when he left; and when Hugh said that he didn't see any use in spending three years of his life there when he did not intend entering any of the professions, and that he would much rather travel and see something of foreign countries, he warmly encouraged the idea.

"Quite right, Hugh! There is nothing opens a man's mind like foreign travel. But don't stick in the great towns. Of course you will want a year to do Europe; after that strike out a line of your own. If I had my time over again I would go into Central Asia or Africa, or some place where there was credit to be gained and some spice of adventure and danger."

"That is just what I should like, uncle," Hugh said eagerly; and looking at his aunt for confirmation, he was surprised to see her watching her husband intently beneath her half-closed eyelids. "Don't you think so, aunt?"

HUGH, SEIZING A POKER, SPRANG AT HIS UNCLE.

"I don't know, Hugh," she said quietly. "There is a good deal to be said both ways. But I don't think we need settle it now; you have another year and a half at school yet, you know."

Hugh went out skating that afternoon, for it was a sharp frost. As he was passing through the hall on his return he heard his uncle's voice raised in anger in the drawing-room. He paused for a moment. He could not catch the words, for they were spoken in Mexican. There was silence for a moment, and he imagined that his aunt was answering. Then he heard a loud exclamation in Mexican, then a slight cry and a heavy fall. He rushed into the room. His aunt lay upon the hearthrug, his uncle was standing over her with clenched hand.

"You coward, you brutal coward!" Hugh exclaimed, rushing forward, and, throwing himself upon his uncle, he tried to force him back from the hearth-rug. For a moment the fury of his assault forced his uncle back, but the latter's greatly superior strength then enabled him to shake off his grasp, and the moment he was free he struck the lad a savage blow across the face, that sent him reeling backwards. Mad with passion, Hugh rushed to the fender, and seizing a poker, sprang at his uncle. William Tunstall's hand went behind him, and as Hugh struck, he levelled a pistol. But he was too late. The blow came down heavily, and the pistol exploded in the air; as the man fell back his head came with terrible force against the edge of a cabinet, and he lay immovable. Hugh's passion was stilled in an instant. He dropped the poker, and leaned over his uncle. The blood was flowing down his forehead from the blow he had given him, but it was the injury to the back of the head that most alarmed the lad. He lifted an arm, and it fell heavily again. He knelt down and listened, but could hear no sound of breathing. He rose to his feet, and looked down, white and trembling, at the body.

"I have killed him," he said. "Well, he brought it on himself, and I didn't mean it. It was the cabinet that did it. Perhaps he is only stunned. If he is, he will charge me with trying to murder him. Well, it is no use my staying here; they will be here in a moment," and he glanced at the door. But the servants at Byrneside were so accustomed to the sound of pistol shots that they paid no attention to it. Hugh picked up the weapon that had dropped from his uncle's hand and put it in his pocket; then glanced at his aunt and hesitated. "She will come round in time," he muttered, "and I can do nothing for her." Then he walked out of the room, turned the key in the door, and took it with him. He went out to the stable, and ordered his horse to be saddled, keeping in the stable while it was being done, so that his white face should not attract notice. As soon as the horse was brought out he leapt into the saddle and galloped off.

CHAPTER V.

ACROSS THE SEA.

MR. Randolph was at dinner when the servant came in and said that young Mr. Tunstall wished to speak to him; he was in the library, and begged the lawyer to give him two minutes' conversation. Hugh was walking up and down the little room when he entered. The old lawyer saw at once that something was wrong.

"What is it, Hugh, what is the matter, lad?"

"A good deal is the matter, Mr. Randolph; but I don't want you to ask me. I am sure you will be glad afterwards that you didn't know. You were a friend of my father's, sir. You have been always very kind to me. Will you give me fifty pounds without asking why I want it?"

"Certainly I will, lad; but in heaven's name don't do anything rash."

"Anything that was to be done is done, Mr. Randolph; please let me have the money at once. You don't know how important it is. You will know soon enough."

Mr. Randolph unlocked his desk without a word, and handed him ten five-pound notes. Then he said: "By the way, I have gold, if you would rather have it. There were some rents paid in this afternoon."

"I would much rather have gold."

Mr. Randolph put the notes in the desk, and then unlocked the safe. "Would you rather have a hundred?"

"Yes, sir, if you will let me have them."

The lawyer handed him a small canvas bag.

"God bless you, sir!" the lad said; "remember, please, whatever you hear, it was done in self-defence."

Then without another word he opened the door and was gone.

"Why, what is the matter, my dear?" Mrs. Randolph exclaimed, as her husband returned to the dining-room. "Why, you are as pale as death."

"I don't know what is the matter exactly," he said. "Hugh has borrowed a hundred pounds of me, and has gone."

"Gone! Where has he gone to?"

"I don't know, my dear. I hope, I sincerely hope he is going out of the country, and can get away before they lay hands on him."

"Why, what has happened?"

"I don't know what has happened. I know things haven't been going on well for some time at Byrneside. I am afraid there has been a terrible quarrel. He begged me to ask him no questions, and I was glad not to do so. The less one knows, the better; but I am afraid there has been a scuffle. All he said was, just as he went out: 'Whatever you hear, remember I did it in self-defence.'"

"But, goodness gracious, Thomas, you don't mean to say that he has killed his uncle?"

"I don't mean anything," the lawyer said. "Those were his words. I am afraid it won't be long before we hear what he meant. If they come to ask me questions, fortunately I know nothing. I shall say no word except before a magistrate, and then my story is simple enough. He came and asked me to let me have £100, and as I was his trustee, and have the rents of his estate for the past five years in my hands, I let him have it as a matter of course. I did not ask him why he wanted it. I saw that he was agitated, and from his manner, and from my knowledge that he and his uncle did not get on very well together, I judged there had been a quarrel, and that he intended to leave home for a while. It was only when he was leaving the room that I gathered there had been any personal fracas, and then from his words, 'It was done in self-defence,' I judged that his uncle had struck him, and that he had probably struck him in return. I hope that is all, my dear. I pray heaven that it may be all."

Hugh had dismounted just outside the town, opened a gate leading into a field, taken off his horse's bridle, and turned the horse in and closed the gate behind it. Then he had turned up the collar of his coat, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and made his way to the lawyer's. He had cooled down now, but still felt no regret for what had passed. "He would have killed me," he said to himself, "and I had no thought of killing him when I knocked him down; anyhow, he brought it on himself. If he is dead, and I am pretty sure he is, I have no one to prove that it was done in self-defence; but if he is not dead, he will give his own version of it when he recovers. I know he is a liar, and in his quiet manner he would be able to make everyone believe that I had attacked him without the least provocation. He might even say that I fired the pistol, that he knocked it out of my hand, and that then I sprang on him and struck him down with his head against that cabinet. Either way I shall get years of imprisonment if I am caught; but I don't mean to be caught if I can help it."

On leaving Mr. Randolph's he proceeded to the railway-station, consulted the time-tables, and then took a third-class ticket to Glasgow. He bought a Bradshaw, and sitting down on a bench under a light, turned to the advertisements of the sailing of steamers. By the time he had done that the train came in. It was a slow one, stopping at every station. He got out at the first station and paid the fare from Carlisle, then walked back to the town, and took a second-class ticket by the night mail for London. Arriving at Euston, he walked across to the docks, whence he had found that a steamer started for Hamburg at eight o'clock, and he would catch a trans-Atlantic steamer that started the next day. On his arrival at Hamburg he went to the steam-boat office and took a second-class ticket to New York. Having done this, he bought at a shop near the wharves a supply of clothes for the voyage, placed them in a cheap German trunk, and walked on board the steamer.

He was now, he thought, fairly safe from pursuit. The hour at which he would arrive at the station at Carlisle would be known, and as the northern train was nearly due, and someone answering to his description had taken a ticket to Glasgow, it would be at once suspected that he intended to sail by a steamer from that port. No pursuit could be set on foot before the morning. Indeed, it was probable that before the police took the matter fairly in hand it would be late in the afternoon. It might then be another day before they picked up the clue that he had gone to Glasgow, and followed him there.

If a steamer had happened to start that morning or the day before, it would be supposed that he had gone by it, and they might telegraph across, and search the ship for him when it arrived at New York. If no steamer had started, and they could obtain no clue to him in Glasgow, they would think that he had gone back to Liverpool, and would make search there, watching all the steamers sailing. They would in any case hardly suspect that he could have gone up to London, across to Hamburg, and caught the steamer sailing from there. Indeed, it would not have been possible for him to do so had he first gone up to Glasgow as they would believe he had done.

As soon as the vessel was fairly under way Hugh looked round. On deck there was no distinction made between second-class emigrants and steerage, but it was easy to distinguish the two classes. The second-class kept somewhat together near the companion leading to their portion of the ship, while the steerage passengers were well forward. The number of the latter was not very large, for the emigrant traffic across the Atlantic was still carried principally in sailing ships. The second-class were composed chiefly of substantial-looking Germans, for the most part farmers going out with a small amount of capital to settle in the West.

There were two or three other young Englishmen, and with one of these, named Luscombe, Hugh struck up an acquaintance before he had been many hours on board. He was a young man of about twenty, and Hugh soon learned from him that he was the son of a large landed proprietor in Norfolk. He had for a few months been in a crack regiment of Hussars, but had gone, as he expressed it, a fearful mucker. His father had paid the greater portion of his debts, but had refused to settle some that he considered debts of honour. Luscombe, therefore, sold out, and was now, as he expressed it, going over to knock about for a bit in the States, till his father took a "sensible view of things." "It was rough on him," he said, "for I had run him up a pretty heavy bill twice before. However, I think it is all for the best. I should never have got out of that line if I had stopped in the regiment. Two or three years knocking about, and hard work, won't do me any harm; and by that time the governor will be prepared to receive the prodigal son with open arms."

Hugh was slower in giving his confidence. But before the voyage was over he had told Luscombe why he had left England.

"Well, you did quite right, of course," Luscombe said, "in knocking that brute of a fellow down, and if you did split his skull and make your aunt a widow you have nothing to reproach yourself with. Still, I agree with you that it will be more pleasant for you if he gets round, as I daresay he will, or else it will be a long while before you can show up at home. Well, you will know by the time we have been in New York a few days. If the papers the next mail brings out don't say anything about it you may be sure he has got over it. 'A gentleman killed by his nephew' would be a startling heading, and if it is not there, you may go about your work with a light heart."

The voyage was marked by no incident whatever. On arriving at New York Luscombe and Hugh put up at a good hotel for a few days before making a start west. They had agreed to keep together, at any rate for a time. Luscombe was several years older than Hugh, but he saw that the lad had plenty of good sense and a fund of resolution, and knew that he himself was more likely to stick to work in such companionship than he should be by himself. Luscombe's light-hearted carelessness amused Hugh, and though he did not think that his companion was likely to stick very long to anything he took up, he was very glad to have his companionship for a time. Hugh was thankful indeed when the next mail brought a batch of papers of a date a week later than that of his leaving Cumberland, and when a careful examination of the file disclosed no allusion whatever to the event at Byrneside.

"Well, I congratulate you, Hugh," Luscombe said when he told him. "I expected it would be all right. If he had been a good old man you would have killed him, no doubt, but bad men have always wonderfully thick skulls. Well, now you are ready, I suppose, to make our start to-morrow."

"Quite ready, Luscombe. We are only throwing away our money here."

They had already made many inquiries, and had settled that they would in the first place go down to Texas, and would there take the first job of any kind that offered itself, keeping it until they had time to look round and see what would suit them best. Luscombe, however, said frankly that he thought it probable that sooner or later he should enlist in the cavalry out west.

"I know I shall never stick to hard work very long, Hugh. I have not got my fortune to make, and I only want to pass away the time for a year or two until the old lady and the girls get the governor into a charitable state of mind again. He is a first-rate fellow, and I am not surprised that he cut up rough at last. I expect a few months will bring him round, but I should not know what to do if I went back. I will give myself three years anyhow."

"I am very much in the same position, Luscombe. I sha'n't go back until I come of age. Then I can snap my fingers at my uncle. I have got a very good trustee, who will look after the estate. I will write to him to-night and let him know that I am all right and very glad to find that uncle has not been killed, and that he may expect me when I come of age, but not before."

On the following morning they took their places in the train, and travelled west, and proceeded to what was then the nearest terminus to their destination—Northern Texas. Travelling sometimes by stage-waggons, sometimes on foot, they arrived at M'Kinney, which they had been told was a young place, but growing fast.

"Well, here we are at last," Luscombe said as they alighted at a one-storied building, on which was a board roughly painted, "The Empire Hotel." "At any rate the scenery is better than it has been for the last two or three hundred miles. There are some good-sized hills. Some of those across the country ahead might almost claim to be mountains, and that is a relief to the eyes after those dreary flats. Well, let us go in and have a meal first, then we will look round. The place has certainly not an imposing aspect."

The meals here, as at the other places where they had stopped, consisted of fried steak, which, although tough, was eatable, and abundance of potatoes and cabbages, followed by stewed fruit. They had arrived just at the dinner-hour, and seven or eight men in their shirt-sleeves came in and sat down with them. The tea was somewhat better than that they had hitherto obtained, and there was, in addition, the luxury of milk. Scarcely a word was spoken during the meal. It was evidently considered a serious business, and the chief duty of each man was to eat as much as possible in the shortest possible time. After the meal was over, and the other diners had gone out, the landlord, who had taken his seat at the top of the table, opened the conversation.

"Are you thinking of making a stay here, gentlemen?"

"Yes, if we can get any work to suit us," Luscombe said.

"It is a rising place," the landlord said as he lit his pipe. "There are two stores and eight houses being built now. This town has a great future before it." Luscombe and Hugh had some difficulty in preserving their gravity.

"It is the chief town of the county," the landlord went on. "They are going to set about the court-house in a month or two. Our sheriff is a pretty spry man, and doesn't stand nonsense. We have an orderly population, sir. We had only two men shot here last week."

"That is satisfactory," Luscombe said dryly. "We are peaceable characters ourselves. And is two about your average?"

"Well, I can't say that," the landlord said; "that would be too much to expect. The week before last Buck Harris with three of his gang came in and set up the town."

"What do you mean by set up?" Luscombe asked. The landlord looked surprised at the question.

"Oh, to set up a town is to ride into it, and to clear out the saloons, and to shoot at anyone seen outside their doors, and to ride about and fire through the windows. They had done it three or four times before, and as four or five men had been killed the citizens became annoyed."

"I am not surprised at that," Hugh put in.

"The sheriff got a few men together, and the citizens began to shoot out of their windows. Buck Harris and two of his gang were killed and four of the citizens. Since then we have had quiet. And what sort of work do you want, gentlemen? Perhaps I could put you in the way of getting it."

"Well, we wanted to get work among horses," Luscombe said.

The landlord shook his head. "You want to go further south among the big ranches for that. This is not much of a horse country. If you had been carpenters now there would have been no difficulty. A good workman can get his four dollars a-day. Then there is James Pawson's woodyard. I reckon you might get a job there. One of his hands got shot in that affair with Buck Harris, and another broke his leg last week. I should say there was room for you there. Madden, that's the man who was shot, used to board here."

"What is your charge for boarding, landlord?"

"Seventy-five cents a-day for three square meals; a dollar a-day if you lodge as well. But I could not lodge you at present. I must keep a couple of rooms for travellers, and the others are full. But you will have no difficulty in getting lodgings in the town. You can get a room for about a dollar a-week."

"Well, let us try the woodyard, Luscombe."

"All right!" Luscombe said. "There is a certain sense of novelty about a woodyard. Well, landlord, if we agree with this Mr. Pawson, we will arrange to board with you, at any rate for the present."

They went down the straggling street until they came to a lot on which was piled a quantity of sawn timber of various dimensions. The name Pawson was painted in large letters on the fence. A man and a boy were moving planks.

"Here goes!" Luscombe said, and entered the gate.

"Want a job?" the man asked, looking up as they approached him.

"Yes. We are on the look-out for a job, and heard there might be a chance here."

"I am James Pawson," the man said, "and I want hands. What wages do you want?"

"As much as we can get," Luscombe replied.

Pawson looked them up and down. "Not much accustomed to hard work, I reckon?"

"Not much," Luscombe said. "But we are both pretty strong, and ready to do our best."

"Well, I tell you what," the man said. "I will give you a dollar and a half a-day for a week, and at the end of that time, if you get through your work well, I will raise it to two dollars."

Luscombe looked at Hugh, who nodded. "All right!" he said; "we will try."

Pawson gave a sigh of relief, for hands were scarce. "Take off your coats then," he said, "and set to work right here. There is a lot to be done."

Luscombe and Hugh took off their coats, and were soon hard at work moving and piling planks. Before they had been half an hour at it there was a shout, and a waggon heavily laden with planks entered the yard. James Pawson himself jumped up on to the wagon, and assisted the teamster to throw down the planks, while the other two carried them away and stacked them. Both of them had rolled up their sleeves to have a freer use of their arms. The sun blazed hotly down, and they were soon bathed in perspiration. They stuck to their work until six o'clock, but by that time their backs were so stiff with stooping that they could scarcely stand upright, and their hands were blistered with the rough wood. Pawson was well satisfied with their work.

"Well," he said, "you move about pretty spry, you two do, and handle the wood quicker'n most. I see you will suit me if I shall suit you; so I will make it two dollars a-day at once. I ain't a man that stints half a dollar when I see hands work willing."

"Well, that is not a bad beginning, Luscombe," Hugh said as they went to put on their coats.

"We have earned a dollar, Hugh," Luscombe said, "and we have broken our backs and blistered our hands, to say nothing of losing three or four pounds of solid flesh."

"We did wrong to turn up our sleeves," Hugh said. "I had no idea that the sun was so strong. Why, my arms are a mass of blisters."

"So are mine," Luscombe said ruefully, "and they are beginning to smart furiously. They will be in a nice state to-morrow."

"Let us stay at the hotel tonight, Hugh. I feel so tired that I am sure I could never set out to look for lodgings after supper."

The next morning their arms were literally raw. Before starting to work they got some oil from the landlord and rubbed them. "It will be some time before I turn up my sleeves to work again," Luscombe said. "I have had my arms pretty bad sometimes after the first long day's row in summer, but I have never had them like this."

They worked until dinner-time, and then Luscombe went up to Pawson and pulled up his sleeve. "I think," he said, "you must let us both knock off for the day. We are really not fit to work. We daren't turn up our sleeves, and yet the flannel rubbing on them makes them smart so that we can hardly work. Besides, as you said yesterday, we are not accustomed to work. We are so stiff that we are not doing justice either to ourselves or you. If you have any particular job you want done, of course we will come after dinner and do it, but if not we would rather be off altogether."

"Your arms are bad," Pawson said. "I thought yesterday when you were working that, being new-comers, you would feel it a bit. Certainly you can knock off. You ain't fit for it as you are. Take it easy, boys, for a few days till you get accustomed to it. We ain't slave-drivers out here, and I don't expect nothing beyond what is reasonable. I should get my arms well rubbed with oil at once; then to-night wash the oil off and give them a chance to harden, and in the morning powder them well with flour."

As soon as they had had their dinner they went out and found a room with two beds in it, and moved their small kits across there. Then they took a stroll round the town, of which they had seen little, and then lay down in the shade of a thick cactus hedge and dozed all the afternoon. The next morning they felt all the better for their rest. The inflammation of their arms had greatly abated, and they were able to work briskly.

"What do you want with that revolver of an evening, Hugh, when you do not wear it during the day?" Luscombe asked as he saw Hugh put his revolver in his pocket when they went to their lodgings for a wash, after work was over for the day.

"I take off my coat during the day, Luscombe, and whatever may be the custom here I think it ridiculous to see a man at work in a woodyard with a revolver stuck into his pocket at the back of his trousers. At night it is different; the pistol is not noticed under the coat, and I don't suppose there is a man here without one."

"I think one is just as safe without a pistol," Luscombe said. "Even these rowdies would hardly shoot down an unarmed man."

"They might not if they were sober," Hugh agreed; "but most of this shooting is done when men are pretty nearly if not quite tipsy. I heard my uncle say once 'A man may not often want to have a revolver on him; when he does want a revolver he wants it pretty badly.'"

A few days later they heard at supper that three notorious ruffians had just ridden into the place. "I believe one of them is a mate of Buck Harris, who was shot here three weeks ago. I hear he has been in the bar swaggering about, and swearing that he means to wipe out every man in the place who had a hand in that business. The sheriff is away. He went out yesterday with two men to search for a fellow who murdered a man and his wife somewhere down south, and who has been seen down in the swamps of the East Fork. He may be away two or three days, worse luck. There is the under-sheriff, but he isn't much good by himself. He can fight, Gilbert can, but he never likes going into a row on his own account. He will back up the sheriff in anything he does, but he has got no head to take a thing up by himself."

"But surely," Hugh said, "people are not going to let three men terrorize the whole place and shoot and carry on just as they like."

"Well, mate, I don't suppose we like these things more than anyone else; but I can tell you that when one of the three men is Dutch Sam, and another is Wild Harvey, and the third is Black Jake, it is not the sort of business as anyone takes to kindly, seeing that if there is one thing more tarnal sartin than another, it is that each of them is good to lay out five or six men before he goes under. When things are like that one puts up with a goodish lot before one kicks. They are three as ugly men as there are anywhere along this part of Texas. Any one of them is game to set up a town by himself, and when it comes to three of them together I tell you it would be a game in which I certainly should not like to take a hand. You are new to these parts, mate, or you wouldn't talk about it so lightly. When you have been out here for a few months you will see that it is small blame to men if they get out of the way when two or three fellows like this are on the war-path."

At this moment there was a sound of shouting and yelling with a clatter of horses' hoofs outside. Then came the rapid discharge of firearms, and the three upper panes of glass in the window were pierced almost simultaneously with small round holes in the very centres. Every one bent down over their plates. The next shot might come through the second line of window panes, in which case they would have taken effect among those sitting at the table. Then there was a yell of laughter, and the horses were heard to gallop furiously away.

"That is only their fun at present," one of the men said. "It will be more serious later on when they have drunk enough to be savage."

"I don't see much fun in firing through the windows of a house," Luscombe said.

"Oh, that is nothing!" another put in. "I have seen a score of cow-boys come into a place, and half an hour afterwards there wasn't a window-pane that hadn't a round hole in its middle. They will shoot the hats off a score of men; that is one of their favourite amusements. In the first place it shows their skill with the pistol, and in the next it scares people pretty nigh to death, and I have seen the cow-boys laugh until they have nearly tumbled off their horses to see a fellow jump and make a straight line into a house. Nobody minds the cow-boys; they are a good sort. They are reckless enough when they are on a spree, but they don't really mean to do harm. They spend their money freely, and they hate ruffians like those three fellows outside. If it wasn't for cow-boys, the bad men, as we call them, would be pretty well masters of Texas. But the cow-boys hunt them down like vermin, and I have known them hang or shoot over a dozen murderers and gamblers in one afternoon. They fight among themselves sometimes pretty hard. Perhaps the men on two ranches will quarrel, and then if it happens that a party from one ranch meets a party from the other down in a town, there is sure to be trouble. I remember one battle in which there were over twenty cow-boys killed, besides six or eight citizens who happened to get in the way of their bullets."

Just as they had finished the meal a man ran in. "Have you heard the news? Dutch Sam and his party have broken open the door of the under-sheriff's house, pulled him out, and put a dozen bullets into him."

There was an exclamation of indignation. "There," Hugh said, "if the under-sheriff had done his duty and called upon every one to help him to capture or shoot these fellows as soon as they came into the town he wouldn't have lost his life, and I suppose it will have to be done after all."

"The best thing we can do," one of the men said, "is to go round from house to house and agree that every man shall take his rifle and pistol, and take his stand at a window, then we will shoot them down as they ride past."

"But that wouldn't be giving them a fair show," another objected.

"A fair show!" the other repeated scornfully. "Did they give the under-sheriff a fair show? Do you think they give notice to a man before they shoot him, and ask him to draw and be fairly 'heeled' before they draw a trigger? Not a bit of it; and I say we ought to clear them out."

There was a general expression of approval, and after one of the party had opened the door and looked out cautiously to see if the coast was clear, and reported that none of the desperadoes were in sight, the party at once scattered. Luscombe and Hugh stopped for half an hour chatting with the landlord. The latter did not believe that the people would attack the ruffians.

"If the sheriff had been here to take the lead," he said, "they might have acted; but as he is away, I don't think it likely that anyone will draw a bead upon them. You see, no one is sure of anyone else, and he knows that if he were to kill or wound one of them the others would both be upon him. If we had a regular street here with a row of houses running along each side, so that a volley could be poured into them, it would be a different thing; but you see the houses are separated, some stand back from the road, some stand forward; they are all scattered like, and I don't expect anyone will begin. They will be in here presently," he said, "and they will drink my bar pretty well dry, and I don't expect I shall get a dime for the liquor they drink; and that is not the worst of it, they are like enough to begin popping at the bottles, and smashing more than they drink."

"Well, it seems to me a disgraceful thing," Hugh said, "that a place with something like a hundred men in it should be kept down by three."

"It sounds bad if you put it that way," the landlord agreed; "but you must remember that each of these three men could hit every pip on a card twenty yards away; they each carry two revolvers, that is to say, they have got twelve men's lives in their belt, and they are so quick with their weapons that they could fire the twelve shots before an ordinary man could get out his revolver and cock it."

"Why not shut up your place for the night?" Luscombe asked. "Then they couldn't come in and drink your spirits and wreck your bar."

"They couldn't, eh? Why, they would blow the door open with their pistols, and if it was so barred they couldn't get in that way, they would like enough burn the house about my ears. I have known such things done many a time."

"Well, let us get home, Hugh," Luscombe said. "It seems to me the sooner we are quietly in bed the better. As our room is at the back of the house they may fire away as much as they like without a chance of our being hit."

Hugh put on his hat, and the two started down the street. They had gone but a short distance when the sound of a horse's hoofs was heard.

"Here is one of them!" a voice shouted from an upper window. "Run round to the back of the house, the door is open there. I have heard two or three pistol shots, and he will shoot you down to a certainty."

"Come on, Hugh," Luscombe said.

"You go round, Luscombe, you are unarmed. I am not going to run away from anyone," Hugh said doggedly. "Go on, man, it is no use your staying here, you have no pistol."

"I sha'n't leave you by yourself," Luscombe said quietly; "besides, here he comes."

Hugh's hand had already slipped round to his back, and he now had his pistol in his hand in the pocket of his coat. The horseman threw up his arm as he came along, and Hugh saw the glitter of the moonlight on a pistol barrel. Another instant the pistol cracked; but Hugh, the moment he saw it bear on him, dropped on to one knee, and the ball struck the wall just above his head. He lifted his arm and fired, while two other shots rang out from the window. The man threw up his hands and fell back over the crupper of his horse to the ground, and the well-trained animal stopped instantaneously in his gallop, and turning stood still by his side.

"Come on, Luscombe," Hugh said; "the sooner we are out of this the better."

Before, however, they had gone twenty yards they heard the sound of two horses coming up behind them.

"Let us get round the corner of that house, Luscombe. I don't suppose they will pass those men at the windows; if they do, they will be thinking of their own safety as they gallop past and won't notice us."

"WHEN THE COWBOY FIRED, HUGH DROPPED ON ONE KNEE."

They had scarcely got round the corner when there was a discharge of firearms, and the reports of the rifles were followed by the quick sharp cracks of revolvers. Then a man dashed past them at a gallop. One of his arms hung by his side, and the reins were loose on the horse's neck.

"I suppose they have killed the other," Hugh said, "and this fellow is evidently hit. Well, let us go on to bed."

Luscombe did not speak until they reached their room. Hugh struck a match and lighted a candle.

"Well, you are a nice lad, Hugh," Luscombe said. "I thought you were always against quarrels, and wanted nothing but to go on with your work peaceably, and here you are throwing yourself into this and standing the chance of being shot, as if you had been fighting ruffians all your life."

"It was he attacked me," Hugh said. "I didn't fire first. I gave him no provocation, and was not going to run away when I was armed. It is you ought to be blamed, stopping there to be shot at when you had no weapon. I call it the act of a madman. Well, there is nothing more to say about it, so let us get into bed."

CHAPTER VI.

A HORSE DEAL.

AFTER having been at work for a week Hugh and Luscombe found it come comparatively easy to them. Their hands had hardened, and their back and legs no longer ached with the exertion of stooping and lifting planks and beams. They had now got the yard into order: the various lengths and thicknesses of planks piled together, and also the various sized timber for the framework of the houses. Their work was now more varied. The dray had, of course, to be unloaded on its arrival from the mills and its contents stowed away, and as soon as James Pawson found that his new hands could be trusted to see after things he left them pretty much to themselves, going up himself to the mill, of which he was part owner. It now fell to them to keep an account of the out-goings, to see that the planks they handed over to purchasers were of the right lengths and thicknesses, and also to saw the wood-work of the frames for the houses into their required lengths.

All this afforded a change, and gave them an interest in their work, and they came to know a good many, not only of those living in the town, but men who were taking up ground in the neighbourhood, and who came in with their teams for planks and shingles to construct the rough houses which were to shelter them until, at any rate, they got their land under cultivation and things began to prosper. Three months after their arrival Luscombe began to show signs of getting wearied of the work. Hugh was quick to notice it.

"I can see you are getting tired of it," he said one Sunday as they started for a walk to a small ranche three miles away, whose owner had been buying wood for a cow-house, and had asked them to come over for dinner. "You didn't mean me to see it, but I know that it is so."

"I don't know that I am tired, Hugh; but I feel a restless sort of feeling."

"Well, my dear Luscombe, I don't want you to feel that you are in any way bound here on my account. We agreed that from the first, you know. It was a great thing our being together at first; but now the ice is broken we have fallen into the groove, and can either of us shoulder our kits and go where we like in search of a job. We are no longer fresh from the other side of the Atlantic."

"I shall carry out my idea of enlisting," Luscombe said. "There is a military post at Fort M'Kayett. I can strike down by road to Meridian. I can get waggons as far as that, pick up a horse for a few dollars there, and then make my way down until I strike the Colorado River, and, crossing that, bear west, stopping at cattle ranches until I get to the fort. I shall be happier as a trooper than at any other work. Of course the pay is not high, but that does not matter a rap to me; it goes further here than it does at home, and there is not much use for money out on the plains. They say the Indians are very troublesome, and there will be some excitement in the life, while here there is none. I don't like leaving you, Hugh. That is the only drawback."

"Don't let that stop you," Hugh said. "Of course I shall be very sorry when you go; but as you have your plans and I have none, it would come at any rate before long; and, as I have said, now that I have got over the feeling of strangeness, I don't suppose that I shall stay here long after you have left."

The following day Luscombe told his employer that he should leave at the end of the week.

"I am sorry you are going," he said; "but I expected that you would be on the move before long. That is the worst of it out here—nobody sticks to a job. However, I cannot blame you; you have stopped a good bit longer than they generally do. And are you going too?" he asked, turning to Hugh.

"Not just yet," Hugh replied; "but I do think of going in another week or two. You see, boss, one is not learning anything here."

"That's so. Say, would you like to go up to the mill for a bit? That is different sort of work, and, as you say, you would be learning something. One of the men jammed his hand on Saturday, and won't be fit for that kind of work for some time, so as your mate is going off at the end of the week you can go up there if you like."

Hugh gladly accepted the offer. He would have felt it very dull without Luscombe, but by going to a different sort of work he would feel his companion's departure less hardly. He would have much to learn, and be among new companions, and have much to attend to. So at the end of the week Luscombe set out upon his long journey to Fort M'Kayett, and on Monday morning Hugh started for the saw-mill at daybreak in a waggon that had come in on Saturday afternoon with timber. James Pawson had told him that he had spoken to the foreman about him, and the latter would know what to do with him. The team consisted of two fine mules in the shafts and two horses ahead.

"Climb up," the driver said. "We shall go a goodish pace till we get to the hills. That is right—hold on!"

As he cracked his whip the animals started at a trot, and presently broke into a gallop. The road was nothing but a track across the country, and Hugh held on to the seat, expecting every moment to be jerked off. The track was as hard as iron, but the passages of the waggons in wet weather had worn deep holes and ruts in it, and Hugh thought it was a miracle that the waggon did not upset and smash to pieces, as the wheels went down first on one side and then on the other, and the whole framework creaked and quivered with the shock. At the end of about three miles the animals slackened their pace, to Hugh's intense relief.

"That's just their little play," the driver said. "They know they won't get a chance again to-day, and they generally lay themselves down for a gallop where it is good going."

"Do you call that good going?" Hugh asked in astonishment.

"Sartin. Why, it is level ground, and not a water-course to go over! You don't expect a railway track, graded and levelled, do yer?"

Hugh hastened to say that he entertained no such extravagant ideas.

"This road ain't nowhere, so to speak, real bad," the driver went on; "that is, not for a hill road. I don't say as there ain't some baddish places, but nothing to what I have driven teams over."

The animals had now dropped down into a walk, although, so far as Hugh could see, the track was no worse than that which they had been hitherto following.

"The critters are just getting their breath," the driver said as he proceeded to light his pipe. "They have had their fling, and now they are settling down to the day's work. They know as well as I do what they have got before them. Don't you, Pete?"

The mule addressed lifted one of its long ears and partly turned his head round.

"They are fine mules," Hugh remarked.

"You will see bigger than them. Them's Mexicans, and they have wonderful big mules in Northern Mexico. I have seen them standing a hand higher than these. But Pete and Bob are good mules. They would be better if they were a bit heavier when it comes to a dead pull, but except for that I would as lief have them as the biggest."

"Are they better than horses?"

"Better'n horses? You bet! Why, I would rather have a pair of mules than three pair of horses. Why, for steady work and for stay and for strength there ain't no comparison between a mule and a horse. Why, that pair of mules is worth twice as much as the best pair of horses you could find in Texas, except, of course, picked horses for riding. If you pay a hundred dollars for a horse you have paid a long price in this country, but that pair of mules wouldn't be dear at eight hundred for the two of them. There is no trouble with mules: they won't stray far when you turn them out; they won't stampede—not if they are properly trained. Why, there is as much sense in a mule as there is in a score of horses, and the horses know it themselves. If there is a mule turned out among a troop of horses he takes the lead natural, and they will follow him wherever he goes, knowing right well that he has got more sense than they have. Besides, mules seem to get fond of each other, and you don't see horses do that. In a round-up the team horses will just mix up with the others. You don't see two of them keep together or have any sort of friendship; but if there are a pair of mules among the lot you will see them keep together."

"I had an idea that mules were obstinate beasts."

"I won't deny as they have their tempers sometimes, but in most cases it comes from their getting into bad hands. But treat a mule well and he will, in general, do his best. When they once find they have got a job beyond them they ain't going to break their hearts by trying to do it; and if they are treated bad when there is no call for it then they puts up their backs and won't stir another foot, and when they makes up their minds to that you may kill them and they won't do it then; but treat a mule fair and kind and there is no better beast in the world. You know all about it, Pete, don't you?" and he gave the animal a slight flick on the neck with his whip, to which it replied by throwing up its hind-quarters and giving a playful kick, which caused Hugh, whose legs were hanging down over the front of the waggon, to withdraw them hastily. "You are a rascal, Pete," the driver said. "Come, now, you have all got your winds. Just sharpen up a bit till you get among the hills."

As if they understood what he said, the mules threw their weight on the traces, broke into a slow trot, and the crack of the driver's whip woke the leaders into activity. This pace was not kept up long, for the ground had now begun to rise. They presently entered a valley between two spurs of the hills, and soon began to mount by a rough road. This became steeper and steeper, and Hugh was glad to get off and walk in front. At times the track they had to cross was bare rock, so smooth and slippery that the animals could scarcely keep their feet and drag up the waggon. Then they wound along on the side of a hill, the ground on one side being so much higher than on the other that it seemed to Hugh that a loaded waggon would infallibly topple over and go rolling down into the valley below. Sometimes they descended sharply into some lateral ravine cut by a stream, and climbed up the other side. The hills now were covered with a growth of small trees and brushwood—the larger timber had already been felled. At last the waggon turned up the bed of a stream running through a rocky gorge.

"Here we are," the driver said; and fifty yards further they came upon the saw-mill—a roughly-built structure, with a water-wheel. A low log-hut stood beside it. Beyond, the valley opened out. At the upper end its sides far up the hills were covered with trees, but the woodman's axe had already stripped the lower part of the valley of all its timber trees. A dam had been built across the stream and a leat cut to the water-wheel, which was sunk five or six feet below the level of the ground around it, and the tail-race continued nearly down to the mouth of the gorge, where the water fell again into the old bed of the stream. The wheel was revolving, and the sound of the machinery inside the mill deadened that of the mules and waggon, but a shrill whistle from the driver brought a man to the door. He nodded to Hugh. "You are the new hand the boss spoke of, I suppose? Well, Clarkson, have you brought the things we wanted?"

"Yes, I think the list is complete. I gave it to the old man, and he had all the things on board the first thing this morning. Here they are: six pounds of tea, a barrel of pork, sack of flour, keg of molasses, twenty pounds of sugar. Here is a box of dried apples, and the two cross-cut saws. He will see about a grindstone. He thinks you might make that one last a bit longer."

"It was pretty well worn out when it was put up," the foreman grumbled. "It ain't fit to grind axes on. I told the boss the other day that it had cost him ten times its vally already, because the men couldn't keep a sharp edge on their tools with it."

"Well, you know, Ben, grindstones don't grow down in M'Kinney, and he has got to get them sent out from Missouri."

"If he had to get them from China he might have had one here by this time," the foreman grumbled. "Have you got that bag of iron dogs I wanted?"

"No. There warn't one to be had in M'Kinney. The old man told me to tell you he wrote off on Saturday to Little Rock and told them to express them on."

A negro now came out from the hut and began to carry the provisions in, and Hugh followed the foreman into the mill. There was another man there. One side of the mill was open to a yard behind, in which lay the logs as brought down by the team. These were placed on rollers, and so run into the mill. One end of the log was then lifted by a screw-jack until level with the saw-bench. Here it was packed up, and the jack then taken to the other end. The machinery consisted solely of one large circular saw and of another of smaller size. The water-power would not have been sufficient to drive frame-saws, and the whole work had to be done with the circular saws. The mill was not large, but it sufficed for the wants of M'Kinney and the neighbourhood, and two waggon-loads of planks were sent down daily. Three axemen, who felled and squared the trees, and a teamster with four horses to drag the balks down to the mill completed the establishment.

Hugh soon found that the work was far more interesting than it had been in the woodyard. It needed a good deal of skill to handle the heavy pieces of timber and get them upon the saw-bench, although they were cross-cut by the woodmen into lengths suitable for planks. Then the great saw cut the balks into planks three inches wide. These were taken to the smaller saw, which ran them down into half, three-quarter, or inch planks, as required. The benches were of a primitive description, the balks being laid on fixed rollers, and the necessary movement given to them by a rope passed through blocks and taken round a shaft, which, as it revolved, wound up the rope and brought the logs forward against the saw.

The noise at first of the saws and of the water-wheel and its machinery almost deafened Hugh, but he soon ceased to notice it. He found that his duties were of a general kind. He assisted in raising the logs to their place and in getting them properly placed on the rollers, and then he helped to fix the blocks and pulleys, to remove the planks as they were cut off, and to work the log back to its place in readiness for another plank to be cut from it. The small saw required one man's constant attention, as the three-inch planks were simply pushed forward by hand against it, being kept in their true position by guides.

"You have got to be careful when you get near the end," the foreman said to him, "or you will find yourself without a finger or two in no time. When you get to within a foot of the end you must not push the plank any further, but go to the other end of the saw and pull it to you. It is a pretty rough business altogether, but it will only last another few months. There are not enough trees to supply it longer than that. Pawson has bought up another place a bit further among the hills, and he has ordered a better plant than this, and reckons it will be up and ready to run by the time we are done here. This place ain't fit for carrying on much trade. When it was put up two years ago there were but few people about on the plain, and a waggon-load a week was about the outside Pawson could get rid of. I have been here from the first. In those days we used to work with our rifles handy, for there was always a chance of an attack by Indians, but the country has grown so much since then that the Indians moved further north, and don't bother us. Ah! there is Joe's dinner-bell."

Hugh, following the example of the others, went down to the mill-stream and gave his hands a rinse, dried them on a towel hanging from a nail on the door of a hut, and then went in. In five minutes the whole party were assembled, and took their seats on benches beside a long narrow table. The negro cook brought in bowls of pea-soup. This was followed by boiled pork and potatoes, and then came a great dish of dried apples, boiled, with molasses poured over them.

"We get our board up here," the foreman, who had placed Hugh beside him, said. "I suppose the boss told you?"

"Yes, he said I should get forty dollars a month, and my grub."

"That's it. It is better pay than you can get on a farm below, but it is harder work, and lonesome; besides, unless you are careful, you run a pretty good risk of an accident. There have been eight or ten fellows hurt here since we began. It is healthy among the hills, and we don't get fevers, and it is cool enough to sleep comfortably at night even in summer, but in winter it is cold, I can tell you. The old man feeds us pretty well, I must say that for him, and he is as good a boss as there is about here."

Hugh liked the life, the keen mountain air braced him up, and every day he found it more and more easy to do his share of the work of moving the heavy balks. The men as a whole were pleasant fellows, and of an evening Hugh listened with great interest to the stories they told as they smoked their pipes. It was wonderful how many occupations most of them had followed. Two of them had been mining in California before they came down to Texas; one of them had been working with teams across the Santa Fé route; another, named Bill Royce, had been a sailor, had deserted his ship at Galveston, had enlisted and served for three years at a cavalry post west, had deserted again, had worked for two years as a cow-boy on one of the Texan ranches, had gone down into Mexico and worked at a ranche there, had come up by sea to Galveston, working his passage, had served as a farm hand for a few months, and then, after various experiences, had come to M'Kinney when there were only three or four houses there.

Another of the men had also worked as a cow-boy, but his experience had been but a short one.

"I stopped just a week at it," he said, "and what with being thrown off a horse twenty times a day, and what with the work, and what with the goings-on of the boys, I had enough of it by that time. I had been in one or two Indian fights, and I didn't feel scared then, but those cow-boys scared me pretty nigh to death. The way they let off their pistols was a caution. Four or five times, when I was sitting quiet, smoking, bang! and a revolver bullet would knock my pipe into chips, and then they laughed fit to kill themselves when I got up and swore. Then without the least reason, someone, as we were all sitting round the fire, would take it into his head to hit a little bit of flaming wood, then half a dozen others would go at it, and the bits of fire would be sent flying in all directions, and how it was that none of them got killed was more than I could make out. I stood it for the week, and then I weakened. I had got that nervous that I would jump if a fellow moved suddenly, and I concluded that I was not made the same way as the cow-boys, and had better quit and take to some other job."

"I reckon you were about right there," Bill Royce said. "Anyone as is thinking of going for a cow-boy, had best know how to ride, how to throw a rope, and how to draw his pistol as quick as lightning, before he begins."

The next day Hugh asked the teamster to bring him up from the town a rope, such as the cow-herders used.

"This will do," Bill Royce said, as he examined it. "The cow-boys and Mexicans both use ropes sometimes, but they chiefly make them themselves from strips of raw hide, which they work and grease until they run almost as easy as if they were made of silk. Yes, this is the right length, forty feet. Some men will use fifty, and I have known Mexicans who would throw a sixty-foot length with certainty; but that is quite out of the way; forty feet is the right length. I will splice one end into an eye for you, the other goes through it, and makes a running noose. When you throw it, the loop is three or four feet across. Of course, the better you can throw, the smaller you can have the loop, and the smaller it is the better, for the jerk comes all the quicker before the horse or steer is prepared for it. Now, you see that stump of a young tree sticking up two feet above the ground. Well, you form your loop, and you gather the rest in coils in your hand like this, and you stand, to begin with, twenty feet away, and you cast the loop over the stump—so."

Of an evening, when supper was over, Hugh went out and practised with the rope, and at the end of a month found that he could throw it at a distance of thirty feet with a fair certainty of dropping the loop over the stump. He also took Royce's advice as to the pistol. He had laid it by since arriving at M'Kinney; but he now got a belt similar to those worn by the cow-boys, and took to carrying the pistol in it, but unloaded, and at odd moments practised drawing from the belt, levelling it, and pulling the trigger with the greatest possible speed. The action seemed simple enough, but he was surprised to find how, with practice, the time taken in doing it diminished, and his fingers came to close upon the handle in exactly the right position almost instantaneously, and as his hand shot out, his thumb drew back the hammer, and his forefinger closed on the trigger. All this he had practised before, more or less, when he had learned to use the weapon in the conservatory at Byrneside, but at that time it had not appeared probable the accomplishment would be of any use. Now he knew that his life might depend upon it, and he came in time to be able to perform it, with, as Royce had said, something of the sleight of hand of a conjurer.

He devoted the whole of his spare time to practising with the pistol and rope, and by the time that summer had gone Hugh was able to throw the rope with certainty over any fixed object within reach, and to draw his revolver with a quickness that astounded Bill Royce.

"I have seen a lot of pistol shooting," the latter said, "since I came out west—cow-boys and Mexicans, and horse-thieves and such like, but I have never seen one draw as quick as you do, and there are many as draws quick. You shoot fair, but nothing out of the way. There's many a cow-boy kin shoot a sight straighter, but for quick drawing you are wonderful, and that is the great thing. When one fellow gets his pistol out, the other has got to cave in."

The valley was now pretty well cleared of its trees, and the party prepared to go down to M'Kinney for the winter. The wood-cutters were to move at once to the new location, and to begin to fell trees, and as soon as the snow fell deep the teams would go up and drag them down to the new saw-mill, for the timber is hauled down much more easily over the snow than over the rough ground in summer. Thus there would be a big stock in readiness when the thaw came, and the mill began to work in the spring.

Hugh was not sorry when the work of the mill came to an end. He had determined to remain until the season closed, and he was glad he had done so. The time had been by no means lost. He had learned a good deal as to the ways and character of the men with whom he should have to associate. He had from one or other of them picked up a great deal of knowledge about the country, and knew the best places for making a start, the towns from which most of the teams started, and the localities that were best to make for in order to gain the heart of the cattle country. He had learned to throw a rope with enough dexterity to aid him materially in any work he might undertake among cattle or horses, and his constant practice with his revolver gave him a confidence in himself, and in his ability to hold his own in the wild life of the plains and mountains.

In the nine months which had elapsed since he left England he had gained strength, had become manly and self-reliant, and felt that his apprenticeship had been of great value to him. The first thing to do after he came down to M'Kinney, was to look out for a horse. He had been put up to a useful wrinkle in this respect by Bill Royce. "You be careful about any horse trade you make. Bet your boots that any horse that is offered to you here is stolen, and you would get into one of the awkwardest of scrapes if you chanced to go into a district where that horse is known. They don't trouble themselves to ask many questions over a stolen horse. If you buy a horse, the best thing to do is to go before a justice, or the sheriff will do: pay your money before him, and get him to sign his name as a witness to the bargain. His fee will be one or two dollars, and you could not lay out the money better. Men ain't altogether unreasonable even where a horse is concerned, and a paper issued from a sheriff's office certifying that you had bought the horse, and paid a fair price for it, might save your neck from a noose. You may ride a stolen horse all your life, and never happen to light on the place he was taken from; but if you do happen to light on it, you may find yourself in a tight corner."

Hugh put up at the hotel, and having told the landlord that he was on the look-out for a horse, the latter told him one evening, when he returned from a visit to some friends at a farm, that two men had come in an hour before, and had said they had a good horse to dispose of. Bill Royce was sitting in the saloon when Hugh went in.

"I dropped in to see you, Hugh. I saw two fellows come in an hour ago on two likely-looking horses and they were leading two others, one of which seemed to me as good a bit of horse flesh as I have seen fur a long time. I expect they are on for a trade. The horse is a mustang; I don't expect they come by it honest, but that ain't your business, and you will get it cheaper than if they had. Go slow in bargaining; don't you let out you really want him."

Presently two men came in. They were dressed in broad hats, red shirts, over which they wore jackets with silver buttons, breeches made of a soft leather, and high boots. They wore bright-coloured sashes round the waist.

"They look pretty hard," Bill Royce said quietly; "they may be anything. They are not regular cow-boys, but they may have been working on a ranche; they may have been prospecting; they may be horse-thieves; they may be regular border ruffians; anyhow, they have got a horse to sell. Maybe they have stole it from a ranche; maybe they have got it from the Indians; maybe they have wiped out its owner. You will be able to tell pretty well by the price they want for it. He would be cheap at two hundred dollars if he is anything like as good as he looks. If they will take anything under that it is because they daren't keep him."

After standing at the bar and talking for some time to the landlord, one of the men came across to Hugh.

"I hear you are looking for a horse."

"Yes, I am wanting to buy one if I find one to suit me at my price."

"I have a horse to trade that would suit anyone, and as to its price, I am ready to let him go a bargain."

"I should like to have a look at him," Hugh said.

"Well, he is in the stable now."

"Yes; but I should want to see him by daylight, get on his back, and try him."

"Look here," the man said. "Me and my mate are pressed for time. Perhaps we have got an appointment with the president, perhaps we haven't; anyhow, we want to go on. We have got two spare horses, and we don't wish to bother with them no further."

"Well, I will look at the horse now," Hugh said, and, accompanied by Bill Royce, he followed the man to the stables. Two horses were standing, ready saddled and bridled, hitched to hooks outside the shed. Inside were two others. One was an ordinary-looking horse, bony and angular. A pack-saddle hung on a beam close by. He had evidently been used for carrying baggage. The other was a handsome roan, which snorted angrily as they approached with lanterns.

"That is something like a horse," the man said. "Five years old, strong, and up to anything, clean-limbed, full of courage, and fast."

"He has got a temper," Hugh said as the horse laid back his ears and made a sudden and vicious snap at the man's hand.

"He is a bit playful," the man said.

"Well, I don't like buying him without trying him," Hugh said. "He may be up to all sorts of tricks, and may kick his saddle over his head. What do you want for him?"

"I tell you what," the man said. "That horse would be dirt cheap at two hundred and fifty dollars, but as I have told you we want to be moving on, and I will sell him for a hundred and fifty. I would rather put a bullet through his head than let him go for less than that."

"Well, let us go back into the saloon and talk it over," Hugh said. "It is a rum way to buy a horse, but I like his looks."

The other man was still standing at the bar when they entered. Hugh, knowing that it would be an unheard-of thing to buy a horse without the ceremony of taking drinks being performed, went to the bar and ordered them for the four. "If I buy that horse," he said, "it will be on one condition. You see I don't know where he has come from. The man you got him from may have stolen him, and I might happen to come across the former owner, and I haven't any fancy for being strung up as a horse-thief."

"You don't mean, stranger, to say as we have stolen him?" one of the men said angrily.

"Not at all. It may have gone through half a dozen hands before it came into yours, and yet it may have been stolen. Of course, if you know anyone here who can guarantee that you raised the horse, or have owned him for a couple of years, I shall be quite content; but if you don't, you can hardly expect me to take your word any more than I should expect them to take my word if a party were to ride up to me and accuse me of stealing it. That is right enough, isn't it, landlord?"

"I don't see as there is anything to be said against that," the landlord said. "It is a mighty unpleasant thing in this country to be found riding on the back of a horse that has mayhap been stolen."

"What I propose is this," Hugh went on. "Seeing that these gentlemen are strangers here, I propose that I should call in the sheriff and James Pawson, who is a justice, and that they should witness the sale and give me a signed paper saying that they know me as a resident here, and that I have in their presence bought this horse. I don't think there is anything unreasonable in that. If at any time I am held up for stealing it I can show this paper, and if they doubt it they can write to the sheriff here, and find that it is genuine."

The two men exchanged a few words together in a low voice, and then the one who had shown the horse said, "Well, I reckon that is a fair enough offer. We know we came by the horse honestly, but as we are strangers it is right enough you should be cautious. Bring your sheriff along, and let's be done with it."

"I will fetch the sheriff across," Royce said, "if you go over to Pawson's, Hugh."

In five minutes they returned with the two men. The sheriff looked sharply at the two horse-dealers. They were unknown to him.

"Will you give me my belt, landlord?" Hugh said.

The landlord went out, and returned with Hugh's belt, which had been locked up in his chest since Hugh arrived in the town. The latter counted out 150 dollars in gold.

"Wait a moment," the sheriff said. "I must see the horse first, and see what brand is on him. I cannot describe the horse unless I see him."

Again taking lanterns the party went out to the stable. The horse had been branded with a circle in which was the letter E. There was no other mark on him. The sheriff brought across with him some official paper, and returning to the bar wrote: "I bear witness to the purchase by"—and he paused—"Hugh Tunstall," Hugh put in,—"who is well known to me as having been working for six months in and near the town, of a roan horse branded of"—"of Jake Wittingham," the man said—"and to the passing of payment for the same." The sheriff then added his name, writing under it, "Sheriff of M'Kinney County," and James Pawson added his signature with the word "Judge."

"That is right and square," the sheriff said. "Now, hand over the money and the trade is done."

"I will throw in the other horse for twenty dollars."

"I will take it," Hugh said; and adding this sum to that he had counted out, handed it over to the men.

"If you will just step over with me, Hugh," the sheriff said, "I will put my official seal to that paper. I have not a doubt," he went on as they left the saloon, "that those two fellows have stolen that horse. They would never have sold him for that money had they come by him honestly. I should have been glad to buy him myself for anything like that price. I don't know the men, and I reckon I know most of the rogues for a hundred miles round here; so that, if it has been stolen, it has probably been brought a good distance. I shouldn't be surprised if there has been murder as well as robbery. If I knew the men I would seize them and have them searched; but as I have never seen them before, and know nothing against them, I cannot do that. I think it is a very good idea of yours getting me in to witness the sale. That horse might get you into serious trouble if you could not prove that you came by it honestly."

He had now reached his house, and proceeded to stamp the document with the official seal. "You may as well put your signature to this," he said, "and I will witness it. Then if there is any question about your being Hugh Tunstall you would only have to sign your name and they would see that you are the man mentioned. That is right; my fee is two dollars."

Hugh gladly paid the money, and putting the document in his pocket returned to the hotel.

"Those fellows have just ridden off," Royce said when he entered. "Pretty hard couple that. I wonder where they got that horse. Nowhere about here, or the sheriff would have known it; a horse like that would be sure to catch the eye."

The next morning Hugh got up early to inspect his purchase. The horse again made hostile demonstrations when he approached it; but, talking to it quietly, Hugh went into the stall, patted and soothed it. When it had quieted down he took the head-rope and led it out into the yard.

"You are a beauty," he said; "there is no mistake about that," and, tying it up to a post, he walked round it. "Well put together, plenty of muscle, fine bone, and splendid quarters. What a hunter you would make if I had you at home!" The landlord came out as he was admiring the animal.

"A mustang," he said; "bigger than they usually run a good bit, and a beauty all over; he is worth double what you gave for him. This is not much of a horse country; if you had him down south you could get three hundred for him any day. I expect those fellows were afraid to take him down there; too well known, I reckon. Look here, I will give you a paper too; and if I were you I would get another from Pawson, saying that you have been working for him at his sawmill, and that he recommends you as a good hand at that work. You can't have too many certificates as to who you are when you are riding on an animal like that in this country. If you want a saddle and bridle, Jim Hoskings has got one to sell; he was speaking to me about it a fortnight ago."

Half an hour later Hugh became the owner of a saddle and bridle. The former was made in the Texan fashion, which closely resembles the Mexican, being very heavy, and with high peak and cantle.

"I hardly see how a man can be thrown off a horse with such a saddle as this," Hugh said as he examined it; "one would be boxed in before and behind."

"Wait till you get on a bad bucking horse," the man said with a smile. "You won't wonder about it then."

Carrying it back to the hotel Hugh saddled his horse and mounted. He felt strange and uncomfortable at first, for the stirrup-leathers were placed much further back than those to which he was accustomed. The stirrups were very large and broad, and the position of the stirrup-leathers rendered it necessary for him to ride almost with a straight leg, so that his grip was with his thighs instead of his knees.

"I shall get accustomed to him in time," he said to himself, "but at present I feel as if I was riding barebacked. Well, I had plenty of practice at that, so I ought to be able to stick on." He rode at a quiet pace down the street, and then shook the reins, and the horse at once started at a hand-gallop. Hugh was delighted with his pace, which was wonderfully smooth and easy, and returned in an hour fully satisfied with his purchase.

CHAPTER VII.

AMONG THE COW-BOYS.

"WELL, now you have got your horses and outfit, Hugh, what air you going to do next?" Bill Royce said, after the rest of the party had got up from breakfast and gone out.

"I don't quite know, Bill," Hugh laughed; "I thought of going teaming, but I am afraid my horse has spoilt me for that."

"Well, so I should say."

"I should like to be my own master for a bit," Hugh went on, "and do some shooting and hunting on the plains, work across to Sante Fé, and then take anything that turns up. I have got three hundred dollars in cash; that will last me for a long time. But I don't like striking out for myself, I know nothing of the country or the life. What do you say to going with me, Bill?"

"That is just what I have been turning over in my mind," Bill said. "I know the plains powerful well, and have been hunting and shooting there for months. I was saying to myself, as like enough you would be thinking of striking out for a bit afore you settled down again to anything, and you would be wanting some one with you as could put you up to the ropes. I have got pretty sick of working here, but I have spent my money as fast as I have got it, and cannot afford to get an outfit; so I said to myself, if Hugh likes to start me with an outfit I think it would be about square, seeing as he knows nothing of the country, and I could put him straight there. We have worked together for a bit, and I reckon we would get on first-rate. So if that would suit you it would just suit me."

"It suits me capitally, Bill; nothing could be better; it is just what I wanted. I don't suppose I should ever have gone by myself, but with you it would be the very thing to suit me. There's my hand on it."

In another three days their preparations were made. Bill knew of a horse that could be picked up for forty dollars; two rifles were bought, a saddle and bridle for Bill, and saddle-bags for the spare horse. A large stock of ammunition was laid in; fifty pounds of flour, a few pounds of tea and sugar, four blankets, and a few odds and ends, completed the outfit. Royce had already a revolver, and on the morning of the fourth day they started from M'Kinney, striking nearly due south, so as to work round the range of hills. For the first few days they passed occasional settlements, and then struck out across an open country.

"Now we may begin to look out for game," Royce said. "You can shoot, I suppose, Hugh?"

"I have had no practice whatever with the rifle, but I am a pretty good shot with a shot-gun."

"You will soon pick it up, anyhow," Royce said; "anyone who can shoot as you do with a Colt, is sure to shoot pretty straight with a rifle."

For the next four months Hugh and his companion wandered over the plains, and Hugh enjoyed the life immensely. They had directed their course toward the south-west, for winter was setting in when they started, and as the cold is sometimes severe in Northern Texas, they made down towards the Mexican frontier, and there enjoyed delightful weather. They found an abundance of game, and could have shot any number of deer, but they were useless to them, except for food. Herds of wild horses were sometimes seen, and occasionally, in quiet valleys, they came across half-wild cattle, which had strayed away from far-distant ranches. It was strange to Hugh to travel thus at will, to wander freely in whichever direction fancy led them; sometimes passing a week or two without seeing any other human being; sometimes stopping for a night at the camp-fire of a party of cow-boys; sometimes bivouacking with a wandering hunter like themselves, or with a ranchman in search of stray animals. During this time their expenses had been next to nothing, their sole outlay being for flour, tea, and sugar, and even these they generally obtained in exchange for venison or other game.

Hugh had learned to use his rope with considerable skill on horseback, for as soon as he got fairly away on the plains he had begun to practise. The first time he tried it upon his companion he would have given him a very heavy fall, had not Bill reined in his horse on to its haunches as soon as the rope fell over his shoulders; for Prince, as Hugh called his horse, was thoroughly up in his work. The instant the rope had been thrown he stopped and braced himself, with his fore-legs extended, to meet the shock, and had it not been for Bill's quickness he would in an instant have been torn from the saddle.

"Thunder!" the latter exclaimed. "Do you want to break my neck, Hugh?"

"I had nothing to do with it!" Hugh protested. "Prince nearly sent me over his head. I had not the least idea of pulling him in, and was perfectly taken aback by his playing me that trick."

"We ought to have thought of it," Bill said. "It was dead sure he would be trained to the work. The idea flashed across me just as the rope came down, and lucky it was so. Well, you will find plenty of other things to practise on as we go along. There are cattle enough running about here without owners, and if you come across a bunch of wild horses you can give chase and rope some of the young ones; and there are coyotes, they will give you plenty of sport that way."

Hugh had used all these opportunities, and had come to throw the noose over the head of a flying animal as well as Bill Royce himself could do, but as yet he was unable to throw the rope round their legs with any certainty. As the spring approached Hugh proposed that instead of carrying out their plan of going to Santa Fé they should for a time take service on a ranche.

"I enjoy this life immensely, Bill, and I should like to become thoroughly up to all the work. At present I am what you call a tender-foot, and I should certainly like to have a few months among the cow-boys."

"Just as well do that as anything else," Bill said. "It is always handy to know that you can hold your own in a round-up and know the ways of cattle, and I tell you that there is plenty to learn. But, mind you, it ain't going to be like this time we've been having. There's no fooling about a cow-boy's life: it is just about the hardest life there is. However, it won't be as hard for you as it is for most fellows. You can ride, though there ain't much merit in sitting on that horse of yours. Still I see you know your way among horses, and you have taught him to come to you when you whistle, and to do pretty nigh everything you want him to; but you will find it a mighty different thing when you get on the back of a broncho. However, it is worth learning to ride a horse that has never been backed. Anyhow, I am with you. I have had a spell at it, and don't mind having another; and there is one thing—you can quit when you like."

"But how about this horse? I should not like to give up Prince."

"Well, you could do as you like about that. Each cow-boy has six or eight horses—sometimes he has as many as a dozen—and he just ropes one out of the crowd and rides him as he has a fancy; so you could let Prince run with the rest and use him when you liked, or you could leave him at the headquarters station."

"What do they want such a lot of horses for?" Hugh asked.

"They want them to do the work," Bill said. "A man can go on pretty nigh for ever, but a horse can't. You will find that you can use up six horses in the twenty-four hours, and they want a day to rest before they are fit for work again. Well, they will be starting on their round-up soon, so we may as well head in their direction so as to get taken on before they are full. I was working in the O triangle ranche two years ago; their station ain't above a hundred and fifty miles from where we are. The boss wasn't a bad sort. We may as well go there as to another."

"What do you mean by the O triangle, Bill?"

"That is their brand—a circle in a triangle. We call them always by their brands. They have all sorts of names of their own, but they are never known by them. There is the O triangle, and the double A, and the cross T's, and the diamond square, and the half-circles, and a dozen others. Well, we will head that way to-morrow morning. I don't know that I shall be sorry to be in a crowd again for a bit. It gets lonesome when there are only two of you after a while."

Hugh was beginning to feel this also. Their subjects of conversation had long been exhausted, and after the events of the day's hunting had been discussed there was little for them to talk about as they sat by their fire.

On the evening of the third day they arrived at the headquarters station of the ranche. It consisted of a long, low building, which formed the storehouse and general room. Near it was the manager's house, and behind the barracks for the men. A short distance away was a fence which inclosed fifty or sixty acres of ground. Here were some of the more valuable of the animals: some handsome bulls and a couple of dozen good horses. Three or four waggons stood near the huts, and a number of horses were grazing about over the country. The huts themselves lay in a hollow, down which a small belt of trees extended. A score of men were standing or sitting near the huts, and as many more came out as the new-comers rode up. One or two of these recognized Bill Royce.

"Hello, Bill!" one of them said; "back again! I thought you had got rubbed out. Where have you been all this time?"

"Been down in Mexico, and then back among the settlements, got tired of it, and here I am. Been hunting last. This is my mate, gentlemen. He is a good sort, a Britisher, and his name is Hugh. Now, you are properly introduced!"

"Glad to see you!" the man said, holding out his hand to Hugh. "Come to pay us a visit?"

"No. I have come to work, if I can get work," Hugh said.

"Oh, there's plenty of work. Well, get off your horse. He is a good un, he is!" Such was evidently the opinion of the rest of the cow-boys, for they gathered round and made remarks on Prince's points. "He is too good for this sort of work altogether, leastways for most of it, though he would do well enough for scouting round and hunting for cattle among the foot-hills. Where did you get him?"

"I bought him at M'Kinney," Hugh said. "Two fellows came along with him and wanted to sell bad, so I got him a bargain."

"I expect he didn't cost them much," the man said. "Well, it is all right as long as you don't fall across the chap he was stolen from. If you do, there will be a good many questions asked, I can tell you. I guess he came from some Mexican ranche down south. You don't often see such a bit of horseflesh about here."

"Here is the boss, Hugh," Bill said; "we may as well speak to him at once;" and they walked together to a man who had just come out from the manager's house.

"Have you got room for two hands?" Bill asked. "I was here a couple of years back; my mate is new at this work, but he can ride and shoot and throw a rope."

"Oh, it's you, Bill, is it? Yes, I can put you both on; I am not quite full yet. Forty dollars a month for you; thirty for your mate till he learns his business."

"That will suit," Bill said. "He won't be long before he gets up to the forty."

"He will find it hard work at first," the manager said; "but he doesn't look as if that would hurt him."

Bill and his companion now rejoined the group of cow-boys, while the manager went into the store. Hugh looked with interest at the men who were to be his associates for some time. Their dress was similar to that of all the cow-boys he had met while hunting. They wore hats with a very wide, straight brim, and made of a stiff felt almost as hard as a board. Most of them wore a cord of gold or silver mixed with colour round it. All wore flannel shirts, with a handkerchief—which in the majority of cases was of silk—round their throats. Round the waist they wore a Mexican sash of bright colour. Their trousers were either of thick material, or of very soft tanned leather, and over these were chaperajos or Mexican overalls, with a coloured fringe down the outside seam. A few had jackets on, and these had also tufts of coloured fringe on the seams of the arms. They were most of them spare, active men, without an ounce of superfluous flesh. They were quiet in manner, with little of the reckless jollity of the ordinary frontiersman. Hugh was particularly struck with the keen, watchful expression of their eyes, the result of long nights of watching and of days spent on horseback in search of stray animals, and of danger from Indians. All carried a revolver on the hip or hind pocket, had a long knife stuck in their sash, and wore high boots cut away behind at the bend of the knee, but coming several inches higher in front.

Following Bill's example, Hugh unsaddled his horse. "Go off, old boy!" he said, giving him a pat; and Prince walked leisurely away accompanied by his two companions, who always kept near to him.

"We cannot offer you a drink," one of the cow-boys said to Hugh. "No liquor is allowed on the ranche. It comes rather hard at first, but it is best for us all."

"I have touched nothing for the last four months but tea," Hugh said, "and don't care for spirits anyway."

"It would be a good thing if none of us did," the other said; "but one must do something when one goes down to a town." Just at this moment a bell began to ring. "There is supper," the man said.

There was a general movement into the large hut. Here long tables were laid out, and dishes piled up with meat, and great platters of potatoes, were ranged along at short intervals. Hugh was gifted with an excellent appetite, but he was astonished at the way in which the food disappeared. The meal was accompanied by a supply of very fair bread fresh from the oven, and tea with milk.

"Ewart keeps a few cows down here," the man next to Hugh said in answer to his remark about his not having seen milk for three months. "Of course we don't get it at the out-stations."

"Who is Ewart?" Hugh asked.

"Oh, he is boss; we don't have any misters out here—one man is as good as another. You have just arrived here at the right time. We have been driving in the horses from the ranche for the last three days, and to-morrow we are going to begin breaking them. Of course a good many of them were ridden last year, but there are a lot of bronchos among them. We have got a broncho-breaker out here."

A broncho, Hugh knew, was a horse that had never been ridden. "How do you do about horses?" he said.

"Well, three or four of those that have been ridden before are told off to each man. Then, if anyone fancies a broncho, he can take him and break him for himself. Then men can swop with each other. You see some men ride better than others. Some men like quiet mounts; others don't mind what they sit on; and you see the best horses are very often the most full of tricks. You ride your horses as you like, but everyone keeps his quietest for night watches. You must have a quiet horse for that, for if your horse was to begin to play tricks he would stampede the cattle, sure."

"I suppose after they have been ridden one season they are quiet enough?" Hugh said.

"Not a bit of it," the man replied. "Some of them seem to get wickeder and wickeder. They get a bit better towards the end of the season, but six months' running wild does away with all that. I would just as soon take my chance with a fresh broken broncho as with one that has been ridden before. They are wilder, you know, but not so cunning. An old horse seems to spend most of his time in thinking what game he shall be up to next, and when you see one walking along as if he had never done anything but walk along all his time, just look out, or you will find yourself six feet up in the air."

Supper over, pipes were lighted, and Hugh listened with great interest to the talk going on around him. Some of the men had been on the ranche all the winter; others had been away, some back in the settlements, others in New Mexico, where they had been either loitering away their time in the towns or working on Mexican ranches. Hugh was struck with the quiet way in which they talked, the absence of argument, and the air of attention with which each speaker was listened to. He thought he had never been among a more quiet set of men, and wondered if these could be really the cow-boys of whose wild doings he had heard such tales.

Gradually one by one they lounged off to the hut behind, and he and Bill soon went off also. It consisted of one room about sixty feet long. A stove with a huge fire burned in the middle, for the nights were cold. Down both sides and along the ends extended a double row of bunks. In the great majority of these lay blankets, showing that they were occupied. Choosing two empty ones, they placed the blankets and other articles they had taken from their saddles in them, put their belongings under their heads, rolled themselves in their blankets, and were soon sound asleep. The first thing next morning they handed over to the storekeeper the remainder of their flour, tea, and sugar. The value of these was credited to them, and they took out the amount in a couple of pairs of chaperajos, two cow-boy hats and two pairs of high boots, paying the balance in cash; they then joined the cow-boys. These were gathered in an inclosure with a very strong fence adjoining the fenced-in ground.

Several cow-boys rode off as they entered, and in a quarter of an hour a mob of horses was seen approaching, the men riding behind cracking their whips and yelling at the top of their voices. The gates were opened, and a couple of minutes later the horses rushed in. There were some forty or fifty of them, and of these about two-thirds were branded. In the first place the others were speedily roped both by the head and hind legs. Four cow-boys hung on to the ropes while another approached with a heated brand and applied it to the animals' hind quarters, the horses kicking and struggling wildly. As soon as the operation, which lasted but a second or two, was completed the ropes were loosed, and the frightened animals rejoined their companions, who were huddled in a corner of the inclosure.

"Now, each man of No. 1 and No. 2 outfit take one of the horses," the manager said.

Hugh and Bill had the night before been told that they were to form part of No. 2 outfit. Like the others they had their ropes in their hands, and had brought their saddles inside the inclosure. Hugh picked out a horse that struck him as being a good one, and threw his lasso round its neck. One of the cow-boys belonging to the other outfit, who was standing by, said: "That is a pretty bad horse, mate. I would take a quieter one if I were you."

"I have got to learn to sit them," Hugh replied; "so I may as well begin with a bad one as a good one."

"All right," the other said, taking hold of the rope, and helping Hugh haul upon it. The animal resisted violently, but the pressure of the rope half-choked him, and he was forced to leave the group and come up to them. "I will hold him," Hugh's assistant said. "Get your saddle and bridle."

There was some difficulty in putting these on, for the animal kicked, plunged, and reared furiously, and it was only when another cow-boy threw a rope, and, catching one of its hind legs, pulled it out stiffly behind, that Hugh succeeded in saddling it. "Now, up you go!" the man said. Gathering up the reins Hugh sprang into the saddle, and the two men, as soon as they saw him seated, slipped off the ropes. For a moment the horse stood perfectly still. "Keep his head up," one of the men shouted; but before Hugh could draw in the reins the horse dropped its head to its knees. Then it seemed to Hugh that it doubled itself up, and before he knew what had happened he felt himself flying through the air, and came down to the ground with a crash. There was a shout of laughter from the cow-boys, but two or three of them helped Hugh, who for a moment was almost stunned, to his feet.

"That is bucking, I suppose," he said as soon as he could get breath.

"That's bucking, sure enough," one of those who had helped him said.

"Well, I will try again in a minute," Hugh said.

"Take it quietly," the man said good-naturedly. "You fell pretty heavy, and you are shaken up a bit. You'd better hitch him on to the fence, and look about you for a few minutes before you try again."

Hugh thought the advice good, and after fastening up the horse stood watching the man they called the broncho-breaker, who was fighting one of the most vicious of the last year's horses. Had he not seen it, Hugh would not have believed it possible that a horse could go through such performances. He had ridden many vicious brutes at home, and had thought that he knew something of horses, but this was a new experience for him. In the rearing, kicking, and plunging there was nothing novel, and as the horses were much smaller than the English hunters to which he had been accustomed he felt that if this had been all he should have no difficulty in keeping his seat, but the bucking was new to him. To perform it, it was necessary that the horse should be able to get its head down. The moment this was done it sprang straight into the air, at the same moment rounding its back, and this with such a sharp, sudden jerk that it fairly threw the rider into the air.

On coming down the animal kept its legs stiff, so that the jerk to the rider was scarcely less than that of the upward spring, and before he had time to settle himself in the slightest the horse repeated the performance, varying it occasionally by springing sideways, backwards, or forwards. The breaker, or as they were generally called the broncho-buster, kept his figure perfectly upright, with a tremendous grip upon the saddle with his thighs, but depending, as Hugh could see, rather upon balance than upon his hold. The exertion was evidently great. The man's hat had been jerked off, the perspiration stood upon his bronzed forehead. From time to time he dug his spurs into the animal's flanks, and excited it to continue its desperate efforts, until at last the horse was utterly exhausted and stood with its head drooping unable to make another effort. There was a shout of applause from the cow-boys looking on.

"Bully for you, Jake! He is a brute, that is, and no mistake."

"I will give him a turn every day for a week," Jake said. "He is worth taking trouble with. I will take him for a gallop to-morrow."

"Do they buck when they are galloping?" Hugh asked the cow-boy next to him.

The latter nodded. "Not when they are going at their best pace. They haven't time to do it then, but when they are going at hand-gallop they will do it. They wait until you are off your guard, and then up they go in the air and come down perhaps three yards sideways, and it's fifty to one against your being on their back when they do come down."

"I see how it is done now, though I don't see how I can do it," Hugh said. "But I will try again."

"THE NEXT JUMP THREW HIM FAIRLY OVER THE HORSE'S HEAD."

The horse was led out, and Hugh again mounted. This time he was prepared for what was to come, but in spite of the grip with his legs the blow lifted him far above the saddle. It seemed to him that the next buck came before he had fairly descended, for it struck him with the force and suddenness of an electric shock. Again and again he was thrown up, until he felt his balance going, and the next jump threw him fairly over the horse's head, but as he was prepared for the fall it was much less heavy than the first time.

"Well done! well done!" several of the cow-boys said as he rose to his feet. "You will do, you will, and make a good rider before long. That will do for to-day; I would not try any more."

"I am going to try it until I can sit him," Hugh said. "I have got to do it, and I may as well go on now before I get stiff."

The broncho-breaker came up to him as, after waiting a minute or two to get his breath, he again prepared to mount.

"Don't keep your back so stiff, young fellow. Just let your back go as if there was no bones in it. I have known a man's spine broke before now by a bucker. Sit easy and lissom. Keep your head, that is the principal thing. It ain't easy when you are being pitched up and down like a ball, but it all turns upon that. Let your legs close on him tight each time you come down, if only for a moment, that saves you from being thrown clean away from him."

Hugh sprang on to the horse, and the struggle again began. It ended like the last, but Hugh had kept his seat somewhat longer than before. Again and again he tried, each time with more success. The fifth time he felt that the horse's action was less sudden and violent, and that it was becoming fatigued with its tremendous exertions. "Now, you brute," he muttered, "it is my turn;" and he dug his spurs into the horse. A spring more violent than any he had yet felt followed the application, and for a minute or two he was almost bewildered by the force and rapidity of the animal's springs; but he was now confident that he was gaining the mastery, and the moment he found that its efforts were decreasing, he again applied the spurs. The response was less vigorous than before, and in five minutes the animal stood exhausted and subdued. A cheer broke from the cow-boys who were standing round looking on at the struggle.

"Well done, young fellow! you are the toughest tender-foot I have ever seen," one of them said, shaking him by the hand. "I don't believe there are ten men in the camp who would have sat that horse as you have, and you say that it is the very first time you have been on a bucker."

"I have beaten him," Hugh said, "but he has pretty well beaten me. You must help me off my saddle, for I feel as if my back was broken, and that I could not lift my leg over the saddle if my life depended on it."

Two cow-boys lifted him from his seat. "That is a hard tussle, mate," the broncho-breaker said, coming up to him, "and you have stuck to it well. You are clear grit, you are. The best thing you can do is to walk about for the next hour; just keep yourself moving, then go and wrap yourself up in two or three blankets and lie down in your bunk for a bit, have a thorough good sweat, and then strip and rub yourself down. Get your mate to rub your back well, and then dress and move about. The great thing is not to get stiff; but you will feel it for a day or two."

Hugh followed the advice, but he found it hard work to do so. He was bruised all over with his falls; he scarce seemed able to put one leg before another, and at every movement a sharp pain shot through the loins, and he felt as if his spine had been dislocated. Still, for an hour he walked about, and at the end of that time felt that his movements were more easy; then he went to the hut, wrapped himself in Bill's blankets and his own, and presently dozed off to sleep. A couple of hours later he woke and saw Bill standing beside him.

"Now, Hugh, you had better turn out and let me give you a rub. Just take off that shirt. I have got a lump of hog's grease here."

Hugh got out of the bunk with some difficulty and took off his shirt. "Now, you lean your hands on that bunk and arch your back; that's it. Now here goes."

For a good half-hour Bill worked at his back, kneading it with his knuckles down both sides of the spine and across the loins. "Now, you will do," he said at last. "Put on a dry shirt and come out."

Hugh strolled down to the stock-yard. He felt wonderfully better after the rubbing, and was able to walk with far greater ease than before. The scene in the yard was unchanged. Fresh groups of horses had been driven in as fast as the others had been saddled and mounted, and by nightfall each of the cow-boys had been provided with three horses. Hugh was greatly amused at the scene, for the spills were numerous, and the shouting and laughter incessant. The next day the work of breaking in the bronchos commenced. One after another they were roped and dragged out of the drove. The bridle was slipped on, and they were then blindfolded while the saddle was put on and fastened. Then Jake mounted. The cloth was drawn off the animal's head, and the struggle commenced. The horses tried every means to unseat their rider, but in vain. Some submitted after comparatively short struggles. Others fought long and desperately. As soon as the first victory was won bars were let down, and the horse was taken for a long gallop across the country, returning home subdued and trembling. Then the process was repeated with a fresh animal.

"How long does he take to break them?" Hugh asked a cow-boy.

"Three days generally; sometimes he will ride them four or five times, but three is generally enough. Then they are handed over to us to finish."

"It must take a lot out of them," Hugh said. "It would be better to do it more gradually. You see they are scared nearly to death before they are begun with."

"He cannot afford the time," the man said. "He gets two dollars a horse for breaking them. He will be here for a fortnight, and in that time he will do pretty well a hundred. Then he will go off somewhere else."

"It must be tremendous work for him," Hugh said.

"It is that, you bet. A broncho-buster seldom lasts above two years. They get shaken all to pieces and clean broke up by the end of that time."

As fast as the horses were broken in they were handed over to the cow-boys, and Hugh, who had been unable to do any work for two days, then began to break in the lot that were to be his particular property. But he was fond of horses, and could not bring himself to use such violent measures as those which he saw adopted by his companions. The first lesson they taught them was to stand still the moment a rope fell over their necks. The animal was led up to the stump of a tree and then loosed; it at once went off at full speed, but as it did so its owner threw the noose of his rope over its head, and then gave the other end a turn round the stump. The shock was tremendous, the horses being frequently jerked right over on to their backs.

Two or three experiences of this sort was sufficient, and the animal thenceforth learned to stand, not only when a rope was thrown round its neck, but even when the reins were dropped upon it, so that when its master dismounted it remained perfectly quiet until he again mounted and took the reins in his hand, even if he was absent a considerable time. As the teams were to start in a few days on the round-up, Hugh felt that it would be useless for him to attempt to break the horses in by English methods, and he was therefore obliged to adopt those in use by his companions. He mollified them, however, to some extent by getting another rope and tying it to his own. He then took only half a turn round the stump, and let the rope run out, at first fast, but checking it gradually until its pressure upon the neck brought the animal half suffocated to a stop.

It took him longer to accomplish his object, but he found that by the end of a week the seven horses had all learned their lessons; each having been ridden for an hour every day. He had had several severe battles with the animal he had first mounted, which was by far the most vicious of them; but the struggle each day had become less severe, as the horse recognized the futility of endeavouring to unseat its master. Hugh had many falls during the schooling, but he was upon the whole well satisfied with the result.

Several of the cow-boys had advised him to use the methods they adopted for securing them in their seats upon specially vicious horses. One of these methods was the fastening of a loop of leather to the high pommel. Holding this in the hand, it was well-nigh impossible to be bucked from the saddle, but there was the disadvantage that if the strap broke, nothing could save a rider from a fall far more violent and heavy than that which came from being pitched from the saddle in the ordinary way. Another method was to fasten a strap passed under the horse's belly tightly below each knee; but this, although it held the riders in their saddles, had the serious disadvantage, that in the event of the horse rearing and falling back, or of its falling headlong from putting its foot in a hole, the rider could not free himself, and was almost certain to be crushed under the horse. Others, again, fastened themselves by bringing their feet together, and crossing their spurs, under the horse's belly, a safer measure than the last, but objectionable inasmuch as the spurs when the animal bucked struck him in the belly, and so increased the violence of his action.

Of course the best riders refrained from using any of these methods, trusting only to their leg grip and to balance; and Hugh determined to ride in this way, even if it did cost him a few more falls. He was on excellent terms with the rest of the cow-boys. The tender-foot, as a new-comer is called, is always the subject of endless pranks and annoyances if he evinces the least timidity or nervousness; but if, on the other hand, he shows that he has pluck, determination to succeed, and good temper, he is treated with kindness and cordiality. Hugh's exhibition, therefore, of courage and horsemanship on the occasion of his first attempt at once won their liking and admiration, and all were ready to lend him a hand when necessary, and to give him hints and advice, and he was free from any of the annoyances to which new hands are often exposed. There were several other tender-feet among the party. Two or three of these got on fairly and soon ceased to be butts; but the rest, before a week was up, found the work altogether too trying, and one after another went off in search of some less dangerous occupation.

CHAPTER VIII.

A RATTLESNAKE DIET.

EVERYTHING was now ready, and one morning four waggons started. The was one of the most northern of the ranches, and the four outfits would therefore travel south, searching the whole width of country as they went along. Those from the other ranches would come up from the south, or in from the east, all moving towards a general meeting-place. The range of country which served as common pasturage to some eight or ten ranches was about two hundred miles from north to south, and nearly as much from east to west. The eastern portion of this great tract consisted of plain, sometimes flat and level, but more often undulating. The western portion was broken up into valleys and gorges by the spurs of the great ranges included under the name of the Rocky Mountains.

The cattle of each ranche were as far as possible kept in that portion of the territory nearest their own stations, but during the winter they scattered to great distances in search of better grazing ground or shelter. In the more northern ranges, when snow-storms with violent wind swept down from the north-west, the cattle would drift before it, always keeping their heads from the wind, and feeding as they travelled. Sometimes great herds would thus travel hundreds of miles, until brought up by some obstacle. At this time such things as fences were absolutely unknown on the plains, and when, years after, they came to a certain extent into use, they were, in the regions exposed to snow-storms, causes of terrible disaster; for when a herd drifting before a snow-storm came to one of them, it would be checked, and many thousands of cattle would, when the snow cleared, be found frozen or starved to death in a mass.

Two of the outfits of the ranche were to proceed due west, and then to search the ranges among the hills, while the other two were to work the plains. Nos. 1 and 2 were chosen for the former work, and were to keep within twenty or thirty miles of each other, so as to be able to draw together for support should the Indians prove troublesome. It was not until the afternoon that the cow-boys mounted, and the men of each outfit, collecting their own horses into a bunch, started for the spot where their waggon was to halt for the night. It had brought up near a stream, and the cook had already lighted his fires and put on his cooking pots when they arrived.

Each outfit consisted of ten cow-boys and a man who acted as waggon-driver and cook. The duties of the cook of an outfit were by no means a sinecure, as he had to prepare two meals a day, breakfast and supper, at all times, and dinner for the men whose work allowed them to ride in to it. He had to bake bread, to wash up pots, pans, and dishes, and to cut wood for the fire. In the latter task he was always assisted by the first arrivals at the camping place. The bread was baked in iron pans. The dough was made of flour and water with a mixture of saleratus, which took the place of yeast, and caused the dough to rise. The pans were placed in the wood embers, a quantity of which were piled upon the flat iron lid, so that the bread was baked equally on all sides. Meat was cut into steaks and fried, those of the men who preferred it cutting off chunks of the meat and grilling or roasting them on sticks over the fire.

Once or twice a week there was duff or plum-pudding. The cook was up long before daybreak preparing breakfast, and the men started as soon as it was light. Directly the meal was over, plates, pots, and pans were washed and packed in the waggon, the horses or mules harnessed, and he started for the spot named as the evening camping ground, where he had his fires lighted and the meal well on its way by the time the cow-boys arrived. A good deal more meat than was required was cooked at breakfast, and each man before he started on his day's work, cut off a chunk of bread and meat for his mid-day meal.

Hugh had ridden Prince, who had been having a very easy time of it for the last three weeks. The horse had for the first few days kept somewhat apart, and had resented any advances on the part of the strangers. He had now, however, fallen into their ways, and as soon as the saddle was taken off he, like those ridden by the other cow-boys, went off at a trot to join the bunch of horses a short distance out on the plain.

"Well, Hugh, how do you think you shall like cattle work?" one of the men, known as Long Tom, asked him, as they sat round the fire after supper was over.

"So far I like it immensely," Hugh replied; "but, of course, I have only seen the smooth side of it. I have not been on night cattle-guard yet."

"Yes, that is the worse part of the work," the man said, "especially when you are short-handed, for then there is only one relief. Of course on a fine night, if the cattle are quiet, there is no hardship about it; but on a dark night, when you cannot see your horse's ears, and the wind is blowing and the rain coming down, and the cattle are restless, it is no joke. I have been a sailor in my time, and I tell you that keeping watch on a wild night at sea isn't a circumstance to it. You know that if the cattle break, you have got to ride and head them off somehow; and I tell you, when you cannot see your horse's ears, and are going at a wild gallop, and know that if he puts his foot in a hole there is no saying how far you may be chucked, and you have got the herd thundering along beside you, you begin to feel that a cow-boy's life is not all meat and molasses. There is one comfort, when you do have to ride like that, you have no time to funk. Your blood just boils up with excitement, and the one thing that you think of is to head the herd."

"Shall we place a horse-guard to-night?"

"Yes, there is always a horse-guard when we are away from the station. The horses are more inclined to wander at first than they are afterwards, and ours are a pretty wild lot at present; but I don't think we shall have trouble with them, for we have brought that white jackass along, and the horses are sure to keep round him. There is nothing like a jack for keeping horses quiet. They seem to know that he has more sense than they have. As long as he takes things quietly there is not much fear of their moving."

"Do you think a donkey has more sense than a horse?" Hugh asked in surprise.

"Ever so much," the man replied; "and so have mules, haven't they, mates?"

There was a general chorus of assent. "I had no idea of that," Hugh said. "I should have thought that horses would look down upon a donkey."

"That is where you are wrong," a cow-boy called Broncho Harry said. "Trust to a jack to find out the best forage and the nearest water. He would manage to pick up a living where a horse would starve. He doesn't get scared and lose his head about nothing as a horse does. If there is a noise, he just cocks one ear forward and makes up his mind what it is about, and then goes on eating, while a horse fidgets and sweats, and is ready to bolt from his own shadow; besides, the horses know that the jack is their master."

"Why, you don't mean to say that a donkey can kick harder than a horse?"

"I don't say he can kick harder, though a mule can, and twice as quick; but a jack does not fight that way, he fights with his teeth. I have seen several fights between stallions and jacks, and the jack has always got the best of it. I remember down at the Red Springs there was a big black stallion with a bunch of mares came down the valley where we camped, and he went at the horses and stampeded them all down the valley. Well, we had a jack with us; he did not seem to pay much attention to what was going on until the stallion came rushing at him, thinking no doubt that he was going to knock his brains straight out with a blow of his fore-foot, but the jack went at him with open mouth, dodged a blow of his hoofs, and made a spring and caught him by the neck. He held on like a bull-dog. The stallion reared and plunged, and lifted the jack off his feet time after time, but each time he came down with his legs stiff and well apart.

"The stallion struck at him with his fore-legs, and cut the skin off his shoulders. Once or twice they fell, but the jack never let go his hold, and he would have killed the stallion, sure, if it had not torn itself away, leaving a big bit of skin and flesh in the jack's mouth. The stallion went up the valley again like a flash, and the jack turned off and went on grazing as if nothing had happened. Jacks don't have a chance in towns; but give them a free hand out on the plains, and I tell you they are just choke-full of sense. But it is getting dark, and I am first on guard, so I must be off."

The other three men who had been told off for guard had each brought in a horse and fastened the ends of their ropes to picket pins driven into the ground, so that they could graze a little and yet be near at hand when the time came to relieve the guard.

"How do you know when to wake?"

"It is habit," Broncho Harry said. "One gets to wake up just at the right time, and if you ain't there within a quarter of an hour of the time you ought to be, you are likely to hear of it. One of the guards will ride in, and talk pretty straight to you, or like enough he will drop his rope round your foot or arm, and give you a jerk that will send you ten yards. When you have been woke up once or twice like that, there ain't much fear of your over-sleeping yourself. Ah! there is black Sam's accordion."

Black Sam was the cook, a merry good-tempered negro, and the outfit which secured Sam with the waggon considered itself in luck. Cow-boys are very fond of music, and Sam's accordion helped to while away the evening. For the next two hours there was singing and choruses, and then the men rolled themselves in their blankets with their feet to the fire, and the camp was soon asleep.

The next morning at daybreak the cow-boys started in pairs; two of them accompanied the waggon in charge of the spare horses, the rest went in various directions to hunt up cattle.

Before nightfall they had collected fifty or sixty cattle, mostly in bunches of threes and fours. At least a third of the number were calves by their mother's side. Some of them were only captured after a long chase, as they ran with a swiftness far beyond anything of which Hugh could have supposed cattle to be capable.

The cows and steers were for the most part branded, but a few were found without marks. These were, Hugh learned, called mavericks. They were animals that had escaped search at the previous round-up, and it was consequently impossible to tell to what herd they belonged. When the day's work was done these were roped, thrown down, and branded with the , and became the property of the ranche whose cow-boys discovered them.

"There is many a man has become rich by branding mavericks," one of the cow-boys said. "It was a regular business at one time. Of course no one could tell whose cattle they were, and when a man had put his brand on them he became the owner; but it was carried on so that the ranche owners all came to an agreement, and any man caught branding cattle with his own brand, except at the regular round-up, got shot. Of course the calves belonged to one or other of the ranches round, and as each ranche sends out a number of outfits to the round-up in proportion to the numbers of its cattle, the present rule is fair enough."

When night fell the cattle were bunched down by the stream by which the party had camped. Six of them were told off on night guard, while three others, of whom Hugh was one, were to look after the horses. Hugh was to take the first watch, and as soon as he had eaten his supper he received his instructions from John Colley, the overseer of the outfit.

"You will have little enough to do," he said. "You have merely got to keep near them, and you needn't even keep on your horse unless you like. As long as they graze quietly leave them alone. If you see two or three wandering away from the rest ride quickly and head them in."

Hugh mounted one of the quietest of his horses and rode out to the bunch a few hundred yards from camp. At his whistle Prince at once trotted out from the rest and came up to him and took from his hand the piece of bread Hugh had put in his pocket for him.

"Go back to the others, Prince," he said with a wave of his hand; "your business is to eat at present."

The horses were all quiet, and Hugh, when darkness had fairly fallen, was struck with the quiet of the plain. Above, the stars shone through the clear, dry air. Near him were the dark bunch of horses, and he was surprised at the loudness of the sound of their cropping the grass, broken only by that of an occasional stamp of a hoof. He could easily hear the accordion and the singing away back at the camp. When this ceased there came occasionally the crack of a breaking twig as the herd of cattle forced their way through the bushes by the stream on his left, and the songs of the cow-boys on watch as they rode in circles around them. The time did not seem long, and he was quite surprised when Bill Royce cantered up and told him his watch was over.

The next day's work was similar to the first, except that, soon after starting, on ascending a slope they saw a small herd of deer some eighty yards away. Before Hugh had time to think, Broncho Harry, who was his companion, had drawn his revolver, and, as the deer bounded off, fired. One of them leaped high in the air, ran fifty yards, and then dropped, while the others made off at the top of their speed.

"That was a good shot," Hugh said. "I should hardly have thought of firing at an object so far distant."

"Oh, these Colts carry a long way," the cow-boy said carelessly. "They will carry four hundred yards, though you can't depend upon their shooting much over a hundred. I have seen a man killed, though, at over three hundred; but I look upon that as a chance shot. Up to a hundred a man ain't much of a shot who cannot bring down a deer four times out of five. I don't mean hitting. Of course you ought to hit him every time, but hit him so as to stop him. I don't mean to say as the shot would be sure if you were galloping over rough ground, but in a steady saddle you ought not to miss."

On riding up to the deer Broncho Harry dismounted, lifted it on the horse, and lashed it to the back of the saddle. "I am not particularly partial to deer-meat," he said, "but it makes a change to beef."

"I own I prefer beef," Hugh said, "especially after living on venison, as I have been doing, for the last three months."

"I consider bear-meat to be about as good as anything you get in these parts," the cow-boy said. "I don't say as it isn't tough, but it has got flavour. I don't want to put my teeth into anything better than a good bear ham. If we have any luck we shall get some up among the hills. Most things are eatable. I lived on rattlers once for a month at a time. I tell you a rattler ain't bad eating."

"Are there many of them out on the plains?"

"A good many," the cow-boy said; "but you get them most among the foot-hills. They like to lie on the rocks in the sun, and I have seen them by dozens on a sunny ledge."

"Do many people get killed by them?"

"Bless you, no. The natives are afraid of them, 'cause, you see, they often go barefoot; but they cannot bite through our thick boots. The only danger is when you lie down, or something of that sort. They are fond of warmth, and if you camp near where they are thick they will crawl down to the fire, and sometimes get into your blanket."

"I suppose their bite is fatal if they do bite."

"Not once in fifty times if you take them right. I have known Mexicans killed by them, but, then, a Mexican gives himself away directly and makes no fight for it. Now if we are bitten we just whip out a knife and cut the part out straight, clap a poultice of fresh dung on it, and tie a string round tight above it. Of course, if you have got spirits handy, you pour some in directly you cut it out, and drink as much as you can; but then, you see, we don't often have spirits out here. I was bit once. There." And he pointed to a scar on his right hand, between the little finger and the wrist. "A rattler bit me just on the fleshy part there. I blew his head off with my revolver, and then whipped out my knife and cut the bit out. There wasn't any dung handy, and I had no spirits, so I broke up a revolver cartridge and poured the powder in, and clapped a match to it. It hurt a bit, of course, because it was bleeding and the powder didn't all flash off at once; but I was all right afterwards. My arm felt numbed for an hour or two, and there was an end of it. Cattle and horses get bit sometimes on the head when they are grazing, and it swells up to pretty well twice its proper size, but they generally get over it in a day or two. No, there is no great danger about rattlers, but if you are in the neighbourhood where they are thick it is just as well to look round before you sit down."

"But how was it you came to live on rattle-snakes for a month?"

"Well, I was up north a bit. I had been looking after a bunch of cattle that had gone up a cañon when I saw a party of Indians coming my way. Lucky I saw them before they saw me, and you guess I was off the horse pretty sharp. I turned his head up the cañon, and sent him galloping on, and then I sheltered among the rocks. The Indians came up, no doubt, to look for cattle. I heard them pass by and then come galloping down again, and I knew they had happened upon my horse. They hunted about that place for two days, but the soft rocks had fallen, and they were piled thick along the foot of the cliffs on both sides, and you may guess I had worked myself down pretty deep in among them.

"I was in too much of a hurry to think of the rattlers as I got in, but I had noticed as I went up what a lot of them there were lying on the rocks, and I thought a good deal about them as I was lying there. Of course I had my knife and pistol with me, but the pistol was no good, for a shot would have cost me my scalp, sure, and a knife ain't the sort of weapon you would choose to use in a tussle with a rattler. When night came I could have shifted, but I guessed I had got as good a place as another, and I might have put my foot into a nest of rattlers in the dark, so I lay there all night and all next day. I slept a bit at night, but all day I kept awake and listened. I could hear the Injuns going about and shoving their lances all about down the holes among the rocks.

"Luckily, the place I had got into was just at the foot of the cliffs, and you could not see that there was a hole unless you climbed up there. Well, when night came again I guessed they would give up searching, and take to watching. I got out and went a good bit higher up the gorge. I was pretty nigh mad with thirst, and there weren't no water, as I knew of, within well-nigh a hundred miles. I felt sure the Injuns wouldn't come up the valley again, but would keep watch at the mouth, for the hills went up both sides and there was no getting out anywhere 'cept there. Soon as it got light I cut a stoutish stick, tore off a strip of my sash, and tied my bowie to the end. Then I hid up agin there, but so that I could see out a bit. About ten o'clock, as there wur no signs of the Injuns, and the sun wur blazing down fit to frizzle up one's brain, I guessed rattlers would be out. I had got so bad with thirst by that time that I b'lieve, even if I had seen the Injuns, I should have gone out. I had not long to search. I had not gone five yards when I saw a rattler lying on a rock.

"There are two sorts of rattlers; there is the plain rattler and the rock rattler. The rock ain't so big as the other, but he bites just as bad. He saw me coming, but he did not trouble to move. He just sounded his rattles, and lifted up his head as much as to say you had best leave me alone. When I got near him he lifted his head a bit higher, and swish went my stick, and his head flew off him. I picked up the body and went back among the bushes, skinned it, cut it up into chunks, and ate it just as it was. That was the first of them, and I had three or four more before the day was over. That night and next day I remained quiet, except to fill up my larder, and the next night crawled down to the mouth of the valley; and just where it narrowed I could hear Injuns talking. They hadn't lighted a fire; they knew better than that. It would have been just throwing away their lives. So back I went again, for I could not tell how many of the skunks were there. I guessed, perhaps, they would come up the valley again the next day, so I hid again in my old place; and it was lucky I did, for in the afternoon I heard their horses' feet and knew there must have been a dozen of them.

"That night I went down again. I could hear no voices, and I crawled out and out until I was well on the plain, but they was gone. That wur just what I had expected. They had got my water-skin with my horse, and knew well enough that no one could have stood that four days' heat in that valley without dying or going off his head, and as they could see nothing of me they must have thought that I had got into some hole and stuck there till I died. Their own water, too, must have been running short, and they couldn't stay any longer; so off they had gone. I wasn't much better off than I was before. They had driven the cattle away, and as to starting to walk a hundred miles without water the thing wur not to be thought of. I had found there was juice enough in the rattlers to do me; besides, there wur plants growing about that would help me a bit if I chewed the leaves, so I made up my mind that there was nothing else to do but to stop.

"Some of my mates would be sure to get up a hunt for me when they found that I didn't come back. I didn't care so much now that I could light a fire, for I was getting pretty sick of raw rattler. I lit one next morning right up at the head of the valley, choosing a place among the rocks where I could pitch a stone over it and hide the ashes if the Injuns should take it into their heads to pay me another visit. Every morning I cooked enough rattlers for the day, and then took them down and sat among some bushes high up at the mouth of the valley, so that I could see if anyone was coming two or three miles away, for I hoped that a deer, or a bear, or perhaps a head or two of cattle might come up, but nary one did I see, though I stayed there a month.

"At the end of that time I saw four mounted figures far out on the plain, and pretty soon made out as they was cow-boys. They was riding towards the hills, and you bet I tracked out to meet them pretty slick. They was four men of my own outfit. They had halted for three or four days after I wur lost, and scoured the plains pretty considerable for me. Then they wur obliged to go with the rest to drive the cattle into the station, and as soon as they got there they started out again, making up their minds that they wouldn't go back till they found my body. They reckoned for sure that I had been scalped, and never expected to do more for me than to bury me. They had been four days riding along at the bottom of the foot-hills searching every valley. They had a spare horse or two with them with water and grub. Yes, that is how I came to live on rattlers for a month, and though I don't say anything against them as food, and allow as they make a change to cow's flesh, I have never been able to touch them since."

"That was a close shave," Hugh said. "I suppose people do get lost and die on the plains sometimes."

"Lots of them; but not old hands, you know. A cow-boy gets to know which way he is going without looking at a mark. At night he has got the stars to guide him. But tender-feet often get lost; and when they once lose their bearings there ain't much chance for them unless someone happens to come along. They most all go out of their mind the same day. They run a bit and then drop down, and then run another way and drop again. I tell you there ain't a more awful sight than a man who has been lost for a day or two, and you have got to look out sharp if you come upon one of them, for he is as like as not to shoot you, being altogether off his head, and taking you for an enemy.

"I once came across a chap who was off his head, but who hadn't got weak. He drew his six-shooter when he saw me. It was a long way from a station, and I had no time to fool about, and I didn't want to get shot. He fired once, and the ball went pretty close, so I knew I might chuck away my life by going near enough to rope him. So I fetched out my pistol and took a shot at his ankle, and, of course, down he went. As I expected, he let drop his pistol as he tumbled, and before he could get it again I had ridden up and roped him. Then, of course, it wur easy enough. I tied him tight first, poured a few drops of water into his mouth, fastened him across the horse behind the saddle, and rode with him into the camp. He wur laid up for nigh six weeks with his ankle, but it saved his life.

"Hello!" he broke off, reining back his horse suddenly; "there is a good bunch of cattle right up that dip ahead of us. We are on the wrong side of them now, and if they was to catch sight of us we should have a long ride before we came up to them. We must work round and come down on them from the other side and head them this way, then we shall be travelling in the right direction."

Hugh's eye, less accustomed to search the plains, had not caught the cattle. "How far are they off?" he said.

"About a mile. You go round to the right and I'll go round to the left. When you get to where you think you are behind them stop until you see me; or, look here, you are new at this sort of thing, so we may as well ride together until we get to your station, else we might miss each other and lose a lot of time."

So saying he rode off at full speed, Hugh, who was on Prince, following him. As they went Hugh congratulated himself that he had not started by himself, for riding up and down the undulations, and making a half-circle as they were doing, he very soon lost all idea of direction. After ten minutes' riding the cow-boy reined in his horse.

"Now," he said, "they are in the next dip, just about over the line of that bush. I will go a bit further round and come down on the other side of them. You move on to that bush and wait until you see me coming, and then ride forward. Keep on their flank. That dip lies just about in the line of the camp, so keep them going that way."

Hugh rode until he approached the bush Harry had pointed out, and then sat quiet until he saw the cow-boy approaching from the opposite direction. The latter threw up his arm and Hugh moved forward. A few strides of the horse took him to the brow, and there, below him, some forty or fifty cattle were grazing. Broncho Harry was already dashing down the opposite slope. For a moment the cattle stood with heads up and snorts of alarm, and then, as the cow-boy uttered a wild yell, dashed off down the hollow. A little behind them, one on each side, rode the two cow-boys, and for three miles there was no change in their relative position. Then the speed of the cattle began to abate, but they kept on at a run for another two miles, and then settled gradually into a walk. An hour later the camp was reached.

"There is no occasion to watch them," Broncho Harry said as they arrived within a quarter of a mile of the waggon. "They will go on to the stream and have a drink, and then lie down in the shade of the bushes, or else mix up with the other cattle down somewhere there. They have done enough running for to-day."

"Back early, Harry?" the cow-boy who had remained behind to look after the horses said.

"Yes, we have been in luck—got a goodish bunch. Hello, Sam!"

"Hello, Broncho Harry!" the negro replied, putting his head out of the waggon.

"Got any hot water, because we want tea?"

"Not got now, but make him quick. Plenty of fire in the ashes. Not expect anyone back to dinner, only just twelve o'clock."

"Well, here we are, Sam, anyhow. Hand me out a frying-pan; a hot dinner is better than a cold lunch any day. I have brought you in a stag, Sam."

"Dat's good, Broncho, deer's meat better than cow meat."

"Not a bit of it, Sam. It does for a change; but you cannot go on eating it every day as you can beef, unless you have got to, and then one can eat anything."

"Are we going out again after dinner, Harry?" Hugh asked, as they watched the beef frying over the embers of the great fire.

"No, sirree, we have done our day's work. We have brought in our bunch, and a good bunch it is. It is just luck that we came on them early, and are back early. If it had been the other way we might not have got back until after dark; maybe we mightn't have got back until to-morrow. After we have done our meal we will go and see if the cattle have settled down quiet, and if they have joined the rest. If they have, we will have a bathe in the stream and then wash our shirts. It will be a good opportunity. One don't get many chances of washing on a round-up."

The cattle were found to have joined those brought in the day before, and the cow-boys' programme was carried out.

"You ought to practise with that six-shooter of yours, Hugh; a cow-boy ain't thought much of if he can't shoot straight. Look at that tin on the low bough there. That has been there ever since we were here a year ago. I mind that someone stuck it up for a tender-foot to shoot at; now, you see me knock it off. Jehoshaphat!" he exclaimed, when, as he put his hand on the butt of his pistol, a sharp crack sounded beside him, and the tin fell to the ground. A laugh from Hugh accompanied the shot.

"How in thunder did you do that?"

"The usual way, I suppose," Hugh said. "I drew my pistol, and pulled the trigger."

The cow-boy looked him over from head to foot. "I tell you what, Hugh, you are a fraud. You come here as a tender-foot, and you can sit on a bucking broncho, you've a good notion of throwing a rope, and you can shoot like lightning. Where did you get it all?"

"I have simply practised," Hugh said, smiling at the other's gravity of manner. "I made up my mind to take to ranching some months ago, and I practised with the pistol and rope before I started, and, as I told you, I have been three months hunting."

"It don't seem nateral," the cow-boy said doubtfully. "I don't say the shot was out of the way, for it wur an easy mark enough at twenty yards, but it wur the spryness of the shooting that fetched me."

"That is what I have been specially practising, Broncho. I was told that the great thing was to be able to draw quick."

"Well, let us see a little more of your shooting." He walked to the tree and picked up the tin. Hugh put in a fresh cartridge in place of that he had just fired. "Now I will throw this up, and you fire at it in the air." Bill Royce had told Hugh that this was a favourite mark of the cow-boys, and not having any tins out on the plains he had thrown up sods or the head of a stag for Hugh to fire at. Harry took his place about five yards from Hugh. "Now," he said. Hugh waited until the tin reached the highest point and then fired. It flew upward again; the other five shots were fired in quick succession, and then the tin fell to the ground. It was a feat frequently accomplished among the cow-boys, and Broncho Harry was himself perfectly capable of accomplishing it, but he was not the less surprised at seeing it performed by a new-comer to the plains.

"Well, you can shoot. Now let us see you draw; your pistol's empty, so there ain't no fear of an accident. Just put it in your belt again. Now stand facing me. We will draw together. Keep your hand down by your side till I say, now; then draw, cock, and pull your trigger. Stop! I will take my cartridges out, there ain't no use in taking risks, and in a hurry my trigger might go off too. Now, I am ready—now!"

Broncho Harry rather prided himself on the quickness with which he could draw, but his pistol was not out of his belt when the hammer of Hugh's fell, the lad having fired from his hip.

"Waal, I swar!" he exclaimed. "Why, how in thunder did you do it? I wur looking at your hand, and a'most before I saw it move there was the thing pinting at me. Why, I am reckoned pretty slick, and I ain't a spot upon you. Do it again, lad." Hugh repeated the action. "Waal, that beats me; I can't see how you do it. Your hand goes up to your hip, thar's a twinkle, and thar's the pistol cocked and the hammer falling at once; it's like conjuring! Just do it slow." Hugh showed that as his hand fell on the pistol his thumb rested on the hammer and his forefinger on the trigger, while the others closed on the butt, drew the pistol from the belt, and threw the barrel forward.

"It is just practice," he said. "I have been at it for the last six months."

"Waal, young fellow," Broncho Harry said solemnly, "I have been out on the plains for ten years, and I have seen pretty considerable shooting, but I never saw anything that was a circumstance to that. You are all right. You can get into a muss with the worst bad man in Texas just as soon as you like, and you have got him, sure. I wouldn't have b'lieved it if I hadn't seen it; it is a kind of lightning trick. It air useful to be able to back an unbroken broncho, it air useful to throw a rope sartin and sure at full gallop over rough ground, but it air fifty times more useful to be able to draw a pistol like a flash as you do. Waal, let us go back to camp. You don't mind my telling the boys. It would be hardly fair as any of them should get into a muss with you, thinking as they had got a soft thing; and it will keep you out of trouble, for you may be sure as no one is like to be getting up a muss with you when they know it would be sartin death."

"Do as you like, Broncho; but it seems to me that there is no fear of quarrelling, everyone seems to be wonderfully good-tempered, and not to mind a bit what jokes are played upon him."

"That is so, Hugh; people are apt to keep their temper when they know that if they don't someone gets killed; but it won't be always like this. You see we have all been going through the winter, and some of us have been having pretty hard times, and anyhow we are all pleased to be at work again and out on the plains. But you will see that this kind of thing won't last long. When the work gets heavy and men don't get four hours a night in their blankets, and the herds take to stampeding, and one thing and another, men's tempers won't be as they is now; some of them grow sulky, and won't open their lips all day; and others get that crusty that they are ready to jump down the throat of the first man that speaks to them. Then trouble begins, you bet. Besides, when we get further south, we may come upon Mexican villages, and where there is Mexicans there is spirits, and where there is spirits there is trouble. I tell you, lad, you don't begin to know about a cow-puncher's life yet."

That evening, after the rest of the outfit had returned and supper was over, Broncho Harry said, "I have had about the biggest surprise to-day, boys, that I have ever had. I looked upon Hugh here as a tender-foot; a good un, but still new to it, and I found out that when it comes to a six-shooter, there ain't a man in the camp, nor in the ranche, and I doubt whether there is in all Texas, as can shoot as he does."

No one expressed a doubt as to the cow-boy's assertion, for on the plains to doubt a man's word is a grave insult; but there was a murmur of surprise.

"I don't say as he is the straightest shot," Harry went on; "he is a good shot, although maybe there are plenty who can beat him; but when it comes to quickness of drawing, I never see a man who was a spot to him."

"That's so," Bill Royce put in. "Hugh can shoot straight, wonderful straight; but I have seen men shoot better, and he ain't quite sartin in his shooting when he is going at a gallop, although he'll learn that; but as for quickness—well, I don't know how he does it; his pistol is out before I have time to get a grip of mine."

"Let us see you, Hugh," two or three of the cow-boys said simultaneously.

"I have no objection," Hugh said, standing up; "what shall I fire at?"

"Oh, fire at anything. It ain't the aim, it's the quickness Broncho and Bill are talking about."

"Here's a mark I have often seen him fire at when we were out on the plains together." And taking a stick of about the thickness of his wrist from the fire, Bill Royce walked ten or twelve paces away; then he held out the stick, which was blazing at the end.

All eyes were fixed on Hugh, who drew and fired from his hip, and the burning end of the brand flew in fragments. There was an exclamation of astonishment from all present.

"Waal, I never!" Long Tom said. "In course the shot wur nothing from the shoulder, but there ain't many as could do it from the hip; but that ain't so much, it wur the quickness! How on arth did you do it? I had my eyes on your hand, and I don't know how it wur done no more nor a baby. Waal, Hugh, I have never felt like quarrelling with you, and you may take your davie I shall never feel like it now. Waal, I am jiggered!"

The rest all assented with much variety of strange oaths, and then the cow-boys' favourite topic having been broached, there was a good deal of talk about shooting, and several exhibitions of skill that surprised Hugh. Long Tom picked a tiny gourd, about the diameter of a penny, from a trailing vine common on the plains, and after giving a stir to the fire to make it blaze up, went ten paces away and held it up between his finger and thumb, and Broncho Harry shattered it with a bullet; then Broncho went the same distance out, turned himself sideways, and Long Tom smashed the bowl of his pipe.

"Would you like to have a try, Hugh?" he asked.

"No, thank you, Broncho! I daresay I might hit the pipe if it were fixed at that distance, but I would not try when it was within three inches of your nose for anything."

"It will come in time, Hugh; it is just nerve; but I wouldn't mind holding it out to you now. I should not be a bit afeard."

Then they sat down to the fire again, and Hugh heard many anecdotes of marvellous shooting. Hitherto he had borne no nickname, being the only one in camp addressed by his simple name; but he found next morning that he had been re-christened, and henceforward he was always addressed as Lightning.

CHAPTER IX.

A ROUND-UP.

DAY by day the herds swelled, and at the end of two months they began to move in the direction of the general rendezvous. Hugh had soon taken his share in the night-guarding of the cattle, and found it fascinating work. He and Broncho Harry generally worked together. The first watch was preferred, because this allowed a fair night's rest to be taken afterwards; but at the same time the work was far harder and more arduous than in the later watches. The cattle were still on their feet when the watch began, and on reaching them the two guards began to ride round and round them, going in opposite directions. For a time the cattle would go on feeding, then gradually they would lie down, until perhaps all but five or six were on the ground. At this time, however, the slightest noise would bring them on to their feet again, and then groups would try to leave the mass to begin to feed again, and the cow-boys had to drive them in.

Upon a dark night they depended more upon their horses' sight than their own, for these would of their own accord leave the close-packed circle and strike out to turn back any animals that had wandered from it. At last, after an hour or two, the herd would all subside, and the cow-boys would flatter themselves that their work was done. Then one of the cattle lying outside would leap to his feet with a snort, alarmed, perhaps, by the sudden scamper of an inquisitive jack-rabbit, which, having come up to examine what was going on, had fled at the approach of one of the cow-boys. With a loud snort the whole herd would then spring to their feet. Perhaps after a time the herd would lie down again, reassured by the song of the cow-boys, who from the time they came on duty always continued to sing, unless they played on a fife or some other musical instrument, which answered as well as the voice.

At other times a sort of general agitation communicated itself to the herd. Those on the outside finding themselves unable to leave the mass owing to the vigilance of their guard, would begin to move along its edge; the motion would spread, and in a short time the whole mass be circling, or, as the cow-boys call it, weaving. As this action, unless checked, always terminated in a general stampede, the duty of the cow-boys was at once to check it. This could only be done by wedging themselves into the mass, shouting and using their heavy whips to break it up and put a stop to the motion. This was dangerous work, not only from the pressure, but from the sea of horns and angry tossing heads.

Sometimes it would be successful, sometimes it would fail. Above the lowing and bellowing there would be a thunder of hoofs on the side opposite to that on which they were engaged. Then would rise a shout of "They are off!" and the cow-boys would edge their horses out of the mass, and, one on each flank, gallop at the top of their speed to head the animals back. As soon as they came near the head of the herd they would yell and shout at the top of their voices, sometimes discharging their pistols in the air, pressing the animals on the flank gradually inward, and so checking the speed of the whole until they at last met in front of the herd. Sometimes they would succeed before two or three miles of ground were passed over; sometimes the wild flight of the herd could not be checked before morning, when they would be thirty or forty miles away from their starting-place.

If unable to stop them, the great aim of the cow-boys was to keep them in one body: in that case no great trouble resulted from the stampede. The other men would be out in the morning and the herd would be driven back to its starting-place. But if the herd broke up, as was sometimes the case, and scattered over the country, it might take many days of hard work before they could again be got together. If the night set in wild, so as to render it probable that the cattle would stampede, a third man was placed on the guard. He would aid in keeping them in as long as possible; but if they broke the circle and went off, his duty was to gallop back to camp. The cow-boys there would leap to their feet in an instant, run to the horses picketed near, saddled and bridled ready for instant use, throw themselves on their backs, and gallop off at the top of their speed in the direction in which the herd had gone.

Thunder-storms were of not infrequent occurrence, and when the clouds were seen banking up before sunset, and the lightning began to play, the cattle-guard knew that they were in for a troubled night. Long before the storm approached close enough to cause actual alarm among the cattle they would evince signs of uneasiness, the electrical condition of the air seeming to affect them. They might lie down, but it was only to rise again, and the distant roll of the thunder seemed to be answered by their restless bellowing. On such a night it needed no message to the camp to bring up help. As the storm approached, and it became evident by the brightness and rapidity of the flashes that it was going to be an unusually severe one, one by one the men would leave their fire or rise from their couches and go out to their horses, pull up and coil their ropes, leap into the saddle, wrap a blanket round them, and gallop off to the herd, beginning always to sing as they approached it, as otherwise their arrival might stampede the animals.

When the storm came overhead the terror of the cattle rose to the highest point, and the efforts of the whole of the cow-boys of the outfit scarcely sufficed to restrain them. The almost incessant flashes of lightning showed a sea of heads and horns, wild eyes, and distended nostrils. The thunder was continuous, and so terrible were some of these storms that Hugh felt grateful to the animals that the trouble they gave, and the incessant efforts and activity required to restrain them, diverted his attention from the terrible war of elements overhead. On such a night it was almost certain that sooner or later the herd would stampede, and once off, the efforts of their guard were directed to keep them together rather than to head them. So long as they remained in a bunch it mattered little whether they were one mile or thirty from the camp.

If headed and held up they would probably start again, and it was less anxious work to gallop by the side of the frightened mass than to hold them in check when once their excitement reached its height. In some respects the ride in such a storm as this was less dangerous than upon a dark, still night, for the lightning flashes showed not only the exact position of the herd, but greatly diminished the chance of serious falls by lighting up the whole configuration of the country, and showing any obstacles in the way. Even a fall, heavy though it might be, would be a trifle in comparison to one occurring while endeavouring to head the herd, for in that case it would entail certain death, as life would be trampled out in an instant by the onward torrent of cattle.

Hugh had by this time come to understand that even twelve horses were by no means too much for the use of each man. Wiry and tough as were the ponies, the men who rode them seemed to be iron. Hugh was frequently in his saddle eighteen hours a day, occasionally twenty, and four or even five horses would be thoroughly done up before his work was over. Had they been fed with grain a smaller number might have sufficed, for unless unusually pressed they could have been ridden again on the following day; but fed entirely upon the dry grasses of the plains they needed a day's rest before they were again fit for work.

The herd increased by another thousand before it reached the general rendezvous of the round-up, for each day six of the men scoured the country lying within ten or fifteen miles of the line of march, and drove in all the cattle met with on their way. At last they reached the stream near whose banks the vast herds driven in from all quarters were gathered. There had been an occasional day's halt on the way to give a needed rest to cattle, horses, and men; but now that the outfit had arrived at the spot indicated before they had left the headquarters station, there was a rest for four days before operations commenced.

The time was employed by the men in washing, overhauling, and mending their clothes, repairing their saddles, and in sleep. They knew nothing of the position of the other outfits of their own and of the other ranches, but were sure that they all lay within a radius of some twenty or thirty miles—that is to say, all that had as yet arrived. Some had probably come up days before, perhaps weeks; others would not be there for some time; all depended upon the nature of the country to be worked and the distance traversed. There were several other outfits scattered along the banks of the stream above and below them at distances of about half a mile apart, and the overseers of the different ranches were busy making arrangements for the general campaign. Four days after their arrival a cow-boy rode in with a letter to the overseer of the outfit. A few minutes later Broncho Harry and four other hands, among whom were Hugh and Bill Royce, were ordered to saddle up and to go down to the central station.

The term order is scarcely a correct one, for cow-boys are not men to be ordered. A cow-boy is asked to do a thing, and asked in civil terms. The request has all the force of an order, but it is not so conveyed. It is put in the form, "I want you to do so and so;" or, "Will you saddle up and do so and so?" It is just as easy to put it in that form as in any other, and though the cow-boy knows that if he does not comply with the request he has got to ride back to the headquarters station and get his money, he does not feel his dignity injured as it would be by a direct order. There are no men more independent than cow-boys. They know their value; and a really good man knows, and this was more especially the case at that time, that he has but to ride to the next ranche to get employment. The consequence is that although willing to work to the utmost of his powers in the interest of his employers he by no means regards that employer as a master, but treats even the chief manager on terms of absolute equality, and insists upon being so treated by him in return.

"Broncho Harry," the overseer said, "I want you, Jack Johnson, Bowie Bob, Chunky Royce, and Lightning Hugh to saddle up and ride down to the forks and help in the round-up. The waggon is going to stay here till our herd is called up. There are men from the other outfits there; the boss is there, and he will settle about things. Two of the waggons are there, so you will be all right as to grub. I expect you will be there about a fortnight, and then the others will come down and take your place."

"Are we to take down our other horses?" the cow-boy asked.

"No. No. 1 outfit will take charge of the cattle as they are cut out and branded. No. 3 will take the next mob. Anyhow, you won't want horses except to take you down there."

"All right!" Harry said, and proceeded to call the other four together.

In a few minutes the horses were brought in and saddled, the blankets rolled up and strapped to the saddles, and the five men chosen, after eating a hasty meal, started for the point named, which was some twenty-five miles distant.

"Now you are going to see some fun, Hugh," Bill Royce, who had got the nickname of Chunky from his short, square figure, remarked as they rode along.

"Yes," Broncho Harry put in, "you will have to look out sharp, Hugh. I tell you it is pretty lively work when you get hold of a six months' calf, and the old savage of a mother is trying her best to hook you. Thar ain't a day that some fellow don't get hurt; but as long as you don't let a cow jam you against the posts it don't much matter. That is what you have got to look to special. A chuck in the air don't much matter, nor being knocked a dozen yards or so, but if you get jammed by one of those brutes against a fence, there ain't nothing to do but to bury you."

Three hours' riding brought them to the forks. Two or three large herds of cattle could be made out far on the plains: another mob could be seen not far from the wooded hollow that marked the course of the stream. Horsemen were hovering round them, and there was a confused mass of animals in what looked to Hugh like a strong stockade near it. A short distance away twelve waggons were drawn up in regular order some fifty yards apart. Columns of light smoke rising near them showed that cooking was going on at each waggon. Quickening the speed of their horses the cow-boys rode on until they drew up at the waggon of the ranche.

"Howdy, Pete," Broncho Harry said as he leapt from his horse, to a negro who, with a Mexican assistant, was engaged in cooking.

"Howdy, Broncho Harry."

"Where are the boys, and what's new?"

"Dey is out dar," the negro said, waving his hand in the direction of the corral. "Some of dem is working in de herd; some of dem is inside. Irish is in de waggon: him leg broken. New York John got killed three days back."

"That's bad, Pete. How did he manage that?"

"Old cow hooked him—ran horn right through him body. Irish got tossed against posts."

"I suppose there are boys down from the other outfits here, Pete?"

"Yes. Five No. 3, five No. 4. No. 4 came in dis mornin'. Now you come dat make fifteen, and all our own outfit; dat too much for Pete to cook for."

"Well, you have got someone to help you, Pete, so you ought not to grumble."

Pete made a grimace as much as to signify that he did not consider the assistance of the Mexican to be of much account. Between the men of these two races there was a general feud, while the cow-boys looked down upon both, and as a rule refused to allow them to work with them except in the capacity of cook.

"Where are our horses, Pete?"

"No. 1 horses over dere," the negro said, pointing to a group of horses out on the plain. "Young Nat looking arter dem."

"Well, we may as well take our horses out there, boys," Broncho Harry said, turning to the others. "It is no use picketing them here; we ain't likely to want them."

"I will ride them out," Hugh volunteered. The others removed their saddles and bridles, and Hugh drove them out to the group on the plain.

"Well, Nat, how are you getting on?" he asked a boy of about fifteen years old who was lying on the ground with his horse's rein over his arm near them.

"Oh, I'm all right," the boy replied; "been here a week, and getting pretty tired of this job, you bet, with nothing to do but just to lie here. Blast all camps, I say!"

"You ought to be at school, you young imp," Hugh laughed.

"I would just as soon be doing that as lying here," the boy said. "It will be all right when I get to be a cow-boy, but there ain't much fun about this. Just come in?"

"Yes."

"Who is with you?"

Hugh gave the names.

"Broncho Harry ain't a bad sort," the boy said. "The others ain't of much account."

"You had better tell them so," Hugh said with a smile.

"I would tell them if I thought fit," the boy said angrily. "You don't suppose that I'm afraid of any of that mob?"

"I know you are a very bad man, Nat," Hugh said with assumed gravity, "a very dangerous character in a camp; but I hope you won't do any of them any harm."

"I sha'n't do them no harm if they don't do me any," the boy said, "but I don't take no sauce from no one."

By this time Hugh had unsaddled Prince, and placing the saddle over his head and carrying the bridle in his hand, nodded to the boy, and started back to the camp, while Prince joined the four horses, which began to graze at a little distance from the rest. Presently two or three of the other horses came over to the new-comers, and after a little snorting apparently recognized them as friends with whom they had been acquainted at the head-station, and this fact being established Prince and his companions were allowed to join them.

There were many boys like Nat out on the plains, for the most part lads who had run away from home, and who were now training up to be cow-boys, being engaged in day-herding the horses—work that demanded but little skill or attention. They were generally regarded with favour by the outfits to which they were attached, for the cow-boys as a rule are silent men, and the liveliness of the boys amused them. These boys generally grew up into the most reckless and dare-devil of cow-boys, speedily picking up the worst language and imitating the wildest follies of their companions, and they would have been an unmitigated nuisance in the camps had they not been frequently sternly called to order by men with whom they knew there was no trifling.

It was not until nightfall that the work ceased and the cow-boys returned to their waggons. They had been working without a break since daylight, contenting themselves with eating a piece of bread and cold meat standing at their work in the middle of the day.

"Well, boys, come in for a spell?" one of them asked as they came up to the fire where the new arrivals were seated. "We have had a week of it, and it has been a pretty tough job. The cattle are wonderful wild. I suppose the thunder has scared them, and we are pretty sure the Injuns have been chasing them lately by the foot-hills. Did you see anything of the Reds?"

"No; there were no signs of them in the part we searched."

"There were signs further south," the other went on. "We came on two places where they had slaughtered a lot of cattle, and we hear they have been making raids down into Mexico, and the troops have been out after them down by the frontier line. Anyhow, the cattle are wilder than usual. You have heard, I suppose, that New York John has been rubbed out?"

"Yes, we heard that, and I have been talking to Irish. He seems getting on all right."

"Irish is a blamed fool. I told him over and over again he would get into trouble if he didn't mind; but nothing could persuade him that there was any difference between the ways of a Kerry cow and a Texas steer, and of course he came to grief. I should have thought that New York John would have known better than to get himself hooked like that; but it were not altogether his fault. He wur holding a calf, and he had his eye on the old cow, who had got her dander up pretty considerable. One of the men had roped her, and New York John naturally thought that she was safe. So he downed the calf, and the brand was clapped to it, and the young un bawls out, and of course the cow made a fresh rush to get at it, and the rope breaks, and she was on New York John afore he could look round."

"But how came the rope to break? A man must be a fool and worse to come down to round-up with a rotten old rope."

"Well, the rope was a new un. You may guess there was a lot of talk over it, and it put our backs up a bit that New York John should get killed that way. The rope wur a new one, there warn't no doubt about that, but it had been cut half through. Who had done it, in course, no one knew. The men were mad over it, and ef they could have found out who had done it he would have swung from the limb of a tree in a squirrel's jump. There were two or three men who had had musses with the chap as the rope belonged to, but no one could say as any of them had cut his rope. Of course it might have been an accident, but no one thought that very likely. However, there it wur. Somebody cut the fellow's rope to spite him, and it cost New York John his life, which was pretty rough on him."

"What is the work for to-morrow?"

"Well, your lot and the men of the other two outfits are to be in the yard. We have got a spell off, except, of course, that we have got to look after our own bunch of cattle."

"How many are there of them?"

"About 6000 I should say. I expect some of us will start driving them up north day after to-morrow."

The next morning Hugh went down to the cattle-yard as soon as they had finished breakfast. Day had just broken, and while they were waiting for the herd to be brought up he looked round at the yard. The paling was composed of very strong posts six feet high, placed at intervals of two or three inches apart. It had been built three or four years before, as this place was the most convenient and central upon the plains. A few waggon loads of timber had been taken out there a fortnight before the arrival of the teams, with a gang of men, who took up any posts that showed signs of rottenness and replaced them by others, the various ranches in the round-up performing this duty by turns. The fence inclosed a space of upwards of an acre.

Beside the contingent from the ranche some forty or fifty cow-boys from the other ranches were gathered within it. Several fires were lighted for heating the brands, and the overseer who was in charge of the work for the day divided the men into parties, each group consisting of representatives of four or five different ranches. In a short time a great herd was seen approaching, driven in by a number of mounted cow-boys. The cross-bars were removed from the opening that served as a gate at the upper end of the yard, and the reluctant animals, unable to withstand the pressure of those behind, poured in. Several hundreds entered; the bars were dropped again, and the animals inclosed stood in a dense group, stamping the ground, and threatening an attack as the cow-boys approached them.

BRANDING THE CALVES AT THE "ROUND UP."

These all carried their ropes, some holding them in their hands ready for throwing, while others had them coiled over their left shoulder, while in their right hands they held their heavy whips. Those who were to fetch out the calves first approached. Half a dozen ropes were thrown, and the calves were dragged out, struggling and calling, or, as the cow-boys called it, bawling, to their mothers for assistance. The call was not in vain. The cows rushed out furiously to the assistance of their calves. As each did so the cow-boy whose comrade was dragging the calf towards one of the fires shouted out the brand on the cow, and then, cracking their whips, and if necessary using them, they drove the animal back into the mass and kept her there, while the calf was thrown down and branded with the same mark as its mother.

Hugh was among those told off to fetch out the calves. He had had some practice, as many of the mavericks found had calves by their side, and these as well as the cows had been branded with the . Another cow-boy assisted him to haul the calf by main force towards the fire, and held the rope while Hugh ran up to it. Placing himself beside it he leaned over it, grasped it by the flank with both hands, and then lifted it and flung it down on its side. His comrade then ran up and pinned its head to the ground, while Hugh knelt on its haunches, and the brander came up with a hot iron and marked it. The iron was held on long enough only to burn off the hair and slightly singe the hide, and the mark so made was almost indelible.

In addition to this the calf's ears were cut, each ranche having its particular mark, such as two long slits and a short one, a square piece cut out and a notch on either side of it, a semicircular piece and two notches, a semicircle and a square, &c. These marks were very durable, but even these often became confused owing to the ears getting torn by a rush through thorns, or by the action of a neighbour's horn in a close press or during a stampede. It required but small exercise of strength to throw a calf of three months old; but many of them were eight or nine months and nearly full grown, and it needed a great exertion of strength and a good deal of knack to throw down animals of this size. Once or twice Hugh had narrow escapes, for some of the cows, in spite of the cow-boys' whips, burst through them and rushed to the assistance of their calves; but each time the ropes descended over their heads or caught them by their legs, and threw them to the ground before they reached him.

After an hour of this work he was relieved by one of the other men, and took his turn of the lighter work of keeping back the cows. When every calf in the yard had been branded the gate at the lower end was opened and the animals driven out, while a fresh mob was admitted from the herd. So the work went on until the herd had all passed through the yard, and the calves been branded. Then there was a quarter of an hour's rest while another herd was driven up, and the work recommenced. By nightfall some nine thousand animals had passed through the yard, and nearly four thousand calves had been branded. Begrimed with sweat and dust, the cow-boys went down to the stream, where most of them bathed and all had a thorough wash, and then went up to their waggons to supper.

"How do you feel now?" Broncho Harry asked Hugh when he threw himself down by the fire.

"I feel broken up altogether, Harry. My back and loins feel as if I had been beaten to a pulp. I believe I have strained every muscle of my arms, and my hands and wrists are so stiff that I can't close my fingers."

"Yes; calf-chucking is pretty hard work until you get accustomed to it," the cow-boy said. "It is knack more than strength, though it needs a lot of strength too when you have got a rampagious ten-months calf in your hands."

"I have not got the knack yet," Hugh said; "and anything over six months I had to have roped by the legs and thrown, but I suppose I shall be able to tackle them in time."

In the case of the cows that had been branded only a year or two before there was no difficulty in recognizing the brand, and so to decide upon the ownership of the calf; but in the case of older cows the brand and ear-marks had in some instances both become so far obliterated that it was difficult to decide what they had originally been. Over these brands there were sharp and sometimes angry disputes among the cow-boys belonging to the different ranches. The case was generally settled by the overseer in charge of the day's operations calling upon three cow-boys belonging to ranches unconnected with the dispute to give their opinion as to what the marks had originally been. Their decision was accepted by all parties as final, and the cow rebranded as well as the calf.

"What do you do when the brand is so far gone as to make it altogether impossible to say what it was?" Hugh asked.

"It would not get here at all in that state," the cow-boy replied. "It would have been rebranded at once by the outfit that first found it just as if it had been a maverick. But in that case, of course, any cow-boy could claim the cow as belonging to his ranche if he could convince the others that the old brand was the one used by it. They never brand over the old mark; that must be left as an evidence."

The next day happened to be Sunday, and Hugh felt glad indeed that he had a day on which to recover from his stiffness. Sundays were always kept, except in cases of great emergency, as a day of rest, cow-boys taking the opportunity to wash and mend their clothes, to practise shooting with their revolvers, or to run races with their horses. At rounds-up these races afford one of the chief interests to the cow-boy, for rivalry between the various ranches runs high, and the men are ready to bet their "bottom dollar" upon the representative of their own ranche.

"Have you ever tried that horse of yours against anything fast, Hugh?" one of his comrades asked.

"No. I am sure he is very fast, but I have never really tried him."

"We were fools not to think of that before," Broncho Harry put in. "We ought to have raced him against some of the others, and have found out what he can do, and then we might have made a soft thing of it. I suppose you wouldn't mind trying him, Hugh?"

"Not at all. But if he is to race you had better ride him instead of me. I shouldn't say you were much above nine stone and a half."

"I don't know what you mean by your stone," Harry said. "We don't reckon that way out here. I was a hundred and thirty-five pounds last time I weighed at the head-station."

"That is two pounds more than I said. Well, I am certainly twenty pounds heavier—I should say twenty-five, and that makes a lot of difference."

"I should think so. Still we had best have a trial, Hugh, before we try to make a match. That is a good horse of yours. I mean the one you first mounted and who played such tricks with you. I should like some day to try him against my best, and see how they go. I daresay you will get him again before the round-up is over."

"What length do you run your races here, Broncho?"

"In general they are short dashes, not above half a mile at the outside, but sometimes a match is made for some distance. Well, when we have had dinner we will trot out into the plain. We must go off a goodish bit, and make sure that none of the boys of the other ranches are within sight."

Accordingly, when dinner was over, Broncho Harry and Hugh went out to the horses. Prince come trotting out as soon as he heard Hugh's whistle, and Broncho Harry soon dropped his noose over the neck of his own horse. They then put on the saddles and bridles which they had brought with them, and went off at a canter across the plains. They ran three or four trials. The result showed that Broncho's horse was quicker in getting off, and that in a quarter of a mile dash there was little to choose between them, but at longer distances than this Prince was, in spite of the greater weight he carried, much the faster.

"That horse can go," the cow-boy said admiringly. "I shouldn't mind if there were a pack of Redskins coming behind me if I was on his back. The worst of him is he is so good-looking. If he was ugly to look at we might clean out all the camps, but he looks so good that I am afraid we sha'n't be able to get much money out of him. Well, now, we won't race him this evening. There are sure to be some matches on, and I will ride my horse. That way I shall find what there is in the camp, and whether there is anything that can beat him as much as your horse can do. Don't you go cavorting about on him; just let him run with the rest of the mob. Then he won't be noticed. There is too much to be got through in this camp for men to take stock of the horses. Then if we keep him dark we can get someone to set up his horse against the best of ours. We will put the boys up to it when we get back, or someone may be blowing about your horse."

There were, as the cow-boy anticipated, a number of races run that evening. Broncho Harry beat two other horses, but lost his winnings and more in the third race, when he was beaten somewhat easily by an animal which in point of looks was greatly the inferior of his own.

"That is just what I told you, Hugh," he said, when, after unsaddling his horse and sending it off to join its companions on the plains, he returned to the waggon. "I am a blessed fool, for I ought to have known that when that cross T's man offered to back that ugly-looking brute against mine, he wur a sight better than he looked. He just shot off like an arrow at starting. I didn't loose anything afterwards, but I couldn't pick up them three lengths he got in the first forty yards. If we make a match against him we must see that it ain't less than half a mile."

The next morning the work in the stock-yards was resumed and continued throughout the week.

CHAPTER X.

A RACE.

"I DON'T think, Broncho," Hugh said one evening, "that I should do anything more about that race, if I were you, or if you do, don't lay out any money on it. There is just as much interest in a race if it is for a dollar or two as if all the boys in the outfit piled their money upon it. That horse beat yours pretty easily, quite as easy, I should say, as Prince could beat him for that distance, and I really don't think that Prince would have any pull of him in races of the length you have on here. In a twenty-mile gallop I feel sure he would leave anything in camp behind easily, but I certainly would not race him any long distance of that sort. If I had a troop of Indians after me Prince would have to do his best whether it was twenty miles or fifty; but I would not press him when it was merely a question of making money on him. Your horse was beaten, and, of course, we none of us like to own that the cross T's men have got a better horse than we have. I am quite willing that Prince should run for the honour of the ranche, but I don't feel at all sure about his winning, and should be sorry to see the boys plank their dollars down heavily upon him."

"All right, Hugh! it is your horse, and I will do as you want; but I should like to take that fellow down a bit. He is one of those fellows as is always blowing. He rather likes to be thought a bad man, and is said to be very handy with his six-shooter."

On Sunday morning after breakfast was over the cow-boy in question, with two or three men of the same ranche, came across from their waggon to that of the men.

"Have you got anything else that can go in this crowd?" he said, addressing Broncho Harry. "There don't seem any horses worth talking about in the whole round-up. Some of our boys say as how they have seen one of your lot on a likely-looking bay."

"Well, I don't deny he is a good-looking horse," Broncho Harry said, "and can go a bit, but he is slow at starting, and that critter of yours is too speedy for the bay to have a chance of catching him up in a quarter of a mile. Make it a bit over, and I will ride him myself against you if you like."

"I don't care about a half-mile," the man said, "but I will split the difference, if you like; or if you fancy your critter for a long journey, I am open to make a match ten miles out and back, each side to put down two hundred dollars."

"What do you say to that, mate?" Broncho Harry said, turning to Hugh.

Hugh shook his head decidedly. "I wouldn't have him ridden at racing speed twenty miles if there were a thousand dollars at stake," he said; "but if you like to take up the other offer you can ride him."

"Oh! it is your horse, is it?" the cow-boy said; "why don't you ride him yourself?"

"Because I ride something like two stone heavier than you do," Hugh said; "and if the horse is going to race he may as well have a fair chance."

"Well, how much shall it be for?" the cow-boy said, turning again to Broncho Harry. "I suppose we may as well say the same stake. A hundred dollars a side, I suppose. That won't hurt you if you fancy the horse."

Two or three of the men broke in together, "Take him up, Broncho, we will all chip in."

"Very well, then, that is settled," Broncho Harry said. "Shall we say five o'clock? I suppose we shall ride the same course as last time. I will go out now and step the distance if you will go on with me."

"All right!" the man said; and they at once proceeded to mark out a distance of seven hundred paces, which they both agreed was somewhere about half-way between a quarter and half a mile. A wand, to which Broncho attached his neckerchief, was stuck up as the winning-post, while a low bush marked the point from which they had started to measure. The news soon spread through the camp, and many of the cow-boys of the other ranches strolled in to find out what the men thought of their chances, and to see whether they were disposed to back their horse. Hugh, however, persuaded them not to risk their money.

"You see," he said, "my horse didn't beat Broncho's by much."

"No more did the other chap, Hugh; he just jumped two lengths ahead, and after that Broncho held him."

"Yes, I know that," Hugh replied, "but we don't know that he was doing his best."

"That is so," Broncho agreed. "He knew he had got me, and there was no use in giving his horse away. I expect he had got a bit in hand. I don't think it is good enough to bet on. Now let us get this money together."

Twenty of the men put down their five dollars at once; and as the others wished also to have a share, Broncho Harry said, "Well, you three put in your five dollars each, and Hugh and I will make it up to fifty. Like enough they will be laying odds on their horse, especially when they find we won't bet, so that at the last moment I will take them up for this fifty, and if we win we will put it to the stakes and divide up all round."

The proposal was at once agreed to.

Towards the afternoon they found that the men were offering three and four to one upon their horse, for the odds had run up rapidly, as none of the other cow-boys were disposed to back the , seeing that the men of that ranche would not bet on their horse. At the appointed hour the two competitors went to the post. There had been several minor races, but these had attracted comparatively little interest; every man in camp, however, had assembled for the purpose of seeing this contest, and they were now gathered near the winning-post. A cow-boy belonging to a neutral ranche was to act as starter. The two riders had divested themselves of their heavy boots.

"You must shake him up to begin with, Broncho," Hugh had said to him before he mounted. "He will do his best afterwards. He hates being passed, and when he sees the other ahead of him he will go all he knows."

"Now," the starter said, when the two horses stood side by side in a line with him, "I shall walk on twenty or thirty yards ahead so that you can both see me, then I shall hold up my six-shooter and fire. Don't either of you start till I do. I may fire straight off. I may wait a minute after I have got my hand up. You have got to keep your eyes on me, and when you see the flash then you let them go."

Both men fastened their spurs on to their stockinged feet, and as the pistol went off struck their heels into their mounts, while, at the same moment, Broncho Harry brought down his whip smartly on Prince's quarter. Astonished at this treatment, the animal gave a bound forward and started at full gallop.

There was no occasion for the other man to use his whip; his horse knew what was expected of it, and with its hind legs gathered under it, had been expecting the signal, and was even more quickly away than Prince. It did not, however, gain more than a length. For the first three hundred yards the horses maintained their relative position, but Prince was tugging at his bridle; and his rider, though shouting and yelling as if to urge him to his fullest speed, was yet holding him in. Then the leading horseman, thinking that Prince was doing his best, and feeling certain that he had the race in hand, dug his spurs into his horse, and the animal in a few bounds had added another length to his lead; but Broncho Harry loosened his pull at the reins and let Prince go, and before another hundred yards had been passed his head was level with the other's stirrup.

The man whipped and spurred, while Broncho Harry sat quiet on his horse, and contented himself by maintaining his present position. When a hundred yards from home he shook his horse up, and slightly touched him with his spur. Almost instantaneously Prince was level with his opponent, and then dashing on ahead passed the flag-post three lengths in advance amidst a loud cheer from the men, and from most of the other cow-boys; for although few had ventured to back the horse, there was a general feeling of satisfaction at seeing the man beaten. The latter without a word circled round and rode straight back to his waggon, and the stakeholder handed over the stake and bets, which had both been deposited with him, to Broncho Harry.

"Two hundred and fifty dollars," he said, as he put the roll of notes in his pocket, for the bets had been made at three to one. "I call that an easier way of making money than cow-punching. I can't stand treat, boys, because there is no liquor in camp, but remember I owe you one all round the first time we meet in a saloon."

Returning to camp the division was made, and each of the twenty-five men received his share of ten dollars, together with the money he had staked.

"I shouldn't be surprised, Hugh," Broncho Harry said as they sat round the fire, "if we have trouble with that skunk. He is a bad-tempered lot at best, and he dropped his money heavy, for I hear he put in all the stake himself, and he bet some besides. He took twenty off me last week, but he has dropped pretty well half his season's money. You see if he don't try and get up trouble."

"If he does, leave him to me, Harry."

"I don't want to leave him to you, Hugh. I rode the race, and if he wants fighting, he will get it here; but I am afraid it is likely enough he will try and make trouble with you. He knows that I am a pretty tough hand, but he thinks you nothing but a tender-foot, and that sort of fellow always fixes a quarrel on a soft if he gets the chance."

"Well, as you know, Harry, I can take care of myself, and I would much rather it was me than you. I know that you are a good deal better shot than I am, but you know you are not nearly so quick with your weapon. There would be no occasion to shoot, I fancy."

"You are right there, lad; if you get the drop on him, you will see he will weaken directly."

The evening, however, passed off without the defeated cow-boy making his appearance.

"He reckons it wouldn't do," Long Tom said. "You see the hull crowd would be agin him if he were to come and get up a muss because he has been beat in a race. A fellow who runs his horse is bound to look pleasant whether he wins or whether he loses, and a good many of the boys was saying as they never see a worse thing than the way he galloped off after Broncho came in ahead of him. If he was to come down here and make a muss, he knows that for sure the crowd wouldn't stand it, and that if everything wasn't perfectly square, they would come Judge Lynch on him in no time. Now a man may take the chance of being shot in a quarrel; but when, if he ain't shot by one man he is likely to get hung by a crowd, it takes a pretty hard man to run the chances; only, look out for him, Broncho. I believe he has got a touch of Mexican blood in him, although, I dare say, he would shoot the man who ventured to say so, only it is there for all that, and you know a Mexican don't mind waiting months so that he gets even at last."

"That's so," Broncho Harry agreed; "a greaser is about the worst sort of white; that is, if you can call them white. I don't know but I hate them more than Injuns."

On the following morning half No. 1 outfit started north, with a herd of 5000 cattle that had been picked out from those driven in and branded; and Hugh, with his four mates, now took their turn at driving in the herds to the yard. This was much more to Hugh's taste than the previous work had been. He did not mind the work of hauling out and throwing the calves, nor of keeping back the cows, but he hated seeing the calves branded, and still more, the operation of cutting their ears. It was, of course, necessary work, but it was painful to him to share in, and indeed he had generally managed to get Bill Royce to exchange work with him when he was told off to perform these operations.

The herding, on the other hand, was good fun. The animals seemed to have an instinctive repulsion for the stock-yard; many of them had been branded there the previous year, and probably recognized the spot. At any rate, there were constant attempts to break away, and it needed all the energy and vigilance of their guard to drive them down to the yard, and still more to keep them there while awaiting their turn to enter it. But more exciting still, and much more dangerous, was the work of those who kept guard at the lower end of the yard. As the animals came out, the calves were half mad with terror and pain, and the cows furious at the defeat of their efforts to succour their offspring, so that it was dangerous work for the men of the various ranches to pick out the animals bearing their brand and to drive them off to the knot of animals gathered at some little distance away under the guard of two of their comrades.

Sometimes the cows made furious charges, which it needed all the agility of horse and rider to avoid; then, as the animal rushed past, a rope would be thrown over its head or under its leg, and an instant later it would come to the ground with a crash. This generally proved sufficient. The cow, when the rope was slackened, rose to its feet in a half dazed way and walked heavily off, with the evident impression upon its mind that an earthquake had taken place. Hugh was glad when he heard in the middle of the day that the rest of the outfit had arrived with the waggon and all the horses—for he felt that Prince had had enough of it—and he at once galloped off, roped one of his own horses, shifted the saddle on to him, and went back to work.

One or two of the bulls gave a great deal of trouble, charging hither and thither furiously as they came out from the yard. In these cases three or four of the cow-boys united, and while one attracted his attention, the others threw their ropes. Some of the bulls had to be thrown half a dozen times before they were subdued.

A few days later the man, who went by the name of Flash Bill, walked up to the fire round which the cow-boys of No. 2 outfit were sitting.

"I have just come across to say I am sorry I rode off that day you beat me, Broncho. I allow it was a mean trick of me, but I was riled pretty considerable; still I oughtn't ter have done it; it wurn't the right thing."

"It wurn't," Harry said; "but now you own up there is an end of it. Sit right down and have a smoke."

For some time the conversation turned upon horses. Two or three other men of the ranche sauntered up and joined in. Presently Flash Bill turned to Hugh, who had taken no part in the conversation, and said, "Have you a mind to trade that horse?"

"No, I wouldn't sell it at any price," Hugh said. "It exactly suits me, and I should find difficulty in getting another as good."

"Seems to me as I have seen that horse before," the man said. "Had him long?"

"I have had him about eight months," Hugh replied.

"Curious; I seem to know him. Can't think where I have seen him; somewhere out West."

"I bought him at M'Kinney," Hugh said.

"Oh! You bought him, did you?"

"How do you suppose I got him?" Hugh asked shortly.

"Oh! there are plenty of horses out on these plains as never was paid for," Flash Bill said.

"I don't say there are not," Hugh replied. "At any rate, I expect you are a better authority about that than I am."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean exactly what I say," Hugh said quietly.

"Do you mean to say as I have been a horse-thief!" the man exclaimed furiously.

"I mean to say exactly what I did say," Hugh replied.

"Then you are a liar!" and the man's hand went to his hip. To his astonishment, before his finger had closed on the butt of his pistol, he was looking down the barrel of Hugh's revolver.

"Drop that," Hugh exclaimed, "or I fire!" Flash Bill threw up his hand.

"Now you will take that back," Hugh said.

"I take it back," Flash Bill said sullenly. "You've got the drop on me, though how you did it I don't know. There ain't nothing more to be said. I take it back."

"There is an end of it, then," Hugh said, replacing his pistol in his belt. "You thought you had got a soft thing. You see you've made a mistake."

"You had better git, Flash Bill," Broncho Harry said. "You ain't wanted here. You came over to make a muss, and only I knowed as Hugh could hold his own with you I would have put a bullet into you myself when I saw your hand go to your pistol. You git, and if you will take my advice, you will git altogether. You can't play the bad man in this camp any longer, after weakening before a young chap as is little more than a tender-foot."

With a muttered execration Flash Bill got up, and, followed by the men of his own ranche, walked off.

"You did mighty well, considering that it is the first trouble you've been in, Hugh; but you did wrong in not shooting. The rule on the plains is, if one man calls another either a liar or a coward, that fellow has a right to shoot him down if he can get his gun out first. That's the rule, ain't it, boys?"

There was a chorus of assent.

"You may call a man pretty nigh everything else, and it don't go for much. We ain't chice as to our words here; but them two words, liar and coward, is death, and you would have done well to have shot him. You bet, you'll have trouble with that fellow some day. You'll see he will go now, but you'll hear of him again."

"I could no more have shot him than I could have flown," Hugh said, "for he was really unarmed."

"He would have shot you if he had been heeled first," Long Tom said, "and there ain't a man in the camp but would have said that you had been perfectly right if you had shot him, for it is sartin he came over here bound to kill you. I agree with Broncho. You have done a mighty soft thing, and maybe you will be sorry for it some day. I have heard say that Flash Bill has been a mighty hard man in his time, and I guess as stealing horses ain't been the worse thing he has done, and I reckon he has come back here to work for a bit, because he has made it too hot for himself in the settlements. Well, it's a pity you didn't shoot."

The next morning, as they were saddling their horses, Flash Bill rode past. He had his blankets and kit strapped behind his saddle. He checked his horse as he came up to them. "I give you warning," he said to Hugh, "that I'll shoot at sight when we meet again! You too, Broncho Harry."

"All right!" Broncho Harry replied. "We shall both be ready for you." Without another word Flash Bill put spurs to his horse and galloped away.

This was the regular form of challenge among the cow-boys. Sometimes after a quarrel, in which one had got the drop of the other, and the latter had been obliged to "take back" what he had said, mutual friends would interfere; and if the row had taken place when one or other of the men had been drinking, or when there was no previous malice or dislike between the men, the matter would be made up and things go on as before. If, however, the quarrel had been a deliberate one, and one or other considered himself still aggrieved, he would take his discharge and leave the camp on the following morning, giving his antagonist notice that he should shoot at sight when they next met, and whether the meeting was alone on the plains, in a drinking saloon, or in a street, both parties would draw and fire the moment their eyes fell on each other.

That Flash Bill should have been forced to take back his words by this young hand of the ranch was a matter of the deepest astonishment to the camp, and Hugh found himself quite a popular character, for Flash Bill had made himself very obnoxious; and with the exception of two or three men of his own stamp in the outfit, the men of that body were more pleased than anyone else that the bully had had to leave. None were more astonished than the men of the other outfits of the ranche. They had heard Hugh addressed as Lightning; but curiosity is not a cow-boy failing, and few had given a thought as to how he had come by the appellation. One or two had asked the question, but Broncho Harry had, the night before his party started to the round-up, said to the others, "Look here, boys. If anyone asks how Lightning Hugh came by his name, don't you give him away. They will larn one of these days, and it will be as good as a theyater when he does that gun trick of his. So keep it dark from the other boys."

The few questions asked, therefore, had been met with a laugh.

"It is a sort of joke of ours," Broncho Harry had said to one of the questioners. "You will see one of these days why it fits him."

Hugh was not sorry when the time came for his outfit to start. They had charge of a herd of eight or nine thousand animals all belonging to the . It was customary for most of the ranches to drive their own cattle, after a round-up, towards the neighbourhood of their station for the convenience of cutting out the steers that were to be sent down to market, or herds, principally of cows and calves, for purchasers who intended to establish ranches in the still unoccupied territory in New Mexico, Colorado, Dakota, and Montana. Some of these herds would have thousands of miles to travel, and be many months upon the journey. Many of the cow-boys looked forward to taking service with these herds, and trying life under new conditions in the northern territories.

When the beef herds, and such cow herds as the manager of the ranche wished to sell, had been picked out and sent off, the rest of the cattle would be free to wander anywhere they liked over the whole country until they were again swept together for the round-up, unless other sales were effected in the meantime, in which case parties of cow-boys would go out to cut out and drive in the number required. The number of cattle collected at the rounds-up was enormous, many of the ranches owning from forty to eighty thousand cattle. A considerable number were not driven in at the round-up, as the greater portion of the beef-cattle, which had already been branded, were cut out and left behind by the various outfits, and only the cows and calves, with a few bulls to serve as leaders, were driven in. Nevertheless, at these great rounds-up in Texas, the number of the animals collected mounted up to between two and three hundred thousand.

Two-thirds of the work was over when No. 2 outfit of the ranche started.

"Well, I am glad that is over, Bill," Hugh said, as they halted at the end of the first day's march.

"I am not sorry," Bill Royce replied; "it is desperate hard work. All day at the stock-yard, and half one's time at night on guard with the herds, is a little too much for anyone."

"Yes, it has been hard work," Hugh said; "but I don't think I meant that so much as that it was not so pleasant in other ways as usual. The men are too tired to talk or sing of an evening. One breakfasted, or rather swallowed one's food half asleep before daylight, took one's dinner standing while at work, and was too tired to enjoy one's supper."

"I reckon it has been a good round-up," Broncho Harry said. "There have been only four men killed by the cattle, and there haven't been more than five or six shooting scrapes. Let me think! yes, only five men have been shot."

"That is five too many, Broncho," Hugh said.

"Well, that is so in one way, Hugh; but you see we should never get on out here without shooting."

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Because we are an all-fired rough lot out here. There ain't no law, and no sheriffs, and no police, and no troops. How in thunder would you keep order if it weren't for the six-shooter? Thar would be no peace, and the men would be always quarrelling and wrangling. How would you work it anyhow? It is just because a quarrel means a shooting scrape that men don't quarrel, and that every one keeps a civil tongue in his head. There ain't nowhere in the world where there is so little quarrelling as out here on the plains. You see, if we didn't all carry six-shooters, and were ready to use them, the bad-tempered men, and the hard men, would have it their own way. Big fellows like you would be able to bully little fellows like me. We should get all the bad men from the towns whenever they found the settlements too hot for them. We should have murderers, and gamblers, and horse-thieves coming and mixing themselves up with us. I tell you, Hugh, that without the revolver there would be no living out here. No, sirree, the six-shooter puts us all on a level, and each man has got to respect another. I don't say as there ain't a lot wiped out every year, because there is; but I say that it is better so than it would be without it. When these plains get settled up, and the grangers have their farms on them, and the great cattle ranches go, and you get sheriffs, and judges, and all that, the six-shooter will go too, but you can't do without it till then. The revolver is our sheriff, and judge, and executioner all rolled in one. No one who is quiet and peaceable has got much occasion to use it."

"I nearly had to use it the other day, Broncho, and I reckon I am quiet and peaceable."

"Waal, I don't altogether know about that, Hugh. I don't say as you want to quarrel, quite the contrary, but you made up your mind before you came here that if you got into trouble you were going to fight, and you practised and practised until you got so quick that you are sure you can get the drop on anyone you get into a muss with. So though you don't want to get in a quarrel, if anyone wants to quarrel with you you are ready to take him up. Now if it hadn't been so there wouldn't have been any shooting-irons out the other night. Flash Bill came over to get up a quarrel. He was pretty well bound to get up a quarrel with some one, but if you had been a downright peaceable chap he could not have got up a quarrel with you. If you had said quietly, when he kinder said as how you hadn't come by that horse honest, that Bill here had been with you when you bought him, and that you got a document in your pocket, signed by a sheriff and a judge, to prove that you had paid for it, there would have been no words with you. I don't say as Flash Bill, who was just spoiling for a fight, wouldn't have gone at somebody else. Likely enough he would have gone at me. Waal, if I had been a quiet and peaceable chap I should have weakened too, and so it would have gone on until he got hold of somebody as wasn't going to weaken to no one, and then the trouble would have begun. I don't say as this is the place for your downright peaceable man, but I say if such a one comes here he can manage to go through without mixing himself up in shooting scrapes."

"But in that way a man like Flash Bill, let us say, who is known to be ready to use his pistol, might bully a whole camp."

"Yas, if they wur all peaceable people; but then, you see, they ain't. This sort of life ain't good for peaceable people. We take our chances pretty well every day of getting our necks broke one way or another, and when that is so one don't think much more of the chance of being shot than of other chances. Besides, a man ain't allowed to carry on too bad. If he forces a fight on another and shoots him, shoots him fair, mind you, the boys get together and say this can't go on; and that man is told to git, and when he is told that he has got to, if he don't he knows what he has got to expect. No, sirree, I don't say as everything out in the plains is just arranged as it might be in New York; but I say that, take the life as it is, I don't see as it could be arranged better. There was a chap out here for a bit as had read up no end of books, and he said it was just the same sort of thing way back in Europe, when every man carried his sword by his side and was always fighting duels, till at last the kings got strong enough to make laws to put it down and managed things without it; and that's the way it will be in this country. Once the law is strong enough to punish bad men, and make it so that there ain't no occasion for a fellow to carry about a six-shooter to protect his life, then the six-shooter will go. But that won't be for a long time yet. Why, if it wasn't for us cow-boys, there wouldn't be no living in the border settlements. The horse-thieves and the outlaws would just rampage about as they pleased, and who would follow them out on the plains and into the mountains? But they know we won't have them out here, and that there would be no more marcy shown to them if they fell into our hands than there would be to a rattler. Then, again, who is it keeps the Injuns in order? Do you think it is Uncle Sam's troops? Why, the Red-skins just laugh at them. It's the cow-boys."

"It ain't so long ago," Long Tom put in, "as a boss commissioner came out to talk with the natives, and make them presents, and get them to live peaceful. People out in the east, who don't know nothing about Injuns, are always doing some foolish thing like that. The big chief he listens to the commissioner, and when he has done talking to him, and asks what presents he should like, the chief said as the thing that would most tickle him would be half a dozen cannons with plenty of ammunition."

"'But,' says the commissioner, 'we can't give you cannon to fight our troops with.'

"'Troops!' says the chief; 'who cares about the troops? We can just drive them whenever we like. We want the cannon to fight the cow-boys.'

"That chief knew what was what. It is the cow-boys as keep back the Red-skins, it's the cow-boys as prevent these plains getting filled up with outlaws and horse-thieves, and the cow-boys can do it 'cause each man has got six lives pretty sartin at his belt, and as many more as he has time to slip in fresh cartridges for; and because we don't place much valley on our lives, seeing as we risk them every day. We know they ain't likely to be long anyhow. What with death among the herds, shooting scrapes, broken limbs, and one thing and another, and the work which wears out the strongest in a few years, a cow-boy's life is bound to be a short one. You won't meet one in ten who is over thirty. It ain't like other jobs. We don't go away and take up with another trade. What should we be fit for? A man that has lived on horseback, and spent his life galloping over the plains, what is he going to do when he ain't no longer fit for this work? He ain't going to hoe a corn-patch or wear a biled shirt and work in a store. He ain't going to turn lawyer, or set up to make boots or breeches. No, sirree. He knows as ten years is about as much as he can reckon on if his chances are good, and that being so, he don't hold nothing particular to his life. We ain't got no wives and no children. We works hard for our money, and when we gets it we spend it mostly in a spree. We are ready to share it with any mate as comes along hard up. It might be better, and it might be worse. Anyway, I don't see no chance of changing it as long as there is room out west for cattle ranches. Another hundred years and the grangers will have got the land and the cow-boys will be gone, but it will last our time anyhow."

Hugh was much struck with this estimate of a cow-boy's life by one of themselves, but on thinking it over he saw that it was a true one. These men were the adventurous spirits of the United States. Had they been born in England they would have probably either enlisted or run away as boys and gone to sea. They were men to whom a life of action was a necessity. Their life resembled rather that of the Arab or the Red Indian than that of civilized men. Their senses had become preternaturally acute; their eyesight was wonderful. They could hear the slightest sound, and pronounce unhesitatingly how it was caused. There was not an ounce of unnecessary flesh upon them. Their muscles seemed to have hardened into whip-cord.

They were capable of standing the most prolonged fatigue and hardship, and just as a wild stag will run for a considerable distance after receiving a wound that would be instantly fatal to a domestic animal, these men could, as he had seen for himself, and still more, as he had heard many anecdotes to prove, sustain wounds and injuries of the most terrible kind and yet survive, seeming, in many cases, almost insensible to pain. They were, in fact, a race apart, and had very many good qualities and comparatively few bad ones. They were, indeed, as Long Tom had said, reckless of their lives, and they spent their earnings in foolish dissipation. But they knew of no better way. The little border-towns or Mexican villages they frequented offered no other amusements, and except for clothes and ammunition for their pistols they had literally no other need for their money.

Nothing could exceed the kindness with which they nursed each other in illness or their generosity to men in distress. They were devoted to the interests of their employers, undergoing, as a matter of course, the most prolonged and most prodigious exertions. They were frank, good-tempered, and kindly in their intercourse with each other, as addicted to practical jokes as so many school-boys, and joining as heartily in the laugh when they happened to be the victims as when they were the perpetrators of the joke. Their code of honour was perhaps a primitive one, but they lived up to it strictly, and in spite of its hardships and its dangers there was an irresistible fascination in the wild life that they led.

CHAPTER XI.

A FIRE ON THE PLAINS.

AFTER the hard work at the round-up the journey north seemed almost a holiday. Of an evening the cook's accordion was again brought out, and the men sang and, to Hugh's amusement, danced. He thought the proposal was a joke when it was first made, but he soon saw that it was quite serious. He had declined to take part in it, saying that he had never danced since he was a little boy; but it was as much as he could do to restrain his laughter, upon seeing the gravity with which eight of the cow-boys went through a quadrille to the music of the accordion. Then followed waltzes, and then some Mexican dances, the entertainment being kept up for a couple of hours.

Dancing, indeed, is one of the favourite amusements of cow-boys, and there being no females to dance with they dance with each other, and are so accustomed to do so that it comes to them as naturally as if dancing with women. When, however, they are camped within thirty or forty miles of a Mexican village, it is no unusual thing for a party of half a dozen to ride over to it. Perhaps one has preceded them to make the arrangements. These are simple. The Mexicans are very musical, and there is not a village where men capable of playing upon the mandoline, and perhaps other instruments, cannot be found. An arrangement is made with these and with the landlord of the little inn.

The preparations are not expensive—spirits for the men and a supply of cakes and syrups for the women. The news spreads like lightning, and in the evening Mexican villagers, male and female, in their best attire, from miles round arrive, some in carts and some on horseback. The music strikes up, and the dance is kept up until morning. Occasionally these entertainments end with a fray, arising generally from the jealousy of some young Mexican at the complacency with which his sweetheart receives the attentions of a cow-boy admirer. But these are quite the exceptions. The Mexicans know that their hosts will be off in the morning, and that they shall probably never see them again, and they therefore put up philosophically with the temporary inconstancy of the damsels of their village.

To the Mexican girls, indeed, these cow-boys are veritable heroes. They have heard endless tales of their courage. They know that the Indians, who hold their countrymen in absolute contempt, fear to meet these terrible herdsmen. The careless way in which they spend their money, their readiness to bestow their gorgeous silk handkerchiefs, their really handsome and valuable sashes, or the gold cord of their hats, upon their favourite partner for the evening, fills them with admiration. They know, too, that when, as occasionally happens, a cow-boy does marry a Mexican girl, and settles down upon some little ranche among them, the lot of his wife is greatly easier than that of those who marry Mexicans, and that she will be treated with an amount of consideration and courtesy undreamt of by the Mexican peasant, who, although an humble adorer before marriage, is a despotic master afterwards. It is not surprising, then, that upon occasions like these the cow-boy hosts have a monopoly of the prettiest girls at the ball.

Round the camp fires in the evening Hugh heard many tales of such evenings spent in the villages of New Mexico.

"I had a very narrow escape once," a cow-boy known as Straight Charley said. "There were six of us went up together to a Mexican village, and we gave a first-rate hop. There was a big crowd there, find things went on well until there was a muss between one of our fellows and a Mexican. Jake was rather a hard man, and we hadn't much fancied his being of our party, for he was fonder of drink than of dancing, and was quarrelsome when the drink was in him. I don't know how the muss began, for I was dancing with as pretty a little Mexican girl as I ever came across. However, I haven't any doubt as Jake was in the wrong. The first I knowed about it was that the music stopped, and then I heard loud voices. I saw a knife flash, and dropped my partner, and was going to run in to stop it, but I hadn't more than thought about it when there was the crack of a pistol. Then knives were out all round, and there was a pretty lively fight.

"It seemed, as I heard afterwards, that when Jake shot the Mexican—and I don't say he had no right to do so when the Mexican had drawn his knife first, for if he had not shot he would have been killed himself—two or three other Mexicans went for him, and, as a matter of course, two of our fellows went for the Mexicans. If they hadn't been all mixed up together the six of us could have cleared the hull lot out, but mixed up like that, and with girls about, our fellows hadn't much show. I was just breaking through to take a hand in the game, when a fellow who had been looking pretty sour at me for some time, jumped on my back like a wild cat, so down I went, and in half a minute my legs and arms were tied tight with their sashes. I didn't try to struggle after I had fallen, for I knew well enough that our fellows had got the worst of it.

"When matters cleared up a bit I found that four Mexicans had been killed, and five or six others pretty badly hurt. Jake and another of our boys were dead; two others had broke out, run to their horses, and ridden away. Another of the boys had been taken prisoner, but he had got two or three knife-cuts before he was knocked down. There was a big hubbub for some time, as you may guess, and then they told us we should be taken to the town in the morning. Well, they took off the sashes, and marched us away to a house at the end of the village. It was a plank house, and built in the same fashion as their adobe huts, with one room behind the other. Of course they had taken our six-shooters and knives away from us, and they shoved us into the inner room, and then a dozen of them sat down to play cards and keep watch in the other.

"The place had been built as a sort of lock-up, and there were heavy bars to the window, just as you see in a good many Mexican houses. They had left our legs free, but had put some ropes round our arms; but we knew that we could shift them easy enough. The Mexicans had shut the door between the two rooms, but we could hear their talk through it, and we heard that, though the thing had been brought on by Jake, there would have been a muss anyhow sooner or later. Two white men had come into the village a fortnight before; they were dressed like cow-boys, but I reckon they were horse-stealers or outlaws, anyhow they had kicked up a row and shot three men, and rode away, and the Mexicans had seemed to make up their minds that they would take revenge on the next party that came in, whoever they were.

"Well, things looked pretty bad for us. If we had once got inside one of their prisons, the Mexican judges would have made short work of us. The greasers would, of course, have sworn that we had begun the row, and shot down four or five of their people without the least cause, and it would have been a case of hanging, as sure as a gun; so Dave and I agreed that we had got to git somehow. It wur no use talking of fighting, for there was a dozen fellows in the next room, and they had all got their guns along with them. We hadn't got our knives, and there was no chance of cutting our way out. We were talking it over when someone said, 'Are you there, Charley?' at the window. It was one of the boys who had got away. You bet I was there pretty sharp.

"'Here I am, Ginger,' I said. 'How goes it?' 'Pretty bad,' he said; 'Jeffries is cut pretty near to pieces, and I am wounded in half-a-dozen places, and can scarce crawl. Jeffries is with the horses a mile away. He is too bad to stand. I made a shift to crawl back to see what had become of you. I have been creeping round, and heard the two of you were shut up here, and that you was going to be taken off to-morrow, and would be hung, sure, so I came round to see what could be done; here is my six-shooter if it will be any good to you.' 'No, that won't be any good,' I said; 'there are twelve of them, and they have all got guns; but give me your knife; these planks are pretty thick, but we can cut our way through.' 'I haven't got it,' says Ginger; 'it was knocked out of my belt in the fight, and, worse luck, Jeffries has lost his too. A fellow got hold of his wrist, so he couldn't use his pistol, and he drew his knife, and he was fighting with it, when he got a slice across his fingers which pretty nigh cut them off, and he dropped his knife, and, as luck would have it, just wrenched himself free and bolted.'

"'Well, we must do what we can,' I said; 'but it is hard luck on us. Look here, Ginger, you bring the two horses up to that clump of trees over there; Dave is pretty badly cut about, and cannot run far, but he can make a shift to get over there. If we don't come by an hour before daylight it ain't no use your waiting no longer; you go and pick up Jeffries, and make tracks; but I reckon that somehow we shall manage to come.' 'All right!' says he, and went. 'Now, Dave,' I said, 'you turn over and let me get my teeth at your knots, it is hard if I don't manage to undo them.'

"Sure enough, in five minutes I had loosed a knot, and then the rest was easy. Dave untied me, and we were free so far. 'What next?' says Dave. 'We will have a look round,' says I. Luckily there was a moon, and there was plenty of light to see what was in the room. There was some bits of furniture and bedding, just as they had been left by the people they had turned out to make room for us, but nothing that I could find as would help us to cut our way out. 'Now, Dave,' says I, 'you get to that corner and I will get to this, and just shove against the planks, and see if we can't push the hull side of this shanty out.' Well, it wur too strong for us. It was made of rough boards, pretty strongly nailed. I thought it gave a little, but nothing as would be any good. 'If we could throw ourselves against it both together it might go,' I said; 'but it mightn't, and if it didn't we should have them inside in a moment, and there would be an end to it. What do you say to our burning ourselves out, Dave?'

"'How are we to do that, Charley?' he said. 'Well, I have got my box of matches in my boot, and I suppose you have yours too. Let us pile up some of these wooden things against the two corners; there is plenty of straw in this bed. Before we begin we will hang one of these blankets over the doorway so as to keep the smoke from going through the cracks. I reckon they are all smoking in there, and they won't smell it very quick.' So we made a pile, moving as quiet as we could, standing still when they were not talking much in the next room, and moving whenever they made a row, which was pretty often. 'These things are as dry as chips,' I said, 'and what smoke there is will mostly go out through the window, but I expect there will be more than we shall like. Here is a big pitcher of water, we will soak these two blankets, and then lie down close to the floor; you cover your head over with one, and I will do it with the other. Now, then!'

"We lit a couple of matches and touched off the straw, and in half a minute there was a blaze up to the roof. Then we lay down by the other wall one on each side of the door, and waited. In about two minutes there was a shout in the next room and a rush, then the door was flung open and the blanket torn down, and such a yelling and cussing as you never heard. The smoke was pretty bad where we was lying, and I reckon that up higher it was as thick as a wall. 'The cursed Americans have lighted the house and smothered themselves,' one of them shouted. Then they rushed out, coughing and choking, and we heard them shouting for water, and there wur as much row as if the village had been attacked by Injuns.

"A COUPLE OF KICKS SENT OUT THE PLANKS, AND THEN WE BOLTED."

"We waited another three or four minutes, and then Dave shouted, 'I can't stand this no longer.' I had hoped they would have left the outer door open, and that we could have got out that way, but we had heard it shut. I expect someone more cute than the rest suspected we wur inside biding our time. 'Take a long breath, Dave,' says I, 'and don't breathe again until you are out; now jump up and join me.' We joined hands and made a run, and threw ourselves against one corner of the end of the hut. Several of the planks fell, and a couple of kicks sent the rest out, then off we bolted.

"There wur a yell outside, for by this time half the village were there. Luckily the men with guns was mostly round by the door, and when the yells fetched them there was too many women and children about for them to shoot. We went straight on, as you may guess, and we were half-way to the woods before the shooting began, and it wur pretty wild at that. Dave gave out afore he got to the trees, and I had to carry him.

"'This way,' Ginger shouted. I lifted Dave on to a horse, and jumped up behind him, and we wur off just as the Mexicans came running up. After that it wur easy enough. We rode to where Jeffries had been left, got him on to Ginger's horse, and made tracks for the camp. Jeffries died next day, but Dave got over it. That wur a pretty near touch, I reckon."

"It was indeed," Hugh said. "That was a very lucky idea of yours of burning out the corners of the house."

"Some of them Mexicans is cusses," another cow-boy put in. "I had a smart affair with them in one of their villages last year. I had rid in with Baltimore Rube. We had been searching some of the gullies for cows, and had run short of sugar and tea. Waal, I was on a young broncho I had only roped two days before, and the critter wur as wild as could be. When we rode in, a lot of them brutes of dogs that swarms almost as thick as their fleas in all these Mexican villages, came barking round, while one big brute in particular made as if he would pin my broncho by the nose, and the pony plunged and kicked till I thought he would have me off. There was a lot of their men standing at their doors smoking, for it wur late in the afternoon, and they wur all back from what they called work. I shouted to them to call their dogs off, but they just laughed and jeered, so I did the only thing as there was to do, just pulled out my six-shooter and shot the dog. Waal, if it had been a man there could not have been a worse sort of row. The Mexicans ran into their houses just as quick as a lot of prairie-dogs when they scent danger, and in a moment were back with their guns, and began to blaze away. Waal, naturally, our dander riz, a bullet chipped the bark off my cheek, and by the way my broncho jumped I knew one had hit him, so Baltimore and I blazed away in return, and neither of us didn't shoot to miss, you bet. We just emptied our six-shooters, and then rode for it.

"Baltimore got a shot in his shoulder. I had one in the leg, and there was two in the saddle. We talked it over and agreed it wur best to say nothing about it. Them Mexicans will swear black is white, and when there is a whole village swearing one way, and only two men swearing the other way, them two has got but a poor show of being believed. So we concluded to leave those parts altogether, and we rode a hundred and fifty miles in the next two days, and then camped for a week till our wounds healed up a bit.

"A fortnight after that we went into the station, and there I happened to light upon one of them rags the Mexicans calls papers, and there sure enough was the account of that business. 'Two cow-boys, unknown, rode last week into the quiet village of Puserey, and without the slightest provocation commenced a murderous attack upon its inhabitants, and after killing four and wounding eight men, they galloped off before the inhabitants had time to betake themselves to their arms to defend themselves. A reward of five hundred dollars is offered for their apprehension.' Now, that wur a pretty tall piece of lying; but Baltimore and I agreed it wur best to keep dark about it altogether, for if it wur talked about, it might get to the ears of some of the half-caste Mexicans about the station, and some day or other, when we went into a village, we might find ourselves roped in."

"That is the way," Broncho Harry said indignantly, "us cow-boys get a bad name. Now, I dare say that air article wur copied in half the newspapers in the States, and folks as know nothing about it would say, 'Them cow-boys is a cuss; they ought to be wiped off the arth right away.' It is always so whenever there is a row between any of us and the Mexicans. They give thar account of it, and we goes away and thinks no more about it one way or the other, and there is no one to show it up as a lie from beginning to end; and I know there's people think we are as bad as the Injuns, if not worse, and that we ride about shooting down people just for amusement. Then all these outlaws and horse-thieves and bad men near the settlements dress as much as they can like us, and every murder as they commits, every horse that gits stolen, every man that gits held up and robbed, it is just put down to the cow-boys. While if the truth wur known, for every one of these fellows caught or wiped out by the sheriff and their posse, there is twenty gets wiped out by us."

There was a cordial "That is so, Broncho," all round the fire, for the injustice connected with their reputation was a very sore point among the cow-boys.

"Well, some day, Broncho," Hugh said, "when I get away from here, for, as you know, I haven't come here to stay, I will take pen in hand and try to give a true account of you and your doings, so that people may see that there are two sides to the question."

"Bully for you, Hugh!" Long Tom said; "just you put it in hot and strong. I tell you it ain't nice if one does go down to the settlements in the winter, when work is slack, to see people look at you as if you wur a wild beast, who is only waiting his chance to hold up the hull town. Why, I have seen women pull their children indoors as I came along, as if I wur a mountain lion, and was meaning to draw my six-shooter on them just for amusement."

"Well," Hugh said, "I must say I heard stories at M'Kinney of cow-boys coming down to a town and riding about shooting off the hats of the inhabitants, making targets of the bottles in the saloons, and generally turning the place topsy-turvy. Of course I didn't believe it all."

There was silence round the fire, and then Straight Charley said:

"Well, Lightning, I won't say as you have been altogether deceived as to that, and I won't deny as I have taken part in sprees myself, but you see it don't hurt no one. It is just fun. If we do shoot the heads off the bottles, we pays for them, and it makes one laugh till one can scarcely sit in a saddle to see an old cuss jump when you put a bullet through his stove-pipe hat. It is his fault for wearing such a thing, which is an unnatural invention altogether and should be discouraged."

"We do carry on," Broncho Harry agreed, "thar ain't no denying it. When a man has been out in these plains for six months working worse than a nigger, and that without a drop of liquor, it is natural as he should go in for a high old time when he gits down to a town with money in his pockets; but thar ain't no real harm in it. We know how we can shoot, and that if we fire at a hat there ain't no chance of our hitting the head inside. It just makes things lively for them for a bit, and there is never no trouble, unless anyone is fool enough to take the matter up and make a muss about it."

"I am not saying you do any real harm, Broncho, only you see the people in the towns don't know how well you shoot. If you knock a pipe out of my mouth, as you have done once or twice, I only laugh, because I know there was no chance in the world of your hitting me; but you see they don't all know that. And so when a man finds there are two holes in his hat an inch above his head, he thinks he has had a marvellous escape of being murdered."

"I don't deny as there is something in that," Broncho Harry said reflectively; "but you see it is in their ignorance that the mistake comes in, not in our shooting. Anyhow, you see we have got to do something to amuse ourselves, and we might do worse than just skeer a few store-men, who take it out of us by charging us about double the price they charge anyone else."

Hugh was not convinced by the argument, but he felt that it was of no use to pursue the subject further.

"How do the cows know their calves?" he asked one day, as at the end of a march some of the cows were loudly lowing for their offspring to come to them.

"By smell," Broncho Harry replied promptly.

"You don't see much of their ways here, for the calves are pretty well grown up; but when you are driving a herd, as I have done many a time, made up altogether of cows and young calves, you see a lot of it. Ten or twelve miles a day is as much as you can do with a herd of that sort. What steers there are always go ahead, grazing as they go. The cows will come straggling along next, and then the calves strung out all over the place, and the rear-guard have pretty hard work to hurry them up. You see calves have got no sense, and run anywhere—under your horse's legs or anywhere else; while the cows don't pay much attention to them till they get to the end of the march. Then they begin to bawl for their calves to come to them, and the calves begin to bawl for their mothers, and I tell you that for a bit there is such a row going on that you would think the end of the world had come. Two thousand cows and as many calves can kick up a row, you bet, that will well-nigh scare you."

"But don't the calves know their mothers' voices?"

"Not a bit of it; it is just smell and nothing else that brings them together. You would think the cows would know something about the colour of their young uns, but they don't. I have seen a cow that I knew had a white calf run up to a black calf and smell it, then to a brown one, and then to a spotted one, while her own white calf stood bawling fit to kill herself a dozen yards away. It is wonderful how they do find each other at all, and the job often takes them two or three hours. Some of the cows concludes at last that their calves have been left behind, and then off they set, and would go all the way back to the place they had started from in the morning if you didn't stop them. Sometimes they don't find them at all that night."

"But what happens to the calves then?"

"The calves shift for themselves. They run up to other cows which have got their own calves sucking. Each cow will generally let them have a suck or two, and then drive them off, and in that way they get enough to last them on till they find their mothers in the morning.

"There is a good deal of trouble in keeping night-watch over a herd like that. It isn't that there is any risk of a stampede. A cow herd will never stampede if there are a lot of young calves in it; but they don't settle themselves comfortable to sleep. The calves want to wander about, and the cows who haven't found their young ones keep trying to slip off to take the back track, and you have got to be always on the watch for them. Take it altogether, I would rather drive a beef herd than a cow herd."

After a week's travel they reached the spot that had been fixed upon for the herd to graze. The cow-boys' work was now much lighter. Parties of twos and threes could often be spared for a day's excursion up to some Mexican village among the hills, or they would go off for three or four days' hunt among the valleys to pick up any cattle that had evaded search during the round-up. One day, when there were but four of them in camp, two of the party who had been absent a couple of days rode in at full speed, and reported to the head of the outfit that they had seen the light of a fire up north.

"Then there is no time to be lost," Colley said. "Will you two men stop here and look after things? I will ride off with the other four and fight the fire. When the others come back do you start out after us. The last two who come in must stop here. Give us what food you have got, darkey; we may be away four or five days. Directly we have gone set to and cook something for the others."

Hugh and Bill Royce had returned the day before from an expedition among the foot-hills. Broncho Harry and another cow-boy were also in camp. In five minutes the horses were saddled, and they dashed off at full speed.

"It is lucky that the wind is not blowing strong," Colley said, "or we should have the fire down here before we got news of it, and there is no place handy where we could drive the herd. I expects those blessed Injuns lit the fire."

Hugh was very pleased that he was in camp when the news came. He had heard many stories from the cow-boys of these terrible fires, and knew that at times they had wrought havoc among the herds, whose only hope of escape lay in reaching a stream wide enough to check the progress of the flames.

After riding twenty miles they could distinguish a faint odour of smoke in the air, and as they gained a crest soon after sunset could see a long line of light in the distance.

"It is a big un," Broncho Harry said, "and no mistake."

They lost no time in getting to work, for the wind was rising, and there was but little time to spare. They had on their way picked out a steer from a bunch they came upon, and had driven it before them, and had also stopped and cut faggots of wood from a clump of bushes in a hollow. A shot from Broncho Harry's revolver brought the bullock dead to the ground, and while Royce lit a fire the others with their long knives proceeded to split the bullock into two portions, dividing it from its head down to its tail.

"Now, Broncho, will you go east with Lightning while Royce and Jake go west? Keep on until you meet some fellows from the other outfits. They are sure to be at work all along the line. If you don't meet any by the time you get to the end of the flames, then work back and fight the fire as you come. I expect the other four man will be up in an hour or two."

Broncho Harry and Royce at once lit two of the long faggots, and fastened the others to their saddles. They then tied the ends of their ropes to the blazing faggots and started. Hugh having been already instructed in his part, fastened his rope to a leg of the half bullock, and mounted his horse—he had not brought Prince this time, as he feared that he might get burned. He waited until Broncho Harry was a quarter of a mile ahead. Already a line of fire was rising in his track, the dried grass catching like tinder as the blazing faggot passed over it. It had already run along a width of twenty feet or so, burning fiercely on the leeward side, and making its way in a thin red line to windward. It was the leeward side that Hugh had to attend to, and galloping his horse along the ground over which the flame had just passed, he dragged the half carcass of the bullock behind him, so that in its course it passed over the line of flame, which its weight and the raw under-surface instantly crushed out. For ten miles he rode on, and then found that Harry had stopped.

"We are beyond the edge of the fire," the latter said. "It is the other side where there is most danger, unless Smith's outfit have got news in time. Waal, we have done our part of the job so far."

Looking back Hugh saw a sea of fire approaching across the plains. The wind was blowing stronger now, and the air was full of smoke and ashes. Far along the track they had come a thin line of fire was advancing against the wind to meet the great wave that was sweeping down towards it.

"We passed some bushes half a mile back," Harry said. "We will ride back to them, and then let the horses go. We sha'n't want them any more, and they are pretty well mad with fright now."

As soon as they reached the bushes they leapt off, and letting the horses go cut as many boughs as they could carry. Then retiring from the strip of burnt ground, already forty or fifty yards wide, they awaited the flames. Their approach was heralded by burning fragments, and they were both soon at work beating out the flames as fast as they were kindled to leeward of the burnt strip. Single-handed they would not have succeeded, but other cow-boys speedily arrived, and along the whole line parties were at work fighting the fire. At times it got such hold that it was only checked by lighting fresh fires to leeward, and crushing them out as had been done at first, and it was thirty hours before the fire was extinguished along that part of the line.

Then the news came that further west it had burst through, and the cow-boys, mounting fresh horses that had been brought up, rode off and joined in the fight there, and it was not until after three days' unremitting effort that the danger was finally subdued. During all this time the men had not a moment's rest. Their food and water had been sent up from the waggons, and a hasty meal was snatched occasionally. When all was done they were blackened with smoke and ashes. Their hair and clothes were singed, and they were utterly exhausted with their efforts. However, they had saved the herds, and were well content with their work; but, as soon as it was over, each man threw himself down where he stood and slept for many hours, watch being kept by some of the last arrivals, for it was by no means improbable that the Indians would swoop down to take advantage of the confusion and drive off cattle.

As soon as the cow-boys were roused next morning they rode off to their respective outfits, and Hugh's party on their arrival enjoyed the luxury of a bathe in the stream, near which the waggon of No. 2 outfit was placed. Then, after their change of clothes, they gathered for a comfortable meal.

"Waal, Lightning, that has been a fresh experience for you," Broncho Harry said.

"I am glad I have seen it," Hugh replied; "but I don't want to repeat it."

"This was nothing, Hugh. Four years ago there was a fire here that swept right across the plains; there was a strong wind and no stopping it, and there were over 100,000 cattle burned. I suppose some day or other they will be passing laws for putting up fences. If they do, I tell you it will be something like ruin to a good many ranches, for it will prevent cattle from running before the flames. As it is now, their instinct takes them either to a stream or to some high bluff. But if there was fences they would never get away. In the north they lose whole herds in the same way from snow-storms. A herd will drift before snow and wind for hundreds of miles, but if there is anything that stops them they just get snowed up and die. Ranchmen have troubles enough, but if they was obliged to fence it would go far to break up the business.

"Look out, lads, here comes someone galloping into camp. I expect he has got news of the Red-skins. I reckoned they would be out on the track of the fire.

"Oh, it's Tom Newport," he said, as the man approached. "Waal, what he says you may take for gospel. He is not one of them fellows who gets hold of the tail-end of a story and then scares the whole country. Waal, Tom, what is it?"

"Just mount up, Broncho, and get all your crowd together. There ain't no time for talking now; I will tell you all about it when we get on the track."

In an incredibly short time the men had all saddled, and were ready for a start, filling their water-skins, and getting from the cook what bread and cold meat remained over from breakfast. "Now, which way, Tom?"

"North-east. I will tell you about it. The Injuns have come down and attacked Gainsford. They have killed five or six men and most of the women and children. They have carried off five or six girls, and old man Rutherford's Rose is among them."

An exclamation of fury broke from several of the cow-boys.

"Where is Gainsford? and who is Rutherford's Rose?" Hugh asked.

"Gainsford is a small place just among the foot-hills south of the Injun country. There are about twenty houses. Rutherford, he wur the first to settle there. We told him over and over agin that it wur too close to the Injuns, and that there would, sure, be trouble sooner or later; but Steve, that is Rutherford, is one of those pesky obstinate cusses who just go their own way, and won't listen to reason from no one. He got a little herd of cattle up in the valley there, and a patch of cultivated land, and he reckoned he wouldn't be solitary long. He was right enough there, for, as I told you, the place grew, and there are pretty nigh twenty houses there now, that is, there wur twenty houses; I don't suppose one is standing now. Rutherford, he war a cow-boy once, and married and settled down there, and Rose is his daughter, and as good a lass as there is west of Missouri. Rutherford's house is free quarters for those of us who likes to drop in. In course we makes it up to him by taking in a deer or a bear's ham, or maybe a few bottles of whisky, if we have been down to the settlement and laid hands on them, and if we come across any mavericks when we are alone, we just brand them R.R., and I reckon Rosie has got 200 cattle out here, and they will come in mighty handy for her when she chooses a husband."

"Is that often done?" Hugh asked.

"You bet. There are a score and more girls, whose fathers' shanties lie up in the foot-hills, and who are friends of ours, have got a nice little clump of cattle out on these plains. Of course any man, living near the plains, can turn his cattle out, and there are dozens of private marks. Waal, you see, if a girl only gets twenty branded for her it increases every year, because the calves running with the cows get the same brand put on them; and I have known many a girl when she was married have a little herd of three or four hundred. So, I tell you, it hits us all that Rose Rutherford has been carried away, and we are bound to get her back if it air to be done. When was it, Tom, that it happened?"

"Yesterday evening, 'bout ten o'clock, I wur riding that way and intended to sleep at Steve's, when I saw a light burst up, and then two or three others. I galloped pretty hard, you may guess, but before I got thar it wur over and the Injuns had gone; but I larned from a boy who had been hiding among the bushes, but who came out when he saw me, how it wur. He said he had seen Rose and five or six other girls carried off. Whether old Steve wur rubbed out I don't know. I didn't stop to ask no questions. I knew whereabout your outfit was, and rode straight for it."

"Then the skunks have got sixteen or seventeen hours' start," Broncho said. "There is no chance of our catching them till they are right back into their own country. I reckon we shall have a pretty sharp fight of it before we get them gals back."

CHAPTER XII.

AN INDIAN RAID.

THE cow-boys were all mounted on horses that had not been worked for some days. Hugh was on Prince, and they got over the ground at great speed, arriving before sunset at the ruined village. There were three or four men, seven or eight women, and as many children gathered when they rode in. The men had been absent when the attack took place, the women had escaped by seizing their children and rushing out at the backs of the houses and hiding among the rocks and bushes, as soon as the yells of the Indians and the explosion of the firearms burst upon their ears.

"We heard you was coming," one of the men said; "but I fear it is too late; they have got too far a start altogether."

"We didn't waste a minute," Broncho Harry said; "we wur in the saddle three minutes after Tom brought us the news, and we have rode seventy miles since. Tom has done a hundred and forty since last night. Where is Steve Rutherford? has he been wiped out?"

"No; he wur away after a bunch of horses that had strayed. He wur camping out twenty mile away when he saw the light and guessed what it wur; he drove the horses in before him, feeling sure as he would be too late to do any good, but reckoning that they might be useful."

"Good man," Broncho said; "but where is he?"

"He went on alone after them," the man said. "Some of us would have gone with him, but he reckoned he had best go alone; thar wurn't enough of us to fight; he allowed that you boys would be here presently, for the young un here told us as Tom had ridden off with the news. Rube Garston and Jim Gattling rid off an hour later, and I reckon they will bring a few more up before morning; may be sooner."

"How many horses are there?"

"Fifteen of the old man's, I reckon. They are in that corral behind his house, and I guess we have got as many more between us."

"Then there are enough to mount us ten and as many more," Broncho Harry said. "Ours ain't good for no more travel to-night. Waal, we will just eat a bit, and then we shall be ready to go on. How many air there of you?"

"Six here."

"Waal, that makes sixteen. I see three of you have got rifles, and four of us have brought rifles along with us. The only question is, which way have the red devils ridden? It air no use our following them if we haven't a clue of some sort. I reckon Steve will be here before long; that is what he has gone for. He would know he couldn't do any good himself, and he would be pretty well sure as we couldn't gather here in any such force as could enter the Injun country afore this evening."

"He took a lantern with him," one of the boys said.

"Yes, that is it. I guess he followed on foot till daylight, then he mounted and went on their trail until he could give a pretty good guess as to where they was heading; then I allow he will come back to tell us; that is how I read it."

"I expect you are right, Broncho. He didn't say much when he started; but when we talked of going with him he said, 'Just you stop where you are, there ain't anything you can do; we can't fight them till we get help. You just wait right here, boys.' It wur rather rough on us, when our gals are being carried off and our wives have been killed, and the hull place ruined; but we knew as Steve knew a sight more about Injuns than we did, and had been many a time into the heart of the Injun country afore they broke out, so we waited. But I tell you, Harry, it wur hard work to sit quiet and know that them murdering villains was getting further away every hour."

"We will have them yet!" Harry said confidently. "If the old man don't ride up in another half-hour we will start. We will follow the trail as far as we can with lanterns. If we get to any place where the trail branches, then there will be nothing to do but to wait for Steve. Have yer eaten? because if not, yer had best fill up. It air no use starting on such a job as this fasting. We shall have need of all our strength afore we have done, you can bet your boots!"

None of the men had, in fact, eaten anything since the preceding night, but they saw the justice of the advice.

"There is some sheep up behind my place," one of them said. "Like enough they was up on the hills when the Injuns came, but I saw some of them go in there this morning. There ain't no time for cooking now, so we will share your grub, and I will shoot three or four of the sheep and cut them up. They will last us for two or three days."

"That is a good idee; and if there is any flour as hasn't been carried off, you had best make up a few lots of five or six pounds each and tie them up in cloths. They will come in mighty handy. Hello! here are some more of the boys!" A minute later eight more cow-boys rode up.

"Hello, Broncho! I thought we should find your crowd here. We have ridden all we knew to be here in time to go on with you—that is, if you are going on."

"We are going on as far as we can, Ike; we are just changing horses. I think there are about enough left to give you one each."

"Have you any news which way the Red-skins have gone?"

"Not yet. Old man Rutherford followed 'em up. I expect he will be here soon; if not, we shall meet him. They have got twenty hours' start—that is the worst of it. No, there ain't no chance of overtaking them, that is sartin. What we have got to do is to wipe some of them out, and to give them a lesson, and get the girls back again if we can; and we have got to do it quick, else we shall have the hull Injun country up agin us."

"I did not think that they would have done it," another man said. "The old man wur always good friends with the Injuns, and made them welcome when they came along."

"It ain't no good being kind to Injuns," another put in. "There ain't no gratitude in them."

"Injuns air pison!" Broncho said; and a general murmur of agreement expressed that in the opinion of the cow-boys this summed up the characteristics of the Red-skins.

In a few minutes the new-comers were provided with fresh horses. A spare horse was taken on for Rutherford, and then, headed by the survivors of the raid, the party started three-and-twenty strong. They travelled fast; not that there was any occasion for speed, but because every man was burning with the desire to get at the enemy. After riding about twenty miles they checked their horses, for a fire was seen a short distance ahead.

"That's all right," one of the settlers said. "That will be Rutherford, sure enough. It is just there where the valley forks. He is waiting there for us. He would know we shouldn't want a guide as far as this."

As they came up a tall figure rose from beside the fire.

"Well, Steve, have you tracked them?" Jim Gattling, the youngest of the party from the village, asked eagerly.

"They have gone over the divide into the Springer Valley, have followed that some way, and then through the little cañon, and up towards the head-waters of the Pequinah Creek. I only went through the cañon to see which way they turned, and then made back here. I guessed some of you would be coming along about this time."

"Was they riding fast?"

"No. They halted here for some hours. I reckon they had ridden a long way afore they attacked our place. I saw their fires some time afore I got to them, or I might have walked into them, for I didn't think they would have halted so soon. I tied the hoss up and scouted round 'em and when they started this morning before daylight took up the trail after them. They weren't travelling very fast. You see they had got about a hundred head of cattle with them, and I reckon they have three or four days' journey before them. As far as I could make out, from what I seed of them, they don't belong to this part at all. Sartin they was going easy, and didn't reckon on being followed. It ain't often they get chased when they are once in the hills. Waal, boys, I am glad to see you, and I thank ye all. It is what I expected from yer, for I felt sure that when you got the news you would muster up."

"We have brought a fresh horse for you, Steve," Jim Gattling said. "We druv in a herd this afternoon, and they all changed back there, so we are ready to ride at once."

"That's good, Jim! I was wondering over that, and thinking that if yours had come in from the plains they wouldn't be fit for any more travel to-night, for I knew they was a long way out. Where wur you, Broncho?"

"We wur on Little Creek."

"Ah! that's about sixty miles away from our place. Waal, boys, we may as well go on over the divide and down into the valley; there we had best camp. You will have done a hundred miles by then, and will want sleep. Besides, we mustn't knock the hosses up; they have got their work before them, and maybe we shall have to ride on our way back."

"How many of the skunks are there?"

"Over forty."

"We sha'n't have much trouble with that lot," Broncho Harry said.

"Not if we catch them before they git to their village, Broncho. But I doubt whether we shall do that."

"Waal, we will fight them, Steve, if there was four hundred of them!" Harry said. "We have come to get your Rosie and the others back, and we are going to do it, you bet."

Rutherford held out his hand and gripped that of the cow-boy; then, mounting the horse that had been brought for him, he took his place at the head of the party and led the way.

It was a toilsome journey over the shoulder that divided the two valleys. The pace was necessarily confined to a walk, and it was five hours before they reached the stream upon which they were to camp. Here the horses were turned loose to graze, and the men threw themselves down upon the ground and were soon asleep, for it was now past midnight. With the dawn of day they were on their feet again, a great fire lighted, and some of the mutton cut up and cooked, and some cakes baked. As soon as the meal was eaten they again started.

Hugh had not changed his horse at the village. Broncho Harry told him that it was not likely they would travel for many hours that evening, and he knew that Prince, who had had an easy time of it lately, could easily do this, and he greatly preferred keeping him, for he felt that upon such an expedition as this his speed might be of the greatest utility.

A rapid ride of ten miles up the valley took them to the mouth of the cañon, which came into the main valley at a sharp angle. It was wide at the entrance, but soon narrowed down into a gorge from ten to twenty feet wide, with rocks rising precipitously on both sides. It was evident by the smoothly-worn face that in the wet season a tremendous torrent rushed down, filling it thirty or forty feet deep; but it was perfectly dry now, and for the most part they were able to ride at a fair pace. Here and there, however, masses of rock had fallen down from above since the last rains, and here they had to dismount and allow the horses to clamber over by themselves as best they could. At such spots scratches upon the face of the stones showed where the party they were pursuing had passed on the previous day.

The cañon was upwards of a mile in length, and the valley into which it led was some hundreds of feet higher than that which they had left. As soon as they emerged from the pass they put their horses into a gallop, the track of the party before them being plainly visible. As they got deeper among the mountains the scenery became very wild. Forests clothed the hills. Great masses of rock towered above the valley, and huge blocks of stone encumbered the route they had to pursue. Sometimes the track left the bottom and wound up the hillside, passing at times along the ledges, with precipices above and below. Anxious as they were to press forward, much of the journey had to be performed at a foot-pace, for many of the horses having been brought up on the plains all their lives were fidgety and nervous on such unaccustomed ground, and required coaxing and care to get them along the passes.

They travelled until late in the afternoon and then halted. The next day's work was of the same character. They were now high up among the hills, and Steve told them that they were near the crest of the range.

"We had better stop here," Rutherford said about three o'clock in the afternoon, as they arrived at a little stream. "We mustn't knock the critters up; they have done a good day's work already."

"We have gained upon them, Steve," Broncho Harry said. "The traces have been getting fresher."

"Yes, we have gained a bit, but not very much. Their horses would go faster than ours, because they are accustomed to the mountains; but the cattle will have kept them back. Why I stop here is because there is a sort of wall of rock with a passage up through it a mile or two ahead, and though I don't expect they have any idea they are followed, they are like enough to have left a sentry on the top of that wall. It 'ud never do for them to attack us here; we should have no show at all. I want to get my girl back, but throwing away our lives ain't the way to do it. Be careful how you pick the wood for the fires, boys: we mustn't let any smoke go curling up. You have got to see that every bit you put on is as dry as a chip."

"How on earth do the Indians manage to live among these hills?" Hugh asked, after the meal had been cooked and eaten.

"The country is different on the other side," Jim Gattling said. "We are pretty nearly up to the top of the divide now, and on the other side the slopes are much more gradual. They have plenty of ranges where they have got cattle and sheep. But I don't know nothing about the country here. Steve has been over, but there ain't many as has."

"Yes," Rutherford said, "it is as Jim says. There is a wide sort of plateau, with big valleys down to the Canadian. We ain't very far now from the frontier of New Mexico, and from the top of the hills here you can see the Spanish peaks a hundred and fifty miles away. I reckon we may have to go down that side. There are a heap of Injun villages up here, and though we may thrash the lot ahead of us they would gather pretty thick in a short time, and like enough cut us off going back, for they know the tracks better than we do, and their horses would go at a gallop along places where we should have to drag ours. Going down the other way we can ride as fast as they can, and when we once get down in the valley of the Canadian we shall get help at the ranches there."

"That will certainly be the best way, Steve," Broncho Harry said. "We are all ready to fight any number of them on the plains, but it wouldn't be good to be hemmed up among these hills with no chance of help. We could keep them off, I reckon, till we had eaten our boots, but they would make an end of us at last, sure. Have you often been along this line before, Steve?"

"Once. I came across here with a party of Red-skins just after the last peace wur made with them, when it was sure that they wouldn't break out again until they had got their presents. I had got a stock of beads, and looking-glasses and cottons, and such like, and went up with a couple of mules and traded among them for skins, and worked robes and moccasins and Indian trumpery. I sent them back east, and did a pretty good trade with them. But I know the other side well. I was ranching two years down on the Canadian, and we had two or three fights with the Red-skins, who was pretty troublesome about that time. There weren't many ranches down there then, and we had to look pretty spry to keep the har on our heads."

"And how do you propose to work it now, Steve?"

"Well, I reckon that if they have got a sentry on them rocks I spoke of he won't stay there after dark, and that the danger will be at the other end of the pass. Like enough, there will be one or two of them there. I reckon the best plan will be for me and Jim Gattling and a kipple of others to go on ahead quiet. If we find any of the skunks there, in course we shall wipe them out. When we have done that the rest can come up the pass. It ain't no place for anyone as doesn't know every foot of the way to come up in the dark; and you must make torches, ready to light up, when one of us goes back with the news that the pass is clear. As soon as we have done with the Red-skins, Jim and I will go off scouting. You see we don't know yet what band this is, or how far their village is away. We will follow on the trail, and when the rest get up through the pass they must just wait till we bring them word. I reckon, from their coming by this road, as their place is about fifteen mile from the top of the pass. There is a big village there, and I expect they belong to it. I reckon they are just getting there now, and they will be feasting pretty considerable to-night. It air a pity we ain't handy. However, it cannot be helped. We should risk it all if we was to try to push on afore it got dark."

"Your plan seems to pan out all right, Steve. Who will you take with you?"

"Waal, you and Long Tom may as well come, Broncho, though, I reckon, it don't make much difference, for you all means fighting."

As soon as it became dusk the party again moved forward.

"That's the rock," Rutherford said, pointing to a long dark line that rose up before them. "They can't see us here, and I reckon if there wur a scout there he has moved off before this. Now, do you other fellows take our critters and just move on slowly. You see that point sticking up above the line. Waal, that is on one side of the pass; so you just make for that, and stop when you get there till one of us comes back."

The torches had been prepared during the halt, two or three young pitch-pines having been cut down and split up for the purpose. The four scouts moved off at a quick walk, and the rest of the party picked their way along slowly and cautiously towards the point Steve had indicated. They had some little trouble in finding the entrance to the pass, but when they discovered it they threw the bridles on their horses' necks and dismounted. The time went slowly, but it was not more than two hours before they heard a slight noise up the pass, and a minute or two later a footfall.

"Is that you, Broncho?" Hugh asked.

"No, it air me; but it is all the same thing, I reckon. Jehoshaphat! but I have knocked myself pretty nigh to pieces among them blessed rocks. It air just as dark as a cave; there ain't no seeing your hand."

"Well, is it all right, Tom?"

"No, it ain't gone off right. When we got to the top of the pass there wur two Red-skins sitting at a fire. We come along as quiet as we could, but just as we got in sight of them I suppose they heard something, for they both jumped on to their feet and wur out of sight like a streak of lightning. We waited without moving for half an hour, and then they came back again. We could have shot, but Steve reckoned it was too great a risk; so he and Jim undertook to crawl forward while Broncho and me wur to keep ready to shoot if the Redskins made a bolt. It wur a long time, or at least seemed so. The Red-skins was restless, and we could see they was on the listen. Waal, at last up they both jumped; but it wur too late. Steve and Jim fired and down they both went, and we came on. The wust of the business wur, that one of their hosses broke loose and bolted. Steve fired after him. He may have hit him, or he may not; anyhow he went off. So now you have got to hurry up all you know."

The torches were at once lit, and leading their horses the party made their way up the gorge. It was steep and narrow, and encumbered with boulders; but in half an hour they reached the other end. Broncho Harry was awaiting them.

"We have got to move away to the right for about half a mile and stop there. There is a clump of trees, and that is where we are to wait. It air a 'tarnal bad business that air hoss getting away. He is pretty sure to bring the Injuns down on us. Steve ain't going very far. He sez there is another village about three miles from the one he thinks most likely; and when he gets about four miles away from here he will be able to see which way the tracks go, and then he will come straight back to the trees."

"Do you think you hit the horse, Harry?" Hugh asked as they made their way to the clump of trees.

"You don't suppose I could miss a horse if I tried, Hugh. I hit him sure enough, worse luck. If I had missed him it wouldn't have mattered so much. If he came galloping in by himself they might have thought he had got scared at something—by a bar, perhaps—and had just made tracks for the camp. Like enough they would have sent off four men to see if it wur all right; but when the blessed thing turns up with a bullet in his hide, they will know there has been a fight."

"What do you think they will do then, Harry? Are they likely to ride out in force to the gap?"

"They may, and they may not. I should say they won't. I should guess they'll just throw out scouts all round their village and wait till morning. They won't know how strong our party is, and wouldn't take the risk of being ambushed in the dark."

"Perhaps when the horse goes in they won't notice it, especially as they will be feasting and dancing."

"I don't reckon that worth a cent, Hugh. There are safe to be one or two of their boys out looking after the horses; besides, those varmints' ears are always open. They would hear a horse coming at a gallop across the plain half a mile away, aye, and more than that. Directly the boy sees the horse is saddled he will run in and tell them, then they will take it in by the fire and look at it. When they see the mark I have made on it there will be a nice rumpus, you bet. They will know what it means just as if it wur all writ down for them."

Two hours passed, and then the sound of an approaching horse was heard.

"Well, Steve, what news?"

"The horse has gone on straight for the village—the one we thought—and all the other tracks go in that direction. There ain't no chance of taking them by surprise now."

"What do you think they will do, Steve?"

"They will just watch all night, that is sartin, and in the morning two or three will be sent out to scout. There ain't many trees about here, and they will reckon that they can see us as soon as we see them; and those they send out are safe to be on the best horses they have got. In course we could lie down there by the gap and shoot them when they come up; but I don't see as that would do us any good. When they didn't get back it would only put the others more on their guard than ever. If we don't shoot them they will find our tracks here, and take back news how many we are. I tell you, lads, look at it as I will, I don't see no way out of it; and what makes it wuss is, when they take back news that the scouts they left here have both been shot, it will go mighty hard with the captives in the village. I can't see no way out of the kink anyhow. I am ready to give my life cheerful for Rosie, but I ain't going to ask you to give your lives when I don't see as there is any chance of getting her. Do you see any way out of the job, Broncho?"

"I don't, Steve. As you say, there was about forty or fifty of these varmint in the expedition, and we may reckon there will be as many more able to draw a trigger in the village. That makes eighty. Four to one is pretty long odds. If they was out in the plain we might be a match for them, but to attack an Injun camp that's waiting and ready ain't the same thing as fighting in the plains. Half of us would go down before we got in, and there would not be no more chance of the rest of us getting the captives away than there would if they was in the moon. If it hadn't been for this affair of the hoss we might have carried out your plans, and you might have made your way into the village; and there wur just the chance that yer might have got them out and brought them along to some likely place where we was handy; but there ain't no need to talk about that now. They will be guarded that strict that a bird couldn't get to them with a message. That ain't to be thought of. Can any of you boys think of anything?"

No one spoke. Then Hugh said: "I am only a young hand yet, and I don't know that my ideas are worth anything, but I will tell you what they are, and then you can improve upon them perhaps. It seems to me that, in the first place, we ought to leave say four men at the gap. If four Indian scouts come out they ought to shoot or rope three of them, and let the fourth escape. If there were only two of them I would let one get away."

"What should they do that for, Hugh?" Broncho Harry asked in surprise.

"I will tell you directly, Broncho. All the rest of us except the four who are left on watch should start at once and make a big circuit, and come round to the other side of the village, and stop a mile or so away in hiding; at any rate, as near as we can get. Why I propose letting one go is this. Suppose three or four scouts go out and none return, the Indians will be sure that they have fallen in a trap somewhere. They won't know how strong we are, or whether we think of making an attack on their village, and they will stop there expecting us for days perhaps, and then send out scouts again. Now, if one gets back with the news that they saw no signs of us until they got close to the gap, and then three or four shots were fired and his comrades were killed, but he got off without being pursued, it seems to me that they would naturally imagine that there was only a small party at the gap—perhaps three or four men from the village they attacked, who had come out to revenge themselves—and would send out a strong party of their braves at once to attack them. Of course the four men left at the gap would, directly they had done their work, and the Indian was out of sight, mount their horses and make the same circuit as we had done, and join us as quickly as they could. We should be keeping watch, and after seeing the war party ride off we could dash straight down into the village. Half, and perhaps more than half, of their fighting men will have gone, and the others, making sure that we were still at the gap, and that there was no fear of attack, will be careless, and we should be pretty well into the village before a shot was fired."

"Shake, young fellow!" Steve Rutherford said, holding out his hand to Hugh. "That air a judgematical plan, and if it don't succeed it ought ter."

There was a general chorus of assent.

"It beats me altogether," Steve went on, "how yer should have hit on a plan like that when I, who have been fighting Injuns off and on for the last twenty years, couldn't see my way no more than if I had been a mole. You may be young on the plains, Lightning, fur so I have heard them call yer, but yer couldn't have reasoned it out better if yer had been at it fifty years. I tell you, young fellow, if I get my Rosie back agin it will be thanks to you, and if the time comes as yer want a man to stand by yer to the death yer can count Steve Rutherford in."

"And Jim Gattling," the young settler said. "Rosie and me wur going to get hitched next month, and it don't need no talk to tell yer what I feels about it."

"Which of us shall stay, and which of us shall go?" Broncho Harry said. "You are the only man as knows the country, Steve; so you must go sartin. Long Tom and me will stay here if you like. You can give me the general direction of the village, and I expect I can make shift to come round and join you. Besides, there will be your trail to follow. I don't reckon they will send out those scouts till daylight. Anyhow, we won't start before that, and we are safe to be able to follow your trail then. Who will stop with us? Will you stay, Hugh?"

"No!" Hugh said decidedly; "I will go with Steve. I am not a very sure shot with the rifle."

"You can shoot straight enough," Broncho Harry said.

"Well, perhaps it isn't that, Harry; but so far I have had no Indian fighting, and though I am quite ready to go in and do my share in a fight, I tell you fairly that I couldn't shoot men down, however hostile, in cold blood."

"All right, Hugh. You sha'n't stay with us. When you know the Injuns as well as we do, and know that mercy ain't a thing as ever enters their minds, and that they murders women and children in cold blood, and that if they do take a prisoner it is just to torture him until he dies, you won't feel that way."

"I will stay with you, Broncho," Jim Gattling said. "I have just seen my house burnt and the best part of my stock carried away, and a dozen or more of my friends killed or scalped, and you bet I would kill a Red-skin at sight just as I would put my heel on a rattlesnake."

Another of the party also volunteered to stay at the gap.

No further words were necessary. The party mounted.

"That is where the village lies, Broncho; just about under that star. It is about fifteen mile, as I told you, on a straight line. We shall keep over there to the right, and in a couple of miles we shall get to where the ground falls, and will travel along there. You can't be wrong if you keep down on the slope. There air no chance then of your being seen. I don't know just where we shall turn off. There are several dips run down from above, and we shall follow one of them up when I reckon we have got a mile or two beyond the village. So keep a sharp look-out for our trail there. You needn't bother much about it before, because you can't miss the way; but look sharp at the turnings. I would drop something to show you where we turn off, but if any Injun happened to come along he would be safe to notice it. When you guess you have ridden far enough keep a sharp look-out for the place when we turn off, and then follow the trail careful. It is rolling ground, that side of the village, and I reckon we kin get within half a mile of it. There ain't much fear of their wandering about, and any scouts they have out won't be on that side. So long!"

Steve Rutherford led the way. "There ain't no need to hurry," he said. "We have got plenty of time, and I reckon that when we get a bit further we will dismount and lead the horses. They have had pretty hard work coming up the hills, and I tell you they are likely to want all their speed to-morrow, and some of them will have to carry double if we can't manage to get hold of a few of the Injun ponies."

Accordingly, after riding for half an hour, the party dismounted, and led their horses for a long distance. This was a novel exercise to the cow-boys, for it is rare for one of them to walk a hundred yards. A horse stands ever ready at hand, and if it be only to go down to the stream hard by to fetch a bucket of water the cow-boy will always throw his leg over his horse. But all felt the justice of Steve's remarks. They knew that they had at least a hundred-mile ride before they could hope to meet friends, and that the pursuit would be hot. It was therefore of vital importance that the horses should start as fresh as possible. After three hours' walking they mounted again, and continued their way until Steve Rutherford said that he thought they had gone far enough now. The moon had risen at two o'clock, and its light had enabled them to travel fast since they had remounted. Turning up a hollow they followed it for about two miles, and then found they were entering a hilly and rugged country.

"Here we are," Steve said. "The village lies at the foot of these rocks. I don't know how far along it may be, but I am right sure that we have got beyond it. Now, boys, you can sleep till daylight. I will keep watch, and see that none of the horses stray."

In a very few minutes all was quiet in the little valley, save for the sound of the horses cropping the short grass. At the first gleam of daylight Rutherford stirred up one of the sleepers.

"I am going to scout," he said. "When the others wake tell them to be sure not to stir out of this dip, and to mind that the horses don't show on the sky-line. The Injuns will be keeping their eyes open this morning, and if they caught sight of one of them critters it would just spoil the hull plan."

Rutherford was gone two hours. Long before his return all the men were up and about. Bill Royce had gone a little farther up the valley, which narrowed to a ravine, and, climbing the rocks cautiously, had taken a survey of the country.

"No signs of the village," he said when he returned, "and no signs of Injuns as far as I can see. So I think, if we go up to the head of this gulch, it'll be safe to make a fire and cook the rest of our meat. There ain't more than enough for one more feed. After that I reckon we shall have to take to horse-flesh. Now, half of us will go up and cook, and the other half keep watch here. We may have Steve coming back with twenty Red-skins on his track."

Just as they had fried their meat Steve returned.

"We are about three miles from the village," he said, "but keeping along at the foot of the hills we can get to within half a mile of it safe. Beyond that it is a chance. What are you doing?"

"Cooking."

"Well, one must eat, but the sooner we get on the better. We want to watch how things go."

As soon as the meal was finished the party mounted, and, keeping close to the foot of the hill, rode on till Steve said, "We cannot go beyond that next bluff; so turn up this gulch. I looked in, and there is good feed for the horses there. You had better look round when you get in to see as there ain't no bar or nothing to scare the horses, and two of yer had best stay on guard here at the mouth. Ef one of them critters wur to get loose and to scoot out below there our lives wouldn't be worth a red cent. Now, Stumpy, you and Owen and me will go up over there. From among them bushes just at the foot of the rock we can see the camp, and we will take it by turns to keep watch. If you others will take my advice you will all get as much sleep as you can till we come for you, but mind, keep two on guard here."

"Can I come with you, Steve?" Hugh asked. "I don't feel like sleep at all."

"You can take my place, Lightning," Royce said. "I ain't in no hurry to look at the Injuns. I expect I shall see plenty of them afore we have done."

CHAPTER XIII.

RESCUED.

STEVE RUTHERFORD, the settler Owen, and Hugh made their way along at the foot of the steep rocks, keeping among the fallen boulders, stopping at times, and making a close survey of the plains to be sure that no Indians were in sight, before moving further.

"That is the point," Steve said presently; "from among those rocks we can get a view of the village. You must keep your head low, Lightning, and not show it above the rocks. They will be keeping a sharp look-out, and like enough they would make out a lizard moving at this distance."

When they reached the point they made their way with extreme care to the highest boulders, and then, lying down, looked through the interstices between them. Hugh started as he did so, for although the Indian village was nearly half a mile away, the mountain air was so clear that it did not seem a quarter of that distance. Its position was well chosen; the hill rose almost perpendicularly behind it, defending it from an attack on that side, while in front and on both sides the ground sloped away and was clear of brushwood or inequalities that would afford shelter to assailants. Trees stood in and around it, affording shade during the heat of the day. A number of horses were grazing close to the village, with half a dozen Indian boys round them, in readiness to drive them in at the shortest notice. Smoke was curling up from the top of the wigwams, and through the trees many figures of men and women could be seen moving about.

"How long do you think it will be, Steve, before their scouts get back again?"

"Another hour, I should guess; I expect they started at daybreak. Anyhow, they had gone before I got here. I reckon they wouldn't travel fast going there; in the first place they would scout about and look for signs of an enemy, and in the second they wouldn't want to blow their horses, for they might have to ride for their lives any moment. I should give them four hours, a good two and a half to get there, and something over an hour for one of them to get back again. He may be here in half an hour, he may not be here for an hour; it will be somewhere between one and the other."

Twenty minutes passed, and then Steve exclaimed, "Here he comes!" The other two caught sight of the Indian at the same moment, as first his head and shoulders, then the whole rider and horse, appeared on the crest of a rise some four miles away. He was as yet invisible from the village, but in a few minutes they could perceive a stir there, and three or four warriors ran out from the village, leaped on to their horses, and galloped out to meet the returning scout. They saw them join him, and, sweeping round without a check, accompany him, and in ten minutes they reached the village. A minute later a mournful wail sounded in the air.

"They know it now," Steve said; "they are just about beginning to feel as we do. It is all very well as long as they go out, and murder and burn, and come back with scalps, but they don't like it when the game is played on them."

"When will they start out again, do you think, Steve?"

"Not yet awhile, they are going to talk; Indians never do anything without that. There, do you see, there ain't a man among the trees; there are some women and children, but nary a warrior. You may be sure that they are gathering for a great council; first of all the scout will tell his story, then the chiefs will talk. It will be another hour at least before there is a move made."

"Oh, I do hope our plan won't fail!" Hugh said.

"I don't think that there is much chance of it," Owen put in. "They are bound to do something. Their scout can only report that, so far as he saw, there was not more than four men, and as they did not chase him he expects they have no horses. They never can leave it like that. They are bound to go out and see about it, otherwise they know they couldn't go in twos or threes without the risk of being ambushed, just as the scouts were; besides, they lost the two men they left behind, and maybe one, maybe three, this morning, and they are bound to have vengeance. Oh, they air safe to go!"

An hour later a sudden succession of wild yells were heard.

"Thar's their war-cry," Steve said; "the thing is settled, and they air going." A few minutes later the Indian boys were seen driving the horses in towards the village, and then a number of warriors ran out.

"There air a good lot of them," Steve said, in a tone of satisfaction. "They was sure to go, the question wur how many of them. It will be a strong party anyhow."

The Indians were soon seen to be mounting. "Now we can count them," Steve said. "Five-and-thirty."

"I couldn't tell within four or five," Hugh said; "they keep moving about so, but I should say that was about it."

"Yes, five-and-thirty," Owen agreed. "You have the youngest legs, Lightning, you scoot across as hard as you can run and tell them to get ready; Steve and I will see them fairly off, and then we will come in. Don't let them move out of the hollow till we join you; there ain't no special hurry, for we mustn't attack till the band have got four or five miles away. If they heard the guns they would be back agin like a torrent."

Hugh did as he was told. As he ran down over the crest into the dip he gave a shout of satisfaction at seeing Broncho Harry and the three men who had remained with him; they had arrived a few minutes before.

"Well, Harry, we saw all had gone right, as only one of their scouts came back."

"Has it drawn them?" Harry asked.

"Yes; a band of five-and-thirty started five minutes ago."

"Bully for us!" Harry said. "Then we have got them all right now. I expect there ain't above thirty fighting men left in the village, and, catching them as we shall, they won't have a show against us."

"How did you get on, Harry?"

"It wur just as you reckoned, lad; three of 'em came out. They were very scarey about coming close; they yelled to their mates, and in course got no answer; then they galloped round, one at a time, getting nearer and nearer, but at last they concluded that the place was deserted, and rode up. We let them get so close that there wur no fear of our missing, and then we shot two of them; the other rode for it. We fired after him, but took good care not to hit him, and as soon as he had gone we ran to the wood where we had left our ponies, and came on here pretty slick. There wur no difficulty in following your trail; we reckoned that we should have to come pretty fast to be here in time, as it wur three or four miles further for us to go than the Injun would have, and he wouldn't spare his horse-flesh. Still we was sure it would be an hour at least before they was ready to start, more likely two. Jim Gattling wur flurried a bit; natural he wouldn't like not to be with the others when they went in to rescue Rosie. So it seems we air just in time with nothing to spare. But here comes Steve."

By this time all had been got ready for a start. Horses had been brought up, saddles looked to, girths tightened, and blankets strapped on. A hearty greeting was exchanged between Steve and the party just arrived.

"We will give them another ten minutes afore we start," Steve said. "Now, we had better settle, Broncho, as to what we should each do when we get in, else there may be confusion, and they may tomahawk the prisoners before we find them."

"Yes, that is best," Broncho agreed. "Now, look here; our crowd will do the fighting, and you and your fellows jump off as soon as you get in, and search the wigwams. You will know just where to go; the prisoners are safe to be in a wigwam close by that of the principal chief; he will keep them close under his eye, you may bet your life. And mind, boys, let us have no shooting at squaws or kids. We have come out to rescue the women they have carried off, and to pay out the men for the work they did, but don't let us be as bad as they are."

There was a general assent from the cow-boys, but two or three of the men who had come with them grumbled, "They have killed our wives and children, why shouldn't we pay them back in the same coin?"

"Because we are whites and not Red-skins," Broncho Harry said. "Look here, Steve; we have come here to help you, and we are risking our lives pretty considerable in this business, but afore we ride into that village we are going to have your word that there ain't going to be a shot fired at squaw or child. Those are our terms, and I don't think they are onreasonable."

As a chorus of approval went up from the rest of the cow-boys, and as the others were well aware that what they said they meant, they unwillingly assented.

"That is right and square," Broncho Harry said. "You have all given your promise, and if anyone breaks it, I begin shooting, that is all. Now it's about time to be moving, Steve."

The men swung themselves up into their saddles. "Now, boys, quietly until we get in sight of the village, and then as fast as we can go."

But all were eager for the fight, and the pace gradually quickened till they came within sight of the village. Then they charged down upon it at full gallop. They had gone but a short distance when they heard the cry of alarm, the yells of the Indians, shouts and orders, screams of women and children, and the barking of the village dogs. Shots were fired, but to Hugh's surprise these ceased before the cow-boys reached the village.

"The skunks are bolting," Broncho Harry exclaimed. "Keep round the trees, No. 2 outfit, and straight across the plain after them. They may have got some of the girls."

It was, however, less than two minutes from the moment the assailants had been seen to that when they burst into the village. The Indians, taken altogether by surprise at the appearance of a foe from a quarter from which no danger had been apprehended, and seeing a band of the dreaded cow-boys dashing down at a gallop, caught up their arms, and then, in obedience to the orders of the chief left behind in charge of the village, dashed out to their horses, mounted, and rode off. Their leader had seen at once that there was no hope of resistance. The assailants were nearly equal in number to the fighting men left in the village, they would be armed with those terrible pistols that were the dread of the Indians, and they had all the advantage of a surprise. There was nothing to do but to ride off to the main body.

For a moment the thought of killing the prisoners before starting had crossed his mind, but there was no time to run to the wigwam in which they had been placed, and he saw too that their death would entail that of the Indian women and children. These had been no less speedy in their movements than the men, and at the first cry of danger the women had seized their infants and, followed by the boys and girls of the village, had fled along the foot of the cliff till they reached a spot where, although steep, it was accessible. Here a path, winding among boulders and hidden by bushes, led up to the top of the cliff. This had been constructed by the boys of the village at the time the Indians first established themselves there, for the purpose of enabling its occupants to make their escape in case of a sudden attack by superior forces.

Steve and his party were astonished when, as they dashed into the village, they found the place almost deserted. A few old men stood at the entrances of their wigwams, and four or five aged women were assembled in front of one standing near the centre of the place; and as the cow-boys and settlers galloped up, five white women ran out from the wigwam to meet them, with cries of joy.

"All safe, Rosie?" Steve Rutherford shouted as he rode up.

"All safe, father;" and a cheer burst from the rescuers as they leapt from their horses and crowded round the girls. These had all friends or relations among the party.

"Three of you let off your rifles one after the other," Steve said, the instant he had embraced his daughter. "I told Broncho as he rode off that should be the signal that we had got them all. Then some of you had better ride as hard as you can after them. You may be wanted, though I don't expect the Indians will stop. Tell Broncho he had best come back again, there ain't no time to lose. The rest of you scatter and put a light to these wigwams. There is all the things they stole from us scattered among them, and all their skins and things, not worth much, perhaps, but a lot to them. Look into the huts and see there ain't no babies left in them. Where are all the women and children, Rosie?" But Rosie was at that moment much too occupied with Jim Gattling to hear him.

"Never mind that now, gal," Steve said, striding up to them; "there will be time enough for fooling when we get out of this. Whar are the women and children?"

"I don't know, father. We know nothing about it. We were in the wigwam and suddenly heard shouts and screams, and then almost directly everything became quiet, and then these old women opened the door and made signs to us to come out, and as we did we saw you charging in among the trees."

ALL SAFE, FATHER," CRIED ROSIE.

"Where are the squaws and children?" Steve asked one of the old women in her own language. She looked vacantly at him as if she did not understand. "Bah! that's no use," he said; "I might have known that. Scatter about, boys; see if you can't find some of them. They can't have gone out on to the plain, that is sartin. They can't have got up this cliff—not here. Perhaps thar's a cave somewhere. Scatter along and sarch. Go right along some distance each way, thar may be some path up somewhere."

"What does it matter about them, Steve?" one of the settlers asked. "We agreed there wurn't to be no killing of squaws or kids."

"I don't want to kill them," Steve said. "I am just so pleased at getting my girl and the others back that I don't feel like hurting anything; what Broncho and me reckoned on was to take some of the chiefs' wives and children along with us as hostages. If we had them with us we reckoned they would not attack us on our way back. I tell you, boys, it may just make the difference of our scalps to us."

Not another word was needed, and all, with the exception of a few of the friends of the rescued women, scattered on the search. It was ten minutes before they found the concealed path. The man who discovered it ran back to Rutherford. "I have found the place, Steve; it is away three or four hundred yards to the left there. Just at the end of the clump of trees there are some bushes against the face of the hill. It didn't look as if there could be any way up, but I pushed through them, and, sure enough, there was some steps cut in the rock. I went up them, and round a sharp angle there was a sort of gap in the cliff. You couldn't see it from the plain, and a path went straight up there."

"That air bad news, Owen. They have got a quarter of an hour's start, and it ain't no sort of use our going after them. Waal, there is nothing to do but to ride for it. I wish Broncho's party was back."

"They air just coming back," a man said. "I have been to the edge of the wood to look after them. They are galloping back, and will be here in a few minutes."

By the time Broncho Harry and his party rode into the village the wigwams were all in flames. The men who had set fire to them had brought out the meat they had found inside. There were several quarters of deer, and a quantity of beef, doubtless the produce of animals belonging to the herd they had driven off. They were satisfied that the burning of the wigwams would be a heavy loss to the Indians, for they had found many piles of skins and robes stored up to be used in barter for guns and horses. Indeed, the whole belongings of the tribe, except their cattle, were destroyed, together with, what perhaps would be even more severely felt, the scalps taken from their enemies in many a fight and massacre. A few words acquainted the new-comers with what had taken place, and they were delighted to find that they had arrived in time to save the women from the fate that awaited them.

"Did you hear the rifle-shots, Broncho?"

"Nary one. We was having a skirmish with the Red-skins. They showed fight at first till they saw the rest of the boys coming out. We chased them two miles, and killed six of them. Then we thought it best to come back, for we could see that a couple of the best mounted had been sent straight off as hard as they could go after the first lot. We should not have chased them as far as we did, but we wanted to rope five of their horses for the women. As soon as we had done that we took the back track. Have you caught some of the squaws, Steve?"

"No, worse luck, they had all cleared out afore we got here. There was nary a soul in the village except these old men and women."

"But where on earth did they get to?"

"It took us a quarter of an hour to find out, and then one of the men lit on it pretty nigh by accident. Right along the cliff thar is some steps cut in the rock. They are hidden by bushes, and up above them is a sort of gap in the rock with a path up it. You can't see it from the plain at all. No doubt that is the principal reason why they fixed their village here. It gave them a means of escape if they were attacked."

"Waal, if you haven't got no hostages, Steve, there ain't another minute to waste here. You see we had figured on them hostages. I see you have got some meat; that is good. Waal, are you all ready? because if so, let's git."

Three minutes later the party rode away from the burning village, the women mounted on the Indian horses.

"Thar's our cattle," Steve said, pointing to a herd out on the plain, "but it ain't any use thinking of them now."

"You bet," Broncho Harry replied. "There ain't no thinking about horns or hides at present. It is our own har we have got to think of."

"You think they will catch us up, Broncho?" said Steve.

"I don't think nothing at all about it. They are just as sure to catch us up as the sun is to rise. We have got every foot of a hundred miles to go, and the horses have been travelling hard for the last three days. By this time those fellows as have galloped on ahead are pretty nigh their main party, if they haven't overtook them before this. They had no call for speed, and would be taking it easy. You can't reckon much more than ten miles start. Still, when they catch us they won't be more than three to one.

"There was thirty-five went out, you said, Steve, and another twenty-five in the second lot. That brings them up to sixty, which is pretty nigh three to one.

"Well, three to one ain't such great odds even if they wur to come down and fight us in a body; but I reckon they would not do that. They are more likely to make a surround of it. They would know that we should have to leave pretty near half our number to guard the women, and the rest wouldn't be strong enough to charge them. Besides, it ain't only sixty we have got to reckon with. Like enough half a dozen of them started, as soon as we turned back, to the other villages of the tribe. You may reckon we shall have two or three hundred of them coming along in our track in an hour or two. Don't you make any mistake about it, Steve; we sha'n't get away, and we have got to fight. Now, you know the country, and what you have got to reckon up is, where shall we fight? You can't calkilate on above fifty miles, and if you say forty it will be safer. A few of the horses might get a bit further than that, but taking them all round, and reckoning they have been going hard for the last few days, forty is the longest we can calkilate on afore we hear the Red-skin yells behind us."

"The Two Brothers are about forty miles from here," Steve Rutherford said.

"Ah! I have heard of them. They are two buttes close together, ain't they?"

"Yes. We should be safe enough there if all the Red-skins in creation was attacking us. They might starve us out, but they could never climb up. One of the Brothers there ain't no climbing up at all. It stands straight up all round, but the other has got a track up. I have seen cattle on the top."

"Do you know the way up, Steve?"

"Yes. I was with a party that came out from the Canadian looking up cattle that had strayed. We didn't find many of the cattle. The Injuns had got them, you may be sure; but we stopped at the foot of the buttes, and did some hunting for a day or two. Three or four of us climbed up. It ain't a road you would choose to drive a team down, and I should not have thought that cattle would have climbed it if I hadn't been told they did so. Still it is good enough for us."

There was no attempt to gallop at full speed, the horses being kept at a canter, the pace to which they are most accustomed.

"There," Steve said, pointing to the lower country ahead of them, for they had since starting been gradually descending, "there are the Brothers."

"They don't look far away," Hugh, who was riding beside him, remarked.

"I guess they are near fifteen miles, Lightning."

"I should have said five if I had been asked," Hugh said.

"I wish they was only five. I expect before we get half way to them we shall hear the Injuns behind us."

"Yes, Broncho has been telling me what you think of it. Well, there is one thing, if we get to those buttes first we can keep the whole tribe at bay."

"Yes, lad, as far as fighting goes; but there is one thing agin us."

"Water?" Hugh asked.

"You have hit it. I don't say as there mayn't be some water up there. I reckon there is, for they told me the cattle would stay up there for some time without coming down. There weren't no cattle when I was there, and I didn't see no water, but it may be at times there is some. The top of the place seemed to me lowest in the centre—not a great deal, perhaps maybe not more than three or four feet—and if there is any hole in the middle there may be water there. I wurn't thinking of it at the time, and didn't look for it. Maybe in the rains it gets filled up, and there is enough to last the cattle some time. Everything depends on that."

"I have been thinking," Hugh said, "that if I were to ride straight on I might get through to the next ranche. My horse is a first-rate one, and I am sure he could do the distance."

"If he had started after a couple of days' rest he could carry you a hundred miles, I don't doubt. There ain't nothing out of the way in that. I have ridden as much a score of times; but you see, lad, he has not had much rest and not much time to eat since we started. You rode him out from your camp and then on to the first halting place; that made eighty or ninety mile. Next day we made sixty, I reckon. Then he was going all yesterday till we halted before we went up through the pass, and he kept on going till a good bit past midnight. We may not have done more than fifty or sixty mile, but he got no feeding till we got into that dip about two o'clock this morning.

"If you only had the horses after you that the Indians rode down to Gainsford I should say your horse would carry you as well as theirs would; but it won't be so. You bet your life, that mob we saw outside the village was a fresh one. The fust thing they would do when they got to camp in the afternoon would be to send some of the lads off to the grazing grounds with the horses they had ridden, and to fetch in a fresh lot. Besides that, as I told you, there will be others of the tribe coming up and jining in the chase. Scores of them. They will all be on fresh mounts, and they will be just on the best ponies they have got, for they will guess that we are heading for the Canadian. No, no, lad; it'll never do. They would ride you down sartin.

"Another thing is, whoever goes has got to know every foot of the country, to travel at night, and to be able to find his way to the nearest ranche. That job will be mine, I reckon. I know more of the Injun ways than anyone here, and if anyone can do the job I can. Besides, it is my place. You have all gone into this affair to get my Rosie out of the hands of the Red-skins, and it is my duty to get you out of the scrape. Listen!"

The whole party checked their horses simultaneously as the air brought to their ears a long, quavering yell, and looking back they saw against the distant sky-line a confused body of horsemen.

"Two miles good, ain't it, Broncho?"

"About that, I should say, Steve; and we have got twelve to ride. Now, then, let the ponies know they have got to do some work."

The shouts of the riders, the tightening of the reins, and a touch of the spur told the horses what was required of them, and they sped along at a very different pace to that at which they had hitherto travelled.

"We are all right, I think," Long Tom said to Hugh. "They have been riding a good deal faster than we have, and I don't think they will gain on us now—not anything to speak of. We shall be at the buttes long before they catch us, though you see when one party is chasing another they have got a great advantage."

"How do you mean, Tom? I don't see what advantage they have."

"They have this advantage, Lightning. All horses ain't the same. Some can go a lot faster than others. Some can keep on ever so much longer than others. There are some good and some bad."

"Of course there are, Tom, but that is the same with both parties."

"Sartin it is, lad, but you see the party that is chasing go at the speed of their fastest horses; waal, not of their fastest, but the speed that the most of them can keep up. Those who are badly mounted drop in the rear and are left behind; the others don't consarn themselves about them. Now, it is just the contrairy with the party that is chased. They have got to go at the pace of the slowest horse among them. They can't leave one or two of their mates to the marcy of the Red-skins: they have got to keep together and to fight together, and, if must be, to die together. There is a lot of difference among the horses in this crowd. We just took what we could git when we started; thar wurn't no picking and choosing. Thar wur one apiece for us good or bad. The pace we are going ain't nothing to that horse of yours, but you'll soon see that some of the others can't keep it up, and then we shall have to slow down to their pace."

"I didn't think of that, Tom. Yes, I see, a party that pursues has an immense advantage over one that flies, providing, of course, they are greatly superior in numbers. If not, there will be a time when the best mounted men could no longer ride at full speed, because if they did they would be inferior in numbers to those they chased when they came up to them."

"That is reasonable, lad, and if those Red-skins behind us are only the lot from the village, that will bring them up a bit. They know well enough they can't lick us, if they ain't pretty nigh three to one, and so they will want their whole crowd up, and they won't be able to travel at the speed of their best horses. That is why I said that we shall beat them easy. It ain't really them, it is the bands from the other villages that we have got to fear. I don't know this kintry, and I don't know where the other villages are; but I shouldn't be surprised any moment to see bands cutting in from the right or left. Some of the Injuns would ride straight off there, and they will have heard the news as soon or sooner than the band that went after us to the rocks. They will guess the line we should take, and will all be on fresh horses. That is what I am thinking of all the time."

"I suppose Steve knows?" Hugh said.

"He knows. He ain't said much, but he dropt behind an hour ago, and said to me, 'Keep a sharp look-out on both sides, Tom; that is where the danger comes in.'"

For the next five miles the pursuers did not appear to gain.

"Can't we take it easy, Steve?" Jim Gattling asked. "Some of the horses are beginning to blow a bit. There ain't more than seven miles now between us and the buttes. We might let them walk for five minutes now to get their wind again."

Steve turned in his saddle and looked round at the horses. Wiry little animals as they were, many of them were showing signs of distress.

"We will go a little bit easier," he said, "just a little. When we get to that brow a mile ahead we shall get a better view. Then we will see about it."

The horses were pulled in a little, but still kept at a gallop until they got to the top of the ascent. From this point there was a smooth and regular fall right down to the valley from which rose the buttes six miles away.

"Now you have got to ride for it, and no mistake," Steve said sharply. "There they come both ways. That is just what I was afeard of."

An exclamation of something like dismay broke from many of the men, for two bands of Indians were seen, one on each hand, riding, like themselves, for the buttes. The one to the left was perhaps a mile away, but considerably in advance of them. That on the right was perhaps twice as far, and was, like themselves, just beginning to descend the long incline.

"We shall pass the crowd to the right," Broncho Harry said, "but the others will cut us off, sure."

"That is so, Harry," Steve said quietly. "But there is one thing, there ain't above forty or fifty of them, while that crowd to the right are twice as strong. If they had been first, it would have been all over with us. Well, don't travel too fast, lads. We can't pass ahead of that lot to the left, but there is no fear of the crowd to the right. Just go at the pace we are going now. Look here, what has got to be done is this: we have got to keep together with the women in the middle of us. We have got to go right through them. Now nine of you have got rifles, you keep next to the gals. The moment we have got through the Injuns, you ride with them straight on to the foot of the butte. I must go with you, because I know just where the path starts, and no one else does. The moment you get there you jump off the ponies, take post among the rocks, and open fire on the Injuns. You, Broncho, with the rest of them, directly we are through, you turn again and charge them. Just check them for about a minute, that will be enough; then you ride in and we will cover you with our rifles."

"That is about it," Harry replied. "Now, boys, you all hear. You with the rifles go straight on. And look here, empty your six-shooters into them as you charge—the more you wipe out the better. Then the rest of you with me just give a yell to scare them, and then close with them again. Don't you empty your six-shooters at first, but keep your fire till we are through them; it is mighty hard if the others, with six shots apiece, don't clear the way for us. You must bear in mind that you will want every shot after we are through, so don't throw away one. Don't you bother about the advance crowd with the women. I will keep my eye on them, and when I see they are ready I will give a yell, and then we will ride for it together."

The Indians saw that they had it in their power to cut off the whites from the buttes, and they no longer rode at the headlong speed at which they were going when first perceived, but slackened down their pace. They could, if they had chosen, have brought on the fight at some distance from the buttes, but they had no motive for doing so. They saw the large party coming from the other side, and preferred to delay the contest till the last moment in order that their friends should be near at hand. Steve remarked with satisfaction that they did not attempt to outride his party.

"The fools," he said to Broncho Harry, "they won't be there above a hundred yards before us, and won't get above one shot each before we are on them. If they had known their business they would have ridden fit to kill their horses till they got there, and then jumped off and run up that path and held it. We should have lost half our number at least fighting our way up. In fact, with the women with us, we couldn't have done it."

Scarce another word was spoken as the party galloped on. Mile after mile had been passed, and the buttes were now towering up in front of them. When within half a mile of the foot the riders gradually fell in to the places assigned to them. Those with rifles went in front, then the women, then the men with revolvers only. The small party of Indians kept on until within a hundred and fifty yards of the foot of the buttes, then they halted and turned. The whites were at the moment some two hundred yards behind them. The great party of Indians on the right were about half a mile away. The Indians in front did not await the shock of the whites, knowing that the impetus of the latter would give them an advantage, but raising their war-cry dashed forward to meet them, discharging their rifles as they came.

Not a shot was fired by the whites until the two lines were within twenty paces of each other, then the revolvers of the ten men in front cracked out sharply. Several of the Indians fell. Then there was a crash as the lines met, and then for a moment a confused medley—the Indians fighting with tomahawk and spear, the whites with their deadly revolvers. The conditions were too unequal. There was not one among the band of whites who could not rely with certainty upon his aim, and as in a close line, boot touching boot, they pressed on, the Indians melted like snow before them. It seemed to Hugh but a moment from the time the fight began till the path before them to the buttes was open.

"Forward!" shouted Steve. "We are through them, boys."

As Hugh dashed on he heard Broncho Harry's shout, the cracking of the revolvers, and the yell of the Indians. The women were riding abreast with them now.

"Never mind the gals," Steve shouted. "All tumble off together."

It was but a few seconds before the first band threw themselves from their horses and took up their post behind boulders and bushes. As they dismounted Steve gave a loud shout, and almost at the same moment the party that had fought under the leadership of Broncho Harry wheeled round and rode towards them. Had there been only the Indians that had tried to bar their way to reckon with, there would have been no need for them to seek refuge at the buttes. Half their number had fallen under the bullets of the front line of the whites as they fell upon them. The charge of Broncho Harry's detachment had completed the effect of the blow. The whole conflict had only lasted half a minute, but in that time the deadly six-shooters had wrought terrible havoc with the band of Indians. Less than half of them went galloping back to meet their advancing friends, and several of these were leaning over their saddles evidently badly wounded. Over twenty lay together at the spot where the two parties had met. A few of the horses stood quietly beside their dead owners, the rest were careering wildly over the plain. A loud cheer broke from both parties of the whites as Broncho Harry's band rode in and dismounted.

"That has been a pretty tight race," Long Tom said, "but we beat them handsome."

"Tom, do you all stow away your horses and ours as snug as you can among the rocks and trees, then take your places down here. We will get a bit higher up so as to get a wider range for our rifles, but we haven't time for that now, we must just give this other crowd a hint that we have got rifles and can use them. Now, boys, take steady aim at that clump of Red-skins. Don't throw away a shot. There is nothing like straight shooting for skeering a Red. Here goes;" and Steve, taking a steady aim, fired, while his companions followed his example.

CHAPTER XIV.

SURROUNDED BY RED-SKINS.

THE large band of Indians had checked their horses some five hundred yards from the foot of the buttes as they saw the survivors of the party in front galloping back to them, and realized that the whites had gained shelter. Some of the more impetuous spirits had, however, ridden on, and were some distance in advance when the rifles of the defenders cracked out. Four of the Indians fell from their horses, three others were wounded, and these, with their companions, wheeled round and rejoined the main body, who now, at the order of their chief, fell back, and were, a few minutes later, reinforced by the band that had followed on the footsteps of the fugitives.

"Now, boys, we can go up to the top, but first let us see how we stand. Has any gone down?"

"Yes, there are two missing," Long Tom said. "I saw two of the first line go down as we charged them."

"John Spencer wur killed," Jim Gattling said. "He wur riding next to me."

"Boston wur the other," Broncho Harry said. "I wur riding in a line with him behind, and saw him go back ker-plumb. I knew he wur hit through the head by the way he fell."

Four other men were, it was now found, wounded, and one of the women had been hit in the shoulder with a rifle ball.

"The Red-skins ain't no account with their rifles on horseback," Long Tom said. "Let them lie down and get their piece on a log and they can shoot pretty straight, but it's just throwing away lead to try to shoot with a rifle from a horse. I never knew more than two or three whites who was anyway sartin with their pieces when their horses was on the move. A six-shooter's worth ten rifles on horseback. A fellow kin gallop and keep his arm straight, but when it comes to holding out a long tube with both arms, and your pony going on the jump, it stands to reason there ain't no keeping the thing straight. If those Red-skins had hurried up and dismounted, and steadied their rifles on their saddles, I reckon they might have wiped out half of us before we reached them. Waal, Steve, you and the women, and best part of the others, may as well get up to the top; but Broncho and me, and two or three of the boys, will stop down here and look after the horses. Lightning, you may as well stop down here with a kipple of other fellows with rifles, so as just to give them a hint to keep at a distance, otherwise they will be sending their lead up while the others are getting to the top."

But the Indians showed no signs of any intention of harassing them for the present. They knew that the rifles in the hands of the defenders carried farther and straighter than their own. They had suffered heavy losses already, and were in no way disposed to do anything rash. They knew that there was no occasion for haste, and no fear of the fugitives attempting to make their escape. After some consultation they drew further off into the plain, and in a short time smoke could be seen ascending at several points.

"There ain't no occasion to wait down here no longer," Long Tom said. "The Injuns know well enough that they can't take this place, not at least without losing a hundred men; and it ain't Red-skin fashion to throw away lives, special when they know they have only got to wait to do the job without any fighting at all. So let us go up."

The path was comparatively easy for three-quarters of the way to the summit of the buttes. It seemed that on this side either the rock had crumbled away in past ages so as to make a gradual slope, or else water or wind had thrown up a bank against it. The height of the butte above the broad valley would be about three hundred feet, and the slope was covered with trees and undergrowth, until it terminated abruptly at the face of a wall of rock fifty feet from the summit. At one point only this wall was broken by a sort of gap or cleft some three feet wide at the bottom, and slanting as steeply as the roof of a house. The bottom was worn almost smooth by the rains of centuries and by the feet of cattle, and Hugh had to sling his gun behind him and use both hands to grasp the irregularities of the rock on either side to get up. On reaching the top he found that the summit was almost flat, a couple of hundred yards in length, and as many feet in width. It was covered with grass, and several trees, some of considerable size, were scattered about over the surface.

"Well, Bill," he said as Royce came up to him, "have you found any water?"

"Yes, there is a rock pool in the centre there by that big tree. There is water enough for us and the horses for maybe a week. Enough for us without the horses for a month or more."

"What are you going to do? Bring the horses up here?"

"We haven't settled that yet. I reckon we shall bring the best of them up anyhow."

"I suppose there is no possible place the Indians can get up except by that gap?"

"Nary one, everywhere else the rock goes straight down to the plain. There ain't no way, except by flying, to get up here if you don't come by this gap. Anyhow we shall bring the horses a good long way up the slope; it is a long line along the bottom there, and the Red-skins might crawl up in the night, and we should pretty nigh all have to keep guard. Steve says that though where we came up the ground wur smooth enough, it ain't so over the rest of the slope, but that, what with the boulders and the undergrowth and thorns, it is pretty nigh impossible to get up through the trees anywhere else. He expects that it's been water washing down the earth and sand through that gap that has filled up between the boulders, and made it smooth going where we came up. So we will bring up the horses, and get the best of them up here, and tie the others just below the gap. We can take them down water in our hats if we decide to keep them, or get them up to-morrow if we like. Anyhow all we shall want will be to keep four men at watch down below them."

"I should have thought it best to bring them all up at once, Bill; what is the use of leaving them below?"

"Waal, Hugh, there ain't grass enough to bring them all up here, and every morning we can take them down and let them graze below. There air no fear of the Injuns coming close to drive them off, and if they tried it, the critturs would come up the path again of their own accord, except those we took from the Indians. They can get a good lot of sweet grass under the trees down thar, and as long as they get that they can do pretty well without water. Thar, do you see thar are two or three more lots of Indians coming down to join the others. They'll have three hundred of them down thar before long."

"It don't make much difference how many of them there are, if they dare not attack us," Hugh said.

"That's where you are wrong, Hugh," Broncho Harry, who had now joined them, said. "The more thar are of them the closer watch they can keep to see that none of us gets away, and the more thar are of them the bigger the party must be that comes to rescue us. You may be sure that they have scouts for miles and miles off, and if they get news that there is a party coming up, they will just leave a guard to keep us here, and go down and fall on them."

"I didn't think of that, Harry. Yes, it will need a very strong party to bring us off. But perhaps they will get tired and go."

"Don't you bet on that, Hugh. Ef thar air one thing an Injun never gets tired of, it's waiting. Time ain't nothing to them. Them chaps can send out parties to hunt just as if they wur in their own villages. The boys will bring them down corn, and gather their firewood for them, and as long as we are up here, they will stop down thar, if it was six months. They know how many of us thar are here. Lots of them must have been up here at one time or another, and knowing the time of year, and how much rain has fallen lately, there ain't no doubt they can calkilate pretty well how much water there is in this pool. They will know that we shall keep our horses as long as we can, and they will reckon that three weeks at the outside will see the end of the water. As for food, of course, we are all right. We have got the horses to eat, and horse is pretty nigh as good as cow-beef. I would just as soon have one as the other. A young broncho's a sight tenderer than an old cow any day."

Hugh now took a turn round the edge of the butte. It was, as Royce had said, a mass of rock rising perpendicularly from the plain. It was separated from the other butte by a gap a hundred and fifty feet wide. It was clear that they had once formed one mass, for between them was a rocky shoulder connecting them. This was very steep on both sides, narrowing almost to a razor edge at the top, where it joined the butte on which they were standing. This edge was fifty feet below the top, but it rose as it retreated from it, and on the opposite side reached up to a level with the plateau.

A fire had already been lighted on the top of the butte, and over this the women were cooking some of the meat they had brought from the Indian village, and in a short time the whole party except two, who were placed on sentry to watch the movements of the Indians, gathered round it.

"Waal, boys," Steve said when the meal was finished, "I reckon that thar ain't no time to lose, and that I had best start to-night. There ain't no denying that we air in a pretty tight fix here, and it won't be easy to get a force as can fight their way through that crowd. I reckon I shall not be able to gather over fifty cow-boys on the Canadian, and so I'll have to ride to the nearest fort and get the troops to help. That air about two hundred miles from the Canadian. It ull take me three days to get there after I leave the ranches. It ull take four at the very least before the troops will get down there. You can't reckon less than a week. I shall be two days getting down to the ranches, as there won't be any travelling by day. So you see if I start to-night, you can't reckon on seeing us back afore ten days at the earliest."

"That will be about it, Steve. I don't see as you can do without the troops noway. Waal, we can hold out a fortnight easy. We must put the horses on mighty short allowance of water, so as to make it last a fortnight. If we find it running out quicker'n we expect, we must kill off half the animals. It don't matter about them a bit, ef you come up strong enough to thrash the Red-skins without our help. Yes, I think you had better go to-night. You are as likely to get out to-night as any night, but you'll have to look mighty sharp, Steve, for you may bet your life them Injuns will be as thick as bees round the butte."

"How do you mean to go, Steve?" Hugh asked.

"Tie the ropes together, Lightning, and get lowered down over the edge."

"I have been looking at the ridge that runs from this butte to the other," Hugh said, "and it struck me that if you were lowered down on to it you might get along on to the other butte. Of course two others would be lowered with you, and then you could be let down from the farthest side of the other butte. You said nobody had ever been on it, and anyhow the Indians are not likely to be as thick over there as they would be round this one."

"Thunder! You are right again, Lightning. I will go and have a look at it at once. It will soon be getting dark; Broncho, do you and Long Tom go along with me. We will lie down afore we get to the edge. You may be sure that there are plenty of sharp eyes watching all round, and if they was to see us standing there, and looking at that ledge of rock, they might guess what we had in our minds. While we are away, the rest of you might go down and get up the ponies."

It took some time to lead all the horses up the slope. Prince and four others were brought up to the plateau, but it was necessary to tie strips of blanket under their feet to enable them to get sufficient footing to climb up through the gap.

"I shouldn't have thought that cattle could have come where horses can't," Hugh said.

"Cattle can climb pretty nigh anywhere," the cow-boy he addressed replied. "I have seen cattle climb places where you would have thought that nothing but a goat could get to. You see their hoofs are softer than horses, and get a better hold on rocks. But horses could get up here easy enough if they weren't shod. They don't have a fair show with shoes on."

By the time the horses had been brought up, night had fallen. Four men were told off as a guard; two of them took up their post half-way down the slope; two went down to its foot. No attack was anticipated, for the Indians would be sure that a sharp watch would be kept, and there would be no chance whatever of their making their way up to the summit unobserved. Hugh was not with the first party on watch, and joined the crowd round the fire.

"What time are you going to start, Steve?"

"As soon as it gets quite dark. Thar ain't no good in waiting. They air on watch now, and they will be on watch all night, so thar is no difference that way, and the sooner I goes, the farther I will git afore morning. It is settled that if I am caught to-night, Jim Gattling will try next; ef he goes down too, Broncho Harry will try. After that you can settle among yourselves."

"I will volunteer to be next," Hugh said. "Another couple of days and Prince will be ready to do anything. If I was to try I should start on his back and take my chance. The Indians cannot have many horses as fast as he is, and if I can get through safely, they may ride as hard as they like. There won't be many who can catch me anyhow, and if they came up one at a time, I have my revolver and can hold my own. I shouldn't like to try to-night, for many of their horses are fresh, and Prince wants at least twenty-four hours before he is fit for work again; but if you like to give up your attempt to-night, Steve, I will try to-morrow night."

"No, no, lad, we will do as we have planned. You might do it, and you might not. More likely you would not, for like enough you would run agin a dozen of them going out, and would get a lasso dropped over your shoulders afore you saw or heard them. Besides, you are young, lad. You have got your life afore you. I am getting on, and Rosie will have Jim to look after her, so it don't make much matter along of me."

An hour later it was perfectly dark. Steve had left his hat lying on the edge of the rock exactly above the ridge, when he had visited it with Harry and Long Tom. Several of the ropes were knotted together; while this was being done, Steve withdrew with his daughter and Jim Gattling from the fire, and was absent five or six minutes. He came back by himself.

"I am ready," he said. "Good-bye to you all! I hope as I'll see you all agin afore long." He shook hands with them all round, and then, taking up his rifle, walked away without looking round, followed by Broncho Harry and Long Tom, the latter saying to Hugh and two others, "You come too. We shall want you to lower the last of us down, and to hoist us up again."

The hat was soon found. All three men took off their boots. Broncho Harry tied those of Steve together by a short piece of rope and slung them over his shoulder, and he and Tom left their revolvers and belts behind them.

"Now we are ready," Harry said; "mind, Steve, as you go down you keep your face to the rock, so that that gun of yours sha'n't strike it; you can't be too keerful, you know." A loop was placed round Steve's shoulder under the arm. "You lie down, Hugh, with your face over the edge, then Steve can tell you if we are one side or other of the ledge. It looked plumb down from here, but it mayn't be."

Harry had, rather to Hugh's surprise, taken up his blanket as he left the fire, but he now saw the object; it was partly folded and laid over the edge so as to prevent any chance of the rope touching a rock and being cut by it.

"Now, Tom and I will hold it out a bit beyond the face," Harry said; "and you two do the lowering away. Now, Steve."

Steve knelt down at the edge and lowered himself until the strain came on the rope. This Broncho and Tom held out as far as they could, and the other two steadily lowered it. It was so dark that Hugh could not see the ridge and presently lost sight of Steve. Soon, however, he heard his voice, "About a foot more to the right." A few seconds later the strain on the rope ceased.

"Are you all right, Steve?" Hugh asked.

"Yes, I am astride of it; it is wider than I thought it was. Now I will move on; you can let Broncho down as soon as you like."

The other two men were lowered, and then there was a long silence. It was no easy matter, Hugh knew, to crawl along the ridge, for it was by no means even. The great danger was that there might be loose pieces which would be dislodged and go clattering down below. When, however, ten minutes had passed without any sound being heard, the watchers felt sure that the three men must have gained the opposite summit. There was nothing now to do but to sit down and wait. At the end of an hour and a half, Hugh, who was again leaning over listening intently, heard a voice below him, "Lower down that other rope, Hugh, we are both here."

The short rope was lowered, for the long one had been taken by them to lower Steve from the other butte, and in a short time Broncho and Long Tom stood beside them.

"I think the old man has got safe off," Broncho Harry said. "We have stood over there listening all this time and ain't heard a sound. There are plenty of the varmint about. You hear that barking of prairie-dogs and hooting of owls? That's them letting each other know where they are; they are thick everywhere, I guess, round the foot of this butte, but we didn't hear them on the other side, and I reckon there ain't many of them there anyhow. Steve must have got beyond them by this time. That wur a first-rate idea of yours, Hugh; he never would have got through if we had lowered him off here; but it wasn't no joke getting along that ridge in the dark, I can tell you. We air all accustomed to balance ourselves in the saddle, and so made a shift to get across; but in some places the rock wur pretty nigh as sharp as a knife."

"Do you think that there is any chance of a night attack, Broncho?"

"One never can answer for the varmint, but I don't reckon as they are like to try it; they know they couldn't get up to the top, and all they could hope for would be to kill some of the horses and cut off the men on watch. It wouldn't be worth risking many lives to do that; besides, it ain't a nice place to climb in the dark. They can crawl along out on the plain without making more noise than a snake would do, but that is a different thing to climbing up among bush and rock in the dark. They couldn't reckon on doing it without being heard. No, Hugh, it may be that one or two of the young bucks wanting to distinguish themselves and thirsting for scalps, may crawl up and see if they can catch any one napping down below there, but I reckon that is all, and that ain't likely to be tried to-night. They are all out there trying to make sure that no one gets away. That is their first consarn; besides, like enough the chiefs will try in the morning to get us to surrender, and it wouldn't do for any young brave to make a venture on his own account, until it is sartin that they ain't going to get us without fighting; still, I wouldn't say that when it comes to your turn to be on guard, Lightning, it would be altogether safe for you to put your rifle down and take an hour's sleep."

"Well, I am not likely to try that experiment anyhow, Broncho."

"No; I didn't guess as you was. I only said as it wouldn't be safe. I don't think Steve put enough men on guard. I am going to talk to the others about it. I reckon we ought to divide into two guards, say ten on each watch: four down below, four up with the horses, two up here at the top of the path. We sha'n't have much to do all day, and can sleep as much as we like. Steve is an old Injun fighter, and he knows better than we do what the chances air, still there ain't no good taking risks."

"I quite agree with you, Broncho. Now that Steve has got safe away we know we shall get help before very long; and it would be foolish to run any risk merely from want of care. I would go even farther and let fifteen men be on watch at night, and let five sleep and keep look-out during the day."

"That would be no better, lad, that would be worse, for it is difficult to keep awake the whole night, especially if night after night passes without an alarm."

By this time they had reached the others, and there was much rejoicing when it was heard that Steve Rutherford had got safe away.

"Do you feel sure, Harry, that they might not have caught him and killed him without any noise?" Rosie asked anxiously.

"Sartin. Steve's last words was: 'I shall keep my six-shooter in my hand, and if they riddle me with arrows, Broncho, I will fire a shot or two before I drop, don't you fear about that.' And he would do it. Besides, it ain't in Injun nature to kill an enemy without setting up a yell over it. A Red-skin's like a hen laying an egg; he has got to boast of it loud enough for all the world to hear. No; you needn't be a bit afeard, gal. Your father has got off safe, and by this time I reckon he is ten miles away."

Harry then made the proposal that half the men should be always on guard, to which they at once agreed, and six of them, taking up their arms, left the fire without further words, and started to take up their post on the slope.

"Now, Rosie, you shall give us a pan of tea and a bit of meat, and then the sooner we are all asleep the better. We shall want to use our eyes when it is our turn on watch."

At twelve o'clock they were on their feet again, and went down the hill. "Now, Harry," said Long Tom, "Lightning and you and me will go along to the bottom; three others keep about fifty yards behind us, two up below the horses, and two on the top here."

As they took their places, and the men they relieved returned to the summit, Long Tom said: "Listen to the calls, Lightning; the Red-skins have heard us moving and are warning each other to look sharp. I reckon they are as thick as peas all round here, for they know that if one of us tries to make a bolt on horseback it is here he must start; but they can hardly suppose that we are such fools as that comes to. Now you move away five or six yards to the right and post yourself behind a rock. You have got to keep your eyes in front of you to see if you can see anything moving in the grass; and you have got to listen for any sound over there to the right, in case any of the Red-skins should try to crawl up through the bushes to circumvent us. I'll go to the left, and Broncho kin take the middle of the path."

Hugh took up his post and maintained a vigilant watch; he was much more afraid of an attempt on the part of the Indians to crawl up on the right than of an attack in front, and listened intently for the slightest sound of moving leaves on that side, for he knew that the Indians would not be likely to break the smallest twig in their progress. In front of him he could discern the expanse of the plain stretching out; there were a few low bushes here and there, and at times, to his straining eyes, it seemed that some of the dark masses moved, but he knew that this might be only fancy. Hour after hour passed. Presently Harry stole up to his side. "Day will be breaking in an hour, Hugh, keep a sharp look-out now; they will try it, if they try it at all, just as the sky begins to lighten."

All, however, remained quiet, and Hugh felt in no slight degree relieved as the light stole gradually up the eastern sky, and he felt that Harry's anticipations were incorrect, and that no attack would be made. As soon as the sun rose the sentries were relieved, and the party on watch retired to the crest, for from there a view over the whole of the plain was obtainable, and it was impossible for the Indians to crawl up towards the buttes without being seen. Two hours later a party were seen approaching from the main Indian camp; they stopped five hundred yards away; then two Indians advanced and held up their arms to show they had left their rifles behind them.

"I thought they would be wanting to have a talk this morning," Broncho Harry said. "I suppose two of us had better go down to meet them."

"You and Jim Gattling had better go, Broncho."

"No," Jim said; "Rason had better go with you, Broncho: he speaks a little of their language, and I don't; it is not likely either of the chiefs speak English."

"All right!" Broncho said; "it is as well to understand what they say, though we know well enough that nothing will come of it. Put your six-shooter in your pocket, Rason, they will have their tomahawks and knives hidden about them somewhere; half a dozen of the rest had better come down the slope. It ain't likely they will make a rush, but when they find we won't agree to their terms they may turn nasty."

Hugh watched the meeting from the top of the butte. It lasted about ten minutes, and then the envoys separated and returned to their respective parties. The result was clear enough, for when the Indian chiefs reached their followers they raised a defiant war-cry, which was taken up all over the plain.

"Just as I expected," Harry said. "The Red-skins always like to have a talk before they begin to fight, even when they know well enough that nothing can come of it."

"What were their proposals?"

"They said that they knew we could hold out for a time, but that the water would soon be finished, and we must give in then. We had stolen the white women out of their camp, and had killed their young men; but if we would give up the women and surrender our arms and ammunition, they would let us depart free."

"What did you say, Broncho in return?"

"I said that we was very comfortable up here, and that if we had taken the women, they had stolen them away from us. As to our arms, we thought they was more useful in our hands than they would be in theirs; but that if they would go back to their villages we would promise to do them no farther harm until they troubled us again."

"Who were the chiefs, Harry?"

"One was the Eagle; he is a big chief. I have often heard of him. The other was the Owl. I fancy the Eagle is the fighting chief, and the Owl the counsellor. He is a crafty-looking beggar. The Eagle is a fine tall Red-skin, a sort of chap I shouldn't care about having a hand-to-hand fight with, with knives and tomahawks. He told us it wur no use our hoping for assistance, for that none could come to us, and unless we could fly we could not get through his young men; and that even if we could, our scalps would be hanging in their lodges long before we could get down to the ranches. I said he might have our scalps if he could take them; but that if he did it would be off dead bodies, for as long as one of us had strength to draw trigger he would not get up on to the butte. That was all. He knew well enough what the answer would be. He wanted to see, I fancy, how we took it, and whether we were in good heart. It wur just a game of bluff, and neither of us wur going to show our hands."

That night Broncho Harry's party went first on watch, and were relieved at twelve o'clock. The Indians had remained quiet all the day, and Harry said to Hugh as they returned up the hill after being relieved, "I shouldn't be surprised if they try and attack before morning. In the first place, they have been wonderful quiet all day; and in the next place, I reckon that when the chief said he acknowledged that we could hold the place, he just meant to give us the idee that he didn't mean to attack, and wur only going to starve us out. In course they will do that afterwards, but I think they will try one rush first. I tell you what, Hugh, we will set to work now and get the rest of the horses to the top. They can't pick up much where they are now, and they may as well be out of the way if there is a fight."

The ten men soon got the horses up on to the plateau and then lay down to sleep. The morning was just breaking when the crack of a rifle was heard, and it was followed instantly by a score of others and an outburst of fierce yelling; every man sprang to his feet and ran to the top of the path. "Hugh, do you and two others take your place on the edge of the rock on the right of the gap. Tom, you and Stumpy and Rason, take your places on the left and kiver us as we fall back, if we have to, as is like enough. Come on with me the rest of you."

Standing on the edge of the cliff, Hugh saw the flashes bursting out rapidly among the rocks and trees at the foot of the slope, and soon perceived that they were mounting upwards. A crowd of Indians must have thrown themselves suddenly forward and established themselves in cover, and they were now fighting their way up. The defenders had fallen back, for the answering flashes were half-way up the slope. The rattle of musketry was incessant, but far above it rose the yells of the Indians. The whites fought silently.

It was still too dark to make out the figures, and Hugh and his companions remained inactive.

"Our men are falling back, Bill," he said presently to Royce, who was standing a few yards away on the other side of the gap.

"They are sure to do that," Royce replied. "I guess there are two hundred Injuns down there, and though it is difficult for them to make their way through the bushes, they will do it. You will see our fellows will soon be up here."

Five minutes later, indeed, three or four figures were seen coming up the path. "Who are you?" Hugh shouted.

"It is all right," one of them called out. "There air too many for us, and Broncho has ordered us to fall back, and help you cover the rest."

Gradually the flashes of the defenders' rifles ceased to spurt out from among the rocks, and died away altogether. Then at full speed the men dashed up the pathway, followed closely by a number of leaping figures. Then the rifles of those along the edge of the rock cracked out. There was a chorus of cries and yells, and the pursuers bounded in among the rocks and bushes again, and their rifles flashed out angrily. Rason fell backwards, shot through the head, and a cry on the other side of the gap showed that at least one was hit there.

"Lie down," Hugh shouted, "and fire over the edge."

In a minute the whole party were gathered on the crest. The daylight was now broadening rapidly; but not one of the assailants could be seen, though the puffs of smoke from behind rock and bush showed how thickly they were gathered.

"Will they try a rush, do you think?" Hugh asked Broncho, who had taken his post beside him.

"I don't think so," Harry said. "I expect they didn't reckon on finding so many men on guard on the slope, and thought they might carry it with a rush and get here afore we was ready for them, and before it wur light enough for us to shoot straight. They can't gather thick enough among the rocks down thar to give them a chance of making a big rush."

Apparently this was also the opinion of the Indians, who soon learned that it was dangerous to show their position by firing, for every shot was answered instantly, and several were killed as they raised their heads to fire from behind the rocks. The firing, therefore, gradually ceased.

"Now we are just as we was before," Harry said. "It wur sartin we couldn't hold the slope if they made an attack. The only thing is, they are nearer for a rush in the dark than they was afore. There ain't no fear of their trying it as long as it is light. Six will be enough to keep guard at present. We will talk over what is best to be done."

Six men were picked out as a guard, the rest assembled in council. "We have got to block up that gap somehow," Harry said. "If they make a rush in the dark we may kill a lot of them; but the chances are, they will get up. It seems to me that we had best kill half the horses and pile them up down near the mouth. That will make a breast-work, and will stop their bullets."

There was a general chorus of assent. Then Hugh said, "That seems a very good idea, Harry, but I should think that it would be better if we were to make that breast-work half-way up the gap, and to cut off some big arms of these trees and pile them in front of it. If we were to pretty well fill up the gap with boughs it would be very difficult to get through, and a couple of us behind the breast-work with six-shooters would prevent them from clearing it away, especially as the others could fire down from above on them."

"That's it," Broncho Harry said. "That will make us as safe as if there wur no gap at all. Bully for you again, young un! Let us set to work about it at once."

There was not a hatchet among them, and it took them the whole day to cut off five or six stout boughs of trees with their bowie-knives. However, it was done at last. The boughs were dragged along until near the mouth of the gap and then dropped into it, the butt-ends inwards, Broncho Harry and two or three of the others going down into the gap and arranging them so that a dense screen was formed outwards with the boughs and leaves. One or two shots came up from the bottom of the slope, but these were harmless, and the guard took care that no one was able to fire from a direct line with the gap from anywhere near the summit. At last the boughs were all in position, and a dense hedge filled the gap twelve feet high.

"We can spare the horses," Harry said. "They can't get through that hedge with us above them. They will never even try it. They see as we are up to something by their firing, but I don't suppose they can make out what it is. Like enough one of them will crawl up after it gets dark to see, and when he reports what we have done they will know that the game is up as far as taking the place by storm is concarned."

From this time forward no attempt was made to renew the attack. The Indians still held the slope, for shots were occasionally fired whenever one of the defenders came near enough to the edge to allow his head to be seen, otherwise all was quiet. As soon as the meat brought up was finished, one of the Indian horses was killed, and Hugh found that its flesh was by no means bad eating. The water was carefully husbanded, horses as well as men being placed on the smallest possible allowance. The horses too were picketed so as to prevent them from grazing at will, and the grass was cut and supplied to them in small bundles, mixed with leaves from the trees. With good management it was agreed that they would be able to hold out for a fortnight without difficulty.

CHAPTER XV.

WITH THE WAGGON TEAMS.

SOON after daybreak on the twelfth day the watch, which had now been carefully kept up for some days, reported that two Indians were galloping at full speed up the valley. A cheer broke from the defenders of the butte, for they doubted not that these brought news of the approach of a relieving party. When the horsemen arrived at the main encampment out on the plain a stir was immediately visible, and in two or three minutes the Indians were seen running out to the horses grazing on the plain beyond, while loud yells rang through the air.

"Those who have got rifles had better come to the edge," Long Tom shouted. "All these fellows who are here will be scooting out on the plain in a minute. We must stop a few of them anyhow."

A minute or two later scores of Indians dashed out from the trees at the foot of the buttes, and ran towards their encampment. The whites at once opened fire, but a running man far below is a difficult mark, and not a single shot took effect.

"You don't call that shooting," Broncho Harry said indignantly.

"It is all very well, Harry," Hugh said, "but a brown spot three hundred feet below you, and as many yards away, isn't an easy mark."

"Waal," Harry said, "it can't be helped. Now we will get ready to go out to lend a hand to our friends. Let us have a couple of ropes; we will tie them to the branches one by one and haul them up. There is no fear of an attack. Now look here, Jim, you and your lot had best stop here to guard the women, and we will sally out. There are five of you; that will be plenty."

The man on watch now gave a shout. "I can see them," he said.

"How many of them?"

"I guess there is about eighty. There is a thick clump in the middle, I reckon that they are the soldiers, and thirty or forty riding loose; I allow they are cow-boys."

"That is just about the right number," Harry said; "if there was more of them the Indians wouldn't fight. I don't know as they will now, but seeing as there must be three hundred of them, I expect they will try it. Now, then, up with these branches."

In a quarter of an hour the branches were all hauled out of the gap. While this had been going on the women had given a feed and a good drink of water to the horses, for there was no occasion any longer to husband their resources. The animals were now saddled and led down through the gap. By this time the Indians were all mounted, and were moving in a close body across the plain to meet the advancing foe.

"Now, Jim," Broncho Harry said, "you stand on the edge, and when you see the fight begin you wave your hand. We can't make a start until they are at it, and we sha'n't be able to see down below there."

The cow-boys made their way down to the plain and then mounted. They sat for ten minutes with their eyes fixed upon Jim Gattling. Presently he waved his arm, and with a shout they started at a gallop. As soon as they were fairly out on the plain they heard the sound of fire-arms, and after galloping half a mile came suddenly in view of the combat. The Indians had boldly closed with the troops and cow-boys, who were now driven together. A desperate hand-to-hand conflict was raging. Swords flashing in the sun, waving tomahawks, and spears could be seen above the mass. The cracking of revolvers was incessant, and a light smoke hung over the conflict.

"They are hard at it, boys," Long Tom exclaimed; "now don't shout until we are on them. They are too busy to notice us. Keep well together, and we shall go through them like a knife."

Not a word was spoken as they galloped down upon the scene of conflict. When they were within a hundred yards a cry of warning was raised, and some of the Indians faced round; but in a moment, with a loud shout, the band of cow-boys charged down upon them and cleft their way into the mass, horse and rider rolling over under the impetus of the onslaught. The deadly six-shooters spoke out, while the Indians fell thickly around them; and in a minute they had joined the whites in the centre of the mass. There was a shout of welcome, and then the officer commanding the troops cried:

"Now is your time, lads; press them hard, give it them hot!" and the united party attacked the Indians with fresh vigour.

Up to this time there had been little advantage on either side. Many more of the Indians had fallen than of the whites, owing to the superiority of the latter's weapons, especially the revolvers of the cow-boy section. Still their great superiority in numbers was telling, and when the six-shooters were emptied the cow-boys had no weapons to oppose to the spears and tomahawks of the Indians. The sudden attack from the rear, however, had shaken the Red-skins. In the momentary pause that had ensued many of the cow-boys slipped fresh cartridges into their pistols, and in a short time the Indians began to give ground, while the less courageous of them wheeled about their horses' heads.

THE COW-BOYS CHARGED DOWN UPON THE INDIANS.

War Eagle and some of the chiefs fought desperately; but when the former fell, cut down by one of the troopers, a panic spread among his followers, and as if by a sudden impulse they turned and fled. The pursuit was a short one, for the horses of the rescuing force were jaded with the long journey they had performed; those of the party from the butte were weakened by hunger, while the ponies of the Indians had been doing nothing for days, and speedily left them behind. After hearty congratulations by the rescuers, and sincere thanks by those whom they had relieved from their peril, the party returned to the scene of conflict. Four troopers and two cow-boys had fallen, and a score had received wounds more or less serious; while on the part of the Indians over thirty lay dead. Graves were dug for the fallen whites, the wounds of the others were bandaged up, and they then proceeded to the butte, at whose foot the women, and the settlers who had been left to guard them, had already gathered, they having hurried down as soon as they saw the plain covered with flying Indians.

Steve had returned with the rescuing party, and had been severely wounded in the fight, a blow from a tomahawk having cut off one of his ears, wounded his cheek, and inflicted a terrible gash on his shoulder. He was, however, in the highest spirits.

"I sha'n't look so purty, my dear," he said to his daughter, who burst into tears at the sight of his injury, "but then I was not anything uncommon afore, and I haven't any thought of going courting again. Waal, we have given the Injuns a smart lesson."

When the handshaking and congratulations ceased, the captain commanding the cavalry held a consultation with Steve and some of the cow-boys as to the advisability of following up the victory and attacking the Indians in their own villages.

"I should not feel justified in doing it unless I was pretty certain of success. The commandant of the fort gave me orders to rescue this party, and I have done so; but he said nothing about engaging in a regular campaign with the Indians."

"I shouldn't try, captain," Steve said. "I reckon they haven't half their force here to-day—no, nor a quarter—for they reckon to put a thousand fighting men in the field. They didn't guess as any of us had got off to get help, and knew that they had plenty here to keep us caged upon the butte. Another thing is, the cow-boys with us air all employed on the ranches, and although they came off willing to rescue the women, and pay the Injuns off for that murdering business at our settlement, I reckon they will want to be off again to their work. But even with them we ain't no match for the forces the Red-skins can collect, so if you will take my advice, captain, you won't waste a minute, for thar is no saying how soon they will be down on us again, and if they did come the fight to-day wouldn't be a sarcumstance to the next."

"You are right," the officer said; "it would be folly to risk anything by waiting here. I suppose you are all ready to start."

"I reckon so," Steve said; "the horses have all been brought down from the hill."

The officer at once gave orders to mount.

While this conversation had been going on, Hugh, who was occupied in giving Prince a good feed from the grain the soldiers had brought for their horses, saw one of the troopers staring at him.

"Hullo, Luscombe!" he exclaimed, "who would have thought of seeing you here!"

"I thought I couldn't be mistaken, Hugh," the other exclaimed as they grasped each other's hands; "but you have changed so much, and widened out so tremendously in the eighteen months since I left you, that for a moment I wasn't sure it was you. Well, this is luck, and it is quite a fluke too. I was getting heartily sick of doing duty at that wretched fort, where one day was just like another, and there was nothing in the world to do except cleaning one's traps, when a letter arrived from the governor. I told you the old boy was sure to give in sooner or later, and he sent me money to get my discharge and take me home. I was just going to the commanding officer to make my application when Rutherford rode into camp. It was evidently something very important, for his horse fell dead as he drew rein. So I waited to hear the news, and found that our troop was ordered to mount instantly to ride to the rescue of a party of settlers and cow-boys who were besieged by the Indians.

"You may guess I dropped my letter into my pocket and said nothing about it. We have done a good deal of scouting, and had two or three paltry skirmishes with the Indians, but nothing worth talking about; and this seemed, from what Rutherford said, to be likely to be a regular battle, and so, you see, here I am. It has been a jolly wind-up for my soldiering. And to think that you should be one of the party we have ridden something like three hundred miles to rescue! Now tell me all about yourself."

At this moment the trumpet to saddle sounded.

"I will tell you as we ride along," Hugh said. "I don't suppose there will be any particular order kept on our way back."

Five minutes later the whole party were cantering down the valley. They did not draw rein until late in the afternoon, and then halted on the banks of the Canadian. A strong cordon of sentries was posted that night, but there were no signs of Indians, and the next day the party reached one of the ranche stations.

During the two days' march and at the camp Hugh and Luscombe had kept together, the latter having obtained permission from his officer to fall out of the ranks, upon his telling him that one of the cow-boys was an old friend who had come with him from Europe.

"I shall be off in a month or two," Luscombe said when they parted that evening. "I expect there are formalities to be gone through here just as there are in England. You are quite sure there is no chance of your going home with me?"

"Quite sure. I have another three years to stop out here yet, and then I can go back and claim my own. I wrote to Randolph, my trustee you know, to tell him I am alive and well, and very glad that I did not kill that uncle of mine, and saying that I shall return when I am of age, but not before. What do you mean to do, Luscombe?"

"I am going to settle down," Luscombe said. "I can tell you a year's work as trooper in one of these Yankee forts is about enough to make a man sick of soldiering. I have eaten the bread of adversity, and very hard bread it is too, and there is mighty little butter on it. I am going in for fatted calf when I go back, and am quite prepared to settle down into a traditional squire, to look after fat beeves, become interested in turnips, and to be a father to my people. Well, anyhow, Hugh, you will let me know when you come back to England. You know my address; and as soon as you have kicked that uncle of yours out, and have squared matters generally, you must come straight to me. You will be sure of the heartiest welcome. The governor is a capital old boy, and if he did cut up rusty, the wonder is he didn't do it long before. My mother is a dear old lady, and the girls—there are two of them—are first-rate girls; and the youngest, by the way, is just about the right age for you. She was fourteen when I came away."

Hugh laughed.

"I shall very likely bring home an Indian squaw or a Mexican, so we won't build on that, Luscombe; but when I go back to England you shall hear of me, and I accept the invitation beforehand."

On the following morning the party broke up. The troops started back for the fort. Steve Rutherford and the cow-boys rode for a time south-west, and then worked their way over the foot-hills and came down into the plains of Texas, and after a week's travel returned to the village from which they had started. It had already begun to rise from its ruins. Waggon-loads of lumber had been brought up from below, and there was no lack of willing hands from other scattered settlements to aid in the work of rebuilding the houses. Little attention was paid to the party as they rode up from the plains, for it was not on that side that a watch had been kept up for their return, and indeed the eyes of the survivors had almost ceased to turn towards the mountains, for hope had well-nigh died out, and it had been regarded as certain that the whole party had been cut off and massacred by the Indians.

As soon, however, as the news spread that there were women among the approaching troop, axes, saws, and hammers were thrown down, and there was a rush to meet them. The scene was an affecting one, as mothers clasped daughters and women embraced their husbands, whom they had never thought to see again. The cow-boys were pressed to stay there for the night, but they refused as they were anxious to return to the ranche, from which they had been absent more than three weeks. Fortunately, the busy season was almost over when they left, and they knew that there were enough hands on the ranche to look after the cattle during their absence. On the way back Broncho Harry said to Hugh:

"I expect, Hugh, a good many of us will be getting our tickets before long. They don't keep on more than half their strength through the winter. What are you thinking of doing? If you would like to stop on I will speak to the boss. I reckon I shall have charge of an outfit this winter, and can manage for you and Stumpy."

"Thank you very much, Broncho, but, as I have told you often, I don't want to stop. I have had a season's life as a cow-boy, but I have no idea of sticking to it, and mean to have a try at something else. I intend to go back to England when I am twenty-one. I have some property there, and have no need to work. I got into a scrape at home with the man who is my guardian, and don't care about turning up until he has no longer any authority over me."

"Waal, you know your own business, Lightning. It is a pity, for in another year you would make one of the best hands on the plains."

"If I were to stay for another year I expect I should stay for good, Harry. It is a hard life, a terribly hard life; but it is a grand one for all that. There is nothing like it in the way of excitement, and I don't wonder that men who once take to it find it very difficult to settle down to anything else afterwards. Therefore, you see, it is just as well to stop before one gets too fond of it. I know I shall always look back upon this as the jolliest time of my life, and I am lucky to have gone through it without having been damaged by a cow, or having my neck broken by a broncho, or being shot by an Indian. Royce has made up his mind to go with me, and as soon as we get our discharge we shall make our way to New Mexico, and perhaps down into Arizona; but of course that must depend upon other things."

Upon reaching the station they found that, as Harry had predicted, hands were already being discharged. The manager said, when they went to him and told him that they wished to leave, "Well, I had intended to keep you both on for the winter; but of course if you wish to go, there is an end of it, and there are so many anxious to be kept on that a man in my position feels almost grateful to those who voluntarily afford vacancies."

There were very hearty adieus between Hugh and Royce and Broncho Harry, Long Tom, and the others who had been their close companions for months. Then they mounted and rode off from the station. They had heard from a man who had just arrived that a large waggon-train was on the point of starting from Decatur for Santa Fé. It was composed of several parties who had been waiting until a sufficient force was collected to venture across the Indian country. There were several waggon-trains going with supplies for the troops stationed at the chain of forts along the line. Others had goods for Santa Fé; while a third was freighted with machinery and stores for mining enterprises farther south in New Mexico.

It took Royce and Hugh a week to traverse the country to Decatur, and on arriving there they heard that the teams had started two days before. They waited a day at Decatur to buy a pack-horse and the necessary stores for their journey, and then set out. In two days they overtook the train, which consisted of forty waggons. Learning which man had been selected as the leader of the party they rode up to him.

"We are going to Santa Fé," Royce said. "We are both good shots and hunters, and we propose to travel with you. We are ready to scout and bring in game, if you will supply us with other food."

"That's a bargain," the man said briefly, by no means sorry at the addition of strength to the fighting force. "I reckon you will earn your grub. They say the Injuns air on the war-path."

"They are right enough there," Royce said. "We have been engaged in a fight with a band of the Comanches who made a raid down on a little settlement named Gainsford, killed a score of settlers, and carried off five women. We got together a band from the ranche we were working on and went after them, and we had some pretty tough fighting before we got through."

"Waal, you will just suit us," the man said. "I hear pretty near all the tribes are up, but I doubt whether they will venture to attack a party like this."

"I don't think they will if we keep together and are cautious," Royce said. "You have forty waggons; that, at two men to a waggon, makes eighty."

"That's so," the other agreed; "and what with cooks and bosses and one thing and another, we mount up to pretty nigh a hundred, and of course every man has got a rifle along with him."

"That makes a strong party," Royce said, "and with the advantage you will have of fighting from the cover of the waggons, I don't think the Red-skins would dare to attack you. We have got a pack animal along with us, as you see, with our blankets and things. We will hitch him to the tail of one of the waggons."

The man nodded.

"I have got four teams here of my own," he said, "and a spare man who cooks and so on for my outfit, so you may as well jine in with that. They air the last four waggons in the line."

The journey occupied six weeks. They kept at first up the west fork of the Trinity River, crossing a patch of heavily timbered country. Then they struck the main fork of Brazos River and followed it for some distance; then took the track across to the Rio Pecos. It led them by a toilsome journey across an elevated and arid country without wood or water, save that which they obtained at the head-waters of the Double Mountain River and from four small streams which united lower down to form the north fork of the Colorado River.

From this point until they reached the Pecos, a distance of over a hundred miles, there was no water. At ordinary times caravans would not have followed this route, but would have kept far to the north. But they would have been exposed to attacks by the Comanches and Utes, so in spite of their strength they thought it prudent to follow the longer and safer route. With a view to this journey across the desert each waggon carried an empty hogshead slung behind it. These were filled at the last springs, and the water, doled out sparingly, sufficed to enable the men and animals to subsist for the five days the journey occupied, although the allowance was so small that the sufferings of the cattle were severe. Up to this time Hugh and Royce had succeeded almost daily in bringing a couple of stags into camp, but game was scarce in this parched and arid region, where not only water was wanting, but grass was scanty in the extreme, and the only sustenance for deer was the herbage of the scattered bushes.

They therefore rode with the caravan, and aided it as far as they could. The waggons, which were of great size, were generally drawn by twelve oxen or mules, and in crossing the deep sand it was sometimes necessary to use the teams of two waggons to drag one over the sand-hills. Sometimes even this failed to move them, and the mounted men fastened their ropes to the spokes of the wheels, and so helped to get the waggons out of the holes into which they had sunk.

"I would rather run the risks of a fight with the Indians," Hugh said to Royce on the last day of their journey across the plain, "than have to perform this frightful journey. The heat is simply awful, and I feel as if I could drink a bucket of water."

"You will get plenty of water to-night, Hugh. The Pecos is a good big river. I believe the animals smell it already. Look how hard they are pulling. The drivers crack their whips and shout as usual, but the beasts are doing their best without that. We have been very lucky that we have had no sand-storms or anything to delay us and confuse us as to the track. Waal, we are over the worst of the journey now; except the Guadalupe Pass there ain't much trouble between the Pecos and El Paso. Once there we are on the Rio Grande all the way up to Santa Fé."

Towards the afternoon the ground became harder, and the animals quickened their pace almost to a trot, straining at the ropes with heaving flanks, while their tongues hanging out and their blood-shot eyes showed how they were suffering. An hour before sunset a shout broke from the men as, on ascending a slight rise, the river lay before them. The instant they reached its bank and the animals were loosed, they rushed in a body into the stream and plunged their nostrils deeply into the water, while the men, ascending the banks a short distance, lay down at the edge of the stream and satisfied their thirst. Five minutes later all had stripped and were enjoying a bath.

Hugh had been much struck with the difference between the teamsters and the cow-boys; the former did not wear the chaperajos or leather overalls with fringed seams, or the bright silk neck handkerchiefs or flat-brimmed hats of the cow-boys. Their attire was sober rather than bright. They wore soft hats, with slouched brims, and great cow-hide boots. There was none of that dashing, reckless air that characterized the cow-boys, or the quick alertness that showed the readiness to cope with any emergency that might occur. Nor in the camp at night was there any trace of the light-hearted gaiety which showed itself in song, laughter, and dance in the gatherings round the cow-boys' fires. They were for the most part silent and moody men, as if the dull and monotonous labour in which they were engaged, and the months of solitary journeying, with nothing to break the silence save the cracking of the whips and the shouts of encouragement to the animals, had left their mark upon them. Hugh and Royce agreed cordially that, with all its dangers and its unmeasured toil, they would infinitely prefer the life of a cow-boy, short as it might be, to that of a teamster, even with the prospect of acquiring a competence upon which to settle down in old age.

Two days' halt was made on the banks of the Pecos to rest the foot-sore animals. Then the journey was recommenced, the river crossed at a shallow ford, and its banks followed until, after three days' journey, a small stream running in from the west was reached. Hence the route lay due west to El Paso. The country was flat until they reached the Guadalupe range of hills, which they crossed by a winding and difficult pass, each waggon being taken up by three teams. Then skirting the Alimos Hills they crossed the Sierra Hueco by the pass of the same name, which was far easier than that of Guadalupe, and then one long day's march took them down to Fort Bliss, which stands on the Rio Grande, facing the town of El Paso. They had now arrived at the borders of civilization. Mexican villages and towns, and United States posts were scattered thickly along the course of the river all the way from El Paso up to Santa Fé.

"What air you thinking of doing, young fellow?" the head of the party asked Hugh as they sat by the fire of the encampment a short distance out of El Paso. "You see we shall kinder break up here. I go with my teams to the forts along the river, and then strike out east to the outlying posts. About half my freight is ammunition and such like. Waal, then, pretty nigh half the waggons go up to the mines. They have powder, tools, and machinery. One or two stay here. They bring hardware and store goods of all sorts for this town; the rest go up to Santa Fé. Now what air you thinking of doing? You can make up your mind to stay here, or you kin go up to Santa Fé. You told me you had a fancy for jinin' some prospecting party and going out west into Arizona. I doubt whether you will find anyone much bent on that job at present, seeing as how the Injuns is stirring, though I don't know that makes much difference, seeing they is always agin anyone going into what they calls their country.

"Anyhow, the miners will all have to work with a pick in one hand and a rifle in the other. You have got the Apaches here, and they air wuss than the Comanches. The Comanches have had to deal with western hunters and pioneers, and know that there ain't much to be got out of them but lead, so beyond stealing cattle they've got into the way of being mostly quiet, though now and agin they break out, just as they have at present. Now the Apache has had to deal all along with Mexicans, and he has pretty good reason for thinking that he is a much better fighter than the white man. He has been raiding on the Mexican villages for hundreds of years, burning and killing and carrying off their women and gals, and I guess thar is a pretty good sprinkling of Mexican blood in his veins, though that don't make him better or wuss, as far as I know. Still, take them altogether, they air the savagest and hardest tribe of Red-skins on this continent.

"However, if you like to go prospecting among thar hills and to run the risk of losing your scalp, that is your business; but if you do, this is the place to start from, and not Santa Fé. There is gold pretty nigh everywhere in the valley of the Gila, and that lies a bit to the north-west from here. At any rate, it seems to me that this is the place that you are most likely to fall in with parties starting out. But let me give you a warning, lad. You will find this town is pretty nigh full of gold-miners, and you won't find one of them who won't tell you that he knows of some place that's a sartin fortune up among the hills. Now, don't you believe them. Don't you go and put your money into any job like that. If you find a party being got up, and others think it good enough to jine, of course you can chip in, but don't you go and find the money for the whole show."

"There is no fear of that," Hugh laughed. "I had about five-and-twenty pounds when I went on to the ranche, and I have got that and six months' pay in my belt. That won't go far towards fitting out an expedition."

"No, it won't," the teamster agreed. "It will be enough for you to be able to chip in with the others, but, as you say, not to stand the whole racket. Waal, what do you think?"

"I am very much obliged to you for your advice," Hugh said, "and I think we can't do better than stay about here for a bit at any rate. What do you say, Royce?"

"It is all one to me," Royce replied; "but there is no doubt that El Paso is as good a place as any, if not better, for looking round."

"Then that is settled, Bill; and to tell you the truth, I have had pretty nigh enough riding for the present, and sha'n't be sorry for a fortnight's rest."

"Same here," Bill said. "I feel as if I was getting part of the horse, and should like to get about on foot for a bit so as to feel that I hadn't quite lost the use of my legs."

Accordingly the next morning they bade good-bye to their comrades of the last two months, and mounting, rode into El Paso.

It was a town of some size, and purely Mexican in its features and appearance. The inhabitants almost all belonged to that nationality, but in the street were a considerable number of red-shirted miners and teamsters. Hugh and his companions rode to one of the principal haciendas, and handed over the three horses to a lounging Mexican.

"They have been fed this morning," Royce said. "We will come in and give them some corn in two hours."

"I will see after Prince," Hugh said, patting his horse's neck. "Don't you be afraid that I am going to leave you to the care of strangers. We have been together too long for that, old boy."

They then went into the hotel, and ordered a room and breakfast.

"I don't care much for this Mexican stuff with its oil and garlic," Royce said as they had finished the meal.

"Don't you? I call it first-rate. After living on fried beef and broiled beef for over a year, it is a comfort to get hold of vegetables. These beans were delicious, and the coffee is a treat."

"It isn't bad for one meal," Royce admitted reluctantly, "but you'll get pretty sick of Mexican cookery after a bit, and long for a chunk of plain beef hot from the fire."

"Perhaps I shall," Hugh laughed, "but I think it will be some little time first. Now let us take a stroll round the town."

It was all new to Hugh. He had seen the Mexican women in their native dress in the villages among the hills, but here they indulged in much more finery than the peasant girls. The poblanas were all dressed in gay colours, with a scarf or rebozo over their heads, with gold pins and ornaments in their glossy black hair, and with earrings, necklaces, and generally bracelets of the same metal. No small share of a peasant's wealth is exhibited on the persons of his womankind. They wore short skirts, generally of red or green, trimmed with rows of black braid, while a snow-white petticoat below and a white chemisette partly hidden by a gay handkerchief over the shoulders completed the costume. They were almost all barefooted, but Hugh observed that their feet and ankles were exceedingly small and well formed, as were their hands and plump brown arms.

Here and there were a good many of the upper class half shrouded in black mantles, wearing the Spanish mantilla, worn so as partly to conceal the face, though it needed but the slightest movement to draw it aside when they wished to recognize anyone they met. Most of these were on their way to a church, whose bell was pealing out a summons, and carried their mass-book in one hand and a fan in the other. Many a look of admiration was bestowed by the merry peasant girls upon Hugh as he walked along. He was now eighteen and had attained his full height, and his life on horseback gave an easy and lissom appearance to his tall, powerful figure. His work among the cattle had given to his face something of the keen, watchful expression that characterizes the cow-boys, but not to a sufficient extent to materially affect the frank, pleasant look that was his chief characteristic.

His gray eyes, and the light-brown hair with the slight tinge of gold in it, typical of the hardy north-country race, were very attractive to the dark-skinned Mexicans. He and his companions had both donned their best attire before leaving camp, and this differed but slightly from that of the Mexican vaqueros, and though sufficiently gay to attract general attention elsewhere, passed unnoticed at El Paso. The western cow-boy was not an unusual figure there, for many of those discharged during the winter were in the habit of working down upon the New Mexican ranches and taking temporary employment with the native cattle-raisers, by whom their services were much valued, especially where the ranches were in the neighbourhood of those worked by white cow-boys. These in any disputes as to cattle with the Mexican vaqueros were accustomed to carry matters with a high hand. But the white cow-boys in Mexican service were just as ready to fight for their employers' rights as were those on the American ranches, and the herds were safe from depredation when under their charge.

There were many priests in the streets, and, numerous as they were, they were always saluted with the deepest respect by the peasant women.

"It is wonderful how much women think of their priests," Royce observed philosophically. "Back east it used to make me pretty well sick, when I was a young chap, to hear them go on about their ministers; but these Mexican women go a lot farther. There is nothing they wouldn't do for these fat padres."

"No. But they are not all fat, Royce," Hugh said. "I acknowledge they look for the most part plump and well-fed, and upon the best of terms with themselves, as well they may be, seeing how much they are respected."

"They have got a pretty easy life, I reckon," Royce said contemptuously. "They have to say mass two or three times a day, sit in a box listening to the women's confessions, and fatten upon their gifts and offerings."

"At any rate, Royce, the people here are religious. See, there are as many peasants as peasant women going into that church. Whatever may be said about it, religion goes for a good deal more in a Catholic country than in a Protestant. It is a pity there is not more religion among the cow-boys."

"How are we to get it?" Royce protested. "Once or twice a year a minister may arrive at a camp and preach, but that is about all. We always give him a fair show, and if any fellow wur to make a muss it would be worse for him. I don't say as cow-boys don't use pretty hard language among themselves, but I will say this, that if a minister or a woman comes to camp they will never hear a swear word if they stop there a week. No, sir. Cow-boys know how to behave when they like, and a woman might go through the ranches from end to end in Texas without being insulted."

"I know that, Royce. The point is, if they can go without using what you call swear words when a woman is among them, why can't they always do so?"

"It is all very fine to talk, Hugh; but when you get on a bucking broncho that sends you flying about ten yards through the air, and you come down kerplump, I never seed a man yet as would pick himself up and speak as if he wur in a church. No, sir; it's not in human nature."

When they got back to the hotel Hugh observed that questioning glances were cast at them by several men who were lounging about the steps. Royce observed it also.

"What have those fellows got in their heads, I wonder?" he said. "Do they reckon we are two bad, bold men who have been holding up some Mexican village, or do they take us for horse-thieves? There is something wrong, Hugh, you bet."

"They certainly didn't look friendly, Royce, though I am sure I don't know what it is about. You haven't been winking at any of their women, have you?"

"G'ar long with yer!" Royce laughed. "As if any of them would look at a little chap like me while I am walking along of you. If there has been any winking it's you as has done it."

"I am quite innocent, Royce, I assure you. Still there is something wrong. Well, let us go and see that the horses are fed."

There were five or six men in the yard. They were talking excitedly together when Hugh and his companion came out of the hotel, but they were at once silent, and stood looking at them as they crossed the yard and went into the stable.

"Thar's something wrong," Royce repeated. "If my horse wur as good as yours, Hugh, I should say let's settle up quietly and ride out and make a bolt; but they would overtake me in no time."

"That would never do, Royce. I don't know what their suspicions are, but they would be confirmed if we were to try to escape, and if they overtook us the chances are they wouldn't give us much time for explanations."

"You are right there, Hugh. The Mexicans hates the whites. They know that one of us can lick any three of them, and it riles them pretty considerable. They don't give a white man much show if they get their hands on him."

"Well, it is no use worrying about it, Royce. I suppose we shall hear sooner or later what it is all about."

Passing through the hotel they took their seats at some tables placed in the shade in front of the house, and there sat smoking and talking for some time.

"If those fellows round the door keep on looking at us much longer," Royce said, "I shall get up and ask them what they mean."

"Don't do that, Royce. It would only bring on a fight; that is no use here."

"Waal," Royce said doggedly, "I haven't got to sit here to be stared at, and some of them fellows is going to get wiped out if they go on at it."

"We are sure to hear before long, Royce. See, there is a knot of four or five fellows in uniform at the other end of the square. I suppose that they are a sort of policemen. I have seen them looking this way. You will see they are going to arrest us presently, and then, I suppose, we shall hear all about it."

"I wish we had Broncho Harry and the rest of our outfit here," Royce said. "We would clear out the whole town."

Half an hour later there was a clatter of horses' hoofs, and two gentlemen, followed by half a dozen Mexican vaqueros, rode into the square and made straight for the hotel. Simultaneously the guardians of the peace moved across the square, and there was a stir among the loungers at the entrance to the hotel.

"The affair is coming to a crisis, Royce!"

One of the Mexicans was an elderly man, the other a lad seventeen or eighteen years old. The latter dismounted and entered the hotel. In two minutes he reappeared and spoke to the other, who also dismounted, and after a word or two with one of the men belonging to the hotel, and a short conversation with the leader of the party of civil guards, advanced to the table at which Hugh and Royce were sitting. He saluted them as they rose to their feet. Hugh returned the salutation.

"Señors," he said courteously, in very fair English, "you have, I understand, just arrived here, having accompanied a waggon-train across the deserts from Texas."

"It is perfectly true, señor," Hugh replied. "Is there anything unusual in our doing so?"

"By no means," the Mexican said. "The matter that concerns me is that one of you is riding a horse which belonged to my son, Don Estafan Perales."

"You mean the bay?"

The Mexican made a gesture of assent.

"I purchased that horse at M'Kinney, a small town in the north-east of Texas."

"May I ask who you purchased it from?"

"Certainly, señor. It must have passed from the hands of your son before it was offered for sale to me. I bought it from two men whom I had never seen before."

A little crowd had gathered behind the Mexican, and at this answer there were exclamations of "A likely story that!" and "Death to the horse-thieves!" Two men in mining costume, the one a tall, powerfully-built man some fifty years old, the other small and of slight figure, with snow-white hair, who had just strolled up, separated themselves from the rest and ranged themselves by Hugh's side, the big man saying in Mexican:

"Softly, señores, softly. You ain't neither judges nor jury on this case, and me and my mate is going to see fair-play."

"There is no intention, señor, of doing anything unfair," the Mexican said. "The matter is a simple one. These strangers have just ridden in here with a horse belonging to my son. He started from here with three servants and a party going to Texas. This was upwards of eighteen months ago. He had business at New York. His intention was to spend a few weeks in Texas hunting, then to proceed to the nearest railway-station and take train to New York. From the time he started we have never heard from him. Some members of the party he accompanied have long since returned. It seems that he accompanied them until they had passed the Bad Lands, and then left them to carry out his intention of hunting. We have never heard of him since. He certainly has never arrived at New York. And now that these strangers arrive here with his horse, which was recognized as soon as it entered the stables, I have a right to inquire how they obtained it."

"Surely, señor," Hugh said. "The men from whom I bought it were, as I said, strangers. They were two very doubtful-looking characters, and as they appeared very anxious to sell the horse, and were willing to part with it considerably under its value, my opinion was that undoubtedly they had not become possessed of it honestly. My friend here was with me at the time, and the only terms upon which I would purchase it and a pack-horse they had also to sell, were that they should give me a formal receipt signed in the presence of the sheriff and judge, in order that, should I at any time come across the owner of the animal, I should be in a position to prove that I at least had come by it honestly. That receipt I have here;" and taking a small leather letter-case from his pocket he produced the receipt. "There are the signatures, señor, and the official stamps of the writers, and you will see that they testify also to their personal knowledge of me as a resident of the town. I may add that it is certain that had I been an accomplice of the thieves I should have taken good care not to bring the horse to a locality where he would be at once recognized."

The Mexican glanced through the paper. "That is perfectly satisfactory, señor, and I must apologize for having for a moment entertained suspicions of you. Explain this, Carlos," he said to his son. "I would have further talk with these gentlemen."

The young Mexican translated in his own language the effect of what had passed, and the little crowd speedily dispersed, several having walked away as soon as the two miners sided with the accused, as a fray with four determined men armed with revolvers was not to be lightly entered upon. The miners were also turning away when Hugh said to the Mexican, "Excuse me a moment, señor."

"Thank you greatly," he went on, turning to the miners, "for siding with us. We are strangers here. Will you let us see you again, and have a talk with you? At present, as you see, this gentleman, who has lost his son, who has most probably been murdered by these horse-thieves, wants to question me. Do me the favour to come in this evening and drink a bottle of wine with us, when we can again thank you for your aid."

"There are no thanks due," the bigger of the two men said. "Me and my mate know nothing of the affair, but seeing two of our own colour facing a lot of these Mexikins we naturally ranged up alongside of you to see fair-play. But as you are strangers, and we have nothing particular to do, I don't mind if we come in and have a talk this evening. Eh, mate?"

The little man nodded, and the two walked off together. Hugh then turned to the Mexican.

"Now, señor, we are at your service."

"Señors," he said courteously, "my name is Don Ramon Perales. My hacienda lies three miles away; this is scarcely a place for quiet conversation. I am anxious to learn all particulars that you can give me as to the men from whom you bought the horse. May I ask if you would mount your horses and ride back with me?"

"With pleasure, señor," Hugh said. "Our time is entirely our own, and I can readily understand your anxiety to hear all you can about this matter."

CHAPTER XVI.

A MINING EXPEDITION.

IN a few minutes Hugh and Royce remounted and joined the two two Mexican gentlemen, and set out, with the party of vaqueros riding behind them.

"You came in with quite a strong force, Don Ramon," Hugh said smiling.

"It might have been necessary," the Mexican replied. "I could not tell with whom I had to deal. Our guard do not care very much about risking their skins, especially when it is a question of Texan cow-boys, who have, if you will excuse my saying so, a terrible reputation, and can use their pistols with a skill that is extraordinary. I could not guess that I had to do with gentlemen."

"There is nothing that way about me, señor!" Royce said abruptly. "I am a cow-boy, or a teamster, or a miner, or anything that comes to hand, but nary a claim to be a gentleman."

"My friend is a good fellow, señor, in every way," Hugh said, "and is my staunch and true friend. I myself am an Englishman who has come out to enjoy the hunting and the rough life of the plains of the West for a few years before settling down at home."

"And now, señor," the Mexican said with a bow, "will you let me begin to question you, for I am full of anxiety as to my unfortunate son? I feared before that he was lost to us; I fear now even more than before, for I am sure that he would never have parted with his horse, which he had reared from a colt and was much attached to. These men from whom you bought it, were they known in that locality?"

"No," Hugh replied. "Wherever they came from they did not belong to that corner of Texas, for neither the judge nor the sheriff had ever seen them before. Had they known that they were bad characters they would have arrested them and held them until an owner was found for the horse; but as they knew nothing against them they did not feel justified in doing so."

"Will you describe them to me?" the Mexican said.

"They were men of between thirty and forty. From their attire they might have been hunters. They were dressed a good deal like your vaqueros: they wore chaperajos with red sashes around their waist, and flannel shirts. They had jackets with silver buttons, which you don't see much among our cow-boys on the plains, and broad, soft, felt hats. I should say that one was a half-breed—that is to say, half Mexican, half American. Both had black moustaches, and what I should call hang-dog faces."

"I have no doubt, from your description," Don Ramon said, "they were two men who joined the caravan a day or two before my son left it. These men said they were hunters, and I was told that my son engaged them to accompany him while he was hunting, to act as guides, and show him the best places for game. They were described to me by some of the party that returned here, and I feared at the time that if evil had befallen him it was through them. Now that you tell me they sold you his horse, I feel but too certain this was so."

"They seemed to have ridden fast and far. Their own horses and the bay were in fair condition, señor, but the pack-horse was very poor. The men were evidently in great haste to get away, and I should judge from this that if, as you fear, they murdered your son and his three servants, they probably did it at the last camping place before they arrived at M'Kinney. Had they done it when far out on the plains there would have been no good reason why they should have been in so much haste; but if it had been but a short distance away they might have feared that someone might find the bodies and organize a pursuit at once."

"Why should they have delayed so long if their intention was murder?" the younger Mexican asked.

"That I cannot say, Don Carlos. They may have fallen in with other hunters after leaving the caravan, and these may have kept with them all the time they were out on the plains, and they may have had no opportunity of carrying out their designs till the party separated; or again, your brother's attendants might have been suspicious of them, and may have kept up too vigilant a watch for them to venture on an attack before. But this watch may have been relaxed when the journey was just at an end, and it seemed to them that their fears were unfounded."

"That is the most likely explanation," Don Ramon said. "They were three picked men; two of them were hunters, the other my son's body-servant. It is likely enough that the hunters would have kept alternate watch at night had they suspected these fellows. Those two were to have remained in charge of the horses at the town where my son took rail, and to await his return there; the other man was to accompany him to New York. My son had an ample supply of gold for his expenses, and I fear it was that rather than the horse that attracted the scoundrels."

They were by this time approaching a large and handsome building, standing in extensive grounds. As they halted before it a number of peóns ran out and took the horses. Prince had quickened his pace as he neared the house, and had given a joyful neigh as of recognition. When Hugh alighted, the horse, as usual, laid his muzzle on his shoulder to receive a caress before turning away, and then, without waiting for one of the peóns to take his rein, walked away towards the stables.

"I see he is fond of you, señor. You have been a kind master to him."

"I love horses," Hugh said, "and Prince, as I have called him, has been my companion night and day for eighteen months. We have hunted together, and roped-in cattle, and fought Indians, and divided out last crust together."

Don Ramon led the way into the house, and then into a room where an elderly lady and two young ones were sitting. They rose as he entered.

"What news, Ramon?" the elderly lady asked.

"Such news as there is is bad, Maria. These caballeros, Don Hugh Tunstall and—" (he hesitated and looked at Royce, with whose name he was not acquainted). "Bill Royce, without any Don!" the cow-boy put in. The Mexican repeated the name—"have been good enough to ride over here with me, in order that you, as well as I, might question them as to what they know of our son. Unhappily they know little. We were not misinformed. Don Hugh has indeed our son's horse, but he bought it, as he has proved to me, from two strangers, who tally exactly with the description we have received of the two hunters who left the caravan with our son. I feared all along that these men were at the bottom of whatever might have befallen Estafan. I fear now that there is no doubt whatever about it. Caballeros, this is my wife, Donna Maria Perales. These are my two daughters, Dolores and Nina."

For an hour Hugh and his companion remained answering the questions of Donna Perales; then Hugh rose, feeling that the ladies would be glad to be alone in their grief, for the confirmation of their fears respecting Don Estafan had brought their loss back to them freshly. Don Ramon and his son accompanied them to the door.

"I pray you," the former said, "that if at any time you come upon the villains you give them in custody. I and my son will make the journey to appear against them, however far it may be."

"You need not trouble on that score," Royce said. "If we meet them, I warrant you we can manage their business without any bother of judge or jury. They will have a cow-boy trial, and after the evidence Hugh and I can give, you may be sure that a rope will very soon settle their affair."

"I must ask you, Don Ramon," Hugh said, "to lend me a horse back to the town, and to send a vaquero with me to bring it back."

"But why, sir?" the Mexican asked in surprise. "You have your own horse."

"No, señor, Prince is not mine. He was your son's, and is yours. A man who buys stolen property is liable to lose it if he meets the proper owner, and when I bought Prince for half his value I knew that I was running that risk."

"No, señor Englishman. I do not say that a man who has lost his horse has not the right to reclaim it wherever he may find it. That is, if he happens to be in a place where the law is respected, or if not if he happens to be with the strongest party; but in the present case I could not think of depriving you of the horse. It is evident that he has found a good master, and that you stand in his affections just as my son did; besides, if you will pardon my saying so, the horse is more to you than it is to me. There are many thousands of horses running wild on my estates, and although my son used to assert that there was not one which was equal to his horse, there are numbers that are but little inferior, for our horses are famous. They are mustangs crossed with pure Arab blood, which my grandfather had selected and sent over to him, regardless of cost. Pray, therefore, keep the bay. May it carry you long and safely! It will be a real pleasure to my wife and myself to know that poor Estafan's favourite horse is in such good hands. I have also," he said courteously to Royce, "taken the liberty of ordering my peóns to change the saddle of the horse you rode to one more worthy of being a companion to the bay. It is of no use for one man to be well mounted if his comrade does not bestride a steed of similar swiftness."

Hugh and Royce warmly thanked Don Ramon for his kindness. The horses were brought round, and that of Royce fully bore out the commendation of the Mexican.

"We hope to see you again to-morrow," Don Ramon said as they mounted. "You will always be welcome guests here."

"And you will not forget," Don Carlos said in a low tone, "if you ever meet those men."

"That has been a fortunate adventure," Royce said as they rode off. "I have often wondered whether we should ever fall upon the original owner of your horse, and pictured to myself that we might have a bad time of it if we did. It isn't everyone who would have accepted that receipt of yours as proof."

"No; I always felt that myself, Royce. Well, that sorrel of yours is a splendid animal, and really worthy to go with Prince. I often wished you had a mount as good as mine, for my sake as well as your own, for there is no doubt of the truth of what he said. When two friends are riding together their pace is only that of the slowest horse."

"That is so," Royce agreed. "So there is some Arab blood in them. I have often talked over the bay in the camps. We all agreed we had never seen so good a mustang. There are good mustangs, but they are never a match for a really first-rate States horse, and yet we could not see any signs of such a cross in Prince. He wur mustang, but there seemed more whip-cord and wire about him than a mustang has. I have heard say that the mustangs are the descendants of Spanish barbs, and that the barbs were Moorish horses."

"Yes, that is so, Royce. The barb is related to the Arab, but is not, I believe, of such pure blood; it is a coarser animal; and if Don Ramon's grandfather brought over some pure Arabs of first-rate strain they would, no doubt, greatly improve the mustangs."

"Waal, Hugh, if we ever do meet those two murdering villains, I reckon their chances of getting away from us ain't worth mentioning."

The reception on their return to the hotel was very different to that they had before experienced. They had been visitors at Don Ramon's hacienda, and Don Ramon was the richest proprietor in the district of El Paso. After they had finished supper that evening, and were enjoying coffee and cigars at a table placed with others in a garden behind the hotel, the two miners who had stood by them in the morning came up and took seats beside them. "You had a pretty rough welcome this morning at El Paso," the big man said. "But, by the way, I do not know what to call you. My own name is Sim. I am generally known as Surly Sim. My friend's name is Frank; I generally call him the doctor."

"My name is Bill," Royce said; "and out on the plain the boys call me Stumpy, which don't need any explanation. My mate's name is Hugh, and he has got the name of Lightning."

"Ah! and why is that, may I ask?" the white-haired little man said.

"Well, it is because of one of his accomplishments, doctor. He has got the knack of drawing a pistol that sharp, that almost before you see his hand move you are looking down the tube of a pistol."

"A very useful accomplishment," the little man remarked, "always supposing that it is not used too often, and that it is only used in self-defence. I am a peaceful man myself," he went on, "and have a horror of the use of fire-arms."

His companion laughed.

"Now you know that that is so, Sim," the little man said earnestly.

"Waal, doctor, I don't go for to say that you are quarrelsome, and ef anyone said so in my hearing I should tell him he wur a liar. But for a peaceable man, doctor, and I don't deny as you are peaceable, I don't know as thar is a man in the mining regions who has used his weapon oftener than you have."

"But always on the side of peace, Sim," the little man said earnestly. "Please to remember always on the side of peace."

"Yes, in the same way that a New York policeman uses his club, doctor."

"Well, I can assure you I don't often use what you call my accomplishment," Hugh said. "I practise it so that I may be able to defend my life if I am attacked, but except in a fight with a band of Comanches, I have only once had occasion to draw my pistol."

"And he weakened?" Sim asked.

"Yes, I had the drop of him. There was nothing else for him to do."

"And what are you doing at El Paso?"

"You are too abrupt, Sim, much too abrupt," the little man said deprecatingly.

"Not at all, doctor. If it is anything they don't want to tell they won't tell it. If it isn't, we may be useful to them."

"We have no particular object in view," Hugh said. "I am an Englishman; but not a rich Englishman, who comes out to buy ranches, or to speculate in mines. But I have come rather to pass three or four years in seeing life on the Western plains than to make money. I worked for six months in M'Kinney, had three or four months' hunting, and then worked six months as a cow-boy; and I thought that, for a change, I should like to come this way and see something of mining adventure in New Mexico or Arizona. My mate here has been with me for nearly two years, and has thrown in his fortune with mine."

"There is adventure enough, and more than enough, in mining down thar in Arizona. The doctor and I have been at it for some years. We haven't made a penny, but we have saved our scalps, so we may be considered lucky."

"I was told," Hugh went on, "that El Paso was the most central place to come to. My idea was that I might find some party setting out on a prospecting expedition, and that I might be able to join it."

"It ain't a good time for prospecting expeditions," Sim said. "Even on the Upper Gila the mining camps is all on guard, knowing that any day the Apaches may be down on them, and it would want a man to be wonderful fond of gold for him to go out prospecting down in Arizona."

"I don't care much for gold," Hugh laughed, "though I don't say I should object to take my share if we hit on a rich lode. I should go for the sake of the excitement, and to see the life."

"Well, at other times you might find any number of people here in El Paso who would be glad enough to take you out on such an expedition," the doctor said. "You ask the first man you meet, Mexican or white, and he will tell you that he knows of a mine, and will take you to it if you will fit out an expedition."

"You are exceptions to the rule, doctor."

"No, I don't say that," the doctor replied, though his companion gave a growling protest.

"Oh, yes, we know of a mine!" he went on, not heeding the growl. "At least we believe we do, which is, I suppose, as much as anybody can say; but we are like the rest, we say that it is better to stay at El Paso and keep our scalps on, even if we are poor, than to go and throw away our lives in looking for a mine. We have been out working for the last six months on a mine in the Gila Valley on shares with six others. We weren't doing so badly; but the Mexicans who were working for us got scared and wouldn't stay, so we have given it up and come down here. Some day or other when things settle down again, I suppose the mine will be worked, but it won't be by us. We are looking out for someone who will buy our shares, but I don't suppose anyone will give five dollars for them, and they would be right. The thing paid in our hands, but it wouldn't pay in Mexicans'. They are poor shiftless creatures, and have no idea of hard work. We should have given it up anyhow, even without these Indian troubles, which don't make much difference, for the Apaches are always ready to come down when they see a chance. It is always war between them and the whites. But we were there six months, and six months are about the outside Sim and I ever stop anywhere."

"When you go prospecting, do you often get any hints from the Indians as to where gold is to be found?"

"Never," Sim Howlett said. "The Injuns are too lazy to work theirselves, and they know that when the whites get hold of gold they pour down in numbers. I believe they do know often where there are lodes. I don't see how they can be off knowing it, for a Red-skin is always keeping his eyes on the move. Nothing escapes him, and it would be strange if, wandering about as they do, and knowing every foot of their country, they didn't notice gold when it is there to see. Besides, they have got tales handed down from father to son. In old times they had gold ornaments and such like, but you never see them now. They know well enough that such things would draw the whites. Sometimes a Red-skin will tell a white who has done him some great service where there is a lode, gold or silver or copper, but it don't happen often. Besides, most times the place lies right in the heart of their country, and for all the good it is, it might as well be in the middle of the sea. Of course, if it was gold, and the metal was found in nuggets, and a horse-load or two could be got in a month, it might be done; but not when it comes to settling there and sinking shafts and mining; that can't be done until the Apaches are wiped out."

"But are there such places as that, Sim?"

"Waal, there may be, but I have never seen them. The doctor and me have struck it rich many a time, but not as rich as that. Still, I reckon there are places where the first comer might gather a big pile if the Red-skins would but let him alone for a month."

"I suppose you are absent some time on one of these expeditions? Do prospectors generally go on foot or horseback?"

"They in general takes a critter a piece, and two others to carry grub and a pick and shovel; sometimes they go two together, but more often one goes by hisself. In course where two men knows each other and can trust each other, two is kind of handier than one. We shouldn't like to work alone, should we, doc? But then, you see, we have been twelve years together. Sometimes a man finds his own outfit. Sometimes he goes to a trader in a town; and if he is known to be a good miner and a straight man, the storekeeper will give him a sack of flour and a side of bacon, and such other things as are required, and then they go partners in what is found. Sometimes this goes on for months, sometimes for years; sometimes the trader loses his money, sometimes he makes a fortune. You see there are plenty of places as ain't in what you may call the Indian country, but somehow or other it do seem as if the Red-skins had just been put down where the best places is, so as to prevent the gold being dug. In Arizona some big finds have been made, but nobody's any the richer for them. The Red-skins is always on the look-out. Often an exploring party never comes back. Sometimes one or two come back with the news that the others have all been wiped out; but what with the awful country and the want of water, and the sartainty of having to fight, and of sooner or later being surprised and scalped, there ain't many men as cares about following the thing up."

"I suppose you know of such places, Sim?"

"Waal, maybe we do," the miner said cautiously. "Maybe we do; eh, doctor?"

The little man did not reply, but sat looking searchingly at Hugh. When he did speak it was not in direct answer to the question.

"I like your face, young fellow," he said. "It reminds me of one I have seen somewhere, though I can't say where. You look to me as if you were downright honest."

"I hope I am," Hugh said with a laugh.

"You may bet your boots on that," Bill Royce said. "He is as straight a man as you will find in Texas."

"And you are out here," the other went on, "part for pleasure, part just to see life, and part, I suppose, to make money if you see a chance?"

"I have never thought much of making money," Hugh replied, "although I should certainly have no objection if I saw a chance; but I have never thought of doing more than keeping myself."

"And he has been with you, you say, nigh two years?" and he nodded at Royce. "And you can speak for him as he does for you?"

"That I can," Hugh said warmly. "We have worked together and hunted together, we have been mates in the same outfit, and we have fought the Comanches together, and I can answer for him as for myself. He gave up his work and went with me, not because there was any chance of making more money that way than any other, but because we liked each other."

"Well, Sim," the little man said, "it seems to me that these two would make good mates for that job of ours."

"Waal, doctor, you know I leave these things to you. I kinder feels that way myself towards them, and anyhow I don't see as there can't be no harm in setting it afore them, seeing as there ain't no need to give them the indications. But I reckon there is too many about here to talk on a matter like that. Waal, it comes to this," he went on, turning to Hugh, "if you air disposed to make a jint expedition with us, and ain't afeard neither of roughing it nor of Red-skins, you meet us to-morrow three miles outside the town on the South Road, and we will talk to you straight."

"That is just what would suit me," Hugh said; "and you, Royce?"

"It is all the same to me, Lightning. If you are for an expedition you know you can count me in."

"Good night, then," Sim Howlett said, rising. "We have sat here quite long enough talking together if we mean to do anything. I reckon there is a score of these Mexikins have been saying to themselves afore now, What can those two miners and them cow-boys be a-talking together about? and when a Mexikin begins to wonder, he begins to try and find out; so we are off. Three miles out on the South Road at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. About half a mile past a village you will see a stone cross by the road. There is a path turns off by it, you follow that, and you will come across us afore you have gone two hundred yards."

"What do you think of it, Royce?" Hugh asked when they were alone.

"Don't think nothing of it one way or the other. Most of them miners have got some tale or other. However they seem to me straight men."

"I feel sure they are," Hugh said. "The big one looks an honest fellow. I don't so much understand the little one, but evidently he is the head of the party. He is a curious little fellow with his white hair and gentle voice. He doesn't look strong enough for such a life as they lead, but I suppose he is able to do his share or they would never have been working twelve years together. At any rate I came here to see something of life among the mines, and this seems as good a chance as we are likely to have."

The next morning they breakfasted at seven, and at half-past eight saddled their horses and rode out. They found their two companions of the previous night at the appointed place. As the miners saw them approaching they turned off the path and preceded them to a Mexican hut, and there waited for them to come up.

"Good morning!" the doctor said as they dismounted; "there is no fear of our being overheard here. The Mexican who lives here has often been up with us among the hills, and started for the town a quarter of an hour ago, when we told him we had a rendezvous here. Now, if you will hitch your horses up and sit down on these maize stalks we can talk comfortably. A year ago, when Sim and I were working in a gulch among the mountains, we heard a call in the distance. We went to see what it was, and found a man who had dropped down, just worn out and famished, after he had given the cry that fetched us. He had been shot in four or five places, and we saw at once that his journey was nearly over.

"We carried him to our fire and brought him round, and did all we could for him for three weeks; then he died. He told us he had been one of a party of six who had been prospecting in the hills west of the Lower Gila. One of them had learned, from an Indian he had helped in some way, of a place where the bed of a stream was full of gold. They found it; but the next morning they were attacked by the Apaches, who had, I expect, been following them all the time. Two of them were killed at once, the others got upon their horses and rode for it. Three of them were shot down, but this man was well mounted and got off, though they chased him for three days. He lost his way; his horse fell dead, but he struggled on until he saw the smoke of our fire and made us out to be whites.

"Before he died he told us how the place could be found. He said there was no doubt about the gold, and he had three or four nuggets in his pockets, weighing two or three pounds each. He said he had had lots of bigger ones, but had chucked them all away to lighten his horse. Well, it is a long journey. It will take us all a month, I reckon, to get there. We cannot go straight—the Apaches would have us to a certainty—but must go north into the Moquis country, and then down again from that side. We have been minded to try it ever since, but luck has been bad with us, and, besides, two men wouldn't be enough for such a journey.

"It ain't every one Sim and I would care about going with, but we have both taken a fancy to you. We saw you stand up straight before that crowd of Mexicans; besides, we know it wants good grit for that cow-boy life. Now this is the offer we make. We have got two horses, and we can buy two pack-horses, but we can't go further than that. You have got two out-and-out horses; we saw you ride in yesterday afternoon. You will want another pack-horse, and you will have to provide the outfit: say two bags of flour, two sides of bacon, ten pounds of tea, and a couple of gallons of spirits; then there will be sugar and some other things.

"We shall also want a small tent. Now if you like to join us on these terms you can. There is plenty of gold for us all. But mind you, it will be no child's play. The journey from the Moquis country there will be terrible; and there is the chance, and a pretty big chance it is, I tell you, of a fight with the Red-skins. We may never find the place. We have got pretty good indications, but it is not an easy matter to find a place among those mountains. Still, there it is. If you get there and back you will each have a horse-load of gold; if you don't you will leave your bones there. What do you say to it?"

Hugh looked at Royce. "I reckon we kin take our chances if you kin," the latter said. "At any rate, mates, you will find as we can take our share in whatever comes."

"Then that is agreed," the doctor said. "Now about preparations. It will never do for you to be buying the things here; for if we were seen to start off together we should be followed, sure enough; it would be guessed at once we had told you of something good. We must not be seen together again. We will get our pack-horses and load up, and go as if we were undertaking a job on our own account, and camp up somewhere twenty miles away, and stop there a week. After we have gone you can get your outfit and move off and join us. Sim and I have been talking over whether it will be a good thing to take José—that is the man here—with us, instead of buying baggage horses. He has got four beasts. He could ride one himself, and the other three, with the one you have, would make up the number. José can be trusted; besides, we should not tell him where we were going, but we should have to say it would be a long journey and a dangerous one. He is a widower, with one child, and these horses are his only possession, and I think he would want their value put down before he started, say seventy-five dollars a-piece for them and their saddles, that is three hundred dollars. You wouldn't buy them for less. So as far as money goes it would come to the same thing. You will get it back again if José and the animals come back; but if we all do come back, three hundred dollars would be nothing one way or the other. Then comes the point, would it be worth while to take him? There would be one more mouth to feed, but that does not go for much; there would be one more rifle in case we had to fight, and José has plenty of courage. I have seen him in a fix before now. He would look after the beasts and leave our hands free; and his pay would cost us nothing, for if we got there he would help us gather and wash the gold."

"What is the drawback then?" Hugh asked.

"The drawback is, that if we have to ride for it he might hinder us."

"There ain't much in that, doc.," Sim Howlett put in. "Our horses are pretty good though they ain't much to look at, but the horses our mates here have got would leave them standing, and I don't know that José's best is much slower than ours; besides, when you are working among those mountains speed goes for nothing. A horse accustomed to them would pick his way among the rocks faster'n a race-horse. Ef we are attacked there running won't be much good to us. Ef we get fairly out from the hills with the gold and the 'Paches are on our trail, why, we then must trust to cunning, and our mates here can ride clear away."

"We sha'n't do that, Sim," Hugh said. "If we throw in our lot with you we shall share it to the end, whatever it is."

"Waal, that is all right, lad; but there are times when stopping to fight is just throwing away your life without doing no good. The doctor here and me ain't men to desart mates; but when a time comes where it ain't no sort of good in the world to fight, and when those mates must get rubbed out whether you stick by them or not, then it is downright onreasonable for anyone as can get clear off to throw away his life foolish."

"Well, anyhow, Sim," Hugh said, "it seems to me that it will be best to take José and his horses with us. It will, as you say, leave our hands free, and it will make the journey much more pleasant, and will add one to our strength. Well, that would cost, you say, three hundred dollars; how much will the rest of the outfit cost?"

"Three hundred at the outside," the doctor said. "We have been reckoning it up. Of course we have all got kits, and it's only grub and ammunition we have got to buy, and two or three more shovels, and some pans for washing the sand, and another pick or two, and a couple of crowbars. Three hundred dollars will get as much grub as the four pack-horses will carry, and make a good proper outfit for us. Will your money run to that?"

"Hardly," Hugh said, "that's just about what we have got between us. We had each six months' pay to draw when we left the ranche, and I had some before. I think we are about twenty dollars short of the six hundred."

"That is plenty," the doctor said. "If you put in four hundred, Sim and I can chip in another two hundred, as we sha'n't have to buy pack-horses; so we have plenty between us. We shall see José to-night and talk it over with him, and if he agrees he will come to you and bring a document for you to sign, saying that if he does not return in six months, the three hundred dollars are to be paid over for the use of his child; then he will go with you to a priest and put the paper and the money in his hands; then you can hand him over your pack-horse, he will take charge of it; then, if you will give us a hundred dollars, we engage to get the outfit all provided. When it is all done we will let you know what day you are to meet us, and where. You see we are asking you to trust us right through."

"That is all right," Hugh said. "We are trusting you with our lives, and the dollars don't go for much in comparison."

"That is so," Sim Howlett said. "Waal, there is nothing more to say now. You had best ride back to the town and give yourself no more trouble about it. You will hear from us in a few days, or it maybe a week. We shall buy half the things and send them on by José, and then get the others and follow ourselves. It would set them talking here if we was to start with four loads. There is some pretty bad men about this place, you bet."

"Well, we sha'n't have much for them to plunder us of," Hugh said.

"Four laden horses wouldn't be a bad haul, but it ain't that I am afraid of. If there wur a suspicion as we was going out to work a rich thing, there is plenty of men here would get up a party to track us, and fall on us either there or on our way back. There are two or three bands of brigands upon the mountains, and they are getting worse. There have been several haciendas burned and their people killed not many miles from El Paso. Parties have been got up several times to hunt them down, but they never find them; and there is people here as believe that the officers of the guárda are in their pay. They have come across us more than once when we have been prospecting. But they don't interfere with men like us, because, firstly, we haven't got anything worth taking, anyway nothing worth risking half a dozen lives to get; and in the next place, ef it got known they had touched any of our lot, the miners would all join and hunt them down, and they know right enough that would be a different thing altogether to having to deal with the Mexikins."

Five minutes later Hugh and Royce were on their way back to El Paso.

CHAPTER XVII.

CARRIED OFF.

THE next morning, in accordance with the promise they had given Don Ramon, Hugh rode out to the hacienda, Royce saying that they were too great swells for him, and he would rather stop quietly at El Paso; "besides," he said, "most likely José will come this morning, and I will stop and fix up that business with him." Hugh did not try to dissuade him, for he had seen that Royce was ill at ease on the occasion of his first visit.

On reaching the hacienda he received a hearty welcome from Don Ramon and his family, and Don Carlos rode with him over a part of the estate, where a large number of peóns were engaged in the cultivation of tobacco, maize, and other grain.

"If you have time, Señor Hugh, you must go with me to see our other estates; our principal one lies twenty leagues to the south. We have five hundred square miles of land there, and big herds of cattle and droves of horses, but I suppose you have seen enough cattle."

"Yes; there is no novelty about that," Hugh replied. "How many have you?"

"There and in other places we have somewhere about 150,000 head; as to the horses, we don't know; they are quite wild, and we drive them in and catch them as they are wanted. We have about a score of our best here, but these are the only animals we keep here except bullocks for the plough and the teams to take the crops down to market."

"I hear you have been rather troubled with brigands lately; have you any fear of them?"

"The scoundrels!" the young man exclaimed passionately; "it is a disgrace that they are not hunted down. Yes, they have been very daring lately, and my father and several of the other hacienderos have written lately to the authorities of Santa Fé complaining of the inactivity of the police here. I have tried to persuade my father to move down to our house at El Paso until the bands have been destroyed; but he laughs at the idea of danger. We have twenty armed peóns sleeping in the outhouses, and twelve male servants in the house, and indeed there is little chance of their attacking us; still one cannot but feel uncomfortable with ladies here.

"There are a hundred troops or so stationed in the fort on the other side of the river, and they have joined two or three times in the search for the brigands, but of course they are too far off to be any protection to us here; besides they are not of much use among the mountains. The officer in command is fonder of good wine than he is of the saddle. It is a difficult thing to rout out these brigands; half the peasantry are in alliance with them, and they get information of everything that is going on, and even if we knew of their hiding-places, there would be little chance of our taking them by surprise. However, sooner or later, I suppose, we shall have them. There is a large reward offered for their capture; someone is sure to prove traitor at last. It is always the way with these bands, someone thinks himself ill-used in the division of the booty, or takes offence with the leaders, or something of that sort, or is tempted by the reward, and then we get them all; if it wasn't for treachery, the country would soon become uninhabitable."

His host would not hear of Hugh returning that evening to El Paso, but sent a peón in to tell Royce that he would not return until next day. Hugh spent a delightful evening; the young ladies played on the mandoline, and sang with their brother. The soft light, the luxurious appointments, and the ripple of female talk, were strange and delightful after so long a time among rough surroundings; and it was with great reluctance that he mounted his horse and rode back on the following morning. He found on arrival that his comrade had arranged the matter with José, and had deposited the money with the priest. As he was standing chatting to him at the door of the hotel, a ragged Mexican boy ran up, placed a scrap of paper in Hugh's hand, and at once darted away.

"It is from the doctor," Hugh said, opening it, and then read as follows: "I have something particular to say to you; it must be private; when you have received this stroll quietly through the town as if you were only looking at the shops; go down to the river and follow it up till you hear three whistles, then come to them; you had better come alone. The doctor."

"I wonder what the little man has got to say, Royce?"

"Dunno," the other said. "I suppose you had better go and see. You have got your six-shooter anyhow?"

Hugh obeyed his instructions and walked along the river bank till he heard the whistles; they came from a small clump of bushes standing apart from any others. As he approached it he heard the doctor's voice, "Look round and see if there is anyone in sight."

"No one that I can see," Hugh replied.

"Then come in."

Hugh pushed his way through the bushes.

"Why, what is the matter, doctor?" he asked, surprised at all these precautions.

"I will tell you. Sit down there. It is just as we fancied it might be. I told you that we might be watched. These confounded Mexicans have nothing to do but watch, and they have found out what we are after."

"How did you learn that, doctor?"

"Well," the doctor said reluctantly, "my mate has but one fault, he will sometimes go in for a drink. It's not often, but just occasionally, once perhaps every few months. It has always been so ever since I have known him. Well, last night it came over him. He thought it would be a long while before he would have a chance again, I suppose; he is not quarrelsome when he drinks, but you may be sure I always go with him so as to take care of him. So yesterday evening, seeing that he had made up his mind for it and was not to be turned, I went with him to a little wine-shop near where we lodge. There were half-a-dozen Mexicans in there drinking and talking, and as they stopt talking directly we went in, I saw we were not wanted. But I noticed more than that. I saw two of them glance at each other, and though I could not recollect I had ever set eyes on them before, I saw they knew us.

"We hadn't any money on us beyond what was wanted to pay for the liquor, so though I didn't like the look of them I was not uneasy. We sat down and called for some liquor, and I managed to say to Sim, 'These chaps know us, Sim; don't you go drinking.' He nodded. We drank for a bit, at least he did, I don't touch spirits. Then, talking carelessly out loud, we, in whispered asides, made out a plan. We agreed that we should quarrel, and I should go out, and that he should seem to go on drinking until he got drunk and stupid, and then like enough he might hear something. So we carried that out.

"As soon as he had drunk his glass he called for another, and then another. I got up a row with him, and told him he was always making a beast of himself. He said he would drink if he chose, and wouldn't be interfered with by any one. Then I got nasty, and we had a big row, and I went out. Then Sim went on drinking; he can stand a lot more than would floor most Mexicans. They got into talk with him, and he could see they were trying to pump him as to what we were going to do, but you bet he didn't let much out. Then he got gradually stupid, and at last rolled off the seat on to the ground. For a bit the Mexicans went on talking together, and then one of them crept over and felt his pockets, and took the few dollars he had in them out. That convinced them he was dead off to sleep, and they went on talking.

"What he gathered was this: the fellows were the spies of one of these bands. They had noticed you particularly when you came in, because it seems their captain was in the town and recognized your horse, and told them he didn't like your being here, and they were to watch you sharp. They were in the crowd when there was the row about the horse, and they saw us having our talk with you. They followed you out to the Don's and back again, and when you rode out in the morning to meet us they sent a boy after you, and he kept you in sight and tracked you up to the hut, and then crawled up close and overheard what we were saying. They sent off word at once to their chief, and we are to be followed by two men; when they have traced us to the place, one is to ride back to some place where a dozen of them will be waiting to attack us on our way back."

"That is bad," Hugh said; "what is to be done?"

"This has got to be put a stop to," the doctor said calmly, "though I don't see how yet. At any rate Sim and I think we had better not hurry, a few days won't make any difference, and something may occur. He picked up from their talk that the villains had something else in hand just at present; some stroke from which they expect to make a lot of money, but they talked low, and he couldn't catch much of what they said. Maybe it will go wrong, and the country may be roused and hunt them down, and if so you bet we will be in it; we have got chances enough to take in this job as it is, and we don't want to reckon on brigands; not that there is much fear of them now that we know their plans, we have only got to ambush the men they send after us. Still, we ain't going to take any chances. The fellows may follow direct; they are sure to choose some one who knows the mountains well, and they may judge by our direction the course we are taking and go by other paths; they would know pretty well we are not the sort of people to fool with. Still it is better to wait a little while and see if there is a chance of putting a stop to it here. It is not that we are feared of the skunks; if we could not throw them off our trail, we could fight them anyway, but one don't want to have them on one's mind; we have got plenty of things to think about without them."

"O yes! I think it much better to stay here for a bit, doctor. There is no hurry about a start on our expedition, and I should certainly like to take a share in routing out these bandits, especially as, from what you say, it seems that the men at their head are the fellows who murdered Don Ramon Perales' son, and sold me his horse. I wonder which hacienda it is that they are meaning to attack!"

"Yes, it is a pity Sim didn't manage to find that out; we would have caught them then."

"Have you any idea how strong the band is?"

"They are not often over twenty," the doctor replied. "Twenty is enough for their work, and if there were more the shares of the plunder would be too small; but, as I said, they have got friends everywhere, and could probably gather thirty or forty more if they knew the troops were going to attack them. A Mexican is always ready on principle to join in if there is a chance of getting a shot at an American soldier."

"I suppose you have not the least idea in what direction these fellows have their headquarters?"

"Well, I have some sort of an idea, at any rate I know of one place where there is a party who don't care about being interfered with by strangers. Two or three months ago when Sim and I were away about forty miles over to the north-west, we were in a village just at the mouth of a bit of a valley, and the girl who waited on us at the little wine-shop whispered in my ear when the landlord's back was turned, 'Don't go up the valley.' Well, we were not thinking of going up the valley, which was only a sort of gulch leading nowhere, but after that we thought that we would have a look at it. We took a goodish round so as to get above it, and looked down, and we saw a house lying among some trees, and lower down, near the mouth of the valley, made out two men sitting among some rocks on the shoulder.

"The sun shone on their gun barrels, but that didn't go for much, for the Mexicans out in the country pretty well always go armed. We watched them for a couple of hours, and as they didn't stir we concluded they were sentries. The girl wouldn't have given us that warning unless there had been something wrong, and I expect that house was the headquarters of one of these gangs."

"What made her do it, I wonder, doctor?"

"That I can't say, Lightning. It is never easy to say why a woman does a thing. She may have thought it a pity that Sim and I should get our throats cut, though I own that wouldn't be a thing likely to trouble a Mexican girl. Then she may have had a grudge against them; perhaps they had shot some lover of hers, or one of them may have jilted her. Anyhow, there it was, and if we hear of any attack of brigands upon a hacienda, we will try that place before going any further. And now, lad, you had better be going back. I shall lie here quiet for an hour or two in case there should be anyone watching you, as is likely enough."

Hugh returned to the hotel and told Royce what he had heard.

"That will suit me," Bill said. "I am death on border ruffians, and if ever I see two of them it wur them fellows as sold you the horse at M'Kinney. And so it's their intention to follow us and wipe us out, and get our swag? Waal, maybe it will be the other way. If I was you, Lightning, I would ride over to Don Ramon's this evening, and give him a hint to be on his guard. There is no reason why it should be his place they have got in their mind more than any other. But the fact that they stole the son's horse, to say nothing of killing him, might turn their thoughts that way. If you do a fellow one injury, I reckon that like as not you will do him another. I don't know why it is so, but I reckons it's human nature."

"I will ride over at once," Hugh said.

"I wouldn't do that, Hugh. You don't know who may have been watching you, and if it is known that you had been meeting the doctor quiet, and the doctor is a mate of Sim's, and Sim was in that wine-shop, they will be putting things together, and if you ride straight over to Don Ramon now, they will think it is because of something the doctor has been saying to you. Then if it should chance as that is the place they are thinking of, it air long odds that Sim and the doctor get a knife atween their shoulders afore bed-time. You go quietly off in the cool of the evening, just jogging along as if you was going to pay a visit of no particular account. They ain't got no interest in us, except as to this expedition to find gold, and they won't concarn themselves in your movements as long as I am here at the hotel and the others ain't getting ready to make a start. They have learned all they want to learn about our going."

Just as the sun was setting, Hugh set out. It was dark when he reached Don Ramon's hacienda. After chatting awhile with Don Ramon, his wife and son—the two girls, their father said, being somewhere out in the garden—Hugh said quietly to the Mexican that he wanted to speak to him for a moment in private. Don Ramon lighted a fresh cigarette, and then said carelessly, "It is a lovely evening, we may as well stroll outside and find the girls. I don't suppose they know that you are here?" Don Carlos followed them into the broad verandah outside the house.

"Your son can hear what I have to say," Hugh said in reply to an inquiring look from Don Ramon, and then reported the conversation that Sim had overheard. Father and son were both much excited at the statement that the horse had been recognized.

"Then poor Estafan's murderers are somewhere in this neighbourhood!" the don exclaimed. "That is the part of the story that interests me most, señor. As to attacking my hacienda, I don't believe they would venture upon it. They must know that they would meet with a stout resistance, and El Paso is but three miles away. Daring as they are, they would scarcely venture on such an undertaking; but I will, of course, take every precaution. I will order four men to be on guard at night, bid the others sleep with their arms ready at hand, and see that the shutters and doors are barred at night. But the other matter touches us nearly. If Estafan's murderers are in the province we will hunt them down if I have to arm all the vaqueros and peóns, and have a regular campaign against them.

"You were quite right not to mention this before my wife; she and my daughters had better know nothing about it. By the way, I wonder where the girls are; they are not generally as late as this. I suppose the evening has tempted them; it is full moon to-morrow." He raised his voice and called the girls. There was no reply. "Carlos, do you go and look for them, and tell them from me to come up to the house; and now, señor, we will have a cup of coffee."

In a quarter of an hour Carlos returned. "I cannot find them, father. I have been all round the garden calling them."

Don Ramon rose from his seat and struck a bell on the table. "They must have gone up to their rooms," he said, "without coming in here." When the servant appeared, he said, "Rosita, go up to the señoritas' room, and tell them that Don Hugh Tunstall is here."

"They are not there, señor. I have just come down from their rooms."

"What can have become of them, Carlos?" Don Ramon said.

"I have no idea, father; they had Lion with them. He was asleep here when they called him from outside, and I saw him get up and dash through the open window."

"I can't understand it," the don said anxiously, "for the evening is cold; besides, they would scarcely go outside the garden after nightfall."

"They might be down at Chaquita's cottage, father."

"Oh, yes! I didn't think of that, Carlos," Don Ramon said. "Yes, they are often down at their old nurse's. Rosita, tell Juan to go down to Chaquita's cottage and beg the young ladies to return, as I want them."

In ten minutes the servant came back.

"They are not there, señor; they left there just as it was getting dark."

"Surely there is nothing to be uneasy about, Ramon!" his wife said. "The girls are often out as late as this on a moonlight evening. They are sure to be about the garden, somewhere."

"But Carlos has been round," Don Ramon said. "Well, we will go and have another look for them." Followed by the two young men he stepped out on to the verandah. "Carlos," he said, "go round to the men's quarters and tell them your sisters are missing, and that they are all to turn out and search. I don't like this," he said to Hugh, after his son had left. "I should have thought nothing of it at any other time, but after what you have just been telling me, I feel nervous. Now, let us go round the garden."

DISCOVERING THE BODY OF THE BLOODHOUND.

They traversed all the walks, Don Ramon repeatedly calling the girls' names. They were joined in their search by Don Carlos and a number of the men. "They are certainly not in the garden," Don Ramon said at last. "Now, let us go down towards Chaquita's cottage; they may either have followed the road on their way back, or have come along a by-path to the garden. We will go by the path, and return the other way."

The path lay through a shrubbery. Just as they entered it, a man met them running.

"Well, what is it, Juan?" Don Ramon asked as he came up and he could see his face by the light of the torches some of the men were carrying.

"I don't know, señor, but we have just come upon some fresh blood on the path."

With a cry of alarm Don Ramon ran forward with his son and Hugh. Fifty yards farther they saw two of the men standing with torches in the middle of the path.

"Here is blood, señor," one of them said. "We passed it without noticing it on our way to the cottage; we were not examining the ground; but on our way back the light of the torches fell upon it."

Don Ramon stood staring in speechless horror at a large patch of blood on the path. "There has been a struggle here," Hugh said, examining the ground. "See! there are marks of large feet. Some of them have trod in the blood. See, Don Carlos!" and he pointed to a line of blood drops leading to one of the bushes.

"Search, Hugh," the young man groaned, "I dare not."

Hugh motioned one of the men with a torch to follow him. The father and son stood gazing after them as they entered the bushes. A moment later Hugh called out:

"It is the dog, señors, there is nothing else."

An exclamation of joy broke from the two Mexicans. They were at least relieved of the overpowering dread that had seized them at the sight of the blood, and at once joined Hugh. The dog, a fine Cuban blood-hound, was lying dead, stabbed in a dozen places.

"What can it mean, father?" Don Carlos said in a low voice.

"I can hardly think," the Mexican said, passing his hand across his forehead.

"I am afraid, señor, it is too evident," Hugh put in. "This is the explanation of what my friend heard. The brigands did not intend to attack the hacienda. They have carried off your daughters, and the hound has died in their defence."

"That must be it," Don Ramon exclaimed in the deepest anguish. "Oh, my poor girls, how can it have happened!"

"I expect they were in hiding here," Hugh said, "and sprang up suddenly and seized and gagged the señoritas before they had time to scream. The hound doubtless sprang upon them, and, as you see, they killed it with their knives."

"What is to be done?" Don Ramon asked hopelessly.

"The first thing is to follow the path down to the road," Hugh said; "probably they had horses somewhere. Will you tell the men to go along cautiously with their torches near the ground."

Don Carlos gave the order in Mexican. One of the party, who was the chief hunter at the hacienda, went a little ahead of the others with a torch. He stopped a short distance before he reached the junction of the path with the road, which they could see ahead of them in the moonlight.

"Here are fresh marks of horses' hoofs," he said. "See," and he held the torch above his head and pointed to the bushes, "twigs have been broken, and there are fresh leaves upon the ground. The horses must have been hidden here. Do not move until I examine down to the road." He went forward alone, and returned in two or three minutes. "There are faint tracks from the road to this point; they came along at a walk. There are deep ones down to the road, and along it; they went off at a gallop. There were six of them."

"What is to be done, señor?" Don Ramon said to Hugh. "My brain seems on fire, and I cannot think."

"I should imagine your daughters can be in no immediate danger, señor," Hugh said quietly. "The brigands have doubtless carried them off in order to wring a heavy ransom from you. They must have got two hours' start, and I fear pursuit would be useless to-night, though I would send three of the men accustomed to tracking on at once to follow their traces, and to learn the direction they have taken after leaving here. Of course it will be for you to decide whether you will go down to the town and see the alcalde, and obtain a posse of men to join your vaqueros in a search for them, and then to cross the river to the fort and get the help of the troops, and scour the whole country; or whether you will wait until you hear, as you doubtless will, from the brigands."

"Let us go back to the house," Don Ramon replied; "we must think it over. We must not do anything rash, or we might endanger their lives." The news had reached the house before they arrived there. Donna Maria was completely prostrated with grief, the women were crying and wringing their hands, and the wildest confusion prevailed. Don Ramon had by this time recovered himself, and sternly ordered silence. He then proceeded to the room where his wife had been carried, and endeavoured to assure her that there was little fear for their daughters' lives, for the brigands could have no purpose in injuring them, and had only carried them off for the purpose of exacting a ransom.

"What do you really think had best be done, my friend?" Don Carlos asked Hugh when they were alone together. "Of course, whatever ransom these villains ask must be paid, although I have no doubt it will be something enormous. But it is terrible to think of the girls being even for an hour in their hands, especially when we feel sure that these men are the murderers of my brother."

"I should say," Hugh replied, "that whatever they demand must be paid. It will not do to risk the señoritas' lives by doing anything as long as they are in their hands. But I should advise that the moment they are free we should fall upon these scoundrels and exterminate them, and recover the ransom. I think that I have a clue to the place where they are likely to be taken. One of my miner friends was speaking to me of a place that would be likely to be used for such a purpose. He could lead a party there. But it would never do to attempt it while the ladies are in their hands. You may be sure that a careful watch will be kept, and at the first alarm the villains might murder them. We will hear what your father says when he returns, and if he thinks, as I do, that we can attempt nothing until he receives some communication from the brigands, I will ride back to El Paso and consult my friends there."

Don Ramon on his return said that he was strongly of opinion that it would risk the girls' lives were any movement made until he heard of them. As he could be of no utility Hugh rode over to El Paso, Don Carlos saying that he would let him know the instant they received any communication from the brigands, but that he should anyhow see him in the morning, as he should ride over with his father to report the matter to the authorities. It was past ten o'clock when Hugh reached the hotel. It happened to be a festa, and the square was full of people, and the cafés and wine-shops open. Royce was in the bar-room of the hotel.

"Royce, do you know where Sim and the doctor are likely to be found?"

"I saw them sitting in front of the wine-shop in the corner of the square, not more than ten minutes ago."

"Come along with me, then, Bill."

"But I thought we weren't to be seen with them?" Royce said.

"There can be no reason against it now," Hugh replied. "They have learned all they wanted to learn about it, and know that we are going together. At any rate our meeting would seem to be accidental."

"Is anything up, Hugh?" Royce asked as they made their way through the crowd in the square. "You look troubled."

"I will tell you directly, Bill."

"There they are. They are still at the same table, Hugh."

There were two empty chairs at the table. Hugh nodded carelessly to the doctor and Sim, and sat down beside them.

"After what you told me this morning, doctor, there can be no harm in our being seen together. I want to talk to you badly. There are too many people about here. Do you mind both coming down to the river. We can talk as we go."

Directly they were out of the square he told the three men what had happened.

"Carried off those two young ladies!" Royce exclaimed. "By thunder, that is too bad. What is to be done, boys?"

"Let us wait until we know all about it," Sim replied; while the doctor said, in his quiet way, "This has really got to be put a stop to. Let us wait until we are down by the river. We must hear all this quietly, Lightning. Four men can't talk as they walk."

They soon gained a quiet spot away from the houses.

"Now tell us how it came about," the doctor said, "and while we are talking each of you keep his eyes and ears open. We have behaved like fools once, and let ourselves be overheard. We won't do it again."

Hugh told the whole story of the girls' abduction, and stated the determination arrived at by Don Ramon, not to attempt a pursuit, but to pay whatever ransom was demanded, and then to hunt the brigands down.

"That is all very well," the doctor said; "but when they have once got the money, and you may be sure that it will be a very big sum, they will divide it and scatter; and there won't be one of them in the district twelve hours after the girls are given up."

"But what is he to do, doctor?" Sim Howlett said. "He daren't move till he gets the gals. They would cut their throats sure if he did."

"My idea was, Sim," Hugh said, "that if this is the work of the band in that house the doctor was telling me about this morning, we could be in hiding near it; and directly the men who take the girls back to their father return with the ransom, we could fall upon them, destroy the whole band, and get back the money."

"We should want a big force to surround the place," Sim replied; "and there would be no getting it there without being seen. You bet there are a score of them on the look-out, and their friends would bring them word, long before we got there, of such a force being on the way. Besides, there is no surety that it is the place where the gals are, and, even if it is, the hull band may leave when they send the gals away. They may scatter all over the country, and meet again at night fifty miles off. Another thing is, you may bet your boots there will be a lot of trouble about handing over that ransom, and they won't give 'em up until after they have got the money."

"I see that there are all sorts of difficulties before us, Sim, but I am sure you and the doctor will see some way out of it. I am deeply interested in rescuing these poor girls, and we are all interested in this band being wiped out before we start."

"Have you any plan at all?" the doctor asked. "You have had longer time to think this over than we have."

"Well, doctor, my idea was that we could start to-night and get to some place among the hills, where we could hide our horses a mile or two from this house where we suppose they are. We should lie quiet there to-morrow. The next evening we should make our way down, and try and ascertain for certain whether they are there, and see whether it is possible to carry them off.

"Of course that couldn't be attempted unless we are absolutely certain of being able to protect them. If we could get them out without being seen, we might try to do it. If it is not certain we could do that, and get off without being seen, I should say one of us should ride back next morning to Don Ramon and get him to bring up twenty or thirty of his men, or if not, a body of troops from the fort. We should guide them at night to a point as near the house as it would be safe for them to get. Then we four could crawl down to the house. The moment we are in a position to protect the girls, that is to say if we can get into the room where they are kept, we will fire a pistol-shot out of the window as a signal. Then we shall have to make as good a fight of it as we can till the others come up to help us.

"You may be sure that the brigands will be all pretty well occupied with us, and the other party will be able to surround the house, and then rush in to our assistance."

"That looks a good plan, by thunder!" Sim Howlett said. "What do you say, doctor?"

"Well, I think it might be worked somehow on those lines," the doctor agreed. "I don't think there is much danger for the ladies, because, if the brigands did come upon us when we were scouting, some of them would attack us, and the rest would carry the ladies off to some other hiding-place. I don't say if they were surrounded and saw no chance of escape they mightn't kill them out of revenge, but they would never do that until the last thing, because they would reckon, and truly enough, that as long as they are in their hands they have got the means of making terms for themselves. But to one thing I agree anyhow. Let us get our horses and start at once. Don't let us go together. We will meet at the first cross-road a mile to the west of the town. No one is likely to notice us going out. There are plenty of people who have come in from the country to this festa; besides, just at present they won't be watching us. They know what our plans are, and that we don't intend to start for another week, and they won't be giving a thought to us until this affair of the girls is settled. What do you say, Sim?"

"That is right enough," Sim said; "but we must be careful about the roads, doctor. Like enough they will have a man on every road going anywhere near the place, and perhaps miles away."

"Yes, we must make a big circuit," the doctor agreed. "Strike the hills fifteen or twenty miles away from their place, and then work up through them so as to come down right from the other side."

"Shall I get some provisions at the hotel?" Hugh asked.

"No; we will attend to that. There are plenty of places open, and we will get what is wanted. Now, do you and Bill go back by yourselves; we will follow in a minute or two."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BRIGANDS' HAUNT.

BY daybreak on the following morning Hugh and his three companions were far among the hills. They had halted an hour before, and intended to wait until noon before pursuing their journey. They had already been eight hours in the saddle, and had travelled over sixty miles. They had halted in a little valley where there was plenty of grass for the horses, and after cooking some food lay down and slept until the sun was nearly overhead. Fortunately, the two miners had traversed the country several times, and were able to lead them across the mountains, where otherwise it would have been impossible to find a way.

After four hours' riding, on emerging from a valley the doctor said:

"There, do you see that village three miles away? That is the village where we stopped. The gorge in which the house lies runs from the village in this direction. You cannot see it here: it is a sort of cañon cut out ages ago by the water. The sides are nearly perpendicular; but at the upper end the bottom rises rapidly, and, as far as we could see from the spot from which we looked at it, there is no difficulty in getting down there. As you see, there are woods lying back to the left. We have got to come down at the back of them, and there is no chance of our being seen even if they have got men on the lookout on the high ground above the house. They will be looking the other way; they can see miles across the plain there. Of course they have no reason to believe that anyone knows of their haunt; still, they are always on the look-out against treachery."

"Well, let's go on at a trot now, doctor. We shall be in the wood before sunset."

When they reached the trees they dismounted, and led their horses until they perceived daylight through the trunks on the opposite side.

"Now we will finish the remainder of our dinner," the doctor said, "and talk matters over. We are about half a mile now from the end of the valley, and it is another half-mile down to the house. Now, what are we going to do? Are we all going, or only one?"

Hugh was silent. These men understood matters better than he did.

"Only one, of course," Sim Howlett said. "The others can come on to the top of the valley so as to lend a hand if he is chased; but it would be just chucking away lives for more than one to go. Well, it is either you or me, doc."

"Why?" Hugh asked. "I am quite ready to go, and I am sure Bill is too. Besides, this question of the young ladies is more my affair than yours, since you do not know them, and I certainly think I ought to be the one to go."

"There is one reason agin it, Lightning," Sim said. "What you say is true, and if it came to running you could leg it a good bit faster than the doc. or me; but that don't count for much in the dark. It is creeping and crawling that is wanted more than running. The reason why the doc. or I must go is, you don't speak Mexican, and we do. It ain't likely that the young ladies will be seen out in the verandah, and one can't go and look into each of the windows till we find the right one. We have got to listen, and that way we may find whether they are there, and if we are lucky, which room they are in. So you see it is for one of us to go."

"I shall go, Sim," the doctor said quietly. "I can walk as lightly as a cat. I haven't above half as much bulk to hide as you have, and I am cunning while you are strong, and this is a case where cunning is of more use than strength. So it is settled that I go; but you may as well give me your six-shooter. I may want twelve barrels."

"I shall be sorry for the Mexicans if you use them all, doc.," Sim Howlett said, handing over his pistol to the doctor. "I would rather go myself; but I know when you have once made up your mind to anything it ain't no sort of use argying."

"That's right," the doctor said, putting the weapon into his belt. "Well, there is just time for a pipe before I start. The sun has been down nearly half an hour, and the moon won't be up over those hills there for another hour, so we shall have it dark till I get well down into the valley, and the moon won't be high enough to throw its light down there afore I am back again."

"A wonderful man is the doctor!" Sim Howlett said when, with noiseless step, he had made his way down into the upper end of the ravine. "You wouldn't think much of him to look at him. But, you bet, he has got as much grit as if he was ten times as big. See him going about, and you would say he might be one of them missionaries, or a scientific chap such as those as comes round looking after birds and snakes and such like. He sorter seems most like a woman with his low talk and gentle way, and yet I suppose he has killed more downright bad men than any five men on this side of Missouri."

"You don't say so!" Hugh said in surprise.

"Yes, sir, he is a hull team and a little dog under the waggon, he is. He ain't a chap to quarrel; he don't drink, and he don't gamble, and he speaks everyone fair and civil. It ain't that; but he has got somethin' in him that seems to swell up when he hears of bad goings-on. When there is a real bad man comes to the camp where he is, and takes to bossing the show, and to shooting free, after a time you can see the doctor gets oncomfortable in his mind; but he goes on till that bad man does something out of the way—shoots a fellow just out of pure cussedness, or something of that kind—then he just says this must be put down, and off he goes and faces that bad man and gives him a fair show and lays him out."

"You mean he doesn't fire until the other man is heeled, Sim?"

"Yes, I mean that."

"Then how is it he hasn't got killed himself?"

"That is what we have said a hundred times, Lightning. He has been shot all over, but never mortally. One thing, his looks are enough to scare a man. Somehow he don't look altogether arthly with that white hair of his—and it has been the same colour ever since I have known him—floating back from his face. He goes in general bareheaded when he sets out to shoot, and the hair somehow seems to stand out; not a bit like it does other times. I heard a chap who had been a doctor afore he took to gold-digging say his hair looked as if it had been electrified. Then he gets as white as snow, and his eyes just blaze out. I tell you, sirree, it is something frightful to see him; and when he comes right into a crowded saloon and says to the man, as he always does say in a sort of tone that seems somehow to frizz up the blood of every man that hears it, 'It is time for you to die!' you bet it makes the very hardest man weaken. I tell you I would rather face Judge Lynch and a hundred regulators than stand up agin the doctor when his fit is on; and I have seen men who never missed their mark afore shoot wide of him altogether."

"And he never misses?" Royce asked.

"Miss!" Sim repeated; "the doctor couldn't miss if he tried. I've never known his bullet go a hair's-breadth off the mark. It always hits plumb in the centre of the forehead. If there is more than one of them, the doc. turns on the others and warns them: 'Git out of the camp afore night!' and you bet they git. He gives me a lot of trouble, the doc. does, in the way of nursing. I have put it to him over and over again if it is fair on me that he should be on his back three months every year, 'cause that is about what it's been since I have known him. He allows as it ain't fair, but, as he says, 'It ain't me, Sim, I have got to do it; I am like a Malay running a-muck—them's chaps out somewhere near China, he tells me, as gets mad and goes for a hull crowd—and I can't help it;' and I don't think he can. And yet you know at other times he is just about the kindest chap that breathes. He is always a-nussing the sick and sitting up nights with them, and such like. That is why he got the name of doctor."

"He isn't a doctor really then?" Hugh asked.

"Waal, Lightning, all that's his secret, and ef he thinks to tell you, he can do it. I know he is the best mate a man ever had, and one of the best critters in God's universe, and that is good enough for me. I reckon he must be somewhere down among them Mexikins by this time," he went on, changing the subject abruptly.

"I almost wish one of us had gone with him," Royce said, "so that if he should get found out we might make a better fight of it."

"He ain't likely to get found out," Sim said quietly, "and ef he does he kin fight his way out. I don't know what way the doctor will die, but I allowed years ago that it weren't going to be by a bullet. I ain't skeery about him. Ef I had thought there wur any kind of risk, I would have gone with him, you bet."

It was two hours before the doctor suddenly stood in the moonlight before them. They had been listening attentively for some time, but had not heard the slightest sound until he emerged from the shadow of the ravine.

"Well, doctor, are we on the right scent?"

"The girls are there, Sim, sure enough. Now let us go back to the wood before we talk. We have been caught asleep once on this expedition, when we thought we were so safe that we needn't be on the watch, and I don't propose to throw away a chance again." They went back without another word to the wood. As soon as they reached it the doctor sat down at the foot of a tree, and lighted his pipe; the others followed his example.

"Well, there was no danger about that job," he began. "It seems not to have struck the fools that anyone was likely to come down from this end of the gulch. Down at the other end they have got two sentries on each side upon the heights. I could see them in the moonlight. I reckon they have some more at the mouth of the valley, down near the village; but you may guess I asked no questions about it. I saw no one in the gulch until I got down close to the house. It is as strong a place as if it had been built for the purpose. It stands on a sort of table of rock that juts out from the hill-side; so that on three sides it goes straight down. There is a space round the house forty or fifty feet wide.

"On the side where the rock stands out from the hill they have got a wall twelve feet high, with a strong gate in it. On that side of the house they have bricked all the windows up, so as to prevent their being commanded by a force on the hill-side above them, and all the windows on the ground-floor all round are bricked up too. I expect the rooms are lighted from a courtyard inside. So you see it is a pretty difficult sort of place to take all of a sudden. I could hear the voices of five or six men sitting smoking and talking outside the door, which is not on the side facing the hill, but on the other side. I guessed that when the house was built there must have been steps up from that side, for there is a road that runs along the bottom of the valley; so I crawled up and found that it was so. There had been a broad flight of steps there; they had been broken away and pulled down, still they were good enough for me. There were one or two blocks still sticking out from the rock, and there were holes where other blocks had been let in, and I made a shift to climb up without much difficulty till I got my eyes level with the top.

"The moon hadn't risen over the brow, still it was lighter than I liked; but one had to risk something; so I first of all pulled myself up, crawled along the edge till I got round the corner, and then went up to the house and examined the windows on the other side, and then got back to the top of the steps and began to listen. I soon heard the girls were there. They had brought them straight there after they had carried them off. A man had started early the next morning with a letter to Don Ramon demanding ransom. He was expected back some time to-night. They had had news that so far the don was taking no steps to raise the country, though the news of the girls being carried off was generally known. I didn't hear what the sum named for the ransom was; but the men were talking over what they should each do with their share of it, and they reckoned that each would have seven or eight thousand dollars.

"Well, there wasn't anything new about this. The matter of interest to us was which was the room where the girls were. As the journey would have been of no sort of use if I could not find that out, there was nothing to do but to get up again and crawl along to the house. I had reckoned that I should most likely want my rope, and had wound it round my waist. There was a guard at the gate, so it was one of the sides I had to try.

"I had learned from what the men said that most of the gang were away scattered all over the country down to El Paso, so as to bring news at once if there was any search for the girls going on. The chief and his lieutenant were down in the village, and would ride in with the messenger who brought down Ramon's answer. There was a guard inside the house, because the men at the fire said it was time for two of them to go and relieve them; but I guessed that otherwise the house was empty. I threw my rope over a balcony and climbed up, opened the fastening of the window with my knife, and went in. Everything was quiet. I felt my way across the room to a window on the other side. I opened that and looked down into the courtyard. Two or three lanterns were burning there, and I saw two men sitting on a bench that was placed across a door. They were smoking cigarettes, and had their guns leaning against the wall beside them. There was no doubt that was the room where the girls were.

"It was on the opposite side of the courtyard to that where I was standing—that is, on the side of the house facing down the valley,—and was the corner room.

"I had learned everything I wanted now, so I had nothing to do but to shut the window, slide down the rope, shake it off the balcony, and come back again; and here I am."

"Well done, doctor! You have succeeded splendidly. But what a pity we didn't all go with you. We could have cleared out that lot and rescued the girls at once."

"You might not have gone as quietly as I did," the doctor said. "Four men make a lot more noise than one, and at the slightest noise the seven men at the door would have been inside, the door bolted, and the first pistol shot would have brought in the guard at the gate, the four sentries on the height, and I expect as many more from the mouth of the valley. It would have been mighty difficult to break into the house with nine men inside and as many out; besides, it would never do to run risks; and even if we had done it, and hadn't found the girls with their throats cut, we should have had to fight our way up the valley to the horses, and a bullet might have hit one of them. No, no; this is a case where we have no right to risk anything. It's for the don to decide what is to be done. Now we know all about it, and can lay it before him. Lightning, you had better saddle up and ride with me. You must go, because he knows you, and will believe what you tell him. I must go, because he will want me to guide the force back here, so as to avoid any chance of their being seen on the way. The horses have done eighty miles since this time yesterday, so it's no use thinking of starting to-night. Besides, there is no hurry. We will be off in the morning."

After breakfast Sim was about to saddle the doctor's horse, when Royce said:

"The doctor had better take my horse. He is miles faster than his own."

The girths were tightened. The doctor, as he mounted, said to Sim, "You will keep a sharp look-out over the house, and reckon up how many go in and come out. I expect if the don writes to say he will pay the money, a good many of those outside will come here."

"We will keep our eyes open, doctor."

"It may be two or three days before you hear of us, Sim."

"There is no hurry, doctor. There will be a lot of talk about how the ransom is to be paid afore anything is done."

"Do you mean to go back the same way we came?" Hugh asked the doctor as they rode off.

"No, there is no occasion for that. We will ride thirty miles or so along the foot of the hills, east, and then strike straight by road for El Paso. It is about nine o'clock now. We shall be there by five o'clock. We won't go in together. I will wait on the road and come in by some other way after dark, or, what would be better, put up at José's. You had better not go up to the don's until to-morrow morning. Were you to go up directly you returned, the scoundrels who are watching both you and the don might suspect that your journey has had a connection with his business."

Next morning Hugh arrived at Don Ramon's, having obtained another horse at the hotel. "Why, where have you been, Señor Hugh?" Don Carlos exclaimed as the servant showed him into the room where they were at breakfast. "When I rode with my father into the town to give the alcalde notice, I went to the hotel and found that you were out. We sent over there three times yesterday and the day before, but they knew nothing of you. You had taken your horse and gone out the evening you returned, and had left no word when you would come back. We have been quite anxious about you, and feared that some harm had befallen you also. We were quite sure that you would not have left without telling us of your intentions."

"No, indeed," Hugh said. "I should have been ungrateful indeed for your kindness if I had left you in such terrible trouble; but before I tell you what I have been doing, please let me know what has happened here."

"About mid-day, the day after my daughters had been stolen," Don Ramon said, "a horseman rode up. I saw him coming, and guessed he was the man we were expecting. He was shown in here, and Carlos and myself received him. He handed me a letter. Here it is. I will translate it:

"'Señor Don Ramon Perales,—If you wish to see your daughters alive, you will, as speedily as possible, collect 200,000 dollars in gold and hand them over to the messenger I will send for them. When I receive the money your daughters shall be returned to you. I give you warning, that if any effort is made to discover their whereabouts, or if any armed body is collected by you for the purpose of rescue, your daughters will at once be put to death. Signed Ignatius Guttiero.'"

"And what did you reply, Don Ramon?"

"I wrote that it would take some time to collect so great a sum in gold, but that I would send up to Santa Fé at once, and use every effort to get it together in the shortest possible time. I demanded, however, what assurance I could have that after the money was paid my daughters would be returned to me. To that I have received no answer."

"No, you could hardly get one before this morning," Hugh said. "You look surprised, señor; but we have found out where they are hidden."

"You have found that out!" the others cried in astonishment.

"My companions and I," Hugh said; "indeed, beyond riding a good many miles, I have had but little to do with the matter. The credit lies entirely with the two miners I spoke to you of, with whom I was going shortly to start on an expedition to a placer they know of."

He then related the reason why the miners had suspected where the gang of brigands had their headquarters, and the steps by which they had ascertained that the girls were really there; and then explained the scheme that he and the doctor had, on their ride down, arranged for their rescue.

Don Ramon, his wife, and son were greatly moved at the narrative. "You have, indeed, rendered us a service that we can never repay," Don Ramon said; "but the risk is terrible. Should you fail it would cost you your lives, and would ensure the fate of my daughters."

"We are in no way afraid about our own lives, Don Ramon; there are not likely to be more than twenty of these scoundrels there, and if we were discovered before we could get to your daughters we could fight our way off, I think. In that case, seeing that there were only four of us, they certainly would not throw away their prospect of a ransom by injuring their captives. They would suppose that we had undertaken it on our own account as a sort of speculation, and though, no doubt, they would remove your daughters at once to some other place, they would not injure them. You see, our plan is that the force we propose shall be at hand, shall not advance unless they hear three shots fired at regular intervals. That will be the signal that we have succeeded in entering your daughters' apartment, and that they are safe with us; in that case you will push forward at once to assist us. If, on the other hand, you hear an outbreak of firing, you will know that we have been discovered before we reached your daughters, and will retreat with your force silently, and return to El Paso by the same route by which you went out, and you would then, of course, continue your negotiations for a ransom."

"At any rate," Don Carlos said, "I claim the right of accompanying you. It is my sisters who are in peril, and I will not permit strangers to risk their lives for them when I remain safe at a distance. You must agree to that, señor."

"I agree to that at once," Hugh said. "I thought that it was probable that you would insist upon going with us; it is clearly your right to do so."

"It must not be attempted," Don Ramon said gravely, "if in any way I can recover my daughters by paying the ransom. The risk would be terrible, and although two hundred thousand dollars is a large sum, I would pay it four times over rather than that risk should be run. The question is, what guarantee the brigands will give that they will return their captives after they have received the money. I shall know that soon; we will decide nothing until I receive the answer."

"Would it not be well, señor, for you to go over to arrange with the officer in command of the fort for twenty or thirty men to start with you at a moment's notice. If you decide to make this attempt to rescue your daughters the sooner we set about it the better, that is, if you intend to take troops instead of a party of your own men."

"I have already seen the commandant," Don Ramon said; "he is a personal friend, and rode over here directly he heard the news, and offered to place the whole of his force at my disposal should I think fit to use it."

At this moment a servant entered, and said that a man wished to see Don Ramon. The Mexican left the room, and returned in a minute with a letter. It was brief: "Señor, if you want your daughters back again you must trust us; we give no guarantees beyond our solemn pledge. You will tell my messenger on what day you will have the money ready, and do not delay more than a week; he will come again to fetch it. See that he is not followed, for it will cost your daughters their lives if an attempt is made to find out where he goes. Your daughters will be returned within twenty-four hours of your sending out the money."

"We will try your plan, señor," Don Ramon said firmly. "I would not trust the word of these cut-throats, or their oaths even, in the smallest matter, and assuredly not in one such as this. What shall I say in reply to this letter?"

"I should write and say that, although their conditions are hard, you must accept them, but that you doubt whether you can raise so large a sum of gold in the course of a week, and you beg them to give ten days before the messenger returns for it, and you pledge your honour that no attempt whatever shall be made to follow or to ascertain the course he takes."

Don Ramon wrote the letter, and took it down to the hall, where the messenger was waiting, surrounded by servants, who were regarding him with no friendly aspect.

"There is my answer," Don Ramon said as he handed the letter to the man. "Tell your leader I shall keep my word, and that I trust him to keep his.

"Now, Señor Hugh, will you give me the details of your plan. How do you propose that the troops are to be close at hand when required without their presence being suspected?"

"The doctor's idea was this, señor. That you should this morning send a letter by a servant to the commandant. Will you tell him that you believe you have a clue to your daughters' hiding-place, but that everything depends upon the troops getting near the spot without suspicion being excited. Will you beg him to maintain an absolute silence as to any movements of the troops until to-night, and to issue no orders until the gates are shut and all communication closed. Will he then order an officer and twenty men to be ready at four o'clock in the morning to start under the guidance of a miner who will to-night arrive at the fort bearing your card.

"This will, of course, be the doctor. Request the officer to place himself absolutely in his hands. Our plan is that they shall keep the other side of the river, travel some thirty miles up, and then halt until nightfall. At that point they would be as far off from the brigands' hiding-place as they are here, and if the fact that a detachment has started becomes known to the friends of the brigands, it will not be suspected that there is any connection between their journey and the affair with your daughters. After nightfall they will start again, cross the river, and meet you and myself at one o'clock, near the village of Ajanco. Thence we shall go up into the hills, rest there all day, and come down upon the gulch where the brigands' haunt lies."

"That sounds an excellent plan, señor; but how do you propose that we shall get away without being noticed to-morrow evening?"

"The doctor and I agreed that the best plan you could adopt would be to ride over and see your banker the first thing in the morning. That will seem perfectly natural. Then in the evening, after dark, you and Don Carlos should again ride down to him. You will naturally take at least four of your men down with you as a guard. You will leave your horses with them when you enter the banker's. You will then pass through his house, and at once leave by the back entrance, wrapped in your cloaks. You will then proceed to a spot half a mile out of the town, where Juan, who you say knows the country, will be waiting with your horses, and I also will be there.

"The people who are watching you—and you will certainly be watched—will naturally suppose that you are at the banker's. At ten o'clock he will come to the door and tell your men to return home with your horses and to bring them back at ten in the morning, as you and your son will sleep there. Even should anything be suspected—which is hardly likely—the scoundrels would have no clue whatever as to the direction you will have taken, as, at any rate, you will have had two hours' start before they can begin to think that anything is wrong."

"That is a capital plan, señor. You keep on adding to our already deep obligations to you."

Everything was carried out in accordance with the arrangements. Hugh returned at once to El Paso, and in the evening the doctor mounted his horse and rode to the fort. The next day passed quietly, and as soon as it became dark Hugh went out to the stable, saddled his horse without seeing any of the men about the yard, and rode off in the direction of Don Ramon's, and then, making a circuit of the town, arrived at the spot where Juan was waiting with the horses. They had been placed in a thicket a short distance from the road so as to be unobserved by anyone who might happen to pass. Hugh took his post close to the road, and an hour later Don Ramon and his son came up. The horses were at once brought out, and they mounted and rode off, Juan riding ahead to show the way.

They maintained a fast pace, for at one o'clock they were to meet the troops at the appointed place. They arrived a quarter of an hour before the time, and ten minutes after the hour heard the tramping of horses. The doctor was riding ahead, and halted when he came up to the group.

"Has all gone well, Lightning?" he asked.

"Excellently, as far as we know."

"This is Lieutenant Mason, who is in command of the troops," the doctor said as a figure rode forward. "Lieutenant Mason, this is Don Ramon Perales."

"You are punctual, señor," the officer said. "I have orders to place myself and my men entirely at your disposal. I think we had better have half an hour's halt before we go further. We have ridden fast, and you must have ridden faster, as your guide told me you were not to leave El Paso until eight o'clock, and I presume we have a good deal farther to go to-night."

"Another twenty miles," the doctor said. "The moon will be getting higher, and we shall want all her light. It will do no harm if we halt an hour, lieutenant, and eat our supper while the horses are eating theirs."

During the halt the doctor had a long talk with Juan, who came from this part of the country, and knew it well. When they mounted, instead of riding through the town, they struck off by a by-path before they reached it.

Three hours later they were deep among the hills, and then again halted, after turning off from the track they had been following, into a ravine. The girths were loosened, and the horses allowed to graze, and the men, wrapping themselves in cloaks or blankets, were soon asleep, a sentry being placed at the entrance to the ravine. At ten o'clock all were on their feet. Fires were lighted and breakfast cooked, and then, following mountain paths, they rode until two in the afternoon, at which time they reached the valley from which the party had before made their way down to the wood near the ravine. At dusk they again mounted and rode on to the wood. They were met at the edge of the trees by Sim Howlett and Royce.

"I was expecting you to-night, boys," Sim said. "We looked out for you last night, but didn't reckon as you could possibly do it."

"Have you any news of my daughters?" Don Ramon asked eagerly.

"Nary a word," Sim replied. "Bill and me have never had our eyes off the house from sunup to sundown. Lots of fellows have come and gone on horseback. Of course we cannot answer for what has been done after nightfall, but we reckon there is about thirty men there now, not counting those they may have in the village and the sentries down by the mouth of the valley. I calkilate the best part of the gang is there now. The chiefs would like to keep them under their eye. They will think the only thing they have got to be afraid of is treachery. I suppose matters stand as they did when you left, doc.?"

"Just the same. We four and Don Carlos are to go on and get at the ladies. When we are in there safe three pistol shots are to be the signal. Then Don Ramon and the soldiers are to come down and surround them."

Don Ramon had been very anxious to accompany the party, but the doctor had positively refused to take him with them. "It would add greatly to our risks," he said, "and do no good. If we can get to your daughters, Don Ramon, we five can keep the fellows at bay until you come up, easily enough. I believe we could thrash the lot, but it is no good taking chances; but anyhow, we can keep them off. I would rather have gone without your son, but as Lightning has passed his word, there is nothing more to be said. On a job like this the fewer there are the better. Each man after the first pretty nearly doubles the risk."

By this time the troopers had dismounted and fastened their horses to the trees. Meat that had been cooked in the morning, and biscuits were produced from their haversacks. When the meal had been eaten the soldiers lit their pipes, while their officer proceeded with Hugh and the others to the lower end of the wood and walked on to the head of the ravine.

"There are the lights!" Hugh said. "Ah! I see they have lighted a fire on the terrace, Bill."

"I expect they are pretty crowded in the house," Bill said; "but they go in to sleep. Sim and I have been down near the house twice, and though we were not quite close we were able to make pretty sure that except one sentry there and another at the gate, the rest all go in."

"How far are we to go down?" the officer asked.

"Well, I would rather you did not go down at all," Sim Howlett said. "You can get down there from here in ten minutes after you start if you look spry, and I am desperately afraid some of your men might make a noise, which they would hear certain if everything was quiet. There is no fear of their being heard when the firing once begins down there; but if one of them fell over a rock and his gun went off before we had done our part of the affair, there would be an end of the whole business."

"That is what I think, Sim," the doctor agreed. "We have said all along we might get the ladies out by ourselves, but again we mayn't be able to get them off at all. But we can defend them easy enough if we can get into their room. Five minutes won't make any difference about that, and it is everything to avoid the risk of noise until we get at them. If they discover us before we get there we just fall back fighting. They will think that we are only a small party, and the ladies will be none the worse."

"If you think that is the best way we must agree to it," Don Ramon said; "but we shall have a terrible time until we get to you."

"Don't you be afeard," Sim Howlett said. "The doctor, me, Lightning, and Bill could pretty well wipe them out by ourselves, and we reckon on our six-shooters a sight more than we do on the soldiers."

CHAPTER XIX.

A FIGHT AND A RESCUE.

SOON after sunset the five men started. The doctor was of opinion that it was better not to wait until the brigands had retired to rest.

"Of course we cannot begin operations," he said, "until all is quiet; but as long as the men are sitting round the fires smoking and singing they will keep a very careless guard, and any noise we make will pass unobserved. When they once get quiet the sentries will begin to listen, but until then we might almost walk up to their fires without being observed."

It was necessary to move slowly and cautiously, lest they should fall over a rock or stump; but the doctor led the way and the others followed close behind him. Twenty minutes' stealthy walking took them to the spot whence the doctor had before reconnoitred the house. A fire blazed on the terrace, and some fifteen men were sitting or lying round it. The light fell upon bottles and glasses. One of the party was playing upon a mandoline and singing, but few of the others were attending to him, a noisy conversation plentifully sprinkled with Spanish oaths being kept up.

"The room where your sisters are confined," the doctor said to Don Carlos, "is round the other side of the house. I did not mean to begin until all were asleep, but they are making such a noise down there that I do think it will be best to move at once, and if possible to let your sisters know that we are here. So we will work quietly round to that side; they had no sentry there last time, but they may have to-night."

After twenty minutes of cautious movement, they reached the foot of the rock on which the house stood. The doctor had brought out from El Paso a small grapnel and rope. The former had been carefully wrapped round with strips of cloth so as to deaden any sound. It was now thrown up, and at the second attempt became firmly fixed above.

"Do you mount first, Lightning," he said to Hugh. "When you get up lie quiet for a minute or two. When you have quite assured yourself that all is clear give the rope a shake. We others will come up one by one. Let each man when he gets to the top lie down."

Don Carlos followed Hugh, and the others soon joined them.

"You see that light there," the doctor said to Don Carlos. "That is your sisters' room. As I told you, the windows on the ground floor are all blocked up, but three or four bricks have been left out just at the top of each, for the sake of light and air. Now, Sim and you had better go together; he will stand against the wall, and if you climb on to his shoulders I think you can just about reach that hole, pull yourself up, and look in. I need not tell you to be as silent as possible, for there may be someone in with them. If they are alone tell them what we are going to do. See whether there are any bars inside the brickwork. I am afraid there are sure to be, the Spanish houses most always have bars to the lower windows. Royce, you and I will go to the right-hand corner of the house; you go to the left, Lightning. If you hear anyone coming give a low hiss as a warning, then we must all lie down close to the wall. It is so dark now that unless a man kicks against us he won't see us. If he does touch one of you, he is likely to think that it is one of his own party lying down there for a sleep; but if he stoops over to see who it is, you have got either to stab him or to grip him by the throat, so that he can't shout. Now, I think we all understand."

The five men crawled cautiously to their respective stations.

"Now, young fellow," Sim said to Don Carlos, "if, when you are mounted on my shoulders, you find you cannot reach the hole, put your foot on my head. You won't hurt me with them moccasins on. Directly you have got your fingers on the edge give a little pat with your foot to let me know, and I will put my hands under your feet and help hoist you up. You can put a biggish slice of your weight on me; when I am tired I will let you know. I will lean right forward against the wall—that will help you to climb up. Now!"

When he stood up on Sim's shoulders the young Mexican found that he could reach the opening. Getting his fingers firmly upon it, he gave the signal, and with Sim's aid had no difficulty in raising himself so that he could look into the room. Two candles burned upon the table, and by their light he could see the girls stretched on couches.

"Hush, girls, hush!" he said in a low voice. "It is I, Carlos! Silence, for your lives!"

The two girls sprang to their feet. "Did you hear it, Nina?" the elder exclaimed in a low voice.

"Yes; it was the voice of Carlos. We could not both have been dreaming, surely!"

"I am up here at the opening," Carlos said. "We are here, girls, a party to rescue you; but we must get in beside you before we are discovered, or else harm might come to you. Wait a moment," he broke in, as the girls in their delight were about to throw themselves upon their knees to return thanks to the Virgin, "I am being held up here, and must get down in an instant. I can see that there is a grating to the window. Is it a strong one?"

"Yes, a very strong one."

"Very well; we will saw through it presently. Do you keep on talking loudly to each other to drown any noise that we may make. That will do, Sim; you can let me down now."

"Now, young fellow," Sim said as soon as Don Carlos reached the ground, "you go along and tell Bill Royce to come here and help. The doctor will go on keeping watch. Then go to the other end and send Lightning here, and you take his place. He is better for work than you are."

Sim was soon joined by Royce and Hugh. He had already set to work.

"These bricks are only adobe," he said. "My knife will soon cut through them."

In a very few minutes he had made a hole through the unbaked bricks. "Señoritas," he said in Mexican, "place a chair against this hole and throw something over it, so that if any one comes it won't be observed."

The men worked in turns with their keen bowies, and in half an hour the hole was large enough for a head and shoulders to pass through.

"Now for the files, Lightning. You may as well take the first spell, as you have got them and the oil."

It took two hours' work to file through the bars. Just as the work was finished Sim said, "You had better fetch the lad, Lightning. Send him through first."

"Don't you think, doctor," Hugh said when they were gathered round the hole, "that we might get the girls off without a fight at all?"

"I doubt it," the doctor said. "The men have just gone in except two who are left as sentries, and the night is very still. They would be almost sure to hear some of us, and if they did the girls might get shot in the fight. Still, it might be worth trying. As soon as you get in, Don Carlos, begin to move the furniture quietly against the door."

All this time the girls had been singing hymns, but their prudence left them as their brother entered the room. They stopt singing abruptly and threw themselves into his arms with a little cry of joy. Almost instantly there was a loud knock at the door.

"What are you doing there? I am coming in," and the door was heard to unlock. Carlos threw himself against it.

"Fire the signal, doctor!" Sim exclaimed, as he thrust Hugh, who was in the act of getting through the hole, into the room, as he did so three shots were fired outside. The instant Hugh was through he leaped to his feet and ran forward. The pressure against the door had ceased, the man having, in his surprise at the sound of the shots, sprung back. Hugh seized the handle of the door so that it could not be turned.

"Pile up the furniture," he said to Don Carlos. "Get into the corner of the room, señoritas; they will be firing through the door in a moment."

By this time a tremendous din was heard in the house. As yet none of the brigands knew what had happened, and their general impulse was to rush out on the terrace to hear the cause of the shots. The doctor had followed Hugh closely into the room, the hole being large enough to admit of his getting through without any difficulty. Royce followed immediately, and, as he got through, Sim Howlett's pistol cracked out twice, as the sentries ran round the corner of the house, their figures being visible to him by the light from the fire. Then he thrust himself through the opening. The instant he was through he seized one of the cushions of the couches and placed it across the hole by which he had entered. Several attempts had been made to turn the handle of the door, but Hugh held it firmly, while the doctor and Carlos moved the couches and chairs against it.

"Here, doctor, you watch this hole; I will do that work," Sim said.

They worked as silently as possible, and could hear through the opening at the top of the window the sound of shouts and oaths as a number of men ran past on the terrace. Then one voice shouted angrily for silence.

"There is no one here," he said. "Martinez, go in and fetch torches. What has happened? What have you seen, Lopez?"

"I have seen nothing," the voice replied. "I was lying close to the door when Domingo, who was on guard at the señoritas' door, said something, then almost directly three shots were fired outside. I jumped up and unfastened the door and ran out. Martos and Juan, who were on guard outside, were just running across. I heard two more shots fired, and down they both fell. I waited a moment until all the others came out, and then we ran round the corner together. As far as I see there is nobody here."

"Mille demonios!" the first speaker exclaimed; "it must be some plot to get the girls away. Perez, run in and ask Domingo if he heard any sounds within. Open the door and see that the captives are safe."

There was a pause for a minute, and then Perez ran out.

"Domingo cannot open the door," he said. "They are moving the furniture against it, and the handle won't turn; he says there must be something wrong there."

"Fool! What occasion is there to say that, as if anyone could not see there was something wrong. Ah! here come the torches. Search all round the terrace, and ask whoever is on guard at the gate whether he has heard anything. We will see about breaking down the door afterwards."

There was a pause, and then the men came back again.

"There is no one on the terrace. Nobody has been through the gate."

Then there was a sudden, sharp exclamation. "See here, Vargas, there is a hole here. The bricks have been cut through." A fresh volley of oaths burst out, and then the man in authority gave his orders.

"Perez, do you and Martinez take your post here. Whether there is one or half a dozen inside they can only crawl out one at a time. You have only got to fire at the first head you see. The rest come inside and break open the door. We will soon settle with them."

"That is much better than I expected," the doctor said. "We have gained nearly five minutes. Now let them come as soon as they like. Bill, will you stop at this end and guard this cushion. When the fight begins they may try to push it aside and fire through at us. Let the upper end lean back a little against this chair. Yes, like that. Now, you see, you can look down, and if you see a hand trying to push the cushion aside, put a bullet through it; don't attend to us unless we are badly pressed and call for you."

There was now a furious onslaught made on the door from the outside, heavy blows being struck upon it with axes and crowbars.

"Now, Sim, you may as well speak to them a little," the doctor said. "When you have emptied your Colt, I will have a turn while you are loading."

The noise of the blows was a sufficient indication to Sim where the men wielding the weapons were standing. He had already recharged the two chambers he had emptied, and now, steadily and deliberately, he fired six shots through the panels of the door, and the yells and oaths told him that some of them had taken effect. There was a pause for a moment, and then the assault recommenced. The wood gave way beneath the axes and the door began to splinter, while a number of shots were fired from the outside. The doctor, however, was stooping low, and the others stood outside the line of fire, while Bill at his end was kneeling by the cushion. The doctor's revolver answered the shots, and when he had emptied his pistol Hugh took his place. By the furious shouts and cries without there was no doubt the fire was doing execution.

But the door was nearly yielding, and, just as Hugh began to fire, one of the panels was burst in. The lock, too, had now given, the piece of wood he had jammed into it having fallen out. The Mexicans, however, were unable to force their way in owing to the steady fire of the besieged, who had extinguished their candles, and had the advantage of catching sight of their opponents through the open door, by the light of the torches without. The besieged shifted their places after each shot, so that the Mexicans fired almost at random.

For ten minutes the fight had raged, when there was a sudden shout, followed by a discharge of firearms without. A cheer broke from the defenders of the room, and a cry of despair and fury from the Mexicans. The attack on the door ceased instantly, but a desperate struggle raged in the courtyard. This went on for three or four minutes, when the Mexicans shouted for mercy and the firing ceased. Then Don Ramon's voice was heard to call, "Where are you? Are you all safe?" There was a shout in reply. Then the furniture was pulled away and the splintered door removed, and as Don Ramon entered, his daughters, who had remained quietly in the corner while the fight went on, rushed into his arms.

The success of the surprise had been complete. The man on guard at the gate had left his post to take part in the struggle going on in the house, and the officer in command of the troops had gained the terrace unobserved. He at once surrounded the house, and the two men outside the opening had been shot down at the same moment that he, with a dozen of his men, rushed into the courtyard and attacked the Mexicans. None of these had escaped. Eighteen had fallen in the house, four had been killed outside, and twelve had thrown down their arms, and were now lying bound hand and foot in charge of the troops.

BESIEGED BY BRIGANDS.

No sooner had Don Ramon assured himself that his daughters were safe and uninjured, than he turned to their rescuers and poured out his hearty thanks. They were not quite uninjured. Bill had escaped without a wound: Don Carlos was bleeding from a pistol ball which had grazed his cheek: Sim Howlett's right hand was disabled by a ball which had taken off his middle finger, and ploughed its way through the flesh of the forearm; Hugh had a bullet in the shoulder: the doctor's wound was the only serious one, he having been hit just above the hip. One of the soldiers had been killed, and five wounded while fighting in the court-yard. Leaving Don Ramon and his son to question the girls as to what had befallen them, and to tell them how their rescue had been brought about, the others went outside.

"Let's have a blaze, lieutenant." Sim said. "Most of us want dressing a bit, and the doctor is hit very hard. Let us make a good big fire out here on the terrace, then we shall see what we are doing. We were in a smother of gunpowder smoke inside."

The officer gave an order, and the soldiers fetched out billets of wood from the store and piled them on the fire on the terrace, and soon a broad sheet of flame leaped up.

"Now, then, let us look at the wounds." Sim went on. "Let us lift you up and make you a little comfortable, doctor. I am afraid that there is no doing anything with you till we get you down to the town. All you have got to do is to lie quiet."

"And drink, Sim."

"Ay, and drink. I am as thirsty myself as if I had been lost on an alkali plain. Bill, will you get us some drink, plenty of water, with just a drop of spirit in it; there is sure to be plenty in the house somewhere."

Royce soon returned with a large jar of cold water and a bottle of spirits.

"Only a few drops of spirits. Sim, if you don't want to get inflammation in that hand of yours."

"What had I better do for it, doctor?"

"Well, it will be better to have that stump of the middle finger taken out altogether. I could do it for you if I could stand and had a knife of the right shape here. As it is, you can't do better than wrap your hand up in plenty of cloths, and keep them wet, and then put your arm in a sling. What's yours, Lightning?"

"I am hit in the shoulder, doctor. I don't think that it is bleeding now."

"Well, you had better get Bill to bathe it in hot water, then lay a plug of cotton over the hole, and bandage it up; the doctor at the fort will get the ball out for you as soon as you get down there. He is a good man, they say, and, anyhow, he gets plenty of practice with pistol wounds at El Paso."

Royce did his best for his two friends. Then they all sat quietly talking until the young officer came out from the house.

"We have been searching it from top to bottom," he said. "There is a lot of booty stored away. I want you to have a look at the two leaders of these scoundrels; they have both been shot. Don Ramon said that he believed they were the murderers of his son, and that two of you might recognize them if they were, as you did a horse trade with them."

Hugh and Royce followed him to the other side of the house, where the bodies of the brigands who had fallen had been brought out and laid down. Two soldiers brought torches.

"I have no doubt whatever that these are the men," Hugh said after examining the bodies of the two leaders, who were placed at a short distance from the rest.

"Them's the fellows," Royce said positively, "I could swear to them anywhere."

"They are notorious scoundrels," the officer said, "and have for years been the scourge of New Mexico. They were away, for a time, two years ago. We had made the place so hot for them that they had to quit. We learned that from some of their gang whom we caught. They were away nearly a year; at least they were quiet. I suppose they carried on their games down in Texas, till they had to leave there too; and then thinking the affair had blown over they returned here. There has been a reward of ten thousand dollars for their capture anytime for the last five years. Properly that ought to be divided between you, as it is entirely your doing that they have been caught; but as the reward says death or capture, I suppose my men will have to share it with you."

"That is right enough," Sim Howlett said. "It will give us three or four hundred dollars apiece, and that don't make a bad week's work anyhow. When are you thinking of starting back, lieutenant, and what are you going to do with this house here?"

"I shall set fire to the house after we have got everything out of it. I guess it has been a den of brigands for the last ten years. I have sent four men down to keep guard at the mouth of the valley, and I expect we shall get all their horses in the morning. They must be somewhere about here. The prisoners will ride their own, and that will leave us twenty or more for carrying down the best part of the plunder. There is a lot of wine and other things that they have carried off from the haciendas that they plundered. I will send those down in carts with an escort of four of my men."

"Then I think we had better get a bed in one of the carts, and send my mate here down upon it. He has got a bullet somewhere in the hip, and won't be able to sit a horse."

"We will send him off the first thing in the morning," the officer said. "There is one of my own wounded to send down that way too."

"I will go with them as nurse," Sim said. "Get the cart to go straight through without a halt, lieutenant. The sooner my mate is in the hands of your doctor the better."

"I will see about it now," the lieutenant said; "no time shall be lost. I will send a sergeant and four men down to the village at once to requisition a cart and bring it here. It will be much better for them travelling at night. I will tell the men I send as escort to get hold of another cart in the morning and send them straight on."

"Thank you, lieutenant. That will be the best plan by far."

Don Ramon now came out from the house, and joined the group.

"In the name of my children, their mother, and myself, I thank you most deeply, señors, for the noble way in which you have risked your lives for their rescue. Had it not been for you, God knows whether I should have seen my daughters again, for I know that no oaths would have bound those villains, and that when they had obtained the ransom they would never have let my daughters free to give information that would have led to their capture. I shall always be your debtor, and the only drawback to my pleasure is that three of you have been wounded."

"The doctor here is the only one wounded seriously," Sim Howlett said. "My hand and arm will soon heal up, and the loss of a finger is no great odds anyway. I don't suppose Lightning's shoulder will turn out worse than my arm. As for the doctor, he is hit hard, but he has been hit hard so many times, and has pulled through it, that I hope for the best."

"Señor Hugh," Don Ramon said, "it was indeed a fortunate day for me when I questioned you concerning my son's horse, for it was to your advice and to your enlisting your friends on my behalf that I owe it chiefly that my daughters are with me this evening. I must leave it to their mother to thank you as you deserve."

Two hours later the doctor and one of the wounded soldiers were placed on a bed laid at the bottom of a cart, and started under the escort of two soldiers, Sim Howlett accompanying them. As the girls had expressed the greatest disinclination to remain in the house where they had been prisoners and where so much blood had just been shed, they with the rest of the party returned with a sergeant and six soldiers carrying torches up the valley to the wood, where the horses had been left. Here two fires were soon blazing, and the girls were not long before they were asleep, wrapped in blankets that had been brought up from the house.

The following morning Hugh and Royce handed over their horses for the use of the girls, who were both accomplished horsewomen, and, mounting the horses of Sim and the doctor, they started with Don Ramon, his son, and daughters. Fifteen miles before they got to El Paso they passed the cart with the wounded men, and Hugh said he would ride into the fort to ensure the doctor being there when they arrived. Royce and he accompanied Don Ramon and his party to the gate of the hacienda, which they reached just at sunset. The Mexican was warm in his entreaties to Hugh to become his guest until his wound was healed, but he declined this on the ground that he should be well cared for at the fort, and should have the surgeon always at hand.

"I shall be over the first thing in the morning to see you," Don Carlos said. "I shall want my own face strapped up, and I warn you if the doctor says you can be moved I shall bring you back with me."

Royce accompanied Hugh to the fort. The commandant was highly gratified when he heard of the complete success of the expedition, and still more so when he learned that the two notorious brigands for whom he and his troopers had so often searched in vain were among the killed. Hugh was at once accommodated in the hospital, and the surgeon proceeded to examine his wound. It was so inflamed and swollen with the long ride, he said, that no attempt could be made at present to extract the ball, and rest and quiet were absolutely necessary. Two hours later the cart arrived. The doctor was laid in a bed near that of Hugh, the third bed in the ward being allotted to Sim Howlett. The doctor's wound was pronounced by the surgeon to be a very serious one.

It was some days before, under the influence of poultices and embrocations, the inflammation subsided sufficiently for a search to be made for the bullet in Hugh's shoulder. The surgeon, however, was then successful in finding it imbedded in the flesh behind the shoulder-bone, and, having found its position, he cut it out from behind. After this Hugh's progress was rapid, and in a week he was out of bed with his arm in a sling. The doctor, contrary to the surgeon's expectations, also made fair progress. The bullet could not be found, and the surgeon, after one or two ineffectual attempts, decided that it would be better to allow it to remain where it was. The stump of Sim's finger was removed the morning after he came in, and the wound had almost completely healed by the time that Hugh was enabled to leave the hospital, a month after entering it.

Don Ramon and his son had ridden over every day to inquire after the invalids, and had seen that they were provided with every possible luxury, and he carried off Hugh to the hacienda as soon as the surgeon gave his consent to his making a short journey in the carriage. Donna Maria received him as warmly as if he had been a son of her own, and he had the greatest difficulty in persuading her that he did not require to be treated as an invalid, and was perfectly capable of doing everything for himself.

For a fortnight he lived a life of luxurious idleness, doing absolutely nothing beyond going over in the carriage every day to see how the doctor was going on. Hugh saw that he was not maintaining the progress that he had at first made. He had but little fever or pain, but he lay quiet and silent, and seemed incapable of making any effort whatever. Sim Howlett was very anxious about his comrade.

"He don't seem to me to try to get well," he said to Hugh. "It looks to me like as if he thought he had done about enough, and was ready to go. If one could rouse him up a bit I believe he would pull round. He has gone through a lot has the doctor, and I expect he thinks there ain't much worth living for. He just smiles when I speak to him, but he don't take no interest in things. Do you get talking with me when you go in, Lightning, and asking about what we have been doing, and I will tell you some of the things he and I have gone through together. Maybe that may stir him up a bit."

"How long have you known him, Sim?"

"I came across him in '49. I came round by Panama, being one of the first lot to leave New York when the news of gold came. I had been away logging for some months, and had come down at the end of the season with six months' money in my pocket. I had been saving up for a year or two, and was going to put it all in partnership with a cousin of mine, who undertook the building of piers and wharves and such like on the Hudson. Well, the first news that met me when I came down to New York was that Jim had busted up, and had gone out west some said, others that he had drowned hisself. I was sorry for Jim, but I was mighty glad that I hadn't put my pile in.

"Waal, I was wondering what to start on next when the talk about gold began, and as soon as I larned there were no mistake about it I went down to the wharf and took my passage down to the isthmus. I had been working about three months on the Yuba when I came across the doctor. I had seen him often afore we came to speak. If you wur to see the doctor now for the first time when he is just sitting quiet and talking in that woman sort of voice of his and with those big blue eyes, you would think maybe that he was a kind of softy, wouldn't you?"

"I dare say I might, Sim. I saw him for the first time when he came up with you to take my part against that crowd of Mexicans. There didn't look anything soft about him then, and though I was struck with his gentle way of talking when I met him afterwards I knew so well there was lots of fight in him that it didn't strike me he was anything of a softy, as you say."

"No? Waal, the doctor has changed since I met him, but at that time he did look a softy, and most people put him down as being short of wits. He used just to go about the camp as if he paid no attention to what wur going on. Sometimes he would go down to a bit of a claim he had taken up and wash out the gravel, just singing to himself, not as though it wur to amuse him, but as though he did not know as he wur singing, in a sort of curious far-off sort of voice; but mostly he went about doing odd sorts of jobs. If there wur a man down with the fever the doctor would just walk into his tent and take him in hand and look after him, and when he got better would just drift away, and like enough not seem to know the man the next time he met him.

"Waal, he got to be called Softy, but men allowed as he wur a good fellow, and was just as choke-full of kindness as his brain would hold, and, as he walked about, any chap who was taking his grub would ask him to share it, for it was sartin that what gold he got wouldn't buy enough to keep a cat alive, much less a man. Waal, it was this way. I got down with fever from working in the water under a hot sun. I hadn't any particular mates that time, and wur living in a bit of a tent made of a couple of blankets, and though the boys looked in and did any job that wur wanted I wur mighty bad and went off my head for a bit, and the first thing I seen when I came round was Softy in the tent tending me. Ef he had been a woman and I had been his son he couldn't have looked after me tenderer.

"I found when I began to get round he had been getting meat for me from the boys and making soups, but as soon as I got round enough to know what was going on I pointed out to him the place where I had hid my dust, and he took charge of it and got me what was wanted, till I picked up and got middling strong again. As soon as I did Softy went off to look after someone else who was bad, but I think he took to me more than he had to anyone else, for he would come in and sit with me sometimes in the evening, and I found that he wurn't really short of wits as people thought, but would talk on most things just as straight as anyone. He didn't seem to have much interest in the digging, which wur about the only thing we thought of; but when I asked him what he had come to the mining camps for, if it wasn't to get gold, he just smiled gently and said he had a mission.

"What the mission wur he never said, and I concluded that though he was all there in other things his brain had somehow got mixed on that point, onless it wur that his mission was to look after the sick. Waal, we were a rough lot in '49, you bet. Lynch-law hadn't begun, and there wuz rows and fights of the wust kind. Our camp had been pretty quiet ontil someone set up a saloon and gambling shop, and some pretty tough characters came. That was just as I wur getting about agin, though not able to work regular. It wurn't long before two fellows became the terror of the camp, and they went on so bad that the boys began to talk among themselves that they must be put down; but no one cared about taking the lead. They had shot four fellows in the first week after they came.

"I hadn't seen Softy for ten days. He had been away nussing a woodman as had his leg broke by the fall of a tree. I was sitting outside my tent with a chap they called Red Sam. We had a bottle of brandy between us, when them two fellows came along, and one of them just stooped and took up the bottle and put it to his lips and drank half of it off, and then passed it to the other without saying by your leave or anything. Red Sam said, 'Well, I'm blowed!' when the fellow who had drunk whipped out his bowie—six-shooters had hardly come in then—and afore Red Sam could get fairly to his feet he struck him under the ribs. Waal, I jumped up and drew my bowie, for it wur my quarrel, you see. He made at me. I caught his wrist as the knife was coming down, and he caught mine; but I wur like a child in his arms. I thought it wur all over with me, when I heard a shout, and Softy sprang on the man like a wild cat and drove his knife right into him, and he went down like a log.

"The other shouted out an oath and drew. Softy faced him. It wur the strangest sight I ever seen. His hat had fallen off, and his hair, which wur just as white then as it is now, fell back from his face, and his eyes, that looked so soft and gentle, wur just blazing. It came across me then, as it have come across me many a time since, that he looked like a lion going to spring; and I think Buckskin, as the man called himself, who had often boasted as he didn't fear a living thing, was frighted. They stood facing each other for a moment, and then Softy sprang at him. He was so quick that instead of Buckskin's knife catching him, as he intended, just in front of the shoulder and going straight down to the heart, it caught him behind the shoulder, and laid open his back pretty near down to the waist.

"But there wur no mistake about Softy's stroke. It went fair between the ribs, and Buckskin fell back dead, with Softy on the top of him. Waal, after that it wur my turn to nuss the doctor, for no one called him Softy after that. He wur laid up for over a month, and I think that letting out of blood did him good and cleared his brain like. When he got well he wur just as you see him now, just as clear and as sensible a chap as you would see. Why, he has got as much sense as you would find in any man west of Missouri, and he's the truest mate and the kindest heart. I have never seen the doctor out of temper, for you can't call it being out of temper when he rises up and goes for a man; that is his mission. He has never got that out of his head, and never will ontil he dies.

"He can put up with a deal, the doctor can; but when a man gits just too bad for anything, then it seems to him as he has got a call to wipe him out, and he wipes him out, you bet. You don't want lynch-law where the doctor is: he is a judge and a posse all to himself, and for years he was the terror of hard characters down in California. They was just skeered of him, and if a downright bad man came to a camp and heard the doctor wur there, he would in general clear straight out agin. He has been shot and cut all over, has the doctor, and half a dozen times it seemed to me I should never bring him round agin.

"It ain't no use talking to him and asking him why he should take on hisself to be a jedge and jury. When it's all over he always says in his gentle way that he is sorry about it, and I do think he is, and he says he will attend to his own business in future; but the next time it is just the same thing again. There ain't no holding him. You might just as well try to stop a mountain lion when he smells blood. At such times he ain't hisself. If you had once seen him you would never forget it. There wur a British painting fellow who wur travelling about taking pictures for a book. He wur in camp once when the doctor's dander rose, and he went for a man; and the Britisher said arterwards to me as it were like the bersek rage. I never heard tell of the berseks; but from what the chap said I guessed they lived in the old time. Waal, if they wur like the doctor I tell you that I shouldn't like to get into a muss with them. No, sir."

"Do you know what the doctor's history is, Sim?"

"Yes, I do know," he said, "but I don't suppose anyone else does. Maybe he will tell you some day if he gets over this."

"Oh! I don't want to know if it is a secret, Sim."

"Waal, there ain't no secret in it, Lightning; but he don't talk about it, and in course I don't. It is a sort of thing that has happened to other men, and maybe after a bit they have got over it; but the doctor ain't. You see he ain't a common man: he has got the heart of a woman, and for a time it pretty nigh crazed him."

CHAPTER XX.

THE AVENGER.

HUGH told the coachman to go back to the hacienda, and to return for him late in the afternoon, and then went in with Sim. The doctor smiled faintly as Hugh sat down beside him and asked how he was getting on.

"I am getting on, lad," he said. "I reckon I shall be there before long."

Hugh affected to misunderstand him.

"You must pick up strength," he said, "or we shall never carry out that expedition among the Apaches, you know."

"If you wait for that you will wait a long time," the doctor said quietly.

"I hope not," Hugh said cheerily. "By the way, Sim, you told me you would tell me some of your adventures in the early days of California. I am interested in that, because I had an uncle there. He was ten years or so out there."

"What was his name, Lightning?" Sim asked.

"His name was Will Tunstall."

An exclamation burst from both his hearers.

"Your uncle!" Sim exclaimed. "Waal, that beats all, and to think that we should have been all this time together and never known that. Is your name Tunstall too?"

"Yes, Hugh Tunstall."

"To think now, doctor!" Sim said; "and we never knowed him except as Hugh or Lightning, and he is Will Tunstall's nephew. Why, lad, Bill—English Bill we called him—was a mate of ours, and a better mate men never worked with."

"You are like him, lad," the doctor said in a voice so different from that in which he had before spoken that Hugh quite started. "I thought you reminded me of someone, and now I know. It was English Bill. He was just as tall and as straight as you are, and laughed and talked just as you do. I wonder, Sim, we didn't notice it at once. Well, well, that is strange!"

Hugh was greatly surprised. It was indeed strange that he should have met these two mates of his uncle. Stranger still that they should have entertained such evident affection for a man who seemed to him to differ in character so widely from them. He was surprised, too, at the doctor's remarks about his resemblance to his uncle, for he could see no likeness whatever.

"Well," he said, "I should have had no idea that I was like my uncle. I think you must have forgotten his figure. He is tall and muscular certainly, but he is much darker than I am, and, I think, altogether different."

The doctor and Sim looked at each other with astonishment.

"There must be some mistake," Sim said. "Do you say your uncle is alive now?"

"Certainly I do," Hugh replied, in turn surprised.

"Ah! then, it isn't the same man," Sim said. "Our Bill Tunstall was killed ten years ago. It is odd, too; Tunstall ain't a common name, at least not in these parts. If you had ever said your own name before I should have noticed it, and asked you about it; but Royce always called you Lightning, or Hugh, and one may know men here for years by the name they have got without ever thinking what name they might be born with."

"Is Tunstall a common name in England, Lightning?" the doctor asked.

"No, I don't think so, doctor. I never met any others. We came from the north of England, from Cumberland."

"So did English Bill," Sim said. "Never heard tell of a chap that came out from there of that name, a tall, straight, strong fellow like you? He must have come out before you wur born, though, of course, we didn't know him for years afterwards."

"My uncle came out here before I was born," Hugh said; "but I never heard of anyone else of the same name doing so; still, if your friend is dead, of course it isn't the same, for my uncle is alive. At least he was two years ago. He is strong, and active, and well knit; but he is not as tall as I am by two inches, I should say."

"Lift me up in bed, Sim," the doctor said excitedly. "How long ago did your uncle return?"

"Over six years ago," Hugh replied, surprised at this strange excitement upon the part of a man who, ten minutes before, had seemed to have no further interest in anything.

"Six years ago, Sim? You hear that; six years ago!"

"Gently, doctor, gently; what are you driving at?" Sim asked, really alarmed at his mate's excitement.

The doctor paid no attention to him. "And he had been a great many years away? Went away as a boy, and when he came back was so changed they wouldn't have known him?"

"Yes, that was so," Hugh said, more and more surprised.

"You hear that, Sim? you hear that?" the doctor exclaimed sharply.

"I hear it, mate, but do you lie down. You are not strong enough to be exciting yourself like this, though I am blamed if I can see what it is about."

"What did he go home for?" the doctor asked, still unheeding Sim.

"He went home because my father had died, and he came in for a considerable property, and he was one of my guardians."

"Do you hear that, Sim?" the doctor cried in a loud shrill voice that was almost a scream; "do you see it all now?"

"Just you run and call the surgeon, Lightning; the doc's going clear off his head."

"Stop!" the doctor said, as Hugh was about to hurry off. "If Sim wasn't that thick-headed he would see what I see. Give me a drink."

Hugh handed him a glass of lemonade, which he tossed off.

"Now, then, Sim, haven't I told you this young fellow was like someone, though I couldn't mind who. Don't you see it is our mate, English Bill?"

"Yes, he is like him," Sim said, "now you name it. He is a bit taller, and his figure is loose yet, but he will widen out ontil he is just what Bill wur."

"Like what his uncle was," the doctor broke in; "don't you see, Sim, his uncle was our mate."

"But how can that be, doctor? Don't you hear him say as his uncle is alive in England, and didn't we bury poor Bill?"

"You've heard Hugh say what his uncle came home for. What was Bill going home for, Sim?"

"Ah!" Sim exclaimed suddenly, as a light flashed across him, "it was just what Lightning has been saying. His brother was dead, and he was going home to be guardian to his nephew; and because he had come into an estate."

"Quite so, only he never went, Sim; did he?"

"No, certainly he never went, doc. There is no doubt about that."

"But somebody did go," the doctor said, "and we know who it was. The man who killed him and stole his papers."

An exclamation of astonishment broke from Hugh, while Sim exclaimed earnestly:

"By thunder, doctor, but you may be right! I reckon it may be as you say, though how you came to figure it out beats me. That must be it. We never could make out why he should have been killed. He had money on him, but not enough to tempt the man as we suspected."

"Suspected? No! the man we knew did it," the doctor broke in. "You see now, Lightning, how it is. It was known in camp that our mate had come into an estate in England. He said good-bye to us all and started, and his body was found a few miles away. We felt pretty sure of the man who had done it, for he was missing. He was a gambler. Bill had been pretty thick with him for some time, and I allow the fellow had got the whole story out of him, and knew the place he was going to, and knew where it was, and had wormed a whole lot out of him that might be useful to him. Then he killed him, and wasn't seen any more in these parts. I searched for him for a year up and down California, and Nevada, and New Mexico, and down into Northern Mexico, but I never came across his track. If I had got as much as a sign which way he had gone, I would have hunted him down all over the world; but there was not a sign from the day he had left the camp. Nobody ever heard of him again. I found out he had a wife down in Southern California, a Mexican girl, and I went down there to hunt her out, but she had gone too—had left a few days after he had disappeared. Now we are on his track again, Sim. I guess in a week I will be up, and you and I will go straight off with this young fellow to England, and see this thing out. Lay me down now. I must be quiet for a bit. Take Lightning out and talk it over with him, and tell the cook to let me have some strong soup, for I have got to get out of this as soon as possible."

"Can all this be true, Sim, do you think?" Hugh said; "or is the doctor light-headed? Do you think it is possible that the man who murdered my uncle is the one who has taken his place all these years."

"It is gospel truth, Lightning. At least it is gospel truth that your uncle was murdered here, for there can't be no doubt that your uncle Bill Tunstall and our mate is the same man; but I can't say whether the one as you thought was your uncle is the one that killed him. Your description is like enough to him. Tell me a little more about him."

"He is rather dark, with a moustache but no whiskers; he has a quiet manner; he is slight, but gives you the idea of being very strong. He has very white well-made hands. He shows his teeth a little when he smiles, but even when I first knew him I never liked his smile; there was something about it that wasn't honest. And he brought over with him a Mexican wife."

"That's him," Sim said in a tone of conviction; "you have just described him. He has a light sort of walk like a cat, and a tigerish way with him all over. There ain't a doubt that is the man. And what is the woman like?"

"She has always been very kind and good to me," Hugh said. "No aunt could have been kinder. I am awfully sorry for her, but I hated the man. That was why I left England. I came into the room one day and found that he had knocked his wife down, and I seized him. Then he knocked me down, and I caught up the poker. I was no match for him then in strength. Then he drew a pistol, but I hit him before he could aim; and as he went down his head came against a sharp corner of a piece of furniture, and I thought that I had killed him, so I bolted at once, made my way to Hamburg, and crossed to New York. That is how I came to be here."

"Has he got much of the property, lad?"

"He has got what was my uncle's share," Hugh replied. "Now that I know who he is I can understand things. I could not understand before. If I had died before I came of age he would have had the whole of the property. He used to get the most vicious horses he could find for me to ride, and I remember now when we were in Switzerland together he wanted to take me up mountains with him, but my aunt wouldn't let me go. Then he offered to teach me pistol-shooting, but somehow he dropped that, and my aunt taught me herself. I think she must have stopped him. Thinking it all over now, I feel sure that he must have intended to kill me somehow, and that she managed to save my life. There were often quarrels between them, but she didn't seem to be afraid of him. I think that she must have had some sort of hold over him."

"Waal, there is one thing," Sim said after a pause; "I believe this here discovery has saved the doctor's life. He had made up his mind that he had done with it, and wasn't going to try to get better. Now, you see, he is all eagerness to get on this fellow's scent. If he had been a blood-hound he could not have hunted the country closer than he did for that thar tarnal villain. He had an idee it wur his business to wipe him out, and when the doctor gets set on an idee like that he carries it out. It will pull him round now, you see if it don't."

"I do hope so, indeed, Sim," Hugh said warmly. "The doctor is a wonderful fellow, and if it hadn't been for him we should never have arrived at this discovery. Well, I am glad. Of course I am sorry to hear that my uncle was murdered, but as I never saw him that does not affect me so much; but I am glad to hear that this man whom I hated, a man who ill-treated his wife and who spent all his time at horse-racing and gambling, is not my uncle, and has no right to a share in the property that has been in our family for so many years. I only hope that this excitement will not do the doctor any harm."

"I am sure that it will do him good," Sim said confidently; "but it wur strange to see a man who looked as if he wur just dying out wake up like that; but that has always been his way; just as quiet as a woman at most times, but blazing out when he felt thar wur a great wrong, and that it wur his duty to set it right. I can tell you now what I know about his story. Now he knows you are English Bill's nephew he won't mind your knowing. Waal, his story ain't anything much out of the way. There are scores who have suffered the like, but it didn't have the effect on them like it did on the doctor.

"He is really a doctor trained and edicated. He married out east. He wur a quiet little fellow, and not fit to hustle round in towns and push hisself forward; so he and his wife came round and settled in Californy somewhere about '36. Thar wurn't many Americans here then, as you may guess. He settled down in the south somewhere a hundred miles or so from Los Angeles. He had some money of his own, and he bought a place and planted fruit trees and made a sort of little paradise of it. That is what he told me he lived on, doctoring when it came in his way. There wur some rich Mexicans about, and he looked after most of them; but I guess he did more among the poor. He had four children, and things went on peaceable till '48. Then you know gold was discovered, and that turned Californy upside down.

"It brought pretty nigh all the roughs in creation there. They quarrelled with the Mexikins, and they quarrelled with the Injuns, and there was trouble of the wust kind.

"There was gangs of fellows as guessed they could make more money by robbing the miners than they could by digging for gold, and I reckon they was about right; and when they warn't robbing the miners they was plundering the Mexikins. Waal, I never heard the rights of it, the doctor never could bring hisself to talk about that, but one day when he had been twenty miles away to visit a patient, he came back and found his place burned down, and his wife and the four children murdered. He went off his head, and some of the people as knew him took him down to Los Angeles, and he wur a year in the madhouse thar. He wur very quiet. I believe he used ter just sit and cry.

"After a time he changed. He never used to speak a word, but just sot with those big eyes of his wide open; with his face working, as if he seen an enemy. Waal, after a year he got better, and the Mexikins let him out of that madhouse. Someone had bought his place, and the money had been banked for him. He took it and went off. He never got to hear who the gang wur as had been to his house. I think the idee comes to him ever since when he comes across a really bad man, that he wur one of that lot, and then he goes for him. It is either that, or he believes he has got a sort of special call to wipe out bad men. As I told you, he is always ready to do a kindness to anyone, and ef he has killed over a score or more of the wust men in Californy, I guess he has saved five times as many by nussing them when they are ill, only he will never give them medicine. One of his idees is that if he hadn't gone on doctoring, he wouldn't have been away when that gang came to his house, and that is why he will never do anything as a doctor again. He is just a nuss, he says, and nothing more.

"Now, don't you go for to think, Lightning, that the doctor is the least bit mad, because he ain't, and never have been since I first knew him, and I should like to see the man as would say that he wur. He is just as sensible as I am; that ain't saying much; he is ten times as sensible. He always knows the right thing to do, does the doctor, and does it. He air just an ornary man, with heaps of good sense, and just the kindest heart in the world, only when thar is a regular downright bad man in the camp, the doctor takes him in hand all to hisself."

"But, Sim, I thought you were going about this gold business, this placer, directly the doctor was able to move."

"That has got to wait," Sim said. "Maybe some day or other, when this business of yours is over, I may come back and see about it; maybe I won't. Ef the doctor is going to England with you, I am going; that is sartin. Besides, even if I would let him go alone, which aren't likely, maybe his word wouldn't be enough. One witness wouldn't do to swear that this man who has stepped into your uncle's shoes ain't what he pretends to be; but if thar is two of us can swear to him as being Symonds the gambler, it'll go a long way. But you may have trouble even then. Anyhow, don't you worry yourself about the gold-mine. Like enough we should all have been wiped out by the Red-skins ef we had tried it. Now I will just look in and see how the doctor is afore you go."

Sim returned in two minutes, saying that the doctor had drank a bowl of soup, and had told the orderly who brought it that he was going to sleep, as he wanted to get strong, being bound to start for a journey in a week's time.

As the carriage was not to return until late, Hugh started to walk over to Don Ramon's, as he wanted to think over the strange news he had heard.

"Your friend is better, I hope," the señora said as he entered, "or you would not have returned so soon."

"He is better, señora. We have made a strange discovery that has roused him up, and given him new life, while it has closely affected me. With your permission I will tell it to you all."

"Is it a story, Señor Hugh?" the younger girl said. "I love a story above all things."

"It is a very curious story, señorita, as I am sure you will agree when you hear it; but it is long, therefore, I pray you to make yourselves comfortable before I begin."

As soon as they had seated themselves, Hugh told the story of the flight of his uncle as a boy, of his long absence and return; of the life at home, and the quarrel that had been the cause of his own flight from home; and how he had that day discovered that his companions in their late adventure had been his uncle's comrades and friends; and how, comparing notes, he had found that his uncle had been murdered, and that his assassin had gone over and occupied his place in England. Many exclamations of surprise were uttered by his auditors.

"And what are you going to do now, señor?"

"I am going to start for home as soon as the doctor is well enough to travel. I should have been willing to have first gone with them upon the expedition upon which we were about to start when your daughters were carried off, but Sim Howlett would not hear of it."

"I intended to have had my say in the matter," Don Ramon said, "and have only been waiting to complete my arrangements. I have not hurried, because I knew that until your companion died or recovered, you would not be making a move. I am, as you know, señor, a very wealthy man, wealthy even for a Mexican, and we have among us fortunes far surpassing those of rich men among the Americans. In addition to my broad lands, my flocks and herds, I have some rich silver mines in Mexico which alone bring me in far more than we can spend. The ransom that these brigands set upon my daughters was as nothing to me, and I would have paid it five times over had I been sure of recovering them; but, you see, this was what I was not sure of, and the fact that they had not asked more when they knew how wealthy I was, in itself assured me that they intended to play me false, and that it was their intention to keep them and to continue to extort further sums.

"You and your friends restored my daughters to me. Now, Señor Hugh, you are an English gentleman, and I know that you would feel the offer of any reward for your inestimable services as an insult; but your three companions are in a different position, two are miners and one is a vaquero. I know well that in rendering me that service, there was no thought of gain in their minds, and that they risked their lives as freely as you did, and in the same spirit, that of a simple desire to rescue women from the hands of scoundrels. That, however, makes no difference whatever in my obligation towards them.

"My banker yesterday received the sum in gold that I directed him to obtain to pay the ransom, and I have to-day given him orders to place three sums of 25,000 dollars each at their disposal, so that they need no longer lead their hard and perilous life, but can settle down where they will. I know the independence of the Americans, señor, but I rely upon you to convince these three men that they can take this money without feeling that it is a payment for their services. They have given me back my daughters at the risk of their lives, and they must not refuse to allow me in turn to make them a gift, which is but a small token of my gratitude, and will leave me still immeasurably their debtor."

"I will indeed do my best to persuade them to accept your gift, Don Ramon, and believe that I shall be able to do so. The doctor is a man of nearly sixty, and Howlett is getting on in years, and it would be well indeed for them now to give up the hard life they have led for so long. As to Bill Royce, I have no doubt whatever. I have heard him say many a time that his greatest ambition is to settle down in a big farm, and this will enable him to do so in a manner surpassing anything he can ever have dreamt of."

"And now, señor, about yourself. What you have just told us renders it far more difficult than I had hitherto thought. We have talked it over, I, my wife, Carlos, and my daughters. I knew that you were a gentleman, but I did not know that you were the heir to property. I thought you were, like others of your countrymen, who, seeing no opening at home, had come out to make your way here. What we proposed was this. To ask you whether your inclinations had turned most to cattle breeding or to mining. In either case we could have helped you on the way. Had you said ranching, I would have put you as manager on one of my largest ranches on such terms that you would in a few years have been its master. Had you said mining, I would have sent you down to my mine in Mexico there to have first learned the nature of the work, then to have become manager, and finally to have been my partner in the affair. But now, what are we to do? You are going home. You have an estate awaiting you, and our intentions have come to naught."

"I am just as much obliged to you, señor, as if you had carried them out," Hugh said warmly, "and I thank you most deeply for having so kindly proposed to advance my fortunes. Had I remained here I would indeed have accepted gratefully one or other of your offers. As it is I shall want for nothing, and I can assure you I feel that the small share I took in the rescue of your daughters is more than repaid by the great kindness that you have shown me."

The next day Hugh explained to two of his friends the gift that Don Ramon had made them. Bill Royce, to whom he first spoke, was delighted. "Jehosaphat!" he exclaimed, "that is something like. I thought when the judge here paid us over our share of the reward for the capture of those brigands, that it was about the biggest bit of luck that I had ever heard of; but this beats all. That Don Ramon is a prince. Well, no more ranching for me. I shall go back east and buy a farm there. There was a girl promised to wait for me, but as that is eight years ago, I don't suppose she has done it; still when I get back with 25,000 dollars in my pocket, I reckon I sha'n't be long before I find someone ready to share it with me. And you say I can walk right into that bank and draw it in gold?"

"Yes, you can, Bill, but I shouldn't advise you to do it."

"How am I to take the money, then, Lightning?"

"The bank will give you an order on some bank in New York, and when you get there you can draw the money out as you like."

Sim Howlett received the news in silence. Then he said: "Waal, Hugh, I don't see why we shouldn't take it; as Don Ramon says it isn't much to him, and it is a big lump of money to us. I would have fought for the gals just as willing if they had been peóns; but seeing as their father's got more money than he knows what to do with, it is reasonable and natural as he should want to get rid of the obligation to us, and anyhow we saved him from having to pay 200,000 dollars as a beginning, and perhaps as much as that over and over again, afore he got them back. We had best say nothing to the doctor now his mind is set on one thing, and he is going to get well so as to carry it out; when that job is over it will be time enough to tell him about this. I am beginning to feel too stiff for work, and the doc. was never any good that way, and he is getting on now. I shall be able to persuade him when the time comes, and shall tell him that if he won't keep his money, I shall have to send back mine. But he is too sensible not to see, as I do, that it is reasonable on the part of the don, and if he don't want it hisself, he can give it to a hospital and share mine with me. I reckon we shall hang together as long as we both live; so you can tell the don it is settled, and that though we had no thought of money, we won't say no to his offer."

Now that the doctor had made up his mind to live, he recovered with wonderful rapidity, and in a fortnight was ready to travel.

Hugh took leave of Don Ramon and his family with great regret; they were all much affected at parting with him, and he was obliged to promise that if ever he crossed the Atlantic again he would come and pay them a visit. Prince went back to his old stable, for the party were going to travel down the Rio Grande by boat. At Matamoras, the port at its mouth, they went by a coasting steamer to Galveston, and thence by another steamer to New York. Here Royce left them, and the other three crossed by a Cunarder to Liverpool. The quiet and sea-voyage quite restored the doctor, who was by far the most impatient of them to get to the journey's end. They had obtained a compete rig-out of what Sim called store-clothes at New York, though Hugh had some difficulty in persuading him to adopt the white shirt of civilization.

On arriving Hugh wrote to Mr. Randolph saying that he had news of very great importance to communicate to him, but that he did not wish to appear at Carlisle until he had seen him, and therefore begged him to write and make an appointment to meet him at Kendal on the third day after he received the letter. The answer came in due time. It was short and characteristic: "My dear Hugh, I am delighted to hear that you are back in England again. You behaved like a fool in going away, and an even greater one in staying away so long. However I will give you my opinion more fully when I see you. I am very glad, for many reasons, that you have returned. I can't think what you want to say to me, but will arrive at Kendal by the train that gets in at 12 o'clock on Thursday next."

When Mr. Randolph got out of the train at Kendal, Hugh was awaiting him on the platform.

"Bless me! is this you?" he exclaimed, as the young fellow strode up to him. "You were a big lad when you left, but you are a big man now, and a Tunstall all over."

"Well, I have been gone nearly three years, you see, Mr. Randolph, and that makes a difference at my age. I am past nineteen."

"Yes, I suppose you are, now I think of it. Well, well, where are we to go?"

"I have got a private sitting-room at the hotel, and have two friends there whom I want to introduce you to; when I tell you that they have come all the way with me from Mexico to do me a service, they are, you will acknowledge, friends worth having."

"Well, that looks as if there were really something in what you have got to say to me, Hugh; men don't take such a journey as that unless for some strong reason. What are your friends? for as I have no idea what you have been doing these three years, I do not know whether you have been consorting with princes or peasants."

"With a little of both, Mr. Randolph; one of my friends is a Californian miner, and as good a specimen of one as you can meet with; the other is a doctor, or rather, as I should say, has been a doctor, for he has ceased for some years to practise, and has been exploring and mining."

"And they have both come over purely for the sake of doing you a service?" Mr. Randolph asked, elevating his eyebrows a little.

"Simply that, Mr. Randolph, strange as it may appear to your legal mind. However, as this is the hotel where we are putting up, you won't be kept much longer in a state of curiosity."

"Sim and Doctor, this is my oldest friend and trustee, Mr. Randolph. Mr. Randolph, these are my two very good friends, Doctor Hunter and Mr. Sim Howlett." In the States introductions are always performed ceremoniously, and the two men shook hands gravely with the lawyer. "I said, Mr. Randolph," Hugh went on, "that they were my good friends. I may add that they were also the good friends of my late uncle, William Tunstall."

"Of your late uncle, Hugh! What are you thinking about? Why, he is alive and well; and more's the pity," he muttered to himself.

"I know what I am saying, Mr. Randolph. They were the dear friends of my late uncle, William Tunstall, who was foully murdered in the town of Sacramento, in California, on his way to San Francisco, in reply to your summons to return to England."

Mr. Randolph looked in astonishment from one face to another as if to assure himself that he heard correctly, but their gravity showed him that he was not mistaken.

"Will Tunstall murdered in California!" he repeated; "then who is it that—"

"The man who murdered him, and who, having possessed himself of his letters and papers, came over here and took his place; a gambler of the name of Symonds. My friend obtained a warrant from the sheriff at Sacramento for his arrest on this charge of murder, and for upwards of a year Dr. Hunter travelled over California and Mexico in search of him. It never struck them that it was anything but a case of murder for the money he had on him. The idea of the step Symonds really took, of personating the man he had murdered, never occurred to them. We met in New Mexico, and were a considerable time together before they learned that my name was Tunstall, for out there men are known either by their Christian names or by some nickname. Then at once they said they had years before had a mate of the same name, and then gradually on comparing notes the truth came out."

"Well—well—well—well!" Mr. Randolph murmured, seating himself helplessly in a chair; "this is wonderful. You have taken away my breath; this is amazing indeed; I can hardly take it in yet, lad. You are sure of what you are saying? Quite sure that you are making no mistake?"

"Quite certain. However, the doctor will tell you the story for himself." This the doctor proceeded to do, narrating the events at Cedar Gulch; how the murder had been discovered, and the body identified; how a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown had been returned by a coroner's jury; how he and Sim Howlett had gone down to Sacramento, and how they had traced the deed to the gambler Symonds.

"There can be no doubt," Mr. Randolph said when he concluded, "that it is as you say, and that this man is William Tunstall's murderer."

"And we shall be able to bring him to justice, shall we not?" Hugh asked. "That was why I wanted you to meet me here, so that we could arrange to arrest him before he had any suspicion of my return."

"Ah! that is a different thing altogether, Hugh. The evidence of your two friends and the confirmation that can doubtless be obtained from Sacramento as to the existence of the gravestone erected to William Tunstall, and of the finding of the coroner's court, will no doubt enable us to prove to the satisfaction of the courts here that this scoundrel is an impostor. But the murder case is different.

"In the first place you would have to bring forward the charge, and give your evidence in the United States, and obtain an application for his extradition. British law has no jurisdiction as to a murder committed in a foreign country. Having set the United States authorities in action, you would return here and aid in obtaining an order from a magistrate here for that extradition; the evidence of your friends would doubtless be sufficient to induce a magistrate to grant such an order, then he would be taken over to the States, and, I suppose, sent down to California to be tried there. Your friends here will be best able to judge whether any jury out there would convict a man for a murder committed eight or ten years ago, unless the very strongest evidence was forthcoming.

"It would be next to impossible to obtain the evidence of those people, the waiters and others, from whom your friends gleaned the facts that put them upon the trail of Symonds, and without that evidence there is no legal proof that would hang a man. Morally, of course, there would seem to be no doubt about it. He and you were in the mining camp together, he knew the object for which Will Tunstall was leaving for England, and that he was entitled to considerable property on arriving here. He followed him down to Sacramento, or at any rate he went down at that time. They were together drinking; there your uncle was found murdered; this man appeared here with the letters that your uncle carried, and obtained possession of the estate.

"It is a very strong chain of evidence, and were every link proved might suffice to hang him here; but at present you have no actual proof that Symonds ever was in Sacramento with him, or was the man he was drinking with; and even could you find the waiters and others, it is very unlikely that there would be any one to identify him after all this time. Symonds' counsel would argue that there was no proof whatever against his client, and he would, of course, claim that Symonds knew nothing about the murder, but that he afterwards obtained the papers from the man who really committed the murder, and that the idea of coming over to England and personating Tunstall then for the first time occurred to him. So I think you would find it extremely difficult to get a verdict out in California merely on the evidence of these two gentlemen, and of my own that he was possessed of a letter I wrote to Tunstall. But in any case, if you decide to have him arrested on the charge of murder, you will have to go back to California to set the law in motion there, to get the State authorities to apply to the supreme authorities of the United States to make an application to our government for his arrest and extradition. You must do all this before he has any idea that you have returned, or at any rate before he knows that you have any idea of his crime; otherwise he will, of course, fly, and we shall have no means of stopping him, and he might be in Fiji before the application for his arrest was received here."

Hugh and his companions looked helplessly at each other. This was an altogether unexpected blow. They had imagined they had but to give their evidence to ensure the arrest, trial, and execution of William Tunstall's murderer.

The doctor's fingers twitched, and the look that Sim Howlett knew so well came into his eyes. He was about to spring to his feet when Sim touched him.

"Wait, doctor," he said. "We will talk about that afterwards."

"Then what do you advise, Mr. Randolph?" Hugh asked after a long pause.

"I should say that for the present we should content ourselves with arresting him on the charge of impersonation, and of obtaining possession of your uncle's estate by fraud. I think the proof we now have, in the evidence of these two gentlemen, and in this copy of the finding of the coroner's jury, will be quite sufficient to ensure his conviction, in which case he will get, I should say, seven years' penal servitude—perhaps fourteen—for although he will not be charged with that offence, the conviction that he murdered your uncle in order to obtain possession of the estate cannot but be very strong in the mind of the judge. Yes, I should think he would give him fourteen years at least. We may, of course, want some other evidence that can be obtained from Sacramento, such as an official copy of the record of the proceedings at the coroner's inquest; but that would be a matter for counsel to decide. My own opinion is, that the evidence of these two gentlemen that the William Tunstall who corresponded with your father, received my letter informing him of the will, and left the mining camp on his way to England, and was murdered on his way to Sacramento, was the real William Tunstall, will be quite sufficient.

"It is a very lucky thing for you, by the way, Hugh, that there were provisions in your father's will, that if William Tunstall died without issue his half of the property came back to you, for that clause has effectually prevented him from selling his estate, which he would have done long ago had it been possible to do so. To my knowledge he has tried over and over again, and that clause has always prevented it. He has raised a little money on his life interest, but that will of course have no claim on the estate now. Now, what do you say? It is for you to decide. In the one case you will have an enormous amount of trouble, and you may finally fail in getting an American jury to find this man guilty of the murder; and in any case, if they do find him so, they will not execute him for a murder committed so long ago, and it is probable that he will get off with imprisonment for life, and may be acquitted altogether. On the other hand, if you have him arrested at once here, on the charge of impersonation and fraud, he is morally certain of getting a sentence which, at his age, will be pretty nearly equivalent to imprisonment for life."

"I certainly think that is the best plan," Hugh agreed. "Don't you think so?" he asked, turning to the others.

"I think so," Sim Howlett said at once; and even the doctor, though less readily, agreed.

Since his last illness he had changed a good deal. He had no longer fits of abstraction, and was brighter and more cheerful than Sim Howlett had ever seen him before. The loss of blood and the low fever that had brought him to death's door had apparently relieved his brain of a load that had for years oppressed it.

"Let it be so," he said reluctantly. "Had we met out in the West it would have been different; but as it is, perhaps it is best."

Late that evening the party proceeded to Carlisle, and early the next morning Mr. Randolph went with the others to one of the county magistrates, and, after laying all the facts before him, obtained a warrant for the arrest of John Symonds alias William Tunstall.

"I must congratulate you, Mr. Tunstall," the magistrate said to Hugh after he had signed the warrant, "upon your discovery. This scoundrel has been a disgrace to your name. He has been for years a consorter with betting men and blacklegs, and stands in the worst odour. It is said that he has mortgaged his life interest in the estates and completely ruined himself."

Mr. Randolph nodded. "Yes, I believe he is pretty well at the end of his tether, and at any moment he might be turned out of Byrneside."

"Well, there is an end to all that," the magistrate said, "and the men who have proved themselves even sharper rogues than he is, will be disappointed. I am sorry for the person who has passed as your aunt, for I know that she is spoken well of by the people in the neighbourhood, and I fancy she has had a very hard time of it with him; but of course she must have been his accomplice in this impersonation of your uncle."

"I am sorry for her, very sorry," Hugh said. "She was always most kind to me, and I have reason to believe that she did all in her power to protect me from him. You see at my death he would have inherited the whole property, and we now know that he was not a man to stick at anything. I am sure that she acted in fear of him."

"I have private reasons for believing so too," Mr. Randolph said; "for, unless I am greatly mistaken, she has deposited a document that, in case of her death, would have exposed the whole plot, in the hands of some legal friends of mine. However, we will not occupy your time any longer, but will start at once with a couple of constables to execute this warrant."

Returning to Carlisle Mr. Randolph secured the services of two constables, and hiring vehicles they started at once for Byrneside. On arriving there Mr. Randolph said to the servant, "Announce me to Mr. Tunstall. Do not say that I am not alone." Following him closely they went across the hall, and as he opened the door and announced Mr. Randolph the others entered. The man was standing on the hearth-rug. The woman looked flushed and excited. They were evidently in the midst of a quarrel. Symonds looked up in angry surprise when the party entered.

"Do your duty," Mr. Randolph said to one of the constables.

"John Symonds, I arrest you under a warrant on the charge of impersonation and fraud."

A deep Mexican oath burst from the lips of the man, then he stood quiet again.

"Who dares bring such a charge against me?" he asked.

"I do," Hugh said, stepping forward; "and these are my witnesses, men who knew you at Cedar Gulch, and who identified the body of my murdered uncle."

"Traitress!" Symonds exclaimed in Mexican, and in an instant his arm was stretched out and there was a report of a pistol. "And she sent you out!" he exclaimed, turning to Hugh, but as he was in the act of again raising his arm there was the report of another pistol, and he fell shot through the brain.

The others stood stupefied at the sudden catastrophe, but the doctor said quietly, "I saw his hand go behind him, and knew he was up to mischief. I ought not to have waited, it is always a mistake to wait in these cases."

Hugh sprang forward towards the woman who had been kind to him, but she had fallen back in her chair. The gambler's bullet had done its work; it had struck her on the temple, and death had been instantaneous.

The excitement in the county when the news spread of what had taken place at Byrneside was great indeed, and the revelations made before the coroner's jury greatly added to it. They returned a verdict that "Lola Symonds had been wilfully murdered by John Symonds, and that the latter had come by his death at the hands of Frank Hunter, who had justifiably shot at and killed him while opposing by armed means the officers of the law, and that no blame attaches to the said Frank Hunter."

When all was over, Hugh was warmly congratulated by the gentlemen who had come in to be present at the inquest, upon his recovery of the whole of his father's estate, and upon his escape from the danger he had certainly run at the hands of the murderer of his uncle. He was much affected by the death of the woman he still thought of as his aunt, and the document that she deposited at the lawyers' in London showed how completely she had acted under fear of her husband, and that she had knowingly risked her life to save his.

The doctor and Sim Howlett remained for a fortnight with him at Byrneside. He had urged upon them to make it their home for a while and to settle near him; but at the end of that time the doctor said to him one evening: "Sim and I have talked matters over, Hugh, and we have made up our minds. I have heard from him that we are each the owners of 25,000 dollars. I should not have taken it had I known it at the time, but I should not like to hurt the don's feelings by sending it back now, and perhaps it will do more good in my hands than in his. So Sim and I are going back to California. We shall buy a place near the spot where I lived many years ago—Sim tells me he has told you the story—and there we shall finish our days. When we die the money will go to charities. That is our plan, lad. We shall find plenty to help, and what with that and a little gardening our time will be well occupied, and Sim and I will have plenty in the past to look back upon and talk about."

And so a week later they sailed. Hugh went with them to Liverpool and saw them off, and then travelled for a time on the Continent, for Byrneside was repugnant to him after the tragedy that had been enacted there.

On his return he went down to Norfolk and stayed for some time with Luscombe, and the visit was so pleasant that it was repeated whenever he happened to be in England.

Three years later he crossed the Atlantic again. He traversed the States more easily now, for the railway across was almost completed. After spending a month in California with the doctor and Sim Howlett, whom he found well and happy, he visited Don Ramon at El Paso. There had been changes here, for both Don Carlos and his two sisters were married, and all insisted upon his being their guest for a time.

His first visit after his return to England was again to Norfolk. It was a short but important one, and on its termination he went back to Byrneside to give orders for many changes and alterations that were to be made with all speed in view of the coming of a new mistress. It had for some time past been apparent to Luscombe that the remark he had laughingly made years before on the banks of the Canadian was likely to bear fruit, and that his sister Phillis constituted no small portion of the attraction that brought Hugh down to Norfolk. Indeed, before leaving for the States Hugh had chatted the matter over with him.

"Of course, you have seen, Luscombe, how it has been. I shall be three-and-twenty by the time I get back, which is quite young enough for a man to talk about marriage. As soon as I do I shall ask Phillis."

"Just as well to wait, Hugh. It seems to me that you and Phillis pretty well understand each other; but I don't see any use in engagements till one can fix a date for the marriage, and as you have made up your mind to go on this trip, it will save you both a lot of trouble in the way of writing to leave it alone until you come back. It is a horrid nuisance to keep on writing letters when you are travelling. Besides, you know, the governor has strong ideas against early marriages, and will think you quite young enough then, and so I should say leave it as it stands."

And so Hugh had left it; but it is doubtful whether he had left Phillis quite in ignorance of what would be said on his return. At any rate no time was required by her before giving an answer to the question when it was put, and two months later the marriage took place. Many as were the presents that the bride received, they were thrown completely into the shade by that which arrived as a joint gift from Don Ramon and his family a few days before the wedding, being sent by their order from Tiffany's, the great jeweller of New York. It consisted of a case of jewellery of extraordinary value and magnificence and was, as Mr. Luscombe, senior, remarked, suitable rather for a princess of royal blood than for the wife of a Cumberland squire.

The return of Mr. and Mrs. Tunstall after the termination of their honeymoon to Byrneside was hailed with great rejoicing by the tenantry, who were happy to know that the old state of things had at last returned, and that a resident landlord with an English wife would in future be established in the family mansion.

THE END.

Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston.

Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston.

"Wherever English is spoken one imagines that Mr. Henty's name is known. One cannot enter a schoolroom or look at a boy's bookshelf without seeing half-a-dozen of his familiar volumes. Mr. Henty is no doubt the most successful writer for boys, and the one to whose new volumes they look forward every Christmas with most pleasure."—Review of Reviews.

A LIST OF BOOKS

FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

... By ...

G. A. HENTY

GORDON STABLES

G. M. FENN

ROBERT LEIGHTON

S. BARING-GOULD

HARRY COLLINGWOOD

KIRK MUNROE

ROSA MULHOLLAND

F. FRANKFORT MOORE

ALICE CORKRAN, ETC.

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CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

153 to 157 Fifth Avenue New York

G. A. HENTY'S POPULAR STORIES FOR BOYS

NEW VOLUMES FOR 1897-98

Mr. Henty, the most popular writer of Books of Adventure in England, adds three new volumes to his list this fall—books that will delight thousands of boys on this side who have become his ardent admirers.

WITH FREDERICK THE GREAT

A Tale of the Seven Years' War. With 12 full-page illustrations. 12mo, $1.50.

The hero of this story while still a youth entered the service of Frederick the Great, and by a succession of fortunate circumstances and perilous adventures, rose to the rank of colonel. Attached to the staff of the king, he rendered distinguished services in many battles, in one of which he saved the king's life. Twice captured and imprisoned, he both times escaped from the Austrian fortresses.

The story follows closely the historic lines, and no more vivid description of the memorable battles of Rossbach, Leuthen, Prague, Zorndorf, Hochkirch, and Torgau can be found anywhere than is here given. Woven in this there runs the record of the daring and hazardous adventures of the hero, and the whole narrative has thus, with historic accuracy, the utmost charm of romance.

A MARCH ON LONDON

A Story of Wat Tyler's Rising. With 8 full-page illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON. 12mo, $1.50.

The story of Wat Tyler's Rebellion is but little known, but the hero of this story passes through that perilous time and takes part in the civil war in Flanders which followed soon after. Although young he is thrown into many exciting and dangerous adventures, through which he passes with great coolness and much credit. Brought into royal favor he is knighted for bravery on the battlefield, and saving the lives of some wealthy merchants, he realizes fortune with his advancement and rank. New light is thrown on the history of this time and the whole story is singularly interesting.

WITH MOORE AT CORUNNA.

A Story of the Peninsular War. With 12 full-page illustrations by WAL PAGET. 12mo, $1.50.

A bright Irish lad, Terence O'Connor, is living with his widowed father, Captain O'Connor of the Mayo Fusiliers, with the regiment at the time when the Peninsular war began. Upon the regiment being ordered to Spain, Terence received a commission of ensign and accompanied it. On the way out, by his quickness of wit he saved the ship from capture and, instead, aided in capturing two French privateers. Arriving in Portugal, he ultimately gets appointed as aid to one of the generals of a division. By his bravery and great usefulness throughout the war, he is rewarded by a commission as Colonel in the Portuguese army and there rendered great service, being mentioned twice in the general orders of the Duke of Wellington. The whole story is full of exciting military experiences and gives a most careful and accurate account of the various campaigns.

BY G. A. HENTY

"No country nor epoch of history is there which Mr. Henty does not know, and what is really remarkable is that he always writes well and interestingly."—New York Times.

AT AGINCOURT

A Tale of the White Hoods of Paris. With 12 full-page Illustrations by WALTER PAGET. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The story begins in a grim feudal castle in Normandie, on the old frontier between France and England, where the lad Guy Aylmer had gone to join his father's old friend Sir Eustace de Villeroy. The times were troublous and soon the French king compelled Lady Margaret de Villeroy with her children to go to Paris as hostages for Sir Eustace's loyalty. Guy Aylmer went with her as her page and body-guard. Paris was turbulent and the populace riotous. Soon the guild of the butchers, adopting white hoods as their uniform, seized the city, and besieged the house where our hero and his charges lived. After desperate fighting, the white hoods were beaten and our hero and his charges escaped from the city, and from France. He came back to share in the great battle of Agincourt, and when peace followed returned with honor to England.

ON THE IRRAWADDY

A Story of the First Burmese War. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero having an uncle, a trader on the Indian and Burmese rivers, goes out to join him. Soon after war is declared by Burmah against England and he is drawn into it. His familiarity with the Burmese customs and language make him of such use that he is put upon Sir Archibald Campbell's staff. He has many experiences and narrow escapes in battles and in scouting. With half-a-dozen men he rescues his cousin who had been taken prisoner, and in the flight they are besieged in an old ruined temple. His escape and ultimate successful return to England show what a clear head with pluck can do.

WITH COCHRANE THE DAUNTLESS

A Tale of the Exploits of Lord Cochrane in South American Waters. With 12 full-page Illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero of this story, an orphaned lad, accompanies Cochrane as midshipman, and serves in the war between Chili and Peru. He has many exciting adventures in battles by sea and land, is taken prisoner and condemned to death by the Inquisition, but escapes by a long and thrilling flight across South America and down the Amazon, piloted by two faithful Indians. His pluck and coolness prove him a fit companion to Cochrane the Dauntless, and his final success is well deserved.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Boys like stirring adventures, and Mr. Henty is a master of this method of composition."—New York Times.

A KNIGHT OF THE WHITE CROSS

A Tale of the Siege of Rhodes. With 12 full-page Illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK, and a Plan. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Gervaise Tresham, the hero of this story, joins the Order of the Knights of St. John, and leaving England he proceeds to the stronghold of Rhodes. Subsequently, Gervaise is made a Knight of the White Cross for valor, while soon after he is appointed commander of a war-galley, and in his first voyage destroys a fleet of Moorish corsairs. During one of his cruises the young knight is attacked on shore, captured after a desperate struggle, and sold into slavery in Tripoli. He succeeds in escaping, however, and returns to Rhodes in time to take part in the splendid defence of that fortress. Altogether a fine chivalrous tale of varied interest and full of noble daring.

THE TIGER OF MYSORE

A Story of the War with Tippoo Saib. With 12 full-page Illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Dick Holland, whose father is supposed to be a captive of Tippoo Saib, goes to India to help him to escape. He joins the army under Lord Cornwallis, and takes part in the campaign against Tippoo. Afterwards, he assumes a disguise, enters Seringapatam, the capital of Mysore, rescues Tippoo's harem from a tiger, and is appointed to high office by the tyrant. In this capacity Dick visits the hill fortresses, still in search of his father, and at last he discovers him in the great stronghold of Savandroog. The hazardous rescue through the enemy's country is at length accomplished, and the young fellow's dangerous mission is done.

THROUGH RUSSIAN SNOWS

A Story of Napoleon's Retreat from Moscow. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND, and 3 Maps. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero, Julian Wyatt, after several adventures with smugglers, by whom he is handed over a prisoner to the French, regains his freedom and joins Napoleon's army in the Russian campaign, and reaches Moscow with the victorious Emperor. Then, when the terrible retreat begins, Julian finds himself in the rear guard of the French army, fighting desperately, league by league, against famine, snow-storms, wolves, and Russians. Ultimately he escapes out of the general disaster, after rescuing the daughter of a Russian Count; makes his way to St. Petersburg, and then returns to England. A story with an excellent plot, exciting adventures, and splendid historical interests.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Here we have Mr. George Henty—the Boys' Own Author."—Punch.

WULF THE SAXON

A Story of the Norman Conquest. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero is a young thane who wins the favor of Earl Harold and becomes one of his retinue. When Harold becomes King of England Wulf assists in the Welsh wars, and takes part against the Norsemen at the Battle of Stamford Bridge. When William of Normandy invades England, Wulf is with the English host at Hastings, and stands by his king to the last in the mighty struggle. Altogether this is a noble tale. Wulf himself is a rare example of Saxon vigor, and the spacious background of stormful history lends itself admirably to heroic romance.

BERIC THE BRITON

A Story of the Roman Invasion. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

This story deals with the invasion of Britain by the Roman legionaries. Beric, who is a boy-chief of a British tribe, takes a prominent part in the insurrection under Boadicea: and after the defeat of that heroic queen (in A.D. 62) he continues the struggle in the fen-country. Ultimately Beric is defeated and carried captive to Rome, where he is trained in the exercise of arms in a school of gladiators. Such is the skill which he there acquires that he succeeds in saving a Christian maid by slaying a lion in the arena, and is rewarded by being made librarian in the palace, and the personal protector of Nero. Finally he escapes from this irksome service, organizes a band of outlaws in Calabria, defies the power of Rome, and at length returns to Britain, where he becomes a wise ruler of his own people.

WHEN LONDON BURNED

A Story of the Plague and the Fire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by J. FINNEMORE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero of this story was the son of a nobleman who had lost his estates during the troublous times of the Commonwealth. Instead of hanging idly about the court seeking favors, Cyril Shenstone determined to maintain himself by honest work. During the Great Plague and the Great Fire, which visited London with such terrible results, Sir Cyril was prominent among those who brought help to the panic-stricken inhabitants. This tale has rich variety of interest, both national and personal, and in the hero you have an English lad of the noblest type—wise, humane, and unselfish.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Ask for Henty, and see that you get him."—Punch.

THE DASH FOR KHARTOUM

A Tale of the Nile Expedition. By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG and J. NASH. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

In the record of recent British history there is no more captivating page for boys than the story of the Nile campaign, and the attempt to rescue General Gordon. For, in the difficulties which the expedition encountered, in the perils which it overpassed, and in its final tragic disappointments, are found all the excitements of romance, as well as the fascination which belongs to real events.

BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE

A Tale of Fontenoy and Culloden. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The adventures of the son of a Scotch officer in French service. The boy, brought up by a Glasgow bailie, is arrested for aiding a Jacobite agent, escapes, is wrecked on the French coast, reaches Paris, and serves with the French army at Dettingen. He kills his father's foe in a duel, and escaping to the coast, shares the adventures of Prince Charlie, but finally settles happily in Scotland.

UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG

A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of the sea. The heroes sail as lads with Drake in the Pacific expedition, and in his great voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is absolutely to be relied upon, but this will perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure through which the young heroes pass in the course of their voyages.

WITH WOLFE IN CANADA

Or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Mr. Henty here gives an account of the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy in the North American continent. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race should predominate in the New World; and that English and American commerce, the English language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Mr. Henty is one of the best of story-tellers for young people."—Spectator.

BY PIKE AND DYKE

A Tale of the Rise of the Dutch Republic. By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by MAYNARD BROWN, and 4 Maps. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

In this story Mr. Henty traces the adventures and brave deeds of an English boy in the household of the ablest man of his age—William the Silent. Edward Martin, the son of an English sea-captain, enters the service of the Prince as a volunteer, and is employed by him in many dangerous and responsible missions, in the discharge of which he passes through the great sieges of the time.

BY ENGLAND'S AID

Or, The Freeing of the Netherlands (1585-1604). By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and 4 Maps. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The story of two English lads who go to Holland as pages in the service of one of "the fighting Veres." After many adventures by sea and land, one of the lads finds himself on board a Spanish ship at the time of the defeat of the Armada, and escapes only to fall into the hands of the Corsairs. He is successful in getting back to Spain, and regains his native country after the capture of Cadiz.

IN THE HEART OF THE ROCKIES

A Story of Adventure in Colorado. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by G. C. HINDLEY. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

From first to last this is a story of splendid hazard. The hero, Tom Wade, goes to seek his uncle in Colorado, who is a hunter and gold-digger, and he is discovered, after many dangers, out on the plains with some comrades. Going in quest of a gold mine the little band is spied by Indians, chased across the Bad Lands, and overwhelmed by a snowstorm in the mountains.

BY RIGHT OF CONQUEST

Or, With Cortez in Mexico. By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and 2 Maps. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

With the Conquest of Mexico as the ground-work of his story, Mr. Henty has interwoven the adventures of an English youth. He is beset by many perils among the natives, but by a ruse he obtains the protection of the Spaniards, and after the fall of Mexico he succeeds in regaining his native shore, with a fortune and a charming Aztec bride.

BY G. A. HENTY

"No living writer of books for boys writes to better purpose than Mr. G. A. Henty."—Philadelphia Press.

TRUE TO THE OLD FLAG

A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

A graphic and vigorous story of the American Revolution, which paints the scenes with great power, and does full justice to the pluck and determination of the soldiers during the unfortunate struggle.

THE LION OF ST. MARK

A Tale of Venice in the Fourteenth Century. By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

A story of Venice at a period when her strength and splendor were put to the severest tests. The hero displays a fine sense and manliness which carry him safely through an atmosphere of intrigue, crime, and bloodshed. He contributes largely to the victories of the Venetians at Porto d'Anzo and Chioggia, and finally wins the hand of the daughter of one of the chief men of Venice.

THE LION OF THE NORTH

A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty Years' War. The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous King of Sweden was largely composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story.

IN GREEK WATERS

A Story of the Grecian War of Independence (1821-1827). By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Deals with the revolt of the Greeks in 1821 against Turkish oppression. Mr. Beveridge and his son Horace fit out a privateer, load it with military stores, and set sail for Greece. They rescue the Christians, relieve the captive Greeks, and fight the Turkish war vessels.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Mr. Henty's books never fail to interest boy readers."—Academy.

WITH CLIVE IN INDIA

Or, The Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The period between the landing of Clive in India and the close of his career was eventful in the extreme. At its commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the native princes; at its close they were masters of Bengal and of the greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full account of the events of that stirring time, while he combines with his narrative a thrilling tale of daring and adventure.

THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN

A Story of the Times of Hannibal. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

There is no better field for romance-writers in the whole of history than the momentous struggle between the Romans and Carthaginians for the empire of the world. Mr. Henty has had the full advantage of much unexhausted picturesque and impressive material, and has thus been enabled to form a striking historic background to as exciting a story of adventure as the keenest appetite could wish.

FOR THE TEMPLE

A Tale of the Fall of Jerusalem. By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by S. J. SOLOMON, and a colored Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Mr Henty here weaves into the record of Josephus an admirable and attractive story. The troubles in the district of Tiberias, the march of the legions, the sieges of Jotapata, of Gamala, and of Jerusalem, form the impressive setting to the figure of the lad who becomes the leader of a guerrilla band of patriots, fights bravely for the Temple, and after a brief term of slavery at Alexandria, returns to his Galilean home.

THROUGH THE FRAY

A Story of the Luddite Riots. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The story is laid in Yorkshire at the commencement of the present century, when the high price of food induced by the war and the introduction of machinery drove the working-classes to desperation, and caused them to band themselves in that wide-spread organization known as the Luddite Society. There is an abundance of adventure in the tale, but its chief interest lies in the character of the hero, and the manner in which he is put on trial for his life, but at last comes victorious "through the fray."

BY G. A. HENTY

"The brightest of all the living writers whose office it is to enchant the boys."—Christian Leader.

CAPTAIN BAYLEY'S HEIR

A Tale of the Gold Fields of California. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

A frank, manly lad and his cousin are rivals in the heirship of a considerable property. The former falls into a trap laid by the latter, and while under a false accusation of theft foolishly leaves England for America. He works his passage before the mast, joins a small band of hunters, crosses a tract of country infested with Indians to the Californian gold diggings, and is successful both as digger and trader.

IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE

A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of Independence. The hero of the tale fought under both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of "hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure.

A JACOBITE EXILE

Being the Adventures of a Young Englishman in the Service of Charles XII. of Sweden. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by PAUL HARDY, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Sir Marmaduke Carstairs, a Jacobite, is the victim of a conspiracy, and he is denounced as a plotter against the life of King William. He flies to Sweden, accompanied by his son Charlie. This youth joins the foreign legion under Charles XII., and takes a distinguished part in several famous campaigns against the Russians and Poles.

CONDEMNED AS A NIHILIST

A Story of Escape from Siberia. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero of this story is an English boy resident in St. Petersburg. Through two student friends he becomes innocently involved in various political plots, resulting in his seizure by the Russian police and his exile to Siberia. He ultimately escapes, and, after many exciting adventures, he reaches Norway, and thence home, after a perilous journey which lasts nearly two years.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Mr. Henty is one of our most successful writers of historical tales."—Scotsman.

IN THE REIGN OF TERROR

The Adventures of a Westminster Boy. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J. SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Harry Sandwith, a Westminster boy, becomes a resident at the chateau of a French marquis, and after various adventures accompanies the family to Paris at the crisis of the Revolution. Imprisonment and death reduce their number, and the hero finds himself beset by perils with the three young daughters of the house in his charge. After hair-breadth escapes they reach Nantes. There the girls are condemned to death in the coffinships, but are saved by the unfailing courage of their boy-protector.

ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND

A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, $1.50.

No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers; the destruction of the Spanish fleet; the plague of the Black Death; the Jacquerie rising; these are treated by the author in "St. George for England." The hero of the story, although of good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless adventures and perils becomes by valor and good conduct the squire, and at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince.

A CHAPTER OF ADVENTURES

Or, Through the Bombardment of Alexandria. By G. A. HENTY. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

A coast fishing lad, by an act of heroism, secures the interest of a shipowner, who places him as an apprentice on board one of his ships. In company with two of his fellow-apprentices he is left behind, at Alexandria, in the hands of the revolted Egyptian troops, and is present through the bombardment and the scenes of riot and blood-shed which accompanied it.

HELD FAST FOR ENGLAND

A Tale of the Siege of Gibraltar. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

This story deals with one of the most memorable sieges in history—the siege of Gibraltar in 1779-83 by the united forces of France and Spain. With land forces, fleets, and floating batteries, the combined resources of two great nations, this grim fortress was vainly besieged and bombarded. The hero of the tale, an English lad resident in Gibraltar, takes a brave and worthy part in the long defence, and it is through his varied experiences that we learn with what bravery, resource, and tenacity the Rock was held for England.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Among writers of stories of adventures for boys Mr. Henty stands in the very first rank."—Academy.

FOR NAME AND FAME

Or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

An interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero, after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the Malays, finds his way to Calcutta and enlists in a regiment proceeding to join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, carried to Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan.

ORANGE AND GREEN

A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The record of two typical families—the Davenants, who, having come over with Strongbow, had allied themselves in feeling to the original inhabitants; and the Whitefoots, who had been placed by Cromwell over certain domains of the Davenants. In the children the spirit of contention has given place to friendship, and though they take opposite sides in the struggle between James and William, their good-will and mutual service are never interrupted, and in the end the Davenants come happily to their own again.

MAORI AND SETTLER

A Story of the New Zealand War. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The Renshaws emigrate to New Zealand during the period of the war with the natives. Wilfrid, a strong, self-reliant, courageous lad, is the mainstay of the household. He has for his friend Mr. Atherton, a botanist and naturalist of herculean strength and unfailing nerve and humor. In the adventures among the Maoris, there are many breathless moments in which the odds seem hopelessly against the party, but they succeed in establishing themselves happily in one of the pleasant New Zealand valleys.

A FINAL RECKONING

A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to Australia and gets employment as an officer in the mounted police. A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with both natives and bush-rangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy, and he eventually settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter.

"Mr. Henty's books are welcome visitors in the home circle."—Daily News.

THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE

Or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of Marlborough. His career as General extended over little more than a year, and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been surpassed.

THE DRAGON AND THE RAVEN

Or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

In this story the author gives an account of the fierce struggle between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero, a young Saxon thane, takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred. He is driven from his home, takes to the sea, and resists the Danes on their own element, and being pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege of Paris.

FACING DEATH

Or, The Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

"Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life, and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty.

BY SHEER PLUCK

A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The author has woven, in a tale of thrilling interest, all the details of the Ashanti campaign, of which he was himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the interior, is detained a prisoner by the king just before the outbreak of the war, but escapes, and accompanies the English expedition on their march to Coomassie.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Mr. Henty might with entire propriety be called the boys' Sir Walter Scott."—Philadelphia Press.

THE CAT OF BUBASTES

A Story of Ancient Egypt. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

A story which will give young readers an unsurpassed insight into the customs of the Egyptian people. Amuba, a prince of the Rebu nation, is carried with his charioteer Jethro into slavery. They become inmates of the house of Ameres, the Egyptian high-priest, and are happy in his service until the priest's son accidentally kills the sacred cat of Bubastes. In an outburst of popular fury Ameres is killed, and it rests with Jethro and Amuba to secure the escape of the high-priest's son and daughter.

ONE OF THE 28TH

A Tale of Waterloo. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W. H. OVEREND, and 2 Maps. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero of this story, Ralph Conway, has many varied and exciting adventures. He enters the army, and after some rough service in Ireland takes part in the Waterloo campaign, from which he returns with the loss of an arm, but with a substantial fortune.

STURDY AND STRONG

Or, How George Andrews made his Way. By G. A. HENTY. With 4 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

The history of a hero of everyday life, whose love of truth, clothing of modesty, and innate pluck, carry him, naturally, from poverty to affluence. George Andrews is an example of character with nothing to cavil at, and stands as a good instance of chivalry in domestic life.

TALES OF DARING AND DANGER

By G. A. HENTY. With 2 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 75 cents.

Containing five stories, varied in scene and character, but all of adventurous interest and telling of youthful heroism under dangerous and trying circumstances on land and on sea.

YARNS ON THE BEACH

By G. A. HENTY. With 2 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, 75 cents.

This book should find special favor among boys. The yarns are spun by old sailors, and are admirably calculated to foster a manly spirit.

BY G. A. HENTY

"Surely Mr. Henty should understand boys' tastes better than any man living."—The Times.

ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE

A Tale of the Huguenot Wars. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by H. J. DRAPER, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero, Philip Fletcher, is a right true English lad, but he has a French connection on his mother's side. This kinship induces him to cross the Channel in order to take a share in that splendid struggle for freedom known as the Huguenot wars. Naturally he sides with the Protestants, distinguishes himself in various battles, and receives rapid promotion for the zeal and daring with which he carries out several secret missions. It is an enthralling narrative throughout.

REDSKIN AND COW-BOY

A Tale of the Western Plains. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The central interest of this story is found in the many adventures of an English lad who seeks employment as a cow-boy on a cattle ranch. His experiences during a "round-up" present in picturesque form the toilsome, exciting, adventurous life of a cow-boy; while the perils of a frontier settlement are vividly set forth in an Indian raid, accompanied by pillage, capture, and recapture. The story is packed full of breezy adventure.

WITH LEE IN VIRGINIA

A Story of the American Civil War. By G. A. HENTY. With 10 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, and 6 Maps. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The story of a young Virginian planter, who, after bravely proving his sympathy with the slaves of brutal masters, serves with no less courage and enthusiasm under Lee and Jackson through the most exciting events of the struggle. He has many hairbreadth escapes, is several times wounded, and twice taken prisoner; but his courage and readiness and, in two cases, the devotion of a black servant and of a runaway slave whom he had assisted bring him safely through all difficulties.

THROUGH THE SIKH WAR

A Tale of the Conquest of the Punjaub. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by HAL HURST, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Percy Groves, a spirited English lad, joins his uncle in the Punjaub, where the natives are in a state of revolt. When the authorities at Lahore proclaim war Percy joins the British force as a volunteer, and takes a distinguished share in the famous battles of the Punjaub.

BY ROBERT LEIGHTON

"Mr. Leighton's place is in the front rank of writers of boys' books."—Standard.

THE GOLDEN GALLEON

Illustrated, crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

This is a story of Queen Elizabeth's time, just after the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Mr. Leighton introduces in his work the great sea-fighters of Plymouth town—Hawkins, Drake, Raleigh, and Richard Grenville.

OLAF THE GLORIOUS

By ROBERT LEIGHTON. With 8 full-page Illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

This story of Olaf, King of Norway, opens with his being found living as a bond-slave in Esthonia, and follows him through his romantic youth in Russia. Then come his adventures as a Viking, his raids upon the coasts of Scotland and England, and his conversion to Christianity. He returns to Norway as king, and converts his people to the Christian faith.

WRECK OF "THE GOLDEN FLEECE"

The Story of a North Sea Fisher-boy. By ROBERT LEIGHTON. With 8 full-page Illustrations by FRANK BRANGWYN. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero is a parson's son who is apprenticed on board a Lowestoft fishing lugger. The lad suffers many buffets from his shipmates, while the storms and dangers which he braved are set forth with intense power.

THE THIRSTY SWORD

A Story of the Norse Invasion of Scotland (1262-63). By ROBERT LEIGHTON. With 8 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

This story tells how Roderic MacAlpin, the sea-rover, came to the Isle of Bute; how he slew his brother in Rothesay Castle; how the earl's eldest son was likewise slain; how young Kenric now became king of Bute, and vowed vengeance against the slayer of his brother and father; and finally, how this vow was kept, when Kenric and the murderous sea-rover met at midnight and ended their feud in one last great fight.

THE PILOTS OF POMONA

A Story of the Orkney Islands. By ROBERT LEIGHTON. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN LEIGHTON, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Halcro Ericson, the hero, happens upon many exciting adventures and hardy experiences, through which he carries himself with quiet courage. The story gives a vivid presentation of life in these far northern islands.

BY KIRK MUNROE

THE "WHITE CONQUERORS" SERIES

WITH CROCKETT AND BOWIE

Or, Fighting for the Lone Star Flag. A Tale of Texas. With 8 full-page Illustrations by VICTOR PÉRARD. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

The story is of the Texas revolution in 1835, when American Texans under Sam Houston, Bowie, Crockett, and Travis, fought for relief from the intolerable tyranny of the Mexican Santa Aña. The hero, Rex Hardin, son of a Texan ranchman and graduate of an American military school, takes a prominent part in the heroic defense of the Alamo, the terrible scenes at Golead, and the final triumph at San Jacinto. The historical side of the story has been carefully studied and its localities rendered familiar by a special trip to Texas, undertaken by the author for that purpose within a year.

THROUGH SWAMP AND GLADE

A Tale of the Seminole War. By KIRK MUNROE. With 8 full-page Illustrations by VICTOR PÉRARD. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

In this new story Mr. Munroe opens to view an exceedingly interesting period of American history—the period of the Seminole War in Florida. Coacoochee, the hero of the story, is a young Indian of noble birth, the son of Philip the chieftain of the Seminoles. He is a boy at the time of the beginning of the Seminole troubles and grows up to lead his tribe in the long struggle which resulted in the Indians being driven from the north of Florida down to the distant southern wilderness. It is full of strange adventure, of stirring incident and rapid action.

AT WAR WITH PONTIAC

Or, The Totem of the Bear. A Tale of Redcoat and Redskin. By KIRK MUNROE. With 8 full-page Illustrations by J. FINNEMORE. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

A story of old days in America, when Detroit was a frontier town and the shores of Lake Erie were held by hostile Indians under Pontiac. The hero, Donald Hester, goes in search of his sister Edith, who has been captured by the Indians. Strange and terrible are his experiences; for he is wounded, taken prisoner, condemned to be burned, and contrives to escape. In the end there is peace between Pontiac and the English, and all things terminate happily for the hero. One dares not skip a page of this enthralling story.

THE WHITE CONQUERORS

A Tale of Toltec and Aztec. By KIRK MUNROE. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

This story deals with the Conquest of Mexico by Cortes and his Spaniards, the "White Conquerors," who, after many deeds of valor, pushed their way into the great Aztec kingdom and established their power in the wondrous city where Montezuma reigned in barbaric splendor. BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD

THE LOG OF A PRIVATEERSMAN

By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. With 12 full-page Illustrations by W. RAINEY, R.I. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

In the war between Napoleon and the British, many privateers were sent out from England to seize and destroy the French merchant vessels. On one of these George Bowen went as second mate. Long distance duels at sea, fights at close quarters, fierce boarding attacks, capture and recapture, flight and pursuit, storm and wreck, fire at sea and days without food or water in a small boat on the ocean, are some of the many thrilling experiences our hero passed through.

THE LOG OF "THE FLYING FISH."

A Story of Aerial and Submarine Peril and Adventure. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

In this story the aim of the author has been, not only to interest and amuse, but also to stimulate a taste for scientific study.

THE MISSING MERCHANTMAN

By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. With 6 full-page Pictures by W. H. OVEREND. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

A fine Australian clipper is seized by the crew; the passengers are landed on one deserted island, the captain and a junior officer on another; and the young hero of the story is kept on board to navigate the ship, which the mutineers refit as a private vessel. After many adventures Ned succeeded in carrying off the ship, and in picking up the captain and the passengers.

THE CONGO ROVERS

A Tale of the Slave Squadron. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. With 8 full page Illustrations by J. SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The scene of this thrilling tale is laid on the west coast of Africa among the slavers.

THE ROVER'S SECRET

A Tale of the Pirate Cays and Lagoons of Cuba. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. C. SYMONS. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

The hero of "The Rover's Secret," a young officer of the British navy, narrates his peculiar experiences in childhood and his subsequent perils and achievements.

THE PIRATE ISLAND

A Story of the South Pacific. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by C. J. STANILAND and J. R. WELLS. Olivine edges. Crown 8vo, $1.50.

This story details the adventures of a lad who was found in his infancy on board a wreck, and is adopted by a fisherman. Going to sea, he forms one of a party who, after being burned out of their ship, are picked up by a pirate brig and taken to the "Pirate Island," where they have many thrilling adventures. BY PROFESSOR A. J. CHURCH

LORDS OF THE WORLD

A Story of the Fall of Carthage and Corinth. By Professor A. J. CHURCH. With 12 full-page Illustrations by RALPH PEACOCK. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The scene of this story centres in the destruction of Carthage by the Romans. The young hero is captured by the Romans, but wearing the dress of his twin sister, escapes death. Entering the army of Carthage he is in the thick of the long conflict and passes through many thrilling adventures. He is present at the final scene, and that awful catastrophe is most vividly told. The story is full of valuable historical details and the interest never flags.

TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO

Or, The Adventures of a Roman Boy. By Professor A. J. CHURCH. With 12 full-page Illustrations by ADRIEN MARIE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero is a young Roman who has a very chequered career, being now a captive in the hands of Spartacus, again an officer on board a vessel detailed for the suppression of the pirates, and anon a captive once more, on a pirate ship.

BY S. BARING-GOULD

GRETTIR THE OUTLAW

A Story of Iceland. By S. BARING-GOULD. With 10 full-page Illustrations by M. ZENO DIEMER, and a Colored Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

No boy will be able to withstand the magic of such scenes as the fight of Grettir with twelve bearserks, and the wrestle with Karr the Old in the chamber of the dead.

BY F. FRANKFORT MOORE

HIGHWAYS AND HIGH SEAS

Cyril Harley's Adventures on Both. By F. FRANKFORT MOORE. With 8 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The story belongs to a period when highways meant post-chaises, coaches, and highwaymen, and when high seas meant privateers and smugglers.

UNDER HATCHES

Or, Ned Woodthorpe's Adventures. By F. FRANKFORT MOORE. With 8 full-page Illustrations by A. FORESTIER. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

In rescuing another lad from drowning, Ned Woodthorpe is taken on board a convict ship. After a series of exciting events the convicts and crew obtain the mastery. Ultimately the ship is recaptured and Ned and his friends escape from their troubles.

BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN

"Mr. Fenn is in the front rank of writers for boys."—Liverpool Mercury.

DICK O' THE FENS

A Romance of the Great East Swamp. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 12 full-page Illustrations by FRANK DADD. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Dick o' the Fens and Tom o' Grimsey are the sons of a squire and a farmer living on the edge of one of the vast fen wastes, and their adventures are of unusual interest. Shooting and fishing experiences are introduced in a manner which should stimulate the faculty of observation, and give a healthy love for country life; while the record of the fen-men's stealthy resistance to the great draining scheme is full of the keenest interest. The ambushes and shots in the mist and dark, the incendiary fires, and the bursting of the sea-wall, are described with Mr. Fenn's wonted skill in the management of mystery.

BROWNSMITH'S BOY

By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 6 page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

The career of "Brownsmith's Boy" embraces the home adventures of an orphan, who, having formed the acquaintance of an eccentric old gardener, accepts his offer of a home and finds that there is plenty of romance in a garden, and much excitement even in a journey now and then to town. In a half-savage lad he finds a friend who shows his love and fidelity principally by pretending to be an enemy. In "Brownsmith's Boy" there is abundance of excitement and trouble within four walls.

YUSSUF THE GUIDE

Being the Strange Story of Travels in Asia Minor. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

Deals with the stirring incidents in the career of a lad who has been almost given over by the doctors, but who rapidly recovers health and strength in a journey through Asia Minor. The adventures are many, and culminate in the travelers being snowed up for the winter in the mountains, from which they escape while their captors are waiting for the ransom that does not come.

THE GOLDEN MAGNET

A Tale of the Land of the Incas. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 12 full-page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The tale of a romantic lad, who leaves home to seek his fortune in South America by endeavoring to discover some of that treasure which legends declare was ages ago hidden by the Peruvian rulers and priests, to preserve it from the Spanish invaders. He is accompanied by a faithful companion, who does true service, and shows the greatest courage during the strange and exciting adventures which befall them.

BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN

"Mr Manville Fenn may be regarded as the successor in boyhood's affections of Captain Mayne Reid."—Academy.

NAT THE NATURALIST

A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by GEORGE BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

Nat and his uncle Dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of the Eastern seas, and their adventures there are told in a truthful and vastly interesting fashion. The descriptions of Mr Ebony, their black comrade, and of the scenes of savage life, are full of genuine humor.

QUICKSILVER

Or, A Boy with no Skid to his Wheel. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 10 full-page Illustrations by FRANK DADD. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

Dr. Grayson has a theory that any boy, if rightly trained, can be made into a gentleman and a great man; and in order to confute a friendly objector decides to select from the workhouse a boy to experiment with. He chooses a boy with a bad reputation but with excellent instincts, and adopts him, the story narrating the adventures of the mercurial lad who thus finds himself suddenly lifted several degrees in the social scale. The idea is novel and handled with Mr. Fenn's accustomed cleverness.

DEVON BOYS

A Tale of the North Shore. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The adventures of Sep Duncan and his school friends take place in the early part of the Georgian era, during the wars between England and France. The scene is laid on the picturesque rocky coast of North Devon. Fishermen, smugglers, naval officers, and a stern old country surgeon play their parts in the story, which is one of honest adventure, with the mastering of difficulties in a wholesome manly way, mingled with sufficient excitement to satisfy the most exacting reader.

MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN

Her Voyage to the Unknown Isle. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 8 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

A stirring story of adventure in the Eastern seas, where a lad shares the perils of his father, the captain of the merchant ship The Petrel.

"Jules Verne himself never constructed a more marvelous tale. It contains the strongly marked features that are always conspicuous in Mr. Fenn's stories—a racy humor, the manly vigor of his sentiment, and wholesome moral lessons."—Christian Leader.

BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN

"No one can find his way to the hearts of lads more readily than Mr. Fenn."—Nottingham Guardian.

BUNYIP LAND

The Story of a Wild Journey in New Guinea. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 6 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"Bunyip Land" is the story of an eminent botanist, who ventures into the interior of New Guinea in his search for new plants. Years pass away, and he does not return; and though supposed to be dead, his young wife and son refuse to believe it; and as soon as he is old enough young Joe goes in search of his father, accompanied by Jimmy, a native black. Their adventures are many and exciting, but after numerous perils they discover the lost one, a prisoner among the blacks, and bring him home in triumph.

IN THE KING'S NAME

Or, The Cruise of the Kestrel. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. Illustrated by 12 full-page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

"In the King's Name" is a spirited story of the Jacobite times, concerning the adventures of Hilary Leigh, a young naval officer in the preventive service off the coast of Sussex, on board the Kestrel. Leigh is taken prisoner by the adherents of the Pretender, amongst whom is an early friend and patron who desires to spare the lad's life, but will not release him. The narrative is full of exciting and often humorous incident.

MENHARDOC

A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 6 full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

The scene of this story is laid among the granite piles and tors of Cornwall. Adventures are pretty plentiful, but the story has for its strong base the development of character of the three boys. The sketches of Cornish life and local coloring are based upon experience in the bay, whose fishing village is called here Menhardoc. This is a thoroughly English story of phases of life but little touched upon in boy's literature up to the present time.

PATIENCE WINS

Or, War in the Works. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 6 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

A graphic narrative of factory life in the Black Country. The hero and his three uncles set up "a works," but find that the workmen are determined to have no new-fangled machinery. After a series of narrow escapes and stirring encounters, the workmen by degrees find that no malice is borne against them, and eventually a great business is built up, and its foundation laid on the good will of the men.

BY DR. GORDON STABLES

A NAVAL CADET

A Story of Adventure by Sea. By GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M. Illustrated, crown 8vo, $1.25.

FOR LIFE AND LIBERTY

A Story of Battle by Land and Sea. By GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M. With 8 full-page Illustrations by SIDNEY PAGET. 12mo, $1.50.

The story of an English boy who runs from home and joins the southern army in the late Civil War. He is accompanied by his chum, who enters the navy, and their various adventures in the great conflict are set forth with great vigor and are unfailing in interest.

TO GREENLAND AND THE POLE

A Story of Adventure in the Arctic Regions. By GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M. With 8 full-page Illustrations by G. C. HINDLEY, and a Map. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The unfailing fascination of Arctic venturing is presented in this story with new vividness. The author is himself an old Arctic voyager, and he deals with deer-hunting in Norway, sealing in the Arctic Seas, bear-stalking on the ice-floes, the hardships of a journey across Greenland, and a successful voyage to the back of the North Pole.

WESTWARD WITH COLUMBUS

By GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M. With 8 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero of this story is Columbus himself. His career is traced from boyhood onward through the many hazardous enterprises in which he was at various times engaged. The narrative deals chiefly, however, with the great naval venture which Columbus conducted across the Atlantic, and which resulted in the discovery of the American continent.

'TWIXT SCHOOL AND COLLEGE

A Tale of Self-reliance. By GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M. With 8 full-page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

The hero is presented by his father with an outlying cottage and garden on the farm, and the gift is turned to pleasant account as a place of residence for a whole menagerie of pets dear to the heart of most healthy-minded boys.

STORIES OF ADVENTURE BY SEA AND LAND

WULFRIC THE WEAPON THANE

The Story of the Danish Conquest of East Anglia. By CHARLES W. WHISTLER. With 6 illustrations by W. H. MARGETSON. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

A tale in which is set forth:—How Wulfric saved the Danish warrior's life; how he fought in the Viking ship; how he was accused falsely; how he joined King Eadmund, as his weapon-thane; how he fought for the king; and how he won the lady Osritha and brought her to his home.

TOMMY THE ADVENTUROUS

The Story of a Brother and Sister. By S. E. CARTWRIGHT. With 3 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

THORNDYKE MANOR

A Tale of Jacobite Times. By MARY C. ROWSELL. With 6 full-page Illustrations by L. LESLIE BROOKE. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

Thorndyke Manor is an old house near the mouth of the Thames which is convenient, on account of its secret vaults and situation, as the basis of operation in a Jacobite conspiracy. Its owner finds himself suddenly involved in the closest meshes of the plot. He is conveyed to the Tower, but his innocence is triumphantly proved by his sister.

TRAITOR OR PATRIOT

A Tale of the Rye House Plot. By MARY C. ROWSELL. With 6 full-page Pictures. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"A romantic love episode, whose true characters are life-like beings, not dry sticks, as in many historical tales."—Graphic.

HAL HUNGERFORD

Or, The Strange Adventures of a Boy Emigrant. By J. R. HUTCHINSON. With 4 full-page Illustrations by STANLEY BERKELEY. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

"There is no question whatever as to the spirited manner in which the story is told; the death of the mate of the smuggler by the teeth of the dog is especially effective."—London Spectator.

SIR WALTER'S WARD

A Tale of the Crusades. By WILLIAM EVERARD. Illustrated by WALTER PAGET. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"A highly fascinating work, dealing with a period which is always suggestive of romance and deeds of daring."—Schoolmaster.

COUSIN GEOFFREY AND I

By CAROLINE AUSTIN. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. PARKINSON. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

The only daughter of a country gentleman finds herself unprovided for at her father's death, and for some time lives as a dependent. She finally makes a brave attempt to earn her own livelihood, and she succeeds in doing this.

HUGH HERBERT'S INHERITANCE

By CAROLINE AUSTIN. With 6 full-page Illustrations by C. T. GARLAND. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"A story that teaches patience as well as courage in fighting the battles of life."—Daily Chronicle.

STORIES OF ADVENTURE BY SEA AND LAND

SOU'WESTER AND SWORD

By HUGH ST. LEGER. With 6 full-page Illustrations by HAL HURST. Crown 8vo, $1.50.

"As racy a tale of life at sea and war adventure as we have met with for some time."—London Athenæum.

WITH THE SEA KINGS

A Story of the Days of Lord Nelson. By F. H. WINDER. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY. Crown 8vo, $1.50.

An English lad thought to become a Lord High Admiral like his hero, Nelson, so he ran away from home and joined a privateer. After taking part in the capture of a French frigate, he was captured by Corsairs and sold into slavery. He escaped, and his subsequent bravery in a sea fight brought him an interview with Nelson, and promotion.

THE CAPTURED CRUISER

Or, Two Years from Land. By C. J. HYNE. With 6 full-page Illustrations by F. BRANGWYN. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

This realistic story of modern naval warfare deals with the capture, during the recent war between Chili and Peru, of an armed cruiser. The heroes and their companions break from prison in the harbor of Valparaiso, board this warship in the night, overpower the watch, escape to sea, and, after marvelous adventures, lose the cruiser near Cape Horn.

THE LOSS OF JOHN HUMBLE

What Led to It, and what Came of It. By G. NORWAY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

John Humble, an orphan, is sent to sea with his uncle, the captain of the Erl King, but in the course of certain adventures is left behind at Portsmouth. He escapes to a Norwegian vessel, which is driven from her course and wrecked. The survivors experience the miseries of a long sojourn in the Arctic circle, but ultimately they succeed in making their way home again.

HUSSEIN THE HOSTAGE

Or, A Boy's Adventures in Persia. By G. NORWAY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, olivine edges, $1.50.

A narrative of the adventures of the young Prince Hussein and his faithful follower, Askar, in their endeavor to free their oppressed tribe from the Persian yoke.

A PRISONER OF WAR

A Story of the Time of Napoleon Bonaparte. By G. NORWAY. With 6 full-page Illustrations by ROBERT BARNES, A.R.W.S. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"More hairbreadth escapes from death by starvation, by ice, by fighting, etc., were never before surmounted."—The Guardian.

A STOUT ENGLISH BOWMAN

Being a Story of Chivalry in the Days of Henry III. By EDGAR PICKERING. With 6 Illustrations. Price, $1.25.

IN PRESS-GANG DAYS

By EDGAR PICKERING. With 6 full-page Illustrations by W. S. STACEY. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"It is of Marryat we think as we read this delightful story; for it is not only a story of adventure with incidents well conceived and arranged, but the characters are interesting."—London Academy.

AN OLD-TIME YARN

Wherein is set forth Divers Desperate Mischances which Befell Anthony Ingram and his shipmates in the West Indies and Mexico with Hawkins and Drake. By EDGAR PICKERING. Illustrated with 6 full-page Pictures drawn by ALFRED PEARSE. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"Excellent is the description of Mexico and of the dungeons of the Inquisition, while Don Diego Polo is a delightful mixture of bravery and humor, and his rescue of the unfortunate prisoners is told with great spirit."—London Guardian.

SILAS VERNEY

A Tale of the Time of Charles II. By EDGAR PICKERING. With 6 full-page Illustrations by ALFRED PEARSE. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

"Mr. Pickering reels off the narrative with spirit, rather reminding us of Mr. Stevenson in such books as 'Kidnapped.'"—London Times.

AN OCEAN OUTLAW

A Story of Adventure in the good ship Margaret. By HUGH ST. LEGER. With 6 page illustrations by WM. RAINEY, R.I. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

This is a breezy sea-yarn in which the reader is made acquainted with Jimmy Ducks, cabin-boy aboard the good ship Margaret. For little Jimmy is a tip-top sailor-man in the making merry in fair weather, handy in a gale, and a hero at cutlass work, and all his cleverness was needed when he and his messmates came to tackle the Ocean Outlaw and his castaway crew.

GOLD, GOLD, IN CARIBOO

A Story of Adventure in British Columbia. By CLIVE PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY. With 6 full-page Illustrations by G. C. HINDLEY. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

Ned Corbett and his companion, Steve Chance, set out with a pack-train in order to obtain gold on the upper reaches of the Frazer river. Many difficulties lie in their path, but after innumerable adventures, and a life-and-death struggle with the Arctic weather of that wild region, they find the secret gold mines for which they have searched.

HIS FIRST KANGAROO

An Australian Story for Boys. By ARTHUR FERRES. With 6 Illustrations by P. B. S. SPENER. Crown 8vo, $1.25.

A CHAMPION OF THE FAITH

A Tale of Prince Hal and the Lollards. By J. M. CALLWELL. With 6 full-page Illustrations by HERBERT J. DRAPER. Crown 8vo, $1.50.

This story deals with the merry escapades of Prince Hal and his favorite. Sir John Oldcastle. Then the narrative deepens when the Prince ascends the throne as Henry V., while his old comrade becomes a Lollard and a champion of the new faith. As such, Sir John Oldcastle endures many hardships, but finally is captured by treachery and burnt at the stake.

THE WIGWAM AND THE WAR-PATH

Stories of the Red Indians. By ASCOTT R. HOPE. Illustrated by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, $1.00.

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Transcriber's Note:

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Table of Contents

In The Heart of the Rockies

PREFACE

CHAPTER I. TOM'S CHOICE

CHAPTER II. FINDING FRIENDS

CHAPTER III. ON THE PLAINS

CHAPTER IV. LEAPING HORSE

CHAPTER V. IN DANGER

CHAPTER VI. UNITED

CHAPTER VII. CHASED

CHAPTER VIII. IN SAFETY

CHAPTER IX. A BAD TIME

CHAPTER X. AN AVALANCHE

CHAPTER XI. WINTER

CHAPTER XII. THE SNOW FORT

CHAPTER XIII. A FRESH START

CHAPTER XIV. AN INDIAN ATTACK

CHAPTER XV. THE COLORADO

CHAPTER XVI. AFLOAT IN CANOES

CHAPTER XVII. THE GRAND CAÑON

CHAPTER XVIII. BACK TO DENVER

CHAPTER XIX. A FORTUNE

In The Heart of the Rockies

PREFACE

MY DEAR LADS,

Until comparatively lately that portion of the United States in which I have laid this story was wholly unexplored. The marvellous cañons of the Colorado River extend through a country absolutely bare and waterless, and save the tales told by a few hunters or gold-seekers who, pressed by Indians, made the descent of some of them, but little was known regarding this region. It was not until 1869 that a thorough exploration of the cañons was made by a government expedition under the command of Major Powell. This expedition passed through the whole of the cañons, from those high up on the Green River to the point where the Colorado issues out on to the plains. Four years were occupied by the party in making a detailed survey of the course of the main river and its tributaries. These explorations took place some eight or nine years after the date of my story. The country in which the Big Wind River has its source, and the mountain chains contained in it, were almost unknown until, after the completion of the railway to California, the United States government was forced to send an expedition into it to punish the Indians for their raids upon settlers in the plains. For details of the geography and scenery I have relied upon the narrative of Mr. Baillie-Grohman, who paid several visits to the country in 1878 and the following years in quest of sport, and was the first white man to penetrate the recesses of the higher mountains. At that time the Indians had almost entirely deserted the country. For the details of the dangers and difficulties of the passage through the cañons I am indebted to the official report of Major Powell, published by the United States government.

Yours sincerely,

G. A. HENTY.

CHAPTER I. TOM'S CHOICE

"I can be of no use here, Carry. What am I good for? Why, I could not earn money enough to pay for my own food, even if we knew anyone who would help me to get a clerkship. I am too young for it yet. I would rather go before the mast than take a place in a shop. I am too young even to enlist. I know just about as much as other boys at school, and I certainly have no talent anyway, as far as I can see at present. I can sail a boat, and I won the swimming prize a month ago, and the sergeant who gives us lessons in single-stick and boxing says that he considers me his best pupil with the gloves, but all these things put together would not bring me in sixpence a week. I don't want to go away, and nothing would induce me to do so if I could be of the slightest use to you here. But can I be of any use? What is there for me to look forward to if I stay? I am sure that you would be always worrying over me if I did get some sort of situation that you would know father and mother would not have liked to see me in, and would seem to offer no chance for the future, whereas if I went out there it would not matter what I did, and anything I earned I could send home to you."

The speaker was a lad of sixteen. He and his sister, who was two years his senior, were both dressed in deep mourning, and were sitting on a bench near Southsea Castle looking across to Spithead, and the Isle of Wight stretching away behind. They had three days before followed their mother to the grave, and laid her beside their father, a lieutenant of the navy, who had died two years before. This was the first time they had left the house, where remained their four sisters—Janet, who came between Carry and Tom; Blanche, who was fourteen; Lucie, twelve; and Harriet, eight. Tom had proposed the walk.

"Come out for some fresh air, Carry," he had said. "You have been shut up for a month. Let us two go together;" and Carry had understood that he wanted a talk alone with her. There was need, indeed, that they should look the future in the face. Since Lieutenant Wade's death their means had been very straitened. Their mother had received a small pension as his widow, and on this, eked out by drafts reluctantly drawn upon the thousand pounds she had brought him on her marriage, which had been left untouched during his lifetime, they had lived since his death. Two hundred pounds had been drawn from their little capital, and the balance was all that now remained. It had long been arranged that Carry and Janet should go out as governesses as soon as they each reached the age of eighteen, but it was now clear that Carry must remain at home in charge of the young ones.

That morning the two girls had had a talk together, and had settled that, as Janet was too young to take even the humblest place as a governess, they would endeavour to open a little school, and so, for the present at any rate, keep the home together. Carry could give music lessons, for she was already an excellent pianist, having been well taught by her mother, who was an accomplished performer, and Janet was sufficiently advanced to teach young girls. She had communicated their decision to Tom, who had heartily agreed with it.

"The rent is only twenty pounds a year," he said, "and, as you say, the eight hundred pounds bring in thirty-two pounds a year, which will pay the rent and leave something over. If you don't get many pupils at first it will help, and you can draw a little from the capital till the school gets big enough to pay all your expenses. It is horrible to me that I don't seem to be able to help, but at any rate I don't intend to remain a drag upon you. If mother had only allowed me to go to sea after father's death I should be off your hands now, and I might even have been able to help a little. As it is, what is there for me to do here?" And then he pointed out how hopeless the prospect seemed at Portsmouth.

Carry was silent for a minute or two when he ceased speaking, and sat looking out over the sea.

"Certainly, we should not wish you to go into a shop, Tom, and what you say about going into an office is also right enough. We have no sort of interest, and the sort of clerkship you would be likely to get here would not lead to anything. I know what you are thinking about—that letter of Uncle Harry's; but you know that mother could not bear the thought of it, and it would be dreadful for us if you were to go away."

"I would not think of going, Carry, if I could see any chance of helping you here, and I don't want to go as I did when the letter first came. It seems such a cowardly thing to run away and leave all the burden upon your shoulders, yours and Janet's, though I know it will be principally on yours; but what else is there to do? It was not for my own sake that I wanted before to go, but I did not see what there was for me to do here even when I grew up. Still, as mother said it would break her heart if I went away, of course there was an end of it for the time, though I have always thought it would be something to fall back upon if, when I got to eighteen or nineteen, nothing else turned up, which seemed to me very likely would be the case. Certainly, if it came to a choice between that and enlisting, I should choose that: and now it seems to me the only thing to be done."

"It is such a long way off, Tom," the girl said in a tone of deep pain; "and you know when people get away so far they seem to forget those at home and give up writing. We had not heard from uncle for ten years when that letter came."

"There would be no fear of my forgetting you, Carry. I would write to you whenever I got a chance."

"But even going out there does not seem to lead to anything, Tom. Uncle has been away twenty-five years, and he does not seem to have made any money at all."

"Oh, but then he owned in his letter, Carry, that it was principally his own fault. He said he had made a good sum several times at mining, and chucked it away; but that next time he strikes a good thing he was determined to keep what he made and to come home to live upon it. I sha'n't chuck it away if I make it, but shall send every penny home that I can spare."

"But uncle will not expect you, Tom, mother refused so positively to let you go. Perhaps he has gone away from the part of the country he wrote from, and you may not be able to find him."

"I shall be able to find him," Tom said confidently. "When that letter went, I sent one of my own to him, and said that though mother would not hear of my going now, I might come out to him when I got older if I could get nothing to do here, and asked him to send me a few words directed to the post-office telling me how I might find him. He wrote back saying that if I called at the Empire Saloon at a small town called Denver, in Colorado, I should be likely to hear whereabouts he was, and that he would sometimes send a line there with instructions if he should be long away."

"I see you have set your mind on going, Tom," Carry said sadly.

"No, I have not set my mind on it, Carry. I am perfectly ready to stop here if you can see any way for me to earn money, but I cannot stop here idle, eating and drinking, while you girls are working for us all."

"If you were but three or four years older, Tom, I should not so much mind, and though it would be a terrible blow to part with you, I do not see that you could do anything better; but you are only sixteen."

"Yes, but I am strong and big for my age; I am quite as strong as a good many men. Of course I don't mean the boatmen and the dockyard maties, but men who don't do hard work. Anyhow, there are lots of men who go out to America who are no stronger than I am, and of course I shall get stronger every month. I can walk thirty miles a day easy, and I have never had a day's illness."

"It is not your strength, Tom; I shall have no fears about your breaking down; on the contrary, I should say that a life such as uncle wrote about, must be wonderfully healthy. But you seem so young to make such a long journey, and you may have to travel about in such rough places and among such rough men before you can find Uncle Harry."

"I expect that I shall get on a great deal easier than a man would," Tom said confidently. "Fellows might play tricks with a grown-up fellow who they see is a stranger and not up to things, and might get into quarrels with him, but no one is likely to interfere with a boy. No, I don't think that there is anything in that, Carry,—the only real difficulty is in going away so far from you, and perhaps being away for a long time."

"Well, Tom," the girl said after another pause, "it seems very terrible, but I own that I can see nothing better for you. There is no way that you can earn money here, and I am sure we would rather think of you as mining and hunting with uncle, than as sitting as a sort of boy-clerk in some dark little office in London or Portsmouth. It is no worse than going to sea anyhow, and after all you may, as uncle says, hit on a rich mine and come back with a fortune. Let us be going home. I can hardly bear to think of it now, but I will tell Janet, and will talk about it again this evening after the little ones have gone to bed."

Tom had the good sense to avoid any expression of satisfaction. He gave Carry's hand a silent squeeze, and as they walked across the common talked over their plans for setting to work to get pupils, and said no word that would give her a hint of the excitement he felt at the thought of the life of adventure in a wild country that lay before him. He had in his blood a large share of the restless spirit of enterprise that has been the main factor in making the Anglo-Saxons the dominant race of the world. His father and his grandfather had both been officers in the royal navy, and a great-uncle had commanded a merchantman that traded in the Eastern seas, and had never come back from one of its voyages; there had been little doubt that all on board had been massacred and the ship burned by Malay pirates. His Uncle Harry had gone away when little more than a boy to seek a fortune in America, and had, a few years after his landing there, crossed the plains with one of the first parties that started out at news of the discovery of gold in California.

Tom himself had longed above all things to be a sailor. His father had not sufficient interest to get him into the royal navy, but had intended to obtain for him a berth as apprentice in the merchant service; but his sudden death had cut that project short, and his mother, who had always been opposed to it, would not hear of his going to sea. But the life that now seemed open to him was in the boy's eyes even preferable to that he had longed for. The excitement of voyages to India or China and back was as nothing to that of a gold-seeker and hunter in the West, where there were bears and Indians and all sorts of adventures to be encountered. He soon calmed down, however, on reaching home. The empty chair, the black dresses and pale faces of the girls, brought back in its full force the sense of loss.

In a short time he went up to his room, and sat there thinking it all over again, and asking himself whether it was fair of him to leave his sisters, and whether he was not acting selfishly in thus choosing his own life. He had gone over this ground again and again in the last few days, and he now came to the same conclusion, namely, that he could do no better for the girls by stopping at home, and that he had not decided upon accepting his uncle's invitation because the life was just what he would have chosen, but because he could see nothing that offered equal chances of his being able permanently to aid them at home.

When he came downstairs again Carry said:

"The others have gone out, Tom; you had better go round and see some of your school-fellows. You look fagged and worn out. You cannot help me here, and I shall go about my work more cheerfully if I know that you are out and about."

Tom nodded, put on his cap and went out; but he felt far too restless to follow her advice and call on some of his friends, so he walked across the common and lay down on the beach and went all over it again, until at last he went off to sleep, and did not wake up until, glancing at his watch, he found that it was time to return to tea. He felt fresher and better for his rest, for indeed he had slept but little for the past fortnight, and Carry nodded approvingly as she saw that his eyes were brighter, and the lines of fatigue and sleeplessness less strongly marked on his face.

Two hours later, when the younger girls had gone to bed, Carry said: "Now we will have a family council. I have told Janet about our talk, Tom, and she is altogether on your side, and only regrets that she is not a boy and able to go out with you. We need not go over the ground again, we are quite agreed with you that there seems no prospect here of your obtaining work such as we should like to see you at, or that would lead to anything. There are only two things open to you, the one is to go to sea, the other to go out to Uncle Harry. You are old to go as an apprentice, but not too old, and that plan could be carried out; still, we both think that the other is better. You would be almost as much separated from us if you went to sea as you would be if you went out to America. But before you quite decide I will read uncle's letter, which I have found this afternoon among some other papers."

She took out the letter and opened it.

"'My dear Jack,—I am afraid it is a very long time since I wrote last; I don't like to think how long. I have been intending to do so a score of times, but you know I always hated writing, and I have been waiting to tell you that I had hit upon something good at last. Even now I can only tell you that I have been knocking about and getting older, but so far I cannot say I have been getting richer. As I told you when I wrote last I have several times made good hauls and struck it rich, but somehow the money has always slipped through my fingers. Sometimes I have put it into things that looked well enough but turned out worthless; sometimes I have chucked it away in the fool's manner men do here. I have just come back from a prospecting tour in the country of the Utes, where I found two or three things that seemed good; one of them first-rate, the best thing, I think, I have seen since I came out here.

"'Unfortunately I cannot do anything with them at present, for the Utes are getting troublesome, and it would be as much as one's life is worth to go back there with a small party; so that matter must rest for a bit, and I must look out in another quarter until the Utes settle down again. I am going to join a hunting party that starts for the mountains next week. I have done pretty nearly as much hunting as mining since I came out, and though there is no big pile to be made at it, it is a pretty certain living. How are you all getting on? I hope some day to drop in on your quiet quarters at Southsea with some big bags of gold-dust, and to end my days in a nook by your fireside; which I know you will give me, old fellow, with or without the gold bags. '"

"'I suppose your boy is thirteen or fourteen years old by this time. That is too young for him to come out here, but if in two or three years you don't see any opening for him at home, send him out to me, and I will make a man of him; and even if he does not make a fortune in gold-seeking, there are plenty of things a young fellow can turn his hand to in this country with a good certainty of making his way, if he is but steady. You may think that my example is not likely to be of much benefit to him, but I should do for an object lesson, and seriously, would do my very best to set him in a straight path. Anyhow, three or four years' knocking about with me would enable him to cut his eye-teeth, and hold his own in the world. At the end of that time he could look round and see what line he would take up, and I need not say that I would help him to the utmost of my power, and though I have not done any good for myself I might do good for him.

"'In the first place, I know pretty well every one in Colorado, Montana, and Idaho; in the next place, in my wanderings I have come across a score of bits of land in out-of-the-way places where a young fellow could set up a ranche and breed cattle and horses and make a good thing of it; or if he has a turn for mechanics, I could show him places where he could set up saw-mills for lumber, with water-power all the year round, and with markets not far away. Of course, he is too young yet, but unless he is going to walk in your steps and turn sailor he might do worse than come out to me in three or four years' time. Rough as the life is, it is a man's life, and a week of it is worth more than a year's quill-driving in an office. It is a pity your family have run to girls, for if one boy had made up his mind for the sea you might have spared me another.'

"That is all. You know mother sent an answer saying that dear father had gone, and that she should never be able to let you go so far away and take up such a rough and dangerous life. However, Tom, as you wrote to uncle, her refusal would not matter, and by his sending you instructions how to find him, it is evident that he will not be surprised at your turning up. In the first place, are you sure that you would prefer this to the sea?"

"Quite sure, Carry; I should like it much better. But the principal thing is that I may soon be able to help you from there, while it would be years before I should get pay enough at sea to enable me to do so."

"Then that is settled, Tom. And now, I suppose," and her voice quivered a little, "you will want to be off as soon as you can?"

"I think so," Tom replied. "If I am to go, it seems to me the sooner I go the better; there is nothing that I can do here, and we shall all be restless and unsettled until I am off."

Carry nodded. "I think you are right, Tom; we shall never be able to settle to our work here when we are thinking of your going away. The first thing to do will be to draw some money from the bank. There will be your outfit to get and your passage to pay to America, and a supply of money to take you out West, and keep you until you join uncle."

"That is what I hate," Tom said gloomily. "It seems beastly that when I want to help you I must begin by taking some of your money."

"That can't be helped," Carry said cheerfully. "One must not grudge a sprat to catch a whale, and besides it would cost ever so much more if we had to apprentice you to the sea, and get your outfit. You will not want many clothes now. You have enough for the voyage and journey, and I should think it would be much better for you to get what you want out there, when you will have uncle to advise what is necessary. I should really think some flannel shirts and a rough suit for the voyage will be the principal things."

"I should think so, certainly," Tom agreed. "The less baggage one travels with the better, for when I leave the railway I shall only want what I can carry with me or pack on horses. Anything else would only be a nuisance. As to a rough suit for the voyage, the clothes I had before I put these on" (and he glanced at his black suit) "will do capitally. Of course I shall go steerage. I can get out for four or five pounds that way, and I shall be quite as well off as I should be as an apprentice. I know I must have some money, but I won't take more than is absolutely necessary. I am all right as far as I can see for everything, except three or four flannel shirts. I don't see that another thing will be required except a small trunk to hold them and the clothes I have on, which I don't suppose I shall ever wear again, and a few other things. You know I would only allow you to have this one black suit made. I was thinking of this, and it would have been throwing away money to have got more. Of course, I don't know what I shall want out there. I know it is a long way to travel by rail, and I may have to keep myself for a month before I find uncle. I should think five-and-twenty pounds when I land would be enough for everything."

"I shall draw fifty pounds," Carry said positively. "As you say, your outfit will really cost nothing; ten pounds will pay for your journey to Liverpool and your passage; that will leave you forty pounds in your pocket when you land. That is the very least you could do with, for you may find you will have to buy a horse, and though I believe they are very cheap out there, I suppose you could not get one under ten pounds; and then there would be the saddle and bridle and food for the journey, and all sorts of things. I don't think forty pounds will be enough."

"I won't have a penny more, anyhow," Tom said. "If I find a horse too expensive I can tramp on foot."

"And you must be sure not to get robbed," Janet said, breaking in for the first time. "Just fancy your finding yourself without money in such a place as that. I will make you a belt to wear under your things, with pockets for the money."

"I hope I should not be such a fool as that, Janet, but anyhow I will be as careful as I can. I shall be very glad of the belt. One does not know what the fellows might be up to, and I would certainly rather not have my money loose in my pocket; but even if I were robbed I don't think it would be as desperate as you think. I expect a boy could always find something to do to earn his living, and I should try and work my way along somehow, but as that would not be pleasant at all I shall take good care of my money, you may be sure."

For an hour they sat talking, and before the council broke up it was agreed that they should look in the newspaper in the morning for a list of vessels sailing for America, and should at once write and take a passage.

There was no time lost. Carry felt that it would be best for them all that the parting should be got over as soon as possible. Letters were written the next morning to two steamship companies and to the owners of two sailing vessels asking the prices of steerage passages, agreeing that if there was not much difference it would be better to save perhaps a fortnight by taking the passage in a steamship.

The replies showed that the difference was indeed trifling, and a week after their receipt Tom Wade started from Portsmouth to Liverpool. Even at the last moment he was half-inclined to change his plans, it seemed so hard to leave his sisters alone; but Carry and Janet had both convinced themselves that his scheme was the best, and would not hear of his wavering now. They kept up a show of good spirits until the last, talked confidently of the success of their own plans, and how they should set about carrying them out as soon as they were free to act. The younger girls, although implored by the elders not to give way to their grief at the departure of their brother, were in a state of constant tearfulness, and were in consequence frequently got rid of by being sent on errands. Tom, too, took them out for hours every day, and by telling them stories of the wild animals he should hunt, and the Indians he should see, and of the stores of gold he should find hidden, generally brought them home in a more cheerful state of mind.

At last the parting was over, and after making heroic efforts to be cheerful to the end, Tom waved a last adieu with his handkerchief to the five weeping figures on the platform, and then threw himself back in his seat and gave free vent to his own feelings. Two girls sitting beside him sniggered at the sight of the strong-built young fellow giving way to tears, but a motherly-looking woman opposite presently put her hand on his knee.

"Don't be ashamed of crying, my lad," she said. "I have got a son years older than you, and we always have a good cry together every time he starts on a long voyage. Are you going far? I suppose those are your sisters? I see you are all in black. Lost someone dear to you, no doubt? It comes to us all, my boy, sooner or later."

"I am going to America," Tom replied, "and may not be back for years. Yes, those are my sisters, and what upsets me most is that I have to leave them all alone, for we have lost both our parents."

"Dear, dear, that is sad indeed! No wonder you are all upset. Well, well, America is not so very far away—only a ten days' voyage by steamer, they tell me, and my boy is away in a sailing ship. He is in China, I reckon, now; he sailed five months ago, and did not expect to be home under a year. I worry about him sometimes, but I know it is of no use doing that. The last thing he said when I bade good-bye to him was, 'Keep up your spirits, mother'; and I try to do so."

The old lady went on talking about her son, and Tom, listening to her kindly attempts to draw him out of his own troubles, grew interested, and by the time they reached Winchester, where she left the train, he had shaken off his first depression. It was a long journey with several changes, and he did not arrive in Liverpool until six o'clock in the evening, having been nearly twelve hours on the road. Carry's last injunction had been, "Take a cab when you get to Liverpool, Tom, and drive straight down to the docks. Liverpool is a large place, and you might get directed wrong. I shall be more comfortable if I know that, at any rate, you will go straight on board."

Tom had thought it an unnecessary expense, but as he saw that Carry would be more comfortable about him if he followed her advice, he promised to do so, and was not sorry for it as he drove through the streets; for, in spite of cutting down everything that seemed unnecessary for the voyage and subsequent journey, the portmanteau was too heavy to carry far with comfort, and although prepared to rough it to any extent when he had once left England, he felt that he should not like to make his way along the crowded streets with his trunk on his shoulder.

The cabman had no difficulty in finding the Parthia, which was still in the basin. Tom was, however, only just in time to get on board, for the men were already throwing off the warps, and ten minutes later she passed out through the dock-gates, and soon anchored in the middle of the river. Tom had been on board too many ships at Portsmouth to feel any of that bewilderment common to emigrants starting on their first voyage. He saw that at present everyone was too busy to attend to him, and so he put his portmanteau down by the bulwark forward, and leaning on the rail watched the process of warping the ship out of the docks. There were a good many steerage passengers forward, but at present the after-part of the ship was entirely deserted, as the cabin passengers would not come on board until either late at night or early next morning. When the anchor had been let drop he took up his trunk and asked a sailor where he ought to go to.

"Show me your ticket. Ah! single man's quarters, right forward."

There he met a steward, who, after looking at his ticket, said: "You will see the bunks down there, and can take any one that is unoccupied. I should advise you to put your trunk into it, and keep the lid shut. People come and go in the morning, and you might find that your things had gone too. It would be just as well for you to keep it locked through the voyage. I see that you have got a cord round it. Keep it corded; the more things there are to unfasten to get at the contents the less chance there is of anyone attempting it."

The place was crowded with berths, mere shallow trays, each containing a straw mattress and pillow and two coloured blankets. They were in three tiers, one above the other, and were arranged in lines three deep, with a narrow passage between. He saw by the number into which bags and packets had been thrown that the upper berths were the favourites, but he concluded that the lower tiers were preferable. "It will be frightfully hot and stuffy here," he said to himself, "and I should say the lower berths will be cooler than the upper." He therefore placed his trunk in one of those next to the central passage and near the door, and then went up on deck.

The Parthia was a Cunarder, and although not equal in size to the great ships of the present day, was a very fine vessel. The fare had been somewhat higher than that for which he could have had a passage in a sailing ship, but in addition to his saving time, there was the advantage that on board the steamers, passengers were not obliged to provide their own bedding, as they had to do in sailing vessels, and also the food was cooked for them in the ship's galleys.

The first meal was served soon after the anchor dropped, and consisted of a bowl of cocoa and a large piece of bread. Half an hour later a tender came alongside with the last batch of steerage passengers, and Tom was interested in watching the various groups as they came on board—men, women, and children.

"Well," he said to himself, "I do think I am better fitted to make my way out there than most of these people are, for they look as helpless and confused as a flock of sheep. I pity those women with children. It will be pretty crowded in our quarters, but there is a chance of getting a fair night's sleep, while in a place crowded with babies and children it would be awful."

Being a kind-hearted lad he at once set to work to help as far as he could, volunteering to carry children down below, and to help with boxes and bundles.

In many cases his assistance was thankfully accepted, but in some it was sharply refused, the people's manner clearly showing their suspicions of his motive. He was not surprised at this after all the warnings Carry had given him against putting any confidence in strangers, but was satisfied, after an hour's hard work, that he had rendered things somewhat easier for many a worried and anxious woman. It was getting dusk even on deck by the time he had finished.

"Thank you, lad," a man, who went up the companion ladder with him, said as they stepped on to the deck. "You have done my missis a good turn by taking care of those three young ones while we straightened up a bit, and I saw you helping others too. You are the right sort, I can see. There ain't many young chaps as puts themselves out of the way to do a bit of kindness like that. My name is Bill Brown; what is yours?"

"Tom Wade. I had nothing to do, and was glad to be of a little help. People who have never been on board ship before naturally feel confused in such a crowd."

"Have you been to sea?"

"Not on a voyage, but I have lived at Portsmouth and have often been on board troopships and men-of-war, so it does not seem so strange to me."

"Are you by yourself, or have you friends with you?"

"I am alone," Tom replied. "I am going out to join an uncle in the

States."

"I have been across before," the man said. "I am a carpenter, and have worked out there six months, and came home six weeks back to fetch the others over. I have got a place, where I was working before, to go to as soon as I land. It makes a lot of difference to a man."

"It does indeed," Tom agreed. "I know if I were going out without any fixed object beyond taking the first work that came to hand, I should not feel so easy and comfortable about it as I do now."

"I have got two or three of my mates on board who are going out on my report of the place, and three families from my wife's village. She and the youngsters have been staying with her old folk while I was away. So we are a biggish party, and if you want anything done on the voyage you have only got to say the word to me."

CHAPTER II. FINDING FRIENDS

The weather was fine, and Tom Wade found the voyage more pleasant than he had expected. The port-holes were kept open all the way, and the crowded quarters were less uncomfortable than would have been the case had they encountered rough weather. There were some very rough spirits among the party forward, but the great majority were quiet men, and after the first night all talking and larking were sternly repressed after the lights were out. The food was abundant, and although some grumbled at the meat there was no real cause of complaint. A rope across the deck divided the steerage passengers from those aft, and as there were not much more than one-half the emigrants aboard that the Parthia could carry, there was plenty of room on deck.

But few of the passengers suffered from sea-sickness, and the women sat and chatted and sewed in little groups while the children played about, and the men walked up and down or gathered forward and smoked, while a few who had provided themselves with newspapers or books sat in quiet corners and read. Tom was one of these, for he had picked up a few books on the United States at second-hand bookstalls at Portsmouth, and this prevented him from finding the voyage monotonous. When indisposed to read he chatted with Brown the carpenter and his mates, and sometimes getting a party of children round him and telling them stories gathered from the books now standing on the shelves in his room at Southsea. He was glad, however, when the voyage was over; not because he was tired of it, but because he was longing to be on his way west. Before leaving the ship he took a very hearty farewell of his companions on the voyage, and on landing was detained but a few minutes at the custom-house, and then entering an omnibus that was in waiting at the gate, was driven straight to the station of one of the western lines of railway.

From the information he had got up before sailing he had learnt that there were several of these, but that there was very little difference either in their speed or rates of fare, and that their through-rates to Denver were practically the same. He had therefore fixed on the Chicago and Little Rock line, not because its advantages were greater, but in order to be able to go straight from the steamer to the station without having to make up his mind between the competing lines. He found on arrival that the emigrant trains ran to Omaha, where all the lines met, and that beyond that he must proceed by the regular trains. An emigrant train was to leave that evening at six o'clock.

"The train will be made up about four," a good-natured official said to him, "and you had best be here by that time so as to get a corner seat, for I can tell you that makes all the difference on a journey like this. If you like to take your ticket at once you can register that trunk of yours straight on to Denver, and then you won't have any more trouble about it."

"Of course we stop to take our meals on the way?"

"Yes; but if you take my advice you will do as most of them do, get a big basket and lay in a stock of bread and cooked meat, cheese, and anything you fancy, then you will only have to go out and get a cup of tea at the stopping-places. It comes a good bit cheaper, and you get done before those who take their meals, and can slip back into the cars again quick and keep your corner seat. There ain't much ceremony in emigrant trains, and it is first come first served."

"How long shall we be in getting to Denver?"

"It will be fully a week, but there ain't any saying to a day. The emigrant trains just jog along as they can between the freight trains and the fast ones, and get shunted off a bit to let the expresses pass them."

Thanking the official for his advice, Tom took his ticket, registered his trunk, and then went out and strolled about the streets of New York until three o'clock. He took the advice as to provisions, and getting a small hamper laid in a stock of food sufficient for three or four days. The platform from which the train was to start was already occupied by a considerable number of emigrants, but when the train came up he was able to secure a corner seat. The cars were all packed with their full complement of passengers. They were open from end to end, with a passage down the middle. Other cars were added as the train filled up, but not until all the places were already occupied. The majority of the passengers were men, but there were a considerable number of women, and still more children; and Tom congratulated himself on learning from the conversation of those around him that a good many were not going beyond Chicago, and that almost all would leave the train at stations between that place and Omaha.

The journey to Chicago was the most unpleasant experience Tom had ever gone through. The heat, the dust, and the close confinement seemed to tell on the tempers of everyone. The children fidgeted perpetually, the little ones and the babies cried, the women scolded, and the men grumbled and occasionally quarrelled. It was even worse at night than during the day; the children indeed were quieter, for they lay on the floor of the passage and slept in comparative comfort, but for the men and women there was no change of position, no possibility of rest. The backs of the seats were low, and except for the fortunate ones by the windows there was no rest for the head; but all took uneasy naps with their chins leaning forward on their chest, or sometimes with their heads resting on their neighbour's shoulder. Tom did not retain his corner seat, but resigned it a few hours after starting to a weary woman with a baby in her arms who sat next to him. He himself, strong as he was, felt utterly worn out by the fatigue and sleeplessness.

Beyond Chicago there was somewhat more room, and it was possible to make a change of position. Beyond Omaha it was much better; the train was considerably faster and the number of passengers comparatively few. He now generally got a seat to himself and could put his feet up. The people were also, for the most part, acquainted with the country, and he was able to learn a good deal from their conversation. There were but few women or children among them, for except near the stations of the railway, settlements were very rare; and the men were for the most part either miners, ranchemen, or mechanics, going to the rising town of Denver, or bound on the long journey across the plains to Utah or California. It was on the eighth day after starting that Denver was reached.

Before leaving the ship Tom had put on his working clothes and a flannel shirt, and had disposed of his black suit, for a small sum, to a fellow-passenger who intended to remain at New York. This had somewhat lightened his portmanteau, but he was glad when he found that there were vehicles at the station to convey passengers up the hill to Denver, which was some three miles away, and many hundred feet above it. He was too tired to set about finding the Empire Saloon, but put up at the hotel at which the omnibus stopped, took a bath and a hearty meal, and then went straight to bed.

After breakfast the next morning he at once set out. He had no difficulty in finding the whereabouts of the Empire Saloon, which he learned from the clerk of the hotel was a small place frequented almost entirely by miners. Its appearance was not prepossessing. It had been built in the earliest days of Denver, and was a rough erection. The saloon was low, its bare rafters were darkly coloured by smoke, a number of small tables stood on the sanded floor, and across the farther end of the room ran a bar. On shelves behind this stood a number of black bottles, and a man in his shirt sleeves was engaged in washing up glasses. Two or three rough-looking men in coloured flannel shirts, with the bottoms of their trousers tucked into high boots, were seated at the tables smoking and drinking.

"I am expecting a letter for me here," Tom said to the man behind the bar. "My name is Wade."

"The boss is out now," the man said. "He will be here in an hour or so.

If there is anything for you he will know about it."

"Thank you. I will come again in an hour," Tom replied. The man nodded shortly, and went on with his work. When Tom returned, the bar-tender said to a man who was sitting at one of the tables talking to the miners, "This is the chap I told you of as was here about the letter."

"Sit right down," the man said to Tom, "I will talk with you presently;" and he continued his conversation in a low tone with the miners. It was nearly half an hour before he concluded it. Then he rose, walked across the room to Tom, and held out his hand.

"Shake, young fellow," he said; "that is, if you are the chap Straight

Harry told me might turn up here some day."

"I expect I am the fellow," Tom said with a smile. "My uncle's name is

Harry Wade."

"Yes, that is his name; although he is always called Straight Harry. Yes, I have got a letter for you. Come along with me." He led the way into a small room behind the saloon, that served at once as his bed-room and office, and motioned to Tom to sit down on the only chair; then going to a cupboard he took out a tin canister, and opening it shook out half a dozen letters on to the table.

"That is yourn," he said, picking one out.

It was directed to Tom, and contained but a few lines. "If you come I have gone west. Pete Hoskings will tell you all he knows about me and put you on the line. Your affectionate uncle."

"Are you Mr. Hoskings?" he asked the landlord.

"I am Pete Hoskings," the man said. "There ain't been no Mister to my name as ever I can remember."

"My uncle tells me that you will be able to direct me to him, and will put me on the line."

"It would take a darn sight cuter fellow than I am to direct you to him at present," the man said with a laugh. "Straight Harry went away from here three months ago, and he might be just anywhere now. He may be grubbing away in a mine, he may be hunting and trapping, or he may have been wiped out by the Indians. I know where he intended to go, at least in a general sort of way. He did tell me he meant to stay about there, and it may be he has done so. He said if he moved away and got a chance he would send me word; but as there ain't nairy a post-office within about five hundred miles of where he is, his only chance of sending a letter would be by a hunter who chanced to be going down to the settlements, and who, like enough, would put it into his hunting-shirt and never give it another thought. So whether he has stayed there or not is more nor I can say."

"And where is there?" Tom asked. "It is among the hills to the west of the Colorado River, which ain't much, seeing as the Colorado is about two thousand miles long. However, I can put you closer than that, for he showed me on a map the bit of country he intended to work. He said he would be back here in six months from the time he started; and that if you turned up here I was either to tell you the best way of getting there, or to keep you here until he came back. Well, I may say at once that there ain't no best way; there is only one way, and that is to get on a pony and ride there, and a mighty bad way it is. The only thing for you to do is to keep on west along the caravan tract. You have to cross the Green River,—that is the name of the Colorado on its upper course. Fort Bridger is the place for you to start from, but you have got to wait there until you sight some one or other bound south; for as to going by yourself, it would be a sight better to save yourself all trouble by putting that Colt hanging there to your head, and pulling the trigger. It is a bad country, and it is full of bad Indians, and there ain't many, even of the oldest hands, who care to risk their lives by going where Straight Harry has gone.

"I did all I could to keep him from it; but he is just as obstinate as a mule when he has made up his mind to a thing. I know him well, for we worked as mates for over a year down on the Yuba in California. We made a good pile, and as I had got a wife and wanted to settle I came back east. This place had a couple of dozen houses then; but I saw it was likely to boom, so I settled down and set up this saloon and sent for my wife to come west to me. If she had lived I should have been in a sight bigger place by this time; but she died six months after she got here, and then I did not care a continental one way or the other; and I like better to stop here, where I meet my old mates and can do as I like, than to run a big hotel. It ain't much to look at, but it suits me, and I am content to know that I could buy up the biggest place here if I had a fancy to. I don't take much money now, but I did when the place was young; and I bought a few lots of land, and you may bet they have turned out worth having. Well, don't you act rashly in this business. Another three months your uncle will turn up, if he is alive; and if he don't turn up at all I dare say I can put you into a soft thing. If you go on it is about ten to one you get scalped before you find him. Where are you staying?"

"At the Grand. The omnibus stopped there last night."

"Well, you stay there for a week and think it over. You have got to

learn about the country west of the Colorado. You had best come here to

do that. You might stay a month at the Grand and not find a soul who

could tell you anything worth knowing, but there ain't a day when you

couldn't meet men here who have either been there themselves or have

heard tell of it from men who have."

"Are the natives friendly now?" Tom asked. "In a letter he wrote two years ago to us, my uncle said that he should put off going to a part of the country he wanted to prospect until the Indians were quiet."

"The darned critters are never either friendly or quiet. A red-skin is pizen, take him when you will. The only difference is, that sometimes they go on the war-path and sometimes they don't; but you may bet that they are always ready to take a white man's scalp if they get a chance."

"Well, I am very much obliged to you for your advice, which I will certainly take; that is, I will not decide for a few days, and will come in here and talk to the miners and learn what I can about it."

"You can hear at once," the landlord said. He stepped back into the saloon, and said to the two men with whom he had been talking: "Boys, this young chap is a Britisher, and he has come out all the way to join Straight Harry, who is an uncle of his. Straight Harry is with Ben Gulston and Sam Hicks, and they are prospecting somewhere west of the Colorado. He wants to join them. Now, what do you reckon his chances would be of finding them out and dropping in on their campfire?"

The men looked at Tom with open eyes.

"Waal," one of them drawled, "I should reckon you would have just about the same chance of getting to the North Pole if you started off on foot, as you would of getting to Straight Harry with your hair on."

Tom laughed. "That is not cheering," he said.

"It ain't. I don't say as an old hand on the plains might not manage it. He would know the sort of place Harry and his mates would be likely to be prospecting, he would know the ways of the red-skins and how to travel among them without ever leaving a trail or making a smoke, but even for him it would be risky work, and not many fellows would care to take the chances even if they knew the country well. But for a tenderfoot to start out on such a job would be downright foolishness. There are about six points wanted in a man for such a journey. He has got to be as hard and tough as leather, to be able to go for days without food or drink, to know the country well, to sleep when he does sleep with his ears open, to be up to every red skin trick, to be able to shoot straight enough to hit a man plumb centre at three hundred yards at least, and to hit a dollar at twenty yards sartin with his six-shooter. If you feel as you have got all them qualifications you can start off as soon as you like, and the chances aren't more'n twenty to one agin your finding him."

"I haven't anyone of them," Tom said.

"Waal, it is something if you know that, young chap. It is not every tenderfoot who would own up as much. You stick to it that you don't know anything, and at the same time do your best to learn something, and you will do in time. You look a clean-built young chap, and you could not have a better teacher than Straight Harry. What he don't know, whether it is about prospecting for gold or hunting for beasts, ain't worth knowing, you bet. What is your name, mate?"

"Tom Wade."

"Waal, let us drink. It ain't like you, Pete, to keep a stranger dry as long as you have been doing."

"He ain't up to our customs yet," the landlord said, as he moved off towards the bar.

"It is a custom everywhere," the miner said reprovingly, "for folks to stand drink to a stranger; and good Bourbon hurts no man."

The landlord placed a bottle and four glasses on the counter. Each of the miners filled his glass for himself, and the bottle was then handed to Tom, who followed their example, as did Hoskings.

"Here is luck to you," the miner said, as he lifted his glass. Three glasses were set down empty, but Tom had to stop half-way with his to cough violently.

"It is strong stuff," he said apologetically, "and I never drank spirits without water before. I had a glass of grog-and-water on board a ship sometimes, but it has always been at least two parts of water to one of spirits."

"We mostly drink our liquor straight out here," the miner said. "But I am not saying it is the best way, especially for one who ain't used to it, but you have got to learn to do it if you are going to live long in this country."

"Standing drinks round is a custom here," Pete Hoskings explained, seeing that Tom looked a little puzzled, "and there ain't no worse insult than to refuse to drink with a man. There have been scores of men shot, ay, and hundreds, for doing so. I don't say that you may not put water in, but if you refuse to drink you had best do it with your hand on the butt of your gun, for you will want to get it out quick, I can tell you."

"There is one advantage in such a custom anyhow," Tom said, "it will keep anyone who does not want to drink from entering a saloon at all."

"That is so, lad," Pete Hoskings said heartily. "I keep a saloon, and have made money by it, but for all that I say to every young fellow who hopes to make his way some time, keep out of them altogether. In country places you must go to a saloon to get a square meal, but everyone drinks tea or coffee with their food, and there is no call to stay in the place a minute after you have finished. Calling for drinks round has been the ruin of many a good man; one calls first, then another calls, and no one likes to stand out of it, and though you may only have gone in for one glass, you may find you will have to drink a dozen before you get out."

"Why, you are a downright temperance preacher, Pete," one of the miners laughed.

"I don't preach to a seasoned old hoss like you, Jerry. I keep my preaching for those who may benefit by it, such as the youngster here; but I say to him and to those like him, you keep out of saloons. If you don't do that, you will find yourself no forwarder when you are fifty than you are now, while there are plenty of openings all over the country for any bright young fellow who will keep away from liquor."

"Thank you," Tom said warmly; "I will follow your advice, which will be easy enough. Beyond a glass of beer with my dinner and a tot of grog, perhaps once in three months when I have gone on board a ship, and did not like to say no, I have never touched it, and have no wish to do so."

"Stick to that, lad; stick to that. You will find many temptations, but you set your face hard against them, and except when you come upon a hard man bent on kicking up a muss, you will find folks will think none the worse of you when you say to them straight, 'I am much obliged to you all the same, but I never touch liquor.'"

Tom remained four days at the hotel, spending a good deal of his time at the saloon, where he met many miners, all of whom endorsed what the first he had spoken to had said respecting the country, and the impossibility of anyone but an old hand among the mountains making his way there.

On the fourth evening he said to Pete Hoskings: "I see that your advice was good, and that it would be madness for me to attempt to go by myself, but I don't see why I should not ride to Fort Bridger; not of course by myself, but with one of the caravans going west. It would be a great deal better for me to do that and to learn something of the plains and camping than to stay here for perhaps three months. At Fort Bridger I shall be able to learn more about the country, and might join some hunting party and gain experience that way. I might find other prospectors going up among the hills, and even if it were not near where my uncle is to be found, I should gain by learning something, and should not be quite a greenhorn when I join him."

"Well, that is sensible enough," Pete Hoskings said, "and I don't know as I can say anything against it. You certainly would not be doing any good for yourself here, and I don't say that either an hotel or a saloon is the best place for you. I will think it over, and will let you know when you come round in the morning; maybe I can put you a little in the way of carrying it out."

The next morning when Tom went to the saloon, Jerry Curtis, one of the miners he had first met there, was sitting chatting with Pete Hoskings.

"I had Jerry in my thoughts when I spoke to you last night, Tom," the latter said. "I knew he was just starting west again, and thought I would put the matter to him. He says he has no objection to your travelling with him as far as Fort Bridger, where maybe he will make a stay himself. There ain't no one as knows the plains much better than he does, and he can put you up to more in the course of a month than you would learn in a year just travelling with a caravan with farmers bound west"

"I should be very much obliged indeed," Tom said delightedly. "It would be awfully good of you, Jerry, and I won't be more trouble than I can help."

"I don't reckon you will be any trouble at all" the miner said. "I was never set much on travelling alone as some men are. I ain't much of a talker, but I ain't fond of going two or three months without opening my mouth except to put food and drink into it. So if you think you will like it I shall be glad enough to take you. I know Straight Harry well, and I can see you are teachable, and not set upon your own opinions as many young fellows I have met out here are, but ready to allow that there are some things as men who have been at them all their lives may know a little more about than they do. So you may take it that it is a bargain. Now, what have you got in the way of outfit?"

"I have not got anything beyond flannel shirts, and rough clothes like these."

"They are good enough as far as they go. Two flannel shirts, one on and one off, is enough for any man. Two or three pairs of thick stockings. Them as is very particular can carry an extra pair of breeches in case of getting caught in a storm, though for myself I think it is just as well to let your things dry on you. You want a pair of high boots, a buffalo robe, and a couple of blankets, one with a hole cut in the middle to put your head through; that does as a cloak, and is like what the Mexicans call a poncho. You don't want a coat or waistcoat; there ain't no good in them. All you want to carry you can put in your saddle-bag. Get a pair of the best blankets you can find. I will go with you and choose them for you. You want a thing that will keep you warm when you sleep, and shoot off the rain in bad weather. Common blankets are no better than a sponge.

"Then, of course, you must have a six-shooter and a rifle. No man in his senses would start across the plains without them. It is true there ain't much fear of red-skins between here and Bridger, but there is never any saying when the varmint may be about. Can you shoot?"

"No; I never fired off a rifle or a pistol in my life."

"Well, you had better take a good stock of powder and ball, and you can practise a bit as you go along. A man ain't any use out on these plains if he cannot shoot. I have got a pony; but you must buy one, and a saddle, and fixings. We will buy another between us to carry our swag. But you need not trouble about the things, I will get all that fixed."

"Thank you very much. How much do you suppose it will all come to?"

"Never you mind what it comes to," Pete Hoskings said roughly. "I told your uncle that if you turned up I would see you through. What you have got to get I shall pay for, and when Straight Harry turns up we shall square it. If he don't turn up at all, there is no harm done. This is my business, and you have got nothing to do with it."

Tom saw that he should offend Hoskings if he made any demur, and the kind offer was really a relief to him. He had thirty pounds still in his belt, but he had made a mental calculation of the cost of the things Jerry had considered essential, and found that the cost of a horse and saddle, of half another horse, of the rifle, six-shooter ammunition, blankets, boots, and provisions for the journey, must certainly amount up to more than that sum, and would leave him without any funds to live on till he met his uncle.

He was so anxious to proceed that he would have made no excuse, although he saw that he might find himself in a very difficult position. Pete's insistence, therefore, on taking all expenses upon himself, was a considerable relief to him; for although determined to go, he had had an uneasy consciousness that it was a foolish step. He therefore expressed his warm thanks.

"There, that is enough said about it," the latter growled out. "The money is nothing to me one way or the other, and it would be hard if I couldn't do this little thing for my old mate's nephew. When are you thinking of making a start, Jerry?"

"The sooner the better. I have been four months here already and have not struck a vein, that is, not one really worth working, and the sooner I make a fresh start the better. To-day is Wednesday. There will be plenty of time to get all the things to-day and to-morrow, and we will start at daylight on Friday. You may as well come with me, Tom, and learn something about the prices of things. There are some Indians camped three miles away. We will walk over there first and pick up a couple of ponies. I know they have got a troop of them, that is what they come here to sell. They only arrived yesterday, so we shall have the pick of them."

Before starting there was a short conversation between Jerry and the landlord, and then the former put on his broad-brimmed hat.

"Have you seen any red-skins yet?"

"I saw a few at some of the stations the train stopped at between this and Omaha."

"Those fellows are mostly Indians who have been turned out of their tribes for theft or drunkenness, and they hang about the stations to sell moccasins and other things their squaws make, to fresh arrivals.

"The fellows you are going to see are Navahoes, though not good specimens of the tribe, or they would not be down here to sell ponies. Still, they are a very different sort from those you have seen."

An hour's walking took them to a valley, in which the Indians were encamped. There were eight wigwams. Some women paused in their work and looked round at the newcomers. Their dogs ran up barking furiously, but were driven back by a volley of stones thrown by three or four boys, with so good an aim that they went off with sharp yelps. Jerry strolled along without paying any attention to the dogs or boys towards a party of men seated round a fire. One of them rose as they approached.

"My white brothers are welcome," he said courteously. "There is room by the fire for them," and he motioned to them to sit down by his side. A pipe, composed of a long flat wooden stem studded with brass nails, with a bowl cut out of red pipe-stone, was now handed round, each taking a short puff.

"Does my brother speak the language of the Navahoes?" the chief asked in that tongue.

"I can get along with it," Jerry said, "as I can with most of your

Indian dialects."

"It is good," the chief said. "My brother is wise; he must have wandered much."

"I have been a goodish bit among your hills, chief. Have you come from far?"

"The moon was full when we left our village."

"Ah, then you have been a fortnight on the road. Well, chief, I have come here to trade. I want to buy a couple of ponies."

The chief said a word or two to a boy standing near, and he with four or five others at once started up the valley, and in a few minutes returned with a drove of Indian ponies.

"They are not a bad lot," Jerry said to Tom.

"They don't look much, Jerry."

"Indian ponies never look much, but one of those ponies would gallop an eastern-bred horse to a stand-still."

Jerry got up and inspected some of the horses closely, and presently picked out two of them; at a word from the chief two of the lads jumped on their backs and rode off on them at full speed, and then wheeling round returned to the spot from where they started.

"My white brother is a judge of horses," the chief said; "he has picked out the best of the lot."

"There are three or four others quite as good," Jerry said carelessly. "Now, chief, how many blankets, how much powder and lead, and what else do you want for those two horses?"

The chief stated his demands, to which Jerry replied: "You said just now, chief, that I was a wise man; but it seems that you must regard me as a fool."

For half an hour an animated argument went on. Two or three times Jerry got up, and they started as if to quit the village, but each time the chief called them back. So animated were their gestures and talk that Tom had serious fears that they were coming to blows, but their voices soon fell and the talk became amicable again. At last Jerry turned to Tom.

"The bargain is struck," he said; "but he has got the best of me, and has charged an outrageous sum for them," Then, in his own language, he said to the chief:

"At noon to-morrow you will send the ponies down to the town. I will meet them at the big rock, half a mile this side of it, with the trade goods."

"They shall be there," the chief said, "though I am almost giving them to you."

As they walked away, Tom said:

"So you have paid more than you expected, Jerry?"

"No, I have got them a bargain; only it would never have done to let the chief know I thought so, or the horses would not have turned up to-morrow. I expect they have all been stolen from some other tribe. The two I have got are first-rate animals, and the goods will come to about fourteen pounds. I shall ride one of them myself, and put our swag on my own pony. That has been a very good stroke of business; they would never have sold them at that price if they had been honestly come by."

CHAPTER III. ON THE PLAINS

The purchase of a buffalo robe, blankets, boots, and a Colt's revolver occupied but a short time, but the rifle was a much more difficult matter.

"You can always rely upon a Colt," the miner said, "but rifles are different things; and as your life may often depend upon your shooting-iron carrying straight, you have got to be mighty careful about it. A gun that has got the name of being a good weapon will fetch four times as much as a new one."

Denver was but a small place; there was no regular gunsmith's shop, but rifles and pistols were sold at almost every store in the town. In this quest Jerry was assisted by Pete Hoskings, who knew of several men who would be ready to dispose of their rifles. Some of these weapons were taken out into the country and tried at marks by the two men. They made what seemed to Tom wonderful shooting, but did not satisfy Hoskings.

"I should like the youngster to have a first-rate piece," he said, "and I mean to get him one if I can. There are two of these would do if we can't get a better, but if there is a first-rate one to be had in this township I will have it." Suddenly he exclaimed, "I must have gone off my head, and be going downright foolish! Why, I know the very weapon. You remember Billy the scout?"

"In course I do, everyone knew him. I heard he had gone down just before

I got back here."

"That is so, Jerry. You know he had a bit of a place up in the hills, four or five miles from here, where he lived with that Indian wife of his when he was not away. I went out to see him a day or two afore he died. I asked him if there was anything I could do for him. He said no, his squaw would get on well enough there. She had been alone most of her time, and would wrestle on just as well when he had gone under. He had a big garden-patch which she cultivated, and brought the things down into the town here. They always fetch a good price. Why more people don't grow them I can't make out; it would pay better than gold-seeking, you bet. He had a few hundred dollars laid by, and he said they might come in handy to her if she fell sick, or if things went hard in winter. Well, you remember his gun?"

"In course—his gun was nigh as well known as Billy himself. He used to call it Plumb-centre. You don't mean to say she hasn't sold it?"

"She hasn't; at least I should have been sure to hear if she had. I know several of the boys who went to the funeral wanted to buy it, and offered her long prices for it too; but she wouldn't trade. I will ride over there this evening and see what I can do about it. She will sell to me if she sells to anyone, for she knows I was a great chum of Billy's, and I have done her a few good turns. She broke her leg some years back when he was away, and luckily enough I chanced to ride over there the next day. Being alone and without anyone to help, she would have got on badly. I sent a surgeon up to her, and got a redskin woman to go up to nurse her. I don't wonder she did not like to sell Billy's piece, seeing he was so famous with it, and I feel sure money would not do it; but perhaps I can talk her into it."

The next morning the articles agreed upon as the price of the horses were packed on Jerry's pony, and they went out to the meeting-place.

"It is twenty minutes early," Jerry said, as Tom consulted his watch, "and the red-skins won't be here till it is just twelve o'clock. A red-skin is never five minutes before or five minutes after the time he has named for a meeting. It may have been set six months before, and at a place a thousand miles away, but just at the hour, neither before nor after, he will be there. A white man will keep the appointment; but like enough he will be there the night before, will make his camp, sleep, and cook a meal or two, but he does not look for the red-skin till exactly the hour named, whether it is sunrise or sunset or noon. Red-skins ain't got many virtues,—least there ain't many of them has, though I have known some you could trust all round as ready as any white man,—but for keeping an appintment they licks creation."

A few minutes before twelve o'clock three Indians were seen coming down the valley on horseback. They were riding at a leisurely pace, and it was exactly the hour when they drew rein in front of Tom and his companion. Jerry had already unloaded his pony and had laid out the contents of the pack. First he proceeded to examine the two ponies, to make sure that they were the same he had chosen.

"That is all right," he said; "they would hardly have tried to cheat us over that—they would know that it would not pay with me. There, chief, is your exchange. You will see that the blankets are of good quality. There is the keg of powder, the bar of lead, ten plugs of tobacco, the cloth for the squaws, and all the other things agreed on."

The chief examined them carefully, and nodded his satisfaction. "If all the pale-faces dealt as fairly with the red man as you have done there would not be so much trouble between them," he said.

"That is right enough, chief; it can't be gainsaid that a great many, ay, I might say the most part, of the traders are rogues. But they would cheat us just the same as they would you, and often do take us in. I have had worthless goods passed off on me many a time; and I don't blame you a bit if you put a bullet into the skull of a rogue who has cheated you, for I should be mightily inclined to do the same myself."

No more words were wasted; the lads who had ridden the ponies down made up the goods in great bundles and went up the valley with their chief, while Jerry and Tom took the plaited leather lariats which were round the ponies' necks and returned to Denver. A saddle of Mexican pattern, with high peak and cantle, massive wooden framework, huge straps and heavy stirrups, was next bought. Jerry folded a horse-rug and tried it in different positions on the horse's back until the saddle fitted well upon it.

"That is the thing that you have got to be most particular about, Tom. If the saddle does not sit right the horse gets galled, and when a horse once gets galled he ain't of much use till he is well again, though the Indians ride them when they are in a terrible state; but then they have got so many horses that, unless they are specially good, they don't hold them of any account. You see the saddle is so high that there is good space between it and the backbone, and the pressure comes fair on the ribs, so the ponies don't get galled if the blankets are folded properly. The Indians do not use saddles, but ride either on a pad or just a folded blanket, and their ponies are always getting galled."

"The saddle is tremendously heavy."

"It is heavy, but a few pounds don't make much difference to the horse one way or the other, so that he is carrying it comfortably. The saddles would be no good if they were not made strong, for a horse may put his foot in a hole and come down head over heels, or may tumble down a precipice, and the saddle would be smashed up if it were not pretty near as strong as cast-iron. Out on the plains a man thinks as much of his saddle as he does of his horse, and more. If his horse dies he will put the saddle on his head and carry it for days rather than part with it, for he knows he won't be long before he gets a horse again. He can buy one for a few charges of powder and ball from the first friendly Indians he comes across, or he may get one given to him if he has nothing to exchange for it, or if he comes across a herd of wild horses he can crease one."

"What is creasing a horse?" Tom asked.

"Well, it is a thing that wants a steady hand, for you have got to hit him just on the right spot—an inch higher, you will miss him; half an inch lower, you will kill him. You have got to put a bullet through his neck two or three inches behind the ears and just above the spine. Of course if you hit the spine you kill him, and he is no good except to give you a meal or two if you are hard-up for food; but if the ball goes through the muscles of the neck, just above the spine, the shock knocks him over as surely as if you had hit him in the heart. It stuns him, and you have only got to run up and put your lariat round his neck, and be ready to mount him as soon as he rises, which he will do in two or three minutes, and he will be none the worse for the shock; in fact you will be able to break him in more easily than if you had caught him by the rope."

Jerry then adjusted his own saddle to the other Indian horse.

"Can you ride?" he asked.

"No, I have never had any chance of learning at home."

"Well, you had better have a lesson at once. This is a good way for a beginner;" and he took a blanket, and having rolled it up tightly, strapped it over the peak of the saddle and down the flaps.

"There," he said. "You get your knees against that, and what with the high peak and the high cantle you can hardly be chucked out anyhow, that is, if the horse does not buck; but I will try him as to that before you mount. We will lead them out beyond the town, we don't want to make a circus of ourselves in the streets; besides, if you get chucked, you will fall softer there than you would on the road. But first of all we will give them a feed of corn. You see they are skeary of us at present. Indian horses are always afraid of white men at first, just as white men's horses are afraid of Indians. A feed of corn will go a long way towards making us good friends, for you may be sure they have never had a feed in their lives beyond what they could pick up for themselves."

The horses snuffed the corn with some apprehension when it was held out towards them, backing away from the sieves with their ears laid back; but seeing that no harm came to them they presently investigated the food more closely, and at last took a mouthful, after which they proceeded to eat greedily, their new masters patting their necks and talking to them while they did so. Then their saddles and bridles were put on, and they were led out of the stable and along the streets. At first they were very fidgety and wild at the unaccustomed sights and sounds, but their fear gradually subsided, and by the time they were well in the country they went along quietly enough.

"Now you hold my horse, Tom, and I will try yours."

Jerry mounted and galloped away; in ten minutes he returned.

"He will do," he said as he dismounted. "He is fresh yet and wants training. I don't suppose he has been ridden half a dozen times, but with patience and training he will turn out a first-rate beast. I could see they were both fast when those boys rode them. I don't wonder the chief asked what, for an Indian pony, was a mighty long price, though it was cheap enough for such good animals. He must have two or three uncommon good ones at home or he would never have parted with them, for when an Indian gets hold of an extra good pony no price will tempt him to sell it, for a man's life on the plains often depends on the speed and stay of his horse. Now, I will take a gallop on my own, and when I come back you can mount and we will ride on quietly together.

"There is not much difference between them," he said on his return. "Yours is a bit faster. Pete told me to get you the best horse I could find, and I fixed upon yours, directly my eye fell upon him, as being the pick of the drove. But this is a good one too, and will suit me as well as yours, for he is rather heavier, and will carry me better than yours would do on a long journey. Now climb up into your saddle."

Jerry laughed at the difficulty Tom had in lifting his leg over the high cantle. "You will have to practise presently putting your hands on the saddle and vaulting into it. Half a minute in mounting may make all the difference between getting away and being rubbed out. When you see the red-skins coming yelling down on you fifty yards away, and your horse is jumping about as scared as you are, it is not an easy matter to get on to its back if you have got to put your foot in the stirrup first. You have got to learn to chuck yourself straight into your seat whether you are standing still or both on the run. There, how do you feel now?"

"I feel regularly wedged into the saddle."

"That is right. I will take up the stirrups a hole, then you will get your knees firmer against the blanket. It is better to learn to ride without it, even if you do get chucked off a few times, but as we start to-morrow you have no time for that. In a few days, when you get at home in the saddle, we will take off the blanket, and you have got to learn to hold on by your knees and by the balance of your body. Now we will be moving on."

As soon as the reins were slackened the horses started together at an easy canter.

"That is their pace," Jerry said. "Except on a very long journey, when he has got squaws and baggage with him, a red-skin never goes at a walk, and the horses will keep on at this lope for hours. That is right. Don't sit so stiffly; you want your legs to be stiff and keeping a steady grip, but from your hips you want to be as slack as possible, just giving to the horse's action, the same way you give on board ship when vessels are rolling. That is better. Ah! here comes Pete. I took this way because I knew it was the line he would come back by—and, by gosh, he has got the rifle, sure enough!"

Pete had seen them, and was waving the gun over his head.

"I've got it," he said as he reined up his horse when he met them. "It was a stiff job, for she did not like to part with it. I had to talk to her a long time. I put it to her that when she died the gun would have to go to someone, and I wanted it for a nephew of Straight Harry, whom she knew well enough; that it was for a young fellow who was safe to turn out a great hunter and Indian fighter like her husband, and that he would be sure to do credit to Plumb-centre, and make the gun as famous in his hands as it had been in her husband's. That fetched her. She said I had been kind to her, and though she could not have parted with the gun for money, she would do it, partly to please me, and partly because she knew that Straight Harry had been a friend of her husband's, and had fought by his side, and that the young brave I spoke of, would be likely to do credit to Plumb-centre. Her husband, she said, would be glad to know that it was in such good hands. So she handed it over to me. She would not hear of taking money for it; indeed, I did not press it, knowing that she would feel that it was almost a part of her husband; but I will make it up to her in other ways. There, Tom; there is as good a shooting-iron as there is in all the territories."

"Thank you very much indeed, Pete. I shall value it immensely, and I only hope that some day I shall be able to do credit to it, as the poor woman said."

There was nothing particular in the appearance of the rifle. It was a plainly-finished piece, with a small bore and heavy metal.

"It don't look much," Jerry said, "but it is a daisy, you bet."

"We will try a shot with it, Jerry. She gave me the bag of bullets and a box of patches and his powder-horn with it. We will see what it will do in our hands, we are both pretty good shots."

He loaded the rifle carefully.

"You see that bit of black rock cropping out of the hill-side. I guess it is about two hundred and fifty yards away, and is about the size a red-skin's head would be if he were crawling through the grass towards us. Will you shoot first or shall I?"

"Fire away, Pete."

Hoskings took a steady aim and fired.

"You have hit it," Jerry exclaimed. "Just grazed it at the top."

They walked across to the rock; there was a chip just on the top.

"It was a good shot, Pete; especially considering how you are out of practice. If it had been a red-skin it would have stunned him sure, for I doubt whether it is not too high by a quarter of an inch or so, to have finished him altogether."

"It would have cut his top-knot off, Jerry, and that is all. I doubt whether it would have even touched his skin."

They returned to the spot where Pete had fired, and Jerry threw himself down on the grass and levelled his rifle.

"That is not fair, Jerry," Pete protested.

"It would not be fair if I was shooting against you, but we are only trying the rifle, and if that rock were a red-skin you may be sure that I should be lying down."

He fired: and on going to the stone again they found that the bullet had struck it fair, within an inch of its central point.

"That is something like a rifle," Jerry said delighted. "Now, Tom, you shall have a shot."

As they walked to the shooting-point, Jerry showed the lad how to hold the rifle, instructed him as to the backsight, and showed him how to get the foresight exactly on the nick of the backsight. "You must just see the bead as if it were resting in the nick, and the object you aim at must just show above the top point of the bead." He showed him how to load, and then told him to lie down, as he had done, on his chest, and to steady the rifle with the left arm, the elbow being on the ground. "You must be quite comfortable," he said; "it is of no use trying to shoot if you are in a cramped position. Now, take a steady aim, and the moment you have got the two sights in a line on the rock, press the trigger steadily. Press pretty hard; it is only a pull of about two pounds, but it is wonderful how stiff a trigger feels the first time you pull at it. You need not be at all afraid of the kick. If you press the butt tightly against your shoulder you will hardly feel it, for there is plenty of weight in the barr'l, and it carries but a small charge of powder. You won't want to shoot at anything much beyond this range, but sometimes you may have to try at four or five hundred yards when you are in want of a dinner. In that case you can put in a charge and a half of powder. Now, are you comfortable? You need not grip so hard with your left hand, the gun only wants to rest between your thumb and fingers. That is better. Now take a steady aim, and the moment you have got it press the trigger. Well done! that is a good shot for a first. You hit the dust an inch or two to the right of the stone. If it had been a red-skin you would have hit him in the shoulder. You will do, lad, and by the time we get to Fort Bridger I guess you will bring down a stag as clean as nine out of ten hunters."

"Don't get into the way of waiting too long before you fire, Tom," Pete Hoskings said. "Better to try to shoot too quick to begin with than to be too long about it. When you have made up your mind that you are going to shoot, get your bead on your mark and fire at once. You may want to hit a red-skin's head as he looks out from behind a tree, and to do that you must fire the instant you see him or he will be in again. One of the best shots I ever saw never used to raise his gun to his shoulder at all. He just dropped his piece into the hollow of his left hand, and would fire as he touched it. He did not seem to take any aim at all, but his bullet was sartin to hit the thing he wanted to, even if it were no bigger than an orange. He could not tell himself how he did it. 'I seen the thing and I fired, Pete,' he would say; 'the gun seems to point right of its own accord, I have not anything to say to it.' You see, shooting is a matter of eye. Some men may shoot all their lives, and they will never be more than just respectable, while others shoot well the first time that a gun is put in their hands. Want of nerve is what spoils half men's shooting; that and taking too long an aim. Well, it is time for us to be mounting and getting back. I have got to see that the dinner is all ready. I never can trust that black scoundrel, Sam, to do things right while I am away."

The preparations for the journey were completed by the evening.

"Now mind, Tom," Pete Hoskings said the last thing before going to bed, "if you don't find your uncle, or if you hear that he has got wiped out, be sure you come right back here. Whether you are cut out for a hunter or not, it will do you a world of good to stick to the life until you get four or five years older and settle as to how you like to fix yourself, for there ain't no better training than a few years out on the plains, no matter what you do afterwards. I will find a good chum for you, and see you through it, both for the sake of my old mate, Straight Harry, and because I have taken a liking to you myself."

"Why do you call my uncle Straight Harry?" Tom asked, after thanking

Pete for his promise. "Is he so very upright?"

"No, lad, no; it ain't nothing to do with that. There are plenty more erect men than him about. He is about the size of Jerry, though, maybe a bit taller. No; he got to be called Straight Harry because he was a square man, a chap everyone could trust. If he said he would do a thing he would do it; there weren't no occasion for any papers to bind him. When he said a thing you could bet on it. You could buy a mine on his word: if he said it was good you need not bother to take a journey to look at it, you knew it was right there, and weren't a put-up job. Once when we were working down on the Yuba we got to a place where there were a fault in the rock, and the lode had slipped right away from us. Everyone in camp knew that we had been doing well, and we had only got to pile up a few pieces of rock at the bottom, and no one who would have seen it would have known that the lode was gone. That is what most chaps would have done, and a third chap who was working with us was all for doing it. Anyone would have given us five hundred ounces for it. Well, I didn't say nothing, it was what pretty nigh anyone on the mines would have done if he had the chance, but Harry turned on our partner like a mountain lion. 'You are a mean skunk, New Jersey' says he. 'Do you think that I would be one to rob a man only because he would be fool enough to take a place without looking at it? We've worked to the edge of the claim both ways, and I don't reckon there is a dollar's worth of gold left in it, now that it has pettered out at the bottom, and if there was I would not work another day with a man who proposed to get up a swindle.' So as soon as he got up to the surface he told everyone that the lode had gone out and that the claim weren't worth a red cent. He and New Jersey had a big fight with fists that evening. The other was bigger than Harry, and stronger, but he were no hand with his pistol, and Harry is a dead shot; so he told New Jersey he would fight him English fashion, and Harry gave him the biggest licking I ever saw a man have. I felt pretty mean myself, you bet, for having thought of planting the thing off; but as I hadn't spoken, Harry knew nothing about it. If he had, I doubt if he would ever have given me his hand again. Yes, sir, he is a straight man all round, and there is no man better liked than Harry. Why, there are a score of men in this town who know him as I do, and, if he came to them and said, 'I have struck it rich, I will go halves with you if you will plank down twenty thousand dollars to open her up,' they would pay down the cash without another word; and, I tell you, there ain't ten men west of the Missouri of whom as much could be said."

The next morning at daybreak Jerry and Tom started. They rode due north, skirting the foot of the hills, till they reached the emigrant route, for the railway had not been carried farther than Wabash, from which point it ran south to Denver. It was a journey of some five hundred miles to Fort Bridger, and they took a month to accomplish it, sometimes following the ordinary line of travel, sometimes branching off more to the north, where game was still abundant.

"That is Fort Bridger, Tom. It ain't much of a place to look at; but is, like all these forts, just a strong palisading, with a clump of wooden huts for the men in the middle. Well, the first stage of your journey is over, and you know a little more now than when you left Denver; but though I have taught you a good bit, you will want another year's practice with that shooting-iron afore you're a downright good shot; but you have come on well, and the way you brought down that stag on a run yesterday was uncommon good. You have made the most of your opportunities, and have got a steady hand and a good eye. You are all right on your horse now, and can be trusted to keep your seat if you have a pack of red-skins at your heels. You have learnt to make a camp, and to sleep comfortable on the ground; you can frizzle a bit of deer-flesh over the fire, and can bake bread as well as a good many. Six months of it and you will be a good plain's-man. I wish we had had a shot at buffalo. They are getting scarcer than they were, and do not like crossing the trail. We ain't likely to see many of them west of the Colorado; the ground gets too hilly for them, and there are too many bad lands."

"What are bad lands, Jerry?"

"They are just lands where Nature, when she made them, had got plenty of rock left, but mighty little soil or grass seed. There are bad lands all over the country, but nowhere so bad as the tract on both sides of the Green and Colorado rivers. You may ride fifty miles any way over bare rock without seeing a blade of grass unless you get down into some of the valleys, and you may die of thirst with water under your feet."

"How do you mean, Jerry?"

"The rivers there don't act like the rivers in other parts. Instead of working round the foot of the hills they just go through them. You ride along on what seems to be a plain, and you come suddenly to a crack that ain't perhaps twenty or thirty feet across, and you look down, if you have got head enough to do it, and there, two thousand feet or more below you, you see a river foaming among rocks. It ain't one river or it ain't another river as does it; every little stream from the hills cuts itself its cañon and makes its way along till it meets two or three others, then they go on together, cutting deeper and deeper until they run into one of the arms of the Green River or the Colorado or the Grand.

"The Green and the Colorado are all the same river, only the upper part is called the Green. For about a thousand miles it runs through great cañons. No one has ever gone down them, and I don't suppose anyone ever will; and people don't know what is the course of the river from the time it begins this game till it comes out a big river on the southern plains. You see, the lands are so bad there is no travelling across them, and the rapids are so terrible that there is no going down them. Even the Indians never go near the cañons if they can help it. I believe they think the whole thing is the work of an evil spirit."

"But you said some of the valleys had grass?"

"Yes; I have gone down one or two myself from the mountains of Utah, where the stream, instead of cutting a cañon for itself, has behaved for a bit in the ordinary way and made a valley. Wonderfully good places they were—plenty of grass, plenty of water, and no end of game. I have spent some months among them, and got a wonderful lot of skins, beavers principally of course, but half a dozen mountain lions and two grizzlies. I did not bring home their skins, you bet. They were too heavy, and I should not have troubled them if they had not troubled me. There was good fish, too, in the streams, and I never had a better time. The red-skins happened to be friendly, and I was with a hunter who had a red-skin wife and a dozen ponies. If it hadn't been for that I should soon have had to quit, for it ain't no good hunting if you can't carry away the skins. As it was I made a good job of it, for I got nigh a thousand dollars for my skins at Utah.

"Well, here we are at the fort. I guess we may as well make our camp outside. If you go in you have got to picket your horse here and put your baggage there and come in at gun-fire, and all sorts of things that troubles a man who is accustomed to act as he likes."

The horses were soon picketed. "I will go in first and see who is here, Tom. There are usually a lot of loafing Indians about these forts, and though it is safe enough to leave our traps, out on the plain, it will not do here. We must stay with them, or at any rate keep them in sight; besides, these two horses would be a temptation to any redskin who happened to want an animal."

"I will wait willingly, Jerry; I should know nobody inside the fort if I went in. I will see to making a fire and boiling the kettle, and I will have supper ready at seven o'clock."

"I shall be sure to be back by that time; like enough I sha'n't be a quarter of an hour away."

It was but half an hour, indeed, before Tom saw him returning, accompanied by a tall red-skin.

"This is a friend of mine, Tom. He was a chief of the Senecas, but his tribe are nearly wiped out, and he has been all his life a hunter, and there are few of us who have been much out on the plains who don't know him. Chief, this is Straight Harry's nephew I was telling you of, who has come out here to join his uncle. Sit down, we have got some deer-flesh. Tom here knocked one over on the run at two hundred and fifty yards by as good a shot as you want to see; while it is cooking we can smoke a pipe and have a chat."

The chief gravely seated himself by the fire.

"What have you been doing since I last saw you up near the Yellowstone?"

"Leaping Horse has been hunting," the Indian said quietly, with a wave of his hand, denoting that he had been over a wide expanse of country.

"I guessed so," Jerry put in.

"And fighting with 'Rappahoes and Navahoes."

"Then you've been north and south?"

The Indian nodded. "Much trouble with both; they wanted our scalps. But four of the 'Rappahoe lodges are without a master, and there are five Navahoe widows."

"Then you were not alone?"

"Garrison was with me among the 'Rappahoes; and the Shoshone hunter,

Wind-that-blows, was with me when the Navahoes came on our trail."

"They had better have left you alone, chief. Do you know the Ute country?"

"The Leaping Horse has been there. The Utes are dogs."

"They are troublesome varmint, like most of the others," Jerry agreed. "I was telling you Straight Harry is up in their country somewhere. Tom here is anxious to join him, but of course that can't be. You have not heard anything of him, I suppose?"

"The Leaping Horse was with him a week ago."

"You were, chief! Why did you not tell me so when I was saying we did not know where he was?"

"My white brother did not ask," the chief said quietly.

"That is true enough, chief, but you might have told me without asking."

The Indian made no reply, but continued to smoke his hatchet pipe tranquilly, as if the remark betrayed such ignorance of Indian manners that it was not worth replying to.

Tom took up the conversation now.

"Was it far from here that you saw him?"

"Five days' journey, if travel quick."

"Was he hunting?" Jerry asked.

"Hunting, and looking for gold."

"Who had he with him?"

"Two white men. One was Ben Gulston. Leaping Horse had met him in Idaho.

The other was called Sam, a big man with a red beard."

"Yes, Sam Hicks; he only came back from California a few months back, so you would not be likely to have met him before. Were they going to remain where you left them?"

The Indian shook his head. "They were going farther north."

"Farther north!" Jerry repeated. "Don't you mean farther south?"

"Leaping Horse is not mistaken, he knows his right hand from his left."

"Of course, of course, chief," the miner said apologetically; "I only thought that it was a slip of the tongue. Then if they were going farther north they must have come back in this direction."

"They were on the banks of the Big Wind River when Leaping Horse met them."

"Jerusalem!" the miner exclaimed. "What on airth are they doing there? Why, we thought they had gone down to the west of the Colorado. I told you so, chief, when I talked to you about it; and instead of that, here they are up in the country of the 'Rappahoes and Shoshones."

"They went south," the Indian said quietly, "and had trouble with the

Utes and had to come back again, then they went north."

"Ah, that accounts for it. I wonder Harry didn't send word to Pete Hoskings that he had gone up to the Big Wind River. I ain't heard of there being any gold in that region, though some think that coming down through the big hills from Yellowstone Valley on the northwest, metal might be struck."

"Going to look for gold a little," the chief said, "hunt much; not stay there very long, mean to go down south again after a bit. Leaping Horse go with them."

"Oh, I see. The Utes had come upon them, and they knew that if they stopped there they would lose their scalps sooner or later, so they came up here and made north for a bit to hunt and fossick about in the hills, and then go back when the Utes had quieted down."

The chief nodded.

"Well, well, that alters the affair altogether. Whereabouts did you leave them?"

"Near the Buffalo Lake."

"Don't know it. Where does it lie?"

"On a stream that runs into the river from the west, from a valley running up near Frémont's Buttes. They were going up so as to follow the Rivière de Noir, and then either strike up across the hills to the Upper Yellowstone, or go out west and come down over the Grosventre range on to the Wyoming range, and then down through Thompson's Pass, or else skirt the foot-hills on to the Green River."

"Waal, chief, I reckon that among all those hills and mountains, one would have just about the same chance of lighting on them as you would have of finding a chipmunk in a big pine-forest."

"Couldn't find," the chief said, "but might follow. If they go fast never catch them; if wait about, hunt beaver, look for gold and silver, then might come up to them easy enough, if 'Rappahoes not catch and kill. Very bad place. Leaping Horse told them so. White brother said he think so too; but other men think they find gold somewhere, so they go on. They have got horses, of course. Three horses to ride, three horses to carry beaver-traps and food. Leaping Horse came back here to sell his skins. He had promised to meet a friend here, or he would not have left Straight Harry, who is a good man and a friend of Leaping Horse. Three men not enough in bad country."

"Do you think there would be any chance of my finding them?" Tom asked eagerly.

A slight gleam of amusement passed over the Indian's face.

"My brother is very young," he said. "He will be a brave warrior and a great hunter some day, but his eyes are not opened yet. Were he to try he would leave his scalp to dry in the 'Rappahoes' lodges."

"That is just what I told him, chief. It would be sheer madness."

The Indian made no reply, and Jerry turned the conversation.

"You don't drink spirits, chief, or I would go and get a bottle from the fort."

"Leaping Horse is not a madman," the Indian said scornfully, "that he should poison his brain with fire-water."

"Yes; I remembered, chief, that you had fallen into our ways and drink tea."

"Tea is good," the Indian said. "It is the best thing the white man has brought out on to the plains."

"That is so, chief, except tobacco. We did not bring that; but I reckon you got it from the Spaniards long ago, though maybe you knew of it before they came up from the south."

The meat was now cooked, and Tom took it off the fire and handed the pieces on the ramrod, that had served as a spit, to the others, together with some bread, poured out the tea from the kettle, and placed a bag of sugar before them. There was little talk until after the meal was over. Then the Indian and Jerry smoked steadily, while Tom took a single pipe, having only commenced the use of tobacco since he had left Denver. Presently the Indian arose.

"In the morning I will see my white friends again," he said, and without further adieu turned and walked gravely back to the fort.

CHAPTER IV. LEAPING HORSE

"He is a fine fellow," Jerry said, after the Indian had left him. "You must have a talk with him one of these days over his adventures among the 'Rappahoes and Navahoes, who are both as troublesome rascals as are to be found on the plains. An Indian seldom talks of his adventures, but sometimes when you can get him in the right humour you may hear about them." "He talks very fair English," Tom said.

"Yes; he has been ten years among us. He was employed for two or three years supplying the railway men with meat; but no Indian cares to hunt long in one place, and he often goes away with parties of either hunters or gold-seekers. He knows the country well, and is a first-rate shot; and men are always glad to have him with them. There is no more trusty red-skin on the plains, and he will go through fire and water for those whom he regards as his special friends. I should say he is about the one man alive who could take you to your uncle."

"Do you think he would?" Tom asked eagerly.

"Ah, that is another matter; I don't know what his plans are. If he is engaged to go with another party he will go, for he would not fail anyone to whom he had made a promise. If he isn't engaged he might perhaps do it. Not for pay, for he has little use for money. His hunting supplies him with all he wants. It gives him food, and occasionally he will go with a bundle of pelts to the nearest town, and the money he gets for them will supply him with tea and tobacco and ammunition, and such clothes as he requires, which is little enough. Buckskin is everlasting wear, and he gets his worked up for him by the women of any Indian tribe among whom he may be hunting. If he were one of these fort Indians it would be only a question of money; but it would never do to offer it to him. He does not forget that he is a chief, though he has been away so many years from what there is left of his old tribe. If he did it at all it would be for the sake of your uncle. I know they have hunted together, and fought the Apachés together. I won't say but that if we get at him the right way, and he don't happen to have no other plans in his mind, that he might not be willing to start with you."

"I should be glad if he would, Jerry. I have been quite dreading to get to Fort Bridger. I have had such a splendid time of it with you that I should feel awfully lonely after you had gone on."

"Yes, I dare say you would feel lonesome. I should have felt lonesome myself if I did not light upon some mate going the same way. We got on very well together, Tom. When Pete Hoskings first put it to me whether I would be willing to take you with me as far as this, I thought that though I liked you well enough, it would not be in my way to be playing a sort of schoolmaster business to a young tenderfoot; but I had got to like the notion before we left Denver, and now it seems to me that we have had a rare good time of it together."

"We have indeed, Jerry; at least I have had. Even if the Indian would agree to take me I should miss you awfully."

Jerry made no reply, but sat smoking his pipe and looking into the fire. As he was sometimes inclined to be taciturn, Tom made no attempt to continue the conversation; and after moving out and shifting the picket-pegs so as to give the horses a fresh range of grass to munch during the night, he returned to the fire, wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down, his "Good-night, Jerry," meeting with no response, his companion being evidently absorbed in his own thoughts.

"You are not going on to-day, Jerry, are you?" Tom said, as he threw off his blankets and sat up in the morning. The sun was not yet up, but Jerry had already stirred up the embers, put some meat over them to cook, and put the kettle among them.

"No, I shall stop here for a day or two, lad. I am in no special hurry, and have no call to push on. I have not made up my mind about things yet."

They had scarcely finished breakfast when Leaping Horse came down from the fort.

"Tom here has been asking me, chief, whether there was any chance of getting you to guide him to his uncle. I said, of course, that I did not know what your plans were; but that if you had nothing special before you, possibly you might be willing to do so, as I know that you and Straight Harry have done some tall hunting and fighting together."

The Indian's face was impassive.

"Can my young brother ride day after day and night after night, can he go long without food and water, is he ready to run the risk of his scalp being taken by the 'Rappahoes? Can he crawl and hide, can he leave his horse and travel on foot, can he hear the war-cry of the red-skins without fear?"

"I don't say that I can do all these things, chief," Tom said; "but I can do my best. And, anyhow, I think I can promise that if we should be attacked you shall see no signs of my being afraid, whatever I may feel. I am only a boy yet, but I hope I am not a coward."

"You have come a long way across the sea to find my brother, Straight

Harry. You would not have come so far alone if your heart had been weak.

Leaping Horse is going back to join his white brother again, and will

take you to him."

Tom felt that any outburst of delight would be viewed with distaste by this grave Indian, and he replied simply: "I thank you with all my heart, chief, and I am sure that my uncle will be grateful to you."

The chief nodded his head gravely, and then, as if the matter were settled and no more need be said about it, he turned to Jerry:

"Which way is my white friend going?"

"I'm dog-goned if I know. I had reckoned to go down past Utah, and to go out prospecting among the hills, say a hundred miles farther west; then while I journeyed along with Tom I got mixed in my mind. I should like to have handed him over safe to Harry; but if Harry had gone down to the Ute hills with an idea of trying a spot I have heard him speak of, where he thought he had struck it rich, he might not have cared to have had me come there, and so I concluded last night it was best the lad should wait here till Harry got back. Now the thing is altered; they are just hunting and prospecting, and might be glad to have me with them, and I might as well be there as anywhere else; so as you are going back there, I reckon I shall be one of the party."

"That will be capital, Jerry," Tom said. "With you as well as the chief we shall be sure to get through; and it will be awfully jolly having you with us."

"Don't you make any mistake," the miner said, "I should not be of much more use in finding them than you would. I ain't been up among the mountains all these years without learning something, but I ain't no more than a child by the side of the chief. And don't you think this affair is going to be a circus. I tell you it is going to be a hard job. There ain't a dozen white men as have been over that country, and we shall want to be pretty spry if we are to bring back our scalps. It is a powerful rough country. There are peaks there, lots of them, ten thousand feet high, and some of them two or three thousand above that. There are rivers, torrents, and defiles. I don't say there will be much chance of running short of food, if it wasn't that half the time one will be afraid to fire for fear the 'tarnal Indians should hear us. We ain't got above a month afore the first snows fall. Altogether it is a risky business, look at it which way you will."

"Well, Jerry, if it is as bad as that, I don't think it will be right for you and the chief to risk your lives merely that I should find my uncle. If he is alive he is sure to come back here sooner or later; or if he goes some other way back to Denver he will hear from Pete that I am here, and will either write or come for me."

"It ain't entirely on your account, lad, as I am thinking of going; and I am pretty sure the chief would tell you that it is the same with him. You see, he tried to persuade your uncle to turn back. My opinion is, that though he had to come here to keep the appointment, he had it in his mind to go back again to join your uncle. Haven't I about struck your thoughts, chief?"

The chief nodded. "My white brother Harry is in danger," he said. "Leaping Horse had to leave him; but would have started back to-day to take his place by his side. The Hunting Dog will go with him."

"I thought so, chief; I am dog-goned if I did not think so. It was

Hunting Dog you came back here to meet, I suppose."

"Hunting Dog is of my tribe," he said; "he is my sister's son. He came across the plains to join me. He has hunted in his own country; this is the first time he has come out to take his place as a man. Leaping Horse will teach him to be a warrior."

"That is good; the more the better, so that there ain't too many. Well, what is your advice, chief? Shall we take our pack pony with the outfit?"

The chief shook his head decidedly. "Must travel quick and be able to gallop fast. My white brothers must take nothing but what they can carry with them."

"All right, chief; we will not overload ourselves. We will just take our robes and blankets, our shooting-irons, some tea and sugar, and a few pounds of flour. At what time shall we start?"

"In an hour we will ride out from the fort."

"We shall be ready. Ten minutes would fix us, except that I must go into the fort and sell my critter and what flour and outfit we sha'n't want, to a trader there.

"I ain't done badly by that deal," Jerry said when he returned. "I have sold the pony for more than I gave for him; for the red-skins have been keeping away from the fort of late, and the folks going by are always wanting horses in place of those that have died on the way. The other things all sold for a good bit more than we gave for them at Denver. Carriage comes mighty high on these plains; besides, the trader took his chances and reckoned them in."

"How do you mean, Jerry?"

"Waal, I told him we was going up to the Shoshone Sierra, and intended to hunt about and to come back, maybe by the Yellowstone and then by the Bear rivers, and that we would take the price of the goods out in trade when we got back. That made it a sort of lottery for him, for if we never came back at all he would never have to pay, so he could afford to take his risks and offer me a good price. I reckon he thinks he has got them at a gift. He has given two pieces of paper, one for you and one for me, saying that he owes the two of us the money; so if I should go under and you should get back, you will draw it all right."

They at once proceeded to pack their ponies. Divided between the saddle-bags of the two animals were four pounds of tea, eight of sugar, and thirty-six of flour. Each took a good store of ammunition, an extra pair of breeches, a flannel shirt, and a pair of stockings. The rest of their clothes had been packed, and taken up by Jerry to the traders to lie there until their return.

"That is light enough for anything," Jerry said, when the things were stowed into the saddle-bags. "Four-and-twenty pounds of grub and five pounds of ammunition brings it up to nine-and-twenty pounds each, little enough for a trip that may last three months for aught we know."

In addition to the ammunition in the saddle-bags, each carried a powder-horn and a bag of bullets over his shoulder. The revolvers were in their belts, and the rifles slung behind them. While Jerry was away at the fort Tom had made and baked three loaves, which were cut up and put in the holsters.

"Now we are ready, Tom; the Indians will be out in a minute or two. The sun is just at its highest."

Two minutes later the chief and his companion rode out from the gate of the fort. Jerry and Tom mounted their horses and cantered over to meet them. As they came up, Tom looked with interest at the young Indian. He judged him to be about nineteen, and he had a bright and intelligent face. He was, like his uncle, attired in buckskin; but the shirt was fringed and embroidered, as was the band that carried his powder-horn, a gift, doubtless, from some Indian maiden at his departure from his village. No greetings were exchanged; but the chief and Jerry rode at once side by side towards the northeast, and Tom took his place by the side of the young Indian.

"How are you?" he said, holding out his hand. The young Indian took it and responded to the shake, but he shook his head.

"Ah, you don't speak English yet?" Hunting Dog again shook his head. "That is a pity," Tom went on; "it would have been jolly if we could have talked together."

The chief said something to Jerry, who turned around in his saddle. "His uncle says he can talk some. He has taught him a little when he has paid visits to the village, but he has had no practice in speaking it. He will get on after a time."

All were well mounted, and they travelled fast. Just before sunset they crossed the Green River at a ford used by the emigrants, and some fifty miles northeast of Fort Bridger. They had seen a herd of deer by the way, and the two Indians had dismounted and stalked them. The others lost sight of them, but when two rifle-shots were heard Jerry said, "We will take the horses along to them, you may be sure they have got meat; the chief is a dead shot, and he says that his nephew has also gifts that way." As they expected, they found the Indians standing beside two dead deer. Hunting Dog laid open the stomachs with a slash of his knife, and removed the entrails, then tying the hind legs together swung the carcasses on to his horse behind the saddle, and the journey was at once renewed.

"You will make for Frémont's Buttes, I suppose, chief?" Jerry said, as after riding up the river for three or four miles so as to be able to obtain wood for their fire—as for a considerable distance on either side of the emigrant trail not a shrub was to be seen—they dismounted, turned the horses loose, lit a fire, and prepared a meal.

"Yes. We will go over the pass and camp at one of the little lakes at the head of the north fork, thence we will ride across the plain and ford Little Wind River, and then follow up the Sage Creek and make our camp at night on Buffalo Lake. From there we must follow their trail."

"And where shall we have to begin to look out for the 'Rappahoes?"

"They may be over the next rise; no one can say. The 'Rappahoes are like the dead leaves drifting before the wind. They come as far south as the emigrant trail, and have attacked caravans many times. After to-night we must look out for them always, and must put out our fires before dark."

Tom had noticed how carefully the young Indian had selected the wood for the fire; searching carefully along by the edge of the river for drift-wood, and rejecting all that contained any sap. He himself had offered to cut down some wood with the axe he carried strapped to his saddle, but Hunting Dog had shaken his head.

"No good, no good," he said. "Make heap smoke; smoke very bad."

Tom thought that the shrub he was about to cut would give out obnoxious smoke that would perhaps flavour the meat hanging over it, but when the Indian added, "Heap smoke, red-skins see a long way," he understood that Hunting Dog had been so careful in choosing the wood in order to avoid making any smoke whatever that might attract the attention of Indians at a distance from them. It was his first lesson in the necessity for caution; and as darkness set in he looked round several times, half expecting to see some crouching red-skins. The careless demeanour of his companions, however, reassured him, for he felt certain that if there was any fear of a surprise, they would be watchful.

After supper the Indian talked over with Jerry the route they would most probably have to pursue. The miner had never been in this part of the country before; indeed, very few white men, with the exception of trappers who had married Indian women and had been admitted into their tribes, had ever penetrated into this, the wildest portion of the Rocky Mountains. Vague rumours existed of the abundance of game there, and of the existence of gold, but only one attempt had been made to prospect on a large scale. This had taken place three years before, when a party of twenty Californian miners penetrated into the mountains. None of them returned, but reports brought down by Indians to the settlements were to the effect that, while working a gold reef they had discovered, they were attacked and killed to a man by a war party of Sioux.

"I was mighty nigh being one of that crowd," Jerry said when he told the story to Tom, as they sat over the camp-fire that night. "I heard of their start when I got back to Salt Lake City, after being away for some time among the hills. I legged it arter them as fast as I could, but I found when I got to the last settlement that they had gone on ten days before, and as I did not know what line they had followed, and did not care to cross the pass alone, I gave it up. Mighty lucky thing it was, though I did not think so at the time."

"But why should my uncle's party have gone into such a dangerous country when they knew that the natives were so hostile?"

"It is a mighty big place, it is pretty nigh as big as all the eastern states chucked into one, and the red-skins are not thick. No one knows how many there are, but it is agreed they are not a big tribe. Then it ain't like the plains, where a party travelling can be seen by an Indian scout miles and miles away. It is all broken ground, canons and valleys and rocks. Then again, when we get on the other side of the Wind River they tell me there are big forests. That is so, chief, isn't it?"

The chief nodded. "Heap forests," he said, "higher up rocks and bad lands; all bad. In winter snow everywhere on hills. Red-skins not like cold; too much cold, wigwam no good."

"That's it, you see, Tom. We are here a long way above the sea-level, and so in the hills you soon get above the timber-line. It's barren land there, just rock, without grass enough for horses, and in winter it is so all-fired cold that the Indians can't live there in their wigwams. I reckon their villages are down in the sheltered valleys, and if we don't have the bad luck to run plump into one of these we may wander about a mighty long time before we meet with a red-skin. That is what you mean, isn't it, chief?"

Leaping Horse grunted an assent.

"What game is there in the country?"

"There are wapitis, which are big stag with thundering great horns, and there are big-horns. Them are mountain sheep; they are mostly up above the timber-line. Wapitis and big-horns are good for food, but their skins ain't worth taking off. There is beaver, heaps of them; though I reckon there ain't as many as there were by a long way, for since the whites came out here and opened trade, and the red-skins found they could get good prices for beaver, they have brought them down by thousands every year. Still, there is no doubt there is plenty left, and that trappers would do first-rate there if the red-skins were friendly. In course, there is plenty of b'ars, but unless you happen to have a thundering good chance it is just as well to leave the b'ars alone, for what with the chances of getting badly mauled, and what with the weight of the skin, it don't pay even when you come right side up out of a tussle."

"Are there any maps of the region?"

"None of any account. They are all just guess-work. You may take it that this is just a heap of mountains chucked down anyhow. Such maps as there are have been made from tales trappers who came in with pelts have told. Well, firstly they only knew about just where the tribe they had joined lived, and in the second place you may bet they warn't such fools as to tell anything as would help other fellows to get there; so you may put down that they told very little, and what they did tell was all lies. Some day or other I suppose there will be an expedition fitted out to go right through, and to punish these dog-goned red-skins and open the country; but it will be a long time arter that afore it will be safe travelling, for I reckon that soldiers might march and march for years through them mountains without ever catching a sight of a red-skin if they chose to keep out of their way. And now I reckon we had best get in atween our blankets."

The two Indians had already lain down by the fire. Tom was some time before he could get to sleep. The thought of the wild and unknown country he was about to enter, with its great game, its hidden gold treasures, its Indians and its dangers, so excited his imagination that, tired as he was with the long ride, two or three hours passed before he fell off to sleep. He was awoke by being shaken somewhat roughly by Jerry.

"Why, you are sleeping as sound as a b'ar in a hollow tree," the miner said. "You are generally pretty spry in the morning." A dip in the cold water of the river awoke Tom thoroughly, and by the time he had rejoined his comrades breakfast was ready. The ground rose rapidly as they rode forward. They were now following an Indian trail, a slightly-marked path made by the Indians as they travelled down with their ponies laden with beaver skins, to exchange for ammunition, blankets, and tobacco at the trading station. The country was barren in the extreme, being covered only with patches of sage brush. As they proceeded it became more and more hilly, and distant ridges and peaks could be seen as they crossed over the crests.

"These are the bad lands, I suppose?"

"You bet they are, Tom, but nothing like as bad as you will see afore you are done. Sage brush will grow pretty nigh everywhere, but there are thousands of square miles of rock where even sage brush cannot live."

The hills presently became broken up into fantastic shapes, while isolated rocks and pinnacles rose high above the general level.

"How curiously they are coloured," Tom remarked, "just regular bands of white and red and green and orange; and you see the same markings on all these crags, at the same level."

"Just so, Tom. We reckon that this country, and it is just the same down south, was once level, and the rains and the rivers and torrents cut their way through it and wore it down, and just these buttes and crags and spires were left standing, as if to show what the nature of the ground was everywhere. Though why the different kinds of rocks has such different colours is more than I can tell. I went out once with an old party as they called a scientific explorer. I have heard him say this was all under water once, and sometimes one kind of stuff settled down like mud to the bottom, sometimes another, though where all the water came from is more nor I can tell. He said something about the ground being raised afterwards, and I suppose the water run off then. I did not pay much attention to his talk, for he was so choke-full of larning, and had got such a lot of hard names on the tip of his tongue, that there were no making head or tail of what he was saying."

Tom had learnt something of the elements of geology, and could form an idea of the processes by which the strange country at which he was looking had been formed.

"That's Frémont's Buttes," the Indian said presently, pointing to a flat-topped hill that towered above the others ahead.

"Why, I thought you said it was a fifty-mile ride to-day, Jerry, and we can't have gone more than half that."

"How far do you suppose that hill is off?"

"Three or four miles, I should think."

"It is over twenty, lad. Up here in the mountains the air is so clear you can see things plain as you couldn't make out the outlines of down below."

"But it seems to me so close that I could make out people walking about on the top," Tom said a little incredulously.

"I dare say, lad. But you will see when you have ridden another hour it won't seem much closer than it does now."

Tom found out that the miner was not joking with him, as he at first had thought was the case. Mile after mile was ridden, and the landmark seemed little nearer than before. Presently Hunting Dog said something to the chief, pointing away to the right. Leaping Horse at once reined in, and motioned to his white companions to do the same.

"What is it, chief?" Jerry asked.

"Wapiti," he replied.

"That is good news," the miner said. "It will be lucky if we can lay in a supply of deer flesh here. The less we shoot after we get through the pass the better. Shall we go with you, chief?"

"My white brothers had better ride on slowly," Leaping Horse said.

"Might scare deer. No good lose time."

Tom felt rather disappointed, but as he went on slowly with Jerry, the miner said: "You will have plenty of chances later on, lad, and there is no time to lose in fooling about. The red-skins will do the business."

Looking back, Tom saw the two Indians gallop away till they neared the crest of a low swell. Then they leapt from their horses, and stooping low went forward. In a short time they lay prone on the ground, and wriggled along until just on the crest.

"I reckon the stag is just over there somewhere," Jerry said. "The young red-skin must have caught sight of an antler."

They stopped their ponies altogether now, and sat watching the Indians. These were half a mile away, but every movement was as clearly visible as if they were but a hundred yards distant. The chief raised himself on his arms and then on to his knees. A moment later he lay down again, and they then crawled along parallel with the crest for a couple of hundred yards. Then they paused, and with their rifles advanced they crept forward again.

"Now they see them," Jerry exclaimed.

The Indians lay for half a minute motionless. Then two tiny puffs of smoke darted out. The Indians rose to their feet and dashed forward as the sound of their shots reached the ears of their companions.

"Come on," Jerry said, "you may be sure they have brought down one stag anyhow. The herd could not have been far from that crest or the boy would not have seen the antler over it, and the chief is not likely to miss a wapiti at a hundred yards."

Looking back presently Tom saw that the Indian ponies had disappeared.

"Ay, Hunting Dog has come back for them. You may be sure they won't be long before they are up with us again."

In a quarter of an hour the two Indians rode up, each having the hind-quarters of a deer fastened across his horse behind the saddle, while the tongues hung from the peaks.

"Kill them both at first shot, chief?" Jerry asked; "I did not hear another report."

"Close by," the chief said; "no could miss."

"It seems a pity to lose such a quantity of meat," Tom remarked.

"The Indians seldom carry off more than the hindquarters of a deer, never if they think there is a chance of getting more soon. There is a lot more flesh on the hindquarters than there is on the rest of the stag. But that they are wasteful, the red-skins are, can't be denied. Even when they have got plenty of meat they will shoot a buffalo any day just for the sake of his tongue."

It was still early in the afternoon when they passed under the shadow of the buttes, and, two miles farther, came upon a small lake, the water from which ran north. Here they unsaddled the horses and prepared to camp.

CHAPTER V. IN DANGER

There were no bushes that would serve their purpose near the lake; they therefore formed their camp on the leeward side of a large boulder. The greatest care was observed in gathering the fuel, and it burned with a clear flame without giving out the slightest smoke.

"Dead wood dries like tinder in this here air," the miner said. "In course, if there wur any red-skins within two or three miles on these hills they would make out the camp, still that ain't likely; but any loafing Indian who chanced to be hunting ten or even fifteen miles away would see smoke if there was any, and when a red-skin sees smoke, if he can't account for it, he is darned sartin to set about finding out who made it."

The horses fared badly, for there was nothing for them to pick up save a mouthful of stunted grass here and there.

"Plenty of grass to-morrow," the chief said in answer to a remark of Tom as to the scantiness of their feed. "Grass down by Buffalo Lake good."

Early the next morning they mounted and rode down the hills into Big Wind River valley. They did not go down to the river itself, but skirted the foot of the hills until they reached Buffalo Lake.

"There," the chief said, pointing to a pile of ashes, "the fire of my white brother." Alighting, he and Hunting Dog searched the ground carefully round the fire. Presently the younger Indian lightly touched the chief and pointed to the ground. They talked together, still carefully examining the ground, and moved off in a straight line some fifty yards. Then they returned.

"Indian here," Leaping Horse said, "one, two days ago. Found fire, went off on trail of white men."

"That is bad news, chief."

"Heap bad," the Indian said gravely.

"Perhaps he won't follow far," Tom suggested.

The Indian made no answer. He evidently considered the remark to be foolish.

"You don't know much of Indian nature yet, Tom," the miner said. "When a red-skin comes upon the trail of whites in what he considers his country, he will follow them if it takes him weeks to do it, till he finds out all about them, and if he passes near one of his own villages he will tell the news, and a score of the varmint will take up the trail with him. It's them ashes as has done it. If the chief here had stopped with them till they started this would not have happened, for he would have seen that they swept every sign of their fire into the lake. I wonder they did not think of it themselves. It was a dog-goned foolish trick to leave such a mark as this. I expect they will be more keerful arterwards, but they reckoned that they had scarce got into the Indian country."

"Do you think it was yesterday the red-skin was here, or the day before, chief?"

"Leaping Horse can't say," the Indian replied. "Ground very hard, mark very small. No rain, trail keep fresh a long time. Only find mark twice." He led them to a spot where, on the light dust among the rocks, was the slight impression of a footmark.

"That is the mark of a moccasin, sure enough," Jerry said; "but maybe one of the whites, if not all of them, have put on moccasins for the journey. They reckoned on climbing about some, and moccasins beat boots anyhow for work among the hills."

"Red-skin foot," the Indian said quietly.

"Well, if you say it is, of course it is. I should know it myself if I saw three or four of them in a line, but as there is only one mark it beats me."

"How would you know, Jerry?"

"A white man always turns out his toes, lad, an Indian walks straight-footed. There are other differences that a red-skin would see at once, but which are beyond me, for I have never done any tracking work."

The Indian without speaking led them to another point some twenty yards away, and pointed to another impression. This was so slight that it was with difficulty that Tom could make out the outline.

"Yes, that settles it," Jerry said. "You see, lad, when there was only one mark I could not tell whether it was turned out or not, for that would depend on the direction the man was walking in. This one is just in a line with the other, and so the foot must have been set down straight. Had it been turned out a bit, the line, carried straight through the first footprint, would have gone five or six yards away to the right."

It took Tom two or three minutes to reason this out to himself, but at last he understood the drift of what his companion said. As the line through one toe and heel passed along the centre of the other, the foot must each time have been put down in a straight line, while if the footprints had been made by a person who turned out his toes they would never point straight towards those farther on.

"Well, what is your advice, chief?" Jerry asked.

"Must camp and eat," the Indian replied, "horses gone far enough. No fear here, red-skin gone on trail."

"Do you think there have been more than one, chief?"

"Not know," Leaping Horse said; "find out by and by."

Tom now noticed that Hunting Dog had disappeared.

"Where shall we make the fire?"

The chief pointed to the ashes.

"That's it," Jerry said. "If any red-skin came along you see, Tom, there would be nothing to tell them that more than one party had been here."

The chief this time undertook the collection of fuel himself, and a bright fire was presently burning. Two hours later Hunting Dog came back. He talked for some time earnestly with the chief, and taking out two leaves from his wampum bag opened them and showed him two tiny heaps of black dust. Jerry asked no questions until the conversation was done, and then while Hunting Dog cut off a large chunk of deer's flesh, and placing it in the hot ashes sat himself quietly down to wait until it was cooked, he said:

"Well, chief, what is the news?"

"The Indian had a horse, Hunting Dog came upon the spot where he had left it a hundred yards away. When he saw ashes, he came to look at them. Afterwards he followed the trail quite plain on the soft ground at head of lake. Over there," and he pointed to the foot of the hills, "Indian stopped and fired twice."

"How on earth did he know that, chief?"

The chief pointed to the two leaves. The scout examined the powder. "Wads," he said. "They are leather wads, Tom, shrivelled and burnt. What did he fire at, chief?"

"Signal. Half a mile farther three other mounted redskins joined him. They stopped and had heap talk. Then one rode away into hills, the others went on at gallop on trail."

"That is all bad, chief. The fellow who went up the hills no doubt made for a village?"

The chief nodded.

"The only comfort is that Harry has got a good start of them. It was a week from the time you left them before we met you, that is three days ago, so that if the red-skins took up the trail yesterday, Harry has ten days' start of them."

Leaping Horse shook his head. "Long start if travel fast, little start if travel slow."

"I see what you mean. If they pushed steadily on up the valley, they have gone a good distance, but if they stopped to catch beaver or prospect for gold they may not have got far away. Hadn't we better be pushing on, chief?"

"No good, horses make three days' journey; rest well to-day, travel right on to-morrow. If go farther to-night, little good to-morrow. Good camp here, all rest."

"Well, no doubt you are right, chief, but it worries one to think that while we are sitting here those 'tarnal red-skins may be attacking our friends. My only hope is that Harry, who has done a lot of Indian fighting, will hide his trail as much as possible as he goes on, and that they will have a lot of trouble in finding it."

The chief nodded. "My white brother, Harry, knows Indian ways. He did not think he had come to Indian country here or he would not have left his ashes. But beyond this he will be sure to hide his trail, and the 'Rappahoes will have to follow slow."

"You think they are 'Rappahoes, chief?"

"Yes, this 'Rappahoe country. The Shoshones are further north, and are friendly; the Bannacks and Nez Percés are in northwest, near Snake River; and the Sioux more on the north and east, on other side of great mountains. 'Rappahoes here."

"Waal," Jerry said wrathfully, "onless they catch Harry asleep, some of the darned skunks will be rubbed out afore they get his scalp. It is a good country for hiding trail. There are many streams coming down from the hills into the Big Wind, and they can turn up or down any of them as they please, and land on rocky ground too, so it would be no easy matter to track them. By the lay of the country there does not seem much chance of gold anywheres about here, and, as I reckon, they will be thinking more of that than of beaver skins, so I think they would push straight on."

"Harry said he should get out of Big Wind River valley quick," Leaping Horse said. "Too many Indians there. Get into mountains other side. Go up Rivière de Noir, then over big mountains into Sierra Shoshone, and then down Buffalo through Jackson's Hole, and then strike Snake River. I told him heap bad Indians in Jackson's Hole, Bannacks, and Nez Percés. He said not go down into valley, keep on foot-hills. I told him, too bad journey, but he and other pale-faces thought could do it, and might find much gold. No good Leaping Horse talk."

"This is a dog-goned bad business I have brought you into, Tom. I reckoned we should not get out without troubles, but I did not calkerlate on our getting into them so soon."

"You did not bring me here, Jerry, so you need not blame yourself for that. It was I brought you into it, for you did not make up your mind to come till I had settled to go with Leaping Horse."

"I reckon I should have come anyhow," Jerry grumbled. "Directly the chief said where Harry and the others had gone my mind was set on joining them. It was a new country, and there wur no saying what they might strike, and though I ain't a regular Indian-fighter, leaving them alone when they leave me alone, I can't say as I am averse to a scrimmage with them if the odds are anyways equal."

"It is a wonderful country," Tom said, looking at the almost perpendicular cliffs across the valley, with their regular coloured markings, their deep fissures, crags, and pinnacles, "and worth coming a long way to see."

"I don't say as it ain't curous, but I have seen the like down on the Colorado, and I don't care if I never see no more of it if we carry our scalps safe out of this. I don't say as I object to hills if they are covered with forest, for there is safe to be plenty of game there, and the wood comes in handy for timbering, but this kind of country that looks as if some chaps with paint-pots had been making lines all over it, ain't to my taste noway. Here, lad; I never travel without hooks and lines; you can get a breakfast and dinner many a day when a gun would bring down on you a score of red varmints. I expect you will find fish in the lake. Many of these mountain lakes just swarm with them. You had better look about and catch a few bugs, there ain't no better bait. Those jumping bugs are as good as any," and he pointed to a grasshopper, somewhat to Tom's relief, for the lad had just been wondering where he should look for bugs, not having seen one since he landed in the States.

There were two lines and hooks in the miner's outfit, and Tom and Hunting Dog, after catching some grasshoppers, went down to the lake, while Jerry and the chief had a long and earnest conversation together. The baited hooks were scarcely thrown into the water when they were seized, and in a quarter of an hour ten fine lake trout were lying on the bank. Tom was much delighted. He had fished from boats, but had never met with much success, and his pleasure at landing five fish averaging four or five pounds apiece was great. As it was evidently useless to catch more, they wound up their lines, and Hunting Dog split the fish open and laid them down on the rock, which was so hot that Tom could scarce bear his hand on it.

Seeing the elder men engaged in talk Tom did not return to them, but endeavoured to keep up a conversation with the young Indian, whom he found to be willing enough to talk now they were alone, and who knew much more English than he had given him credit for. As soon as the sun set the fire was extinguished, and they lay down to sleep shortly afterwards. An hour before daylight they were in the saddle. Hunting Dog rode ahead on the line he had followed the day before. As soon as it became light Tom kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, but it was only now and then, when the Indian pointed to the print of a horse's hoof in the sand between the rocks, that he could make them out. The two Indians followed the track, however, without the slightest difficulty, the horses going at a hand gallop.

"They don't look to me like horses' footprints," Tom said to Jerry when they had passed a spot where the marks were unusually clear.

"I reckon you have never seen the track of an unshod horse before, Tom. With a shod horse you see nothing but the mark of the shoe, here you get the print of the whole hoof. Harry has been careful enough here, and has taken the shoes off his ponies, for among all the marks, we have not seen any made by a shod horse. The Indians never shoe theirs, and the mark of an iron is enough to tell the first red-skin who passes that a white man has gone along there. The chief and I took off the shoes of the four horses yesterday afternoon when you were fishing. We put them and the nails by to use when we get out of this dog-goned country."

After riding for two hours they came to the bank of a stream. The chief held up his hand for them to stop, while he dismounted and examined the foot-marks. Then he mounted again and rode across the stream, which was some ten yards wide and from two to three feet deep. He went on a short distance beyond it, leapt from his saddle, threw the reins on the horse's neck, and returned to the bank on foot. He went a short distance up the stream and then as much down, stooping low and examining every inch of the ground. Then he stood up and told the others to cross.

"Leave your horses by mine," he said as they joined him. "Trail very bad, all rock." He spoke to the young Indian, who, on dismounting, at once went forward, quartering the ground like a spaniel in search of game, while the chief as carefully searched along the bank.

"Best leave them to themselves, Tom; they know what they are doing."

"They are hunting for the trail, Jerry, I suppose?"

"Ay, lad. Harry struck on a good place when he crossed where he did, for you see the rock here is as smooth as the top of a table, and the wind has swept it as clean of dust as if it had been done by an eastern woman's broom. If the horses had been shod there would have been scratches on the rock that would have been enough for the dullest Indian to follow, but an unshod horse leaves no mark on ground like this. I expect the red-skins who followed them were just as much puzzled as the chief is. There ain't no saying whether they crossed and went straight on, or whether they never crossed at all or kept in the stream either up or down."

It was half an hour before the two Indians had concluded their examination of the ground.

"Well, chief, what do you make of it?" Jerry asked when they had spoken a few words together.

"Hunting Dog has good eyes," the chief said. "The white men went forward, the red men could not find the trail, and thought that they had kept in the river, so they went up to search for them. Come, let us go forward."

The miner and Tom mounted their horses, but the Indians led theirs forward some three hundred yards. Then Hunting Dog pointed down, and the chief stooped low and examined the spot.

"What is it, chief?" Jerry asked; and he and Tom both got off and knelt down. They could see nothing whatever.

"That is it," Leaping Horse said, and pointed to a piece of rock projecting half an inch above the flat.

"I am darned if I can see anything."

"There is a tiny hair there," Tom said, putting his face within a few inches of the ground. "It might be a cat's hair; it is about the length, but much thicker. It is brown."

"Good!" the chief said, putting his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Now let us ride." He leapt into his saddle, the others following his example, and they went on at the same pace as before.

"Well, chief," the miner said, "what does that hair tell you about it, for I can't make neither head nor tail of it?"

"The white men killed a deer on their way up here, and they cut up the hide and made shoes for horses, so that they should leave no tracks. One of the horses trod on a little rock and a hair came out of the hide."

"That may be it, chief," the miner said, after thinking the matter over, "though it ain't much of a thing to go by."

"Good enough," Leaping Horse said. "We know now the line they were taking. When we get to soft ground see trail plainer."

"What will the others do when they cannot find the trail anywhere along the bank?"

"Ride straight on," the chief said. "Search banks of next river, look at mouths of valleys to make sure white men have not gone up there, meet more of tribe, search everywhere closely, find trail at last."

"Well, that ought to give Harry a good start, anyhow."

"Not know how long gone on," the chief said gravely. "No rainfall. Six, eight—perhaps only two days' start."

"But if they always hide their trail as well as they did here I don't see how the Indians can find them at all—especially as they don't know where they are making for, as we do."

"Find camp. Men on foot may hide traces, but with horses sure to find."

"That is so," Jerry agreed, shaking his head. "An Indian can see with half an eye where the grass has been cropped or the leaves stripped off the bushes. Yes, I am afraid that is so. There ain't no hiding a camp from Indian eyes where horses have been about. It is sure to be near a stream. Shall you look for them, chief?"

The Indian shook his head. "Lose time," he said. "We go straight to

Rivière de Noir."

"You don't think, then, they are likely to turn off before that?"

"Leaping Horse thinks not. They know Indian about here. Perhaps found Indian trail near first camp. Know, anyhow, many Indians. Think push straight on."

"That is the likeliest. Anyhow, by keeping on we must get nearer to them. The worst danger seems to me that we may overtake the red-skins who are hunting them."

The chief nodded.

"It is an all-fired fix, Tom," Jerry went on. "If we go slow we may not be in time to help Harry and the others to save their scalps; if we go fast we may come on these 'tarnal red-skins, and have mighty hard work in keeping our own ha'r on."

"I feel sure that the chief will find traces of them in time to prevent our running into them, Jerry. Look how good their eyes are. Why, I might have searched all my life without noticing a single hair on a rock."

After riding some fifteen miles beyond the stream, and crossing two similar though smaller rivulets, the chief, after a few words with Jerry, turned off to the left and followed the foot of the hills. At the mouth of a narrow valley he stopped, examined the ground carefully, and then led the way up it, carrying his rifle in readiness across the peak of the saddle. The valley opened when they had passed its mouth, and a thick grove of trees grew along the bottom. As soon as they were beneath their shelter they dismounted.

The horses at once began to crop the grass. Hunting Dog went forward through the trees, rifle in hand.

"Shall I take the bits out of the horses' mouths, Jerry?" Tom asked.

"Not till the young Indian returns. It is not likely there is a red-skin village up there, for we should have seen a trail down below if there had been. Still there may be a hut or two, and we can do nothing till he comes back."

It was half an hour before Hunting Dog came through the trees again. He shook his head, and without a word loosened the girths of his horse and took off the bridle.

"He has seen no signs of them, so we can light a fire and get something to eat. I am beginning to feel I want something badly."

Thus reminded, Tom felt at once that he was desperately hungry. They had before starting taken a few mouthfuls of meat that had been cooked the day before and purposely left over, but it was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and he felt ravenous. The Indians quickly collected dried wood, and four of the fish were soon frizzling on hot ashes, while the kettle, hung in the flame, was beginning to sing.

"We have done nigh forty miles, Tom, and the horses must have a couple of hours' rest. We will push on as fast as we can before dark, and then wait until the moon rises; it will be up by ten. This ain't a country to ride over in the dark. We will hide up before morning, and not go on again till next night. Of course we shall not go so fast as by day, but we sha'n't have any risk of being ambushed. The chief reckons from what he has heard that the Indian villages are thick along that part of the valley, and that it will never do to travel by day."

"Then you have given up all hopes of finding Harry's tracks?"

"It would be just wasting our time to look for them. We will push on sharp till we are sure we are ahead of them. We may light upon them by chance, but there can be no searching for them with these red varmint round us. It would be just chucking away our lives without a chance of doing any good. I expect Harry and his party are travelling at night too; but they won't travel as fast as we do, not by a sight. They have got pack-ponies with them, and they are likely to lay off a day or two if they come upon a good place for hiding."

They travelled but a few miles after their halt, for the Indians declared they could make out smoke rising in two or three places ahead; and although neither Jerry nor Tom could distinguish it, they knew that the Indians' sight was much keener than their own in a matter of this kind. They therefore halted again behind a mass of rocks that had fallen down the mountain-side. Hunting Dog lay down among the highest of the boulders to keep watch, and the horses were hobbled to prevent their straying. The miner and the chief lit their pipes, and Tom lay down on his back for a sleep. A short time before it became dusk the call of a deer was heard.

"There are wapiti, chief. We can't take a shot at them; but it don't matter, we have meat enough for a week."

The chief had already risen to his feet, rifle in hand.

"It is a signal from Hunting Dog," he said, "he has seen something in the valley. My white brother had better get the horses together," and he made his way up the rocks. In a minute or two he called out that the horses might be left to feed, and presently came leisurely down to them. "Seen Indians—ten 'Rappahoes."

"Which way were they going?"

"Riding from Big Wind River across valley. Been away hunting among hills over there. Have got meat packed on horses, ride slow. Not have heard about white men's trail. Going to village, where we saw smoke."

Tom was fast asleep when Jerry roused him, and told him that the moon was rising, and that it was time to be off.

They started at a walk, the chief leading; Jerry followed him, while Tom rode between him and Hunting Dog, who brought up the rear. Tom had been warned that on no account was he to speak aloud. "If you have anything you want to say, and feel that you must say it or bust," Jerry remarked, "just come up alongside of me and whisper it. Keep your eyes open and your rifle handy, we might come upon a party any minute. They might be going back to their village after following Harry's trail as long as they could track it, or it might be a messenger coming back to fetch up food, or those fellows Hunting Dog made out going on to join those in front. Anyhow we have got to travel as quiet as if there was ears all round us."

As they passed the clumps of trees where the Indian villages stood they could see the reflection of the fires on the foliage, and heard the frequent barking of dogs and an occasional shout. A quarter of a mile farther the chief halted and spoke to Hunting Dog, who at once dismounted and glided away towards the village.

"Gone to see how many men there," the chief said in explanation to

Jerry. "Too much laugh, no good."

"He means the men must have gone off again, Tom. If there were men in the camp the boys would not be making a noise."

They were but a few hundred yards from the trees, and in a very short time the Indian returned.

"Men are gone," he said; "only squaws and boys there."

"How many lodges are there?" the chief asked. Hunting Dog held up both hands with extended fingers, and then one finger only.

"Eleven of them," Jerry said. "I expect they are all small villages, and they move their lodges across into the forests when winter comes on."

As soon as they had mounted, the chief put his horse into a canter, and at this pace they went forward for some hours, breaking into a walk occasionally for a few minutes.

"I thought you said we should not go beyond a walk to-night, Jerry," Tom remarked on the first of these occasions.

"That is what we kinder agreed, lad; but you may be sure the chief has some good reason for going on faster. I dunno what it is, and I ain't going to ask. Red-skins hate being questioned. If he wants to tell us he will tell us without being asked."

A faint light was stealing over the sky when the chief halted his horse and sat listening. No sound, however, broke the stillness of the night.

"Did you think you heard anything, chief?"

"Leaping Horse heard nothing, but he stopped to listen. What does my white brother think of the 'Rappahoes having gone on directly they returned from the chase?"

"I thought that when they got the news that some white men had gone through, they might have started to join those following up the trail. Isn't that what you think, chief?"

"Only three white men, plenty Indians on trail; no hurry to follow; might have had feast after hunt and gone on in morning."

"So they might. You think the whites have been tracked, and are to be attacked this morning?"

"Perhaps attacked yesterday. Perhaps have got strong place, 'Rappahoes want more help to take it. White rifle shoot straight, perhaps want more men to starve them out."

They again went forward, at a gallop now. Jerry did not think much of the chief's idea. It seemed to him natural that the Indians should want to join in the hunt for scalps, and to get a share of the white men's goods, though he admitted that it was strange they should have gone on without taking a meal. Presently the chief reined in his horse again, and sat with head bent forward. Tom heard an angry grunt from between Hunting Dog's teeth. Listening intently also, he was conscious of a faint, far-away sound.

"You hear?" the chief said to Jerry.

"I heard something; but it might be anything. A waterfall in the hills miles away, that is what it sounds like."

"Guns," the chief said laconically.

"Do you think so?" Jerry said doubtfully. "There don't seem to me anything of guns in it. It is just a sort of murmur that keeps on and on."

"It is the mountains speaking back again," the chief said, waving his hand. "Hills everywhere. They say to each other, the red men who live in our bosoms are attacking the pale-face strangers."

"What do you think, Hunting Dog?" Tom whispered to the Indian.

"Gun-shot," he replied, in a tone of absolute conviction.

"Waal, chief, I will not gainsay your opinion," Jerry said. "How far do you think it is off?"

"The horses will take us there in two hours," the chief replied.

"Then we can put it at twenty miles at least. Let us be going; whatever the sound is, we shall know more about it before we have gone much farther."

"Not too fast," Leaping Horse said as the miner was urging his horse forward. "Maybe have to fight, maybe have to run. No good tire horse too much."

It was more than an hour before Tom could hear any distinct change in the character of the sound, but at last he was able to notice that, though seemingly continuous, the sound really pulsated; sometimes it almost died away, then suddenly swelled out again, and there were several vibrations close together. Jerry, more accustomed to the sound of firearms in the mountains, had before this come round to the chief's opinion.

"It is guns, sure enough, Tom; the chief has made no mistake about it. Waal, there is one comfort, they ain't been surprised. They are making a good fight of it, and we may be there in time to take a hand in the game."

"Shall we ride straight on and join them?"

"I reckon not, lad. We must wait until we see what sort of place Harry is in, and how we can best help him, before we fix on any scheme."

The sound became louder and clearer. The echo was still continuous, but the sound of the shots could be distinctly heard.

"It is over there, to the right," Jerry said. "They must have crossed the Big Wind River."

"And gone up the De Noir valley," the chief said. "We ought to be close to it now."

"Yes, I reckon it can't be far off, by what you told me about the distance."

"Better cross Big Wind at once. They no see us now."

"I agree with you, chief; it would not do for them to get sight of us. If they did our case would be worse than Harry's. I expect he has got strongly posted, or he would have been wiped out long ago; that is what would happen to us if they were to make us out and spy our numbers afore we get to some place where we and Harry's outfit can help each other."

They rode rapidly down to the river. With the exception of a few yards in the middle, where the horses had to swim, the depth was not great, and they were soon on the other side. They rode to the foot of the hills, and then kept along it. The sound of firing became louder and louder, and Tom felt his heart beat quickly at the thought that he might soon be engaged in a desperate fight with the Indians, and that with the odds greatly against his party.

Presently the hills fell sharply away, and they were at the entrance of the valley of the Rivière de Noir, which is the principal arm of the Big Wind River at this point. The firing had very much died out during the last few minutes, and only an occasional shot was heard.

"They have beat off the attack so far," Jerry said to him encouragingly. "Now we have got to lie low a bit, while the chief sees how things stand."

Leaping Horse dismounted at the mouth of a narrow canon running up into the cliff beside them. A little stream trickled down its centre.

"Could not have been better," Jerry said. "Here is a place we four could hold against a crowd of red-skins for hours. There is water anyway, and where there is water there is mostly a little feed for horses. I will take your horse, chief, and Tom will take Hunting Dog's, if so be you mean him to go with you.

"Don't you worry yourself, lad," he went on, seeing how anxious Tom looked, as they started with the horses up the cañon. "If Harry and his friends have beaten off the first attack, you may bet your boots they are safe for some time. It is clear the red-skins have drawn off, and are holding a pow-wow as to how they are to try next. They attacked, you see, just as the day was breaking; that is their favourite hour, and I reckon Harry must have been expecting them, and that he and his mates were prepared."

CHAPTER VI. UNITED

The cañon showed no sign of widening until they had proceeded a quarter of a mile from the entrance, then it broadened suddenly for a distance of a hundred yards.

"There has been a big slip here both sides," the miner said, looking round. "It must have taken place a great many years ago, for the winter floods have swept away all signs of it, and there are grass and trees on the slopes. The horses can find enough to keep them alive here for a day or two, and that is all we shall want, I hope."

"It would be a nasty place to get out of, Jerry, for the cliffs are perpendicular from half-way up."

"It ain't likely as there is any place we could get out without following it to the upper end, which may be some fifty miles away. I don't know the country it runs through, but the red-skins are pretty certain to know all about it. If they were to track us here they would never try to fight their way in, but would just set a guard at the mouth and at the upper end and starve us out. It is a good place to hide in, but a dog-goned bad one to be caught in. However, I hope it ain't coming to that. It is we who are going to attack them, and not them us, and that makes all the difference. The red-skins can't have a notion that there are any other white men in this neighbourhood, and when we open fire on them it will raise such a scare for a bit that it will give us a chance of joining the others if we choose. That of course must depend on their position."

They walked back to the mouth of the cañon, and had not to wait long for the return of the Indians.

"Come," Leaping Horse said briefly, at once turning and going off at a swift pace.

Jerry asked no questions, but with Tom followed close on the Indians' heels. There were bushes growing among the fallen rocks and débris from the face of the cliff, and they were, therefore, able to go forward as quickly as they could leap from boulder to boulder, without fear of being seen. A quarter of an hour's run, and the chief climbed up to a ledge on the face of the cliff where a stratum harder than those above it had resisted the effects of the weather and formed a shelf some twelve feet wide. He went down on his hands and knees, and keeping close to the wall crawled along to a spot where some stunted bushes had made good their hold. The others followed him, and lying down behind the bushes peered through them.

The valley was four or five hundred yards wide, and down its centre ran the stream. Close to the water's edge rose abruptly a steep rock. It was some fifty feet in height and but four or five yards across at the top. On the north and west the rocks were too perpendicular to be climbed, but the other sides had crumbled down, the stones being covered with brushwood. From the point where they were looking they could see the six horses lying among the bushes. They were evidently tightly roped, and had probably been led up there when the attack began and thrown at the highest point to which they could be taken, a spot being chosen where the bushes concealed their exact position from those below. The rock was about two hundred and fifty yards from the spot where the party was lying, and their position was about level with its top. Some twenty Indians were gathered a few hundred yards higher up the valley, and about as many some distance down it.

"Why didn't the varmint take their places here?" Jerry whispered to the chief.

"They came here. See," and he pointed to a patch of blood a few feet beyond him. "Indian guns not shoot far," he said, "powder weak; white man's rifles carry here, red-skin not able to shoot so far. When they found that, went away again."

"What are they going to do now, do you think?"

"Soon attack again."

Half an hour passed, and then a loud yell gave the signal and the two troops galloped towards the rock. They had evidently had experience of the accuracy of the white men's fire; not an Indian showed himself, each dropping over one side of his pony, with an arm resting in a rope round the animals' necks and one leg thrown over the back. So they dashed forward until close to the foot of the rocks. Another instant and they would have thrown themselves from their horses and taken to the bushes, but although hidden from the sight of the defenders of the position, they were exposed to the full view of the party on the ledge, from whom they were distant not more than two hundred yards. The chief fired first, and almost together the other three rifles flashed out. Three of the Indians fell from their horses, another almost slipped off, but with an effort recovered his hold with his leg. A yell of astonishment and fear broke from the Indians. As the two bands mingled together, some of the riders were exposed to those on the top of the rock, and three shots were fired. Two more of the 'Rappahoes fell, and the whole band in obedience to a shout from one of their chiefs galloped at full speed down the valley. The three men sprang to their feet, waving their hats, while the party on the ledge also leapt up with a shout.

"It's you, chief, I see!" one of those on the rocks shouted. "I have been hoping ever since morning to hear the crack of your rifle, and I never heard a more welcome sound. We should have been rubbed out sure. Who have you got with you?"

"It's Jerry Curtis, Harry. I come up along with Leaping Horse, though I

did not expect to find you in such a bad fix. This young Indian is

Hunting Dog, and this young chap next to me is your nephew, Tom Wade.

You did not expect to meet him like this, I reckon?"

While he had been speaking, all had reloaded their rifles.

"You had best go across and talk it over with Harry, chief, and consart measures with him for getting out of this fix. Those red-skins have got a bad scare, but you may bet they ain't gone far; and they have lost six of their bucks now beside what the others shot before, and it ain't in Indian natur for them to put up with such a loss as that." He had been looking at the rock as he spoke, and turning round uttered an exclamation of surprise, for the chief was no longer there. Looking down they saw that he had managed to make his way down the face of the cliff, and in another two minutes was ascending the rock. There he stood for some time in earnest conversation with the whites, and then returned to the ledge.

"Trouble over horses," he said.

"Ay, ay, I reckoned that was what you was talking over. There ain't no going back for them now."

The chief shook his head. "'Rappahoes keep watch," he said, "cannot go till night to fetch horses. All lie here to-day, go across to rock when darkness comes, then white men go up valley till get to trees an hour's march away; can see them from rock. Get in among trees and work up into hills. Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog cross river, go down other side past 'Rappahoes, then cross back and get into cañon, drive horses up. White men meet them up in mountains."

"That seems a good plan enough, chief. That is, if you can get out at the other end of the cañon."

"Cañon little up high," the chief replied. "Find some place to climb."

"But they may find the horses to-day."

The Indian nodded. "May find, perhaps not."

"Why should we not go across to the rock at once, chief?"

"Indian count on fingers how many. They do not know we only four; much troubled in their mind where men come from, who can be. Red-skins not like white men. Have many fancies. Fire come out of bush where 'Rappahoe had been killed; think that bad medicine, keep together and talk. Think if men here, why not go across to rock."

"I should not be surprised if you are right, chief. They are more likely to fancy we have come down from above than from below, for they must have reckoned for sure there were no other white men in the Big Wind valley, and our not showing ourselves will give them an all-fired scare."

"What does the chief mean by bad medicine, Jerry?" Tom asked.

"A red-skin is full of all sorts of ideas. Anything he can't make head nor tail of, is bad medicine; they think there is some magic in it, and that old Nick has had his finger in the pie. When they get an idea like that in their minds, even the bravest of them loses his pluck, and is like a child who thinks he has seen a ghost. It is a mighty good notion for us to lie low all day. The red-skins will reason it all out, and will say, if these are white men who killed our brothers why the 'tarnal don't they go and join the others, there ain't nothing to prevent them. If they ain't white men, who are they? Maybe they can move without our being able to see them and will shoot from some other place. No, I reckon it is likely they will keep pretty close together and won't venture to scatter to look for tracks, and in that case the chief's plan will work out all right. In course, a good deal depends on their chief; one of them is among those we shot, you can make out his feathers from here. If he is the boss chief, it may be that they will give it up altogether; the next chief will throw the blame on to him, and may like enough persuade them to draw off altogether. If it ain't the boss chief, then they are bound to try again. He would not like to take them back to their villages with the news that a grist of them had been killed and narry a scalp taken. I expect you will see this afternoon some of them come down to palaver with Harry."

The morning passed quietly and not unpleasantly, for they were lying in the shade, but before noon the sun had climbed up over the cliff behind them and shone down with great force, and they had to lie with their heads well under the bushes to screen them from its rays. Presently, Leaping Horse said:

"Indian chief come, no lift heads."

All shifted their position so as to look down the valley. An Indian chief, holding up his hands to show that he was unarmed, was advancing on foot, accompanied by another Indian also without arms.

"There is Harry going down to meet them," Jerry said.

Tom looked eagerly at the figure that came down from the rock and advanced to meet the Indians. It seemed strange to him that after having come so far to join his uncle they should remain for hours in sight of each other without meeting. It was too far to distinguish his features, but he saw by the light walk and easy swing of the figure that his uncle was a much more active man than he had expected to see. He had known indeed that he was but forty years old, but he had somehow expected that the life of hardship he had led would have aged him, and he was surprised to see that his walk and figure were those of a young man.

"Is it not rather dangerous, his coming down alone to meet two of them?

They may have arms hidden."

"They have got arms, you maybe sure," Jerry replied. "They have knives for certain, and most likely tomahawks, but I expect Harry has got his six-shooter. But it don't matter whether he has or not, there are his two mates up on that rock with their rifles, and we are across here. The 'Rappahoes would know well enough their lives wouldn't be worth a red cent if they were to try any of their games. They don't mean business; they will make out they have come to persuade Harry and his mates to give up, which they know quite well they ain't fools enough to do. But what is really in their minds is to try and find out who we are, and where we have come from."

The conversation lasted a few minutes. Tom could see that questions were being asked about the concealed party, for the chief pointed to the ledge two or three times. When the talk was over the Indians went down the valley again at a slow pace, never once looking back, and the Englishman returned to the rocks.

"I don't suppose they have got much from Harry."

"I suppose uncle talks their language?"

"No, I don't reckon he knows the 'Rappahoe dialect. But the tribes on the western side of the plains can mostly understand each other's talk; and as I know he can get on well with the Utes, he is sure to be able to understand the 'Rappahoes' talk."

"Leaping Horse will go along the ledge," the chief said a few minutes later, after a short conversation with Hunting Dog. "The 'Rappahoes will try to find out who are here; not like to attack the rock till find out."

The two Indians lay down flat on the ledge, and crawled along without raising themselves in the slightest until they reached a point where the cliffs projected somewhat. From here they could see down the valley, and they lay immovable, with their rifles in front of them.

"They are not more than fifty yards or so from those bushes where we got up on to the ledge. That is where the red-skins are likely to try crawling up, for there they would be out of sight of the rock."

"Surely they would never venture to come along the ledge in daylight, Jerry. They would have to pass along under the fire of uncle and his mates, and would have our rifles to meet in front."

"No, it would only be one, or at most, two scouts. They would reckon that from that point where the chief is lying they would get a view right along the ledge to here, and be able to make out what we are. It is the strangeness of the thing that has kept them quiet all these hours, and I expect their chief will want to prove that there are only a few of us, and that we are men for certain. I reckon they have sent off to the villages already, and there will be more of the varmint here to-night. The Indians are never fond of attacking in the dark; still, if they were sure about us, they might try it. They would know they could get up to the foot of that rock before being seen, and once among the bushes they would reckon they could make easy work of it."

A quarter of an hour later there was the crack of a rifle, followed instantly by an Indian yell.

"That is the chief's piece, Tom, and I reckon the lead has gone straight."

The silence remained unbroken for the next two hours, and then Leaping

Horse crawled back as quietly as he had gone.

"What was it, chief?"

"It was a 'Rappahoe, who will scout no more," the chief said quietly.

"He came up the bushes, but before he could step on to the ledge Leaping

Horse fired, and he will take no tales back to his tribe."

"They won't try again, chief?"

Leaping Horse shook his head. "First take rock," he said, "then when they have the scalps of the white men they will watch us here. Will know we cannot stay here long without water."

"You are right there, chief, and no m'stake; my tongue is like a piece of leather now, and as soon as it gets dark I shall make a bee-line down to the river. I want to have a talk with Harry, but just at present I want a drink a blamed sight worse. If I had thought we were going to be stuck up here all day I would have brought my water-bottle with me."

The time passed very slowly, although the air became cooler as soon as the sun had gone down behind the opposite range. As soon as the light faded a little, the Indian crawled farther along the ledge, and returned in a short time saying that he had found a spot where the whites could descend. Two or three times Jerry urged that it was dark enough, before the chief consented to move. At last, however, he stood up and gave the cry of an owl, and they were in a minute or two joined by Hunting Dog, who had until now remained at his post. The chief at once led the way along the ledge until he reached the spot where the rock had crumbled away somewhat.

"We had better go down one at a time," Jerry said. "For if there was a slip or a tumble it might let down a gun-hammer, and we want our lead for the 'Rappahoes, and not for each other."

When it came to Tom's turn, he found it a very difficult place to get down in the semi-darkness, and two or three times he almost lost his footing. As soon as all were down they fell into Indian file, and crossed the valley to the rock, the chief giving the hoot of an owl twice as he approached it. Three men at once stepped out from the bushes at its foot.

"I began to wonder when you were coming, and was just going to get the ponies down before it was too dark to do it without running the risk of breaking their legs. Well, I am right glad to see you, Jerry; and you too, Tom, though it is too dark to see much of you. The chief has been telling me how he brought you along. There is no time to talk now, but I am right glad to see you, lad" and he shook Tom heartily by the hand. "Now, mates, let us get the horses down."

"I must make tracks for the water first, Harry, the young un and I are pretty near choking; and I expect the Indians are as bad, though it ain't their natur to talk about it."

"Get down horses first," the chief said. "Too dark soon."

"Waal, I suppose five minutes won't make much difference," Jerry grumbled, "so here goes."

"I have tied some hide over their hoofs," Harry said, "so as to make as little noise as possible about it."

"Must make no noise," the chief said urgently. "Redskin scouts soon be crawling up."

One by one the horses were brought down, Harry leading them, and the others pushing aside the bushes as noiselessly as possible. Then their loads were carried down and packed upon them.

"You get on my horse, Jerry," Harry Wade whispered, "I will walk with Tom. I have had no time to say a word to him yet, or to ask about the people at home. Where is the chief?"

Leaping Horse and his companion had stolen away as soon as the loads had been adjusted. The others led the horses to the river, and allowed them to drink, while Jerry and Tom lay down and took a long draught of the water. The miners' bottles were filled, and they then started.

"It is lucky the river makes such a roar among these rocks here," Harry said, "it will drown the sound of the horses' hoofs."

For half an hour they proceeded at a fast walk, then the skins were taken off the horses' feet and they went on at a trot, the two Wades taking hold of Jerry's stirrup-leathers and running alongside. In half an hour they entered the belt of trees, and dismounting, at once began to ascend the hill. They were some distance up when they heard a distant yell.

"You may yell as much as you like," Jerry panted, "you won't catch us now. They have been a mighty long time finding out we were gone."

"They could not make out about you," Harry said. "I could see by the chief's manner, and the glances the Indian with him kept giving to the place where you were lying, that they were puzzled and alarmed. They offered if we would surrender that they would allow us to return down the valley without hurt. I said, of course, that I preferred staying where I was; we had come up the valley and intended going farther; we didn't want to interfere with them, and if they had left us alone we should have left them alone; and they had only themselves to thank for the loss of some of their braves. 'We have,' I said, 'many friends, who will protect us, and much harm will fall on the Indians who venture to meddle with us.'

"'Are your friends white men?' the chief asked. 'Have they wings that they have flown down here from the hills?'

"'They have come, that is enough,' I said. 'You see, when they were wanted they were here, and if they are wanted again you will hear of them, and your braves will die, and you will gain nothing. You had best go back to your lodges and leave us to go away in peace. Whoever they are, they can shoot, as you have found out to your cost. They have no ill-will to the red-skins, providing the redskins let us alone. They only fired four shots; if they had wished to, they could have killed many more.' When the chief saw that he could get nothing further from me he went away. As usual he spoke boastfully at last, and said that he had offered peace to us, and if war came, it would be our faults. I laughed, and said that we could take care of ourselves, and preferred doing so to trusting ourselves in the hands of the 'Rappahoes, when we had made some of their squaws widows."

"Would they have kept their word, uncle, do you think?" Tom asked.

"Not they. There are a few of the Indian tribes whose word can be taken, but as a rule words mean nothing with them, and if we had put ourselves in their power they would have tomahawked us instantly, or else taken us down and tortured us at their villages, which would have been a deal worse. I have no doubt they had a long talk after the chief returned to them, and that it was some time after it became dark before they could pluck up courage enough to climb the rock, though I expect they must have got close to it very soon after we left. I reckon they have been crawling up inch by inch. Of course, directly they got to where the horses had been tied they knew we had gone, and I expect that yell was a signal for a rush forward to the top. But we need not bother any more about them. They may ride as far as the foot of the forest, but when they find we have gained that safely they will give it up until morning; they will know well enough it is no good starting to search the woods in the dark. We may as well rest where we are until the moon is up, for we make so much noise crashing through this undergrowth that they could hear us down there."

"Now tell me, lad, about your mother and sisters, and how you came out after all."

Tom told his uncle of his mother's death, and the reason why he had left his sisters to come out to join him.

"It is a very bad business, lad, and I take a lot of blame to myself. When I got your mother's letter, telling me of poor John's death, and that she would not hear of your coming out, I said some very hard things to myself. Here had I been knocking about for twenty years, and having had a fair share of luck, and yet I could not put my hand on five hundred dollars, and there was my brother's widow and children, and I, their nearest relative, could not help them. It made me feel a pretty mean man, I can tell you. Your mother did not say much about her circumstances, but it did not need that. I knew that John had retired from the navy with little besides his half-pay, and that her pension as his widow must be a mighty slim one. Altogether I had a pretty bad time of it. However, I took a tall oath that the next rich strike I made the dollars should not be thrown away. I reckoned that you would be out before long; for it was certain that if you were a lad of spirit you would not be staying there doing nothing. Your mother said that the girls all intended to take up teaching, and it was not likely that you would let them work for the family while you were loafing about at home. I know in my time it was hard enough to get anything to do there, and young fellows who have come out here to ranche tell me that it is harder than ever now. I thought you would fancy this life, and that in time you would talk your mother over into letting you come."

"I should never have got her to agree to it, uncle. I wanted to go to sea, but after father's death she would not hear of it. She said I was her only boy and that she could not spare me, and I had to promise to give up the thought. She was still more against your plan, but when I wrote to you I thought that possibly in time she might agree to it. But it was not long afterwards that her health began to fail, and I saw then that I must give up all thought of leaving her, and must, when I left school, take anything that offered; and it was only after her death that I talked it over with the girls, and they agreed that to come here was the best thing for me."

"And you left before my last letter arrived?"

"Yes; we had no letter after the one you wrote asking me to come out."

"No, I suppose you could not have had it. I wrote before I started out three months ago from Salt Lake City. I had struck a ledge of pretty good stuff, I and another. We sold out for a thousand dollars, and I sent my share off to your mother, telling her that I had been having bad luck since I got her letter, but that I hoped to do better in future, and I thought, anyhow, I could promise to send her as much once a year, and if I had a real stroke of luck she and her girls would have the benefit of it."

"That was good of you, uncle."

"Not good at all," Harry Wade grumbled. "I have behaved like a fool all along; it is true that when I did get letters from your father, which was not very often, he always wrote cheerfully, and said very little about how he was situated as to money. But I ought to have known—I did know, if I thought of it—that with a wife and six children it must be mighty hard to make ends meet on a lieutenant's half-pay, and there was I, often throwing away twice as much as his year's pension on a week's spree. When I heard he was gone you may pretty well guess how I felt. However, lad, if things turn out well I will make it up as far as I can. Now, let us join the others."

The others, however, were all sound asleep, having wrapped themselves in their blankets, and lain down as soon as the halt was decided upon. Jerry, having had no sleep the previous night, and but little for four or five days, had not even thought of asking the others for food, which they doubtless had on their saddles, although he had tasted nothing for twenty-four hours. Tom, however, less accustomed to enforced fasts, felt ravenous.

"We have had nothing to eat to-day, uncle, except a crust left over from yesterday's baking, and I don't think I could get to sleep if I did not eat something."

"Bless me, I never thought of that, Tom. If I had I would have sent food across by the chief this morning. There is no bread, but there is plenty of cold meat. We cooked a lot yesterday evening, for we thought we might not get a chance of cooking to-day."

"Then you knew, uncle, the Indians were near?" Tom went on, when he had appeased his appetite and taken a drink of water, with a little whisky in it from his uncle's flask.

"Ay, lad; we guessed somehow we had been followed all along. We had done everything we could to throw them off the trail—travelling as much as we could in the course of streams, muffling the feet of our ponies, and picking out the hardest ground to travel on; but every morning before daybreak one of us went up the hillside, and twice we made out mounted Indians moving about down the valley. Yesterday morning ten of them came galloping up within easy shot. I don't think they thought that we were so near. They drew up their horses suddenly, had a talk, and then came riding after us. It didn't need their yells to tell us what their intention was. We knocked three of them out of their saddles, then threw our horses down and lay behind them.

"They galloped round and round us shooting, but we picked two more off, and then they rode away. We knew enough of them to be sure that they were not going to give it up, but would follow us till joined by enough of their tribe to attack us again. We made a long march, hoping to get to the timber before they could come up, but just as the sun was setting we saw them coming along, about fifteen of them; and we had just time to get up to that rock. As they rode past we opened a smart fire and dropped four of them; the others rode up the valley, so as to cut us off from going farther. We filled our water-skins and got the horses half-way up as you saw, and then lighted a fire and cooked. We kept watch all night, two down below and one at the top; but everything was quiet, and we guessed they were waiting for others to come up.

"About an hour before daylight we heard another gang arrive below us. They halted there, and it was not long before they began crawling up from above and below, and for a bit we shot pretty brisk. The odds were too much against them, with us on the height, and they drew off. Then for an hour they were pretty quiet while they were holding council, except that we did some shooting with a party who had climbed up to that ledge opposite; then we saw both bands mount, and reckoned they were going to make a dash for us. We knew if they did it in earnest we must go down, for once among the rocks and bushes there would be no keeping them from mounting up. We made up our minds that the end was not far off, though I fancy we should have accounted for a good many of them before they rubbed us out. When your four rifles spoke from the ledge we thought it was a party who had gone back there, for we felt sure that we had driven them all away, but it wasn't more than a moment before we saw it wasn't that. There was no mistaking the yell of astonishment from the Indians, and as the horses swerved round we saw that three of them had fallen. You may guess we didn't stop to argue who it was, but set to work to do our share; but it seemed to us something like a miracle when the red-skins rode off.

"We had been talking of Leaping Horse during the night, for he had promised to come back to join us, and I knew him well enough to be able to bet all creation that he would come. He had only left us to keep an appointment with his nephew, who was to join him at Fort Bridger. If there had only been two guns fired we should have put it down to him, but being four I don't think either of us thought of him till he stood up and shouted. Now, lad, you had better take a sleep. We shall be moving on as soon as the moon is fairly up, and it won't be over that hill behind us till two or three. I will watch till then, but I don't think there is the least chance of their following us to-night; they have been pretty roughly handled, and I don't think they will follow until they have solved the mystery of that ledge. They searched it, no doubt, as soon as they found the rock was empty, and at daybreak they will set about tracing the trail up. That will be easy enough for them when they have once got rid of the idea that there was something uncanny about it, and then we shall have them on our heels again and on the chief's too. The first thing for us to do will be to make along the hill till we get to the edge of the cañon, where Leaping Horse has gone for your ponies, and to follow it to its upper end."

"I will watch, uncle, if you will wake me in an hour. I shall be all right after a nap, but I can scarcely keep my eyes open now."

It seemed, however, to Tom that he had not been asleep five minutes when his uncle shook him. The others were already on their feet. The moon was shining down through the trees, and with cautious steps, and taking the utmost trouble to avoid the branches, they started on their upward climb. Not a word was spoken, for all knew how far sound travels on a still night. There was, however, a slight breeze moving among the tree tops when they started, and in an hour this had so far increased that the boughs were swaying and the leaves rustling.

"I reckon there ain't no occasion to keep our mouths shut no longer," one of the men said. "Now that the trees are on the move they would not hear us if they were only a hundred yards away."

All were glad when daylight began to appear, Tom because the climbing would be much easier when the ground could be seen, the others because they were all longing for a pipe, but had hitherto not dared to light one, for the flash of a match could be seen far away. They had been bearing steadily to the right as they mounted, and shortly after daybreak they suddenly found themselves on the edge of a cañon.

"Do you think this is the one, Jerry?" one of the men asked.

"That is more than I can tell, Ben. I did not see an opening in the valley as we came up it, but we might very well have missed one in the dark. I should think from the distance we have gone towards the right it must be the one where we left our horses. Anyhow, whether it is or not, we must follow it up to the top and wait there for a bit to see if the chief comes."

"I reckon he will be there before us," Harry said; "that is if he got round the red-skins all right and found the horses. There would be no reason for him to wait, and I expect he would go straight on, and is like enough to be waiting for us by this time."

CHAPTER VII. CHASED

The party pressed forward as rapidly as they could. The ground was rough and at times very steep, and those on foot were able to keep up with the horses without much difficulty.

"You think the Indians will follow, uncle?" Tom asked.

"They will follow, you may bet your boots, Tom; by this time they have got to the bottom of the mystery. The first thing this morning some of them will go up on to the ledge where you were, follow your tracks down to the cañon where you left the horses, and find that you came up the valley and not down it. They will have made out that there were two whites and two red-skins, and that the two red-skins have gone up the cañon with the horses. Directly the matter is all cleared up, they will be hotter than ever for our scalps, for there is nothing a red-skin hates worse than being fooled. Of course, they will know that it is a good deal harder to wipe out seven men than three, and I don't think they will attack us openly; they know well enough that in a fair fight two red-skins, if not three, are likely to go down for each white they rub out. But they will bide their time: red-skins are a wonderful hand at that; time is nothing to them, and they would not mind hanging about us for weeks and weeks if they can but get us at last. However, we will talk it all over when the Indians join us. I don't think there is any chance of fighting to-day, but whether we shall get out of these mountains without having another scrimmage is doubtful."

Tom noticed that in his talk with him his uncle dropped most of the western expressions which when speaking with the others he used as freely as they did. He was now able to have a fair look at him, and found that he agreed pretty closely with the ideas he had formed of him. There was a strong likeness between him and his brother. They were about the same height, but Harry was broader and more strongly built. His face was deeply bronzed by long exposure to the wind and sun. He had a large tawny beard, while Tom's father had been clean shaved. The sailor was five years the senior, but the miner looked far younger than Tom could ever remember his father looking, for the latter had never thoroughly recovered his, health after having had a long bout of fever on the Zanzibar station; and the long stride and free carriage of his uncle was in striking contrast to the walk of his father. Both had keen gray eyes, the same outline of face, the same pleasant smile.

"Now that I can see you fairly, Tom," the miner said, when they halted once for the horses to come up to them, "I can make out that you are a good deal like your father as I can first remember him."

"I was thinking you were very like him, uncle."

"We used to be alike in the old days, but I reckon the different lives we led must have changed us both a great deal. He sent me once a photograph four or five years ago, and at first I should not have known it was he. I could see the likeness after a bit, but he was very much changed. No doubt I have changed still more; all this hair on my face makes a lot of difference. You see, it is a very long time since we met. I was but twenty when I left England, and I had not seen him for two or three years before that, for he was on the Mediterranean station at the time. Well, here are the horses again, and as the ground looks flatter ahead we shall have to push on to keep up with them." They were presently altogether beyond the forest, and a broad plateau of bare rock stretched away in front of them for miles.

"There they are," Jerry Curtis shouted. "I was beginning to feel scared that the 'Rappahoes had got them."

It was a minute or two before Tom could make out the distant figures, for his eyes were less accustomed to search for moving objects than were those of his companions.

"They are riding fast," Harry Wade said. "I reckon they have made out some Indians on their trail."

The little dark mass Tom had first seen soon resolved itself into two horsemen and two riderless animals. They were still three or four miles away, but in twenty minutes they reached the party advancing to meet them. The whites waved their hats and gave them a cheer as they rode up.

"So you have managed to get through them all right, chief?"

"The 'Rappahoes are dogs. They are frightened at shadows; their eyes were closed. Leaping Horse stood near their fires and saw them go forward, and knew that his white brothers must have gained the forest before the 'Rappahoes got to the rock. He found the horses safe, but the cañon was very dark and in some places very narrow, with many rocks in the road, so that he had to stop till the moon was high. It was not until morning came that he reached the head of the cañon, an hour's ride from here. Half an hour back Leaping Horse went to the edge and looked down. There were ten 'Rappahoes riding fast up the trail. Has my brother heard anything of the others?"

"Nothing whatever," Harry said. "I reckon they did not begin to move until daylight, and as we went on when the moon rose they must be a good two hours behind us. Which way do you think we had better go, chief?"

"Where does my brother wish to go?"

"It matters mighty little. I should say for a bit we had better travel along this plateau, keeping about the same distance from the timber-line. I don't think the 'Rappahoes will venture to attack us in the open. If we keep on here we can cross the divide and get into the Shoshones' country, and either go down the Buffalo and then up the Snake and so work down south, or go east and strike some of the streams running that way into the Big Horn."

The chief shook his head.

"Too far, too many bad Indians; will talk over fire tonight."

"That is it, chief. It is a matter that wants a good deal of talking over. Anyhow, we had better be moving on at once."

Tom was glad to find himself in the saddle again, and the party rode on at a steady pace for some hours, then they halted, lit a fire, and cooked a meal. Tom noticed that the Indians no longer took pains to gather dry sticks, but took the first that came to hand. He remarked this to Jerry.

"They know it is no use trying to hide our trail here; the two bands of Indians will follow, one up and one down, until they meet at the spot where the chief joined us. From there they can track us easy enough. Nothing would suit us better than for them to come up to us here, for we should give them fits, sartin. This is a good place. This little stream comes down from that snow peak you see over there, and we have got everything we want, for this patch of bushes will keep us in firing for a bit. You see, there are some more big hills in front of us, and we are better here than we should be among them. I expect we shall camp here for the night."

"Then you don't think the Indians will come up close?"

"Not they. They will send a spy or two to crawl up, you may be sure, but they will know better than to come within reach of our rifles."

"I am mighty glad to have my teeth into some deer-flesh again," Ben Gulston said. "We had two or three chances as we came along, but we dare not fire, and we have just been living on bread and bacon. Where did you kill these wapiti?"

"At our first halt, near Fremont's Pass. We got two."

"Well, you haven't eaten much, Jerry," Sam Hicks said. "I reckon four men ought pretty well to have finished off two quarters by this time."

"I reckon we should have finished one of the bucks, Sam; but we caught a grist of fish the same day, dried them in the sun, and I think we mostly ate them. They would not keep as well as the flesh. That is as good as the day we shot it, for up here in the dry air meat keeps a sight better than down in the plains. Give me some more tea, Sam."

"What do you think, mates, of camping here?" Harry Wade said. "The chief thinks we are better here than we should be if we moved on. He feels certain the red-skins won't dare attack us."

There was a cordial agreement in favour of a halt, for after the work they had gone through during the last week they were glad of a rest. No one would have thought half an hour afterwards that the little party engaged in washing their shirts at the stream or mending their clothes, were in the heart of a country unknown to most of them, and menaced by a savage foe. The horses cropped the scanty tufts of grass or munched the young tops of the bushes, the rifles stood stacked by the fire, near which the two Indians sat smoking and talking earnestly together, Hunting Dog occasionally getting up and taking a long careful look over the plain. As the men finished their various jobs they came back to the fire.

"Now, chief," Harry said, "let us hear your ideas as to what we had best do. We are all pretty old hands at mountaineering, but we reckon you know a great deal more about it than we do. You don't like the plans I proposed."

"No can do it," the chief said positively. "In a moon the snow will fall, and there will be no crossing mountains."

"That is true enough," Jerry said. "An old trapper who had lived among the Shoshones told me that nine months in the year they were shut up in the valleys by the snow on the passes."

"Then how can live?" the chief went on. "As long as we stay in this country the 'Rappahoes will watch us. They will tell the Bannacks and the Nez Percés, and they too would be on our trail. As long as we keep together and watch they will not come, they fear the white man's rifle; but we cannot live without hunting, and then they kill one, two, till all killed. At night must always watch, at day cannot hunt. How we live? What good to stay? If we stop all killed sure."

There was silence round the circle. Every one of them felt the truth of the Indian's words, and yet they hated the thought of abandoning their search for gold, or, failing that, of a return home with their horses laden with beaver skins.

Harry was the first to speak. "I am afraid these varmint have interfered with our plans, mates. If we had had the luck to drop into one of the upper valleys without being noticed we could have hunted and trapped there and looked for gold for months without much chance of being discovered, but this has upset it all. I am afraid that what the chief says is true. If we keep together we starve, if we break up and hunt we shall be ambushed and killed. I hate giving up anything I have set my mind on, but this time I don't see a way out of it. We ain't the first party that has come up here and had to go back again with empty hands, and we know what happened to that party of twenty old-time miners from California two years ago, though none of them ever got back to tell the tale. We knew when we started, it wur just a chance, and the cards have gone against us."

"That is so," Ben agreed; "if it had turned out well we might have made a good strike. It ain't turned out well, and as every day we stay here there will be more of those varmint swarming round us, I say the sooner we get out of this dog-goned country the better."

"You can count me in with you, Ben," Sam Hicks said. "We have gone in for the game and we don't hold hands, and it ain't no use bluffing against them red-skins. We sha'n't have lost much time arter all, and I reckon we have all learned something. Some day when the railroad goes right across, Uncle Sam will have to send a grist of troops to reckon up with the red-skins in these hills, and arter that it may be a good country for mining and trapping, but for the present we are a darned sight more likely to lose our scalps than to get skins."

"Well, Leaping Horse, which way would you advise us to take, then?"

"Go straight back to cañon, ride down there, cross river, go up mountains other side, pass them north of Union Peak, come down on upper water Big Wind River. From there little way on to Green River. Leaping Horse never been there, but has heard. One long day's ride from here, go to upper waters of Green River."

"That sounds good," Jerry Curtis said. "If we could once strike the Green we should be out of the 'Rappahoe country altogether. I have known two or three men who have been up the Green nearly to its head, and there is good hunting and a good many beaver in the side streams. I should not have thought it would have come anywhere like as near as this, but I don't doubt the chief is right."

"Union Peak," the chief said, pointing to a crag rising among a tumble of hills to the south.

"Are you sure, chief?"

The Indian nodded. "Forty, fifty miles away," he said. "Leaping Horse has been to upper waters of Green River, seen the peak from other side."

"That settles it, then," Harry said. "That is our course, there cannot be a doubt. I should never have proposed the other if I had had an idea that we were within sixty or seventy miles of the Green River. And you think we had better take the cañon you came up by, chief?"

The Indian nodded. "If go down through forest may be ambushed. Open ground from here back to cañon. 'Rappahoes most in front. Think we go that way, not think we go back. Get good start. Once across river follow up little stream among hills other side, that the way to pass. If 'Rappahoes follow us we fight them."

"Yes, we shall have them at an advantage there, for they would have to come up under our fire, and there are sure to be places where half a dozen men could keep fifty at bay. Very well, chief, that is settled. When do you think we had better start?"

"When gets dark," the chief replied. "No lose time, more Indian come every hour. Keep fire burning well, 'Rappahoes think we camp here. Take horses a little way off and mount beyond light of fire."

"You think they will be watching us?"

"Sure to watch. First ride north half an hour, then turn and ride to cañon. If spies see us go off take word to friends we gone north. Too dark to follow trail. They think they catch us easy to-morrow, and take up trail in morning; but too late then, we cross river before that."

There was a general murmur of assent. The thought of being constantly watched, and suddenly attacked when least expecting it, made them feel restless, and the thought of early action was pleasant to them.

"You don't think that there are any spies watching us now, uncle, do you?"

"Not close, Tom; they would know better than that. They could see us miles away if we were to mount and ride off, and it is only when it gets dark that they would venture to crawl up, for if one were sighted in the daytime he would not have a ghost of a chance of getting away, for we could ride him down sartin."

"Well, I reckon we may as well take a sleep," Sam Hicks said. "You lie down for one, anyhow, Harry, for you watched last evening. We will toss up which of us keeps awake."

"Leaping Horse will keep watch," the chief said quietly. "No fear of

Indians, but better to watch."

Knowing the power of the red-skins to keep awake for an almost unlimited time, none of the others thought of refusing the offer, and in a few minutes all were sound asleep. Towards sunset they were on their feet again. Another meal was cooked and eaten, then as it became dusk the horses were gathered fifty yards away, and Hunting Dog and Tom took their places beside them.

"Keep your eyes open and your rifle handy, Tom," his uncle said. "It is like enough that some young brave, anxious to distinguish himself, may crawl up with the intention of stampeding the ponies, though I don't think he would attempt it till he thought most of us were asleep. Still, there is no saying."

The watch was undisturbed, and soon it became so dark that objects could no longer be seen fifty yards away. Tom began to feel nervous. Every tuft of ground, every little bush seemed to him to take the form of a crawling Indian, and he felt a great sense of relief when he saw the figures round the fire rise and walk towards him.

"I am glad you have come, uncle," he said frankly; "I began to feel very uncomfortable several times. It seemed to me that some of the bushes moved."

"That is just what I thought you would be feeling, Tom. But it was just as well that your first watch should be a short one, without much chance of an ambush being on foot; and I knew that if your eyes deceived you, Hunting Dog was there. Next time you won't feel so nervous; that sort of thing soon passes off."

A fresh armful of brushwood had been thrown on to the fire before the men left it, and long after they had ridden away they could see the flames mounting high. After riding north for a quarter of an hour they changed their route and passed round, leaving the fire half a mile on their right. The light of the stars was quite sufficient for them to travel by, and after four hours' journey the chief, who was riding ahead, halted.

"Not far from cañon now. Listen."

A very faint murmur came to their ears, so faint that had not his attention been drawn to it Tom would not have noticed it at all.

"What is that noise?" he asked.

"That is the stream down in the cañon," his uncle replied. "How far are we from the head, chief?"

"Not far, must ride slow."

They proceeded at a walk, changing their course a little towards the east. Hunting Dog went on ahead, and in a quarter of an hour they heard his signal, the cry of an owl. It arose from a point still further east, and quickening their pace, in a few minutes they came up to the young Indian, who was standing by his horse at the edge of a steep descent, at the bottom of which Tom could see a stream of water.

"It looks very steep," Jerry said.

"Steep, but smooth," the Indian replied. "Came up here with horses this morning."

All dismounted, and Tom went up to his horse's head. "That won't do, Tom. Never go before a horse down a steep place where you can't see your way, always drive it before you."

There was some trouble in getting the horses to commence the descent, but after a short time the chief's pony set the example; and tucking its hind legs under it until it sat down on its haunches, began to slide down, while the other animals, after staring into the darkness with ears laid back and snorting with fear, were half-persuaded, half-forced to follow its example, and the men went down after them. The descent was not so steep as in the darkness it looked, and the depth was not over fifty feet. As soon as they reached the bottom they mounted again, and the chief leading the way, they rode down the cañon. At first they were able to proceed at a fair pace, but as the sides grew higher and more precipitous the darkness became more dense, and they were obliged to pick their way with great caution among the boulders that strewed the bottom of the ravine. Several times they had to dismount in order to get the horses over heavy falls, and it was four hours from the time they entered the cañon before they approached its mouth. When they entered the little wood where they had first left the horses, the chief said, "Make fire, cook food here. Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog go on and scout, maybe 'Rappahoes left watch in valley."

"Very well, chief. It is seven hours since we started; I think the horses will be all the better for an hour's rest, and I am sure we shall be the better of a feed. Besides, when we are once out of this hole we may have to travel fast."

"You don't think it likely that the 'Rappahoes are on the look-out for us at the entrance?" Tom asked, as the Indians moved away.

"Not likely at all, Tom. Still, as they might reckon that if we gave their searching party the slip we must come down again by the river or through this cañon, they may have left a party or sent down word to some of their villages to keep a watch in the valley."

It was more than an hour before the Indians returned.

"No 'Rappahoes in valley," the chief said, as he seated himself by the fire and began without loss of time to eat the meat they had cooked in readiness. "Better be going soon, must cross river and get on before light come; have seen fires, Indian villages up on hillsides. When light comes and 'Rappahoes find trail they come back quick."

"You may bet your boots they will, chief," Sam Hicks said. "They will be a pretty mad crowd when they make out that we have come down again by the cañon. As soon as they see which way we have headed some of them will make a bee-line down here in hopes of cutting us off at the mouth, but by the time they are here we shall be half-way up the hill."

The Indian made no reply, but he and Hunting Dog ate their meal steadily, and as soon as they had finished rose to their feet, and saying "Time to go" went out to fetch in their horses.

"I don't think the chief is as confident we shall get off without a fight as Sam seemed to be," Tom said to his uncle.

"There is never any saying what an Indian thinks, Tom, even when he has fallen into white man's ways, as Leaping Horse has done. It may be that the sight of the fires he made out on the opposite hills has troubled him. It will be light before we are far up on the side, and we may be made out by some of the varmint there. They are always restless. Go into an Indian village when you will, you will find some of them smoking by the fire. Their ears are so 'tarnal sharp, they can hear sounds that would never catch our ears, not at half the distance. The clink of a couple of pans together, or a stone set rolling by a horse's tread, were it ever so faint, would bring them on their feet directly, especially now they know that a war-party is out."

The march was again resumed. Passing through the narrowest part of the cañon they issued out into the valley and made for the river. Some time was lost here, for Sam Hicks, who was leading one of the pack-ponies, was carried down several hundred yards by the stream, and with difficulty effected his landing. The horse's load shifted and had to be repacked. As soon as this was done they followed the river down for two miles till they came upon a stream running into it from the southwest.

"You think this is the stream we have to follow, chief?"

"Must be him, no other came in on this side for a long way; right line for peak."

They turned up by the stream, and after riding a mile found themselves entering a mountain gorge. It was not a cañon but a steep, narrow valley. They picked their way with the greatest caution for some time, then the two Indians stopped simultaneously.

"What is the matter, chief?" Harry, who was riding next to them, whispered.

"Smell smoke."

Harry sniffed the air.

"I can't say I smell it, chief, but if you say you do that settles it.

Where do you think it comes from?"

"Up valley; wind light, but comes that way. Indian village up here."

"Well, so much the worse for the Indian village if it interferes with us," Harry said grimly; "there is one thing certain, we have got to go through. Probably most of the braves are away up in the hills."

They now went on with redoubled caution. The chief gave his bridle to Hunting Dog and went forward on foot. A hundred yards farther the valley made a sharp turn and then widened out considerably, and the glow of a fire was visible among some trees standing on the hillside some fifty feet above the level of the stream. The chief looked at the sky; a faint light was breaking, and without pausing he continued to lead the way. They passed under the Indian encampment, and had got a few yards higher when the pony Sam Hicks was leading gave a sharp neigh.

"Darn its old ears!" Tom heard Jerry growl. Harry at the same moment put his horse to a trot, and the others following clattered up the valley, knowing that concealment was no longer of any use; indeed, an answering neigh from above and hurried shouts were heard, followed a moment afterwards by a loud yell as an Indian running through the trees caught sight of them in the moonlight.

"We are in for it now, Tom; that is, if there are men enough in the village to attack us."

The horses broke into a gallop. They had gone but fifty yards when a rifle-shot was heard from behind, and Tom felt a shock as the ball struck his saddle. Almost immediately another shot was fired abreast of him, and an Indian yell rose loudly behind them. A moment later Leaping Horse with a shout of triumph bounded down the rocks and leapt on to his horse. Four or five more shots were fired from behind, but none of them were hit. A hundred yards farther they were in shelter of a belt of trees that extended down to the stream. As they entered it Harry looked back. He could now see the hills beyond the main valley.

"Look, chief!" he exclaimed. "The varmint up there are signalling far off above the timber-line."

Bright tongues of fire could be seen, two close together and one a short distance to the left.

"What does that mean, uncle?" Tom asked, as the chief gave a short exclamation of surprise and anger.

"It means, lad, that the red-skins have been sharper than we gave them credit for. When their spies brought them news that we had started they must have come down to the fire and followed our trail at once with torches, before we had got above an hour or two away. No doubt it was slow work, but they must have found where we changed our course, and made out that we were making for the head of the cañon. I expect most of them lost no time in following the trail farther, but rode straight for the head of the cañon, and like enough they weren't half an hour behind us when we came out. The others rode to the edge of the plateau and set those fires alight."

"But what do they mean, uncle?"

"They are a warning to all the villages that we have headed back, you may be sure of that, though I can't say what the message is, for every tribe has its own signals, but it will have set them on the watch up and down the valley; and like enough the signal has been repeated somewhere at a point where it can be seen straight down the Big Wind Valley. The shooting will tell them all which way we are making, and if the 'Rappahoes have come out of the cañon, as I reckon they have, they need lose no more time in looking for our trail. I reckon in half an hour we shall have a hundred or so of the varmint after us. I only hope there are no more villages upon this line. I don't so much care about the fellows who are following us, we are sure to find some place where we can make a stand, but it would be awkward if we find our way barred."

"But if there is no one in front, uncle, I should think we might be able to keep ahead. Our horses are as good as they are likely to have."

"You and Jerry might be able to, Tom, for you have got hold of two first-rate ponies; but the Indians' are nothing out of the way, and our ponies ain't in it with you; besides, they and the pack-horses have all been doing hard work for the last week with none too much food, and many of the 'Rappahoes will be on fresh horses. I expect we have got some very tall climbing to do before we get up to the pass, and we have got to do our fighting before we get there."

The ground rose steeply, and was encumbered by fallen stones and boulders, and it was not long before the pack-horses began to show signs of distress, while those ridden by Harry and his two comrades were drawing their breath in short gasps. After emerging from the trees the ravine had run in almost a straight line for more than half a mile, and just as they reached the end of this stretch a yell was heard down the valley. Looking back they saw eight or ten mounted Indians emerging from the wood at the lower end.

"That is a signal," Harry exclaimed, as four rifles were fired in quick succession. "Well, we have got a bit of a start of them, and they won't venture to attack us until some more come up. We had better take it a bit quietly, chief, or our horses will give out. I expect we sha'n't be long before we come upon a place where we can make a stand."

The Seneca looked round at the horses. "You, Sam, Ben and pack-horses go on till you get to place where can fight. We four wait here; got good horses, and can ride on. We stop them here for a bit."

"That would be best. I don't like being out of it, but we will do our share presently."

No more words were necessary. Harry and his two mates rode on at a slower pace than before, while the two Indians, Jerry, and Tom dismounted, left their horses beyond the turn, and then coming back took up their positions behind four large boulders. The Indians had noticed their returning figures, for they suddenly drew up their horses and gathered together in consultation.

"Draw your bullet, Tom," Jerry said, "and drop in half a charge more powder; I reckon that piece of yours will send a bullet among them with the help of a good charge. Allow a bit above that top notch for extra, elevation. It's a good big mark, and you ought to be able to plump a bullet among them."

Tom followed the instructions, and then resting the barrel on the top of the boulder took a steady aim and fired. There was a sudden stir among the group of Indians. A horse reared high in the air, almost unseating its rider, and then they all rode off at the top of their speed, and halted two or three hundred yards lower down the valley. The Senecas uttered a grunt of approval.

"That was a good shot, Tom, though I wish you had hit one of the red-skins instead of his critter. Still, it will give them a good lesson, and make them mighty keerful. They won't care about showing their ugly heads within range of a piece that will carry five hundred yards."

A quarter of an hour passed without any movement on the part of the Indians. Then a large party of horsemen appeared from the trees below, and were greeted by them with a yell of satisfaction.

"There must be well-nigh fifty of them," Jerry said. "I reckon it's the party that came down the hill. They must have picked up a good many others by the way. Now the fun is going to begin."

After five minutes' consultation some twenty of the Indians dismounted, and dividing into two parties ascended the slopes of the valley and began to move forward, taking advantage of every stone and bush, so that it was but occasionally that a glimpse of one of their bodies was obtained.

"They are going to skirmish up to us," Jerry said, "till they are near enough to make it hot for us if we show a head above the rocks to fire. As soon as they can do that, the others will charge. I think they are not more than four hundred yards off now, Tom. That is within your range, so you may as well begin to show them that we are awake. If you can bring one down it will check their pace."

Tom had just noticed three Indians run behind a clump of bushes, and he now levelled his rifle so that it bore on a spot a foot on one side of it. Half a minute later an Indian appeared at the bush and began to run forward. Tom pressed the trigger. The Indian ran a few steps, and then fell forward on his face.

"Bravo, Plumb-centre!" Jerry shouted. "We said that you would do the rifle credit, Tom, and Billy the Scout could not have done better himself."

"Young white man make great hunter," the chief remarked approvingly.

"Got good eye and steady hand."

The lesson had its effect. The Indian advance was no longer rapid, but was conducted with the greatest caution, and it was only occasionally that a glimpse could be caught of a dusky figure passing from rock to rock. When they came within three hundred yards the two Indians and Jerry also opened fire. One fell to a shot from the chief, but neither of the others hit their marks. Tom indeed did not fire again, the movements of the Indians being so rapid that they were gone before he could bring his sight to bear upon any of them.

"Go now," the chief said. "'Rappahoes fire soon; run quick."

It was but a few yards to shelter. As they dashed across the intervening space two or three Indian rifles rang out, but the rest of the assailants had been too much occupied in sheltering themselves and looking for the next spot to make for, to keep an eye upon the defenders, and the hastily-fired shots all missed. A moment later the party mounted their horses and rode up the ravine, the yells of the Indians ringing in their ears.

CHAPTER VIII. IN SAFETY

"We have gained half an hour anyhow," Jerry said, as they galloped up the ravine, "and I reckon by the time we overtake them we shall find them stowed away in some place where it will puzzle the red-skins to dislodge us. The varmint will fight hard if they are cornered, but they ain't good at advancing when there are a few rifle-tubes, in the hands of white men, pointing at them, and they have had a lesson now that we can shoot."

The ravine continued to narrow. The stream had become a mere rivulet, and they were high up on the hillside.

"I begin to be afeared there ain't no place for making a stand." Here he was interrupted by an angry growl, as a great bear suddenly rose to his feet behind a rock.

"You may thank your stars that we are too busy to attend to you," Jerry said, as they rode past within a few yards of it. "That is a grizzly, Tom; and an awkward beast you would have found him if you had come upon him by yourself without your shooting-iron. He is a big one too, and his skin would have been worth money down in the settlements. Ah, there they are."

The ravine made an abrupt turn to the west, and high up on its side they saw their three companions with the five horses climbing up the precipitous rocks.

"How ever did they get up there?" Jerry exclaimed.

"Found Indian trail," the chief said. "Let my brothers keep their eyes open."

They rode on slowly now, examining every foot of the steep hillside. Presently Hunting Dog, who was ahead, uttered an exclamation. Between two great boulders there was a track, evidently a good deal used.

"Let Hunting Dog go first," the chief said. "Leaping Horse will follow the white men."

"I reckon that this is the great Indian trail over the pass," Jerry said to Tom, who preceded him. "I have heard there ain't no way over the mountains atween that pass by Fremont's Buttes and the pass by this peak, which they calls Union Peak, and the red-skins must travel by this when they go down to hunt buffalo on the Green River. It is a wonder Harry struck on it."

"Leaping Horse told him to keep his eyes open," the chief said from the rear. "He knew that Indian trail led up this valley."

"Jee-rusalem! but it's a steep road," Jerry said presently. "I am dog-goned if I can guess how the red-skins ever discovered it. I expect they must have tracked some game up it, and followed to see where it went to."

The trail wound about in a wonderful way. Sometimes it went horizontally along narrow ledges, then there was a bit of steep climbing, where they had to lead their horses; then it wound back again, and sometimes even descended for a distance to avoid a projecting crag.

"Ah! would ye, yer varmint?" Jerry exclaimed, as a shot rang out from the valley below and a bullet flattened itself against a rock within a foot or two of his head. The shot was followed by a loud yell from below, as a crowd of mounted Indians rode at full gallop round the angle of the ravine.

"Hurry on, Hunting Dog, and get round the next corner, for we are regular targets here."

A few yards farther a turn of the path took them out of sight of the

Indians, but not before a score of bullets came whistling up from below.

"The varmint have been riding too fast to shoot straight, I reckon. It will be our turn directly."

Just as he spoke the chief called upon them to dismount. They threw their bridles on their horses' necks, and descending to the ledge they had just left, lay down on it.

"Get your revolver out, Tom, before you shoot," Jerry said. "They will be off before you have time to load your rifle again."

The Indians were some four hundred feet below them, and were talking excitedly, evidently hesitating whether to follow up the trail. The four rifles cracked almost together. Two Indians fell, and the plunging of two horses showed that they were hit. In an instant the whole mass were on their way down the valley, followed by bullet after bullet from the revolvers which Leaping Horse as well as the whites carried. Anything like accurate aim was impossible, and no Indian was seen to fall, but it was probable that some of the bullets had taken effect among the crowded horsemen.

"Go on quiet now," Leaping Horse said, rising to his feet. "'Rappahoes not follow any farther. One man with this"—and he touched his revolver—"keep back whole tribe here."

Half an hour later they joined the party who had halted at the top of the track.

"It air too bad our being out of it," Ben said. "I hope you have given some of the varmint grist."

"Only five or six of them," Jerry replied regretfully, "counting in the one Leaping Horse shot at the village. Tom here did a big shot, and brought one down in his tracks at a good four hundred yards—as neat a shot as ever I saw fired. The chief he accounted for another; then atween us we wiped out two down below; and I reckon some of the others are carrying some of our lead away. Waal, I think we have shook them off at last any how. I suppose there ain't, no other road they can come up here by, chief?"

"Leaping Horse only heard of one trail."

"You may bet your life there ain't another," Harry remarked. "They would never have used such a dog-goned road as this if there had been any other way of going up."

"Camp here," the chief said. "Long journey over pass, too much cold.

Keep watch here at head of trail."

"That is a very good plan. I have heard that the pass is over nine thousand feet above the sea, and it would never do to have to camp up there. Besides, I have been looking at the sky, and I don't much like its appearance. Look over there to the north."

There were, indeed, evident signs of an approaching change in the weather. On the previous day every peak and jagged crest stood out hard and distinct in the clear air. Now all the higher summits were hidden by a bank of white cloud.

"Snow" the Indian said gravely; "winter coming."

"That is just what I thought, chief. At any rate we know where we are here, and there is brushwood to be gathered not far down the trail; and even if we are shut up here we can manage well enough for a day or two. These early snows don't lie long, but to be caught in a snow-storm higher up would be a sight worse than fighting with red-skins."

From the spot where they were now standing at the edge of the ravine the ground sloped very steeply up for some hundreds of feet, and then steep crags rose in an unbroken wall; but from the view they had had of the country from the other side they knew that behind this wall rose a range of lofty summits. The Indian trail ran along close to the edge of the ravine. The chief looked round earnestly.

"No good place to camp," he said. "Wind blow down hills, horses not able to stand against it. Heap snow tumble down from there," and he pointed upwards. "Carry everything down below."

"Well, if you think we had better push on, let us do so, chief."

The Indian shook his head and pointed to the clouds again. "See," he said; "storm come very soon."

Even in the last two or three minutes a change was perceptible. The upper edge of the clouds seemed to be suddenly broken up. Long streamers spread out like signal flags of danger. Masses of clouds seemed to be wrenched off and to fly with great rapidity for a short distance; some of them sinking a little, floated back until they again formed a part of the mountain cap, while others sped onwards towards the south.

"No time," the chief repeated earnestly; "must look for camp quick." He spoke in the Indian tongue to Hunting Dog, and the two stood on a point where the ground jutted out, and closely examined the ravine up whose side they had climbed. The chief pointed farther along, and Hunting Dog started at a run along the Indian trail. A few hundred yards farther he paused and looked down, moved a few steps farther, and then disappeared from sight. In three or four minutes he returned and held up his arms.

"Come," the chief said, and taking his horse's rein led it along the path. The others followed his example, glad, indeed, to be in motion. Five minutes before they had been bathed in perspiration from their climb up the cliff; now they were conscious of the extraordinary change of temperature that had suddenly set in, and each had snatched a blanket from behind his saddle and wrapped it round him. They soon reached the spot where Hunting Dog was standing, and looked down. Some thirty feet below there was a sort of split in the face of the cliff, a wall of rock rising to within four or five feet of the level of the edge of the ravine. At one end it touched the face of the rock, at the other it was ten or twelve feet from it, the space between being in the form of a long wedge, which was completely filled up with trees and brushwood. A ledge ran down from the point where Hunting Dog was standing to the mouth of the fissure.

"Jee-rusalem, chief!" Ben exclaimed. "That air just made for us—we could not have found a better, not if we had sarched for a year. But I reckon we shall have to clear the place a bit before we take the critters down."

Two axes were taken from one of the pack-horses.

"Don't cut away the bigger stuff, Ben," Harry said as his two mates proceeded down the ledge, "their heads will shelter us from the snow a bit; and only clear away the bushes enough to give room for the horses and us, and leave those standing across the entrance to make a screen. While you are doing it we will fetch in as much more wood and grass as we can get hold of before the snow begins to fall."

The horses were left standing while the men scattered along the top of the ravine, and by the time Ben shouted that they were ready, a considerable pile of brushwood and a heap of coarse grass had been collected. The horses were then led down one by one, unsaddled, and packed together in two lines, having beyond them a great pile of the bushes that had been cut away.

"I am dog-goned if this ain't the best shelter I ever struck upon," Jerry said. "We could not have fixed upon a better if we had had it built special," the others cordially agreed.

The place they occupied was of some twelve feet square. On either side was a perpendicular wall of rock; beyond were the horses; while at the entrance the bush, from three to four feet high, had been left standing; above them stretched a canopy of foliage. Enough dry wood had been collected to start a fire.

"Don't make it too big. Jerry, we don't want to scorch up our roof," Harry Wade said. "Well, I reckon we have got enough fuel here for a week, for there is what you cut down and what we brought, and all that is left standing beyond the horses; and with the leaves and the grass the ponies should be able to hold out as long as the fuel lasts. We are short of meat, but we have plenty of flour; and as for water, we can melt snow."

Buffalo rugs were laid down on each side by the rock walls, and on these they took their seats and lighted their pipes.

"I have been wanting a smoke pretty bad," Jerry said; "I ain't had one since we halted in that there cañon. Hello, here it comes!"

As he spoke a fierce gust of wind swayed the foliage overhead and sent the smoke, that had before risen quietly upwards, whirling round the recess; then for a moment all was quiet again; then came another and a stronger gust, rising and gathering in power and laden with fine particles of snow. A thick darkness fell, and Harry threw some more wood on the fire to make a blaze. But loud as was the gale outside, the air in the shelter was hardly moved, and there was but a slight rustling of the leaves overhead. Thicker and thicker flew the snow flakes in the air outside, and yet none seemed to fall through the leaves.

"I am dog-goned if I can make this out," Sam Hicks said. "We are as quiet here as if we were in a stone house, and one would think there was a copper-plated roof overhead. It don't seem nat'ral."

The others were also looking up with an air of puzzled surprise, not unmingled with uneasiness. Harry went to the entrance and looked out over the breastwork of bushes. "Look here, Sam," he said.

"Why, Harry, it looks to me as if it were snowing up instead of down," the miner said as he joined him.

"That is just it. You see, we are in the elbow of the valley and are looking straight down it, into the eye of the wind. It comes rushing up the valley and meets this steep wall on its way, and pushed on by the wind behind has to go somewhere, and so it is driven almost straight up here and over the hilltops behind us. So you see the snow is carried up instead of falling, and this rock outside us shoots it clear up over the path we were following above. As long as the wind keeps north, I reckon we sha'n't be troubled by the snow in here."

The explanation seemed satisfactory, and there was a general feeling of relief.

"I remember reading," Tom said, as the others took their seats again, "that people can stand on the edge of a cliff, facing a gale, without feeling any wind. For the wind that strikes the cliff rushes up with such force that it forms a sort of wall. Of course, it soon beats down again, and not many yards back you can feel the gale as strongly as anywhere else. But just at the edge the air is perfectly still."

The miners looked at Tom as if they thought that he was making a joke at their expense. But his uncle said:

"Yes, I can quite believe that. You see, it is something like a waterfall; you can stand right under that, for the force shoots it outwards, and I reckon it is the same sort of thing here." The chief nodded gravely. He too had been surprised at the lull in their shelter when the storm was raging so furiously outside, but Harry's illustration of the action of rushing water enlightened him more than his first explanation had done.

"But water ain't wind, Harry," Ben said.

"It is like water in many ways, Ben. You don't see it, but you can feel it just the same. If you stand behind a tree or round a corner it rushes past you, and you are in a sort of eddy, just as you would be if it was a river that was moving alongside of you. Wind acts just the same way as water. If it had been a big river coming along the valley at the same rate as the wind it would rush up the rocks some distance and then sweep round and race up the valley; but wind being light instead of being heavy is able to rush straight up the hill till it gets right over the crest."

"Waal, if you say it is all right I suppose it is. Anyhow, it's a good thing for us, and I don't care how long it goes on in the same way. I reckoned that before morning we should have those branches breaking down on us with the weight of snow; now I see we are like to have a quiet night."

"I won't answer for that, Ben; it is early in the day yet, and there is no saying how the wind may be blowing before to-morrow morning. Anyhow, now we have time we may as well get some of those bundles of bushes that we brought down, and pile them so as to thicken the shelter of these bushes and lighten it a bit. If we do that, and hang a couple of blankets inside of them, it will give us a good shelter even if the wind works round, and will help to keep us warm. For though we haven't got wind or snow in here, we have got cold."

"You bet," Jerry agreed; "it is a regular blizzard. And although I don't say as it is too cold sitting here by the fire, it won't cost us anything to make the place a bit warmer."

Accordingly the bundles of wood they had gathered were brought out, and with these the screen of bush was thickened, and raised to a height of five feet; and when this was hung inside with a couple of blankets, it was agreed that they could get through the storm comfortably even if it lasted for a month.

They cooked their last chunk of deer's flesh, after having first prepared some bread and put it in the baking pot among the embers, and made some tea from the water in the skins. When they had eaten their meal they covered themselves up in buffalo robes and blankets, and lighted their pipes. There was, however, but little talk, for the noise of the tempest was so great, that it was necessary to raise the voice almost to a shout to be heard, and it was not long before they were all asleep.

For hours there was no stir in the shelter, save when a horse pawed the ground impatiently, or when Hunting Dog rose two or three times to put fresh sticks on the fire. It seemed to Tom when he woke that it ought to be nearly morning. He took out his watch, and by the light of the fire made out to his surprise that it was but ten o'clock. The turmoil of the wind seemed to him to be as loud as before, and he pulled the blankets over his shoulder again and was soon sound asleep. When he next woke, it was with the sensation of coldness in the face, and sitting up he saw that the blankets and the ground were covered with a thick coating of fine snow. There was a faint light in addition to that given by the embers of the fire, and he knew that morning was breaking. His movement disturbed his uncle, who was lying next him. He sat up and at once aroused the others.

"Wake up, mates," he said; "we have had somewhere about eighteen hours' sleep, and day is breaking."

In a minute all were astir. The snow was first shaken off the blankets, and then Harry, taking a shovel, cleared the floor. Jerry took the largest cooking-pot, and saying to Tom, "You bring that horse-bucket along," pushed his way out through a small gap that had been left in the screen of bushes. The wind had gone down a good deal, though it was still blowing strongly. The snow had drifted against the entrance, and formed a steep bank there; from this they filled the pot and bucket, pressing the snow down. Tom was glad to get back again within the shelter, for the cold outside was intense. The fire was already burning brightly, and the pot and a frying-pan were placed over it, and kept replenished with snow as fast as their contents melted. "We must keep on at this," Harry said, "there is not a drop left in the skins, and the horses must have water."

As soon as enough had melted it was poured into the kettle. There was some bacon among the trappers' stores, as they had calculated that they would not be able to hunt until out of Big Wind Valley and far up among the forests beyond. The frying-pan was now utilized for its proper work, while the pail was placed close enough to the fire to thaw its contents, without risking injury to it. Within an hour of breakfast being finished enough snow had been thawed to give the horses half a bucket of water each. In each pail a couple of pounds of flour had been stirred to help out what nourishment could be obtained from the leaves, and from the small modicum of grass given to each animal.

"It will be a big journey over the pass, anyhow," Harry had said. "Now that we are making tracks for the settlements we need not be sparing of the flour; indeed, the lighter we are the better."

The day did not pass so pleasantly as that preceding it, for the air was filled with fine snow that blew in at the entrance and found its way between the leaves overhead; while from time to time the snow accumulating there came down with a crash, calling forth much strong language from the man on whom it happened to fall, and shouts of laughter from his comrades. The party was indeed a merry one. They had failed altogether in the objects of their expedition, but they had escaped without a scratch from the Indians, and had inflicted some damage upon them; and their luck in finding so snug a shelter in such a storm far more than counterbalanced their disappointment at their failure.

"Have you often been caught in the snow, uncle?"

"You bet, Tom; me and the chief here were mighty nigh rubbed out three years ago. I was prospecting among the Ute hills, while Leaping Horse was doing the hunting for us both. It was in the middle of winter; the snow was deep on the ground in the valleys and on the tops of the hills, but there was plenty of bare rock on the hillside, so I was able to go on with my work. While as for hunting, the cold drove the big-horns down from the heights where they feed in summer, and the chief often got a shot at them; and they are good eating, I can tell you.

"We hadn't much fear of red-skins, for they ain't fond of cold and in winter move their lodges down to the most sheltered valleys and live mostly on dried meat. When they want a change they can always get a bear or maybe a deer in the woods. We were camped in a grove of pines in a valley and were snug enough. One day I had struck what I thought was the richest vein I had ever come on. I got my pockets full of bits of quartz with the gold sticking thick in it, and you may bet I went down to the camp in high glee. A quarter of a mile before I got there I saw Leaping Horse coming to meet me at a lope. It didn't want telling that there was something wrong. As soon as he came up he said 'Utes.' 'Many of them, chief?' I asked. He held up his open hands twice.

"'Twenty of them,' I said; 'that is pretty bad. How far are they away?' He said he had seen them coming over a crest on the other side of the valley. 'Then we have got to git,' I said, 'there ain't no doubt about that. What the 'tarnal do the varmint do here?' 'War-party,' the chief said. 'Indian hunter must have come across our trail and taken word back to the lodges.' The place where he had met me was among a lot of rocks that had rolled down. There had been no snow for a fortnight, and of course the red-skins would see our tracks everywhere, going and coming from the camp. We were on foot that time, though we had a pack-horse to carry our outfit. Of course they would get that and everything at the camp. I did not think much of the loss, the point was how were we to save our scalps? We had sat down behind a rock as soon as he had joined me. Just then a yell came from the direction of our camp, and we knew that the red-skins had found it. 'They won't be able to follow your trail here, chief, will they?' He shook his head. 'Trail everywhere, not know which was the last.' We could see the grove where the camp was, and of course they could see the rocks, and it was sartin that if we had made off up the hill they would have been after us in a squirrel's jump; so there was nothing to do but to lie quiet until it was dark. We got in among the boulders, and lay down where we could watch the grove through a chink.

"'I don't see a sign of them,' I said. 'You would have thought they would have been out in search of us.'

"'No search,' the chief said. 'No good look for us, not know where we have gone to. Hide up in grove. Think we come back, and then catch us.'

"So it turned out. Not a sign of them was to be seen, and after that first yell everything was as quiet as death. In a couple of hours it got dark, and as soon as it did we were off. We talked matters over, you may be sure. There weren't no denying we were cornered. There we were without an ounce of flour or a bite of meat. The chief had caught up a couple of buffalo rugs as soon as he sighted the red-skins. That gave us just a chance, but it wasn't more. In the morning the red-skins would know we had either sighted them or come on their trail, and would be scattering all over the country in search of us. We agreed that we must travel a good way apart, though keeping each other in sight. They would have noticed that the trails were all single, and if they came upon two together going straight away from the camp, would know for sure it was us making off.

"You may think that with so many tracks as we had made in the fortnight we had been there, they would not have an idea which was made the first day and which was made the last, but that ain't so. In the first place, the snow was packed hard, and the footprints were very slight. Then, even when it is always freezing there is an evaporation of the snow, and the footprints would gradually disappear; besides that, the wind on most days had been blowing a little, and though the drift does not count for much on packed snow, a fine dust is blown along, and if the prints don't get altogether covered there is enough drift in them to show which are old ones and which are fresh. We both knew that they could not make much mistake about it, and that they would be pretty sure to hit on the trail I had made in the morning when I went out, and on that of the chief to the rocks, and following mine back to the same place would guess that we had cached there till it was dark.

"I could have done that myself; one can read such a trail as that like a printed book. The worst of it was, there were no getting out of the valley without leaving sign. On the bare hillsides and among the rocks we could travel safe enough, but above them was everywhere snow, and do what we would there would be no hiding our trail. We agreed that the only thing was to cross the snow as quick as possible, to keep on the bare rock whenever we got a chance, and wherever we struck wood, and to double sometimes one way sometimes another, so as to give the red-skins plenty of work to do to follow our trail. We walked all that night, and right on the next day till early in the afternoon. Then we lay down and slept till sunset, and then walked again all night. We did not see any game. If we had we should have shot, for we knew the red-skins must be a long way behind. When we stopped in the morning we were not so very far from the camp we had started from, for if we had pushed straight back to the settlements we should have been caught sure, for the Utes would have been certain to have sent off a party that way to watch the valleys we should have had to pass through. We lay down among some trees and slept for a few hours and then set out to hunt, for we had been two days without food, and I was beginning to feel that I must have a meal.

"We had not gone far when we came across the track of a black bear. We both felt certain that the trail was not many hours old. We followed it for two miles, and found it went up to a slide of rocks; they had come down from a cliff some years before, for there were bushes growing among them. As a rule a black bear will always leave you alone if you leave him, and hasn't much fight in him at the best; so up we went, thinking we were sure of our bear-steak without much trouble in getting it. I was ahead, and had just climbed up on to a big rock, when, from a bush in front, the bear came out at me with a growl. I expect it had cubs somewhere, I had just time to take a shot from the hip and then he was on me, and gave me a blow on the shoulder that ripped the flesh down to the elbow.

"But that was not the worst, for the blow sent me over the edge, and I fell seven or eight feet down among the sharp rocks. I heard the chief's rifle go off, and it was some time after that before I saw or heard anything more. When I came to I found he had carried me down to the foot of the slide and laid me there. He was cutting up some sticks when I opened my eyes. 'Have you got the bear, Leaping Horse?'

"'The bear is dead,' he said. 'My brother is badly hurt.'

"'Oh, never mind the hurt,' I said, 'so that we have got him. What are you doing, chief? You are not going to make a fire here, are you?'

"'My brother's leg is broken,' he said. 'I am cutting some sticks to keep it straight.'

"That brought me round to my senses, as you may guess. To break one's leg up in the mountains is bad at any time, but when it is in the middle of winter, and you have got a tribe of red-skins at your heels, it means you have got to go under. I sat up and looked at my leg. Sure enough, the left one was snapt like a pipe-stem, about half-way between the knee and the ankle. 'Why, chief,' I said, 'it would have been a sight better if you had put a bullet through my head as I lay up there. I should have known nothing about it.'

"'The Utes have not got my white brother yet.'

"'No,' said I, 'but it won't be long before they have me; maybe it will be this afternoon, and maybe to-morrow morning.' The chief said nothing, but went on with his work. When he had got five or six sticks about three feet long and as many about a foot, and had cut them so that they each had one flat side, he took off his buckskin shirt, and working round the bottom of it cut a thong about an inch wide and five or six yards long. Then he knelt down and got the bone in the right position, and then with what help I could give him put on the splints and bandaged them tightly, a long one and a short one alternately. The long ones he bandaged above the knee as well as below, so that the whole leg was stiff. I felt pretty faint by the time it was done, and Leaping Horse said, 'Want food; my white brother will lie quiet, Leaping Horse will soon get him some.'

"He set to work and soon had a fire going, and then went up to the rocks and came down again with the bear's hams and about half his hide. It was not long before he had some slices cooked, and I can tell you I felt better by the time we had finished. We had not said much to each other, but I had been thinking all the time, and when we had done I said, 'Now, chief, I know that you will be wanting to stay with me, but I ain't going to have it. You know as well as I do that the Utes will be here to-morrow at latest, and there ain't more chance of my getting away from them than there is of my flying. It would be just throwing away your scalp if you were to stop here, and it would not do me a bit of good, and would fret me considerable. Now before you start I will get you to put me somewhere up among those stones where I can make a good fight of it. You shall light a fire by the side of me, and put a store of wood within reach and a few pounds of bear's flesh. I will keep them off as long as I can with the rifle, then there will be five shots with my Colt. I will keep the last barrel for myself; I ain't going to let the Utes amuse themselves by torturing me for a few hours before they finish me. Then you make straight away for the settlements; they won't be so hot after you when they have once got me. The next time you go near Denver you can go and tell Pete Hoskings how it all came about.'

"'My white brother is weak with the pain,' the chief said quietly; 'he is talking foolishly. He knows that Leaping Horse will stay with his friend. He will go and look for a place.' Without listening to what I had to say he took up his rifle and went up the valley, which was a steep one. He was away better than half an hour and then came back. 'Leaping Horse found a place,' he said, 'where he and his brother can make a good fight. Straight Harry get on his friend's back.' It was clear that there weren't no use talking to him. He lifted me up on to my feet, then he got me well up on to his back, as if I had been a sack of coal, and went off with me, striding along pretty near as quick as if I had not been there. It might have been half a mile, when he turned up a narrow ravine that was little more than a cleft in the rock that rose almost straight up from the valley. It did not go in very far, for there had been a slide, and it was blocked up by a pile of rocks and earth, forty or fifty feet high. It was a big job even for the chief to get me up to the top of them. The snow had drifted down thick into the ravine, and it was a nasty place to climb even for a man who had got nothing but his rifle on his shoulder. However, he got me up safely, and laid me down just over the crest. He had put my buffalo robe over my shoulders before starting, and he rolled me up in this and said, 'Leaping Horse will go and fetch rifles and bear-meat,' and he set straight off and left me there by myself."

CHAPTER IX. A BAD TIME

"Even to me," Harry went on, after refilling and lighting his pipe, "it did not seem long before the chief was back. He brought a heavy load, for besides the rifles and bear's flesh he carried on his back a big faggot of brushwood. After laying that down he searched among the rocks, and presently set to work to dig out the snow and earth between two big blocks, and was not long before he scooped out with his tomahawk a hole big enough for the two of us to lie in comfortably. He laid the bear's-skin down in this, then he carried me to it and helped me in and then put the robes over me; and a snugger place you would not want to lie in.

"It was about ten feet below the level of the crest of the heap of rocks, and of course on the upper side, so that directly the red-skins made their appearance he could help me up to the top. That the two of us could keep the Utes back I did not doubt; we had our rifles, and the chief carried a revolver as well as I did. After they had once caught a glimpse of the sort of place we were on, I did not think they would venture into the ravine, for they would have lost a dozen men before they got to the mound. I had looked round while the chief was away, and I saw that a hundred yards or so higher up, the ravine came to an end, the sides closing in, so there was no fear of our being attacked from there. What I was afraid of was that the Indians might be able to get up above and shoot down on us, though whether they could or not depended on the nature of the ground above, and of course I could not see beyond the edge of the rocks.

"But even if they could not get up in the daylight, they could crawl up at night and finish us, or they could camp down at the mouth of the ravine and starve us out, for there was no chance of our climbing the sides, even if my leg had been all right. I was mighty sorry for the chief. He had just thrown his life away, and it must come to the same in the end, as far as I was concerned. Even now he could get away if he chose, but I knew well enough it weren't any good talking to him. So I lay there, just listening for the crack of his rifle above. He would bring down the first man that came in, sartin, and there would be plenty of time after that to get me up beside him, for they would be sure to have a long talk before they made any move. I did not expect them until late in the afternoon, and hoped it might be getting dark before they got down into the valley. There had been a big wind sweeping down it since the snow had fallen, and though it had drifted deep along the sides, the bottom was for the most part bare. I noticed that the chief had picked his way carefully, and guessed that, as they would have no reason for thinking we were near, they might not take up the trail till morning. Of course they would find our fire and the dead bear, or all that there was left of him, and they would fancy we had only stopped to take a meal and had gone on again. They would see by the fire that we had left pretty early in the day. I heard nothing of the chief until it began to get dark; then he came down to me.

"'Leaping Horse will go out and scout,' he said. 'If Utes not come soon, will come back here; if they come, will watch down at mouth of valley till he sees Utes go to sleep.' 'Well, chief,' I said; 'at any rate you may as well take this robe; one is enough to sleep with in this hole, and I shall be as snug as a beaver wrapped up in mine. Half your hunting shirt is gone, and you will find it mighty cold standing out there.'

"In an hour he came back again. 'Utes come,' he said. 'Have just lighted fire and going to cook. No come tonight. Leaping Horse has good news for his brother. There are no stars.'

"That is good news indeed,' I said. 'If it does but come on to snow to-night we may carry our scalps back to the settlement yet.'

"'Leaping Horse can feel snow in the air,' he said. 'If it snows before morning, good; if not, the Utes will tell their children how many lives the scalps of the Englishman and the Seneca cost.'

"The chief lay down beside me. I did not get much sleep, for my leg was hurting me mightily. From time to time he crawled out, and each time he returned saying, 'No snow.' I had begun to fear that when it came it would be too late. It could not have been long before daybreak when he said, as he crawled in: 'The Great Manitou has sent snow. My brother can sleep in peace.' An hour later I raised myself up a bit and looked out. It was light now. The air was full of fine snow, and the earth the chief had scraped out was already covered thickly. I could see as much as that, though the chief had, when he came in for the last time, drawn the faggot in after him. I wondered at the time why he did it, but I saw now. As soon as the snow had fallen a little more it would hide up altogether the entrance to our hole. Hour after hour passed, and it became impossible to get even a peep out, for the snow had fallen so thickly on the leafy end of the brushwood, which was outward, that it had entirely shut us in. All day the snow kept on, as we could tell from the lessening light, and by two o'clock only a faint twilight made its way in.

"'How long do you think we shall be imprisoned here, chief?' I asked.

"'Must not hurry,' he replied. 'There are trees up the valley, and the Utes may make their camp there and stay till the storm is over. No use to go out till my brother can walk. Wait till snow is over; then stay two or three days to give time for Utes to go away. Got bear's flesh to eat; warm in here, melt snow.' This was true enough, for I was feeling it downright hot. Just before night came on the chief pushed the end of his ramrod through the snow and looked out along the hole.

"'Snow very strong,' he said. 'When it is dark can go out if wish.'

"There is not much to tell about the next five days. The snow kept falling steadily, and each evening after dark the chief went outside for a short time to smoke his pipe, while I sat at the entrance and smoked mine, and was glad enough to get a little fresh air. As soon as he came in again the faggot was drawn back to its place, and we were imprisoned for another twenty-four hours. One gets pretty tired after a time of eating raw bear's flesh and drinking snow-water, and you bet I was pretty glad when the chief, after looking out through a peephole, said that the snow had stopped falling and the sun was shining. About the middle of that day he said suddenly: 'I hear voices.'

"It was some time before I heard anything, but I presently made them out, though the snow muffled them a good deal. They did not seem far off, and a minute or two later they ceased. We lay there two days longer, and then even the chief was of opinion that they would have moved off. My own idea was that they had started the first afternoon after the snow had stopped falling.

"'Leaping Horse will go out to scout as soon as it is dark,' he said. 'Go to mouth of ravine. If Utes are in wood he will see their fires and come back again. Not likely come up here again and find his traces.'

"That is what I had been saying for the last two days, for after some of them had been up, and had satisfied themselves that there was no one in the gully, they would not be likely to come through the snow again. When the chief returned after an hour's absence, he told me that the Utes had all gone. 'Fire cold,' he said; 'gone many hours. Leaping Horse has brought some dry wood up from their hearth. Can light fire now.' You may guess it was not long before we had a fire blazing in front of our den, and I never knew how good bear-steak really was till that evening.

"The next morning the chief took off the splints and rebandaged my leg, this time putting on a long strip of the bear's skin, which he had worked until it was perfectly soft while we had been waiting there. Over this he put on the splints again, and for the first time since that bear had knocked me off the rock I felt at ease. We stayed there another fortnight, by the end of which time the bones seemed to have knit pretty fairly. However, I had made myself a good strong crutch from a straight branch with a fork at the end, that the chief had cut for me, and I had lashed a wad of bear's skin in the fork to make it easy. Then we started, making short journeys at first, but getting longer every day as I became accustomed to the crutch, and at the end of a week I was able to throw it aside.

"We never saw a sign of an Indian trail all the way down to the settlements, and by the time we got there I was ready to start on a journey again. The chief found plenty of game on the way down, and I have never had as much as a twinge in my leg since. So you see this affair ain't a circumstance in comparison. Since then the chief and I have always hunted together, and the word brother ain't only a mode of speaking with us;" and he held out his hand to the Seneca, who gravely placed his own in it.

"That war a tight corner, Harry, and no blamed mistake. Did you ever find out whether they could have got on the top to shoot down on you?"

"Yes, the chief went up the day after the Utes had left. It was level up there, and they could have sat on the edge and fired down upon us, and wiped us out without our having a show."

"And you have never since been to that place you struck the day the Utes came down, Harry?" Jerry asked. "I have heard you talk of a place you knew of, just at the edge of the bad lands, off the Utah hills. Were that it?"

Harry nodded. "I have never been there since. I went with a party into Nevada the next spring, and last year the Utes were all the time upon the war-path. I had meant to go down this fall, but the Utes were too lively, so I struck up here instead; but I mean to go next spring whether they are quiet or not, and to take my chances, and find out whether it is only good on the surface and peters out to nothing when you get in, or whether it is a real strong lode. Ben and Sam, and of course the chief, will go with me, and Tom here, now he has come out, and if you like to come we shall be all glad."

"You may count me in," Jerry said, "and I thank you for the offer. I have had dog-goned bad luck for some time, and I reckon it is about time it was over. How are you going to share?"

"We have settled that. The chief and I take two shares each as discoverers. You four will take one share each."

"That is fair enough, Harry. Those are mining terms, and after your nearly getting rubbed out in finding it, if you and the chief had each taken three shares there would have been nothing for us to grunt at. They are a 'tarnal bad lot are the Utes. I reckon they are bad by nature, but the Mormons have made them worse. There ain't no doubt it's they who set them on to attack the caravans. They could see from the first that if this was going to be the main route west there would be so many coming along, and a lot perhaps settle there, that the Gentiles, as they call the rest of us, would get too strong for them. What they have been most afeard of is, that a lot of gold or silver should be found up in the hills, and that would soon put a stop to the Mormon business. They have been wise enough to tell the red-skins that if men came in and found gold there would be such a lot come that the hunting would be all spoilt. There is no doubt that in some of the attacks made on the caravans there have been sham Indians mixed up with the real ones. Red-skins are bad enough, but they are good men by the side of scoundrels who are false to their colour, and who use Indians to kill whites. That is one reason I want to see this railway go on till it jines that on the other side. It will be bad for game, and I reckon in a few years the last buffalo will be wiped out, but I will forgive it that, so that it does but break up the Saints as they call themselves, though I reckon there is about as little of the saint among them as you will find if you search all creation."

"Right you are, Jerry," Sam Hicks said. "They pretty nigh wiped me out once, and if Uncle Sam ever takes to fighting them you may bet that I am in it, and won't ask for no pay."

"How did it come about, Sam?" Jerry asked. "I dunno as I have ever heard you tell that story."

"Waal, I had been a good bit farther east, and had been doing some scouting with the troops, who had been giving a lesson to the red-skins there, that it was best for them to let up on plundering the caravans going west. We had done the job, and I jined a caravan coming this way. It was the usual crowd, eastern farmers going to settle west, miners, and such like. Among them was two waggons, which kept mostly as far apart from the others as they could. They was in charge of two fellows who dressed in store clothes, and had a sanctimonious look about them. There was an old man and a couple of old women, and two or three boys and some gals. They did not talk much with the rest, but it got about that they were not going farther than Salt Lake City, and we had not much difficulty in reckoning them up as Mormons. There ain't no law perviding for the shooting of Mormons without some sort of excuse, and as the people kept to themselves and did not interfere with no one, nothing much was said agin them. On a v'yage like that across the plains, folks has themselves to attend to, and plenty to do both on the march and in camp, so no one troubles about any one else's business.

"I hadn't no call to either, but I happened to go out near their waggons one evening, and saw two or three bright-looking maids among them, and it riled me to think that they was going to be handed over to some rich old elder with perhaps a dozen other wives, and I used to feel as it would be a satisfaction to pump some lead into them sleek-looking scoundrels who had them in charge. I did not expect that the gals had any idea what was in store for them. I know them Mormons when they goes out to get what they call converts, preaches a lot about the prophet, and a good deal about the comforts they would have in Utah. So much land for nothing, and so much help to set them up, and all that kind of thing, but mighty little about polygamy and the chance of their being handed over to some man old enough to be their father, and without their having any say in the matter. Howsoever, I did not see as I could interfere, and if I wanted to interfere I could not have done it; because all those women believed what they had been taught, and if I a stranger, and an ill-looking one at that, was to tell them the contrary, they wouldn't believe a word what I had said. So we went on till we got within four or five days' journey of Salt Lake City, then one morning, just as the teams were being hitched up, two fellows rode into camp.

"As we were in Utah now, there weren't nothing curious about that, but I reckoned them up as two as hard-looking cusses as I had come across for a long time. After asking a question or two they rode to the Mormon waggons, and instead of starting with the rest, the cattle was taken out and they stopped behind. Waal, I thought I would wait for a bit and see what they were arter. It weren't no consarn of mine noways, but I knew I could catch up the waggons if I started in the afternoon, and I concluded that I would just wait; so I sat by the fire and smoked. When the caravan had gone on the Mormons hitched up their cattle again. They were not very far away from where I was sitting, and I could see one of the men in black pointing to me as he talked with the two chaps who had just jined them. With that the fellow walked across to where I was sitting.

"'Going to camp here?' says he.

"'Waal,' I says, 'I dunno, as I haven't made up my mind about it. Maybe

I shall, maybe I sha'n't.'

"'I allow it would be better for you to move on.'

"'And I allow,' says I, 'it would be better for you to attend to your own affairs.'

"'Look here,' says he, 'I hear as you have been a-spying about them waggons.'

"'Then,' says I, 'whosoever told you that, is an all-fired liar, and you tell him so from me.'

"I had got my hand on the butt of my Colt, and the fellow weakened.

"'Waal,' he said, 'I have given you warning, that is all.'

"'All right,' says I, 'I don't care none for your warnings; and I would rather anyhow be shot down by white skunks dressed up as red-skins, than I would have a hand in helping to fool a lot of innercent women.'

"He swore pretty bad at this, but I could see as he wasn't real grit, and he went off to the waggons. There was considerable talk when he got there, but as the Mormons must have known as I had been a scout, and had brought a lot of meat into the camp on the way, and as the chap that came across must have seen my rifle lying handy beside me, I guess they allowed that I had better be left alone. So a bit later the waggons started, and as I expected they would, went up a side valley instead of going on by the caravan route. The fellow had riz my dander, and after sitting for a bit I made up my mind I would go after 'em. I had no particular motive, it wur just out of cussedness. I was not going to be bluffed from going whar I chose. This air a free country, and I had as much right to go up that valley as they had."

"I should have thought yer had had more common sense, Sam Hicks," Jerry said reproachfully, "than to go a-mixing yourself up in a business in which you had no sort of consarn. Ef one of them women had asked you to help her, or if you had thought she was being taken away agin her will, you or any other man would have had a right to take a hand in the game; but as it was, you war just fooling with your life to interfere with them Mormons in their own country."

"That is so, Jerry, and I ain't a word to say agin it. It war just a piece of cussedness, and I have asked myself forty-eleven times since, what on arth made me make such a blame fool of myself. Afore that fellow came over to bluff me I hadn't no thought of following the waggons, but arter that I felt somehow as if he dared me to do it. I reckoned I was more nor a match for the two fellows who just jined them, and as for the greasy-faced chaps in black, I did not count them in, one way or the other. I had no thought of getting the gals away, nor of getting into any muss with them if they left me alone. It was just that I had got a right to go up that valley or any other, and I was not going to be bluffed out of it. So I took up my shooting-iron, strapped my blanket over my shoulder, and started. They war maybe a mile away when I turned into the valley. I wasn't hungry for a fight, so I didn't keep up the middle, but just skirted along at the foot of the hill where it did not seem likely as they would see me. I did not get any closer to them, and only caught sight of them now and then.

"As far as I could make out there was only one horseman with them, and I reckoned the other was gone on ahead; looking for a camping-ground maybe, or going on to one of the Mormon farms to tell them to get things ready there. What I reckoned on doing, so far as I reckoned at all, was to scout up to them as soon as it got dark and listen to their talk, and try to find out for certain whether the women war goin' willing. Then I thought as I would walk straight up to their fires and just bluff those four men as they tried to bluff me. Waal, they went on until late in the afternoon, unhitched the cattle, and camped. I waited for a bit, and now that I war cooled down and could look at the thing reasonable, I allowed to myself that I had showed up as a blamed fool, and I had pretty well made up my mind to take back tracks and go down the valley, when I heard the sound of some horses coming down fast from the camp.

"Then the thought that I was a 'tarnal fool came to me pretty strong, you bet. One of those fellows had ridden on and brought down some of the Regulators, as we used to call them in the mining camps, but I believe the Mormons call them Destroying Angels, though there is mighty little of angels about them. I hoped now that they had not caught sight of me during the day, and that the band were going right down to the waggon camp; but as I had not taken any particular pains to hide myself, I reckoned they must have made me out. It war pretty nigh dark, and as I took cover behind a bush I could scarce see them as they rode along. They went down about two hundred yards and then stopped, and I could hear some of them dismount.

"'You are sure we are far enough?' one said.

"'Yes; I can swear he was higher up than this when we saw him just before we camped.'

"'If you two fellows hadn't been the worst kind of curs,' a man said angrily, 'you would have hidden up as soon as you made out he was following you and shot him as he came along.'

"'I told you,' another voice said, 'that the man is an Indian fighter, and a dead shot. Suppose we had missed him.'

"'You could not have missed him if you had waited till he was close to you before you fired; then you might have chucked him in among the bushes and there would have been an end of it, and we should have been saved a twenty-mile ride. Now then, look sharp for him and search every bush. Between us and Johnson's party above we are sure to catch him.'

"I didn't see that, though I did wish the rocks behind had not been so 'tarnal steep. I could have made my way up in the daylight, though even then it would have been a tough job, but without light enough to see the lay of the ledges and the best places for getting from one to another, it was a business I didn't care about. I was just thinking of making across to the other side of the valley when some horsemen came galloping back.

"'You stop here, brother Ephraim, and keep your ears well open, as well as your eyes. You stop fifty yards higher up, Hiram, and the others at the same distance apart. When the men among the rocks come abreast of you, Ephraim, ride on and take your place at the other end of the line. You do the same, Hiram, and so all in turn; I will ride up and down.'

"It was clear they meant business, and I was doubting whether I would take my chance of hiding or make for the cliff, when I saw a light coming dancing down from the camp, and knew it was a chap on horseback with a torch. As he came up the man who had spoken before said: 'How many torches have you got, brother Williams?'

"'A dozen of them.'

"'Give me six, and take the other six down to the men below. That is right, I will light one from yours.'

"You may guess that settled me. I had got to git at once, so I began to crawl off towards the foot of the cliffs. By the time I had got there, there war six torches burning a hundred yards below, and the men who carried them were searching every bush and prying under every rock. Along the middle of the valley six other torches were burning fifty yards apart. There was one advantage, the torches were pitch-pine and gave a fairish light, but not so much as tarred rope would have done; but it was enough for me to be able to make out the face of the cliff, and I saw a break by which I could get up for a good bit anyhow. It was where a torrent came down when the snows were melting, and as soon as I had got to the bottom I made straight up. There were rocks piled at its foot, and I got to the top of these without being seen.

"I hadn't got a dozen feet higher when my foot set a boulder rolling, and down it went with a crash. There were shouts below, but I did not stop to listen to what they said, but put up the bed of the torrent at a two-forty gait. A shot rang out, and another and another, but I was getting now above the light of their torches. A hundred feet higher I came to a stand-still, for the rock rose right up in front of me, and the water had here come down from above in a fall. This made it a tight place, you bet. There war no ledge as I could see that I could get along, and I should have to go down a good bit afore I got to one. They kept on firing from below, but I felt pretty sure that they could not see me, for I could hear the bullets striking high against the face of the rock that had stopped me.

"You may bet I was careful how I went down again, and I took my time, for I could see that the men with the torches had halted at the foot of the heap of rocks below, not caring much, I expect, to begin to mount, while the horsemen kept on firing, hoping to hear my body come rolling down; besides, they must have known that with their torches they made a pretty sure mark for me. At last I got down to the ledge. It war a narrow one, and for a few yards I had to walk with my face to the rock and my arms spread out, and that, when I knew that at any moment they might make me out, and their bullets come singing up, warn't by no means pleasant. In a few yards the ledge got wider and there was room enough on it for me to lie down. I crawled along for a good bit, and then sat down with my back against the rock and reckoned the matter up. All the torches war gathered round where I had gone up. Four more men had come down from the camp on horseback, and five or six on foot with torches were running down the valley. They had been searching for me among the bushes higher up, and when they heard the firing had started down to jine the others. The leader was shouting to the men to climb up after me, but the men didn't seem to see it.

"'What's the use?' I heard one fellow say; 'he must be chock-full of bullets long ago. We will go up and find his carcass in the morning.'

"'But suppose he is not dead, you fool.'

"'Well, if he ain't dead he would just pick us off one after another as we went up with torches.'

"'Well, put your torches out, then. Here, I will go first if you are afraid,' and he jumped from his horse.

"You can bet your boots that my fingers itched to put a bullet into him. But it warn't to be done; I did not know how far the ledge went or whether there might be any way of getting off it, and now I had once got out of their sight it would have been chucking away my life to let them know whar I lay. So I got up again and walked on a bit farther. I came on a place where the rock had crumbled enough for me to be able to get up on to the next ledge, and after a lot of climbing up and down I got to the top in about two hours, and then struck across the hills and came down at eight o'clock next morning on to the caravan track. I hid up till evening in case they should come down after me, and next morning I came up to the caravan just as they were hitching the teams up for a start."

"You got out of that better than you deserved," Harry said. "I wouldn't have believed that any man would have played such a fool's trick as to go meddling with the Mormons in their own country without any kind of reason. It war worse than childishness."

The other two miners assented vigorously, and Sam said: "Waal, you can't think more meanly of me over that business than I do of myself. I have never been able to make out why I did it, and you may bet it ain't often I tells the story. It war a dog-goned piece of foolishness, and, as Harry says, I didn't desarve to get out of it as I did. Still, it ain't made me feel any kind of love for Mormons. When about two hundred shots have been fired at a man it makes him feel kinder like as if he war going to pay some of them back when he gets the chance, and you may bet I mean to."

"Jee-rusalem!"

The exclamation was elicited by the fall of a heavy mass of snow on to the fire, over which the kettle had just begun to boil. The tripod from which it hung was knocked over. A cloud of steam filled the place, and the party all sprung to their feet to avoid being scalded.

"It might have waited a few minutes longer," Jerry grumbled, "then we should have had our tea comfortable. Now the fire is out and the water is spilt, and we have got to fetch in some more snow; that is the last lot there was melted."

"It is all in the day's work, Jerry," Harry said cheerfully, "and it is just as well we should have something to do. I will fetch the snow in if the rest of you will clear the hearth again. It is a nuisance about the snow, but we agreed that there is no help for it, and we may thank our stars it is no worse."

It was not long before the fire was blazing again, but it took some time before water was boiling and tea made, still longer before the bread which had been soddened by the water from the kettle was fit to eat. By this time it was dark. When the meal was over they all turned in for the night. Tom was just going off to sleep, when he was roused by Leaping Dog suddenly throwing off his buffalo robe and springing to his feet with his rifle in his hand.

"Hist!" he said in a low tone. "Something comes!"

The men all seized their rifles and listened intently. Presently they heard a soft step on the snow outside, then there was a snuffing sound.

"B'ar!" the Indian said.

A moment later a great head reared itself over the bushes at the entrance. Five rifles rang out, the two Indians reserving their fire; the report was followed by the dull sound of a heavy fall outside.

"Wait a moment," Harry said sharply, as the others were preparing to rush out, "let us make sure he is dead."

"He is dead enough," Jerry said. "I reckon even a grizzly cannot walk off with five bullets in his head."

Harry looked over the screen. "Yes, he is dead enough; anyhow he looks so. Waal, this is a piece of luck." They all stepped out on to the platform.

"Is it a grizzly, uncle?" Tom asked excitedly.

"He is a grizzly, sure enough. You don't want to see his colour to know that. Look at his size."

"Why, he is as big as a cow."

"Ay, lad, and a big cow too. You go in and make up the fire while we cut off enough meat for supper."

The fact that they had eaten a meal but half an hour before, went for nothing; slices of bear-meat were soon frizzling, and as hearty a meal was eaten as if no food had been tasted since the previous day. The men were in the highest spirits; the fact that they were out of meat had been the greatest drawback to the prospect of being shut up for perhaps a week, for badly-baked bread is but a poor diet to men accustomed to live almost exclusively upon meat.

"What brought the bear down here?" Tom asked.

"Curiosity at first perhaps, and then hunger," his uncle replied. "I expect he was going along on the path above when he saw the light among the leaves, and then no doubt he smelt the bread, and perhaps us and the horses, and came down to see what he could get.

"Curiosity is a bad fault, Tom. You have had two lessons in that this evening. Bear in mind that in this part of the world the safest plan is always to attend strictly to your own business."

All thought of sleep was for the present dissipated; their pipes were again lighted, and it was midnight before they lay down. In the morning the bear was with some difficulty skinned and cut up, the joints being left outside to freeze through. The snow still fell steadily, but the wind had almost died down. Sallying out they cut five or six long poles, and with some difficulty fixed these from above across from the cliff to the outstanding rock, pushed the bear's-skin across them, and lashed it there, its bulk being sufficient to cover the space above the fire and a considerable portion of their dwelling room.

After breakfast snow was again melted for the horses, and the work for the day thus done they seated themselves contentedly round the fire.

CHAPTER X. AN AVALANCHE

"You don't think, chief," Harry asked, "that there is any chance of the

'Rappahoes taking it into their heads to come up to have a look round?"

"Indians keep in lodges, no like cold; they think we have gone on over pass. If weather gets fine perhaps they come to look for our guns and packs. They think sure we die in snow-storm when we up in pass. When snow stops falling, we make no more fire; but path from valley all shut up by snow now."

"Yes, I don't think anyone would try to climb it till the sun has cleared the track; it was a pretty bad place when we came up," Harry said. "I don't say that men on foot could not make their way up; but as you say, the red-skins are not likely to try it until the weather has cleared a bit, though I don't say that they wouldn't if they knew we were camped here close to the top."

"What noise is that?" Tom asked. "I have heard it several times before, but not so loud as that."

"Snow-slide," Leaping Horse said. "Snow come down from mountains; break off trees, roll rocks down. Bad place all along here."

"Yes. I saw that you looked up at the hills behind there before you looked over the edge here, chief," Ben Gulston said, "and I reckoned that you had snow-slides in your mind. I thought myself that it was like enough the snow might come tumbling over the edge of that high wall and then come scooting down over where we war, and there would have been no sort of show for us if we had been camped whar the trail goes along."

"Leaping Horse has heard from his red brothers with whom he has spoken that trail from top of valley very bad when snow falls. Many Indians stopping too long at fort, to trade goods, have been swept away by snow-slides when caught in storm here."

"I thought it looked a bad place," Harry remarked. "There ain't no fooling with a snow-slide anyway. I have come across bones once or twice lying scattered about in snug-looking valleys—bones of horses and men, and it was easy to see they had been killed by a snow-slide coming down on them. Rocks were heaped about among them, some of the bones were smashed. They had been hunting or trapping, and sheltered up in a valley when the storm came on and the slide had fallen on them, and there they had laid till the sun melted the snow in summer, when the coyotes and the vultures would soon clean the bones." He broke off suddenly; there was a dull sound, and at the same moment a distinct vibration of the ground, then a rustling murmur mingled with a rumbling as of a waggon passing over a rocky ground.

"There is another one," Jerry exclaimed, "and it is somewhere just above us. Keep your backs to the wall, boys."

Louder and louder grew the sound; the tremor of the earth increased, the horses neighed with fright, the men stood with their backs against the rock next to the hill. Suddenly the light was darkened as a vast mass of snow mingled with rocks of all sizes leapt like a torrent over the edge of the cliff, the impetus carrying it over the outer wall of their shelter and down into the ravine. There was a mighty sound of the crashing of trees, mingled with a thumping and rolling of the rocks as they clashed against the side of the ravine and went leaping down into the valley. The ground shook with a continuous tremor, and then the light returned as suddenly as it had been cut off, and a few seconds later a dead stillness succeeded the deafening roar from below. The passage of the avalanche overhead had lasted but a minute, though to the men standing below it the time had seemed vastly longer. Instinctively they had pressed themselves against the rock, almost holding their breath, and expecting momentarily that one of the boulders in its passage would strike the top of the outside wall and fall in fragments among them. The silence that followed was unbroken for some seconds, and then Sam Hicks stepped a pace forward.

"Jee-rusalem!" he said, "that was a close call. I don't know how you felt, boys, but it seemed as if all the sand had gone out of me, and I weakened so that my knees have not done shaking yet."

The men, accustomed as they were to danger, were all equally affected. Tom felt relieved to see that the others all looked pale and shaken, for he was conscious that he had been in a terrible fright, and that his legs would scarcely support his weight.

"I am glad to hear you say so, Sam, for I was in an awful funk; but I should not have said so if you hadn't spoken."

"You needn't be ashamed of that, Tom," his uncle put in. "You showed plenty of pluck when we were in trouble with the red-skins, but I am sure there was not one of us that did not weaken when that snow-slide shot over us; and none of us need be ashamed to say so. A man with good grit will brace up, keep his head cool and his fingers steady on the trigger to the last, though he knows that he has come to the end of his journey and has got to go down; but it is when there is nothing to do, no fight to be made, when you are as helpless as a child and have no sort of show, that the grit runs out of your boots. I have fought red-skins and Mexicans a score of times; I have been in a dozen shooting scrapes in saloons at the diggings; but I don't know that I ever felt so scared as I did just now. Ben, there is a jar of whisky in our outfit; we agreed we would not touch it unless one of us got hurt or ill, but I think a drop of medicine all round now wouldn't be out of place."

There was a general assent. "But before we take it," he went on, "we will take off our hats and say 'Thank God' for having taken us safe through this thing. If He had put this shelter here for us express, He could not have planted it better for us, and the least we can do is to thank Him for having pulled us through it safe."

The men all took off their hats, and stood silent for a minute or two with bent heads. When they had replaced their hats Ben Gulston went to the corner where the pack-saddles and packs were piled, took out a small keg, and poured out some whisky for each of the white men. The others drank it straight; Tom mixed some water with his, and felt a good deal better after drinking it. Ben did not offer it to the Indians, neither of whom would touch spirits on any occasion.

"It is a good friend and a bad enemy," Harry said as he tossed off his portion. "As a rule there ain't no doubt that one is better without it; but there is no better medicine to carry about with you. I have seen many a life saved by a bottle of whisky. Taken after the bite of a rattlesnake, it is as good a thing as there is. In case of fever, and when a man is just tired out after a twenty-four hours' tramp, a drop of it will put new life into him for a bit. But I don't say as it hasn't killed a sight more than it has cured. It is at the bottom of pretty nigh every shooting scrape in the camps, and has been the ruin of hundreds of good men who would have done well if they could but have kept from it."

"But you ain't a temperance man yourself, Harry?"

"No, Sam; but then, thank God, I am master of the liquor, and not the liquor of me. I can take a glass, or perhaps two, without wanting more. Though I have made a fool of myself in many ways since I have come out here, no man can say he ever saw me drunk; if liquor were to get the better of me once, I would swear off for the rest of my life. Don't you ever take to it, Tom; that is, not to get so as to like to go on drinking it. In our life we often have to go for months without it, and a man has got to be very careful when he goes down to the settlements, else it would be sure to get over him."

"I don't care for it at all, uncle."

"See you don't get to care for it, Tom. There are plenty start as you do, and before they have been out here long they do get to like it, and from that day they are never any good. It is a big temptation. A man has been hunting or trapping, or fossicking for gold in the hills for months, and he comes down to a fort or town and he meets a lot of mates. One says 'Have a drink?' and another asks you, and it is mighty hard to be always saying 'no'; and there ain't much to do in these places but to drink or to gamble. A man here ain't so much to be blamed as folks who live in comfortable houses, and have got wives and families and decent places of amusement, and books and all that sort of thing, if they take to drink or gambling. I have not any right to preach, for if I don't drink I do gamble; that is, I have done; though I swore off that when I got the letter telling me that your father had gone. Then I thought what a fool I had made of myself for years. Why, if I had kept all the gold I had dug I could go home now and live comfortably for the rest of my life, and have a home for my nieces, as I ought to have. However, I have done with it now. And I am mighty glad it was the cards and not drink that took my dust, for it is a great deal easier to give up cards than it is to give up liquor when you have once taken to it. Now let us talk of something else; I vote we take a turn up on to the trail, and see what the snow-slide has done."

Throwing the buffalo robes round their shoulders the party went outside. The air was too thick with snow to enable them to perceive from the platform the destruction it had wrought in the valley below, but upon ascending the path to the level above, the track of the avalanche was plainly marked indeed. For the width of a hundred yards, the white mantle of snow, that covered the slope up to the point where the wall of cliff rose abruptly, had been cleared away as if with a mighty broom. Every rock and boulder lying upon it had been swept off, and the surface of the bare rock lay flat, and unbroken by even a tuft of grass. They walked along the edge until they looked down upon their shelter. The bear's hide was still in its place, sloping like a pent-house roof, from its upper side two or three inches below the edge of the rock, to the other wall three feet lower. It was, however, stripped of its hair, as cleanly as if it had been shorn off with a razor, by the friction of the snow that had shot down along it.

"That is the blamedest odd thing I ever saw," Sam Hicks said. "I wonder the weight of the snow didn't break it in."

"I expect it just shot over it, Sam," Harry said. "It must have been travelling so mighty fast that the whole mass jumped across, only just rubbing the skin. Of course the boulders and stones must have gone clean over. That shows what a narrow escape we have had; for if that outer rock had been a foot or so higher, the skin would have caved in, and our place would have been filled chock up with snow in a moment. Waal, we may as well turn in again, for I feel cold to the bones already."

On the evening of the fifth day the snow ceased falling, and next morning the sky was clear and bright. Preparations were at once made for a start. A batch of bread had been baked on the previous evening. Some buckets of hot gruel were given to the horses, a meal was hastily eaten, the horses saddled and the packs arranged, and before the sun had been up half an hour they were on their way. The usual stillness of the mountains was broken by a variety of sounds. From the valley at their feet came up sharp reports, as a limb of a tree, or sometimes the tree itself, broke beneath the weight of the snow. A dull rumbling sound, echoing from hill to hill, told of the falls of avalanches. Scarcely had the echoes of one ceased, than they began again in a fresh quarter. The journey was toilsome in the extreme, for the horses' hoofs sank deep in the freshly-fallen snow, rendering their progress exceedingly slow.

"If we had been sure that this weather would hold, chief, it would have been better to have waited a few days before making our start, for by that time the snow would have been hard enough to travel on."

The chief shook his head. "Winter coming for good," he said, waving his hand towards the range of snowy summits to the north. "Clouds there still; if stop, not able to cross pass till next summer."

"That is so; we agreed as to that yesterday, and that if we don't get over now the chances are we shall never get over at all. Yet, it is a pity we can't wait a few days for a crust to form on the snow."

Twice in the course of the next hour avalanches came down from the hills above them; the first sweeping down into the valley a quarter of a mile behind them, the next but two or three hundred yards ahead of them. Scarcely a word was spoken from end to end of the line. They travelled in Indian file, and each horse stepped in the footprints of its predecessor. Every few hundred yards they changed places, for the labour of the first horse was very much heavier than of those following. At the end of an hour the men drew together for a consultation. There was a wide break in the line of cliffs, and a valley ran nearly due south.

"What do you think, chief? This confounded snow has covered up all signs of the trail, and we have got to find our own way. There is no doubt this valley below is running a deal too much to the west, and that the trail must strike off somewhere south. It looks to me as if that were a likely valley through the cliff. There is no hiding the fact that if we take the wrong turn we are all gone coons."

"Leaping Horse knows no more than his brother," the chief said gravely. "He knows the pass is on the western side of the great peak. The great peak lies there," and he pointed a little to the west of the break in the hills up which they were looking.

"It may be that we must cross the hills into another valley, or perhaps this will turn west presently."

"I tell you what, Harry," Sam Hicks said, "my opinion is, that our best plan by a long chalk will be to go back to our last place and to stop there for a bit. We have got b'ar's flesh enough for another fortnight, and we may kill some more game afore that is done. Ef this is but a spell of snow it may melt enough in another ten days for us to make out the trail and follow it. Ef, as the chief thinks, we have got winter right down on us, we must wait till the snow crust hardens ef it is a month or double. Anything is better than going on like this. What with this soft snow and these 'tarnal snow-slides, there ain't no more chance of our getting over that pass in one day's journey, than there air in our flying right down to Salt Lake City. Ef the worst comes to the worst, I tell yer I would rather go back and take our chance of following the Big Wind River down, and fighting the red-skins, than I would of crossing over these dog-goned hills."

The other three men were of the same opinion.

"Well, what do you say, chief?" Harry asked the Indian.

"Leaping Horse thinks that the trail will not be found until next summer," the chief replied quietly. "Heap of hills in front and heap of snow. If snow-storm catch us in the hills no find way anywhere. Leaping Horse is ready to do whatever his white brother thinks."

"Well, I am with the others," Harry said. "I don't like the look of those clouds. They are quiet enough now, but they may begin to shift any time, and, as you say, if we are caught in a snow-storm on the hills there is an end of us. I think Sam is right. Even if we have to rustle all through the winter in that hut there, I would rather face it than keep on."

That settled it. The horses' heads were turned, and they retraced their steps until they reached the shelter. The bear's-skin had been left where it was, the fire was soon set going, and there was a general feeling of satisfaction as they laid out the robes and blankets again.

"Look here, boys," Harry said, "this is not going to be a holiday time, you bet. We have got to make this place a sight snugger than it is now, for, I tell you, when the winter sets in in earnest, it will be cold enough here to freeze a buffalo solid in an hour. We have got to set to work to make a roof all over this place, and we have got to hunt to lay in a big stock of meat. We have got to get a big store of food for the horses, for we must be mighty careful with our flour now. We can wait a fortnight to see how things go, but if it is clear then that we have got to fight it out here through the winter, we must shoot the pack-ponies at once, and I reckon the others will all have to go later. However, we will give them a chance as long as we can."

"Take them down into the valley," the chief said. "All Indian horses."

"Ah, I didn't think of that, chief. Yes, they are accustomed to rustle for their living, and they may make a shift to hold on down there. I don't think there is much fear of Indians coming up."

"No Indians," Leaping Horse said. "Indians go away when winter set in. Some go to forest, some go to lodges right down valley. No stop up here in mountains. When winter comes plenty game—big-horn, wapiti."

"Ah, that is a more cheerful look-out, chief. If we can get plenty of meat we can manage without flour, and can go down and give the ponies a pail of hot gruel once a week, which will help them to keep life together. The first thing, I take it, is to cut some poles for the roof. I am afraid we shall have to go down to the bottom for them."

"Waal, we needn't begin that till to-morrow," Sam Hicks said. "If we had them, we have got no skins to cover them."

"Cut brushwood," Indian said. "First put plenty of brushwood on poles, then put skins over."

"Yes, that is the plan, chief. Well, if we get down there we shall have to take our shovels and clear the snow off some of the narrow ledges. If we do that we can lead one of the horses down to pack the poles up here."

The chief went out on to the platform. "No use clear snow now. Clouds moving. In two hours snow fall again."

The others joined him outside. "I reckon you are right, chief," Jerry said. "It is mighty lucky we didn't go on. It can't be much worse here than it was before."

At three in the afternoon it began to snow heavily again. There was less wind than there had been on the previous occasion, and the snow drifted through the entrance less than before. Just as they were turning in for the night an ominous crack was heard above. All leapt from their blankets, and looking up they could see by the light of the fire that the poles supporting the skin were all bent in a curve downwards.

"Jee-rusalem!" Sam Hicks exclaimed, "the whole outfit will be coming down on us."

"That it will, Sam. You see, there is no wind as there was before, and one of our jobs will be keeping the roof clear of snow. Turn out, boys; we must get rid of it somehow."

They at once set to work to lash two poles, some eight feet long, to the handles of the shovels, and as soon as this was done they all turned out. On reaching the edge of the ravine above the roof, they first cleared away the snow down to the rock so as to have firm standing, and then proceeded to shovel the snow off the surface of the skin. It was easier work than they expected, for as soon as it was touched it slid down the incline, and in a very few minutes the whole was cleared off.

"I think that is good until morning now," Harry said. "As long as the snow lasts we shall have to do it every few hours. Directly we get a spell of fine weather we must put some more poles under it to strengthen it."

For six days the snow continued to fall without intermission. At daybreak, at mid-day, and the last thing before they turned in at night the snow was cleared off the hide. With this exception they did not stir out of the shelter. They had also each day to clear out the inner portion of the fissure, as the snow now frequently broke through the trees in masses, startling the horses, and keeping them in a state of restlessness. The sixth day it stopped snowing, and the next morning the sky was bright and clear. The whole party at once started out, two of them taking shovels, and the rest brooms that they had made during the long hours of their confinement. By the middle of the day they had cleared the path down into the valley, and on their way back to dinner each carried up a large bundle of faggots.

The meal was cooked and eaten hastily, and the whole of the horses were then led down into the valley. Here a couple of dozen stout poles for the roof were cut by the whites, the two Indians at once going up the valley in search of game. In half an hour two rifle-shots were heard, and presently Hunting Dog ran in with the news that they had killed two wapiti. Jerry and Sam Hicks at once went off with him, leading two horses, and presently returned with the dead deer fastened across their backs.

"They are very like pictures I have seen of moose," Tom said to his uncle as he examined the great stags.

"New-comers often call them moose, Tom; but there is a difference between them, though what the difference is I cannot tell you, for I have never hunted moose. I believe the wapiti are peculiar to the West. They often go in great herds of three or four hundreds together."

"The chief says there are a great many of them up the valley," Jerry put in. "They made off when he fired, but I could see their foot-tracks myself all about. He says they have been driven down here by the storm for shelter. He has gone round with the lad to head them back."

"That is good news, Jerry. The meat we have got already will last some time, but it is as well to lay in a good stock, and we want the skins badly to make our roof. You had better lead these horses to the foot of the path, and then we will all take our post behind trees across the valley."

An hour later they heard the reports of two rifles a long way up the valley, and all stood in readiness. A few minutes later there was a dull trampling sound, and almost directly afterwards a herd of wapiti came along at a heavy trot, ploughing their way but slowly through the snow.

"Don't use your revolvers, boys," Harry had said, "except to finish off a stag you have wounded with your rifle. The chance is all against your bringing them down, and the poor brutes would only get away to die."

One after another the rifles rang out. Tom and his uncle both had the satisfaction of seeing the stags they had aimed at, plunge forward before they had gone many yards farther, and roll over dead. The other three had each hit the animal they aimed at, but as these kept on their course they dashed out in pursuit, firing their Colts, which in their hands were as deadly weapons as a rifle, and the three stags all fell, although one got nearly half a mile down the valley before he succumbed. A carcass was hoisted on to each of the horses' backs, and the loaded animals were then led up the track.

"Shall I wait until the Indians come back, uncle, and tell them why you have gone up?"

"There is no occasion for that, Tom; they would hear the shots, and will have guessed what has happened."

The poles were divided among the men and carried up to the top of the path, and laid down just above the shelter. Harry and Sam Hicks at once proceeded to cut them up into proper lengths, while the others skinned and cut up the deer. A number of thongs were cut from one of the hides for lashing cross-poles across those that were to act as ridge-poles. The bear's-skin was removed and additional poles placed at that spot, and all working together the framework of the roof was completed by nightfall. The Indians had returned soon after the party began their work, and taking their horses down fetched up the deer they had killed.

In the morning the roof was completed, hides being stretched over the framework and securely lashed to it with thongs. The whole of the trees and brushwood were then chopped down close to the ground so as to leave a level floor. The foliage was given to the horses, and the wood cut up and piled for fuel. The chief reported that at the upper end of the valley there was a thick pine-wood, which would give good shelter to the horses. Near it were plenty of bushes, and a level tract which had been a beaver meadow, and was thickly covered with grass, as he could see where the wapiti had scratched away the snow to get at it. This was excellent news, for the question of how the horses could be fed through the winter had troubled them much more than that of their own maintenance. The joints of venison were hung up on a pole outside what they now called their hut, one or two hams being suspended from the rafters over the fire, to be smoked.

"We shall have to rig up a b'ar-trap outside," Ben said, "or we shall be having them here after the meat; and a b'ar's ham now and then will make a change. Wapiti flesh ain't bad, but we should get dog-goned tired of it arter a bit."

"You may bet we shall, Ben," Jerry agreed; "but I reckon that we shall be able to get a lot of game through the winter. That valley down there is just the place for them to shelter in, and I hope we shall get a big-horn now and then. It will be a difficult thing to make a b'ar-trap outside. A grizzly wants a pretty strong pen to keep him in, and though the horses might drag up some big beams from below, there ain't no fastening them in this rock."

"No; I don't think we can make that sort of trap," Harry said. "We must contrive something else. We need not do all our work at once; we have got plenty of time before us. We want three or four more skins to finish our hut."

"You mean to fill up the entrance?"

"Yes; we will sew them together, and make a curtain to hang from the edge of the roof to the ground. I tell you it is going to be mighty cold here, and besides, it will keep the snow from drifting in."

"I wish to goodness we could make a chimney," Tom said. "The smoke went up through the leaves all right, but my eyes are watering now, and if you fill up the end with skins it will be something awful."

"You will get accustomed to it, Tom; but, of course, we must make a hole at the top when we fill up the entrance. What do you think is the next thing to be done, chief?"

"Get wood," the chief said emphatically. "Must fill all the end of hut with wood."

"That will be a big job, chief, but there is no doubt we must lay in a great store of it. Well, there is plenty of timber down in the valley, and with ten horses we can bring up a tidy lot every day."

"Let us cut quick before snow comes again."

"We will begin to-morrow morning, chief. I agree with you, the sooner the better."

Accordingly the next morning they went down to the valley. They had but two axes, and Jerry and Sam Hicks, who had both done a good deal of wood-cutting, undertook this portion of the work. The others took the horses up to the beaver meadow, where they at once began scraping at the snow, and were soon munching away at the rich grass.

"Why do you call it a beaver meadow, uncle? I don't see any beavers."

"They have gone long ago, perhaps a hundred years. As we know, this valley is occupied by the Indians in summer, and they would soon clear out the beavers. But it is called a beaver meadow because it was made by them. They set to work and dammed up the stream, and gradually all this flat became a lake. Well, in time, you know, leaves from the woods above, and soil and dead wood and other things brought down by the stream, gradually filled up the bottom. Then the beavers were killed, and their dams went to ruin and the water drained off, and in a short time grass began to grow. There are hundreds, ay, and thousands of beaver meadows among the hills, and on the little streams that run into the big rivers, and nowhere is the grass so rich. You will often see an Indian village by one of these meadows. They grow their roots and plant their corn there. The horses will do first-rate here through the winter if the snow don't get too deep for them, and, anyhow, we can help them out with a bucket of gruel occasionally."

"It will be awfully cold for them, though."

"It will be coldish, no doubt, but Indian ponies are accustomed to it."

"I should think, uncle, it would not take much trouble to make them a sort of shed up among the trees there."

Sam laughed, and even the chief smiled.

"It would not be a bad plan, Tom," his uncle said; "not so much for the sake of the warmth, though there is no doubt that the warmer they are the less they can do with to eat, but if they have a place to go to they are less likely to wander away, and we shall not have the trouble of hunting for them. Well, we will think it over."

Following the valley up, they found that it extended some ten miles farther, for the last two of which it was but a narrow cañon a few yards wide. They shot a black bear and four small deer, and returned carrying the skins, the hind-quarters of the deer, and the bear's hams.

"We seem to have got meat enough for anything," Tom remonstrated when they shot the deer.

"Seven men will get through a lot of meat, Tom, when they have nothing else to go with it; and we may be weeks before we can put our heads out of our hut. Besides, the skins will be useful. We shall want deer-skin shirts, trousers, and socks and caps; and the skin of these deer is softer and more pliable than that of the wapiti. I don't want to kill more than I can help, lad, for I hate taking life without there is a necessity for it, but we can do with a lot more skins before we are stocked."

When, driving the horses before them, they returned to the woodcutters, they found they had cut down and chopped into logs a number of trees; and Tom was quite astonished at the great pile of firewood that had been got ready by them in the course of a day's work. The logs were made up into bundles, each weighing about eighty pounds. These were tied together with the horses' lariats, and then secured, one on each side of the saddle, two of the horses carrying the meat. Harry took the bridle of his horse and started up the path, the others following at once.

"That is a good day's work," Harry said as the logs were piled at the inner end of the hut. "That is about half a ton of wood. If we have but a week of open weather we shall have a good store in our cellar."

The work continued steadily for a week. The horses were each day taken to feed at the meadow, the two wood-choppers continued their work, while the rest of the party hunted. The Indians had on the second day gone down the valley, and returned with the report that the Indian lodges had all disappeared and that the valley was entirely deserted. Eight more wapiti were killed during the week, and fourteen smaller deer. Of an evening they occupied themselves in sewing the skins together with thongs of leather, the holes being made with their knives; and a curtain at the mouth of the hut was completed and hung. Four wide slabs of wood had been cut. These had been bound together with thongs so as to form a sort of chimney four feet high, and with a good deal of difficulty this was secured by props in its position over a hole cut through the skins, above the fire.

"The first avalanche will carry it away, Tom."

"Yes, uncle; but we have had one avalanche here, and it seems to me the chances are strongly against our having another in exactly the same place."

The skins of the smaller deer were carefully scraped with knives on the inner side, smeared with bears' fat, and then rubbed and kneaded until they were perfectly soft.

CHAPTER XI. WINTER

The erection of Tom's shed for the horses did not take long. The whole party, with the exception of the two Indians,—who, as usual, went hunting,—proceeded to the pine-wood above the beaver meadow. After a little search six trees were found conveniently situated with regard to each other. The axemen cut down three young firs. One was lashed by the others between the two central trees, to form a ridge-pole eight feet from the ground; the others against the other trees, at a height of three feet, to support the lower ends of the roof. They were but ten feet apart, so that the roof might have a considerable pitch. Numbers of other young trees were felled and fixed, six inches apart, from the ridge down to the eaves. On these the branches of the young fir-trees were thickly laid, and light poles were lashed lengthways over them to keep them in their places.

As the poles of the roof had been cut long enough to extend down to the ground, no side walls were necessary. The ends were formed of poles lashed across to the side trees, but extending down only to within four feet six of the ground, so as to allow the horses to pass under, and were, like the roof, thickly covered with boughs. The lower ends were left open for a width of four feet in the middle, uprights being driven into the ground and the sides completed as before.

"What do you want a doorway at both ends for?" Tom asked. "It would have been easier and quicker to have shut one end up altogether, and it would be a good deal warmer."

"So it would, Tom; but if a grizzly were to appear at the door, what would the horses do? They would be caught in a trap."

"Do you think they are likely to come, uncle?"

"The likeliest thing in the world, Tom. Horses can smell bear a good distance off, and if they heard one either coming down or going up the valley, they would bolt through the opposite door. They will do first-rate here; they will stand pretty close together, and the warmth of their bodies will heat the place up. They won't know themselves, they will be so comfortable. It has only taken us a day's work to make the shed; and though we laughed at your idea at first, I think now that the day has been well spent in getting them up such a good shelter. Jerry has got the big pail boiling over his fire, and we will put in a few handfuls of the flour we brought down. Bring the horses in from the meadow, and we will give them each a drink of gruel in the shed. They will soon learn that it is to be their home."

For two more days the open weather continued, and the horses took up three loads of wood each afternoon, as they had done the previous week. Then, as there were signs of change, they were given a good feed at their shed; the saddles were taken off and hung up on some cross-poles over their heads.

The party had scarcely returned to the hut when the snow began to fall. They were, however, weather-proof, and felt the immense additional comfort of the changes they had made. Their stock of firewood was now a very large one. At each journey the horses had brought up about fifteen hundredweight; and as the work had gone on for nine days, they had, they calculated, something like fourteen tons of firewood neatly stacked. They had also a stock of poles in case the roof should require strengthening. A certain amount of light found its way in at the edges of the curtain across the entrance, but they depended principally upon the fire-light. The smoke, however, was a serious grievance, and even the men were forced occasionally to go outside into the open air to allay the smarting of their eyes.

"Don't you think, uncle, we might do something to dry the wood?"

"I can't see that we can do more than we are doing, Tom. We always keep a dozen logs lying round the fire to dry a bit before they are put on."

"I should think we might make a sort of stage about four feet above the fire and keep some logs up there. We might pile them so that the hot air and smoke could go up through them. They would dry a great deal faster there than merely lying down on the ground."

"I think the idea is a very good one, Tom; but we shall have to make the frame pretty strong, for if it happened to come down it might break some of our legs."

The men all agreed that the idea was a capital one, and after some consultation they set to to carry it out. Two strong poles were first chosen. These were cut carefully to the right length, and were jambed between the rocks at a height of seven feet above the floor and five feet apart. They were driven in and wedged so tightly that they could each bear the weight of two men swinging upon them without moving. Then four upright poles were lashed to them, five feet apart, and these were connected with cross-poles.

"That is strong enough for anything," Jerry said when the structure had been so far completed. "If a horse were to run against one of the poles he would hardly bring the thing down."

Four other short poles were now lashed to the uprights three feet below the upper framework, and were crossed by others so as to form a gridiron. On this, the logs were laid in tiers crossing each other, sufficient space being left between them to allow for the passage of the hot air.

"That is a splendid contrivance," Harry said when they took their seats on the buffalo robes round the fire and looked up admiringly at their work. "The logs will get as dry as chips, and in future we sha'n't be bothered with the smoke. Besides, it will do to stand the pail and pots full of snow there, and keep a supply of water, without putting them down into the fire and running the risk of an upset."

They had occupation now in manufacturing a suit of clothes a-piece from the deer-skins. As the work required to be neater than that which sufficed for the making of the curtain, pointed sticks hardened in the fire were used for making the holes, and the thongs that served as thread were cut as finely as possible; this being done by the Indians, who turned them out no thicker than pack-thread.

There was no occasion for hurry, and there was much laughing and joking over the work. Their hunting-shirts and breeches served as patterns from which to cut out the skins; and as each strove to outvie the others, the garments when completed were very fair specimens of work. The hunting-shirts were made with hoods that, when pulled over the head, covered the whole face except the eyes, nose, and mouth. As they had plenty of skin, the hoods and shirts were made double, so that there was hair both inside and out. They were made to come down half-way to the knee, being kept close at the waists by their belts. The leggings were made of single thickness only, as they would be worn over their breeches; they were long and reached down below the ankle. The Indians made fresh moccasins for the whole party; they were made higher than usual, so as to come up over the bottom of the leggings. In addition each was provided with long strips of hide, which were to be wound round and round the leggings, from the knee to below the ankle, covering tightly the tops of the moccasins, and so preventing the snow from finding its way in there. Gloves were then manufactured, the fingers being in one and the thumb only being free.

The work occupied them a fortnight, broken only by one day's spell of fine weather, which they utilized by going down into the valley, taking with them their kettles and pail, together with a few pounds of flour. They found the horses out in the meadow, and these, as soon as they saw them, came trotting to meet them with loud whinnies of pleasure. A fire was lit near the shed, the snow melted, and an allowance of warm gruel given to each horse. At Tom's suggestion a few fir-boughs were hung from the bar over each entrance. These would swing aside as the horses entered, and would keep out a good deal of wind. When at the end of a fortnight the sky cleared, the chief said that he thought that there would be but little more snow.

"If storm come, sure to bring snow, but not last long. Winter now set in; soon snow harden. Now make snowshoes."

The hunters had all been accustomed to use these in winter. They had found the last expedition through the deep snow a very toilsome one, and they embraced the idea eagerly. Some of the poles were split into eight feet lengths. These were wetted and hung over the fire, the process being repeated until the wood was sufficiently softened to be bent into the required shape. This was done by the chief. Two cross-pieces were added, to stiffen them and keep them in the right shape when they dried; and the wood was then trimmed up and scraped by the men. When it had dried and hardened, the work of filling up the frame with a closely-stretched network of leather was undertaken. This part of the work occupied three or four days. The straps were attached to go across the toe and round the heel, and they were then ready to set off.

The weather was now intensely cold, but as there was but little wind it was not greatly felt; at the same time they were glad of their furs when they ventured outside the hut. On the first day after their snow-shoes were finished, the rest of the party started off to visit the horses, Hunting Dog remaining behind to give Tom instructions in the use of the snow-shoes, and to help him when he fell down.

Tom found it difficult work at first, the toe of the shoe frequently catching in the snow, and pitching him head foremost into it, and he would have had great difficulty in extricating himself, had not the young Indian been at hand. Before the day was over, however, he could get on fairly well; and after two or three more days' practice had made such progress that he was considered capable of accompanying the rest.

The wood-drying apparatus had succeeded excellently. The wood was now dried so thoroughly before being put on to the fire that there was no annoyance from the smoke inside the hut, and scarce any could be perceived coming from the chimney. Upon Harry's remarking upon this with satisfaction the first time they went out after using the dry wood, Tom said:

"What does it matter? There are no Indians in the valley."

"That is so, Tom; but as soon as the weather sets in clear, the red-skins will be hunting again. Winter is their best time for laying in their stock of pelts for trading. At other times the game is all high up in the mountains, and it is very difficult to get within range of it. In the winter the animals come down to the shelter of the forests and valleys, and they can be shot in numbers; especially as the Indians in their snow-shoes can get along almost as quickly as the wapiti can plough through the snow. At present the red-skins think that we must have been overtaken by that first storm and have all gone under; but as soon as they begin to venture out of their lodges to hunt, a column of smoke here would be sure to catch their eyes, and then we should be having them up the valley to a certainty. The first thing they would do would be to find our horses and drive them off, and the next thing would be to set themselves to work to catch us."

"But we could hold the path against them, uncle."

"Yes; but we should have to keep watch every day, which would be a serious trouble. Besides, there must be other places they could get up. No doubt their regular trail comes up here, because it is the straightest way to the pass, and possibly there may be no other point at which loaded animals could mount anywhere about here. But there must be plenty of places where Indians could climb, and even if it took them a detour of fifty miles they would manage it. As long as there is no smoke we may hope they will not discover us here, though any hunting party might come upon the horses. That is what has bothered me all along; but the chief and I have talked it over a dozen times, and can see no way of avoiding the risk.

"We can't keep the horses up here because we can't feed them; and even if we were to bring ourselves to leave this comfortable place and to build a hut down in the valley, we might be surprised and rubbed out by the red-skins. Of course we might bring them up here every night and take them down again in the morning, but it would be a troublesome business. We have agreed that we won't do much more shooting down in the valley, and that in coming and going to the horses we will keep along close to the foot of the cliffs this side, so that if two or three Indians do come up they won't see any tracks on the snow, unless they happen to come close up to the cliff. Of course if they go up as far as the beaver flat they will light upon the horses. There is no help for that; but the chief and I agreed last night that in future two of us shall always stay up here, and shall take it by turns to keep watch. It won't be necessary to stand outside. If the curtain is pulled aside three or four inches one can see right down the valley, and any Indians coming up could be made out. If the party is a strong one a gun would be fired as a signal to those away hunting, and some damp wood thrown on the fire. They might possibly push on up the valley to have a look at the place, but the two up here with their rifles would soon stop them. After that, of course, the horses would have to be brought up here at night, and a watch kept by night as well as by day."

Two or three mornings later they found on going out that two joints of venison had been carried off, and footprints in the snow showed that it had been done by a grizzly bear. This turned their attention again to the construction of a trap, which had not been thought of since the day it was first mentioned. A young tree of four or five inches in diameter was cut below and brought up. The butt was cut in the shape of a wedge, and this was driven strongly into a fissure in the rock. A rope with a running noose had been fastened to the tree, and this was bent down by the united strength of four men, and fixed to a catch fastened in the ground, the noose being kept open by two sticks placed across it.

A foot beyond the noose a joint of venison was hung, the rope passing over a pole and then down to the catch, so that upon the joint being pulled the catch would be loosened, when the tree would fly up and the noose catch anything that might be through it.

A week later they were disturbed by an outburst of violent growling. Seizing their rifles they rushed out. A huge bear was caught by one of his paws. The animal's weight was too great for it to be lifted from the ground, but it was standing upright with its paw above its head, making furious efforts to free itself. A volley of bullets at once put an end to its life. The tree was bent down again and the noose loosed, and they at once returned to their rugs, leaving the bear where it fell. Four times during the winter did they thus capture intruders, providing themselves with an ample supply of bear's flesh, while the skins would sell well down at the settlements.

Otherwise sport was not very good. No more wapiti came up, but black and white tail deer were occasionally shot, and five or six big-horn sheep also fell to their rifles. One day on approaching the beaver meadow the chief pointed to some deep footprints. No explanation was needed. All knew that they were made by a big grizzly, and that the animal was going up the valley. No horses were in view on the flat, and grasping their rifles they hurried towards the wood. Just as they reached it the horses came galloping to meet them, whinnying and snorting.

"They have been scared by the critter," Jerry said. "Do you see their coats are staring. Gosh, look at this pack-pony—the bear has had his paw on him!"

The animal's hind-quarters were indeed badly torn.

"I wonder how it got away," Harry said. "When a grizzly once gets hold, it don't often leave go."

"There is something in front of the hut," Tom exclaimed.

"It's the grizzly, sure enough," Harry said. "It is a rum place for it to go to sleep."

They advanced, holding their rifles in readiness to fire, when Leaping

Horse said:

"Bear dead."

"What can have killed him?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"Horses kill him," the chief replied. They hurried up to the spot. The bear was indeed dead, and there were signs of a desperate struggle. There was blood on the snow from a point near the door of the hut to where the animal was lying ten yards away. Round it the snow was all trampled deeply. The bear's head was battered out of all shape; its jaw was broken, and one of its eyes driven out. The Indians examined the ground closely.

"Well, what do you make of it, chief?" Harry asked.

"Bear walk round hut, come in other end. Horses not able to get out in time. Pack-horse last, bear catch him by hind-quarters. Horse drag him a little way and then fall. Then other horses come back, form ring round bear and kick him. Look at prints of fore-feet deep in snow. That is where they kick; they break bear's jaw, break his ribs, keep on kick till he dead."

"I suppose that is how it came about, chief. I should not have thought they would have done it."

The Seneca nodded. "When wild horses with young foals attacked by bear or mountain-lion, they form circle with colts in the middle, stand heads in and kick. Bears and mountain-lion afraid to attack them."

"Waal, I should hardly have believed if I had not seen it," Sam Hicks said, "that horses would come back to attack a grizzly."

"Not come back," the chief said, "if not for friend. Friend cry out loud, then horses come back, fight bear and kill him."

"Well, it was mighty plucky of them," Harry said. "I am afraid this pony won't get over it; he is terribly torn."

The chief examined the horse's wounds again. "Get over it," he said.

"Cold stop wounds bleeding, get some fat and put in."

"I reckon you will find plenty inside the grizzly," Jerry said. The chief shook his head.

"Bear's fat bad; other horses smell him, perhaps keep away from him, perhaps kick him. Leaping Horse will bring fat from the big-horn he shot yesterday."

The animal lay where it had fallen, a mile up the valley. They went up and tied the great sheep's feet together, and putting a pole through them brought it down to the hut. Partly skinning it, they obtained some fat and melted this in a kettle over the fire. Sam Hicks had remained behind at the fire, the horses all standing near him, excited at the prospect of their usual meal. As soon as the fat was melted it was poured into the horse's wounds. The mess of gruel was then prepared and given to the animals. The bear was skinned and the hams cut off, then by a united effort it was dragged some distance from the hut, and the carcass of the big-horn, the bear's flesh and hide, were afterwards carried up to the hut.

Early in February the cold reached its extreme point, and in spite of keeping up a good fire they had long before this been compelled to build up the entrance with a wall of firewood, the interstices being stuffed with moss; the hut was lighted by lamps of bear and deer fat melted down and poured into tin drinking-cups, the wicks being composed of strips of birch bark. A watch was regularly kept all day, two always remaining in the hut, one keeping watch through a small slip cut in the curtain before the narrow orifice in the log wall, that served as a door, the other looking after the fire, keeping up a good supply of melted snow, and preparing dinner ready for the return of the hunters at sunset. Of an evening they told stories, and their stock of yarns of their own adventures and of those they had heard from others, seemed to Tom inexhaustible.

Hunting Dog had made rapid advances with his English, and he and Tom had become great friends, always hunting together, or when their turn came, remaining together on guard. The cold was now so intense that the hunting party was seldom out for more than two or three hours. Regularly twice a week the horses were given their ration of hot gruel, and although they had fallen away greatly in flesh they maintained their health, and were capable of work if called upon to do it. It was one day in the middle of February, that Hunting Dog, who was standing at the peep-hole, exclaimed:

"'Rappahoes!"

Tom sprang up from the side of the fire, and running to the entrance pulled aside the curtain and looked out. Six Indians on snow-shoes were coming up the valley. He ran out on to the platform and fired his ride. As the sound of the report reached the Indians' ears they stopped suddenly.

"Shall I throw some green wood on the fire, Hunting Dog?"

"No need," the Indian replied. "The others only gone an hour, not farther than horses' hut; hear gun plain enough. Perhaps 'Rappahoes go back."

The Indians remained for some time in consultation.

"Not know where gun fired," Hunting Dog said. "Soon see hut, then know."

After a time the red-skins continued their way up the valley, but instead of coming on carelessly in the centre they separated, and going to the other side crept along among the fallen boulders there, where they would have escaped observation had it not been for their figures showing against the white snow.

"Must fire now," the young Indian said, "then Leaping Horse know

'Rappahoes coming up."

They went out on to the platform and opened fire. They knew that their chance of hitting one of the Indians was small indeed; the other side of the valley was a quarter of a mile away, and the height at which they were standing rendered it difficult to judge the elevation necessary for their rifles. However, they fired as fast as they could load.

The Indians made no reply, for their guns would not carry anything like the distance. They occasionally gathered when they came upon a boulder of rock sufficiently large to give shelter to them all, and then moved on again one at a time. When opposite the lower end of the pathway they again held a consultation.

"No go further," Hunting Dog said. "Afraid we come down path and stop them. See, Leaping Horse among rocks."

It was some time before Tom could detect the Indian, so stealthily did he move from rock to rock.

"Where are the others?"

"No see, somewhere in bushes. Leaping Horse go on to scout; not know how many 'Rappahoes."

Presently they saw the chief raise his head behind a rock within a hundred yards of that behind which the 'Rappahoes were sheltering.

"He see them now," Hunting Dog said. "See, he going to fire." There was a puff of smoke and a sharp report, and almost simultaneously rose an Indian yell, and the war-cry of the Seneca. Then five Indians leapt out from behind the rock and made down the valley at full speed, while from a clump of trees two hundred yards above the spot from which the chief had fired the four white men hurried out rifle in hand. The chief waited until they joined him, for the bend in the valley prevented him from seeing that the 'Rappahoes were making straight down it, and it would have been imprudent to have ventured out until his white allies came up.

"They have gone right down," Tom shouted at the top of his voice. Harry waved his arm to show that he heard the words, and then the five men ran to the corner. The Indians were already a quarter of a mile away, and were just entering the wood below. The whites were about to fire, when the chief stopped them. "No use fire," he said. "Stand back behind rocks; no good let 'Rappahoes count our rifles."

"That is true enough, chief," Harry said, as they all sprang among the rocks. "All they know at present is, that there are two up on the top there and one down here. If we were sure that we could wipe them all out it would be worth following and making a running fight of it, but there would be no chance of that, and it is better to let them go without learning more about us. Well, I should say the first thing is to get up the horses."

The chief nodded.

"Get up," he said, "but no fear 'Rappahoes come back to-night. Many hours' journey down to villages, then great council. Next night scouts come up valley, look all about for sign, and then go back and tell friends."

"I dare say you are right, chief. Anyhow, I shall feel a great deal more comfortable when we have got the critters up."

It was late in the afternoon before they reached the hut. Some hours were spent in collecting tufts of grass in places sheltered from the snow, and in cutting off great bundles of young fir-branches and the heads of evergreen bushes, and the horses arrived almost hidden under the load of grass and foliage they carried. Little was said until some hot tea had been drunk and the bear steaks in readiness were disposed of, for although they had worked hard and kept themselves comparatively warm down in the valley, they had as they moved slowly up the path with the horses become chilled to the bone.

"Now then, chief," Harry said, when they had lighted their pipes with the mixture of tobacco and willow bark that they had taken to, as soon as they found that they were likely to be imprisoned all the winter, "we must hold a council. We have been longer than I expected without disturbance by these varmint, but it has come now, and the question is what are we to do? We have agreed all along that there is no getting over the pass till the spring comes."

"Too cold," the chief said, "deep drift snow. Indians all say no can pass over hills in winter."

"That air a fact," Jerry said. "Down in the valley there it is all right, but up here the cold pretty near takes one's breath away. We ain't sure about the way. We couldn't get over the pass in one day's tramp, and we should be all stiff before morning. There would be no taking the horses, and there is a hundred miles to be done over the snow before we reach the fort. It ain't to be thought of. I would a sight rather go down the valley and fight the hull tribe."

"I agree with you, Jerry. We might, with luck, get down the valley, but I don't think there is a possibility of our crossing the pass till the winter breaks."

"No can go down valley," Leaping Horse said; "they find trail on snow, sure."

"That is so, chief, and in that case it is evident that we have got to fight it out here."

"Good place to stop," the Seneca said; "no good place to fight."

This was self-evident. An enemy on the rock above would be able to fire down through the roof, without their having a chance of making an effectual reply.

"The only way I can see," Harry said after a long pause, "is to build a sort of fort up above. If we put it just at the top of this pathway, we should have them whether they came up by the trail from below or climbed up anywhere else and came along above. It need not be a very big place, only just big enough for us all to fire over. We might make a sort of shelter in it with a fire, and keep guard there by turns." The chief nodded, and there was a general exclamation of assent from the others.

"The worst of it is," Jerry said, "the ground is so 'tarnal hard that there will be no driving posts into it. We have cut down all the trees near the bottom of the pass, and it would be a risky thing to go up higher, when we might have the red-skins come whooping up the valley at any time."

"Why not make a snow fort?" Tom suggested. "There is four feet of snow up there, and with the shovels we could make a wall ten feet high in a very short time."

"So we might, Tom; that is a capital idea. The difficulty is, the snow does not bind in this bitter cold as it does in England."

"If it was hammered down it would, I should think, uncle. You know the Esquimaux make snow houses, and it is as cold there as it is here. The snow at the top is light enough, but I should think as it gets down it would be hard enough to cut out in blocks. We have plenty of water, and if we pour it over each layer of blocks it would freeze into solid ice directly. When we finish it we might pour more water down over the outside, and it would make a regular wall of ice that no one could climb up."

"Hooray! Bully for you, Tom!" Jerry shouted, while similar exclamations of approval broke from all the others, while the chief said gravely, "My young brother has the head of a man; he is able to teach warriors."

"You shall be engineer-in-chief, Tom," Harry said. "It is certain we may sleep quietly to-night; at daybreak to-morrow we will begin the job."

The first thing in the morning a semicircular line was traced out at the top of their pathway. It was thirty feet across, for, as Tom said, the walls ought to be at least four feet thick; and six feet would be better, as they would want a parapet at least two feet thick to fire over. It was agreed that the whites should use the two shovels by turns. The Indians were unaccustomed to the work, and were to undertake that of scouting along the hillside, and of watching by turns at night. The frying-pan was brought into requisition, a wooden handle being made for it. The hard upper crust was removed with the shovels, and the layer beneath this was sufficiently soft for the instrument to be used as a shovel. Below that it hardened, and could be cut out in great blocks. The loose snow was thrown inside of the line traced out.

As fast as the blocks were cut out they were carried and piled regularly to form the face. Tom's share of the work was to keep on melting snow, and to bring it up and pour between and over the blocks. As fast as a line of these were made the loose snow was thrown in behind it and trampled down hard. Except for meals there was no rest. The chief said that as there was little chance of the 'Rappahoes coming up so soon, Hunting Dog had better stay behind and help, and he lent his aid in carrying the blocks of snow on a rough stretcher they made for the purpose. By the time it became dark the wall had risen to a height of three feet above the general level of the snow, and was already sufficient to form an excellent breastwork.

At the end farthest from the side from which the Indians were likely to come, a gap was left between it and the edge of the ravine three feet wide, in order that if necessary the horses could pass out. When it became dark the chief returned. He had gone many miles along towards the main valley, but had seen no sign of any Indians. After supper was over he took one of the wapiti skins and his buffalo robe, went up to the "fort," as they had already called it, and laid the deer-skin down on the slope of snow behind the wall, wrapped the buffalo robe round him, and lay down upon it. Hunting Dog then threw another robe over him, projecting a foot beyond his head, so that he could from time to time raise it and look out over the snow. The night was a dark one, but any object moving across the unbroken white surface could be seen at a considerable distance.

"I feel sure I should go to sleep," Tom said, "if I were to lie down like that."

"I have no doubt you would, Tom, but there is no fear with the chief. An Indian never sleeps on the watch, or if he does sleep, it is like a dog: he seems to hear as well as if he were awake, and every minute or two his eyes open and he takes a look round. I would rather have an Indian sentry than half a dozen white ones, unless it is in the open, where there is no tree to lean against, and a man must keep moving."

Hunting Dog threw himself down as soon as he returned to the hut, and was almost instantly asleep. Three hours later he rose and went out, and Leaping Horse a minute or two later returned.

"All quiet," he said; and then after smoking for a short time also lay down.

CHAPTER XII. THE SNOW FORT

The hut was quiet at an unusually early hour, for the men had done a very hard day's work, and felt the strain after the long weeks of inactivity. At daybreak they were up and about, but could remain out but a few minutes, for the cold was so intense that they felt unable to face it until they had taken some hot tea and eaten something. Half an hour sufficed for this early breakfast. Hunting Dog was again left behind by the chief when he started.

"Two eyes enough," the latter said. "Hunting Dog more use here."

The wall of blocks was raised three more feet during the day, as it was agreed to devote all their efforts to this, and to defer the work of thickening it until the next day, for the snow had now been cleared so far from its foot that it could no longer be thrown inside. Though but six feet above the snow level, it was at least three feet more above the level of the rock, and its face was a solid sheet of ice, Tom having, during the two days, made innumerable journeys backwards and forwards with snow-water.

"Another couple of feet and it will be high enough for anything," Harry said. "I don't believe that the Indians will venture to attack us, but it is just as well to have it so high that they can't help each other up to the top. If they knew how strong it is, I am sure they would not attack, and would leave us alone altogether, but if a hundred of them creep up in the dark and make a rush, they will do their best to try to climb it. Anyhow we sha'n't need to make the bank behind very high. If it goes to within four feet and a half of the top, so that we can stand and fire over the wall, that is all that is wanted."

Leaping Horse returned at dusk as before. He uttered a warm approval of the work when he had examined it.

"Good fort," he said, "better than palisades. Indian no climb over it.

No opening to fire through, good as wall of town house."

"I think they will be puzzled when they get here, chief."

"Must watch well to-night," the chief said. "Indian scout sure to come.

Two men keep on watch; two better than one."

"That is so, chief; we will change every hour. But it will be mighty cold. I don't see why we shouldn't rig up a shelter against the wall, and have a bit of a fire there. Then the two on watch can take it by turns every few minutes to come in and get a warm."

With poles and skins a lean-to was speedily constructed against the wall. The snow was hammered down, and a hearth made of half a dozen logs packed closely together. Some brands were brought up from the fire in the hut, and the skins across the end of the lean-to dropped, so that the air within could get warm while they were at supper.

"Hunting Dog and Tom shall take the first watch," Harry said; "Sam and I will take the next, Jerry and Ben the third, then you, chief, can take the next."

"Leaping Horse watch by himself," the Seneca said; "his eyes will be open."

"Very well, chief. I know you are as good as any two of us, so that will give us each one hour out and three hours in bed."

Wrapping buffalo robes round them, Tom and the young Indian went up to the fort. Tom drew aside one of the skins and looked into the shelter. The hearth was in a glow, and two logs lying on it were burning well. The night was very still, except for the occasional rumble of some distant snow-slide. For a few minutes they stood looking over the wall, but keeping far back, so that only their heads were above its level.

"Tom go in by the fire," the Indian said. "All white, no need for four eyes."

"Very well, I will go in first; but mind, you have got to go in afterwards. I sha'n't go in if you don't."

After waiting for a few minutes in the shelter Tom went out again, and Hunting Dog took his place. It was his first war-path, and nothing would have persuaded him to retire from the watch had he not felt sure that even white men's eyes could not fail to detect any dark object moving on the surface of the snow. But although all white the surface was not level; here and there were sudden elevations marking rises in the rock beneath. Still it seemed impossible to Tom that anyone could approach unseen.

In spite of the protection of the buffalo robe it was intensely cold outside, and he was glad each time when his turn came for a warm by the fire. The changes, too, made the time pass quickly, and he was quite surprised when his uncle and Sam came out to relieve them. The other two men and the chief were still smoking by the fire. There was tea in the kettle, and they evidently did not mean to lie down until after their first watch. Every few minutes the chief got up and went out to the platform, and stood listening there intently for a short time. Just before it was time to change the guard again he said when he returned:

"Indian down in valley."

"Have you heard them, chief?"

"Leaping Horse heard a dead stick crack."

"That might have been a deer," Ben suggested.

The chief shook his head. "'Rappahoe; heard gun strike tree."

"Then I reckon they will be up in our watch," Ben said. "Well, we shall be ready for them."

"Perhaps come, perhaps not come; perhaps scout up valley first see if some of us there, and look for horses. Perhaps some come up path; but crawl up slow, not know whether look-out there."

"Well, I don't envy them if they have got much crawling to do to-night; it is cold enough to freeze one's breath."

"'Rappahoe not like cold," the chief said, "but wants scalp bad; that makes his blood warm."

"I will let some of it out," Jerry said wrathfully, "if I get a chance to lay a bead on one of them. Don't you be afeard, chief; we will look out sharp enough, you bet. Waal, I reckon it is about our time to turn out, Ben."

"Jerry tells me that you have heard noises below, chief," Harry said when he came in. "We heard nothing, but it ain't easy to hear well with these hoods over one's head."

"Hoods bad for hear," the chief assented. "Leaping Horse heard plain,

Indians down below."

"Well, it is only what we expected, chief. Anyhow, we are ready for them when they come."

Tom lay down now, and knew nothing more till Hunting Dog touched him.

"Time to go and watch," he said.

"Has everything been quiet?"

The Indian nodded. "No come yet."

Leaping Horse remained at his post after they came out to relieve him. Tom made no comment. Harry had impressed upon him the necessity for absolute silence.

"If they hear voices they will never come near us," he had said, "and we would rather they came than stopped away. The sooner we get this job over the better."

The chief stood with his head slightly bent forward and the hood of his hunting-shirt thrown back, listening attentively. Then he touched Hunting Dog, and stooping low down whispered something in his ear, and then both stood again listening. Tom, too, threw back his hood, but he could hear nothing whatever, and was soon glad to pull it forward over his ears again. He strained his eyes in the direction towards which they were listening, which was apparently towards the edge of the ravine where the Indian trail came up from below. All seemed to him to be white and bare.

Presently the chief's rifle went up to his shoulder; there was a sharp crack, a dark figure leapt up from the snow fifty yards away and then fell headlong down again. It seemed to Tom almost magical. His eyes had been fixed in that direction for the last five minutes, and he could have sworn that the surface of the snow was unbroken. A minute later the other four men came running up.

"What is it, chief?" Harry whispered.

Leaping Horse pointed to the dark figure stretched out on the snow.

"So you have got the varmint. Good! Do you think there are any more of them about?"

"More there sure," the chief said, pointing to the path up from below. "Perhaps more there," and he pointed to a broad black line from the foot of the cliffs to the edge of the ravine, where, three days before, an avalanche from the hills above had swept the rock clear of snow.

"They must have made sure that we were all asleep, or that fellow would never have shown himself on the snow," Harry said.

"He did not show himself, uncle. How he got there I don't know; but I was looking at the spot when the chief fired, and I saw no signs of him whatever. How he hid himself I don't know. If it had been anywhere else I should have said he must have had a white sheet over him."

"It certainly was not that whatever it was, Tom. However, we shall see in the morning. Well, we may as well turn in again. Will they try again, do you think, chief?"

"Not try to-night, too cold; if any there, will hide up till daybreak.

Now they know we are awake, will not venture on snow."

Half an hour later a great fire was lighted out of gunshot range lower down the valley, and three or four figures could be seen round it.

"Too cold," Hunting Dog said to Tom. "All gone down to get warm."

The watches were relieved regularly through the night, but there was no further alarm until just after daylight had broken, when Sam Hicks suddenly discharged his rifle. The others all turned out at once. He had fired at a bush just at the point where the trail came up from below, and he declared that he had seen a slight movement there, and that some pieces of the snow had dropped from the leaves.

"We will make sure that there is no one there," Harry said, "and then we will turn out and have a look. It is like enough that one of the red-skins from below came up the path to have a look at us this morning."

He took a steady aim and fired.

"Fetch up an axe, Tom; we will cut that bush away at once. It is lucky that Sam caught sight of the red-skin. If he had not done so he might have got a bullet in his own head, for when the red-skin had finished taking a view of the fort he would certainly have picked off Sam or myself before he went down. It is a weak point, that from here one can't command the path. If they come in force we shall have to keep watch on the platform too. From there you can get a sight of two or three of its turnings."

They went out together, and as they passed, stopped to look at the body of the Indian the chief had shot. He was a young brave of two-or three-and-twenty, and the manner of his advance so far unperceived was now evident. Favoured by a slight fall in the ground, he had crawled forward, scooping a trench wide enough for his body a foot in depth, pushing the snow always forward, so that it formed a sort of bank in front of him and screened him from the sight of those on watch. The chief's keen eye had perceived a slight movement of the snow, and after watching a moment had fired at the point where he judged anyone concealed by it must be. He had calculated accurately. The ball had struck on the shoulder close to the neck, and had passed down through the body. The Indian had brought no rifle with him, but had knife and tomahawk in his belt.

"Poor young fellow," Harry said. "He wanted to win a name for himself by a deed of desperate bravery. It has cost him his life, but as he would have taken ours if he had had a chance it is of no use regretting it."

They now went on to the bush.

"You were right, Sam," he went on, as they saw the impression on the snow made by a figure lying down behind it. "There was an Indian here sure enough, and here is the mark of the stock of his rifle, and no doubt he would have picked off one of us if you had not scared him. I don't expect you hit him; there are no signs of blood."

"Fire too high," the chief said, pointing to a twig that had been freshly cut off two feet from the ground. "Always shoot low at man behind bush. Man cannot float in air."

There was a general laugh at Sam, who replied: "I did not suppose he could, chief. I just fired where I saw the snow fall, without thinking about it one way or the other. I was an all-fired fool, but I shall know better next time."

The bush was cut down, and also two or three others that grew along by the edge of the ravine. On their way back to the hut Harry stopped by the dead Indian.

"Fetch me a shovel, Tom," he said, "I will dig a hole in the snow; it ain't a pleasant object to be looking at anyway."

Tom fetched the shovel, Harry dug down in the snow till he reached the rock, then he and Jerry laid the body in it and filled in the snow again. The chief looked on.

"Bears get him," he said when they had finished.

"That is like enough, chief, but we have done the best we can for him.

There is no digging into the rock."

"I thought the Indians always scalped enemies they shot?" Tom afterwards said to his uncle.

"So they do, Tom; but you see the chief is a sort of civilized Indian. He has consorted for years with whites, and he knows that we don't like it. I don't say he wouldn't do it if he were on the war-path by himself, but with us he doesn't, at any rate not openly. I have no doubt it went against his grain to see the red-skin buried with his hair on, for the scalp would have been a creditable one, as it would not have been got without a clear eye and good judgment in shooting. I have no doubt he has got some scalps about him now, though he don't show them; but they will be hung up some day if he ever settles down in a wigwam of his own.

"Well, chief, and what do you think," he asked Leaping Horse, as, after returning to the hut, they sat down to breakfast, "will they come or won't they?"

"I think they no come," the chief said. "Scout behind bush will tell them fort too strong to take; must cross snow, and many fall before they get to it. Very hard to climb. No like cold, Leaping Horse thinks they will stop in wigwams."

"No fools either," Jerry agreed; "a man would be worse than a natural if he were to go fooling about in this weather, and run a pretty good big risk of getting shot and nothing much to gain by it. They know we have left their country now, and ain't likely to come back again either to hunt there or to dig gold, and that all we want is to get away as soon as we can. I allow that the chief is right, and that we sha'n't hear no more of them, anyhow not for some time."

The chief nodded. "If come again, not come now. Wait a moon, then think perhaps we sleep sound and try again; but more likely not try."

"Much more likely," Harry assented. "Unless they can do it by a surprise. Indians are not fond of attacking; they know we shoot straighter than they do and have better rifles. You remember that time when you and I and Jersey Dick kept off a party of Navahoes from sunrise till sunset down near the Emigrant trail? It was lucky for us that a post-rider who was passing along heard the firing, and took the news to a fort, and that the officer there brought out fifty troopers just as the sun went down, or we should have been rubbed out that night sure."

The Seneca nodded.

"How was it, Harry?" Sam Hicks asked.

"It was just the usual thing, Sam. We had left the trail two days before, and were hunting on our own account when the Navahoes came down. We had just time to throw the three horses and lie down behind them. They were within two hundred yards when I began and fetched the chief, who was leading them, out of his saddle. Leaping Horse brought down another one and Jersey Dick held his fire, and instead of keeping straight on they began to straggle round. And they kept at that all day. Sometimes they would get in pretty close, but each time they did the chief brought down a horse, and when his rider, who was of course hanging on the other side of him, got up to run, I fetched him down. Dick wasn't much of a shot, so we would not let him fire. It discourages red-skins mightily when they see that there is never a shot thrown away, and that it is sure death whenever one draws a trigger. So at last they got careful and held off, knowing as they would get us at night, when they could have crawled up on foot and made a rush when they got close to us.

"The worst of it was we hadn't struck water the evening before, and it was just one of the hottest days on the plains, and we were pretty nigh mad with thirst before evening. I believe when the soldiers rode up I was about as glad to get a drink from one of their bottles as I was that the Navahoes bolted when they saw them coming. No, the red-skins ain't any good for an open attack; they would have lost fewer men by riding straight at us than they did by fooling round, but they could not bring themselves to do it, and I reckon that is what it will be here. They may, as the chief says, try, say six weeks on, when the frost begins to break, in hopes that we may have given up keeping watch: but if they find us awake they will never try an open attack, for they could not reckon on taking the place without losing a score of men in doing so. If the snow was off the ground it would be different. Then of a dark night they could crawl up close and make a rush."

After breakfast the chief and Hunting Dog went out scouting. When they returned they brought news that three Indians had come over the snow along the side of the hills, that three others had come up the valley, and that in a wood half a mile below where they had seen the fire, there had been a large party encamped.

"I reckoned that would be about it, chief. Three fellows came along over the hill, in case we should be keeping guard at the top of the path, and they had a big force somewhere down below, so that if the scouts reported that there was nothing to prevent them falling on us they would come up before morning and wipe us out. I suppose they have all ridden off?"

"All gone. Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog followed right down valley. No stop anywhere, gone back to lodges."

"Then in that case, Harry, we had best get the critters down to their shed again. They have eaten all that stuff they brought up three days ago, I gave them the last of it this morning. The Indians know that we keep a pretty sharp look-out during the day and there ain't no fear of their coming up here when it is light."

As the chief was also of opinion that there was no danger, the horses were taken down the path into the valley, where on having their bridles unbuckled they at once trotted off of their own accord towards the beaver meadow.

For the next six weeks a watch was kept regularly, but by only one man at a time. The horses were driven down to the valley every morning and brought up again before sunset. There was little hunting now, for they had as many skins as they could carry comfortably, and a supply of frozen meat sufficient to last well into the spring. In March the weather became perceptibly warmer, and the snow in the valley began to melt where the full power of the sun at mid-day fell upon it. Day by day the crashes of distant avalanches became more frequent, and they began to look forward to the time when they should be able to proceed on their journey.

One night towards the end of the month Tom was on watch, when he heard a rustling sound far up beyond the wall of cliff in front of him. It grew louder and rose to a roar, and then a white mass came pouring down over the cliff. Leaping from the wall he dashed down the path to the hut. It needed no word to call the men to their feet, for a deep rumbling filled the air and the rock seemed to quiver. The horses struggled to break their head-ropes and snorted with fright.

"Your backs to the wall!" Harry shouted, and as all leapt across at his order there was a crash overhead. The roof above them fell in and a mass of snow followed; a, minute later a deep silence followed the deafening roar.

"Anyone hurt?" Harry shouted, and the replies came in muffled tones. Tom was jambed against the rock by the snow; he was nearest to the entrance, his uncle was next to him.

"I am all right at present, uncle, but I feel half smothered."

"All right, lad; I am pretty free, and I will soon clear you a bit."

The snow was pushed away from before Tom's face, his left arm was cleared, and then his uncle with a vigorous pull brought him back close to him. Here he was comparatively free, for a part of the roof had fallen close to the wall and had partially kept off the snow. Then Harry turned, and with some difficulty managed to get Jerry, who was next to him, freed from the snow.

"Now, Jerry, you work along that way and get at the others. Tom and I will try to burrow a way out."

It was a difficult task. Once through the passage in the log wall they pushed to the left towards the edge of the platform, taking it by turns to go first until the snow became lighter; then by a vigorous effort Harry rose to his feet, sending a mass of snow tumbling over the edge of the platform. As soon as Tom had joined him they set to work with hands and knives, and soon cleared a passage back to the entrance. Just as they did so Jerry crawled out from within.

"Are they all right, Jerry?"

"Yes, the others are coming; only about twelve feet of the roof caved in, and the two Indians and Sam soon got in among the horses. I had a lot of trouble with Ben; he had been knocked down, and I thought that he was gone when I got him out; but he is all right now, though he can't walk yet. The Indians and Sam have got the shovels, and are working away to clear a passage along by the wall; there is no getting Ben out through that rabbit-hole you have made."

"Thank God we are all right," Harry said; "it does not matter a bit, now that we know no one is badly hurt. We will begin at this end, but we sha'n't be able to do much until we get the shovels, the snow will fall in as fast as we get it out."

They soon found that they could do nothing in this way.

"We will try to tunnel again," Harry said, "it is not more than ten feet along. If we get in and hump ourselves, we shall soon get it big enough to drag Ben out, then the others can follow, and we can set to work with the spades to clear the place."

After a good deal of effort they succeeded in enlarging the hole, and then got Ben through it, one crawling backwards and pulling him while the other shoved at his legs.

"How do you feel, Ben?" Harry asked him when they laid him down outside.

"I dunno, Harry; I am afraid my back is badly hurt. I don't seem to feel my legs at all. I expect they are numbed from the weight of snow on them."

"I will crawl into our store and fetch out the keg."

"I reckon a drop of whisky will do me good if anything will," Ben said. "I was crushed pretty near flat, and if my head hadn't been against the wall I should have been smothered. Are you all right, young Tom?"

"Yes, I am not hurt at all. The snow squeezed me against the rock, and I could not move an inch, but uncle managed to get me a little free and then pulled me out of it."

Harry soon came back with the whisky, and was followed by the Indians and Sam, who found that they could do nothing with the snow, which fell in as fast as they cleared it. Their first step was to dig out a buffalo robe to wrap Ben in. His voice was stronger after he had drank some spirit, and he said that he felt better already. The others at once set to work with the shovels. They first cleared the platform along by the wall to the entrance, and then attacked the snow which filled the space between the two rock walls to the top.

Two of them worked with poles, loosening the snow above, and bringing it down in masses, while those with shovels cast it out on to the platform, going out occasionally to throw it over into the ravine. Hunting Dog made his way up over the snow to the top of the path, and called down to say that the fort was entirely swept away, and the chief told him to take up his post at once at the top of the path leading from below.

"He need not have told us that the fort was gone," Jerry grumbled. "If it had been made of cast-iron it would not have stood. The sooner we get our rifles out the better."

This could not be done for a time, for the loosening of the snow above had caused that below to slip, and the passage along by the wall had fallen in. The Indians, however, who had slept beyond the part filled by snow, had brought their pieces out with them, and could have defended the path alone. Several times those at work were buried by falls of snow, and had to be dragged out by the others. By daylight a considerable gap had been made in the snow, and they were able to get into the space beyond the fall. A number of logs, and a joint of meat that had been taken in the day before to thaw, were brought out, and a fire was soon blazing on the platform.

"I wonder why the snow did not shoot over as it did before?" Ben, who was now able to sit up, remarked.

"I reckon it is the fort did it," Harry said. "Of course it went, but it may have checked the rush of the snow for a moment, and those thick walls couldn't have got the same way on as the rest of the snow had."

"But the fort wasn't over the roof, uncle," Tom remarked.

"No, but it may have blocked the slide a little, and thrown some of it sideways; you see it is only this end that gave, while it shot right over the rest of the roof just as before."

"It is mighty lucky it did not break in all along," Sam Hicks said, "for it would have left us without horses if it had; and it would have been mighty rough on us to have lost them, just as we are going to want them, after our taking such pains with them all through the winter."

The chief took Hunting Dog's place as soon as he had finished his meal, and remained on watch all day. The men worked without ceasing, but it was not until sunset that the snow was completely cleared away.

"I reckon that we shall have to be starting before long," Jerry said as they sat round the fire in what they before called their store-room, having driven the horses as far in as possible to make room. "We could have held out before as long as we liked, but it is different now. The rock's cleared now for a hundred yards on each side of us, our fort's gone, and there is nothing to prevent the redskins from crawling close up the first dark night and making a rush. They are like enough to be sending scouts up the valley occasionally, and it won't be long before they hear that our fort has gone and the ground cleared of snow."

Leaping Horse nodded. "Two men must watch at top of path," he said.

"That is right enough, chief; but we know three of them came along the hills before, and it is like enough they will all come that way next time. They are safe to reckon that we shall hold the path."

"It is very unfortunate," Harry said; "in another month, we should have been able to travel. Anyhow, it seems to me that we have got to try now; it would never do to be caught in here by the red-skins. If we are to go, the sooner the better. All our meat has been carried over the edge. This is about the time we expected the Indians back, and it would be dangerous to scatter hunting. It is a big risk, too, taking the horses down to the meadow. No, I think we can manage to get over the pass. The snow gets softer every day when the sun is on it; but it freezes at night. We have the moon, too, so we shall be able to travel then; and even if we take three or four days getting over the divide we can sleep in the daytime."

"We must get a little more meat anyhow before we start," Jerry said. "This joint ain't more than enough for another square meal for us, and though I reckon the bighorns will be coming up to the hills again now, it won't do to risk that."

"We have the pack-horses, Jerry."

"Yes, I did not think of them. Horseflesh ain't so bad on a pinch; but I don't want to lose our skins."

"Better our skins than our hair," Sam laughed.

"That is right enough, Sam, but I would like to save both."

"Perhaps there is some of the meat under the snow," Tom suggested. "It hung near the wall, and the snow must have come straight down on it from above, as it did in here."

"That is so, Tom; we will have a look the first thing in the morning. I am so tired now I would not dig for it if it were gold."

As soon as it was light the next morning they began to clear the snow from the rest of the platform, and found to their great satisfaction four bear hams. The rest of the meat had been swept over the edge. The two Indians had not shared in the work, having started away early without saying where they were going. They returned to breakfast, each carrying a hind-quarter of venison, which they had found in the snow below.

It was agreed that a start should be made that evening. By sunset the horses were loaded, and half an hour later they moved away. Ben Gulston had to be assisted on to his horse, for although in other respects recovered, it was found that he had so severely strained his back across the loins that he was scarcely able to walk a foot. The moon was shining brightly, and as soon as they were on the snow they could see as plainly as if it were day. All were in high spirits that they had left the spot where for six months they had been prisoners. They had difficulty in restraining themselves from shouting and singing, but the chief before starting had warned them of the necessity for travelling silently. "Snow-slides very bad now; shouting might set them going."

The others looked rather incredulous, but Harry said:

"I know he is right, boys; for I have heard that in the Alps the guides always forbid talking when they are crossing places exposed to avalanches. At any rate we may as well give the snow as little chance as may be of going for us."

They travelled in Indian file from habit rather than necessity, for the snow was firm and hard, and the horses made their way over it without difficulty. There had been some debate as to the way they should go; but they determined at last to take the valley through the cliff wall, and to strike to the right whenever they came upon a likely spot for crossing. Two such attempts were made in vain, the upper slopes of snow being found too steep for the horses to climb; but at the third, which was made just after morning broke, they succeeded in getting up the hill to their right, and, after great difficulty, descended into another valley. This they had little doubt was the one that led to the pass, for from the hill they could see the great peak along whose foot the trail ran.

It was ten o'clock before they got down into the valley. The snow was beginning to be soft on the surface, and the horses were tired out. They therefore halted, made a fire with two or three of the logs they had brought with them for the purpose, boiled water and had breakfast, and gave half a bucket of gruel to each of the animals. Then wrapping themselves in their buffalo robes they lay down and slept till late in the afternoon. The journey was resumed at sunset, and before morning they had crossed the divide; and when the sun rose obtained a view over the country far to the south.

CHAPTER XIII. A FRESH START

In the evening they camped on the banks of the Green River, here a stream of but small size, except when the melting snow swelled its waters into a torrent. At the spot where they halted a rivulet ran into the stream from a thickly-wooded little valley. It was frozen, but breaking the ice with their axes they found that water was flowing underneath. They had observed that there was a marked difference in temperature on this side of the mountains, upon which the strength of the southern sun had already in many places cleared away the snow.

"It is a comfort to be able to sit by a fire without the thought that red-skins maybe crawling up towards you," Sam Hicks said heartily, "and to sleep without being turned out to stand watch in the cold.

"You say the country ahead is bad, chief?"

"Bad lands both sides of Green River. Deep canons and bare rock."

"Well, we need not follow it; it don't make any difference to us whether we get down to the fort in a fortnight or six weeks."

"None at all," Harry said. "We have agreed that when summer fairly sets in we will try that place I hit on just as the Utes came down on us. It is the richest place I have ever seen, and if the Indians will but let us alone for a month we ought to bring back a big lot of dust; and if we do, we can sell our share in it for a big sum, and take down enough men to thrash the Utes out of their boots if they interfere with us. By our reckoning it is the end of March now, though we don't at all agree as to the day; but at any rate, it is there or thereabouts. That gives us a good six weeks, and if we start in the middle of May it will be time enough. So I propose that we strike more to the west, or to the east, whichever you think is the best, chief, and try and pick up a few more pelts so as to lay in a fresh stock of goods for our next trip."

"Bad hills everywhere," the chief said; "better go west, plenty of game there."

"No fear of Indians?"

"Indians there peaceable; make good trade with whites. Ten years ago fight, but lose many men and not get much plunder. Trappers here good friends with them. Traders bring up powder and cloth and beads. Indians no give trouble."

For the next six weeks, therefore, they travelled slowly, camping sometimes for two or three days on a stream, and then making a long march until they again came to water. The beaver traps had been left behind, but they were fortunate enough to come upon several beaver villages, and by exercising patience they were able to shoot a good many, getting in all some fifty skins. Tom used to go out in the evening and lie down to watch the beavers at work, but he would not take a gun.

"I could not shoot them down in cold blood, uncle. It is almost like looking at a village of human beings at work. One can shoot a man who is wanting to shoot you, without feeling much about it, but to fire at a man labouring in the fields is murder. Of course, if we wanted the flesh for food it would be different."

"I did not see you refuse that beaver-tail soup we had last night, Tom."

"No, and it was very good, uncle; but I would very much rather have gone without it than shoot the beaver the tail belonged to."

"Well, Tom, as we have all got guns, and as none of us have any scruples that way, there is no occasion whatever for you to draw a trigger on them. They take some shooting, for if you hit them in the water they sink directly, and you have got to kill them dead when they are on land, otherwise they make for the water at once and dive into their houses and die there."

They killed a good many other animals besides the beaver, including several wolverines, and by the time they got down to the fort in the middle of May they had had to give up riding and pack all the animals with the skins they had obtained. None of these were of any great value, but the whole brought enough to buy them a fresh outfit of clothes, a fresh stock of provisions and powder, and to give them a hundred dollars each.

The evening after the sale was effected Tom wrote home to his sisters, giving them a brief account of what had taken place since the letter he had posted to them before starting for the mountains, but saying very little of their adventures with Indians. "I am afraid you have been in a great fright about me," he said, "but you must never fidget when you don't get letters. We may often be for a long time away from any place where we can post them, or, as they call it here, mail them, though I certainly do not expect to be snowed up again for a whole winter. Owing to the Indians being hostile we did not do nearly so well as we expected, for we could not go down to hunt in the valleys. So after getting a fresh outfit for our next journey our share is only a hundred dollars each. I did not want to take a share, for of course I was not of much use to them, though I have learnt a lot in the last six months, and can shoot now as well as any of them, except the two Indians.

"However, they all insisted on my having the same share as the rest. Uncle wanted me to take his hundred dollars and send them home to you with mine, but I told him that I would not do so, for I know you have money enough to go on with, even if your school has turned out a failure. So I think it would be as well for us to keep our money in hand for the present. There is never any saying what may happen; we may lose our horses and kit, and it would be very awkward if we hadn't the money to replace them. As soon as we get more we will send it off, as you know I always intended to do. I have still some left of what I brought out with me, but that and the two hundred dollars would not be more than enough to buy an entirely new outfit for us both.

"I hope you got the five hundred dollars uncle sent you. He told me he sent it off from Denver, and it ought to have got home a few weeks after I left. It is horrid to think that there may be letters from you lying at Denver, but it serves me right for being so stupid as not to put in the short note I wrote you from here before I started, that you had better direct to me at Fort Bridger, as I shall almost be sure to come back to it before I go to Denver. I like uncle awfully; it seems to me that he is just what I expected he would be. I suppose they all put in equal shares, but the other men quite look upon him as their leader. Sometimes when he is talking to me he speaks just as people do at home. When he talks to the men he uses the same queer words they do. He is taller than father was, and more strongly built. What I like in him is, he is always the same. Sometimes the others used to get grumbly when we were shut up so long, but it never seemed to make any difference in him.

"I told you when I wrote from Denver that he was called 'Straight Harry,' because he always acted straightforwardly, and now I know him I can quite understand their calling him so. One feels somehow that one could rely upon his always being the same, whatever happened. Leaping Horse is a first-rate fellow, and so is Hunting Dog, though of course he does not know nearly as much as the chief does, but he knows a lot. The other three are all nice fellows, too, so we were a very jolly party. They know a tremendous lot of stories about hunting and red-skins and that sort of thing. Some of them would make all you girls' hairs stand on end. We are going to start off in two or three days to hunt up a gold mine uncle found three years ago. The Indians are going, too; they will hunt while the rest of us work. It will be quite a different journey to the last, and I expect it will be just as hot this time as it was cold last. We may be away for four months, and perhaps we may not come back till the snow sets in, so don't expect a letter till you see it."

This was by far the longest letter Tom had ever written, and it took him several hours to get through. He had the room to himself, for the others were talking over their adventures with old friends they had met at the fort. His uncle returned about ten o'clock.

"Where are the others?" Tom asked.

"In the saloon; but they are not drinking, that is, not drinking much. I told them that if they were to get drunk one of them would be sure to blab as to where we were going, or at any rate to say enough to excite suspicion among some of the old miners, that we knew of a good thing, and in that case we should get a lot of men following us, and it would interfere with our plans altogether. A party as small as ours may live for months without a red-skin happening to light on us, but if there were many more they would be certain to find us. There would be too much noise going on, too much shooting and driving backward and forward with food and necessaries. We want it kept dark till we thoroughly prove the place. So I made them all take an oath this morning that they would keep their heads cool, and I told them that if one of them got drunk, or said a word about our going after gold, I would not take him with us. I have given out that we are going on another hunting party, and of course our having brought in such a lot of skins will make them think that we have hit on a place where game is abundant and are going back there for the summer."

Two more pack-ponies had been added to the outfit. They might be away for five or six months, and were determined to take a good supply of flour this time, for all were tired of the diet of meat only, on which they had existed for the last six months, having devoted by far the greater part of the flour to the horses.

When they started next day they turned their faces north, as if they intended to hunt in the mountains where they had wintered. They made but a short march, camped on a stream, and long before daybreak started again, travelling for some hours to the west and then striking directly south. For two days they travelled rapidly, Tom going out every morning with the Indians hunting, while the others kept with the pack-horses. Ben had now quite recovered from the strain which had crippled him for the first three weeks of their march down to Fort Bridger. They were now fairly among the Ute hills, and at their third camping-place Harry said:

"We must do no more shooting now till we get to our valley. We have got a supply of deer-flesh for a week at least, and we must be careful in future. We heard at the fort that several miners have been cut off and killed by the Utes during the winter, and that they are more set than ever against white men entering their country. Everyone says those rascally Saints are at the bottom of it. We must hide our trail as much as we can. We are just at the edge of the bad lands, and will travel on them for the next two days. The red-skins don't go out that way much, there being nothing either to hunt or to plunder, so there is little fear of their coming on our trail on the bare rocks, especially as none of the horses are shod. On the third day we shall strike right up into their mountains."

"Are you sure that you will know the place again, Harry?"

"I reckon I could find it, but I should not feel quite certain about it if I had not the chief with me. There is no fear of his going wrong. When a red-skin has once been to a place he can find his way straight back to it again, even if he were a thousand miles off."

"You said when we were talking of it among the hills, uncle," Tom said, as he rode beside him the next morning, "that Leaping Horse and you each took two shares. I wonder what he will do with his if it turns out well."

"He won't do anything with it, Tom. The chief and I are like brothers. He does not want gold, he has no use for it; and, besides, as a rule, Indians never have anything to do with mining. He and Hunting Dog really come as hunters, and he has an understanding with me that when the expedition is over I shall pay them the same as they would earn from any English sportsman who might engage them as guides and hunters, and that I shall take their shares in whatever we may make. I need not say that if it turns out as well as we expect, the Indians will get as many blankets and as much ammunition as will last them their lives. You can't get a red-skin to dig. Even the chief, who has been with us for years, would consider it degrading to do work of that kind; and if you see an Indian at mining work, you may be sure that he is one of the fellows who has left his tribe and settled down to loaf and drink in the settlements, and is just doing a spell to get himself enough fire-water to make himself drunk on.

"The Seneca would be just as willing to come and hunt for us for nothing. He would get his food and the skins, which would pay for his tobacco and ammunition, and, occasionally, a new suit of leggings and hunting-shirt, made by an Indian woman, and with this he would be happy and contented. He doesn't mind taking money in return for skins, and he and Hunting Dog had their full share in the division at the fort. When I last talked to him about this business, he said, 'Leaping Horse doesn't want money. Of what use is it to him? He has got a bagful hidden at home, which he has been paid when he was scouting with the army, and for the skins of beasts he has shot. It is enough to buy many horses and blankets, and all that a chief can want. He is going with his friend to hunt, and to fight by his side if the Utes come; he wants none of the gold.' I explained the matter to him, and he said carelessly: 'Leaping Horse will take the two shares, but it will be for his brother, and that he may send it to the girls, the sisters of his friend Tom, of whom he spoke one night by the fire.'

"Hunting Dog is like Leaping Horse, he will take no gold. I have told the three men how matters stand. Of course, it makes no difference to them whether the Indians keep their share or hand it over to me, but at the same time I thought they ought to know how we stood. They said it was no business of theirs; that as I was the discoverer I had a right to sell the whole thing if I chose, and that they thought I had done the friendly thing by them in letting them in as partners. So you see it is all right and square. It is like enough, too, that we shall find some other lodes, and of course there they will come in on even terms with us. So they are pleased with the look-out, and know well enough it is likely to be the best strike they ever made in their lives."

They kept near the edge of the bad lands, as had they gone farther out they would have been obliged to make long detours to get round the head of the cañons made by rivers running down into the Colorado. They had filled their water-skins at the last stream where they had camped, and had taken with them enough dried wood for their fires. These they lit each night in a hollow, as from the upper slopes of the Ute hills a view could be obtained for a great distance over the flat rocky plateau. Tom was heartily glad when the two days' journey was over. Not a living creature had met their eyes; there was no grass on which beasts could exist, no earth in which prairie-dogs could burrow; even birds shunned the bare waste of rock.

"It is a desolate country," he said, as they sat round the fire; "it would be enough to give one the horrors if one were alone. It is hot now, and in the height of summer the heat and glare from the rock must be awful."

"It is, Tom; many and many a man has died of thirst in the bad lands. And what makes it more terrible is, that they can perhaps see water a thousand feet below them and yet die from the want of it."

"When we were camped on the Green River, uncle, you said that no one had ever followed it down."

"That is so, lad. One knows whereabouts it goes, as men driven by thirst have followed cañons down to it; and in some places it runs for many miles across low land before it plunges into another cañon. Then it cuts its way for two or three hundred miles, perhaps, through the hills, with walls two or three thousand feet high. No one, so far as I know, has gone down these big cañons, but it is certain there are rapids and whirlpools and rocks in them. Two or three parties have gone down through some of the shorter cañons to escape Indians, and most of them have never been heard of again, but one or two have got down some distance and managed to escape.

"No one has followed the course by land. They could not do so unless they carried all their provisions, and drink and food for their animals, and even then the expedition would take months, perhaps years to do; for every spring from the hills runs down a cañon to the river, sometimes fifty miles, sometimes a hundred long, and each time the party came upon one of these they would have to work up to the mountains to get round it. It is over a thousand miles in a straight line from the place where the Green River first enters a cañon to where the Colorado issues out on to the plains, and it may be quite twice that distance if one could follow all its windings. Some day when the country fills up attempts will no doubt be made to find out something about it; but it will be a big job whenever it is tried, and may cost a lot of lives before the cañons are all explored."

In the morning they started westward for the hills. The greatest care was observed on the march. They took advantage of every depression, and when obliged to pass over level ground moved at a distance apart, as a clump or string of moving animals would be made out at a distance from which a solitary one would be unnoticed. By noon they had left the bare rock, and were travelling up a valley clothed with grass and dotted with clumps of trees. In the first of these they halted.

"We will stay here until it begins to get dusk," Harry said, "and then move on as fast as we can go. If we don't lose our way we shall be there before morning."

There was no moon, but the stars shone brilliantly, and the mountains, with their summits still covered with snow, could be seen ahead. The chief went on in front. Sometimes they proceeded up valleys, sometimes crossed shoulders and spurs running down from the hills. They moved in Indian file, and at times proceeded at a brisk pace, at other times more slowly; but there was no halt or sign of hesitation on the part of their leader. At last, just as morning was breaking, the chief led them into a clump of trees. He moved a little distance in, and then reined in his horse and dismounted.

"Does my brother remember that?" he said to Harry, pointing to something on the ground.

"Jee-hoshaphat!" Harry exclaimed; "if that ain't my old pack-saddle! This is the very spot where we camped, boys. Well, chief, you are certainly a wonder. I doubt whether I could have found my way here in the daytime. Half a dozen times to-night it seemed to me that you were going in the wrong direction altogether, and yet you bring us as straight to the spot as if all the time you had been following a main road."

"Bully for the chief!" Jerry said warmly. "I am blamed if that ain't a fust-rate piece of tracking. Waal, here we are at our journey's end. Can we make a fire?"

"Make small fire, but must put screen round."

"Very well; we will leave the fire to you, and we will unpack the critters. There is a bundle of dry wood left, so we sha'n't have the bother of looking for it now."

Before lighting the fire the two Indians stretched some blankets some six feet above it, to prevent the light falling upon the foliage; then by their directions Sam cut a dozen short poles, and fixed them in a circle round the fire. Half a dozen more blankets were fastened to the poles, forming a wall round the fire, which the chief then lighted. The nights were, at that height above the sea-level, cool enough to make the heat pleasant, and there was just room for the, seven men to sit between the blanket wall and the fire.

"Do you mean this to be our permanent camp, Harry?"

"What do you think, Leaping Horse?"

"Wait till me go up gold valley," the Seneca said. "If can't find a good place there better stay here; if go backwards and forwards every day make trail Indian squaw would notice."

"That is so, chief; but by what Harry says it is a mere gully, and the horses will have to range."

"Horses must feed," the chief said. "If we find a place up there, make hut, take saddles and outfit there. Tie up horses here, and let them loose to feed at night. No regular track then. But talk after sleep."

"It will be broad daylight by the time that we have finished our meal," Jerry said, "and I reckon none of us will be wanting to sleep till we have got a sight of Harry's bonanza."

As soon as they had finished their meal, the mining implements, which had been carefully hidden among the rest of their goods when they started from the fort, were brought out. Among these were a dozen light pick-heads and half a dozen handles, as many shovels, a flat iron plate for crushing ore upon, and a short hammer, with a face six inches in diameter, as a pounder; also a supply of long nails, to be used in fastening together troughs, cradles, or any other woodwork that might be required; three or four deep tin dishes, a bottle of mercury, a saw, and a few other tools. Three of the pick-heads were now fastened to their handles, and taking these, a couple of shovels, two of the tin basins, a sledge hammer, and some steel wedges, and the peculiar wooden platter, in shape somewhat resembling a small shield with an indentation in the middle, called a vanner, and universally used by prospectors, the five whites and Leaping Horse started from their camp for the spot where Harry had found the lode. It lay about a mile up a narrow valley, running into the larger one. A rivulet trickled down its centre.

"I reckoned on that," Harry said. "Of course it was frozen when we were here, but I could see that there was water in summer. You see this hollow runs right up into that wood, and there is sure to be water in it for the next three months anyhow."

They had gone but a short distance up when they stopped at a spot where the streamlet widened out into a pool.

"Let us try here," Jerry said, "and see if there is any sign."

Half a shovelful of sand was placed in the vanner with a small quantity of water, and while Harry and Sam proceeded to wash some gravel roughly in the pans, Tom stood watching Jerry's operations. He gave a gentle motion to the vanner that caused its contents to revolve, the coarser particles being thrown towards the edges while the finer remained in the centre. The water was poured away and the rougher particles of gravel and sand swept off by the hand; fresh water was then added, and the process repeated again and again, until at last no more than a spoonful of fine sand remained in the centre. A sideway action of the vanner caused this to slope gradually down towards the edge. At the very bottom three tiny bits of yellow metal were seen. They were no bigger than pins' heads. It seemed to Tom that this was a miserably small return for five minutes' labour, but the others seemed well satisfied, and were still more pleased when, on the two pans being cleaned out, several little pieces of gold were found, one of which was nearly as large as a small pea.

"That is good enough," Ben said; "it will run a lot richer when we get down on to the rock."

At two other places on their way up they tried the experiments, with increasingly good results.

"There is some tall work to be done here with washing," Harry said. "Now come on to the vein. I only saw one of them, but there must be a lot more or you would not find so much metal in the sand. However, the one I saw is good enough for anything." They went on again to a point where the rock cropped boldly out on both sides of the valley; Harry led them a few paces up the side, and pointed to some white patches in the rock. "That is where I chipped it off, lads, three years ago."

The face of the lode, discoloured by age and weather, differed but little from the rock surrounding it; but where it had been broken off it was a whitish yellow, thickly studded with little bits of dull yellow metal sticking out of it. Tom was not greatly impressed; but he saw from the faces of his companions that they were at once surprised and delighted.

"By gosh, Harry, you have done it this time!" Sam Hicks exclaimed. "You have struck it rich, and no mistake. I thought from the way you talked of it it must be something out of the way, but I am blamed if I thought it was like this."

"Stand back, you chaps," Jerry said, lifting the heavy sledge hammer; "let me get a drive at it. Here is a crack. Put one of them wedges in, Ben."

The wedge was placed in the fissure, and Ben held it while Jerry gave a few light blows to get it firmly fixed.

"That will do, Ben; take away your hand and let me drive at it." Swinging the hammer round his head Jerry brought it down with tremendous force on the head of the wedge. Again and again the heavy hammer rose and fell, with the accuracy of a machine, upon the right spot, until the wedge, which was nine inches long, was buried in the crevice.

"Now another one, Ben. Give me a longer one this time."

This time Ben held the wedge until it was half buried, having perfect confidence in Jerry's skill. It was not until the fourth wedge had been driven in that a fragment of rock weighing four or five hundredweight suddenly broke out from the face. All bent eagerly over it, and the miners gave a shout of joy. The inner surface, which was white, but slightly stained with yellow, with blurs of slate colour here and there, was thickly studded with gold. It stuck out above the surface in thin, leafy plates with ragged edges, with here and there larger spongy masses.

"I reckon that is good enough," Jerry said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Ef there is but enough of it, it is the biggest thing that ever was struck. There ain't no saying how rich it is, but I will bet my boots it's over five hundred ounces to the ton. It ain't in nature that it is going to run far like that, but it is good enough for anything. Well, what is the next thing, Harry?"

"We will break it up," Harry said, "and carry it down with us to the camp. If the Utes came down on us tomorrow, and we could get off with it, that would be plenty to show if we want to make a sale."

It took them a long time to break up the rock, for the quartz was hard, and was so bound together by the leafy gold running through it that each of the four men had several spells with the hammer before it was broken up into fragments weighing some twenty pounds apiece. As soon as this was done the men collected earth, filled up the hole in the face of the rock, and planted several large tufts of grass in it, and poured four or five tins of water over them; then they smeared with mud the patches where Harry had before broken pieces off.

"What is all that for, Jerry?" Tom asked.

"It is to hide up the traces, lad. We may have to bolt away from here to-morrow morning for anything we know, and before we come back again someone else may come along, and though we shall locate our claims at the mining register, there would be a lot of trouble if anyone else had taken possession, and was working the vein when we got back."

"It is not likely that anyone else would come along here, Jerry."

"Waal, I reckon that is so, but one ain't going to trust to chance when one has struck on such a place as this."

The Seneca had been the only unmoved person in the party.

"What do you think of that, chief?" Harry asked him.

"If my white brother is pleased Leaping Horse is glad," he replied. "But the Indian does not care for gold. What can he do with it? He has a good gun, he does not want twenty. He does not want many hunting suits. If he were to buy as many horses as would fill the valley he could not ride them all, and he would soon tire of sitting in his lodge and being waited upon by many wives. He has enough for his needs now. When he is old it will be time to rest."

"Well, that is philosophy, chief, and I don't say you are wrong from your way of looking at it. But that gold means a lot to us. It means going home to our people. It means living in comfort for the rest of our lives. It means making our friends happy."

"Leaping Horse is glad," the chief said gravely. "But he cannot forget that to him it means that the white brother, with whom he has so long hunted and camped and fought bad Indians, will go away across the great salt water, and Leaping Horse will see him no more."

"That is so, chief," Harry said, grasping the Indian's hand warmly, "and I was a selfish brute not to think of it before. There is one thing I will promise you. Every year or so I will come out here and do a couple of months' hunting with you. The journey is long, but it is quickly made now, and I know that after knocking about for twenty years I shall never be content if I don't take a run out on the plains for a bit every summer. I will give you my word, Leaping Horse, that as long as I have health and strength I will come out regularly, and that you shall see your white brother's friendship is as strong as your own."

The Seneca's grave face lit up with pleasure. "My white brother is very good," he said. "He has taken away the thorn out of the heart of Leaping Horse. His Indian brother is all glad now."

The quartz was placed in sacks they had brought with them to carry down samples, and they at once returned to the camp, where, after smoking a pipe, they lay down to sleep; but it was some time before all went off, so excited were they at the thought of the fortune that seemed before them.

In the afternoon they took one of the pieces of stone, weighing, by a spring balance, twenty pounds, and with the flat plate and the crushing-hammer went to the stream. The rock was first broken with the sledge into pieces the size of a walnut. These were pulverized on the iron plate and the result carefully washed, and when the work was finished the gold was weighed in the miner's scales, and turned the four-ounce weight.

"That is nearly five hundred ounces to the ton," Harry said, "but of course it is not going to run like that. I reckon it is a rich pocket; there may be a ton of the stuff, and there may be fifty. Now let's go up and have a quiet look for the lode, and see if we can trace it. We ought to see it on the rock the other side."

A careful search showed them the quartz vein on the face of the rock some fifty feet higher up the valley, and this showed them the direction of the run of the lode. It was here, however, only six inches wide instead of being two feet, as at the spot where it was first found. Some pieces were broken off: there was gold embedded in it, but it was evident that it was nothing like so rich as on the other side. A piece of ten pounds was pounded up, it returned only a little over a pennyweight of gold.

"About twelve ounces to the ton," Harry said. "Not bad, but a mighty falling off from the other. To-morrow morning we will follow the lode on the other side and see if we can strike an outcrop."

The next day they found the lode cropping up through the rock some thirty yards from their great find. It was about nine inches wide. They dug it out with their picks to a depth of two feet so as to get a fair sample. This when crushed gave a return at the rate of twenty ounces.

"That is rich enough again, and would pay splendidly if worked by machinery. Of course the question is, how far it holds on as rich as we found it at the face, and how it keeps on in depth? But that is just what we can't find. We want drills and powder, as picks are no sort of good on this hard quartz. Supposing it goes off gradually from the face to this point, there would be millions of dollars in it, even supposing it pinched in below, which there is no reason in the world to suppose. We may as well take a few of these chunks of rock, they will show that the gold holds fairly a good way back anyhow."

A few pieces were put aside and the rest thrown into the hole again, which was stamped down and filled up with dust. The party then went back to dinner, and a consultation was held as to what was next to be done.

"Of course we must stake out our claims at once," Harry said. "In the first place there are our own eight claims—two for each of the discoverers and one each for the others. Hunting Dog will not have a share, but will be paid the regular rate as a hunter. Then we will take twenty claims in the names of men we know. They wouldn't hold water if it were a well-known place, and everyone scrambling to get a claim on the lode; but as there is no one to cut in, and no one will know the place till we have sold it and a company sends up to take possession and work it, it ain't likely to be disputed. The question is, What shall we do now? Shall we make back to the settlements, or try washing a bit?"

"Try washing, I should say," Jerry said. "You may be some time before you can sell the place. Anyone buying will know that they will have to send up a force big enough to fight the Utes, and besides they will want someone to come up here to examine it before they close the bargain. I vote we stick here and work the gravel for a bit so as to take enough away to keep us till next spring. I reckon we shall find plenty of stuff in it as we go down, and if that is so we can't do better than stick to it as long as there is water in the creek."

"I agree with you there, Jerry; but it will never do to risk losing those first samples. I am ready to stay here through the summer, but I vote we sew them up in deer-hide, and put two or three thicknesses of skin on them so as to prevent accidents. Two of us had best go with them to the fort and ask the Major to let us stow them away in his magazine, then, if we have to bolt, we sha'n't be weighted down with them. Besides, we might not have time for packing them on the horses, and altogether it would be best to get them away at once, then come what might we should have proofs of the value of the mine."

This proposal was cordially agreed to, and it was settled that on the following morning Harry himself should, with Hunting Dog and two pack-horses, start for the fort, following the same route they came, while the rest should set to work to construct a cradle, and troughs for leading the water to it.

CHAPTER XIV. AN INDIAN ATTACK

A couple of trees were felled in the middle of the clump in which they were still encamped. They were first roughly squared and then sawn into planks, the three men taking it by turns to use the saw. The question of shifting the camp up to the spot where they intended to work was discussed the night before Harry started, but it was agreed at last that it would be better to remain where they were.

"If Utes come, sure to find traces," the chief said. "Many horses in valley make tracks as plain as noonday. Gold valley bad place for fight."

"That is so," Jerry agreed. "We should not have a show there. Even if we made a log-house, and it would be a dog-goned trouble to carry up the logs,—we might be shut up in it, and the red-skins would only have to lie round and shoot us down if we came out. I reckon we had best stay here after all, Harry. We could keep them outside the range of our rifles anyhow by day."

"I don't see that that would be much good to us, Jerry; for if they came by day they would not find us here. Still I don't know that it ain't best for us to stay here; it would give us a lot of trouble to build a place. I reckon two of us had better stay here all the day with the horses. If the red-skins come, they can fire a couple of shots, and we shall hear them up at the washing-place. The red-skins would be safe to draw off for a bit to talk it over before they attacked, as they would not know how many there were among the trees. That would give the rest time to come down."

It took three days' hard work to saw the planks and make the cradle, and troughs sufficiently long to lead the water down into it from the stream higher up. These were roughly but strongly made, the joints being smeared with clay to prevent the water from running through. A dam was then made to keep back the water above the spot where they intended to begin, which was about fifty yards below the quartz vein, and from this dam the trough was taken along on strong trestles to the cradle.

The horses were brought into the camp at daybreak every morning and tied up to the trees, and were let out again at nightfall. Tom remained in camp, the chief being with him. The latter, however, was, during the time Harry was away, twice absent for a day on hunting excursions lower down the valley, which was there thickly wooded. The first time, he returned with the hams and a considerable portion of the rest of the flesh of a bear. The second time, he brought up the carcass of a deer.

"How far does the valley run?" Tom asked.

"Valley last ten miles. Sides get steep and high, then cañon begin."

"That will run right down to the Colorado?"

The chief nodded. "Leaping Horse go no farther. Cañon must go down to the river."

"How far is it before the sides of the valley get too steep to climb?"

"Two miles from here. Men could climb another mile or two, horses not."

"Is there much game down there, chief?"

The Seneca nodded.

"That is a comfort, we sha'n't be likely to run out of fresh meat."

The chief was very careful in choosing the wood for the fire, so that in the daytime no smoke should be seen rising from the trees. When the dead wood in the clump of trees was exhausted he rode down the valley each day, and returned in an hour with a large faggot fastened behind him on the horse. He always started before daybreak, so as to reduce the risk of being seen from the hills. On the sixth day the men began their work at the gravel. The bottle of mercury was emptied into the cradle, the bottom of which had been made with the greatest care, so as to prevent any loss from leakage. Two of the men brought up the gravel in buckets and pans, until the cradle was half full. Then water was let in, and the third man rocked the machine and kept on removing the coarse stuff that worked up to the top, while the others continued bringing up fresh gravel.

"Well, what luck?" Tom asked, when they returned in the evening.

"We have not cleaned up yet; we shall let it run for three or four days before we do. We are only on the surface yet, and the stuff wouldn't pay for the trouble of washing out."

On the eighth day after their departure Harry and Hunting Dog returned.

"Well, boys, it is all stowed away safely," he said. "I know the Major well, and he let me have a big chest, which he locked up, after I had put the bags in, and had it stowed away in the magazine; so there is no fear of its being touched. Any signs of the red-skins?"

"Nary a sign. We have none of us been up the valley beyond this, so that unless they come right down here, they would find no trail. The horses are always driven down the valley at night."

"How is the work going on, Jerry?"

"We began washing two days ago; to-morrow night we shall clean up. We all think it is going to turn out pretty good, for we have seen gold in the sand several times as we have carried it up in the pails."

The next day Tom went up with the others, the Indians remaining in camp. Two men now worked at the cradle, while the other three brought up the sand and gravel. Towards evening they began the work of cleaning up. No more stuff was brought up to the machine, but the water was still run into it. As fast as the shaking brought the rough gravel to the top it was removed, until only a foot of sand remained at the bottom. The water was now stopped and the sand dug out, and carefully washed in the pans by hand. At the bottom of each pan there remained after all the sand had been removed a certain amount of gold-dust, the quantity increasing as the bottom was approached. The last two panfuls contained a considerable amount.

"It does not look much," Tom said when the whole was collected together.

"It is heavy stuff, lad," Harry replied. "What do you think there is,

Jerry? About twelve ounces, I should fancy."

"All that, Harry; nigher fourteen, I should think."

The pan was now put at the bottom of the cradle, a plug pulled out, and the quicksilver run into it. A portion of this was poured on wash-leather, the ends of which were held up by the men so as to form a bag. Harry took the leather, and holding it over another pan twisted it round and round. As the pressure on the quicksilver increased it ran through the pores of the leather in tiny streams, until at last a lump of pasty metal remained. This was squeezed again and again, until not a single globule of quicksilver passed through the leather. The ball, which was of the consistency of half-dried mortar was then taken out, and the process repeated again and again until the whole of the quicksilver had been passed through the leather. Six lumps of amalgam about the size of small hens' eggs remained.

"Is that good, uncle?" Tom asked.

"Very fair, lad; wonderfully good indeed, considering we have not got down far yet. I should say we shall get a pound and a half of gold out of it."

"But how does the gold get into it, uncle?"

"There is what is called an affinity between quicksilver and gold. The moment gold touches quicksilver it is absorbed by it, just as a drop of water is taken up by a lump of salt. It thickens the quicksilver, and as it is squeezed through the leather the quicksilver is as it were strained out, and what remains behind becomes thicker and thicker, until, as you see, it is almost solid. It is no good to use more pressure, for if you do a certain amount of the gold would be squeezed through the leather. You see, as the stuff in the cradle is shaken, the gold being heavier than the sand finds its way down to the bottom, and every particle that comes in contact with the quicksilver is swallowed up by it."

"And how do you get the quicksilver out of those lumps?"

"We put them in one of those clay crucibles you saw, with a pinch of borax, cover them up, and put them in a heap of glowing embers. That evaporates the quicksilver, and leaves the gold behind in the shape of a button." This was done that evening, and when the buttons were placed in the scales they just turned the two-pound weight.

"Well, boys, that is good enough for anything," Harry said. "That, with the dust, makes a pound a day, which is as good as the very best stuff in the early days of California."

They worked steadily for the next seven weeks. Contrary to their expectations the gravel was but little richer lower down than they had found it at the end of the first wash-up, but continued about equally good, and the result averaged about a pound weight of gold a day. This was put into little bags of deer-skin, each containing five pounds' weight, and these bags were distributed among the saddle-bags, so that in case of sudden disturbance there would be no risk of their being left behind. The Indians took it by turns to hunt; at other times they remained on guard in camp, Tom only staying when one of them was away. One day when the mining party stopped work, and sat down to eat some bread and cold meat,—which they had from the first brought up, so as to save them the loss of time entailed by going to the camp and back,—the report of a gun came upon their ears. All started to their feet and seized their rifles, and then stood listening intently. A minute later two more shots were heard at close intervals.

"Red-skins for sure!" Jerry exclaimed. "I thought as how our luck were too good to last." They started at a run down the little valley, and only paused when they reached its mouth. Harry then advanced cautiously until he could obtain a view of the main valley. He paused for a minute and then rejoined his companions.

"There are fifty of them," he said, "if there is one. They are Utes in their war-paint. They are a bit up the valley. I think if we make a rush we can get to the trees before they can cut us off."

"We must try anyhow," Sam Hicks said, "else they will get the two Indians and our horses and saddles and all. Just let us get breath for a moment, and then we will start."

"Keep close together as you run," Harry said, "and then if they do come up we can get back to back and make a fight of it." After a short pause they started. They had not gone twenty yards when a loud yell proclaimed that the Indians had seen them. They had, however, but three hundred yards to run, while the Utes were double that distance from the clump.

When the miners were within fifty yards of the trees two rifle-shots rang out, and two of the Utes, who were somewhat ahead of the rest; fell from their horses, while the rest swerved off, seeing that there was no hope of cutting the party off. A few more yards and the miners were among the trees.

"So the Utes have found us out, chief," Harry said as he joined Leaping

Horse, who had just reloaded his ride.

"Must have tracked us. They are a war-party," the Seneca replied.

"Hunter must have found tracks and taken news back to the villages."

"Well, we have got to fight for it, that is clear enough," Harry said. "Anyhow, now they see there are seven of us they are not likely to attack until it gets dark, so we have time to think over what had best be done. We had just begun our meal when we heard your shot, and the best thing we can do is to have a good feed at once. We may be too busy later on."

The chief said a word to the young Indian, and, leaving him on the watch, accompanied the others to the fire. They had scarcely sat down when Hunting Dog came up.

"More Utes," he said briefly, pointing across the valley.

They at once went to the outer line of trees. On the brow of the rise opposite were a party of horsemen between twenty and thirty strong.

"That shows they have learnt all about our position," Harry said. "Those fellows have been lying in wait somewhere over the hill to cut us off if we took to our horses on seeing the main body. Let us have a look the other side."

Crossing the clump of trees, they saw on the brow there another party of

Utes.

"I reckon they must have crossed that valley we were working in just after we got through," Jerry said. "It is mighty lucky they did not come down on us while we were washing, for they could have wiped us all out before we had time to get hold of our guns. Well, Harry, we are in a pretty tight fix, with fifty of them up the valley and five-and-twenty or so on each side of us. We shall have to be dog-goned smart if we are to get out of this scrape."

"Hand me your rifle, Tom," his uncle said, "it carries farther than mine, and I will give those fellows a hint that they had best move off a bit."

Steadying his piece against a tree, he took a careful aim and fired. One of the Indians swerved in his saddle, and then fell forward on the neck of his horse, which turned and galloped off with the rest.

"Now we will have our meal and take council, chief," Harry said as he turned away. "If we have got to fight there is no occasion to fight hungry."

The fire was made up; there was no need to be careful now. Strips of deer's flesh were hung over it, and the meal was soon ready. But little was said while it was being eaten, then they all lighted their pipes and each put a pannikin of hot tea beside him.

"Now, chief," Harry said, "have you arrived at any way out of this? It is worse than it was the last time we got caught in this valley."

The chief shook his head. "No good fight here," he said; "when night come they creep up all round."

"Yes, I see that we have got to bolt, but the question is, how? If we were to ride they would ride us down, that is certain. Jerry and Tom might possibly get away, though that ain't likely. Their critters are good, but nothing downright extraordinary, and the chances are that some of the Utes have got faster horses than theirs. As for the rest of us, they would have us before we had ridden an hour."

"That ain't to be thought of," Jerry said. "It seems to me our best chance would be to leave the critters behind, and to crawl out the moment it gets dark, and try and get beyond them."

"They will close in as soon as it gets dark, Jerry. They will know well enough that that is the time we shall be moving. I reckon we should not have a chance worth a cent of getting through. What do you say, chief?"

Leaping Horse nodded in assent.

"Well, then," Sam Hicks said, "I vote we mount our horses and go right at them. I would rather do that and get rubbed out in a fair fight than lie here until they crawl up and finish us."

No one answered, and for some minutes they smoked on without a word being spoken, then Harry said:

"There is only one chance for us that I can see, and that is to mount now and to ride right down the valley. The chief says that in some places it is not more than fifty yards wide, with steep cliffs on each side, and we could make a much better fight there, for they could only attack us in front. There would be nothing for them then but to dismount and close in upon us from tree to tree, and we could make a running fight of it until we come to the mouth of the cañon. There must be places there, that we ought to be able to hold with our seven rifles against the lot of them."

"Bully for you, Harry! I reckon that would give us a chance anyhow. That is, if we ain't cut off before we get to the wood."

"Let us have a look round and see what they are doing," Harry said. "Ah! here comes Hunting Dog. He will tell us all about it."

"Utes on hills all gone up and joined the others," the young Indian said as he came up.

"It could not be better news!" Harry exclaimed. "I reckon they have moved away to tempt us to make a start for the fort, for they know if we go that way they will have us all, sure. They have not reckoned on our riding down the valley, for they will be sure we must have found out long ago that there ain't any way out of it. Well, we had best lose no time. There is some meat ready, Hunting Dog, and you had best fill up while we get ready for a start."

The blankets and buffalo rugs were wrapped up and strapped behind the saddles, as soon as these were placed behind the horses. They had only a small quantity of meat left, as the chief was going out hunting the next morning, but they fastened this, and eighty pounds of flour that still remained, on to one of the pack-horses. They filled their powder-horns from the keg, and each put three or four dozen bullets into his holsters, together with all the cartridges for their pistols; the rest of the ammunition was packed on another horse. When all was completed they mounted.

"We may get a couple of hundred yards more start before we are seen," Harry said. "Anyhow, we have got five hundred yards, and may reckon on making the two miles to where the valley narrows before they catch us."

The instant, however, they emerged from the wood, two loud yells were heard from Indians who had been left lying down on watch at the top of the slopes on either side. Sam, who was the worst shot of the party, had volunteered to lead the string of pack-horses, while Ben was ready to urge them on behind.

"You may want to stop some of the leading varmint, and I should not be much good at that game, so I will keep straight on without paying any attention to them."

A loud answering yell rose from the Indians up the valley.

"We shall gain fifty yards or so before they are fairly in the saddle," Harry said as they went off at the top of their speed, the horses seeming to know that the loud war-cry boded danger. They had gone half a mile before they looked round. The Indians were riding in a confused mass, and were some distance past the grove the miners had left, but they still appeared as far behind as they had been when they started. Another mile and the mass had broken up; the best-mounted Indians had left the rest some distance behind, and considerably decreased the gap between them and the fugitives. Another five minutes and the latter reached the wood, that began just where the valley narrowed and the cliffs rose almost perpendicularly on each side. As soon as they did so they leapt from their horses, and each posting himself behind a tree opened fire at their pursuers, the nearest of whom were but two hundred yards away. Four fell to the first seven shots; the others turned and galloped back to the main body, who halted at once.

"They won't try a charge," Harry said; "it isn't in Indian nature to come across the open with the muzzles of seven rifles pointed at them. They will palaver now; they know they have got us in a trap, and they will wait till night. Now, chief, I reckon that you and I and Hunting Dog had best stay here, so that if they try, as they are pretty sure to do, to find out whether we are here still, we can give them a hint to keep off. The other four had better ride straight down the cañon, and go on for a bit, to find out the best place for making a stand, and as soon as it is dark we will go forward and join them. There will be no occasion for us to hurry. I reckon the skunks will crawl up here soon after it is dark; but they won't go much farther, for we might hide up somewhere and they might miss us. In the morning they will come down on foot, sheltering behind the trees as much as they can, till at last they locate us."

The chief nodded his approval of the plan, and Tom and the three miners at once started, taking the pack-horses with them. On the way down they came upon a bear. Ben was about to fire, but Jerry said: "Best leave him alone, Ben; we are only three miles down, and these cliffs would echo the sound and the red-skins would hear it and know that some of us had gone down the valley, and might make a rush at once." In an hour and a half they came down to a spot where the valley, after widening out a good bit, suddenly terminated, and the stream entered a deep cañon in the face of the wall of rock that closed it in.

"I reckon all this part of the valley was a lake once," Jerry said. "When it got pretty well full it began to run over where this cañon is and gradually cut its way out down to the Colorado. I wonder how far it is to the river."

They had gone but a hundred yards down the cañon when they came to a place where a recent fall of rocks blocked it up. Through these the stream, which was but a small one, made its way.

"There is a grist of water comes down here when the snow melts in the spring," Ben remarked. "You can see that the rocks are worn fifty feet up. Waal, I reckon this place is good enough for us, Jerry."

"I reckon so, too," the latter agreed. "It will be a job to get our horses over; but we have got to do it anyhow, if we have to carry them." The animals, however, managed to scramble up the rocks that filled the cañon to the height of some thirty feet. The distance between the rock walls was not more than this in width.

"We could hold this place for a year," Ben said, "if they didn't take to chucking rocks down from above."

"Yes, that is the only danger," Jerry agreed; "but the betting is they could not get nigh enough to the edge to look down. Still, they might do it if the ground is level above; anyhow, we should not show much at this depth, for it is pretty dark down here, and the rocks must be seven or eight hundred feet high."

It was, indeed, but a narrow strip of sky that they saw as they looked up, and although still broad daylight in the valley they had left, it was almost dark at the bottom of the deep gorge, and became pitch dark as soon as the light above faded.

"The first job in the morning," Jerry said, "will be to explore this place down below. I expect there are places where it widens out. If it does, and there are trees and anything like grass, the horses can get a bite of food; if not, they will mighty soon go under, that is if we don't come upon any game, for if we don't we sha'n't be able to spare them flour."

"It is almost a pity we did not leave them in the valley to take their chance," Tom said.

"Don't you make any mistake," Jerry said. "In the first place they may come in useful to us yet, and even if we never get astride of them again they may come in mighty handy for food. I don't say as we mayn't get a bear if there are openings in the cañon, or terraces where they can come down, but if there ain't it is just horse-meat we have got to depend on. Look here, boys, it is 'tarnal dark here; I can't see my own hand. I vote we get a light. There is a lot of drift-wood jammed in among the stones where we climbed up, that will do to start a fire, and I saw a lot more just at the mouth of this gap. We know the red-skins ain't near yet, so I vote we grope our way up and bring some down. It will be a first-rate thing, too, to make a bit of fire half-way between here and the mouth; that would put a stop to their crawling up, as they are like enough to try to do, to make out whereabouts we are. Of course we shall have to damp our own fire down if they come, else we should show up agin the light if we went up on the rock."

The others agreed at once, for it was dull work sitting there in the black darkness. All had matches, and a piece of dry fir was soon found. This was lighted, and served as a torch with which to climb over the rocks. Jammed in between these on the upper side was a large quantity of drift-wood. This was pulled out, made into bundles, and carried over the rock barrier, and a fire was soon blazing there. Then taking a brand and two axes they went up to the mouth of the gorge, cut up the arms of some trees that had been brought down by the last floods and left there as the water sank. The greater part of these were taken down to their camping-place; the rest, with plenty of small wood to light them, were piled halfway between the barrier and the mouth of the cañon, and were soon blazing brightly.

They were returning to their camping-place, when Ben exclaimed that he heard the sound of horses' hoofs. All stopped to listen.

"There are not more than three of them," Ben said, "and they are coming along at a canter. I don't expect we shall hear anything of the red-skins until tomorrow morning."

They heard the horses enter the cañon, then Jerry shouted: "Are you all right, Harry?"

"Yes; the red-skins were all quiet when we came away. Why, where are you?" he shouted again when he came up to the fire.

"A hundred yards farther on I will show you a light."

Two or three blazing brands were brought up. Harry and the Indians had dismounted at the first fire, and now led their horses up to the stone barrier.

"What on arth have you lit that other fire for, Jerry?" Harry asked as he stopped at the foot of the barrier.

"Because we shall sleep a dog-goned sight better with it there. As like as not they may send on two or three young warriors to scout. It is as black as a wolf's mouth, and we might have sat listening all night, and then should not have heard them. But with that fire there they dare not come on, for they would know they could not pass it without getting a bullet in them."

"Well, it is a very good idea, Jerry; I could not think what was up when I got there and did not see anybody. I see you have another fire over the other side. I could make it out clear enough as we came on."

"It will burn down a bit presently," Jerry said. "I should not try to get those horses up here now, Harry. It was a bad place to come up in daylight, and like enough they would break their legs if they tried it now. They will do just as well there as they would on this side, and you can get them over as soon as the day breaks."

"I would rather get them over, Jerry; but I see it is a pretty rough place."

Leaving the horses, Harry and the Indians climbed over the barrier, and were soon seated with the others round their fire, over which the meat was already frizzling.

"So the Indians kept quiet all the afternoon, Harry?"

"As quiet as is their nature. Two or three times some of them rode down, and galloped backwards and forwards in front of us to make out if we were there. Each time we let them fool about for a good long spell, and then when they got a bit careless sent them a ball or two to let them know we were still there. Hunting Dog went with the three horses half a mile down the valley soon after you had gone, so that they might not hear us ride off.

"As soon as it began to get dusk we started. We had to come pretty slow, for it got so dark under the trees we could not make out the trunks, and had to let the horses pick their own way. But we knew there was no hurry, for they would not follow till morning, though of course their scouts would creep up as soon as it was dark, and wouldn't be long before they found out that we had left."

"I reckon they will all come and camp in the wood and wait for daylight before they move, though I don't say two or three scouts may not crawl down to try and find out where we are. They will move pretty slow, for they will have to pick their way, and will know well enough that if a twig cracks it will bring bullets among them. I reckon they won't get here under four or five hours. It is sartin they won't try to pass that fire above. As soon as they see us they will take word back to the others, and we shall have the whole lot down here by morning."

"We shall have to get the horses over, the first thing. Two of us had best go down, as soon as it is light enough to ride without risking our necks, to see what the cañon is like below."

"Yes, that is most important, Jerry; there may be some break where the red-skins could get down, and so catch us between two fires."

"I don't care a red cent for the Utes," Jerry said. "We can lick them out of their boots in this cañon. What we have been thinking of, is whether there is some place where the horses can get enough to keep them alive while we are shut up here. If there is game, so much the better; if there ain't, we have got to take to horseflesh."

"How long do you suppose that the Indians are likely to wait when they find that they can't get at us?" Tom asked.

"There ain't no sort of saying," his uncle replied. "I reckon no one ever found out yet how long a red-skin's patience will last. Time ain't nothing to them. They will follow up this cañon both sides till they are sartin that there ain't no place where a man can climb up. If there ain't, they will just squat in that valley. Like enough they will send for their lodges and squaws and fix themselves there till winter comes, and even then they might not go. They have got wood and water. Some of them will hunt and bring in meat, which they will dry for the winter; and they are just as likely to stay here as to go up to their villages."

A vigilant watch was kept up all night, two of them being always on guard at the top of the barrier. As soon as morning broke, the three horses were got over, and half an hour later Harry and Sam Hicks rode off down the cañon, while the others took their places on guard, keeping themselves well behind the rocks, between which they looked out. They had not long to wait, for an Indian was seen to dart rapidly across the mouth of the cañon. Two rifles cracked out, but the Indian's appearance and disappearance was so sudden and quick that they had no reason to believe that they had hit him.

"They will know now that we are here, and are pretty wide awake," Ben said. "You may be sure that he caught sight of these rocks."

A minute or two later several rifles flashed from among the fallen stones at the mouth of the gorge.

"Keep your eyes open," Jerry said, "and when you see the slightest movement, fire. But don't do it unless you feel certain that you make out a head or a limb. We've got to show the Utes that it is sartin death to try and crawl up here."

Almost immediately afterwards a head appeared above the stones, the chief's rifle cracked, and at the same instant the head disappeared.

"Do you think you got him, chief?"

"Think so, not sure. Leaping Horse does not often miss his mark at two hundred yards."

Almost directly afterwards Tom fired. An Indian sprang to his feet and bounded away.

"What did you fire at, Tom?"

"I think it was his arm and shoulder," Tom replied. "I was not sure about it, but I certainly saw something move."

"I fancy you must have hit him, or he would not have got up. Waal, now I reckon we are going to have quiet for a bit. They must have had a good look at the place while they were lying there, and must have seen that it air too strong for them. I don't say they mayn't come on again tonight—that they may do, but I think it air more likely they won't try it. They would know that we should be on the watch, and with seven rifles and Colts we should account for a grist of them afore they got over. What do you say, chief?"

"Not come now," the Indian said positively. "Send men first along top see if can get down. Not like come at night; the cañons of the Colorado very bad medicine, red-skins no like come into them. If no way where we can get up, then Utes sit down to starve us."

"That will be a longish job, chief. A horse a week will keep us for three months."

"If no food for horse, horse die one week."

"So they will, chief. We must wait till Harry comes back, then we shall know what our chances are."

It was six hours before Harry and Sam returned. There was a shout of satisfaction from the men when they saw that they had on their saddles the hind-quarters of a bear.

"Waal, what is the news, Harry?"

"It ain't altogether good, Ben. It goes down like this for about twelve miles, then it widens out sudden. It gets into a crumbly rock which has got worn away, and there is a place maybe about fifty yards wide and half a mile long, with sloping sides going up a long way, and then cliff all round. The bottom is all stones; there are a few tufts of coarse grass growing between them. On the slopes there are some bushes, and on a ledge high up we made out a bear. We had two or three shots at him, and at last brought him down. There may be more among the bushes; there was plenty of cover for them."

"There was no place where there was a chance of getting up, Harry?"

"Nary a place. I don't say as there may not be, but we couldn't see one." "But the bear must have got down."

"No. He would come down here in the dry season looking for water-holes, and finding the place to his liking he must have concluded to settle there. It is just the place a bear would choose, for he might reckon pretty confident that there weren't no chance of his being disturbed. Well, we went on beyond that, and two miles lower the cañon opened again, and five minutes took us down on to the bank of the Colorado. There was no great room between the river and the cliff, but there were some good-sized trees there, and plenty of bush growing up some distance. We caught sight of another bear, but as we did not want him we left him alone."

"Waal, let us have some b'ar-meat first of all," Jerry said. "We finished our meat last night, and bread don't make much of a meal, I reckon. Anyhow we can all do with another, and after we have done we will have a talk. We know what to expect now, and can figure it up better than we could before."

CHAPTER XV. THE COLORADO

"Well, boys," Harry Wade began after they had smoked for some time in silence, "we have got to look at this matter squarely. So far we have got out of a mighty tight place better than we expected. Yesterday it seemed to us that there weren't much chance of our carrying our hair away, but now we are out of that scrape. But we are in another pretty nigh as bad, though there ain't much chance of the red-skins getting at us."

"That air so, Harry. We are in a pretty tight hole, you bet. They ain't likely to get our scalps for some time, but there ain't no denying that our chance of carrying them off is dog-goned small."

"You bet there ain't, Jerry," Sam Hicks said. "Them pizon varmint will camp outside here; for they know they have got us in a trap. They mayn't attack us at present, but we have got to watch night and day. Any dark night they may take it into their heads to come up, and there won't be nothing to prevent them, for the rustling of the stream among the rocks would cover any little noise they might make. The first we should know of it would be the yell of the varmint at the foot of this barrier, and afore we could get to the top the two on guard would be tomahawked, and they would be down on us like a pack of wolves. I would a'most as soon put down my rifle and walk straight out now and let them shoot me, if I knew they would do it without any of their devilish tortures, as go on night after night, expecting to be woke up with their war-yell in my ears.

"Of course they will be always keeping a watch there at the mouth of the cañon,—a couple of boys are enough for that,—for they will know that if we ride out on our horses we must go right up the valley, and it is a nasty place to gallop through in the dark; besides, some of them will no doubt be placed higher up to cut us off, and if we got through, which ain't likely, they could ride us down in a few hours. If we crept out on foot and got fairly among the trees we should be no better off, for they would take up our trail in the morning and hunt us down. I tell you fairly, boys, I don't see any way out of it. I reckon it will come to our having to ride out together, and to wipe out as many of the Utes as possible afore we go down. What do you say, chief?" "Leaping Horse agrees with his white brother, Straight Harry, whose mind he knows."

"Waal, go on then, Harry," Sam said. "I thought that you had made an end of it or I wouldn't have opened out. I don't see no way out of it at present, but if you do I am ready to fall in with it whatever it is."

"I see but one way out of it, boys. It is a mighty risky thing, but it can't be more risky than stopping here, and there is just a chance. I spoke to the chief last night, and he owned that it didn't seem to him there was a chance in that or any other way. However, he said that if I went he would go with me. My proposal is this, that we take to the river and try and get through the cañons."

There was a deep silence among the men. The proposal took them by surprise. No man had ever accomplished the journey. Though two parties similarly attacked by Indians had attempted to raft down some of the cañons higher up; one party perished to a man, one survivor of the other party escaped to tell the tale; but as to the cañons below, through which they would have to pass, no man had ever explored them. The Indians regarded the river with deep awe, and believed the cañons to be peopled with demons. The enterprise was so stupendous and the dangers to be met with so terrible, that ready as the western hunters were to encounter dangers, no one had ever attempted to investigate the windings and turnings of the river that for two thousand miles made its way through terrific precipices, and ran its course some three thousand feet below the surrounding country, until it emerged on to the plains of Mexico.

"That was why I was so anxious to reach the river," Harry went on after a pause. "I wanted to see whether there were some trees, by which we could construct a raft, near its bank. Had there not been, I should have proposed to follow it up or down, as far as we could make our way, in hopes of lighting on some trees. However, as it is they are just handy for us. I don't say as we shall get through, boys, but there is just a chance of it. I don't see any other plan that would give us a show."

Jerry was the first to speak.

"Waal, Harry, you can count me in. One might as well be drowned in a rapid or carried over a fall as killed, or, wuss, taken and tortured by the red-skins."

"That is so, Jerry," Sam Hicks agreed. While Ben said: "Waal, if we git through it will be something to talk about all our lives. In course there ain't no taking the horses?"

"That is out of the question, Ben. We shall not have much time to spare, for the Utes may take it into their heads to attack us any night; and, besides, we have no means of making a big raft. We might tie two or three trunks together with the lariats and spike a few cross-pieces on them, we might even make two such rafts; that is the outside. They will carry us and our stores, but as for the horses, we must either leave them down in the hollow for the Indians to find, or put a bullet through their heads. I expect the latter will be the best thing for them, poor beasts."

"No want trees," the chief said. "Got horses' skins; make canoes."

"You are right, chief," Harry exclaimed; "I never thought of that. That would be the very thing. Canoes will go down the rapids where the strongest rafts would be dashed to pieces, and if we come to a bad fall we can make a shift to carry them round."

The others were no less pleased with the suggestion, and the doubtful expression of their faces as they assented to the scheme now changed to one of hopefulness, and they discussed the plan eagerly. It was agreed that not a moment should be lost in setting to work to carry it out, and that they should forthwith retreat to the mouth of the lower cañon; for all entertained a secret misgiving that the Utes might make their attack that night, and felt that if that attack were made in earnest it would succeed. It was certain they would be able to find some point at which the lower gorge could be held; and at any rate a day would be gained, for at whatever hour of the night the Indians came up they would not venture farther until daybreak, and there would probably be a long palaver before they would enter the lower cañon.

Tom had not spoken. He recognized the justice of Harry's reasoning, but had difficulty in keeping his tears back at the thought of his horse being killed. For well-nigh a year it had carried him well; he had tended and cared for it; it would come to his call and rub its muzzle against his cheek. He thought that had he been alone he would have risked anything rather than part with it.

"Don't you like the plan, Tom?" Harry said to him, as, having packed and saddled the horses, they rode together down the cañon. "I don't suppose the passage is so terrible after all."

"I am not thinking of the passage at all, uncle," Tom said almost indignantly; "it will be a grand piece of adventure; but I don't like—I hate—the thought of my horse being killed. It is like killing a dear friend to save one's self."

"It is a wrench, lad," Harry said kindly; "I can quite understand your feelings, and don't like the thought myself. But I see that it has got to be done, and after all it will be better to kill the poor brutes than to let them fall into the hands of the Indians, who don't know what mercy to their beasts means, and will ride them till they drop dead without the least compunction."

"I know it is better, uncle, ever so much better—but it is horrible all the same. Anyhow, don't ask me to do it, for I could not."

"I will see to that, Tom. You shall be one of the guards of the cañon. You would not be of much use in making the canoes, and you won't have to know anything about it till you go down and get on board."

Tom nodded his thanks; his heart was too full for him to speak, and he felt that if he said a word he should break down altogether. They rode rapidly along, passed through the little valley where the bear had been killed, without stopping, and went down the lower cañon, carefully examining it to fix upon the most suitable point for defence. There had been no recent fall, and though at some points great boulders lay thickly, there was no one place that offered special facilities for defence.

"Look here, boys," Harry said, reining up his horse at a point within two hundred yards of the lower end, "we can't do better than fix ourselves here. An hour's work will get up a wall that will puzzle the red-skins to get over, and there is the advantage that a shot fired here by the guard will bring our whole force up in a couple of minutes. I vote we ride the horses down to the river and let them pick up what they can, and then come back here and build the wall. It will be getting dark in an hour's time, and we may as well finish that job at once. Ben and Sam, you may as well pick out a couple of young fir-trees and bring them down at once, then there will be no time lost. Five of us will be enough for the wall. Keep your eyes open. Likely enough there is a bear or two about, and it would be a great thing for us to lay in a stock of meat before we start."

As soon as they issued from the gorge the horses were unsaddled and the stores taken off the pack-animals. As they were doing this Harry said a few words in a low tone to Sam. He then carefully examined the trees, and picked out two young firs. Sam and Ben took their axes, and the other five went up the gorge again, and were soon hard at work collecting boulders and piling them in a wall.

"There is a gun, uncle," Tom exclaimed presently.

"Well, I hope they have got sight of a bear, we shall want a stock of meat badly."

A dozen shots were fired, but Tom thought no more of it as he proceeded with his work. The bottom of the cañon was but fifteen feet wide, and by the time it was dark they had a solid wall across it nearly six feet high, with places for them to stand on to fire over.

"Now then, Tom, you may as well take post here at once. I will send Sam or Ben up to watch with you. I don't think there is a shadow of chance of their coming to-night, but there is never any answering for red-skins. I would leave Hunting Dog with you, but we shall want him to help make the framework for the canoes; the Indians are a deal handier than we are in making lashings. I will send your supper up here, lad, and your buffalo robes. Then you can take it by turns to watch and sleep. I reckon we shall be at work all night; we have got to get the job finished as quick as we can."

A quarter of an hour later Sam Hicks came up.

"Have you got the trees down, Sam?"

"Lor' bless you, it didn't take a minute to do that. We got them down and split them up, then lit a fire and got the meat over it and the kettle, and mixed the dough."

"Did you kill another bear? We heard you firing."

"No; the critter was too high up, and I ain't much good at shooting. Perhaps they will get sight of him tomorrow, and Harry and the chief will bring him down if he is within range of their shooting-irons. It is 'tarnal dark up here."

In twenty minutes two lights were seen approaching, and Harry and Hunting Dog came up carrying pine-wood torches. Each had a great faggot of wood fastened on his back, and Harry also carried the frying-pan, on which were a pile of meat and two great hunks of bread, while Hunting Dog brought two tin pannikins of hot tea.

"That will make it more cheerful for you," Harry said, as he unfastened the rope that tied the faggot to his shoulders. "Now, Hunting Dog, get a good fire as soon as you can, and then come down again to us."

The fire was soon blazing merrily, and Tom and Sam sat down to enjoy their meal.

"Don't you think one of us ought to keep watch, Sam?"

"Not a bit of it," Sam said. "The red-skins will never dare to enter that cañon until after dark, and if they started now and made their way straight on, they would not be here for another three or four hours. I would bet my boots they don't come at all tonight; even if they were not scared at us, they would be scared at coming near the river in the dark. No, we will just take our meal comfortable and smoke a pipe, and then I will take first watch and you shall take a sleep. We ain't closed an eye since the night before last."

Tom, indeed, was nearly asleep before he had finished his pipe, and felt that he really must get a nap. So saying to Sam, "Be sure and wake me in two hours," he rolled himself in his robe and instantly fell asleep.

It seemed to him that he had only just gone off when Sam roused him. He leapt to his feet, however, rifle in hand. "Anything the matter, Sam?"

"Everything quiet," the miner replied.

"What did you wake me for then? I have not been asleep five minutes."

"According to my reckoning, mate, you have been asleep better'n five hours. It was about half-past eight when you went off, and I reckon it is two now, and will begin to get light in another hour. I would not have waked you till daybreak, but I found myself dropping off."

"I am awfully sorry," Tom began.

"Don't you trouble, young un. By the time you have been as long in the West as I have you won't think anything of two nights' watch. Now you keep a sharp lookout. I don't think there is much chance of their coming, but I don't want to be woke up with a red-skin coming right down on the top of me."

"I see you have let the fire out, Sam," Tom said, with a little shiver.

"I put it out hours ago," Sam said, as he prepared to lie down. "It would never have done to keep it all night, for a red-skin would see my head over the top of the wall, while I should not get a sight of him till he was within arm's-length."

Tom took up his post, and gazed earnestly into the darkness beyond the wall. He felt that his sense of vision would be of no use whatever, and therefore threw all his faculties into that of listening. Slight as was the chance of the Indians coming, he yet felt somewhat nervous, and it was a satisfaction to him to see beyond the mouth of the cañon the glow of the fire, by which, as he knew, the others were hard at work.

In an hour the morning began to break, and as soon as he could see well up the cañon he relighted the fire, jumping up to take a look over the wall every minute or so. It was not long before he saw his uncle approaching with a kettle.

"I saw your smoke, Tom, and guessed that you would be glad of a mug of hot tea. You have seen no signs of Indians, I suppose?"

"We have heard nothing, uncle. As to seeing, up to half an hour ago there was no possibility of making out anything. But I have not even been listening; Sam went on guard directly we had finished supper, and I asked him to call me in two hours, but he did not wake me until two o'clock."

"He is a good fellow," Harry said. "Well, don't wake him now. I can't leave you the kettle, for we have to keep boiling water going, but you can put his tin into the ashes and warm it up when he wakes. Here are a couple of pieces of bread."

"Why do you have to keep the kettle boiling, uncle?"

"To bend the wood with. The piece we are working on is kept damp with boiling water. We hold it for a time over the fire, pouring a little water on as fast as it evaporates; that softens the wood, and we can bend it much more evenly than we could if we did it by force. Besides, when it is fastened into its position it remains, when it is dry, in that shape, and throws no strain on to anything."

"Are you getting on well?"

"Capitally. We should have done both the frames by now, but we were obliged to make them very strong so as to resist the bumps they are sure to get against rocks. When they are finished you might almost let them drop off the top of a house, they will be so strong and elastic. If the Indians will but give us time we shall make a first-rate job of them."

Three hours later Harry came up again with the kettle and some cooked meat. Sam had just woke up, and was quite angry with Tom for not rousing him before. "The others have been working all night," he said, "and here have I been asleep for five hours; a nice sort of mate they will think me."

"Well, but you were watching five hours, Sam; and I would a deal rather work all night than stand here for two hours in the dark, wondering all the time whether the Indians are crawling up, and expecting at any moment to hear a rush against the wall."

"I am going to take your place, Sam, when you have finished your breakfast," Harry said, as he came up. "If the Utes found out last night that we had gone, their scouts may be coming down before long. My rifle shoots a bit straighter than yours does."

"It ain't the rifle, Harry," Sam said good-temperedly; "it is the eye that is wrong, not the shooting-iron. I never had much practice with these long guns, but when it comes to a six-shooter, I reckon I can do my share as well as most. But they won't give me a chance with it."

"I hope they won't, Sam. I am sure they won't as long as there is light, and I hope that before it gets dark they will conclude to leave us alone."

A vigilant watch was kept now.

"I think I saw a head look out from that corner," Tom exclaimed suddenly, two hours after Sam had left them.

"I am quite sure I did, Tom. We must wait until he shows himself a bit more. I reckon it is a good three hundred yards off, and a man's head is a precious small mark at that distance. Stand a bit higher and lay your rifle on the wall. Don't fire if he only puts his head out. They know we can shoot, so there is not any occasion to give them another lesson. I don't hold to killing, unless you have got to do it. Let him have a good look at us.

"When he goes back and tells the tribe that there is a three hundred yards' straight passage without shelter, and a strong wall across the end of it, and two white men with rifles ready to shoot, I reckon they will know a good deal better than to try to come up it, as long as there is light. Besides, they won't think there is any occasion to hurry, for they won't count on our taking to the river, and will know that we shall be keeping watch at night. So it may very well be that they will reckon on wearing us out, and that we may not hear of them for a week. There is the fellow's head again!"

The head remained visible round the corner of the rock for two or three minutes.

"He knows all about it now, Tom. You won't see any more of him to-day. I will go down and lend them a hand below."

Tom asked no questions about the horses; he had thought of them a score of times as he stood on guard, and the thought had occurred to him that it was possible the shots he had heard while they were building the wall on the previous afternoon, had been the death shots of the horses. It did not occur to him when Sam was telling the story about the bear, that this was a got-up tale, but when he came to think it over, he thought it probable that it was so. Sam himself was not much of a shot, but Ben, although inferior to Harry or either of the two Indians, shot as well as Jerry, and would hardly have missed a bear three or four times running. Each time the thought of the horses occurred to him he resolutely put it aside, and concentrated his mind upon the probable perils of the passage down the cañons and the wonderful gorges they would traverse, and the adventures and excitement they were sure to pass through. He thought how fortunate it was they had taken the precaution of sending their specimens of quartz back to the fort; for were they in the canoes, the fruits of the journey would be irrevocably lost were these to upset; for now the Indians had twice discovered the presence of whites in the valley they would be sure to watch it closely, and it would not be possible to go up to the mine again unless in strong force.

The day passed quietly. Harry brought up Tom's meals, and late in the afternoon all hands came up, and the wall of stones was raised four feet, making it almost impregnable against a sudden attack. The two Indians took post there with Tom, and watched alternately all night. The Utes, however, remained perfectly quiet. They probably felt sure that the fugitives must sooner or later be forced to surrender, and were disinclined to face the loss that must occur before so strong a position, defended by seven men armed with rifles and revolvers, could be carried.

At three o'clock on the following afternoon Hunting Dog came up. "Tom go down and get dinner," he said, "Hunting Dog will watch."

Tom took his rifle and started down the cañon.

"Come on, lad," his uncle shouted. "We are pretty near ready for a start, and have all had our dinner; so be quick about it. We want to get well away from here before night."

Tom went to the fire and ate his meal. As he sat down he saw that the stores, blankets, and robes had all been carried away. When he finished, his uncle led him down to the river. Two canoes were floating in the water, and the other men were standing beside them.

"There, Tom, what do you think of them?"

"They are splendid, uncle; it seems impossible that you can have built them in two days."

"Five hands can do a lot of canoe-building in forty-eight hours' work,

Tom."

The canoes were indeed models of strength if not of beauty. They were each about twenty feet long and five feet wide. Two strong pieces of pine two inches square ran along the top of each side, and one of the same width but an inch deeper formed the keel. The ribs, an inch wide and three-quarters of an inch thick, were placed at intervals of eighteen inches apart. The canoes were almost flat-bottomed. The ribs lay across the keel, which was cut away to allow them to lie flush in it, a strong nail being driven in at the point of junction—these being the only nails used in the boat's construction. The ribs ran straight out to almost the full width of the canoe, and were then turned sharp up, the ends being lashed with thongs of hide to the upper stringers.

Outside the ribs were lashed longitudinal wattles of tough wood about an inch wide. They were placed an inch apart, extending over the bottom and halfway up the side. Over all was stretched the skin, five horses' hides having been used for each boat. They were very strongly sewed together by a double row of thongs, the overlaps having, before being sewed, been smeared with melted fat. Cross-pieces of wood at the top kept the upper framework in its place. The hair of the skin was outward, the inner glistened with the fat that had been rubbed into it.

"They are strong indeed," Tom said. "They ought to stand anything, uncle."

"Yes, I think they would stand a blow against any rock if it hadn't a cutting edge. They would just bound off as a basket would. Of course they are very heavy for canoes; but as they won't have to carry more than the weight of four men each, they will draw little over a couple of inches or so of water.

"That is why we made them so wide. We could not get strength without weight; and as there is no saying what shallows there may be, and how close in some places rocks may come up to the surface, we were obliged to build them wide to get light draught. You see we have made ten paddles, so as to have a spare one or two in case of breakage. We have two spare hides, so that we shall have the means of repairing damages."

Tom said nothing about the horses. Manufactured into a boat, as the skins were, there was not much to remind him of them; but he pressed his uncle's hand and said, "Thank you very much, uncle; I don't mind so much now, but I should not like to have seen them before."

"That is all right, Tom; it was a case of necessity. Sam and Ben shot them directly we got here."

The stores were all laid by the boats, being divided between them so that the cargoes were in all respects duplicates of each other. Before Tom came down some had already been placed in each boat, with a blanket thrown over them.

"You have got the gold, I suppose, uncle?"

"You may bet that we did not leave that behind. There is half in each boat, and the bags are lashed to the timbers, so that if there is an upset they cannot get lost."

"How are we going?"

"We have settled that you and I and the two Indians shall go together, and the rest in the other boat. The Indians know nothing of canoeing, and won't be of very much use. I know you were accustomed to boats, and I did some rowing when I was a young man. I wish we had a couple of Canadian Indians with us, or of half-breeds; they are up to this sort of work, and with one in the stern of each canoe it would be a much less risky business going down the rapids. However, no doubt we shall get handy with the paddles before long."

When everything was ready Harry fired his rifle, and in a couple of minutes Hunting Dog came running down. The others had already taken their seats. He stepped into Harry's boat, and they at once pushed off.

The river was running smoothly here, and Harry said, "Directly we get down a little way we will turn the boat's head up stream and practise for a bit. It would never do to get down into rough water before we can use the paddles fairly."

Tom sat in the bow of his boat, Hunting Dog was next to him, then came the chief, and Harry sat in the stern. A paddle is a much easier implement to manage for a beginner than is an oar, and it was not long before they found that they could propel the boats at a fair rate. In a short time they had passed the end of the shelf at the mouth of the cañon, and the cliffs on that side rose as abruptly as they did on the other. The river was some eighty yards wide.

"We will turn here," Harry said, "and paddle up. We sha'n't do more than keep abreast of these rocks now, for the stream runs fast though it is so smooth."

They found, indeed, that they had to work hard to hold their position.

"Now, Tom," Harry sang out, "it is you and I do the steering, you know. When you want the head to go to the right you must work your paddle out from the boat, when you want to go to the left you must dip it in the water rather farther out and draw it towards the boat. Of course when you have got the paddle the other side you must do just the contrary. You must sing out right or left according as you see rocks ahead, and I shall steer with my paddle behind. I have a good deal more power over the boat than you have, and you must depend upon me for the steering, unless there is occasion for a smart swerve."

At first the two boats shot backwards and forwards across the stream in a very erratic way, but after an hour's practice the steersmen found the amount of force required. An hour later Harry thought that they were competent to make a start, and turning they shot rapidly past the cliffs. In a couple of miles there was a break in the rocks to the left.

"We will land there," Harry said. "There are trees near the water and bushes farther up. We will make a camp there. There is no saying how far we may have to go before we get another opportunity. We have done with the Utes for good, and can get a sound night's sleep. If you, chief, will start with Hunting Dog as soon as we land, we will get the things ashore and light the fire. Maybe you will be able to get a bear for us."

They did not trouble to haul up the canoes, but fastened them by the head-ropes, which were made from lariats, to trees on the shore. Daylight was beginning to fade as they lighted the fire. No time was lost before mixing the dough, and it was in readiness by the time that there were sufficient glowing embers to stand the pot in. The kettle was filled and hung on a tripod over the fire. In a short time the Indians returned empty-handed.

"No find bear," the chief said, "getting too dark to hunt. To-morrow morning try."

Harry got up and went to the boats, and returned directly with a joint of meat. Tom looked up in surprise.

"It is not from yours, Tom," Jerry said as he saw him looking at it. "We took the hind-quarters of the four pack-ponies, but left the others alone. It was no use bringing more, for it would not keep."

"So it is horseflesh!" Tom rather shrank from the idea of eating it, and nothing would have induced him to touch it had he thought that it came from his own favourite. Some steaks were cut and placed in the frying-pan, while strips were hung over the fire for those who preferred the meat in that way. Tom felt strongly inclined to refuse altogether, but when he saw that the others took their meat as a matter of course, and proceeded to eat with a good appetite, he did not like to do so. He hesitated, however, before tasting it; but Harry said with a laugh, "Fire away, Tom. You can hardly tell it from beef, and they say that in Paris lots of horseflesh is sold as beef."

Thus encouraged, Tom took a mouthful, and found it by no means bad, for from their long stay in the valley the animals were all in excellent condition, and he acknowledged to himself that he would not have known the flesh from beef.

"I call it mighty good for a change." Terry said. "Out on the plains, where one can get buffalo, one would not take horse for choice, but as we have been eating deer and bear meat for about a year, horse-meat ain't bad by no means. What! You won't take another bit, Tom?"

"Not to-night, Jerry; next time I shall be all right. But it is my first trial, you know, and though I can't say it is not good, it gives me a queer feeling, so I will stick to the bread."

"Well, boys," Harry said presently, "we have made a first-rate start, and have got out of a big scrape, easier than I ever looked for. We could not have got two better canoes for our work if we had had them brought special from Canada, and it seems to me that they ought to go down pretty near anywhere without much damage. We shall get real handy with our paddles in two or three days, and I hope we sha'n't meet with any big rapids until we have got into the way of managing them well."

"You bet, Harry, we have got out well," said Jerry. "I tell you it looked downright ugly, and I wouldn't have given a continental for our chances. As for the rapids, I guess we shall generally find rocks one side or the other where we can make our way along, and we can let down the canoes by the ropes. Anyhow, we need not get skeery over them. After getting out of that valley with our hair on, the thought of them does not trouble me a cent."

CHAPTER XVI. AFLOAT IN CANOES

The two Indians were off long before daylight, and just as the others were having a wash at the edge of the river they heard the crack of a rifle some distance up the cliff.

"Bear!" Jerry exclaimed; "and I reckon they have got it, else we should have heard another shot directly afterwards. That will set us up in food for some time. Get the fire made up, Tom, you won't have to eat horse steak for breakfast unless you like."

The Indians returned half an hour later laden with as much bear-flesh as they could carry.

"I vote we stop here for two days," Harry said. "We have got a lot of meat now, but it won't keep for twenty-four hours in this heat, so I vote we cut it up and dry it as the Indians do buffalo-meat; it will keep any time. Besides, we deserve a couple of days' rest, and we can practise paddling while the meat dries. We got on very well yesterday, but I do want us to get quite at home in the boats before we get to a bad bit."

The proposal was agreed to, and as soon as breakfast was over the whole of the meat was cut up into thin slices and hung up on cords fastened from tree to tree.

"It ought to take three days to do it properly, and four is better," Harry said. "Still, as we have cut it very thin, I should think two days in this hot sun ought to be enough."

"Are there any fish in the river, uncle?"

"I have no doubt there are, Tom, grists of them, but we have got no hooks."

"Jerry has got some, he told me he never travelled without them, and we caught a lot of fish with them up in the mountains just after we started before. I don't know about line, but one might unravel one of the ropes."

"I think you might do better than that, Tom. The next small animal we shoot we might make some lines from the gut. They needn't be above five or six feet long. Beyond that we could cut a strip of thirty or forty feet long from one of the hides. However, we can do nothing at present in that way. Now let us get into the canoes and have a couple of hours' paddling. After dinner we will have another good spell at the work."

By evening there was a marked improvement in the paddling over that of the previous day, and after having had another day's practice all felt confident that they should get on very well. By nightfall on the second day, the meat was found to be thoroughly dried, and was taken down and packed in bundles, and the next morning they started as soon as it was light. It was agreed that the boats should follow each other at a distance of a hundred yards, so that the leader could signal to the one behind if serious difficulties were made out ahead, and so enable it to row to the bank in time. Were both drawn together into the suck of a dangerous rapid they might find themselves without either boats or stores, whereas if only one of the boats was broken up, there would be the other to fall back upon. Harry's boat was to take the lead on the first day, and Tom, as he knelt in the bows, felt his heart beat with excitement at the thought of the unknown that lay before them, and that they were about to make their way down passes probably unpenetrated by man. Passing between what had seemed to them the entrance to a narrow cañon, they were surprised to rind the river widen out. On their right a great sweep of hills bent round like a vast amphitheatre, the resemblance being heightened by the ledges running in regular lines along it, the cliff being far from perpendicular.

"I should think one could climb up there," Tom said, half-turning round to his uncle.

"It looks like it, Tom, but there is no saying; some of those steps may be a good deal steeper than they look. However, I have no doubt one could find places where it would be possible to climb if there were any use in doing so, but as we should only find ourselves up on bad lands we should gain nothing by it."

"I don't mean we should want to climb up now, uncle; but it seemed a sort of satisfaction to know that there are places where one could climb in case we got the boats smashed up."

"If we had to make our way up, lad, it would be much better to go by one of the lateral canons like the one we came down by. I can see at least half a dozen of them going up there. We should certainly find water, and we might find game, but up on the plateau we should find neither one nor the other."

On the left-hand bank of the river the cliffs fell still farther back in wide terraces, that rose one behind the other up to a perpendicular cliff half a mile back from the river. There was a shade of green here and there, and the chief pointed far up the hill and exclaimed "Deer!"

"That is good," Harry said. "There are sure to be more of these places, and I should think we are not likely to starve anyhow. We can't spare time to stop now; we want to have a long day's paddle to see what it is going to be like, and we have got meat enough for the present. If we happen to see a deer within rifle-shot, so that we can get at him without much loss of time, we will stop, for after all fresh meat is better eating than dry."

"I should think it would be, uncle," Tom said. "From the look of the stuff I should think it would be quite as tough as shoe leather and as tasteless."

"It needs a set of sharp teeth, Tom, but if you are hard set I have no doubt you will be able to get through it, and at any rate it constitutes the chief food of the Indians between the Missouri and the Rockies."

For the next three hours they paddled along on the quiet surface of the river. The other canoe had drawn up, since it was evident that here at least there was no reason why they should keep apart.

"I didn't expect we should find it as quiet as this, Harry," Jerry Curtis said. "It is a regular water-party, and I should not mind how long I was at it if it were all like this."

"We shall have rough water enough presently, Jerry, and I expect we shall look back on this as the pleasantest part of the trip. It seems to me that the hills close in more towards the end of this sweep. It has made a regular horseshoe."

"I reckon it depends upon the nature of the rock," Ben put in.

"That is it, you may be sure, Ben. Wherever it is soft rock, in time it crumbles away like this; where it is hard the weather don't affect it much, and we get straight cliffs. I expect it is there we shall find the rapids worst. Well, we shall soon make a trial of them, I fancy. It looks like a wall ahead, but the road must go through somewhere."

A quarter of an hour later Harry said: "You had better drop back now, Jerry, there is the gap right ahead. If you see me hold up my paddle you row ashore. When we come to a bad rapid we had better all get out, and make our way down on the rocks as far as we can, to see what it is like. It will never do to go at it blind. Of course we may find places where the water comes to the wall faces on both sides, and then there is nothing to do but to take our chance, but I don't propose to run any risks that I can avoid."

There was a perceptible increase in the rate of the current as they neared the gorge, and when they came within a short distance of it Harry gave the signal to the boat behind, and both canoes made for the shore. As they stepped out on to the rocks the chief pointed to a ledge far above them. "There will be time for Hunting Dog to shoot a deer," he said, "while we go down to see cañon."

Tom in vain endeavoured to make out the object at which the Indian was pointing. Hunting Dog had evidently noticed it before landing, and upon Harry giving a nod of assent, started off with his rifle. The others waited until Jerry and his companions joined them, and then started along the rocks that had fallen at the foot of the cliffs. They were soon able to obtain a far better view of the gorge than they had done from the canoe. The river ran for a bit in a smooth glassy flood, but a short distance down, it began to form into waves, and beyond that they could see a mass of white foam and breakers. They made their way along the rocks for nearly two miles. It seemed well-nigh impossible to Tom that the boats could go down without being swamped, for the waves were eight or ten feet high, with steep sides capped with white. At last the gorge widened again, and although the cliff to the right rose perpendicularly, on the other side it became less steep, and seemed lower down to assume the same character as that above the gorge.

"It looks pretty bad," Harry said, speaking for almost the first time since they had started, for the roar of the water against the rocks, echoed and re-echoed by the cliffs, rendered conversation an impossibility. "It looks bad, but as far as I can see there are no rocks that come up near the surface, and the canoes ought to go through the broken water safely enough."

"It is an all-fired nasty-looking place," Jerry said; "but I have heard men who had been in the north talk about rapids they had gone through, and from what they said about them they must have been worse than this. We have got to keep as near the side as we can; the waves ain't as high there as they are in the middle, and we have got to keep the boat's head straight, and to paddle all we know. If we do that, I reckon the canoes will go through."

They retraced their steps up the gorge. Hunting Dog was standing by the boat with the dead deer at his feet. Jerry picked it up. "I had better take this, I reckon, Harry. You have got one man more than we have;" and he and his two companions went on to their boat.

"Now, what do you think, Tom?" his uncle said. "Can you trust your head to keep cool? It will need a lot of nerve, I can tell you, and if her head swerves in the slightest she will swing round, and over she will go, and it would want some tall swimming to get out of that race. You paddle as well as the chief,—better, I think,—but the chief's nerves are like iron. He has not been practising steering as you have, but as there seem to be no rocks about, that won't matter so much. I ought to be able to keep her straight, if you three paddle hard. It may need a turn of the paddle now and then in the bow, but that we can't tell. So it shall be just as you like, lad. If you think your nerves can stand it you take your usual place, but if you have doubts about it, it were best to let the chief go there."

"I think I could stand it, uncle, for I have been out in wherries in some precious rough seas at Spithead; but I think it would be best for the chief to take my place this time, and then I shall see how I feel."

Harry said a few words to the chief in his own language, and Leaping Horse without a word stepped into the bow, while Tom took the seat behind him.

"We sha'n't be long going down," Harry said, "I reckon the stream is running ten miles an hour, and as we shall be paddling, it will take us through in ten minutes. We had all better sit farther aft, so as to take her bow right out of water. She will go through it ever so much easier so."

They shifted their seats until daylight could be seen under the keel a foot from the bow.

"I think that is about the right trim," Harry said. "Now paddle all."

The boat shot off from the shore. A minute later it darted into the gorge, the Indian setting a long sweeping stroke. There were two or three long heaves, and then they dashed into the race. Tom held his breath at the first wall of water, but, buoyant and lightly laden as the canoe was, with fully a foot of free board, she rose like a feather over it, and darted down into the hollow beyond. Tom kept his eyes fixed on the back of the chief's head, clinched his teeth tightly, and paddled away with all his strength. He felt that were he to look round he should turn giddy at the turmoil of water. Once or twice he was vaguely conscious of Harry's shouts, "Keep her head inshore!" or "A little farther out!" but like a man rowing a race he heeded the words but little. His faculties were concentrated on his work, but he could see a slight swerve of the Indian's body when he was obeying an order.

He was not conscious of any change of motion, either in the boat or in the water round, when Harry shouted, "Easy all!" and even then it was the chief's ceasing to paddle rather than Harry's shout which caused him to stop. Then he looked round and saw that the race was passed, and that the canoe was floating in comparatively quiet water.

"She is a daisy!" Harry shouted; "we could not do better if we had been all Canadian half-breeds, chief. Now, we had better set to and bale her out as quickly as we can."

Tom now for the first time perceived that he was kneeling in water, and that the boat was nearly half-full.

Their tea pannikins had been laid by their sides in readiness, and Hunting Dog touched him and passed forward his tin and the chief's, both of which had been swept aft. The Seneca at once began to throw out the water, but Tom for a minute or two was unable to follow his example. He felt as weak as a child. A nervous quivering ran through his body, and his hand trembled so that he could not grasp the handle of the tin.

"Feel bad, Tom?" his uncle asked cheerily from behind. "Brace up, lad; it was a pretty warm ten minutes, and I am not surprised you feel it. Now it is over I am a little shaky myself."

"I shall be all right presently, uncle." A look at the chief's back did more to steady Tom's nerves than his own efforts. While he himself was panting heavily, and was bathed in perspiration, the chief's breath came so quietly that he could scarce see his shoulders rise and fall, as he baled out the water with perfect unconcern. With an effort the boy took hold of his dipper, and by the time the boat was empty his nerves were gaining their steadiness, though his breath still came quickly. As he laid down his tin he looked round.

"Heap water," Hunting Dog said with a smile; "run like herd of buffalo."

The other boat lay twenty yards behind them, and was also engaged in baling.

"All right now, Tom?"

"All right, uncle; but it is lucky you put the chief in the bows. I should have made a mess of it; for from the time we got into the waves it seemed nothing but confusion, and though I heard your voice I did not seem to understand what you said."

"It was a trial to the nerves, Tom, but we shall all get accustomed to it before we get through. Well, thank God, we have made our first run safely. Now paddle on, we will stop at the first likely place and have a meal."

A mile farther they saw a pile of drift-wood on the left bank, and Harry at once headed the canoe to it, and drawing the boat carefully alongside they got out. A minute later the other canoe joined them.

"Jee-hoshaphat, Harry!" Jerry exclaimed as he stepped out; "that was worse nor a cyclone. I would rather sit on the back of the worst kind of bucker than jump over those waves again. If we are going to have much of this I should say let us find our way back and ask the Utes to finish us off."

"It was a rough bit, Jerry; but it might have been a deal worse if there had been rocks in the stream. All we had to do was to keep her straight and paddle."

"And a pretty big all, too," Jerry grumbled. "I felt skeered pretty nigh out of my wits, and the other two allow they were just as bad. If it hadn't been for your boat ahead I reckon we should never have gone through it, but as long as you kept on straight, there didn't seem any reason why we shouldn't. I tell you I feel so shaky that if there were a grizzly twenty yards off I am blamed if I could keep the muzzle of my rifle on it."

Tom had been feeling a good deal ashamed of his nervousness, and was much relieved at hearing that these seasoned men had felt somewhat the same as he had done.

"What do you say, boys," Harry asked when breakfast had been cooked and eaten, "if we stop here for to-day? Likely enough we may get some game, and if not it won't matter, for the deer will last us a couple of days."

"You bet," Ben Gulston said; "I think we have had enough of the water for to-day. I don't feel quite sure now I ain't going round and round, and I don't think any of us will feel right till we have had a night's sleep. Besides, all the rugs and blankets are wet and want spreading out in the sun for a bit, and the flour will want overhauling."

"That settles it, Ben; let us get all the outfit out of the boats at once."

After the things had been laid out to dry the two Indians went off in search of game; but none of the others felt any inclination to move, and they spent the rest of the day lying about smoking and dozing. The Indians brought back a big-horn, and the next morning the canoes dropped down the stream again. For some miles the river flowed quietly along a wide valley. At the end of that time it made an abrupt turn and entered the heart of the mountains. As before, Harry's canoe went in advance. The cañon was here a deep gloomy chasm, with almost perpendicular sides, and for some distance the river ran swiftly and smoothly, then white water was seen ahead, so the two boats rowed in to the rocks at the foot of the precipice, and the occupants proceeded to explore the pass ahead. It was of a different character to the last. Black rocks rose everywhere above the surface, and among these the river flowed with extraordinary force and rapidity, foaming and roaring.

All agreed that it was madness to think of descending here, and that a portage was necessary. The contents of the boats were lifted out, and then one of them was carried down over the rocks by the united strength of the party. They had gone half a mile when they came to a spot where they could go no farther, as the water rushed along against the rock wall itself. Some fifty yards further down they could see that the ledge again began.

"We must go and fetch the other boat," Harry shouted above the din of the water, "and let them down one by one. There is no other way to do it."

The second boat was brought down, and another journey was made to bring down the stores. The lariats were then tied together.

"Let us sit down and smoke a pipe before we do anything more," Jerry said. "Three times up and down them rocks is worse nor thirty miles on a level."

All were glad to adopt this suggestion, and for half an hour they sat watching the rushing waters. As they did so they discussed how they had better divide their forces, and agreed that Harry's boat should, as before, go down first. Three men would be required to let the boat down, and it would need at least four to check the second boat when it came abreast of them. Although all felt certain that a single line of the plaited hide would be sufficient, they determined to use two lines to ensure themselves against risk.

"I should let them run out fast at first, Jerry, only keeping enough strain on them to keep her head well up stream. Begin to check her gradually, and let her down only inch by inch. When you see we are close to the rocks, hold her there while we get her alongside, and don't leave go till we lift her from the water. Directly we are out, fasten the ropes to the bow of your canoe, then launch her carefully; and whatever you do, don't let go of the rope. Launch her stern first close to the wall, then two get in and get well towards the stern, while the other holds the rope until the last moment. Then those two in the boat must begin to paddle as hard as they can, while the last man jumps in and snatches up his paddle. Keep her head close to the wall, for if the current catches it and takes her round she would capsize in a moment against those rocks. Paddle all you know; we shall haul in the rope as fast as you come down. When you come abreast two of us will check her, and the others will be on the rocks to catch hold of her side as she swings in."

The first canoe was launched stern foremost, the four men took their seats in her and began to paddle against, the stream with all their strength, while Jerry and his companions let the lines run through their fingers. The boat glanced along by the side of the wall. The men above put on more and more strain, giving a turn of the ropes round a smooth water-worn rock they had before picked out as suitable for the purpose. The water surged against the bow of the canoe, lifting it higher and higher as the full strain of the rope came upon it. The chief was kneeling in the stern facing the rocks below, and as the canoe came abreast of them he brought her in alongside. Harry held up his paddle, the men above gave another turn of the ropes round the rock, and the canoe remained stationary. Hunting Dog sprang out on to the rocks, and taking hold of the blade of the chief's paddle, brought the canoe in so close that the others were able to step ashore without difficulty. The baggage was taken out, and the canoe lifted from the water, turned upside down, and laid on the rocks.

Harry held up his hand to show that they were ready, having before he did so chosen a stone round which to wind the lariats. The other boat was then launched. Sam and Ben took their places astern and began to paddle against the stream. As they were in the back-water below the ledge of rock they were able to keep her stationary while Jerry took his place and got out his paddle. When all were ready, they paddled her out from the back-water. As soon as the current caught her she flew past the cliff like an arrow, although the three men were now paddling at the top of their speed. Harry and the chief pulled in the rope hand over hand, while Hunting Dog and Tom went a short way down the rocks.

"Don't check her too suddenly, chief," Harry shouted. "Let the rope run out easy at first and bring the strain on gradually."

"The ropes will hold," the chief said. "One stop buffalo in gallop, two stop boat."

"Yes, but you would pull the head out of the canoe; chief, if you stopped her too suddenly."

The chief nodded. He had not thought of that. In spite of the efforts of the oarsmen the canoe's head was swerving across the stream just as she came abreast of them. A moment later she felt the check of the rope.

"Easy, chief, easy!" Harry shouted, as the water shot up high over the bow of the canoe. "Wait till she gets a bit lower or we shall capsize her."

The check of the bow had caused the stern to swerve out, and when they again checked her she was several lengths below them with her head inclined to shore. More and more strain was put on the ropes, until they were as taut as iron bars. A moment later Tom and Hunting Dog seized two paddles held out to them, and the boat came gently in alongside.

"Gosh!" Ben exclaimed, as he stepped ashore, "it has taken as much out of me as working a windlass for a day. I am blamed if I did not think the hull boat was coming to pieces. I thought it was all over with us for sure, Harry; when she first felt the rope, the water came in right over the side."

"It was touch and go, Ben; but there was a rock just outside you, and if we had not checked her a bit her head would have gone across it, and if it had, I would not have given a red cent for your lives."

All day they toiled on foot, and by nightfall had made but four miles. Then they camped for the night among the rocks. The next four days were passed in similar labour. Two or three times they had to cross the torrent in order to get on to fallen rocks on the other side to that which they were following. These passages demanded the greatest caution. In each case there were rocks showing above water in the middle of the channel. One of these was chosen as most suited to their purpose, and by means of the ropes a canoe was sheered out to it. Its occupants then took their places on the rock, and in turn dropped the other boat down to the next suitable point, the process being repeated, step by step, until the opposite bank was reached.

At the end of the fourth day the geological formation changed. The rock was softer, and the stream had worn a more even path for itself, and they decided to take to the boats again. There was no occasion for paddling now, it was only when a swell on the surface marked some hidden danger below that a stroke or two of the paddle was needed to sweep them clear of it. For four hours they were carried along at the rate of fully twelve miles an hour, and at the end of that time they shot out from between the overhanging walls into a comparatively broad valley. With a shout of delight they headed the boats for shore, and leapt out on to a flat rock a few inches above the water.

"If we could go on at that pace right down we should not be long before we were out of the mountains," Tom said.

"We could do with a bit slower, Tom; that is too fast to be pleasant. Just about half that would do—six miles an hour. Twelve hours a day would take us out of the cañons in a fortnight or so. We might do that safely, but we could not calculate on having such good luck as we have had to-day, when going along at twelve miles an hour. The pace for the last four days has been just as much too slow as this is too fast. Four miles a day working from morning till night is heart-breaking. In spite of our run to-day, we cannot have made much over a hundred miles since we started. Well, there is one comfort, we are in no great hurry. We have got just the boats for the work, and so far as we can see, we are likely to find plenty of food. A job like this isn't to be reckoned child's play. So far I consider we have had good luck; I shall be well content if it averages as well all the way down. The fear is we may get to falls where we can neither carry nor let the boats down. In that case we should have to get out of the canon somewhere, pack as much flour as we could carry, and make our way across country, though how far we might have to travel there is no knowing. I hope it mayn't come to that; but at any rate I would rather go through even worse places than that cañon above than have to quit the boats."

"Right you are, Harry," Jerry agreed. "I would rather tote the canoe on my back all the way down to Mexico, than have to try and make my way over the bad lands to the hills. Besides, when we get a bit farther we shall be in the Navahoe country, and the Utes ain't a sarcumstance to them. The Ute ain't much of a fighter anyway. He will kill white men he finds up in his hills, 'cause he don't want white men there, but he has to be five or six to one before he will attack him. The Navahoe kills the white man 'cause he is a white man, and 'cause he likes killing. He is a fighter, and don't you forget it. If it had been Navahoes instead of Utes that had caught us up in the hills, you may bet your bottom dollar our scalps would be drying in their lodges now."

"That is so, Jerry," Ben put in. "Besides, the Navahoes and the Apaches have got no fear of white men. They have been raiding Mexico for hundreds of years, and man to man they can whip Mexikins out of their boots. I don't say as they haven't a considerable respect for western hunters; they have had a good many lessons that these can out-shoot them and out-fight them; still they ain't scared of them as plain Indians are. They are a bad lot, look at them which way you will, and I don't want to have to tramp across their country noways. It was pretty hard work carrying that boat along them rocks, but I would rather have to do so, right down to the plains, then get into a muss with the Navahoes."

"How far does the Navahoe country come this way?"

"There ain't no fence, Tom, I expect. They reckon as it's their country just as far as they like to come. They don't come up as far north as this, but where they ends and where the Utes begin no one knows but themselves; and I reckon it shifts according as the Navahoes are busy with the Mexicans in the south, or have got a quiet spell, and take it into their heads to hunt this way."

For many days they continued their journey, sometimes floating quietly along a comparatively wide valley, sometimes carrying their boats past dangerous rapids, sometimes rushing along at great speed on the black, deep water, occasionally meeting with falls where everything had to be taken out of the canoes, and the boats themselves allowed to shoot over the falls with long ropes attached, by which they were drawn to shore lower down. It was seldom that they were without meat, as several big-horns and two bears were shot by the Indians. They had no doubt that they could have caught fish, but as a rule they were too tired when they arrived at their halting-place to do more than cook and eat their suppers before they lay down to rest.

"I reckon it won't be very long before we come upon a Mexican village," Harry said one day, after they had been six weeks on their downward course. "I have heard there is one above the Grand Cañon."

The scenery had varied greatly. In some of the valleys groves of trees bordered the river; sometimes not even a tuft of grass was to be seen. Occasionally the cliffs ran in an even line for many miles, showing that the country beyond was a level plateau, at other times rugged peaks and pinnacles resembling ruined castles, lighthouses, and churches could be seen. Frequently the cliffs rose three or four thousand feet in an almost unbroken line, but more often there were rounded terraces, where it would have been easy to ascend to the upper level. Everywhere the various strata were of different colours: soft grays and browns, orange, vermilion, purple, green, and yellow. They soon learned that when they passed through soft strata, the river ran quietly; where the rocks were hard there were falls and rapids; where the strata lay horizontal the stream ran smoothly, though often with great rapidity; where they dipped up stream there were dangerous rapids and falls.

Since the start the river had been largely swollen by the junctions of other streams, and was much wider and deeper than it had been where they embarked; and even where the rapids were fiercest they generally found comparatively quiet water close to the bank on one side or the other. Twice they had had upsets, both the boats having been capsized by striking upon rocks but an inch or two below the surface of the water. Little harm was done, for the guns and all other valuable articles were lashed to the sides of the boats, while strips of hide, zigzagged across the ends of the canoes at short distances apart, prevented the blankets and rugs and other bulky articles from dropping out when the boat capsized.

Since the river had become wider and the dangers less frequent, the boats always kept near each other. Upsets were therefore only the occasion for a hearty laugh; for it took but a few minutes to right the canoe, bale it out, and proceed on their way. Occasionally they had unpleasant visitors at their camp, and altogether they killed ten or twelve rattle-snakes. In some of the valleys they found the remains of the dwellings of a people far anterior to the present Indian races. Some of these ruins appeared to have been communal houses. At other points they saw cliff-dwellings in the face of the rock, with rough sculptures and hieroglyphics. The canons varied in length from ten to a hundred and fifty miles, the comparatively flat country between them varying equally in point of appearance and in the nature of the rocks. As they got lower they once or twice saw roughly-made rafts, composed of three or four logs of wood, showing where Indians had crossed the river. The journey so far had been much more pleasant than they had expected, for as the river grew wider the dangers were fewer and farther apart, and more easily avoided; and they looked forward to the descent of the Grand Cañon, from which they knew they could not be far distant, without much fear that it would prove impracticable.

CHAPTER XVII. THE GRAND CAÑON

Passing from a short cañon, the boats emerged into a valley with flat shores for some distance from the river. On the right was a wide side cañon, which might afford a passage up into the hills. Half a mile lower down there were trees and signs of cultivation; and a light smoke rose among them. At this, the first sign of human life they had seen since they took to the boats, all hands paddled rapidly. They were approaching the shore, when Leaping Horse said to Harry: "No go close. Stop in river and see, perhaps bad Indians. Leaping Horse not like smoke."

Harry called to the other canoe, and they bore out into the stream again. The chief stood up in the boat, and after gazing at the shore silently for a moment said:

"Village burnt. Burnt little time ago, post still burning." As he resumed his seat Harry stood up in turn.

"That is so, chief. There have only been five or six huts; whether

Indian or white, one can't tell now."

Just at this moment an Indian appeared on the bank. As his eye fell on the boats he started. A moment later he raised a war-yell.

"Navahoe," the chief said. "Navahoe war-party come down, kill people and burn village. Must row hard."

The yell had been answered from the wood, and in two or three minutes as many score of Indians appeared on the banks. They shouted to the boats to come to shore, and as no attention was paid, some of them at once opened fire. The river was about a quarter of a mile wide, and although the shots splashed round them the boats were not long in reaching the farther bank, but not unharmed, for Ben had dropped his paddle and fallen back in the boat.

"Is he badly hurt?" Harry asked anxiously, as the canoes drew alongside each other near the bank, and Sam turned round to look at his comrade.

"He has finished his journey," Sam said in a hoarse voice. "He has gone down, and a better mate and a truer heart I never met. The ball has hit him in the middle of the forehead. It were to be, I guess, for it could only have been a chance shot at that distance."

Exclamations of sorrow and fury broke from the others, and for a few minutes there was no thought of the Indians, whose bullets were still falling in the water, for the most part short of the boats. A sharp tap on the side of Harry's canoe, followed by a jet of water, roused them.

"We mustn't stop here," Harry said, as Hunting Dog plugged the hole with a piece of dried meat, "or poor Ben won't be the only one."

"Let us have a shot first," Jerry said. "Young Tom, do you take a shot with Plumb-centre. It is about four hundred and fifty yards as near as I can reckon, and she will carry pretty true that distance."

"We will give them a shot all round," Harry said, as he took up his rifle.

Six shots were discharged almost at the same moment. One of the Indians was seen to fall, the rest bounded away to a short distance from the bank. Then Hunting Dog at a word from the chief stepped into the other canoe. Keeping close under the bank they paddled down. The Indians had ceased firing, and had disappeared at a run.

"What are they up to now, chief?"

"Going down to mouth of cañon, river sure to be narrow; get there before us."

"Wait, Jerry," Harry shouted to the other boat, which was some twenty yards ahead. "The chief thinks they have gone to cut us off at the head of the cañon, which is likely enough. I don't suppose it is fifty yards wide there, and they will riddle us if we try to get through in daylight. We had better stop and have a meal and talk it over."

The boats were rowed ashore, and the men landed and proceeded to light a fire as unconcernedly as if no danger threatened them. Ben's death had cast a heavy gloom over them, and but few words were spoken, until the meal was cooked and eaten.

"It is a dog-goned bad business," Jerry said. "I don't say at night as we mayn't get past them without being hit, but to go rushing into one of those cañons in the dark would be as bad as standing their fire, if not wuss. The question is—could we leave the boats and strike across?"

"We could not strike across this side anyhow," Harry said. "There are no settlements west of the Colorado. We know nothing of the country, and it is a hundred to one we should all die of thirst even if we could carry enough grub to last us. If we land at all it must be on the other side, and then we could not reckon on striking a settlement short of two hundred miles, and two hundred miles across a country like this would be almost certain death."

"As the Navahoes must have ridden down, Harry, there must be water. I reckon they came down that cañon opposite."

"Navahoe on track in morning," the chief said quietly. "When they see we not go down river look for boat, find where we land and take up trail. Cañon very plain road. Some go up there straight, take all our scalps."

No one spoke for a moment or two. What the Seneca said was so evident to them that it was useless to argue. "Well, chief, what do you advise yourself?" Harry asked at length.

"Not possible go on foot, Harry. Country all rocks and cañons; cannot get through, cannot get water. Trouble with Navahoes too. Only chance get down in boat to-night. Keep close under this bank; perhaps Indians not see us, night dark."

"Do you think they can cross over to this side?"

"Yes, got canoe. Two canoes in village, Leaping Horse saw them on bank.

When it gets dark, cross over."

"We will get a start of them," Harry said. "Directly it is dark we can be off too. The shore is everywhere higher than our heads as we sit in the canoes, and we can paddle in the shadow without being seen by them on the other side, while they won't venture to cross till it is pitch dark. As the stream runs something like three miles an hour, I reckon that they are hardly likely to catch us. As for the rapids, they don't often begin until you are some little distance in. At any rate we shall not have to go far, for the red-skins will not dare to enter the cañon, so we can tie up till morning as soon as we are a short distance in. We have got to run the gauntlet of their fire, but after all that is better than taking our chances by leaving the boats. If we lie down when we get near them they may not see us at all; but if they do, a very few strokes will send us past them. At any rate there seems less risk in that plan than in any other."

The others agreed.

"Now, boys, let us dig a grave," he went on, as soon as the point was settled. "It is a sort of clay here and we can manage it, and it is not likely we shall find any place, when we are once in the cañon, where we can do it." They had neither picks nor shovels with them, for their mining tools had been left at the spot where they were at work, but with their axes and knives they dug a shallow grave, laid Ben's body in it, covered it up, and then rolled a number of boulders over it.

Ben's death affected Tom greatly. They had lived together and gone through many perils and risks for nearly a year, and none had shown more unflagging good-humour throughout than the man who had been killed. That the boats might upset and all might perish together, was a thought that had often occurred to him as they made their way down the river, but that one should be cut off like this had never once been contemplated by him. Their lives from the hour they met on the Big Wind River had seemed bound up together, and this sudden loss of one of the party affected him greatly. The others went about their work silently and sadly, but they had been so accustomed to see life lost in sudden frays, and in one or other of the many dangers that miners and hunters are exposed to, that it did not affect them to the same extent as it did Tom.

Except two or three men who remained on watch on the opposite bank, though carefully keeping out of rifle-range, they saw no signs of the Navahoes during the day. As soon as it became so dark that they were sure their movements could not be seen from the other side, they silently took their places in the boats, and pushed off into the current. For a quarter of an hour they lay in the canoes, then at a signal from Harry knelt up, took their paddles and began to row very quietly and cautiously, the necessity for dropping their paddles noiselessly into the water and for avoiding any splashing having been impressed on all before starting.

"There is no occasion for haste," Harry said. "Long and gentle strokes of the paddle will take us down as fast as we need go. If those fellows do cross over, as I expect they will, they will find it difficult to travel over the rocks in the dark as fast as we are going now, and there is no fear whatever of their catching us if we go on steadily."

After an hour's rowing they could make out a dark mass rising like a wall in front of them, and Harry passed the word back to the other canoe, which was just behind them, that they should now cease paddling, only giving a stroke occasionally to keep the head of the canoe straight, and to prevent the boat from drifting out from under the shelter of the bank, in the stillness of the night they could hear a low roaring, and knew that it was caused by a rapid in the canon ahead. Higher and higher rose the wall of rock, blotting out the stars in front of them till the darkness seemed to spread half-way over the sky.

They could see that the boat was passing the shore more rapidly, as the river accelerated its course before rushing into the gorge. Suddenly there was a shout on the right, so close that Tom was startled, then there was a rifle-shot, and a moment later a wild outburst of yells and a dozen other shots. At the first shout the paddles dipped into the water, and at racing speed the boats shot along. Eight or ten more rifle-shots were fired, each farther behind them.

"Anyone hurt?" Harry asked.

There was a general negative.

"I don't believe they really saw us," Harry said. "The first fellow may have caught sight of us, but I expect the others fired merely at random. Now let us row in and fasten up, for judging from that roaring there must be a big rapid close ahead."

The boats were soon fastened up against the rocks, and the chief stepped ashore, saying:

"Leaping Horse and Hunting Dog will watch. Navahoes may come down here.

Don't think they will be brave enough to enter cañon, too dark to see.

Still, better watch."

"Just as you like, chief," Harry said, "but I have no belief that they will come down here in the dark; it would be as much as they would dare do in broad daylight. Besides, these rocks are steepish climbing anyway, and I should not like myself to try to get over them, when it is so dark that I can't see my own hand, except by putting it up between my eyes and the stars."

"If it was not for that," Jerry said, "I would crawl along to the mouth and see if I couldn't get a shot at them varmint on the other side."

"You would not find them there, Jerry. You may be sure that when they saw us go through they would know it was of no use waiting there any longer. They would flatter themselves that they had hit some of us, and even if they hadn't, it would not seem to matter a cent to them, as the evil spirit of the canon would surely swallow us up."

"Well, they have been wrong in their first supposition, uncle," Tom said, "and I hope they will be equally wrong in the second."

"I hope so, Tom. Now we may as well go to sleep. As soon as there is any light we must explore as far as we can go, for by the noise ahead it must be either a fall or a desperately bad rapid."

When daylight broke, the whites found Hunting Dog sitting with his rifle across his knees on a rock above them.

"Where is the chief?" Harry asked him.

"Leaping Horse went up the rocks to see if Navahoes have gone."

"Very well. Tell him when he comes back we have gone down to have a look at the rapid. Tom, you may as well stay here. There is plenty of drift-wood among those rocks, and we will breakfast before we start down. I reckon we shall not have much time for anything of that sort after we are once off."

Tom was by no means sorry to be saved a heavy climb. He collected some wood and broke it up into suitable pieces, but at the suggestion of Hunting Dog waited for the chief's return before lighting it. The chief came down in a few minutes. "Navahoes all gone," he said briefly.

"Then I can light a fire, chief?"

Leaping Horse nodded, and Tom took out the tightly-fitting tin box in which he kept his matches. Each of the party carried a box, and to secure against the possibility of the matches being injured by the water in case of a capsize, the boxes were kept in deer's bladders tightly tied at the mouth. The fire was just alight when the others returned.

"It is better ahead than we expected," Harry said; "the noise was caused by the echo from the smooth faces of the rocks. It is lucky we hauled in here last night, for these rocks end fifty yards on, and as far as we can see down, the water washes the foot of the wall on both sides. We were able to climb up from them on to a narrow ledge, parallel with the water, and went on to the next turn, but there was no change in the character of the river. So we shall make a fair start anyway."

More wood was put on the fire, and in a quarter of an hour the kettle was boiling and slices of meat cooked. Half an hour later they took their places in the canoes and started. The cañon was similar to the one they had last passed; the walls were steep and high, but with irregular shelves running along them. Above these were steep slopes, running up to the foot of smooth perpendicular cliffs of limestone. The stream was very rapid, and they calculated that in the first half-hour they must have run six miles. Here the walls receded to a distance, and ledges of rock and hills of considerable heights intervened between the river and the cliffs. They checked the pace of their canoes just as they reached this opening, for a deep roar told of danger ahead. Fortunately there were rocks where they were able to disembark, and a short way below they found that a natural dam extended across the river.

"There has been an eruption of trap here," Harry said, looking at the black rock on either side. "There has been a fissure, I suppose, and the lava was squeezed up through it. You see the river has cut a path for itself some hundreds of feet deep. It must have taken countless ages, Tom, to have done the work."

Over this dam the water flowed swiftly and smoothly, and then shot down in a fall six feet high. Below for a distance of two or three hundred yards was a furious rapid, the water running among black rocks. With considerable difficulty they made a portage of the boats and stores to the lower end of the rapid. This transit occupied several hours, and they then proceeded on their way. Five more miles were passed; several times the boats were brought to the bank in order that falls ahead might be examined. These proved to be not too high to shoot, and the boats paddled over them. When they had first taken to the river they would never have dreamt of shooting such falls, but they had now become so expert in the management of the boats, and so confident in their buoyancy, that the dangers which would then have appalled them were now faced without uneasiness.

They now came to a long rapid, presenting so many dangers that they deemed it advisable to let down the boats by lines. Again embarking they found that the wall of rocks closed in and they entered a narrow gorge, through which the river ran with great swiftness, touching the walls on each side. Great care was needed to prevent the boats being dashed against the rock, but they succeeded in keeping them fairly in the middle of the stream. After travelling four miles through this gorge it opened somewhat, and on one side was a strip of sand.

"We will land there," Harry said. "It looks to me like granite ahead, and if it is we are in for bad times, sure."

The boats were soon pulled up, and they proceeded to examine the cliffs below. Hitherto the danger had been in almost exact proportion to the hardness of the rock, and as they were entering a far harder rock than they had before encountered, greater difficulties than those they had surmounted were to be expected.

They could not see a long distance down, but what they saw was enough to justify their worst anticipations. The cañon was narrower than any they had traversed, and the current extremely swift. There seemed but few broken rocks in the channel, but on either side the walls jutted out in sharp angles far into the river, with crags and pinnacles.

"Waal, it is of no use looking at it," Jerry said after a pause. "It is certain we can't get along the sides, so there is nothing to do but to go straight at it; and the sooner it is over the better."

Accordingly they returned to the boats, and soon darted at the speed of an arrow into the race. Bad as it was at starting it speedily became worse: ledges, pinnacles, and towers of rock rose above the surface of the stream breaking it into falls and whirlpools. Every moment it seemed to Tom that the boat must inevitably be dashed to pieces against one of these obstructions, for the light boats were whirled about like a feather on the torrent, and the paddlers could do but little to guide their course. The very strength of the torrent, however, saved them from destruction, the whirl from the rocks sweeping the boat's head aside when within a few feet of them, and driving it past the danger before they had time to realize that they had escaped wreck. Half an hour of this, and a side cañon came in. Down this a vast quantity of boulders had been swept, forming a dam across the river, but they managed to paddle into an eddy at the side, and to make a portage of the boats to the water below the dam, over which there was a fall of from thirty to forty feet high. Three more similar dams were met with. Over one the canoes were carried, but on the others there was a break in the boulder wall, and they were able to shoot the falls.

After three days of incessant labour, they heard, soon after starting from their last halting-place, a roar even louder and more menacing than they had yet experienced. Cautiously they got as close as possible to the side, and paddling against the stream were able to effect a landing just above the rapid. On examining it they found that it was nearly half a mile long, and in this distance the water made a fall of some eighty feet, the stream being broken everywhere with ledges and jagged rocks, among which the waves lashed themselves into a white foam. It seemed madness to attempt such a descent, and they agreed that at any rate they would halt for the day. The rocks through which the cañon ran were fully a thousand feet high, but they decided that, great as the labour might be, it would be better to make a portage, if possible, rather than descend the cataract.

"There is a gulch here running up on to the hill," Tom said. "Hunting Dog and I will start at once and see if it is possible to get up it, and if so how far it is to a place where we can get down again."

Harry assented; Leaping Horse without a word joined the explorers, and they set off up the gulch. It was found that the ravine was steep, but not too steep to climb. When they were nearly at the top Hunting Dog pointed to the hillside above them, and they saw a big-horn standing at the edge of the rock. The three fired their rifles simultaneously, and the wild sheep made a spring into the air and then came tumbling down the side of the ravine. As fresh meat was beginning to run short this was a stroke of good fortune, and after reloading their guns they proceeded up the ravine until they reached the crest of the hill. The soil was disintegrated granite, and tufts of short grass grew here and there. After walking about a mile, parallel to the course of the river, they found that the ground descended again, and without much difficulty made their way down until they reached the foot of a little valley; following this they were soon standing by the side of the river. Above, its surface was as closely studded with rocks as was the upper cataract; below, there was another fall that looked impracticable, except that it seemed possible to pass along on the rocks by the side. It was getting dark by the time they rejoined their comrades.

"Your report is not a very cheerful one," Harry said, "but at any rate there seems nothing else to be done than to make the portage. The meat you have got for us will re-stock our larder, and as it is up there we sha'n't have the trouble of carrying it over."

The next day was a laborious one. One by one the canoes were carried over, but the operation took them from daybreak till dark. The next morning another journey was made to bring over the rugs and stores, and they were able in addition to these to carry down the carcass of the sheep, after first skinning it and cutting off the head with its great horns. Nothing was done for the rest of the day beyond trying whether another portage could be made. This was found to be impracticable, and there was nothing for them but to attempt the descent. They breakfasted as soon as day broke, carried the boats down over the boulder dam with which the rapids commenced, and put them into the water. For some little distance they were able to let them down by ropes, then the rocks at the foot of the cliffs came to an end. Fortunately the seven lariats furnished them with a considerable length of line, and in addition to these the two Indians had on their way down plaited a considerable length of rope, with thongs cut from the skins of the animals they had killed.

The total available amount of rope was now divided into two lengths, the ends being fastened to each canoe. One of the boats with its crew on board was lowered to a point where the men were able to get a foothold on a ledge. As soon as they had done so the other boat dropped down to them, and the ropes were played out until they were in turn enabled to get a footing on a similar ledge or jutting rock, sometimes so narrow that but one man was able to stand. So alternately the boats were let down. Sometimes when no foothold could be obtained on the rock wall, the pinnacles and ledges in the stream were utilized. All the work had to be done by gesture, for the thunder of the waters was so tremendous that the loudest shout could not be heard a few yards away. Hour passed after hour. Their progress was extremely slow, as each step had to be closely considered and carried out with the greatest care.

At last a terrible accident happened. Harry, Leaping Horse, and Tom were on a ledge. Below them was a fall of three feet, and in the foaming stream below it, rose several jagged rocks. Jerry's canoe was got safely down the fall, but in spite of the efforts of the rowers was carried against the outer side of one of these rocks. They made a great effort to turn the boat's head into the eddy behind it, but as the line touched the rock its sharp edge severed the rope like a knife, and the boat shot away down the rapid. Those on the ledge watched it with breathless anxiety. Two or three dangers were safely passed, then to their horror they saw the head of the canoe rise suddenly as it ran up a sunken ledge just under the water. An instant later the stern swept round, bringing her broadside on to the stream, and she at once capsized.

"Quick!" Harry exclaimed, "we must go to their rescue. Keep close to the wall, chief, till we see signs of them. It is safest close in."

In an instant they were in their places, and as they released the canoe she shot in a moment over the fall. For a short distance they kept her close to the side, but a projecting ledge threw the current sharply outwards, and the canoe shot out into the full force of the rapid. The chief knelt up in the bow paddle in hand, keeping a vigilant eye for rocks and ledges ahead, and often with a sharp stroke of the paddle, seconded by the effort of Harry in the stern, sweeping her aside just when Tom thought her destruction inevitable. Now she went headlong down a fall, then was caught by an eddy, and was whirled round and round three or four times before the efforts of the paddlers could take her beyond its influence. Suddenly a cry came to their ears. Just as they approached a rocky ledge some thirty feet long, and showing a saw-like edge a foot above the water, the chief gave a shout and struck his paddle into the water.

"Behind the rock, Tom, behind the rock!" Harry exclaimed as he swept the stern round. Tom paddled with all his might, and the canoe headed up stream. Quickly as the movement was done, the boat was some twelve yards below the rock as she came round with her nose just in the lower edge of the eddy behind it, while from either side the current closed in on her. Straining every nerve the three paddlers worked as for life. At first Tom thought that the glancing waters would sweep her down, but inch by inch they gained, and drove the boat forward from the grasp of the current into the back eddy, until suddenly, as if released from a vice, she sprang forward. Never in his life had Tom exerted himself so greatly. His eyes were fixed on the rock in front of him, where Hunting Dog was clinging with one hand, while with the other he supported Jerry's head above water. He gave a shout of joy as the chief swept the head of the canoe round, just as it touched the rock, and laid her broadside to it.

"Stick your paddle between two points of the rock, Tom," Harry shouted, "while the chief and I get them in. Sit well over on the other side of the boat."

With considerable difficulty Jerry, who was insensible, was lifted into the boat. As soon as he was laid down Hunting Dog made his way hand over hand on the gunwale until close to the stern, where he swung himself into the boat without difficulty.

"Have you seen Sam?" Harry asked.

The young Indian shook his head. "Sam one side of the boat," he said, "Jerry and Hunting Dog the other. Boat went down that chute between those rocks above. Only just room for it. Jerry was knocked off by rock. Hunting Dog was near the stern, there was room for him. He caught Jerry's hunting-shirt, but could not hold on to boat. When came down here made jump at corner of rock. Could not hold on, but current swept him into eddy. Then swam here and held on, and kept calling. Knew his brothers would come down soon."

"Here is a spare paddle," Harry said, as he pulled one out from below the network, "there is not a moment to lose. Keep your eyes open, chief." Again the boat moved down the stream. With four paddles going the steersman had somewhat more control over her, but as she flew down the seething water, glanced past rocks and sprang over falls, Tom expected her to capsize every moment. At last he saw below them a stretch of quiet water, and two or three minutes later they were floating upon it, and as if by a common impulse all ceased rowing.

"Thanks be to God for having preserved us," Harry said reverently. "We are half-full of water; another five minutes of that work and it would have been all over with us. Do you see any signs of the canoe, chief?"

The chief pointed to a ledge of rock extending out into the stream.

"Canoe there," he said. They paddled across to it. After what the young

Indian had said they had no hopes of finding Sam with it, but Harry gave

a deep sigh as he stepped out on to the ledge.

"Another gone," he said. "How many of us will get through this place alive? Let us carry Jerry ashore."

There was a patch of sand swept up by the eddy below the rock, and here

Jerry was taken out and laid down. He moaned as they lifted him.

"Easy with him," Harry said. "Steady with that arm. I think he has a shoulder broken, as well as this knock on the head that has stunned him."

As soon as he was laid down Harry cut open his shirt on the shoulder. "Broken," he said shortly. "Now, chief, I know that you are a good hand at this sort of thing. How had this better be bandaged?"

"Want something soft first."

Tom ran to the canoe, brought out the little canvas sack in which he carried his spare flannel shirt, and brought it to the chief. The latter tore off a piece of stuff and rolled it into a wad. "Want two pieces of wood," he said, holding his hands about a foot apart to show the length he required. Harry fetched a spare paddle, and split a strip off each side of the blade. The chief nodded as he took them. "Good," he said. He tore off two more strips of flannel and wrapped them round the splints, then with Harry's aid he placed the shoulder in its natural position, laid the wad of flannel on the top of it, and over this put the two splints. The whole was kept in its place by flannel bandages, and the arm was fastened firmly across the body, so that it could not be moved. Then the little keg of brandy was brought out of the canoe, a spoonful poured into the pannikin, with half as much water, and allowed to trickle between Jerry's lips, while a wad of wet flannel was placed on his head.

"There is nothing more we can do for him at present," Harry said. "Now we will right the other boat, and get all the things out to dry."

Three or four pounds of flour were found to be completely soaked with water, but the main store was safe, as the bag was sewn up in bear-skin. This was only opened occasionally to take out two or three days' supply, and then carefully closed again. On landing, Hunting Dog had at once started in search of drift-wood, and by this time a fire was blazing. A piece of bear's fat was placed in the frying-pan, and the wetted flour was at once fried into thin cakes, which were tough and tasteless; but the supply was too precious to allow of an ounce being wasted. Some slices of the flesh of the big-horn were cooked.

"What is my white brother going to do?" the chief asked Harry.

"There is nothing to do that I can see, chief, but to keep on pegging away. We agreed that it would be almost impossible to find our way over these barren mountains. That is not to be thought of, now that one of our number cannot walk. There is no choice left, we have got to go on."

"Leaping Horse understand that," the chief said. "He meant would you take both canoes? One is big enough to take five."

"Quite big enough, chief, but it would be deeper in the water, and the heavier it is the harder it will bump against any rock it meets; the lighter they are the better. You see, this other canoe, which I dare say struck a dozen times on its way down, shows no sign of damage except the two rents in the skin, that we can mend in a few minutes. Another thing is, two boats are absolutely necessary for this work of letting down by ropes, of which we may expect plenty more. If we had only one, we should be obliged to run every rapid. The only extra trouble that it will give us is at the portages. I think we had better stay here for two or three days, so as to give Jerry a chance of coming round. No doubt we could carry him over the portages just as we can carry the boats, but after such a knock on the head as he has had, it is best that he should be kept quiet for a bit. If his skull is not cracked he won't be long in getting round. He is as hard as nails, and will pull round in the tenth of the time it would take a man in the towns to get over such a knock. It is a pity the halt is not in a better place. There is not a shadow of a chance of finding game among these crags and bare rocks."

From time to time fresh water was applied to the wad of flannel round

Jerry's head.

"Is there any chance, do you think, of finding poor Sam's body?"

The chief shook his head. "No shores where it could be washed up, rocks tear it to pieces; or if it get in an eddy, might be there for weeks. No see Sam any more."

The fire was kept blazing all night, and they took it by turns to sit beside Jerry and to pour occasionally a little brandy and water between his lips. As the men were moving about preparing breakfast the next morning Jerry suddenly opened his eyes. He looked at Tom, who was sitting beside him.

"Time to get up?" he asked. "Why did you not wake me?" And he made an effort to move. Tom put his hand on him.

"Lie still, Jerry. You have had a knock on the head, but you are all right now."

The miner lay quiet. His eyes wandered confusedly over the figures of the others, who had, when they heard his voice, gathered round him.

"What in thunder is the matter with me?" he asked. "What is this thing on my head? What is the matter with my arm, I don't seem able to move it?"

"It is the knock you have had, Jerry," Harry said cheerfully. "You have got a bump upon your head half as big as a cocoa-nut, and you have damaged your shoulder. You have got a wet flannel on your head, and the chief has bandaged your arm. I expect your head will be all right in a day or two, but I reckon you won't be able to use your arm for a bit."

Jerry lay quiet without speaking for a few minutes, then he said: "Oh, I remember now; we were capsized. I had hold of the canoe, and I remember seeing a rock just ahead. I suppose I knocked against it."

"That was it, mate. Hunting Dog let go his hold and caught you, and managed to get into an eddy and cling to the rocks till we came down and took you on board."

Jerry held out his hand to the Indian. "Thankee," he said. "I owe you one, Hunting Dog. If I ever get the chance you can reckon on me sure, whatever it is. But where is Sam? Why ain't he here?"

"Sam has gone under, mate," Harry replied. "That chute you went down was only just wide enough for the boat to go through, and no doubt he was knocked off it at the same time as you were; but as the Indian was on your side, he saw nothing of Sam. I reckon he sank at once, just as you would have done if Hunting Dog hadn't been behind you."

Jerry made no reply, but as he lay still, with his eyes closed, some big tears made their way through the lids and rolled down his bronzed face. The others thought it best to leave him by himself, and continued their preparations for breakfast.

CHAPTER XVIII. BACK TO DENVER

"When are you going to make a start again?" Jerry asked, after drinking a, pannikin of tea.

"We are not going on to-day; perhaps not to-morrow. It will depend on how you get on."

"I shall be a nuisance to you anyway," the miner said, "and it would be a dog-goned sight the best way to leave me here; but I know you won't do that, so it ain't no use my asking you. I expect I shall be all right to-morrow except for this shoulder, but just now my head is buzzing as if there was a swarm of wild bees inside."

"You will be all the better when you have had a good sleep; I reckon we could all do a bit that way. Young Tom and Hunting Dog are going to try a bit of fishing with those hooks of yours. We talked about it when we started, you know, but we have not done anything until now. We want a change of food badly. We may be a month going down this cañon for anything I know, and if it keeps on like this there ain't a chance of seeing a head of game. It ought to be a good place for fish at the foot of the rapids—that is, if there are any fish here, and I reckon there should be any amount of them. If they do catch some, we will wait here till we can dry a good stock. We have nothing now but the dried flesh and some of the big-horn. There ain't above twenty pounds of flour left, and we could clear up all there is in the boat in a week. So you need not worry that you are keeping us."

Half an hour later Hunting Dog and Tom put out in one of the canoes, and paddling to the foot of the rapids let the lines drop overboard, the hooks being baited with meat. It was not many minutes before the Indian felt a sharp pull. There was no occasion to play the fish, for the line was strong enough to hold a shark, and a trout of six pounds weight was soon laid in the bottom of the boat.

"My turn now," Tom said; and the Indian with a smile took the paddle from his hand, and kept the boat up stream while Tom attended to the lines. Fish after fish was brought up in rapid succession, and when about mid-day a call from below told them that it was time for dinner, they had some thirty fish averaging five pounds' weight at the bottom of the boat.

There was a shout of satisfaction from Harry as he looked down into the canoe, and even the chief gave vent to a grunt that testified his pleasure.

"Hand me up four of them, Tom; I did not know how much I wanted a change of food till my eyes lit on those beauties. We saw you pulling them out, but I did not expect it was going to be as good as this."

The fish were speedily split open, and laid on ramrods over the fire.

"I reckon you will want another one for me," Jerry, who had been asleep since they started, remarked. "I don't know that I am good for one as big as those, but I reckon I can pick a bit anyhow."

A small fish was put on with the others, and as soon as they were grilled, all set to at what seemed to Tom the best meal he had ever eaten in his life. He thought when he handed them to Harry that two would have been amply sufficient for them all, but he found no difficulty whatever in disposing of a whole one single-handed.

"Now, Tom, the chief and I will take our turn while you and Hunting Dog prepare your catch. He will show you how to do it, it is simple enough. Cut off the heads, split and clean them, run a skewer through to keep them flat, and then lay them on that rock in the sun to dry. Or wait, I will rig up a line between two of the rocks for you to hang them on. There is not much wind, but what there is will dry them better than if they were laid flat."

Jerry went off to sleep again as soon as the meal was finished, and the bandages round his head re-wetted. The paddle from which the strips had been cut furnished wood for the skewers, and in the course of half an hour the fish were all hanging on a line. Twenty two more were brought in at sunset. Some of these, after being treated like the others, were hung in the smoke of the fire, while the rest were suspended like the first batch.

The next morning Jerry was able to move about, and the fishing went on all day, and by night a quantity, considered sufficient, had been brought ashore.

"There are over four hundred pounds altogether," Harry said, "though by the time they are dried they won't be more than half that weight. Two pounds of dried fish a man is enough to keep him going, and they will last us twenty days at that rate, and it will be hard luck if we don't find something to help it out as we go down."

They stopped another day to allow the drying to be completed. The fish were taken down and packed on board that evening, and at daylight they were afloat again. For the next ten days their labours were continuous. They passed several rapids as bad as the one that had cost them so dear; but as they gained experience they became more skilful in letting down the boats. Some days only two or three miles were gained, on others they made as much as twelve. At last they got out of the granite; beyond this the task was much easier, and on the fifteenth day after leaving their fishing-ground, they emerged from the cañon.

By this time Jerry had perfectly recovered, and was with great difficulty persuaded to keep his arm bandaged. He had chafed terribly at first at his helplessness, and at being unable to take any share in the heavy labours of the others; but after the rapids were passed he was more contented, and sat quietly at the bottom of the boat smoking, while Harry and Tom paddled, the two Indians forming the crew of the other canoe. The diet of fish had been varied by bear's flesh, Leaping Horse having shot a large brown bear soon after they got through the rapids. A shout of joy was raised by the three whites as they issued from the gorge into a quiet valley, through which the river ran, a broad tranquil stream. Even the Indians were stirred to wave their paddles above their heads and to give a ringing whoop as their companions cheered. The boats were headed for the shore, and the camp was formed near a large clump of bushes.

Their joy at their deliverance from the dangers of the cañon was dashed only by the thought of the loss of their two comrades. The next day three short cañons were passed through, but these presented no difficulties, and in the afternoon they reached the mouth of the Rio Virgen, and continuing their journey arrived five days later at Fort Mojarve. This was a rising settlement, for it was here that the traders' route between Los Angeles and Santa Fé crossed the Colorado. Their appearance passed almost unnoticed, for a large caravan had arrived that afternoon and was starting east the next morning.

"We had best hold our tongues about it altogether," Harry said, as soon as he heard that the caravan was going on the next morning. "In the first place they won't believe us, and that would be likely to lead to trouble; and in the next place we should be worried out of our lives with questions. Besides, we have got to get a fresh outfit, for we are pretty near in rags, and to buy horses, food, and kit. We can leave the boats on the shore, no one is likely to come near them."

"I will stop and look after them," Tom said. "There are the saddles, buffalo-robes, blankets, and ammunition. This shirt is in rags, and the last moccasins Hunting Dog made me are pretty nearly cut to pieces by the rocks. I would rather stay here and look after the boats than go into the village; besides, it will save you the trouble of carrying all these bags of gold about with you."

Harry nodded, cut two of the little bags free from their lashings and dropped them into his pocket, and then went up to the Fort with Jerry and the Indians. Tom cut the other bags loose and put them on the ground beside him, threw a buffalo-robe over them, and then sat for some hours watching the quiet river and thinking over all they had gone through. It was almost dark when the others returned.

"It has taken us some time, Tom," his uncle said as they threw some bundles down beside him; "the stores and clothes were easy enough, but we had a lot of trouble to find horses. However, we did not mind much what we paid for them, and the traders were ready to sell a few at the prices we offered. So we have got five riding horses and two pack-ponies, which will be enough for us. That bundle is your lot, riding breeches and boots, three pairs of stockings, two flannel shirts, a Mexican hat, and a silk neck handkerchief. We may as well change at once and go up to the village."

The change was soon effected. Harry and Jerry Curtis had clothes similar to those they had bought for Tom, while the Indians wore over their shirts new deer-skin embroidered hunting-shirts, and had fringed Mexican leggings instead of breeches and boots. They, too, had procured Mexican sombreros. Taking their rifles and pistols, and hiding their stock of ammunition, the gold, and their buffalo-robes and blankets, they went up to the village. It was by this time quite dark: the houses were all lit up, and the drinking-shops crowded with the teamsters, who seemed bent on making a night of it, this being the last village through which they would pass until their arrival at Santa Fé.

They slept as usual, wrapped up in their buffalo-robes by the side of the boats, as all agreed that this was preferable to a close room in a Mexican house.

They were all a-foot as soon as daylight broke, and went up and breakfasted at a fonda, Tom enjoying the Mexican cookery after the simple diet he had been accustomed to. Then they went to the stable where the horses, which were strong serviceable-looking animals, had been placed, and put on their saddles and bridles.

The pack-horses were then laden with flour, tea, sugar, bacon, and other necessaries. By the time all was ready the caravan was just starting. Harry had spoken the afternoon before to two of its leaders, and said that he and four companions would be glad to ride with them to Santa Fé. Permission was readily granted, the traders being pleased at the accession of five well-armed men; for although Indian raids were comparatively rare along this trail, there was still a certain amount of danger involved in the journey. Some hours were occupied in crossing the river in two heavy ferry-boats, and the process would have been still longer had not half the waggons been sent across on the previous afternoon.

The long journey was made without incident, and no Indians were met with. A few deer were shot, but as it was now late in the autumn the scanty herbage on the plains was all withered up, and the game had for the most part moved away into deep valleys where they could obtain food.

The tale of their passage of the cañons was told more than once, but although it was listened to with interest, Harry perceived that it was not really believed. That they had been hunting, had been attacked by Indians, had made canoes and passed through some of the cañons was credible enough, but that they should have traversed the whole of the lower course of the Colorado, seemed to the traders, who were all men experienced in the country, simply incredible. The party stopped at Santa Fé a few days, and then started north, travelling through the Mexican villages, and finally striking across to Denver. At Santa Fé they had converted the contents of their bags into money, which had been equally shared among them. The Indians were not willing to accept more than the recognized monthly pay, but Harry would not hear of it.

"This has been no ordinary business, Leaping Horse," he said warmly; "we have all been as brothers together, and for weeks have looked death in the face every hour, and we must share all round alike in the gold we have brought back. Gold is just as useful to an Indian as it is to a white man, and when you add this to the hoard you spoke of, you will have enough to buy as many horses and blankets as you can use all your lifetime, and to settle down in your wigwam and take a wife to yourself whenever you choose. I fancy from what you said, Hunting Dog has his eye on one of the maidens of your tribe. Well, he can buy her father's favour now. The time is coming, chief, when the Indians of the plains will have to take to white men's ways. The buffaloes are fast dying out, and in a few years it will be impossible to live by hunting, and the Indians will have to keep cattle and build houses and live as we do. With his money Hunting Dog could buy a tidy ranche with a few hundred head of cattle. Of course, he can hunt as much as he likes so long as there is any game left, but he will find that as his cattle increase, he will have plenty to look after at home."

"We will take the gold if my brother wishes it," the chief replied gravely. "He is wise, and though now it seems to Leaping Horse that red-skins have no need of gold, it may be that some day he and Hunting Dog may be glad that they have done as their brother wished."

"Thank you, Leaping Horse. It will make my heart glad when I may be far away from you across the great salt water to know that there will always be comfort in my brother's wigwam."

On arriving at Denver they went straight to the Empire. As they entered the saloon Pete Hoskings looked hard at them.

"Straight Harry, by thunder!" he shouted; "and Jerry Curtis, and young Tom; though I would not have known him if he hadn't been with the others. Well, this air a good sight for the eyes, and to-morrow Christmas-day. I had begun to be afeard that something had gone wrong with you, I looked for news from you nigh three months ago. I got the message you sent me in the spring, and I have asked every old hand who came along east since the end of August, if there had been any news of you, and I began to fear that you had been rubbed out by the Utes."

"We have had a near escape of it, Pete; but it is a long story. Can you put us all up? You know Leaping Horse, don't you? The other is his nephew."

"I should think I do know Leaping Horse," Pete said warmly, and went across and shook the Indian's hand heartily.

"I was looking at you three, and did not notice who you had with you. In that letter the chap brought me, you said that the chief was going with you, and Sam Hicks and Ben Gulston. I did not know them so well; that is, I never worked with them, though they have stopped here many a time."

"They have gone under, Pete. Sam was drowned in the Colorado, Ben shot by the Navahoes. We have all had some close calls, I can tell you. Well now, can you put us up?"

"You need not ask such a question as that, Harry," Pete said in an aggrieved tone, "when you know very well that if the place was chock-full, I would clear the crowd out to make room for you. There are three beds in the room over this that will do for you three; and there is a room beside it as Leaping Horse and his nephew can have, though I reckon they won't care to sleep on the beds."

"No more shall we, Pete. We have been fifteen months and more sleeping in the open, and we would rather have our buffalo-robes and blankets than the softest bed in the world."

"You must have had a cold time of it the last three months up in those

Ute hills, where you said you were going."

"We left there five months ago, Pete. We have been down as low as Fort

Mojarve, and then crossed with a caravan of traders to Santa Fé"

Pete began pouring out the liquor.

"Oh, you won't take one, chief, nor the young brave. Yes; I remember you do not touch the fire-water, and you may be sure I won't press you. Well, luck to you all, and right glad I am to see you again. Ah! here is my bartender. Now we will get a good fire lit in another room and hurry up supper, and then we will talk it all over. You have put your horses up, I suppose?"

"Yes; we knew you had no accommodation that way, Pete."

The room into which Pete now led them was not his own sanctum, but one used occasionally when a party of miners coming in from the hills wanted to have a feast by themselves, or when customers wished to talk over private business. There was a table capable of seating some twelve people, a great stove, and some benches. A negro soon lighted a large fire; then, aided by a boy, laid the table, and it was not long before they sat down to a good meal. When it was over, Pete said:

"Lend me a hand, Jerry, to push this table aside, then we will bring the benches round the stove and hear all about it. I told the bar-tender that I am not to be disturbed, and that if anyone wants to see me he is to say that he has got to wait till to-morrow, for that I am engaged on important business. Here are brandy and whisky, and tobacco and cigars, and coffee for the chief and his nephew."

"I think you may say for all of us, Pete," Harry said. "After being a year without spirits, Jerry, Tom, and I have agreed to keep without them. We wouldn't say no to you when you asked us to take a drink, and we have not sworn off, but Jerry and I have agreed that we have both been all the better without them, and mean to keep to it; and as for Tom, he prefers coffee."

"Do as you please," Pete said; "I am always glad to hear men say no. I have made a lot of money out of it, but I have seen so many fellows ruined by it that I am always pleased to see a man give up drink."

"There is one thing, Pete," Tom said, "before we begin. We left our bundles of robes and blankets in the next room, if you don't mind I would a deal rather spread them out here—and I am sure the chief and Hunting Dog would—and squat down on them, instead of sitting on these benches. It is a long story uncle will have to tell you."

"We will fetch ours too," Harry agreed. "Benches are all well enough for sitting at the table to eat one's dinner, but why a man should sit on them when he can sit on the ground is more than I can make out."

Pete nodded. "I will have my rocking-chair in," he said, "and then we shall be fixed up for the evening."

The arrangements were soon made; pipes were lighted; the landlord sat in his chair at some little distance back from the front of the stove; Tom and the two Indians sat on their rugs on one side; Harry and Jerry Curtis completed the semicircle on the other.

"Well, in the first place, Pete," Harry began, "you will be glad to hear that we have struck it rich—the biggest thing I have ever seen. It is up in the Ute country. We have staked out a claim for you next our own. There are about five hundred pounds of samples lying at Fort Bridger, and a bit of the rock we crushed, panned out five hundred ounces to the ton."

"You don't say!" Pete exclaimed. "If there is much of that stuff, Harry, you have got a bonanza."

"There is a good bit of it anyhow, Pete. It is a true vein, and though it is not all like that, it keeps good enough. Fifty feet back we found it run twenty ounces. That is on the surface, we can't say how it goes down in depth. Where we struck it on the face it was about fourteen feet high, and the lode kept its width for that depth anyhow."

"That air good enough," the landlord said. "Now, what do you reckon on doing?"

"The place is among the hills, Pete, and the Utes are hostile, and went very nigh rubbing us all out. We reckon it ought to be worked by a party of thirty men at least. They ought to be well armed, and must build a sort of fort. I don't think the Utes would venture to attack them if they were of that strength. There is a little stream runs close to the vein, and if it were dammed up it would drive a couple of stamps, which, with a concentrator and tables and blankets, would be quite enough for such stuff as that. I reckon fifteen men will be quite enough to work, and to hold the fort. The other fifteen men would include three or four hunters, and the rest would go backwards and forwards to Bridger for supplies, and to take the gold down. They would be seven or eight days away at a time; and if there should be trouble with the red-skins they would always be back before those at the fort were really pressed. But we should not be alone long, the news that a rich thing had been struck would bring scores of miners up in no time.

"We have taken up our own ten claims, which will include, of course, the rich part. Then we have taken up the next eight or ten claims for our friends. As I said, we put yours next to ours. We have not registered them yet, but that will be the first job; and of course you and the others will each have to put a man on your claims to hold them. The lode shows on the other side of the creek, though not so rich; still plenty good enough to work. But as we shall practically get all the water, the lode cannot be worked by anyone but ourselves. Still the gravel is rich all down the creek, as rich as anything I have seen in California, and will be sure to be taken up by miners as soon as we are at work. So there will be no real danger of trouble from the Indians then. What we propose is this. We don't what to sell out, we think it is good enough to hold, but we want to get a company to find the money for getting up the machinery, building a strong block-house with a palisade, laying in stores, and working the place. Jerry, Tom, and I would of course be in command, at any rate for the first year or so, when the rich stuff was being worked."

"How much money do you think it will want, and what share do you think of giving, Harry?"

"Well, I should say fifty thousand dollars, though I believe half that would be enough. Not a penny would be required after the first ton of rock goes through the stamps. But we should have to take the stamps and ironwork from the railway terminus to Bridger, and then down. We might calculate on a month or six weeks in getting up the fort, making the leat and water-wheel, putting up the machinery, and laying down the flumes. Say two months from the time we leave Bridger to the time we begin to work. There would be the pay of the men all that time, the cost of transporting stores, and all that sort of thing; so it would be better to say fifty thousand dollars. What share ought we to offer for that?"

"Well, if you could bring that five hundredweight of stuff here and get it crushed up, and it turns out as good as you say, I could get you the money in twenty-four hours. I would not mind going half of it myself, and I should say that a quarter share would be more than good enough."

"Well, we thought of a third, Pete."

"Well, if you say a third you may consider that part of the business is done. You won't be able to apply for claims in the names of Sam and Ben, and if you did it would be no good, because they could not assign them over to the company. There are eight claims without them, and the one you have put down in my name is nine. Well, I can get say eleven men in this place, who will give you an assignment of their claims for five dollars apiece. That is done every day. I just say to them, I am registering a share in your name in the Tom Cat Mine, write an assignment to me of it and I am good for five dollars' worth of liquor, take it out as you like. The thing is as easy as falling off a log. Well, what are you thinking of doing next?"

"We shall buy a light waggon and team to-morrow or next day and drive straight over to Bridger, then we shall go to Salt Lake City and register our claims at the mining-office there. We need not give the locality very precisely. Indeed, we could not describe it ourselves so that anyone could find it, and nobody would go looking for it before spring comes and the snow clears. Besides, there are scores of wild-cat claims registered every year. Until they turn out good no one thinks anything of them. When we have got that done we will go back to Bridger, and fetch the rock over here. We will write to-morrow to Pittsburg for the mining outfit, for all the ironwork of the stamps, the concentrator, and everything required, with axes, picks, and shovels, blasting tools and powder, to be sent as far as they have got the railway."

"But they will want the money with the order, Harry," Pete said in a tone of surprise.

"They will have the money. We washed the gravel for a couple of months before the Utes lit on us, and after buying horses and a fresh outfit for us all at Fort Mojarve, we have between us got something like five thousand dollars in gold and greenbacks."

"Jee-hoshaphat!" Pete exclaimed; "that was good indeed for two months' work. Well, look here, there is no hurry for a few days about your starting back to Bridger. Here we are now, nearly at the end of December. It will take you a month to get there, say another fortnight to go on to Salt Lake City and register your claim and get back to Bridger, then it would be a month getting back here again; that would take you to the middle of March. Well, you see it would be pretty nigh the end of April before you were back at Bridger, then you would have to get your waggons and your men, and that would be too late altogether.

"You have got to pick your miners carefully, I can tell you; and it is not a job to be done in a hurry. When they see what gold there is in the rock they will soon set to work washing the gravel, and the day they do they will chuck up your work altogether. I will tell you what I would rather do, and that is, pick up green hands from the east. There are scores of them here now; men who have come as far as this, and can't start west till the snows melt. You need not think anything more about the money. You tell me what you crushed is a fair sample of that five hundred pounds, and that is quite good enough for me, and the gravel being so rich is another proof of what the lode was when the stream cut through it. I can put the twenty-five thousand dollars down, and there are plenty of men here who will take my word for the affair and plank their money down too. If there weren't I would put a mortgage on my houses, so that matter is done. To-morrow I will get the men whose names you are to give in for a claim each; it will be time in another two months to begin to look about for some steady chaps from the east, farmers' sons and such like. That is, if you think that plan is a good one. I mean to see this thing through, and I shall go with you myself, and we three can do the blasting."

"We shall be wanted to look after the stamps and pans," Harry said. "We had best get three or four old hands for the rock."

"Yes, that is best," Pete said. "Between us it is hard if we can't lay our hands upon men we can trust, and who will give us their word to stay with us if we offer them six dollars a day."

"We might offer them ten dollars," Harry said, "without hurting ourselves; but we can say six dollars to begin with, and put some more on afterwards."

"There is old Mat Morgan," Jerry put in. "I don't know whether he is about here now. I would trust him. He is getting old for prospecting among the hills now, but he is as good a miner as ever swung a sledge-hammer, and as straight as they make them."

"Yes, he is a good man," Pete agreed. And after some talk they settled upon three others, all of whom, Pete said, were either in the town or would be coming in shortly.

"Now, you stop here for a week or two, or a month if you like, Harry, then you can go to Salt Lake City as you propose, and then go back to Bridger. If as you pass through you send me five-and-twenty pounds of that rock by express, it will make it easier for me to arrange the money affair. When you get back you might crush the rest up and send me word what it has panned out, then later on you can go down again to Salt Lake City and buy the waggons and flour and bacon, and take them back to Bridger. When March comes in, I will start from here with some waggons. We want them to take the machinery, and powder and tools, and the tea and coffee and things like that, of which we will make a list, on to Bridger, with the four men we pick out, if I can get them all; if not, some others in their place, and a score of young emigrants. I shall have no difficulty in picking out sober, steady chaps, for in a place like this I can find out about their habits before I engage them. However, there will be plenty of time to settle all those points. Now, let us hear all about your adventures. I have not heard about you since Tom left, except that he wrote me a short letter from Bridger saying that you had passed the winter up among the mountains by the Big Wind River. That you had had troubles with the Indians, and hadn't been able to do much trapping or looking for gold."

"Well, we will tell it between us," Harry said, "for it is a long yarn."

It was, indeed, past midnight before the story was all told. Long before it was finished the two Indians had taken up their rugs and gone up to their room, and although the other three had taken by turns to tell the tale of their adventures, they were all hoarse with speaking by the time they got through. Pete had often stopped them to ask question at various points where the narrators had been inclined to cut the story short.

"That beats all," he said, when they brought it to an end. "Only to think that you have gone down the Grand Cañon. I would not have minded being with you when you were fighting the 'Rappahoes or the Utes, but I would not try going down the cañons for all the gold in California. Well, look here, boys, I know that what you tell me is gospel truth, and all the men who know you well, will believe every word you say, but I would not tell the tale to strangers, for they would look on you as the all-firedest liars in creation."

"We have learnt that already, Pete," Harry laughed, "and we mean to keep it to ourselves, at any rate till we have got the mine at work. People may not believe the story of a man in a red shirt, and, mind you, I have heard a good many powerful lies told round a miner's fire, but when it is known we have got a wonderfully rich gold mine, I fancy it will be different. The men would say, if fellows are sharp enough to find a bonanza, it stands to reason they may be sharp enough to find their way down a cañon. Now, let us be off to bed, for the heat of the stove has made me so sleepy that for the last hour I have hardly been able to keep my eyes open, and have scarcely heard a word of what Jerry and Tom have been saying."

They only remained a few days at Denver. After the life they had been leading they were very speedily tired of that of the town, and at the end of a week they started on horseback, with a light waggon drawn by a good team, to carry their stores for the journey and to serve as a sleeping-place. There had been no question about the Indians accompanying them, this was regarded as a matter of course. It was by no means a pleasant journey. They had frequent snow-storms and biting wind, and had sometimes to work for hours to get the waggon out of deep snow, which had filled up gullies and converted them into traps. After a stay of three days at Fort Bridger to rest the animals, they went on to Utah, having forwarded the sample of quartz to Pete Hoskings.

A fortnight was spent at Salt Lake City. Waggons, bullocks, and stores were purchased, and Harry arranged with some teamsters to bring the waggons out to Fort Bridger as soon as the snow cleared from the ground.

CHAPTER XIX. A FORTUNE

On their return to Fort Bridger Harry and his companions pounded up the quartz that had been left there, and found that its average equalled that of the piece they had tried at the mine. The gold was packed in a box and sent to Pete Hoskings. A letter came back in return from him, saying that five of his friends had put in five thousand dollars each, and that he should start with the stores and machinery as soon as the track was clear of snow. The season was an early one, and in the middle of April he arrived with four large waggons and twenty active-looking young emigrants, and four miners, all of whom were known to Harry. There was a good deal of talk at Bridger about the expedition, and many offered to take service in it. But when Harry said that the lode they were going to prospect was in the heart of the Ute country, and that he himself had been twice attacked by the red-skins, the eagerness to accompany him abated considerably.

The fact, too, that it was a vein that would have to be worked by machinery, was in itself sufficient to deter solitary miners from trying to follow it up. Scarce a miner but had located a score of claims in different parts of the country, and these being absolutely useless to them, without capital to work them with, they would gladly have disposed of them for a few dollars. It was not, therefore, worth while to risk a perilous journey merely on the chance of being able to find another vein in the neighbourhood of that worked by Harry and the men who had gone into it with him. There was, however, some surprise among the old hands when Pete Hoskings arrived with the waggons.

"What! Have you cut the saloon, Pete, and are you going in for mining again?" one of them said as he alighted from his horse.

Pete gave a portentous wink.

"I guess I know what I am doing, Joe Radley. I am looking after the interests of a few speculators at Denver, who have an idea that they are going to get rich all of a sudden. I was sick of the city, and it just suited me to take a run and to get out of the place for a few months."

"Do you think it is rich, Pete?"

"One never can say," Hoskings replied with a grin. "We are not greenhorns any of us, and we know there is no saying how things are going to turn out. Straight Harry has had a run of bad luck for the last two years, and I am glad to give him a shoulder up, you know. I reckon he won't come badly off any way it turns out."

It was not much, but it was quite enough to send a rumour round the fort that Pete Hoskings had been puffing up a wild-cat mine in Denver for the sake of getting Straight Harry appointed boss of the expedition to test it.

Everything was ready at Bridger, and they delayed but twenty-four hours there. The teams had arrived from Salt Lake City with the stores a week before, and the eight waggons set off together. Pete, the three partners, the two Indians, and the four miners were all mounted. There were eight other horses ridden by as many of the young fellows Pete had brought with him, the rest walked on foot. They marched directly for the mine, as with such a force it was not necessary to make a detour over the bad lands. At the first halting-place some long cases Pete had brought with him were opened, and a musket handed to each of the emigrants, together with a packet of ammunition.

"Now," Pete said, "if the Utes meddle with us we will give them fits.

But I reckon they will know better than to interfere with us."

The rate of progress with the heavy waggons was necessarily very much slower than that at which the party had travelled on their previous journey, and it was not until the afternoon of the eighth day after starting, that they came down into the valley. A halt was made at the former camping-place in the grove of trees, and the next morning Pete and the miners went up with Harry and his friends to choose a spot for the fort, and to examine the lode. As soon as the earth was scraped away from the spot from which the rock had been taken, exclamations of astonishment broke from the miners. They had been told by Pete that Harry had struck it rich, but all were astonished at the numerous particles and flakes of gold that protruded from the rock. Pete had forwarded early in the spring to Harry the list of the claimants to the mine, and the latter and Tom had ridden over to Salt Lake City a few days before the waggons came up from there to register the claims at the mining-office, and the first step was to stake out these claims upon the lode.

"It doesn't run like this far," Harry said to the miners, "and I reckon that beyond our ground it doesn't run above two ounces to the ton, so I don't think it is worth while your taking up claims beyond. Of course, you can do so if you like, and we will allow you an hour off every few days during the season to work your claims enough to keep possession, and of an evening you can do a bit of washing down below. You will find it good-pay dirt everywhere. At least we did as far as we tried it."

They now fixed on the site for the fort. It was upon the top of the bank, some twenty yards above the lode, and it was settled there should be a strong double palisade running down from it to the stream, so that in case of siege they could fetch water without being exposed to the bullets of an enemy taking post higher up the creek. Among the men from Denver were two or three experienced carpenters, and a blacksmith, for whose use a portable forge had been brought in the waggons.

The party returned to breakfast, and as soon as this was over the teams were put in and the waggons were brought up and unloaded, the stores being protected from wet by the canvas that formed the tilts. Some of the men accustomed to the use of the axe had been left in the valley to fell trees, and as soon as the waggons were unloaded they were sent down to bring up timber. All worked hard, and at the end of the week a log-hut fifty feet long and twenty-five feet wide had been erected. The walls were five feet high, and the roof was formed of the trunks of young trees squared, and laid side by side.

As rain fell seldom in that region it was not considered necessary to place shingles over them, as this could, in case of need, be done later on. The door opened out into the passage between the palisades down to the water, and the windows were all placed on the same side, loopholes being cut at short intervals round the other three sides. Another fortnight completed the preparations for work. The stamps were erected, with the water-wheel to work them; the stream dammed a hundred yards up, and a leat constructed to bring the water down to the wheel.

The waggons were formed up in a square. In this the horses were shut every night, four of the men by turns keeping guard there. During the last few days the miners had been at work blasting the quartz, and as soon as the stamps and machinery were in position they were ready to begin. The men were all told off to various duties, some to carry the rock down to the stamps, others to break it up into convenient sizes; two men fed the stamps, others attended to the concentrator and blankets, supervised by Harry. It was the duty of some to take the horses down to the valley and guard them while they were feeding, and bring them back at night. Two men were to bake and cook, Pete Hoskings taking this special department under his care. Jerry worked with the miners, and Tom was his uncle's assistant.

The stamps were to be kept going night and day, and each could crush a ton in twenty-four hours. To their great satisfaction each of the men was allowed one day a week to himself, during which he could prospect for other lodes or wash gravel as he pleased. The old cradle was found where it had been left, and as five of the men were off duty each day, they formed themselves into gangs and worked the cradle by turns, adding very considerably to the liberal pay they received. The two Indians hunted, and seldom returned without game of some sort or other. As the quicksilver in the concentrator was squeezed by Harry or Tom, and the blankets washed by them, none but themselves knew what the returns were. They and their partners were, however, more than satisfied with the result, for although the lode was found to pinch in as they got lower, it maintained for the first six weeks the extraordinary average of that they had first crushed.

At the end of that time the Indians reported that they had seen traces of the Utes having visited the valley. The number of men who went down with the horses was at once doubled, one or other of the Indians staying down with them, preceding them in the morning by half an hour to see that the valley was clear. A week later the horses were seen coming back again a quarter of an hour after they had started. The men caught up their guns, which were always placed handy for them while at work, and ran out to meet the returning party.

"What is it, Hunting Dog?"

"A large war-party," the Indian replied. "Three hundred or more."

The horses were driven into the inclosure, half the men took their places among the waggons, and the others, clustered round the hut, prepared to enter it as soon as the Indians made their appearance.

The partners had already arranged what course to take if the Indians should come down on them, and were for all reasons most anxious that hostilities should if possible be avoided.

Presently the Indians were seen approaching at a gallop. As soon as they caught sight of the log-house and the inclosure of waggons they reined in their horses. The men had been ordered to show themselves, and the sight of some forty white men all armed with rifles brought the Indians to a dead stand-still.

Pete Hoskings went forward a little and waved a white cloth, and then Harry and the chief, leaving their rifles behind them stepped up to his side and held their arms aloft. There was a short consultation among the Indians, and then two chiefs dismounted, handed their rifles and spears to their men, and in turn advanced. Harry and Leaping Horse went forward until they met the chiefs halfway between the two parties. Harry began the conversation.

"Why do my red brothers wish to fight?" he asked. "We are doing them no harm. We are digging in the hills. Why should we not be friends?"

"The white men killed many of the Utes when they were here last year," one of the chiefs replied. "Why do they come upon the Utes' land?"

"It was the fault of the Utes," Harry said. "The white men wished only to work in peace. The Utes tried to take their scalps, and the white men were forced against their will to fight. No one can be blamed for defending his life. We wish for peace, but, as the Utes can see, we are quite ready to defend ourselves. There are forty rifles loaded and ready, and, as you may see, a strong house. We have no fear. Last time we were but few, but the Utes found that it was not easy to kill us. Now we are many, and how many of the Utes would die before they took our scalps? Nevertheless we wish for peace. The land is the land of the Utes, and although we are strong and could hold it if we chose, we do not wish to take it by force from our red brothers. We are ready to pay for the right to live and work quietly. Let the chiefs go back to their friends and talk together, and say how many blankets and how many guns and what weight of ammunition and tobacco they will be content with. Then if they do not ask too much, the white men will, so long as they remain here, pay that amount each year in order that they may live in peace with the Utes."

The two Indians glanced at each other. "My white brother is wise," one said. "Why did he not tell the Utes so last year?"

"Because you never gave us time, chief. If you had done so we would have said the same to you then, and your young men would be with you now; but you came as enemies upon us, and when the rifle is speaking the voice is silent."

"I will speak with my braves," the chief said gravely. And turning round they walked back to their party, while Harry and the chief returned to the huts.

"What do you think, chief? Will it be peace?"

Leaping Horse nodded. "Too many rifles," he said. "The Utes will know they could never take block-house."

It was nearly two hours before the two Utes advanced as before, and

Harry and the Seneca went out to meet them.

"My white brother's words are good," the chief said. "The Utes are great warriors, but they do not wish to fight against the white men who come as friends. The chiefs have talked with their braves, and the hatchets will be buried. This is what the Utes ask that the white men who have taken their land shall pay them."

Harry had arranged that the chief, who spoke the Ute language more perfectly than he did, should take charge of the bargaining. On the list being given Leaping Horse assumed an expression of stolid indifference.

"The land must be very dear in the Ute country," he said. "Do my brothers suppose that the white men are mad that they ask such terms? Peace would be too dear if bought at such a price. They are willing to deal liberally with the Utes, but not to give as much as would buy twenty hills. They will give this." And he enumerated a list of articles, amounting to about one quarter of the Indians' demands.

The bargaining now went on in earnest, and finally it was settled that a quantity of goods, amounting to about half the Indians' first demand, should be accepted, and both parties returned to their friends well satisfied.

A certain amount of goods had been brought out with a view to such a contingency, and half the amount claimed was handed over to the Utes. They had, indeed, more than enough to satisfy the demands, but Leaping Horse had suggested to Harry that only a portion should be given, as otherwise the Indians might suppose that their wealth was boundless. It would be better to promise to deliver the rest in three months' time. A dozen of the principal men of the Utes came over. The goods were examined and accepted, the calumet of peace was smoked and a solemn covenant of friendship entered into, and by the next morning the Indians had disappeared.

One end of the hut had been partitioned off for the use of the leaders of the party, and the gold obtained each day was carried by them there and deposited in a strong iron box, of which several had been brought by Pete Hoskings from Denver.

The day after the Indians left, a waggon, was sent off under the escort of eight mounted labourers to Bridger, and this continued to make the journey backward and forward regularly with the boxes of gold, Jerry and Pete Hoskings taking it by turns to command the escort. Harry and Pete had had a talk with the officer in command at Bridger on the evening before they had started on the expedition.

"You think you are going to send in a large quantity of gold?" the officer asked.

"If the mines are such as we think, Major, we may be sending down two or three hundredweight a month."

"Of course, the gold will be perfectly safe as long as it is in the fort, but if it gets known how much there is, you will want a strong convoy to take it across to the railway, and it would not be safe even then. Of course, the bulk is nothing. I should say at any rate you had better get it in here with as little fuss as possible."

"If you will keep it here for awhile," Pete said, "we will think over afterwards how it is to be taken further."

The officer nodded. "It mayn't turn out as difficult a business as you think," he said with a smile. "You are both old hands enough to know that mines very seldom turn out as rich as they are expected to do."

"We both know that," Pete Hoskings agreed. "I dunno as I ever did hear of a mine that turned out anything nigh as good as it ought to have done from samples, but I reckon that this is going to be an exception."

When within a few miles of the fort the escort always placed their rifles in the waggon and rode on some distance ahead of it, only one or two with their leader remaining by it. The boxes, which were of no great size, were covered by a sack or two thrown down in the corner of the waggon, and on its arrival in the fort it was taken first to the store, where a considerable quantity of provisions, flour, molasses, bacon, tea and sugar, currants and raisins, and other articles were purchased and placed in it. This was the ostensible purpose of the journey to the fort. Late in the evening Jerry or Pete, whichever happened to be the leader, and one of the men, carried the boxes across to the Major's quarters and stored them in a cellar beneath it.

There was a real need of provisions at the mine, for the population of the valley rapidly increased as the season went on. The upper part of the bed of the stream had been staked out into claims, the miners and other men each taking up one, but below them the ground was of course open to all, and although not nearly so rich as the upper gravel it was good enough to pay fairly for working. A stout palisading now surrounded the ground taken up by the machinery and the mine itself, and no one except those engaged by the company were allowed to enter here. Considerable surprise was felt in the camp when the first two or three miners came up and staked out claims on the stream.

"I wonder how they could have heard of it," Tom said to his uncle.

"The fact that we are remaining out here is enough to show that we are doing something, anyhow. The men who go in are always strictly ordered to say no word about what our luck is, but the mere fact that they hold their tongues—and you may be sure they are questioned sharply—is enough to excite curiosity, and these men have come to find out and see what the country is like, and to prospect the hills round where we are working. You will see a lot of them here before long."

As more came up it was determined to open a store. In the first place it furnished an explanation for the waggon going down so often, and in the second the fact that they were ready to sell provisions at cost prices would deter others from coming and setting up stores. There was no liquor kept on the mine, and Pete and Harry were very anxious that no places for its sale should be opened in the valley.

During the winter and spring Tom had received several letters from his sisters. They expressed themselves as very grateful for the money that he and their uncle had sent on their return to Denver, but begged them to send no more, as the school was flourishing and they were perfectly able to meet all their expenses. "It is very good of you, Tom," Carry said. "Of course, we are all very pleased to know that you have been able to send the money, because it relieves our anxiety about you; but we really don't want it, and it makes us afraid that you are stinting yourself. Besides, even if you are not, it would be much better for you to keep the money, as you may find some opportunity of using it to your advantage, while here it would only lie in the bank and do no good. It would be different if we had nothing to fall back upon in case of anything happening, such as some of us getting ill, or our having a case of fever in the school, or anything of that sort, but as we have only used fifty pounds of mother's money we have plenty to go on with for a very long time; so that really we would very much rather you did not send us any over. Now that we know your address and can write to you at Fort Bridger, it seems to bring you close to us. But we have had two very anxious times; especially the first, when we did not hear of you for six months. The second time was not so bad, as you had told us that it might be a long time before we should hear, and we were prepared for it, but I do hope it will never be so long again."

There had been some discussion as to whether the mine should be shut down in winter, but it was soon decided that work should go on regularly. Six more stamps were ordered to be sent from the east, with a steam-engine powerful enough to work the whole battery, and in September this and other machinery had reached the mine. Fresh buildings had been erected—a storehouse, a house for the officers, and a shed covering the whole of the machinery and yard. By the time this was all ready and in place the valley below was deserted, the gravel having been washed out to the bed-rock. No other lodes of sufficient richness to work had been discovered by the prospectors, and with winter at hand there was no inducement for them to stay longer there.

Only two or three of the men at the mine wished to leave when their engagement for the season terminated. All had been well paid, and had in addition made money at gold-washing. Their food had been excellent, and their comforts attended to in all ways. Accordingly, with these exceptions all were ready to renew their engagements.

An arrangement was made with the Major at Fort Bridger for an escort under a subaltern officer to proceed with two waggons with the treasure to Denver. Pete Hoskings and Jerry were to remain as managers of the mine throughout the winter. Harry and Tom had made up their minds to go to England and to return in the spring. The ore was now very much poorer than it had been at first. The lode had pinched out below and they had worked some distance along it. The falling off, however, was only relative; the mine was still an extraordinarily rich one, although it contained little more than a tenth of the gold that had been extracted from the first hundred and fifty tons crushed.

None but Harry, Pete Hoskings, Jerry, and Tom had any idea of the amount of gold extracted in less than six months, although the miners were well aware that the amount must be very large. It was so indeed, for after repaying the amount expended in preliminary expenses, together with the new machinery, the wages of the men, provisions, and all outgoings, they calculated the treasure sent down to be worth one hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds, while the mine if sold would fetch at least double that sum. After a hearty farewell to Pete and Jerry, Harry and Tom with the two Indians rode with the last waggon down to Bridger. The iron boxes had all been sewn up in deer-skins when they were sent down, and at night they were placed in the waggons by Harry and his companions. Over them were placed the provisions for the journey, as it was just as well that even the soldiers should not suspect the amount of treasure they were escorting.

They encountered some severe snow-storms by the way, but reached Denver without incident. The place had wonderfully changed since Tom had arrived there more than two years before. It had trebled in size; broad streets and handsome houses had been erected, and the town had spread in all directions. They drove straight to the bank, to which Pete Hoskings had sent down a letter a fortnight before they had started, and the boxes were taken out of the waggon and carried down into the vaults of the bank. A handsome present was made to each of the soldiers of the escort, a brace of revolvers was given by Harry to the subaltern, and the handsomest watch and chain that could be purchased in Denver was sent by him to the Major, with an inscription expressing the thanks of the company to him for his kindness.

"Well, Tom, I am thankful that that is off my mind," Harry said. "I have had a good many troubles in the course of my life, but this is the first time that money has ever been a care to me. Well, we are rich men, Tom, and we shall be richer, for the mine will run another two or three years before it finishes up the lode as far as we have traced it, and as we have now filed claims for a quarter of a mile farther back, it may be good for aught I know for another ten years. Not so good as it has been this year, but good enough to give handsome profits. Have you calculated what our share is?"

"No, uncle. I know it must be a lot, but I have never thought about what each share will be."

"Well, to begin with, a third of it goes to Pete Hoskings and his friends, that leaves eighty-five thousand. The remainder is divided into seven shares; I was to have two, the Indians three between them, you one, and Jerry one. His share is then about twelve thousand, which leaves seventy-three thousand between you and me. Of course, we shall divide equally."

"No, indeed, uncle; that would be ridiculous. I have been of very little use through it all, and I certainly ought not to have as much as Jerry. You and the chief discovered it, and it was entirely owing to you that any of the rest of us have a share of the profits, and of course your arrangement with the two Indians is only because the chief is so fond of you."

"Partly that, Tom; but chiefly because it is in accordance with red-skin customs. They are hunters, fighters, and guides, but they are not miners, and they never go in for shares in an enterprise of this sort. It went very much against the grain for Leaping Horse to take that three or four hundred pounds that came to him at the end of the last expedition, and he would be seriously offended if I were to press upon him more than his ordinary payment now; he would say that he has been simply hunting this year, that he has run no risks, and has had nothing to do with the mine. To-morrow morning we will go out to see what there is in the way of horse-flesh in Denver, and will buy him and Hunting Dog the two best horses in the town, whatever they may cost, with saddles, bridles, new blankets, and so on. If I can get anything special in the way of rifles I shall get a couple of them, and if not I shall get them in New York, and send them to him at Bridger. These are presents he would value infinitely more than all the gold we have stowed away in the bank to-day. He is going back to his tribe for the winter, and he and Hunting Dog will be at the mine before us next spring."

In the morning Harry was two hours at the bank, where he saw the gold weighed out, and received a receipt for the value, which came to within a hundred pounds of what they had calculated, as the dust had been very carefully weighed each time it was sent off. In accordance with the arrangement he had made with Pete Hoskings and Jerry the amount of their respective shares was placed to their credit at the bank. Drawing a thousand pounds in cash, he received a draft for the rest upon a firm at New York, where he would be able to exchange it for one on London. He then inquired at the hotel as to who was considered to possess the best horses in the town, and as money was no object to him, he succeeded in persuading the owners to sell two splendid animals; these with the saddles were sent to the hotel. He then bought two finely finished Sharpe's rifles of long range, and two brace of silver-mounted revolvers.

"Now, Tom," he said, "I shall give one of these outfits to the chief and you give the other to Hunting Dog; he has been your special chum since we started, and the presents will come better from you than from me. I expect them here in half an hour; I told them I should be busy all the morning."

The two Indians were delighted with their presents, even the chief being moved out of his usual impassive demeanour. "My white brothers are too good. Leaping Horse knows that Straight Harry is his friend; he does not want presents to show him that; but he will value them because he loves his white brothers, even more than for themselves." As for Hunting Dog, he was for a long time incredulous that the splendid horse, the rifle and pistols could really be for him, and he was so exuberant in his delight that it was not until Leaping Horse frowned at him severely that he subsided into silent admiration of the gifts.

"Here are papers, chief, that you and Hunting Dog had better keep: they are the receipts for the two horses, and two forms that I have had witnessed by a lawyer, saying that we have given you the horses in token of our gratitude for the services that you have rendered; possibly you may find them useful. You may fall in with rough fellows who may make a pretence that the horses have been stolen. Oh, yes! I know that you can hold your own; still, it may avoid trouble."

They had now no further use for their horses, so these were sold for a few pounds. They purchased a stock of clothes sufficient only for their journey to England.

"You may as well put your revolver in your pocket, Tom," Harry said as they prepared to start the next day. "I have sewn up the draft in the lining of my coat, but sometimes a train gets held up and robbed, and as we have six hundred pounds in gold and notes in our wallets, I certainly should not give it up without a fight."

The Indians accompanied them to the station. "Now, chief, you take my advice and look out for a nice wife before next spring. You are forty now, and it is high time you thought of settling down."

"Leaping Horse will think over it," the Seneca said gravely. "It may be that in the spring he will have a wigwam in the valley."

A few minutes later the train started east, and five days later they reached New York. A steamer left the next day for England, and in this they secured two first-class berths; and although Tom had managed very well on his way out, he thoroughly enjoyed the vastly superior comfort of the homeward trip. They went straight through to Southampton, for, as Harry said, they could run up to London and get their clothes any day; and he saw that Tom was in a fever of excitement to get home. Harriet came to the door of the little house at Southsea when they knocked. She looked surprised at seeing two gentlemen standing there. In the two years and a half that had passed since Tom had left he had altered greatly. He had gone through much toil and hardship, and the bronze of the previous summer's sun was not yet off his cheeks; he had grown four or five inches, and the man's work that he had been doing had made almost a man of him.

"Don't you know me, Harriet?" Tom said.

The girl at once recognized the voice, and with a loud cry of delight threw her arms round his neck. The cry brought Carry out from the parlour. "Why, Harriet," she exclaimed, "have you gone mad?"

"Don't you see it's Tom?" Harriet said, turning round, laughing and crying together.

"It is Tom, sure enough, Carry; you need not look so incredulous; and this is Uncle Harry."

There were a few minutes of wild joy, then they calmed down and assembled in the sitting-room.

"It is lucky the girls have all gone home to dinner," Carry said, "or they would certainly have carried the news to their friends that we were all mad. It is a half-holiday too, nothing could be more fortunate. Now we want to hear everything. Tom's letters were so short and unsatisfactory, uncle, that he told us next to nothing, except that you had found a mine, and that you were both working there, and that it was satisfactory."

"Well, my dears, that is the pith of the thing," Harry said. "The first thing for you to do is to send round notes to the mothers of these children saying that from unforeseen circumstances you have retired from the profession, and that the school has finally closed from this afternoon."

There was a general exclamation from the girls:

"What do you mean, uncle?"

"I mean what I say, girls. Tom and I have made our fortunes, and there is no occasion for you to go on teaching any longer. We have not yet made any plans for the future, but at any rate the first step is, that there is to be no more teaching."

"But are you quite, quite sure, uncle?" Carry said doubtfully. "We are getting on very nicely now, and it would be a pity to lose the connection."

Harry and Tom both laughed.

"Well, my girl," the former said, "that is of course a point to be thought of. But as Tom and I have over thirty-five thousand pounds apiece, and the mine will bring us in a good round sum for some years to come, I think we can afford to run the risk of the connection going."

After that it was a long while before they settled down to talk quietly again.

A week later they all went up to London for a month, while what Harry called "outfits" were purchased for the girls, as well as for him and Tom, and all the sights of London visited. Before their story came to an end, the grand consultation as to future plans had been held, and a handsome house purchased at Blackheath.

Tom did not return to Utah in the spring; his uncle strongly advised him not to do so.

"I shall go back myself, Tom; partly because I should feel like a fish out of water with nothing to do here, partly because I promised the chief to go back for a bit every year. I am beginning to feel dull already, and am looking forward to the trip across the water, but it will certainly be better for you to stay at home. You left school early, you see, and it would be a good thing for you to get a man to come and read with you for two or three hours a day for the next year or two. We have settled that the three younger girls are to go to school; and I don't see why you, Carry, and Janet, should not go, in the first place, for two or three months on to the Continent. They have had a dull life since you have been away, and the trip will be a treat for them, and perhaps do you some good also. It will be time enough to settle down to reading when you come back."

The mine returned large profits that year, the increased amount stamped making up to some extent for the falling off in the value of the ore, and the shares of the various proprietors were more than half what they had been at the end of the first season's work. The third year it fell off considerably. There was a further decrease the year after, and the fifth year it barely paid its expenses, and it was decided to abandon it. Harry Wade went over every season for many years, but spent only the first at the mine. After that he went hunting expeditions with Leaping Horse, who, to his amusement, had met him at his first return to the mine with a pretty squaw, and Hunting Dog had also brought a wife with him. Two wigwams were erected that year near the mine, but after that they returned to their tribe, of which Leaping Horse became the leading chief.

Tom's sisters all in due time married, each being presented on her wedding-day with a cheque for ten thousand pounds, as a joint present from her uncle and brother.

Tom himself did not remain a bachelor, but six years after his return to England took a wife to himself, and the house at Blackheath was none too large for his family. Harry Wade's home is with Tom, and he is still hale and hearty. Up to the last few years he paid occasional visits to America, and stayed for a while with his red brother Leaping Horse, when they lamented together over the disappearance of game and the extinction of the buffalo. Hunting Dog had, at Harry's urgent advice, settled down in the ways of civilization, taking up a ranche and breeding cattle, of which he now owns a large herd. Jerry Curtis and Pete Hoskings made a journey together to Europe after the closing of the mine. They stayed for a month at Blackheath, and ten years later Tom received a lawyer's letter from Denver saying that Peter Hoskings was dead, and that he had left his large house and other property in Denver to Mr. Thomas Wade's children. Jerry still lives at the age of seventy-five in that city

Table of Contents

Captain Bayley's Heir

CHAPTER I. WESTMINSTER! WESTMINSTER!

CHAPTER II. A COLD SWIM.

CHAPTER III. A CRIPPLE BOY.

CHAPTER IV. AN ADOPTED CHILD.

CHAPTER V. A TERRIBLE ACCUSATION.

CHAPTER VI. AT NEW ORLEANS.

CHAPTER VII. ON THE MISSISSIPPI.

CHAPTER VIII. STARTING FOR THE WEST.

CHAPTER IX. ON THE PLAINS.

CHAPTER X. A BUFFALO STORY.

CHAPTER XI. HOW DICK LOST HIS SCALP.

CHAPTER XII. THE ATTACK ON THE CARAVAN.

CHAPTER XIII. AT THE GOLD-FIELDS.

CHAPTER XIV. CAPTAIN BAYLEY.

CHAPTER XV. THE MISSING HEIR.

CHAPTER XVI. JOHN HOLL, DUST CONTRACTOR.

CHAPTER XVII. THE LONELY DIGGERS.

CHAPTER XVIII. A DREAM VERIFIED.

CHAPTER XIX. STRIKING IT RICH.

CHAPTER XX. A MESSAGE FROM ABROAD.

CHAPTER XXI. HAPPY MEETINGS.

CHAPTER XXII. CLEARED AT LAST.

Captain Bayley's Heir

CHAPTER I. WESTMINSTER! WESTMINSTER!

A CRIPPLE boy was sitting in a box on four low wheels, in a little room in a small street in Westminster; his age was some fifteen or sixteen years; his face was clear-cut and intelligent, and was altogether free from the expression either of discontent or of shrinking sadness so often seen in the face of those afflicted. Had he been sitting on a chair at a table, indeed, he would have been remarked as a handsome and well-grown young fellow; his shoulders were broad, his arms powerful, and his head erect. He had not been born a cripple, but had been disabled for life, when a tiny child, by a cart passing over his legs above the knees. He was talking to a lad a year or so younger than himself, while a strong, hearty-looking woman, somewhat past middle age, stood at a wash-tub.

"What is all that noise about?" the cripple exclaimed, as an uproar was heard in the street at some little distance from the house.

"Drink, as usual, I suppose," the woman said.

The younger lad ran to the door.

"No, mother; it's them scholars a-coming back from cricket. Ain't there a fight jist!"

The cripple wheeled his box to the door, and then taking a pair of crutches which rested in hooks at its side when not wanted, swung himself from the box, and propped himself in the doorway so as to command a view down the street.

It was indeed a serious fight. A party of Westminster boys, on their way back from their cricket-ground in St. Vincent's Square, had been attacked by the "skies." The quarrel was an old standing one, but had broken out afresh from a thrashing which one of the older lads had administered on the previous day to a young chimney-sweep about his own age, who had taken possession of the cricket-ball when it had been knocked into the roadway, and had, with much strong language, refused to throw it back when requested.

The friends of the sweep determined to retaliate upon the following day, and gathered so threateningly round the gate that, instead of the boys coming home in twos and threes, as was their wont, when playtime expired, they returned in a body. They were some forty in number, and varied in age from the little fags of the Under School, ten or twelve years old, to brawny muscular young fellows of seventeen or eighteen, senior Queen's Scholars, or Sixth Form town boys. The Queen's Scholars were in their caps and gowns, the town boys were in ordinary attire, a few only having flannel cricketing trousers.

On first leaving the field they were assailed only by volleys of abuse; but as they made their way down the street their assailants grew bolder, and from words proceeded to blows, and soon a desperate fight was raging. In point of numbers the "skies" were vastly superior, and many of them were grown men; but the knowledge of boxing which almost every Westminster boy in those days possessed, and the activity and quickness of hitting of the boys, went far to equalise the odds.

Pride in their school, too, would have rendered it impossible for any to show the white feather on such an occasion as this, and with the younger boys as far as possible in their centre, the seniors faced their opponents manfully. Even the lads of but thirteen and fourteen years old were not idle. Taking from the fags the bats which several of the latter were carrying, they joined in the conflict, not striking at their opponents' heads, but occasionally aiding their seniors, when attacked by three or four at once, by swinging blows on their assailant's shins.

Man after man among the crowd had gone down before the blows straight from the shoulder of the boys, and many had retired from the contest with faces which would for many days bear marks of the fight; but their places were speedily filled up, and the numbers of the assailants grew stronger every minute.

"How well they fight!" the cripple exclaimed. "Splendid! isn't it, mother? But there are too many against them. Run, Evan, quick, down to Dean's Yard; you are sure to find some of them playing at racquets in the Little Yard, tell them that the boys coming home from cricket have been attacked, and that unless help comes they will be terribly knocked about."

Evan dashed off at full speed. Dean's Yard was but a few minutes' run distant. He dashed through the little archway into the yard, down the side, and then in at another archway into Little Dean's Yard, where some elder boys were playing at racquets. A fag was picking up the balls, and two or three others were standing at the top of the steps of the two boarding-houses.

"If you please, sir," Evan said, running up to one of the racquet-players, "there is just a row going on; they are all pitching into the scholars on their way back from Vincent Square, and if you don't send help they will get it nicely, though they are all fighting like bricks."

"Here, all of you," the lad he addressed shouted to the others; "our fellows are attacked by the 'skies' on their way back from fields. Run up College, James; the fellows from the water have come back." Then he turned to the boys on the steps, "Bring all the fellows out quick; the 'skies' are attacking us on the way back from the fields. Don't let them wait a moment."

It was lucky that the boys who had been on the water in the two eights, the six, and the fours, had returned, or at that hour there would have been few in the boarding-houses or up College. Ere a minute had elapsed these, with a few others who had been kept off field and water from indisposition, or other causes, came pouring out at the summons—a body some thirty strong, of whom fully half were big boys. They dashed out of the gate in a body, and made their way to the scene of the conflict. They were but just in time; the compact group of the boys had been broken up, and every one now was fighting for himself.

They had made but little progress towards the school since Evan had started, and the fight was now raging opposite his house. The cripple was almost crying with excitement and at his own inability to join in the fight going on. His sympathies were wholly with "the boys," towards whose side he was attached by the disparity of their numbers compared to those of their opponents, and by the coolness and resolution with which they fought.

"Just look at those two, mother—those two fighting back to back. Isn't it grand! There! there is another one down; that is the fifth I have counted. Don't they fight cool and steady? and they almost look smiling, though the odds against them are ten to one. O mother, if I could but go to help them!"

Mrs. Holl herself was not without sharing his excitement. Several times she made sorties from her doorstep, and seized more than one hulking fellow in the act of pummelling a youngster half his size, and shook him with a vigour which showed that constant exercise at the wash-tub had strengthened her arms.

"Yer ought to be ashamed of yerselves, yer ought; a whole crowd of yer pitching into a handful o' boys."

But her remonstrances were unheeded in the din,—which, however, was raised entirely by the assailants, the boys fighting silently, save when an occasional shout of "Hurrah, Westminster!" was raised. Presently Evan dashed through the crowd up to the door.

"Are they coming, Evan?" the cripple asked eagerly.

"Yes, 'Arry; they will be 'ere in a jiffy."

A half-minute later, and with shouts of "Westminster! Westminster!" the reinforcement came tearing up the street.

Their arrival in an instant changed the face of things. The "skies" for a moment or two resisted; but the muscles of the eight—hardened by the training which had lately given them victory over Eton in their annual race—stood them in good stead, and the hard hitting of the "water" soon beat back the lately triumphant assailants of "cricket." The united band took the offensive, and in two or three minutes the "skies" were in full flight.

"We were just in time, Norris," one of the new-comers said to the tall lad in cricketing flannels whose straight hitting had particularly attracted the admiration of Harry Holl.

"Only just," the other said, smiling; "it was a hot thing, and a pretty sight we shall look up School to-morrow. I shall have two thundering black eyes, and my mouth won't look pretty for a fortnight; and, by the look of them, most of the others have fared worse. It's the biggest fight we have had for years. But I don't think the 'skies' will interfere with us again for some time, for every mark we've got they've got ten. Won't there be a row in School to-morrow when Litter sees that half the Sixth can't see out of their eyes."

Not for many years had the lessons at Westminster been so badly prepared as they were upon the following morning—indeed, with the exception of the half and home-boarders, few of whom had shared in the fight, not a single boy, from the Under School to the Sixth, had done an exercise or prepared a lesson. Study indeed had been out of the question, for all were too excited and too busy talking over the details of the battle to be able to give the slightest attention to their work.

Many were the tales of feats of individual prowess; but all who had taken part agreed that none had so distinguished themselves as Frank Norris, a Sixth Form town boy, and captain of the eight—who, for a wonder had for once been up at fields—and Fred Barkley, a senior in the Sixth. But, grievous and general as was the breakdown in lessons next day, no impositions were set; the boarding-house masters, Richards and Sargent, had of course heard all about it at tea-time, as had Johns, who did not himself keep a boarding-house, but resided at Carr's, the boarding-house down by the great gate.

These, therefore, were prepared for the state of things, and contented themselves by ordering the forms under their charge to set to work with their dictionaries and write out the lessons they should have prepared. The Sixth did not get off so easily. Dr. Litter, in his lofty solitude as head-master, had heard nothing of what had passed; nor was it until the Sixth took their places in the library and began to construe that his attention was called to the fact that something unusual had happened. But the sudden hesitation and blundering of the first "put on," and the inability of those next to him to correct him, were too marked to be passed over, and he raised his gold-rimmed eye-glasses to his eyes and looked round.

Dr. Litter was a man standing some six feet two in height, stately in manner, somewhat sarcastic in speech,—a very prodigy in classical learning, and joint author of the great treatise On the Uses of the Greek Particle. Searchingly he looked from face to face round the library.

"I cannot," he said, with a curl of his upper lip, and the cold and somewhat nasal tone which set every nerve in a boy's body twitching when he heard it raised in reproof, "I really cannot congratulate you on your appearance. I thought that the Sixth Form of Westminster was composed of gentlemen, but it seems to me now as if it consisted of a number of singularly disreputable-looking prize-fighters. What does all this mean, Williams?" he asked, addressing the captain; "your face appears to have met with better usage than some of the others."

"It means, sir," Williams said, "that as the party from fields were coming back yesterday evening, they were attacked by the 'skies,'—I mean by the roughs—and got terribly knocked about. When the news came to us I was up College, and the fellows had just come back from the water, so of course we all sallied out to rescue them."

"Did it not occur to you, Williams, that there is a body called the police, whose duty it is to interfere in disgraceful uproars of this sort?"

"If we had waited for the police, sir," Williams said, "half the School would not have been fit to take their places in form again before the end of the term."

"It does not appear to me," Dr. Litter said, "that a great many of them are fit to take their places at present. I can scarcely see Norris's eyes; and I suppose that boy is Barkley, as he sits in the place that he usually occupies, otherwise, I should not have recognised him; and Smart, Robertson, and Barker and Barret are nearly as bad. I suppose you feel satisfied with yourselves, boys, and consider that this sort of thing is creditable to you; to my mind it is simply disgraceful. There! I don't want to hear any more at present; I suppose the whole School is in the same state. Those of you who can see had better go back to School and prepare your Demosthenes; those who cannot had best go back to their boarding-houses, or up College, and let the doctor be sent for to see if anything can be done for you."

The doctor had indeed already been sent for, for some seven or eight of the younger boys had been so seriously knocked about and kicked that they were unable to leave their beds. For the rest a doctor could do nothing. Fights were not uncommon at Westminster in those days, but the number of orders for beef-steaks which the nearest butcher had received on the previous evening had fairly astonished him. Indeed, had it not been for the prompt application of these to their faces, very few of the party from the fields would have been able to find their way up School unless they had been led by their comrades.

At Westminster there was an hour's school before breakfast, and when nine o'clock struck, and the boys poured out, Dr. Litter and his under-masters held council together.

"This is a disgraceful business!" Dr. Litter said, looking, as was his wont, at some distant object far over the heads of the others.

There was a general murmur of assent.

"The boys do not seem to have been much to blame," Mr. Richards suggested in the cheerful tone habitual to him. "From what I can hear it seems to have been a planned thing; the people gathered round the gates before they left the fields and attacked them without any provocation."

"There must have been some provocation somewhere, Mr. Richards, if not yesterday, then the day before, or the day before that," Dr. Litter said, twirling his eye-glass by the ribbon. "A whole host of people do not gather to assault forty or fifty boys without provocation. This sort of thing must not occur again. I do not see that I can punish one boy without punishing the whole School; but, at any rate, for the next week fields must be stopped. I shall write to the Commissioner of Police, asking that when they again go to Vincent Square some policemen may be put on duty, not of course to accompany them, but to interfere at once if they see any signs of a repetition of this business. I shall request that, should there be any fighting, those not belonging to the School who commit an assault may be taken before a magistrate; my own boys I can punish myself. Are any of the boys seriously injured, do you think?"

"I hope not, sir," Mr. Richards said; "there are three or four in my house, and there are ten at Mr. Sargent's, and two at Carr's, who have gone on the sick list. I sent for the doctor, and he may have seen them by this time; they all seemed to have been knocked down and kicked."

"There are four of the juniors at College in the infirmary," Mr. Wire, who was in special charge of the Queen's Scholars, put in. "I had not heard about it last night, and was in ignorance of what had taken place until the list of those who had gone into the infirmary was put into my hands, and then I heard from Williams what had taken place."

"It is very unpleasant," Dr. Litter said, in a weary tone of voice—as if boys were a problem far more difficult to be mastered than any that the Greek authors afforded him—"that one cannot trust boys to keep out of mischief for an hour. Of course with small boys this sort of thing is to be expected; but that young fellows like Williams and the other seniors, and the Sixth town boys, who are on the eve of going up to the Universities, should so far forget themselves is very surprising."

"But even at the University, Doctor Litter," Mr. Richards said, with a passing thought of his own experience, "town and gown rows take place."

"All the worse," Dr. Litter replied, "all the worse. Of course there are wild young men at the Universities." Dr. Litter himself, it is scarcely necessary to say, had never been wild, the study of the Greek particles had absorbed all his thoughts. "Why," he continued, "young men should condescend to take part in disgraceful affrays of this kind passes my understanding. Mr. Wire, you will inform Williams that for the rest of the week no boy is to go to fields."

So saying, he strode off in the direction of his own door, next to the archway, for the conversation had taken place at the foot of the steps leading into School from Little Dean's Yard. There was some grumbling when the head-master's decision was known; but it was, nevertheless, felt that it was a wise one, and that it was better to allow the feelings to calm down before again going through Westminster between Dean's Yard and the field, for not even the most daring would have cared for a repetition of the struggle.

Several inquiries were made as to the lad who had brought the news of the fight, and so enabled the reinforcements to arrive in time; and had he been discovered a handsome subscription would have been got up to reward his timely service, but no one knew anything about him.

The following week, when cricket was resumed, no molestation was offered. The better part of the working-classes who inhabited the neighbourhood were indeed strongly in favour of the "boys," and liked to see their bright young faces as they passed home from their cricket; the pluck too with which they had fought was highly appreciated, and so strong a feeling was expressed against the attack made upon them, that the rough element deemed it better to abstain from further interruption, especially as there were three or four extra police put upon the beat at the hours when the "boys" went to and from Vincent Square.

It was, however, some time before the "great fight" ceased to be a subject of conversation among the boys. At five minutes to ten on the morning when Dr. Litter had put a stop to fields, two of the younger boys—who were as usual, just before school-time, standing in the archway leading into Little Dean's Yard to warn the School of the issuing out of the head-master—were talking of the fight of the evening before; both had been present, having been fagging out at cricket for their masters.

"I wonder which would lick, Norris or Barkley. What a splendid fight it would be!"

"You will never see that, Fairlie, for they are cousins and great friends. It would be a big fight, and I expect it would be a draw. I know who I should shout for."

"Oh, of course, we should all be for Norris, he is such a jolly fellow; there is no one in the School I would so readily fag for. Instead of saying, 'Here, you fellow, come and pick up balls,' or, 'Take my bat up to fields,' he says, 'I say, young Fairlie, I wish you would come and pick up balls for a bit, and in a quarter of an hour you can call some other Under School boy to take your place,' just as if it were a favour, instead of his having the right to put one on if he pleased. I should like to be his fag: and he never allows any bullying up at Richards'. I wish we had him at Sargent's."

"Yes, and Barkley is quite a different sort of fellow. I don't know that he is a bully, but somehow he seems to have a disagreeable way with him, a cold, nasty, hard sort of way; he walks along as if he never noticed the existence of an Under School boy, while Norris always has a pleasant nod for a fellow."

"Here's Litter."

At this moment a door in the wall under the archway opened, and the head-master appeared. As he came out the five or six small boys standing round raised a tremendous shout of "Litter's coming." A shout so loud that it was heard not only in College and the boarding-houses in Little Dean's Yard, but at Carr's across by the archway, and even at Sutcliffe's shop outside the Yard, where some of the boys were purchasing sweets for consumption in school. A fag at the door of each of the boarding-houses took up the cry, and the boys at once came pouring out.

The Doctor, as if unconscious of the din raised round him, walked slowly along half-way to the door of the School; here he was joined by the other masters, and they stood chatting in a group for about two minutes, giving ample time for the boys to go up School, though those from Carr's, having much further to go, had to run for it, and not unfrequently had to rush past the masters as the latter mounted the wide stone steps leading up to the School.

The School was a great hall, which gave one the idea that it was almost coeval with the abbey to which it was attached, although it was not built until some hundreds of years later. The walls were massive, and of great height, and were covered from top to bottom with the painted names of old boys, some of which had been there, as was shown by the dates under them, close upon a hundred years. The roof was supported on great beams, and both in its proportions and style the School was a copy in small of the great hall of Westminster.

At the furthermost end from the door was a semicircular alcove, known as the "Shell," which gave its name to the form sitting there. On both sides ran rows of benches and narrow desks, three deep, raised one above the other. On the left hand on entering was the Under School, and, standing on the floor in front of it, was the arm-chair of Mr. Wire. Next came the monitor's desk, at which the captain and two monitors sat. In an open drawer in front of the table were laid the rods, which were not unfrequently called into requisition. Extending up to the end were the seats of the Sixth. The "Upper Shell" occupied the alcove; the "Under Shell" were next to them, on the further benches on the right-hand side. Mr. Richards presided over the "Shell." Mr. Sargent took the Upper and Under Fifth, who came next to them, and "Johnny," as Mr. Johns was called, looked after the two Fourths, who occupied benches on the right hand of the door.

By the time the masters entered the School all the boys were in their places. The doors were at once shut, then the masters knelt on one knee in a line, one behind the other, in order of seniority, and the Junior Queen's Scholar whose turn it was knelt in front of them, and in a loud tone read the Lord's Prayer in Latin. Then the masters proceeded to their places, and school began, the names of all who came in late being taken down to be punished with impositions.

So large and lofty was the hall, that the voices were lost in its space, and the forms were able to work without disturbing each other any more than if they had been in separate rooms. The Sixth only were heard apart, retiring into the library with the Doctor. His seat, when in school, was at a table in the centre of the hall, near the upper end.

Thus Westminster differed widely from the great modern schools, with their separate class-rooms and lecture-rooms. Discipline was not very strict. When a master was hearing one of the forms under him the other was supposed to be preparing its next lessons, but a buzz of quiet talk went on steadily. Occasionally, once or twice a week perhaps, a boy would be seen to go up from one of the lower forms with a note in his hand to the head-master; then there was an instant pause in the talking.

Dr. Litter would rise from his seat, and a monitor at once brought him a rod. These instruments of punishment were about three feet six inches long; they were formed of birch twigs, very tightly bound together, and about the thickness of the handle of a bat; beyond this handle some ten or twelve twigs extended for about eighteen inches. The Doctor seldom made any remark beyond giving the order, "Hold out your hand."

The unfortunate to be punished held out his arm at a level with his shoulder, back uppermost. Raising his arm so that the rod fell almost straight behind his back, Dr. Litter would bring it down, stroke after stroke, with a passionless and mechanical air, but with a sweeping force which did its work thoroughly. Four cuts was the normal number, but if it was the third time a boy had been sent up during the term he would get six. But four sufficed to swell the back of the hand, and cover it with narrow weals and bruises. It was of course a point of honour that no sound should be uttered during punishment. When it was over the Doctor would throw the broken rod scornfully upon the ground and return to his seat. The Junior then carried it away and placed a fresh one upon the desk.

The rods were treated with a sort of reverence, for no Junior Queen's Scholar ever went up or down school for any purpose without first going over to the monitor's table and lightly touching the rod as he passed.

Such was school at Westminster forty years since, and it has but little changed to the present day.

CHAPTER II. A COLD SWIM.

IT is winter. Christmas is close at hand, and promises to be a bitterly cold one. The ice has formed smooth and black across the Serpentine, and a number of people are walking along by its banks, looking forward to some grand skating if the frost does but hold two days longer. The sky is blue, and the sun shining brightly; the wind is fresh and keen; it is just the day when people well-clad, well-fed, and in strong health, feel their blood dancing more freely than usual through their veins, and experience an unusual exhilaration of spirits. Merry laughter often rises from the groups on the bank, and the air rings with the sharp sound made by pieces of ice sent skimming by mischievous boys over the glassy surface, to the disgust of skaters, who foresee future falls as the result of these fragments should a slight thaw freeze them to the surface.

Among those walking by the edge of the ice were Frank Norris and Fred Barkley; with them was a bright-faced girl of some fourteen years old. Alice Hardy was cousin to both the young fellows, and was a ward of their uncle, Captain Bayley, an old and very wealthy retired officer of the East India Company's Service. His fortune had not been acquired in India, but had descended to him from his father, of whom he had been the youngest son. His elder brothers had died off one by one, all unmarried or childless, and soon after he obtained his commission he was recalled home to take his place as the next heir to his father's estates; then he had married.

Soon after he succeeded to the property his wife died, leaving him a little girl, who was called Ella after her. Captain Bayley was hot and passionate. His daughter grew up fiery and proud. Her father was passionately fond of her; but just when she reached the age of twenty, and had taken her place as one of the leading belles of Worcestershire, she disappeared suddenly from the circle of her acquaintances. What had happened no one ever knew. That there had been some terrible quarrel was certain. It was understood that Captain Bayley wished no questions to be asked. Her disappearance was a nine days' wonder in Worcestershire. Some said she had turned Roman Catholic and gone into a convent; others that she must have eloped, although with whom no one could guess. But at last the subject died out, until two years later Captain Bayley and his household appeared in mourning, and it was briefly announced that his daughter was dead.

Captain Bayley went about as before, peppery, kind-hearted, perhaps a little harder and more cynical than before, but a very popular personage in Worcestershire. Those who knew him best thought him the most altered, and said that although he appeared to bear the blow lightly he felt deeply at heart the death of his daughter. His nearest heirs now were his two nephews, Frank Norris and Barkley, sons of his married sisters. Alice Hardy bore no relation to him. For some years speculation had been rife as to which of his two nephews he would select as his heir.

Two years before this story begins Alice Hardy's father and mother had both died of typhoid fever, leaving Captain Bayley as guardian to their daughter. Somewhat to the surprise of his friends, the old officer not only accepted the trust, but had Alice installed at his house, there to be educated by a governess instead of being sent to school. But although in a short time she came to be regarded as the daughter of the house, no one thought that Captain Bayley would make her his heiress, as she had inherited a considerable fortune from her father; and the two lads at Westminster were still regarded as rivals for the heirship.

Captain Bayley had never been on good terms with either of his brothers-in-law; both had been merchants in the city, and the old officer considered that his sisters had made mesalliances in marrying them. Frank's father and mother had died within a few months of each other, when he was about twelve years old; Captain Bayley's house had since been his home. Fred was often invited to stay with his uncle down in Worcestershire, and his London house in Eaton Square was always open to him. Frank had never counted on the probability of his uncle leaving him any money. Certainly he never for a moment built castles in the air founded upon the chance of the inheritance. His father had been an easy-going and somewhat careless man, and would sometimes laugh with the boy in speaking of his future and predicting what he would do if he were come into old Bayley's estates. None of the Captain's intimates could—had they been asked—have declared a preference for the chances of either lad. Fred was certainly the cleverest. He had gone into college head of his year, and would have been Captain, had not one of those of the year before him, who had got into College under age, elected to stay a year longer at school, and therefore by right became Captain, while Fred had to be content with the honours of head monitor. Frank, on the other hand, had failed to get into College at all, and had remained a town boy.

Although it could not be said of Fred that in any open way he laid himself out to gain his uncle's favour, he was yet decidedly more attentive than was Frank, and would give up any other engagement he might have if Captain Bayley invited him to stay the Saturday and Sunday in Eaton Square, while Frank went carelessly his own way. And while there was nothing in the smallest degree servile in Fred's manner—for this indeed Captain Bayley would have instantly noticed and resented—there was just that slight deference which a young fellow should exhibit in conversation with an elder, while Frank, on the other hand, carelessly expressed his own opinion and ideas, which often differed very widely from those of the old officer.

Captain Bayley's own manner evinced no shade of partiality for one nephew over the other; and although Alice had a sort of faint suspicion that Frank, who was certainly her own favourite, was also that of her uncle, she could have given no reason for her belief.

In person the cousins were remarkably dissimilar. Frank was two inches the tallest, and had a still greater advantage in width. It was clear that he would grow into a big man, but his figure was at present loose and unformed; he had dark brown hair, with a slight wave, and would hardly have been called good-looking, were it not for his open, fearless expression and merry smile.

Fred's figure, although less strongly built, was far more formed, and it was probable that years would effect but little change in it. There was a sinew and wire in his frame which would have told an athlete of great latent strength in the slight figure. His hair was light, his features clear and sharply cut, and the face a decidedly intellectual one. His manner was somewhat cold and restrained, but pleasant and courteous to men older than himself; both young fellows carried themselves well, with a certain ease of bearing, and that nameless air of command which distinguish most young men who have passed through the upper forms of a great public school.

Both lads had their circle of friends and admirers at school, but Frank's was by far the largest. He was indeed universally popular, which was far from being the case with his cousin. Upon the other hand, while Frank seemed to be a sort of common property of the School, it was somehow esteemed by those in Barkley's set a special distinction to be admitted to his friendship.

But the party of three young people have been left long enough walking by the edge of the Serpentine. Presently they saw a knot of people gathered ahead; the number increased as others ran up.

"What's up, I wonder?" Frank said. "Look out there on the ice, Alice. You see that hole; there is something moving—there's a dog's head, I declare. Poor brute! it has run out after a stick, I suppose, and the ice has given under it."

"Poor little thing!" Alice exclaimed pitifully, "can't it get out? Do you think it will be drowned, Frank? Can nothing be done for it?"

"The best thing you can do, Alice," Fred replied, as Frank stood looking at the dog, who tried several times, but in vain, to scramble out, the ice each time breaking with its weight, "will be to turn and walk away; there is no use standing here harrowing your feelings by watching that poor little brute drown."

"Can nothing be done, Frank?" Alice again asked, paying no heed to Fred's suggestion.

"That is just what I am thinking," Frank replied. "You stop here, Alice, with Fred. I will go on and see what they are doing."

"Can't I go with you, Frank?"

"You had better stop here," Frank replied; "the crowd is getting thick there, and they are a roughish lot. Besides, you will not be able to see over their heads, and can do no good; so just do as I bid you."

The girl remained obediently with her cousin Fred, while Frank went off at a run towards the group.

"Frank orders you about just as if you were his fag," Fred said, with a smile which had in it something of a sneer.

"I don't mind," the girl said staunchly, "it's Frank's way, and I like it;—at any rate one always knows what Frank means, and he always means well."

"That is as much as to say, Alice, that you don't always understand what I mean, and that I don't always mean well," Fred Barkley said in a quiet tone, but with a little flush of anger in his usually somewhat pale cheeks.

"No, I don't know that I mean that," Alice said carelessly; "but I do not always understand what you mean, though I always understand what you say."

"I should have thought that was the same thing," Fred replied.

"Should you?" Alice rejoined. "Well I shouldn't, that's all."

As Frank Norris approached the group he began to unbutton his collar and waistcoat.

"It will be a beastly cold swim," he grumbled to himself, "but I can't see the poor little brute drowned, and drowned he certainly will be if no one goes in for him. It's no distance to swim, and I should think one could wade to within twenty yards of him; but it certainly will be horribly cold." And he gave a shiver of anticipation as he looked at the smooth frozen surface.

With some little difficulty Frank pushed his way through to the centre of the group by the water's side. A little girl, poorly dressed, was standing crying bitterly; a cripple boy in a box upon wheels was trying to pacify her, while another who had taken off his coat and waistcoat, and laid them in the lap of the cripple, was unlacing his boots.

"Are you going in, young un?" Frank said, as he joined them.

"Yes, sir; I am going in for Flossy. She belongs to this little girl, who is one of our neighbours."

"Can you swim well?" Frank asked, "for the water will be bitterly cold."

"Yes," the boy answered confidently, "I goes regularly for a swim above Vauxhall Bridge in the summer, and keeps on until the water gets too cold. I can do that fast enough. I suppose the ice will break right enough," and he looked up inquiringly at Frank.

"Yes, it will break with your weight easily enough; you will have to raise yourself a little so as to break it before you. You will have to put some weight on, for it is nearly half an inch thick; I expect there is a thin place where the dog has fallen in—a spring underneath, most likely, so a mere skin has formed.

"Look here, young un, I was going in if you hadn't. I shall get my boots ready to kick off now, so don't you be frightened if you get numbed with the cold, or a touch of cramp; just sing out and I will be with you in a minute."

The cripple looked with pleasure up into Frank's face.

"It is very good of you, sir, for you don't know the dog as Evan does. Ah! I know your face, sir," he broke off, "I saw you in the fight down by our place at Westminster, when Evan ran up and fetched some more of your chaps—and just in time they were too."

"Oh! was it your brother who brought that news?" Frank said quickly; "then I owe him one, and if I go in to fetch him out we shall be only quits."

Evan had by this time entered the water, breaking the ice before him as he went.

"My eye, ain't it cold!" he said, half-turning round, "seems to nip one's legs up regular. All right, Flossy," he shouted to the dog, as he continued his way out, in answer to a pitiful whine of the struggling animal.

For the first few paces Evan's progress was easy enough; but when he got so deep that he could no longer break the ice with his foot his difficulties began, and it was only by flinging himself down upon it that he was able to break it. A few yards further on the water was up to his chin. He was now breaking the ice by trying to climb upon it. Frank was watching him closely, and noticed that he no longer proceeded about his work deliberately, but with a hurried and jerky action, as if he felt his strength failing him. Frank pulled off his coat and waistcoat, and handed them to the cripple, kicked off his boots, and stood in readiness to plunge in.

The crowd had at first cheered the lad as he made his way from the shore; some still uttered shouts of encouragement, others saw that he was getting exhausted, and called to him to return. Suddenly the boy seemed to lose his power altogether, held on to the edge of the ice, and cast a despairing look towards the shore. Then gradually his head disappeared under the water; but Frank was already half-way towards him. A few strides had taken him through the shallow water, and he swam with vigorous strokes through the floating fragments to the end of the line of broken water; then he too disappeared for a moment. A dead silence reigned through the crowd; but when two heads appeared above the water together, a ringing cheer broke out. Carrying his senseless companion, Frank swam back to shore.

"Take off his wet clothes," he said, as he handed his burden to some of the men. "Wrap him up in my coat and his own, and then run with him up to the Humane Society's House, they will bring him round in no time; it is cold, not drowning."

Then he looked again across the water. The little dog was swimming feebly now, its nose scarcely above the surface. It had given a plaintive cry of despair as it saw those who had approached so near turn back, for there were but some five yards between the spot where the boy's strength had failed and the circle which it had broken in its efforts to climb out.

"I can't be colder than I am," Frank said to himself, "so here goes."

Accordingly he again dashed into the water and swam to the end of the narrow passage; a few vigorous strokes broke the intervening barrier of ice. He seized the little dog, put it on the ice, and with a push sent it sliding towards the shore, and then turned and swam back again.

It was only just where the dog had fallen in that the ice was too weak to bear its weight, and, after lying for two or three minutes utterly exhausted, it scrambled to its feet and made its way to the bank, where it was soon wrapped in the apron of its delighted mistress.

Frank, on reaching the shore, was scarcely able to stand, so benumbed were his legs by the cold. His cousins had made their way through the crowd to the spot.

"O Frank," Alice exclaimed, "what a mad thing for you to do. Oh! I am so pleased you did it—but oh, you do look cold! What will you do?"

"I am all right, Alice," Frank said, as cheerfully as his chattering teeth would allow him to speak. "You go home with Fred; I shall get a hot bath and have my clothes dried at the receiving-house, and shall be as right as a trivet in half an hour. There, good-bye!"

Frank walked stiffly at first, but was presently able to break into a run, which he kept up until he reached the establishment of the Royal Humane Society. His first question, as he entered, was for the boy.

"He will do, sir," the attendant answered, "we popped him at once into a hot bath we had ready, and he has opened his eyes, and is able to speak; we have just got him into bed between warm blankets, and now it's your turn."

In another minute Frank was in the bath from which the boy had just been taken, for there was no time to prepare another. For the first minute or two he felt an intense pain as the blood flowed back into his chilled limbs, then a delightful sensation of warmth and comfort stole over him; a glass of hot brandy and water completed his cure, and a few minutes later he felt that he was fast going off to sleep in the warm blankets between which he was laid.

Before the crowd whom the incident on the Serpentine had gathered broke up, one or two of those present went among the rest and collected a subscription for the lad who had gone in after the dog. Nearly two pounds were collected in silver and coppers, and handed over to the cripple to give to his brother. Fred Barkley dropped in five shillings, and Alice Hardy the same sum. Then after walking to the receiving-house, and hearing that Frank and the lad had both recovered from the effects of the cold, and would probably be all right after a few hours' sleep, they returned home, Alice in a high state of excitement over the adventure which she had witnessed, Fred silent and gloomy.

He accompanied Alice to Eaton Square, and was present when she related to her uncle the story of the lad going in to rescue the dog, and of Frank going in to rescue the boy, and of his afterwards returning to set free the dog. Upon the way home he had appeared to Alice to take the matter exceedingly quietly, but he now, somewhat to her surprise, appeared almost as enthusiastic as herself, and spoke in terms of high admiration of Frank's conduct. Captain Bayley, as was usually the case with him, took a view of the matter entirely opposed to that of the speakers.

"Stuff and nonsense!" he said. "You call that a gallant action? I call it a foolish boy's trick. What right has Frank to risk getting rheumatic fever, and being laid up as a cripple for life, merely to save a dog?"

"But he went in to save a boy, uncle," Alice said indignantly.

"Pooh, pooh!" the old officer exclaimed, "the boy would never have gone in if he hadn't encouraged him. That makes the case all the worse. Frank not only risking catching rheumatism himself, but he risked the life of that boy by encouraging him to do such a foolish action. It was a hair-brained business altogether, sir; and I am glad you had the wisdom, Fred, to keep out of it. The idea of two lives being risked to save that of a wretched cur is too absurd; if you had offered the girl who owned it five shillings to buy another it would have been more sensible."

"I don't believe you mean what you say a bit, Uncle Harry," Alice exclaimed indignantly. "I believe if you had been there, and had heard that poor little dog's cries as we did, you would have gone in yourself. I am sure I would if I had been a man."

"I always observe, my dear," Captain Bayley said sarcastically, "that women would do wonderful things if they had only been born men. Nature appears to be always making mistakes by putting the dauntless and heroic spirits into female bodies, and vice versa."

"I don't like you when you talk like that, Uncle Harry—that is, I shouldn't like you if I thought you meant it; but you only talk so out of contradiction. If I had said I thought Frank was very foolish for having gone into the water, you would have taken the opposite side directly."

"You are an impudent puss, Miss Alice," her uncle retorted, "and I shall have to tell Miss Lancaster that unless she can keep you in better order I shall have to send you to school. You appear to have been born without the bump of veneration."

"I would venerate you ever so much, Uncle Harry," the girl replied, laughing, "if you would always be good and reasonable; but I cannot venerate you when you are contrary and disagreeable, and say things you don't mean."

As Fred Barkley walked home, he wondered again and again to himself whether Captain Bayley had meant what he said, and whether this act of Frank's would raise him in his opinion or the contrary; but he flattered himself that, at any rate, no harm had been done, for his own advocacy of his cousin could not but have placed him in the most favourable light.

Fred Barkley was shrewd, but his power of reading character was, as yet, by no means perfect, and his uncle's changing moods baffled the power of analysis. He would not have been pleased had he known that at that very moment the old officer was walking up and down his library, muttering to himself, "I would give a good deal if there were a glass window at that boy Fred's heart, that I could see what it is really made of. His head is strong enough; nature has given him a fair share of brains, but, unless I am greatly mistaken, there is a very grievous deficiency in his allowance of heart.

"I don't believe the boy ever spoke spontaneously from the time he learned to talk, but that every word he says is weighed before it passes through his lips, and its effect calculated; whereas Frank never thinks at all, but just blurts out the words which come to hand. It is curious how much more Alice takes to him than to Fred, for he bullies her and orders her about as if she were one of his fags, while Fred is as courteous and polite to her as if she were a young Countess. I suppose it is instinct, for children's opinions about people are seldom far wrong. I thought when I brought Alice here that she would help me to settle the problem."

Frank and Evan Holl woke at about the same time, after sleeping for some hours; their clothes had been dried for them, and they at once began to dress.

"How do you feel now, young un?" was Frank's first inquiry as they sat up in their beds.

"I dunno how I feels," Evan replied. "I hardly knows where I am, or how I got here, though I do seem to remember something about this 'ere place too. Oh yes!" he exclaimed suddenly, "I was trying to fetch out poor little Flossy, and the ice would not break, and I got colder and colder, and then I don't seem to remember any more except somehow that I was here with people standing round me, and I swallowed something hot and went off to sleep. Ah yes! you were the gentleman as said you would come in after me if I sang out."

"And I did come in," Frank said smilingly, "and only just in time I was, for you did not sing out, but went right down without a word. It was lucky you did not get under the ice."

"And Flossy," the boy said suddenly, "did she go down too?"

"No," Frank answered, "I went in again and got her out, after I had brought you back to shore."

"Well, you are a brick!" the boy said, "a regular downright un, and no mistake. I wonder how Harry got back; it would be a job for him to wheel hisself all the way back to Westminster."

"Oh, I expect he got some one to help him," Frank said; "and the little girl would be able to help shove him along."

"Yes, she would," Evan replied, "she can shove him by herself along a pavement, and I expect that he and she atween them would be able to get along. Lor! how them things of yours have shrunk, to be sure."

"They have, a bit," Frank said, looking down at his trousers, which were half-way up to his knees; "but it don't matter much, it's getting dark now, and I can take a cab when I get out of the Park. Your clothes don't seem to have suffered so much, they seem plenty large enough for you now."

"Yes," Evan said, with a satisfied air, "and a good job too; mother always will have my clothes so big, cos of my growing. She always seems to think one will grow sudden into a man afore one's things wear out."

Frank and the lad walked together as far as Albert Gate; here they separated, Frank taking a cab home, while Evan, whistling a popular air in a high key, took his way to Westminster. On arriving home he was greeted with enthusiasm by Harry, but Mrs. Holl was not inclined to view his adventure favourably.

"It's all very well to care for dogs, Evan, and I ain't a-saying as Carrie Hill's dog ain't a nice little critter; but when it comes to getting into the freezing water arter it, I don't hold to it no way. Then you might have gone and got drowned—and you would have got drowned too, Harry tells me, if that young gent hadn't been and gone after you; and then this blessed minute I should have been breaking my heart about you, and you down underneath the ice in the bottom of the Serpentine. There ain't no reason in it, my boy. Harry here thinks different about it, and will have it that I ought to be proud of yer; but he ain't a mother, and so can't understand a mother's feelings—and your clothes pretty nigh spoilt too, I'll be bound."

"Well, mother, if they are," Harry said cheerfully, "Evan can buy some more. Here, Evan; here are thirty-eight shillings and ninepence halfpenny, and it's all your own."

"Crikey!" Evan gasped, looking in astonishment at the pile of money in Harry's lap. "Why, where did all that 'ere money come from?"

"That was collected in the crowd, Evan, after you were carried away, and they gave it to me to give to you. I did not quite like your taking money for doing such a thing, but of course as it was given for you I had nothing to say to it."

Evan burst into a wild dance expressive of delight. He had none of his brother's scruples in respect to the money.

"My eye!" he exclaimed at last, "thirty-eight bob and some coppers to do just as I likes with. I am a rich man, I am; I shall have to get some 'igh collars and come the swell. I suppose it won't run to a carriage and pair, mother, or to a welvet gownd for you,—that would be splendatious. Just fancy, mother, a gownd all over welvet, and just the same colour as the sodgers' coats. My eye! won't that be grand?"

"And a nice sight I should look in it," Mrs. Holl said, laughing at the thought of herself in scarlet robes. "When dad comes home we will talk over with him what's the best way of laying out this money. It's yours to do as you likes with, but I ain't a-going to have it fooled away, so don't you make any mistake about that."

CHAPTER III. A CRIPPLE BOY.

JOHN HOLL returned from work a few minutes after Evan came in. John Holl was a dustman. A short, broadly-built man, with his shoulders bowed somewhat from carrying heavy baskets up area steps. His looks were homely, and his attire far from clean; but John was a good husband and father, and the great proportion of the many twopences he daily received as douceurs for discharging his duties were brought home to his wife, as was all the weekly money, instead of being exchanged for liquor at the public-house.

Sarah Holl added to the family income by going out charring. She was a big woman, with a rough voice, and slipshod in walk; her hands were red and hard from much scrubbing and polishing, and she was considered generally by the servants in the establishments at which she worked to be a low person. But Sarah's heart was in the right place; her children loved her, and her husband regarded her as a treasure.

It was not until John Holl had changed his dirt-stained clothes, and had freshened himself up with a copious wash, had put on a pair of list slippers of Sarah's manufacture in place of his heavy boots, and had seated himself by the fire with his long pipe alight, while Sarah bustled about getting the tea, that he was informed of the important events which had taken place; for John, like many more distinguished men, had his idiosyncrasies, and one of these was that he hated to be, as he called it, "hustled," before he had tidied up. John was not quick of comprehension, and could not give due weight to what was said to him while engaged in the important work of changing; therefore all pieces of family news were reserved until he had taken his seat and his pipe was fully alight. Then Mrs. Holl began—

"What do you think, John, Evan 'as been a-doing to-day?"

John gave a grunt, to signify that he would prefer hearing the facts to wasting his brain-power in random guesses.

"Why, he has been in the Serpentine, and was nigh drowned, and had to be taken to the 'Mane Society and put into a hot bath, and all his clothes shrunk that much as you never seed."

"I thought the ice weren't strong enough to bear," John said, taking his pipe from his mouth; "one of my mates tells me as he heard a chap going along with skates say as it weren't strong enough on the Serpentine to hold a cat."

"No more it ain't, John; but Carrie Hill's little dog run on and fell through, and nothing would do but that Evan must go out and risk his life to fetch it out. And a nice business he made of it; when he got close out to the dog down he went hisself, and would have been drowned as sure as fate if a young gent as was a-standing there hadn't swam out and brought him in. And I think you ought to speak to him, John, for such venturesome ways; he don't mind my speaking no more than the wind a-blowing."

John Holl smoked his pipe in silence for some time, looking solemnly into the fire; the number of facts and ideas presented suddenly to him were too great to be instantly taken in and grappled with.

"And how do you feel now, Evan?" he said at last; "cold right through the bones?"

"No, father; I am as warm as need be; and what do you think? I have got thirty-eight bob and some coppers which they 'scribed for me."

"Did they, now?" John Holl said. Then after taking in this new fact, and turning it over in different lights, he said to his wife, "Well, Sarah, it seems to me that if the people who saw our Evan go into the water subscribed well-nigh upon two pounds for the boy, they must have thought that what he did warn't a thing for him to be jawed for, but a brave, good-hearted sort of action; and I ain't no manner of doubt, Sarah, that that's just what you think it yerself, only you are a bit scared over the thought that he might have been drowned, which is natural and woman-like. It seems to me as Evan has done a wery honourable kind o' action. I know as I should have liked to have done it myself, though I holds that a man can't have too much of hot water and plenty of soap in it, cold water allus giving me the shivers, and being no good for getting out dirt—not where its ground in pretty thick. I suppose its cos of this that I didn't larn to swim. Evan, my boy, your father feels proud of yer, and so does your mother—as proud as a peacock—though she don't think it's right to say so."

Whereupon Mrs. Holl, finding to her great inward satisfaction that the paternal sanction and approval had been given to Evan's adventure, felt no longer constrained to keep up a semblance of disapproval, but embraced him with great heartiness, and then wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. Then came the great point of the disposal of Evan's fortune. His first proposal was to hand it over to his father as a contribution towards the general expenses, but this John Holl peremptorily refused.

"It's your money, boy, to do as you like with; it's earned in a honourable way, and a way to be proud of. You are to do with it just what you likes; it were best not to spend it foolish, but if you are disposed to spend it foolish, you do so."

"There are such lots of things I should like to buy," Evan said. "I should like to buy mother a new Sunday bonnet, and I should like to get you a pound of bacca; and Winnie wants a new pair of boots and stockings, and there's lots of things I should like to get for Harry, and some warm gloves for Sue, and—and no end of things."

"Two pounds," John Holl said, "is a nice little lump of money, Evan; but when you gets as old as I am you will know as two pounds don't go wery far. My advice to you is this, whatever you get yer sure a while afterwards to want something else, and to wish as you had bought that instead; that's human nature, and it's the same with men, women, and boys—at least that's my 'sperience, and mother will tell you the same. My advice is, give that money to mother to keep for you, say for a month. Well then, every day you can settle fresh what you mean to buy, and that will be most as good as buying it; perhaps towards the end of the month you will have settled yer mind on to something which really seems to you better than all the others: that's my advice."

"And capital good advice too, father," Harry said.

And thus the approval of the two authorities of the family having been obtained, the matter was considered as settled.

"And who was the young gent as went in and fetched you out, Evan?" John Holl asked, when the important business of tea was concluded, and he again settled himself to his pipe. "He must have been a good sort; I should like to shake hands with that chap."

"He told me as his name were Frank Norris," Evan replied; "he is one of the scholars we see going along to Vincent Square; I knew him again directly. He was one of those chaps as fought so well the day they got attacked going back to the School. A fine-looking chap he is too, with a pleasant face, and a nice sort of way about him. No nonsense, you know; he talked just pleasant and nice, as Harry might talk to me, just as if he was a sort of pal, and not a swell no-how."

"I should like to shake hands with him," John Holl repeated; "he saved your life, that's sure enough"—for by this time Harry had related the full details of the affair. "I think, Sarah, as it would be only right and proper, come Sunday, for you and I to go round to that young fellow's house and tell him how we feels about it. If it had been a chap of our own station in life I suppose there ain't nothing we wouldn't do for him, if we saw our way to it; and though I don't see as it's likely as we can do nothing for this young fellow, the least as we can do is to go and tell him what we thinks about it. Did he tell you where he lived, Evan?"

"No, father. He didn't say where he lived; but he writ down in a pocket-book my name and where we lived, and said as how he would look in one of these days and see that I was none the worse for my ducking."

"Well, I hopes as how he will," John said, "but if he don't come soon, we must find him out. I expect his name or his father's name would be down in a 'Rectory, and the name ain't so common a one as there would be likely to be a great many on them living about here; but if there was fifty I would call on them all till I found the right one. I shan't be easy in my mind, not till I have shaken that young chap's hand and told him what I thinks on it. And I am sure your mother feels the same as I do. And now, Harry, take out that fiddle of yours and let's have a tune; my pipe allus seems to draw better and sweeter while you are playing."

One of the children—there were eight in all in the room—fetched Harry's fiddle from the wall. It was a cheap, common instrument, but even far better judges of music than the Holls would have been able to discern, in spite of its cracked and harsh tone, that the lad who was playing it had a genius for music. It is true that the airs which he was playing, those which the street boys of the day whistled as they walked by, were not of a nature to display his powers. Harry could play other and very different kinds of music; for whenever Evan earned a sixpence by holding a horse, or doing any other odd job, a penny or twopence were sure to go in the purchase of a sheet of music for Harry at the cheap bookstalls. Harry had learned the notes from a secondhand book of instructions which John Holl had bought for him one Saturday night, when the weather had been particularly hot, and people in their desire to get their dust-bins emptied were more liberal than usual. But of an evening, when John was at home, Harry always played popular airs, as his father and family were unable to appreciate the deeper and better music. This he reserved for the time when the children were at school, and mother was either charring or was at the wash-tub.

Sarah used to wonder silently at the sounds which seemed to her to have no particular air, such as she could beat time to with her foot as she worked; but in her heart she appreciated them; they made her feel as if she was in church, and sometimes she would draw her apron across her eyes, wondering all the time what there was in the tones of the fiddle which should make her cry.

Three or four days later, when Harry, as usual, was playing on his violin, and Mrs. Holl was washing, there was a knock at the door.

"Drat it!" Mrs. Holl muttered, "who's a-coming bothering now, just when I am busy?"

"If no one is to come except when you are not busy," Harry laughed, as Mrs. Holl moved towards the door, wiping the lather from her arms and hands, "we shan't have many visitors, for as far as I can see you are always busy.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, as Mrs. Holl opened the door, and he saw who was standing without, "it's the gentleman who got Evan out of the water."

"Mrs. Holl?" Frank asked interrogatively, and then, catching sight of Harry, he at once walked across to him and shook him by the hand.

"I hope I am not intruding, Mrs. Holl, but I promised your son to look in and see how he was; and as I had to come down to the School to-day for a book I wanted for my holiday task, I thought it would be a good opportunity to fulfil my promise."

"It is no intrusion, sir, and I am sure I am heartily glad to see yer, and thank ye for coming," Mrs. Holl said, as she dusted an already spotless chair and placed it for her visitor. "My John does nothing every evening but talk of how he wishes he could see you, to tell you how beholden he and me feels to you for having brought our Evan to land just as he was being drowned."

"No thanks are required indeed, Mrs. Holl," Frank said cheerfully, "it was a sort of partnership affair. You see I was going in after the dog, only Evan, who was a sort of friend of the family, had first claim; so we agreed that he should try first and do all the hard work of breaking the ice, and then, if the cold was too much for him, I was to go out and fetch him in and finish the job myself. So you see it was a mutual arrangement, and no particular thanks due to any one. But your son is a plucky young fellow, Mrs. Holl, and he behaved most gallantly. I find too, from what your son here tells me, that I owe him one for having fetched help up from the School when we were getting the worst of it just opposite your house here. Well, in the first place, how is he? None the worse, I hope, for the cold."

"Not at all, sir. He is out to-day with a friend of ours as 'as got a barrow, and lives in the next street, but who is that hoarse with the cold that he can't speak out of a whisper; so he offered Evan sixpence to go along with him to do the shouting, and a nice shouting he will make; his voice goes through and through my head when he is only a-talking with his brothers and sisters here, and if anything can bring them to the windows it will be his voice. He offered to come round here with the barrow afore they started off this morning, but says I, 'No, Evan; I have a good name in the street, I hope, and don't wish to be dighted as a nuisance to the neighbourhood, nor to have my neighbours accusing me of a-being the cause of fits in their children.'"

"I don't suppose that it would be as bad as that, Mrs. Holl," Frank said, laughing. "However, if his voice is as loud and clear as that, it is evident that he is not much the worse for his cold bath. I came round partly to see him, partly to know if I could do anything for him; he seems a sharp lad, and I am sure he is as honest as he is plucky. As a beginning, my uncle says he could come into the house as a sort of errand-boy, and to help the footman, until he can hear of some better position for him among his friends."

"I am sure you are very good, sir," Mrs. Holl said gratefully; "I will mention it to his father, and he—— But I doubt whether Evan's steady enough for a place yet, he is allus getting into mischief; there never was such a boy for scrapes; if all my eight were like him I should go clean mad afore the week was out. When he is in the house, as long as he is talking or singing I can go on with my work, but the moment that he is quiet I have to drop what I am a-doing on and look arter him, for he is sure to be up to some mischief or other."

"No, no, mother," Harry put in, laughing; "you are giving Evan a worse character than he deserves. He is up to fun, as is only natural with one who has got the free use of his limbs, but he never does any real harm."

"No, I don't say that he does real harm, 'Arry," Mrs. Holl replied, "but I do say as at present he is too full of boyish tricks to be of any good in a place, and we should be a-having him back here a week arter he went, and that would be a nice show of gratitude to this gentleman for his kindness."

"I don't suppose he is as bad as you make out, Mrs. Holl; and no doubt he would tame down after a time, just as other boys do. Perhaps a place in a warehouse would be more suitable for him at first.

"And it was you who were playing as I came in," he went on, noticing the violin; "I was wondering who was playing so well. How jolly it must be to play! I wish I could, but I should never have patience to learn. Who taught you?"

"I picked it up myself, sir," Harry replied, "from a book father bought me. You see I have plenty of time on my hands; I don't get out much, except just along the street, for I can't very well get across crossings by myself. The wheels go well enough on a level, but I cannot push them up a curb-stone. But what with reading and fiddling the days pass quickly enough, especially when mother is at home; she is out two or three days a week, and then the time seems rather long."

"I should think so," Frank said; "I should go mad if I were laid up entirely. I am awfully sorry for you. If you are fond of books I shall be glad to let you have some; I have got no end of them, and there they stand on my shelf unopened from year's end to year's end. What sort of books do you like best? Sea stories, or Indians, or what?"

"I should like any story-books, sir," Harry replied, his eyes brightening up with pleasure; "I have read a few which father has picked up for me at the bookstalls, and I have gone through and through them until I could almost say them by heart. And then tales of travel and history,—oh, I love history! to read what people did hundreds of years ago, and how nations grew up step by step, just like children, it is splendid!"

"I am afraid," Frank said, with a laugh, "that I don't care so much for history as you do. Names are hard enough to remember, but dates are awful; I would rather do the toughest bit of construing than have a page of Greek history to get up. Well, I will certainly look you up some books on history and some travels, and will send you some of Marryat's stories. I suppose you do not care for schoolbooks; I have got a barrow-load that I shall never want again."

"Oh yes, sir," Harry said eagerly, "I think I should like those best of all. Have you a Virgil, sir? I do like Virgil, and all that story about the siege of Troy. I only had it for a fortnight. Father bought it for me, and then one of the little ones managed somehow to take it out and lose it; she ran out with it for a bit of fun, and we suppose sat down on a doorstep and forgot it."

"But, bless me," Frank exclaimed, "you don't mean to say that you read Virgil in Latin! You are a rum fellow. How on earth did you learn it?"

"I have taught myself, sir," Harry said. "Father is awfully good, and often picks up books for me at old bookstalls. Of course sometimes he gets things I can't make out. But he got twelve once for a shilling, and there was a Latin Grammar and Dictionary among them; and when I had learned the Grammar, it was very easy with the Dictionary to make out the sense of some of the Latin books. But of course I often come across things that I don't understand. I think sometimes if some one would explain them to me once or twice, so that I could really understand how the rules in the Grammar are applied, I could get on faster."

"Well, you are a rum fellow!" Frank exclaimed again. "I wish I liked learning as you do, for though I am in the Sixth at Westminster, I own that I look upon the classics as a nuisance. Well, now, look here; I have got an hour at present with nothing special to do, so if you like we will have a go at it together. What have you got here?" and he walked across to a shelf on which were a number of books. "Oh! here is a Cæsar; suppose we take that; it's easy enough generally, but there are some stiffish bits now and then. Let's start off from the beginning, and perhaps I may be able to make things clear for you a bit."

In spite of Mrs. Holl's protestations that Harry ought not to trouble the gentleman, the two lads were soon deep in their Cæsar. Frank found, to his surprise, that the cripple boy had a wonderful knack of grasping the sense of passages, but that never having been regularly taught to construe, he was unable to apply the rules of grammar which he had learned. Frank taught him how to do this, how to take a sentence to pieces, how to parse it word by word, and to see how each word depended upon the others, so that even if absolutely in ignorance of the meaning of any one word in a sentence, he could nevertheless parse them unerringly in the order in which they would be rendered in English—could determine the value of each, and their bearing upon one another.

This was quite a revelation to Harry; his face flushed with eagerness and excitement, and so interested were both lads in their work, that the hour was far exceeded before the lesson came to an end by Mrs. Holl interfering bodily in the matter by carrying off the Dictionary, and declaring that it was a shame that Harry should give so much trouble.

"It is no trouble at all, Mrs. Holl," Frank said, laughing. "You see one is accustomed a little to teaching, as one often gives one's fag, or any other little chap who asks, a construe, or explains his lesson to him. But I can tell you that there are precious few of them who take it all in as quickly as your son does. Now that I have made myself at home, I will come in sometimes when school begins again, if you will let me, for half an hour and read with Harry. But I don't think he will want any help long. Still, it may help to show him the regular way of getting at things. And now I must hurry off. You will ask Evan to think over what I have said. Here is my address. I wrote it down in case I should find no one in. If he makes up his mind about it before I come again, he had better call on me there; the best time would be between nine and eleven in the morning; I have always finished breakfast by nine, and I have put off my holiday task so long, that I must stick at it regularly two hours a day till school begins again, so he will be pretty sure to find me between nine and eleven. Will you tell your husband not to worry himself about seeing me? I don't want to be thanked, for it was, as I told you, a sort of partnership business between your boy and me."

"Now I call that a downright nice sort of young chap," Mrs. Holl said, as their visitor departed, "good-hearted and good-natured, without no sort of nonsense. He just sits himself down and makes himself at home as if he was one of the family, and I was able to go on with my washing just as if he hadn't been here."

For a time Harry did not answer.

"So, that's a gentleman," he said at last, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud; "I have never spoken to a gentleman before."

"Well, lad," Sarah Holl said, "there ain't much difference between the gentry and other sorts. I don't see very much of them myself in the houses I goes to, but I hears plenty about them from the servants' talk; and, judging from that, a great many of them 'as just as nasty and unpleasant ways as other people."

"I suppose," Harry said thoughtfully, "there can't be much difference in real nature between them and us; there must, of course, be good and bad among them; but there is more difference in their way of talking than I expected."

"Well, of course, Harry; they have had education, that accounts for it; just the same as you, who have educated yourself wonderful, talks different to John and me and the rest of us."

"Yes," Harry said; "but I am not talking about mistakes in grammar; it's the tone of voice, and the way of speaking that's so different. Now why should that be, mother?"

"I suppose a good deal of it," Mrs. Holl answered, "is because they are brought up in nusseries, and they can't run about the house, or holloa or shout to each other in the streets. D' ye see they are taught to speak quiet, and they hear their fathers and mothers, and people round them, speaking quiet. You dun't know, Harry, how still it is in some of them big houses, you seem half afraid to speak above a whisper."

"Yes, but I don't think he spoke lower than I do, mother, or than the rest of us. O mother!" he went on, after a while, "isn't he good? Just to think of his spending an hour and a half sitting here, showing me how to construe. Why, I see the whole thing in a different way now; he has made clear all sorts of things that I could not understand; and he said he would come again too, and I am quite sure that when he says a thing he means to do it. I don't believe he could tell a lie if he tried. And is he not good-looking too?"

"He is a pleasant-looking young chap," Mrs. Holl replied, "but I should not call him anything out of the way. Now I should call you a better-looking chap than he is, Harry."

"O mother, what an idea!" Harry exclaimed, quite shocked at what seemed to him a most disrespectful comparison to his hero.

"It ain't no idea at all," Mrs. Holl rejoined stoutly; "any one with eyes in his head could see that if you was dressed the same as he is you would be a sight the best-looking chap of the two."

"Ah mother!" Harry said, laughing, "you remind me of an old saying I saw in a book the other day, 'A mother's geese are all swans.'"

"I am sure," Mrs. Holl said, in an aggrieved voice, "you ain't no goose, Harry, and if any one else said so I should give them a bit of my mind sharp enough."

Harry did not attempt to argue with her, but with a little laugh turned to his books again, and was soon deep in the mysteries of Cæsar.

The next day a carrier's cart stopped before Mrs. Holl's house, to the great amazement of the neighbourhood—for such an occurrence had not been known in the memory of the oldest inhabitant in the street, and quite a crowd of children collected to witness the delivery of a square heavy box of considerable weight at the door.

Harry was almost beside himself with delight as he took out the treasures it contained; and as fully half were story-books, his delight was shared by the rest of the young Holls. It was evening when the cart arrived, and John was just enjoying his first pipe, and he once more uttered the sentiment he had expressed so often during the last four days, "I should like to shake that young chap by the hand."

CHAPTER IV. AN ADOPTED CHILD.

A FEW days after school had commenced Frank Norris called in again at the Holls'. It was a bright day, and Harry had gone out in his box, and Mrs. Holl was alone.

"Harry will be sorry he is out, sir," was her first greeting to Frank; "he has been looking forward to your coming again. You don't know, sir, how much good you have done him. The boy has generally wonderful good spirits, considering his condition; still, though he don't say nought, I can see sometimes that he isn't never quite happy except when he is working away with his books or playing on that fiddle of his.

"Evan has been and spent all the money as was given him that day at the Serpentine in buying a new fiddle for him. I don't see much in the thing myself, and it seems to me they must have cheated Evan altogether, for it ain't a new un, but an old, brown, dirty-looking thing, as looks as if it had been made nigh fifty years; and they goes and charges him thirty-eight shillings for it, and pretended to make a favour of it, while John only paid seven and sixpence for the one he had before, which was a beautiful new shiny one.

"However, Harry seems delighted with it, and says it's beautiful soft, and mellow. But what he means I don't know, though I do allow it ain't so squeaky as the other; and sometimes when Harry is playing soft on it, it does sound beautiful. Still, thirty-eight shillings is a big price for an old thing like that."

"Old fiddles are always worth more than new ones, Mrs. Holl. Do you know there are some fiddles two or three hundred years old which could not be bought for less than three or four hundred pounds?"

"My gracious!" Mrs. Holl exclaimed, "three or four hundred pounds for such a thing as a fiddle. I calls it downright wicked."

"He is a wonderful boy that son of yours, Mrs. Holl," Frank said, changing the subject; "a regular genius I should call him. What a pity it is that he is a cripple!"

"Ay, that it is," Mrs. Holl agreed, "and he is a wonderful chap, is Harry. But he ain't no son of mine, Mr. Norris, though he don't know it himself, and I shouldn't like him to be told."

"Then what relation is he, Mrs. Holl, if it is not an impertinent question?"

"He ain't no sort of relation at all, sir," the woman answered.

"Then how came you to bring him up, Mrs. Holl?" Frank asked in surprise.

"Well, sir, it was a very simple matter. But if so be as you care to hear it, I will tell you just how it happened." And, leaning against the mantelpiece, with the red light of the fire thrown up into her face, Mrs. Holl went on very slowly, and speaking as though she almost saw what she was relating.

"Well, sir, it were an evening in April—a cold bitter day. I was sitting here between light and dark, drinking my tea with John, who was just come home from work—John is my husband, you see, sir—when we heard a noise outside in the street. We went out to see what was the matter, and we found a poor young creature, with a baby in her arms, had fallen down in a faint like.

"She was a pretty young thing, sir; and though her dress was poor and torn, she looked as if she had not been always so. Some one says, 'Take them to the workhouse.' 'No!' says I—for my heart yearned towards the poor young thing—'bring her in here; mayn't we, John?' says I. Well, sir, John did not say nothing, but he took the baby out of her arms and gave it to me, and then he upped and took the poor young creature—she were no great weight, sir—and carried her into the house, and laid her on the bed, as it might be by the window there.

"Well, sir, that bed she never left; she came round a little, and lived some days, but her mind were never rightly itself again. She would lay there, with her baby beside her, and sing songs to herself; I don't know what about, for it were some foreign language. She were very gentle and quiet like, but I don't think she ever knew where she was, or anything about it. She were very fond of baby, and would take it in her arms, and hush it, and talk to it. She faded and faded away, and the doctor said nothing could be done for her; it made my heart ache, sir, and if you will believe me, I would go upstairs and cry by the hour.

"The thought of the little baby troubled me too. I had lost my first little one, sir, and I could not a-bear the thought of the little thing going to the workhouse. So one day I says to John, 'John, when that poor mother dies, for God's sake don't 'ee send the little baby to the workhouse; He has taken away our own little one, and may be He has sent this one for us to love in his place. Let us take him as our own.' John, he did not say nothing, but he up and gived me a great kiss, and said, 'Sairey, you're a good woman!' which of course, sir," Mrs. Holl put in apologetically, "is neither here nor there, for any mother would have done the same; but it's John's way when he's pleased. That very same night the baby's mother died."

Standing with her rough honest face lit up by the bright fire-glow she related it, simply, and as a matter of course, all unconscious of the good part she had taken in it, assuming no credit to herself, or seeing that she deserved any.

When she had finished there was a little silence. Frank passed his hand furtively across his eyes, and then shook Mrs. Holl warmly by the hand, saying, "Your husband was right, Mrs. Holl, you are a good woman."

Mrs. Holl looked completely amazed, and stammered out, "Lor' bless you, sir! there wasn't anything out of the way in what I did, and there's scores and scores would do the like. Having just lost my own little one, my heart went out to the poor little thing, and it seemed sent natural like, to fill up the place of the little angel who was gone from us. Bless your heart, sir, there weren't nothing out of the way in that, nothing at all, and we have never had cause to regret it. The boy's a good boy, and a clever boy, and he is a comfort and a help to us; a better boy never lived. But we have always grieved sorely over the accident."

"Then he was not originally lame, Mrs. Holl?" Frank asked.

"Dear me! no, sir, not till he were six years old. It happened this way. I was laid up at the time—I was just confined of Mary, she is my eldest girl—and somehow Harry he went out in the street playing. I don't rightly know how it happened; but never shall I forget when they brought him in, and said that a cart had run over him. John, he was in—which was lucky, for I think I lost my head like, and went clean out of my mind for a bit, for I loved him just like my own. They did not think he would have lived at first, for the cart had gone over the lower part of his body and broke one of his thigh-bones, and the other leg up high. It was a light cart I have heard tell, or it must have killed him.

"He were in bed for months, and, if you will believe me, if ever there was a patient little angel on earth, it was surely Harry. He never complained, and his chief trouble was for my sake. At last he got well; but the doctors said he would never walk again, for they thought there was some damage done to his spine; and sure enough he never has walked. He is always cheerful, and keeps up wonderful, considering.

"He has always been given to reading. John made a shift to teach him his letters, and then the children of the neighbours, they lent him their schoolbooks, and taught him what they knew, and in a short time, bless you, sir, he knew more than them all! He would sit and read for hours together. He is wonderful clever, Harry is."

"Well, Mrs. Holl," Frank said, rising, "I am very much obliged to you for your story; but I must be going now, or else I shall be late for school. Tell Harry I am sorry I missed him, and will look in again soon. Have you thought anything further of what I said about Evan?"

"Yes, sir, and thank you most kindly; but father thinks he had better wait another year or so, till he gets a bit older and steadier. As for them books as you was kind enough to send Harry, the boy must thank you hisself; except when he is playing on his fiddle he is always reading at them, and it is as much as I can do to get him outside the doors. He was never very fond of it, for he thinks people look at him; but since those books has come I have regular to take them away from him, put his cap on his head, and push him outside the door. He will be in a taking that he has missed you to-day."

"Well, good-bye, Mrs. Holl, I haven't a moment to lose," and Frank, putting on his hat, made off at a sharp run to school, only arriving just in time to say prayers.

Frank Norris, although a Sixth town boy, was not head of Richards', as Johnstone had been longer in that form, and was consequently senior to him. Johnstone was, however, small and slightly built, and cared little for rowing, cricket, or football. He had gained his place in the Sixth by sheer hard work rather than by talent. He was fussy and irritable, with a strong sense of the importance of his position as a Sixth town boy and head of Richards'. Between him and Frank there was no cordiality, for it irritated him that the latter was upon all occasions appealed to, and his advice asked in everything relating to games, and all matters of dispute referred to him. Frank, on the other hand, although he at all times gave way to Johnstone in house matters, was constantly annoyed by his continual self-assertion and his irritation at trifles. They were the only two Sixth town boys at Richards', but there were three Upper 'Shells,' Harris, Travers, and James, and these ranked almost with the Sixth, for the great demarcation of the School was between the Upper and Under 'Shells,' the former having the right to fag.

Frank and Johnston had each a small room of their own; the three Upper "Shells" had a room together, but they used Frank's study almost as much as their own; one or other would generally come in to work with him in the evening, and it was here that councils were held as to house matters or knotty points connected with field or water.

"I wish Trafalgar Square wasn't out of bounds," Harris said one evening.

They had finished the work for the next day, and had gathered for a chat in Frank's room before turning into bed. Frank was sitting in a rickety arm-chair by the fire, Harris on the table, and the other two on the bed.

"Why do you wish so, Harris?" Frank said.

"Why, I should like to go up to see those rows they have pretty nearly every day. Thompson, the home boarder, told me he saw a regular fight there yesterday evening between the police and the Chartists."

"Well, it's no use wishing, because bounds begin at the gate in Dean's Yard. I never could understand myself why we should be allowed to go the other way, down the slums, as far as we please, where there is every chance of getting into a row, while we are not allowed to walk quietly up Parliament Street; then we may go along the other way, by the new Houses of Parliament, to Westminster Bridge, and across the bridge to baths; but we may not go out from Dean's Yard and walk across in front of the Abbey to the Bridge. I expect when the rules were made there were no houses built beyond us, and there were fields extending back from the river, while the other way led up to the Court. But I should certainly like to go up and see one of those Chartist riots. However, I don't think it can be done; it would be setting a bad example to the young uns, and the chances are ten to one we should run against one of the masters."

"Hardly likely, I should think," Travers said; "it would be shocking bad luck to run against one of them in a crowd like that."

"Well, you see, Travers, we are so preciously conspicuous in these tail-coats; of course it's the custom, and I stick up for old customs; still, I do think it's a ridiculous thing that we should be obliged to wear tail-coats. Of course the jackets for the fellows under the Upper 'Shell' are all right, but one cannot go on wearing jackets higher than that; still, I do think they might let us wear cutaways; tail-coats were all right when every one else wore tail-coats, but in our days it is absurd to wear a coat which nobody else wears except for an evening dress. You can tell a fellow a mile off as a Westminster boy by his coat."

"It has its advantages," James said. "Look how Johnstone would lose his importance without his tails, he would look like a plucked jay."

There was a general laugh.

"He is not a bad fellow," Frank replied, "though he does think a good deal of himself. Still, as no one else thinks anything of him, it is just as well he should fancy himself. But never mind that now. No, I don't think there is any chance of our getting to see the fun in Trafalgar Square. I should like to go to one of the halls where those fellows spout, and to get up and say something the other way. Of course one would have to go in a strong body, else there would not be much of us left when we got into the street again. I must have a chat with Perkins about it, he is sure to be up to all that kind of thing."

"Yes, but there would be the trouble of getting in after lock-up."

"Oh, I dare say we might get over that," Harris replied; "the fags would never peach."

"We won't tell them if we can help it," Frank said; "if we go in for any lark of that sort only one of our fags must know it. I can trust young Phillpot to hold his tongue. Well, I will chat it over with Perkins, and see what can be done."

Perkins was a retired prize-fighter who kept a public-house on Bank Side. In a large room attached to the house he gave sparring exhibitions twice a week, with the aid of other fellow-pugilists, and also gave private lessons in the art of self-defence. Bank Side was not out of bounds, but it was strictly against the rules for any boy to enter a public-house; nevertheless, a good many of the Westminster boys had learned boxing from this worthy. There was a private entrance behind the house into what Perkins called his "saloon," and the boys strove to consider that by using this they avoided an infringement of the rule. The fact of their taking lessons was unknown to the master, for indeed at Westminster the boys were at perfect liberty to do as they pleased out of school-time, providing that they did not go out of bounds.

The rules enforcing attendance at fields or water, of abstaining from entering public-houses, and generally of conducting themselves as gentlemen, were left to what may be called their own police, the senior Queen's Scholars and the Sixth Form town boys, and these kept a far more rigorous hand over the younger boys than the masters could possibly have done. A vigorous thrashing was the punishment for shirking fields, or for any action regarded as caddish; and it was therefore only the Upper 'Shells' and Sixth, who, being free from the operation of the law as to fields and water, were able to frequent Perkins's establishment.

Of those who went there, most of them did so for the genuine purpose of learning boxing; but a few used the place for the purpose of smoking and drinking. But these did so at hours when there was no chance of finding Perkins at work with his pupils, for public feeling would not have tolerated, even in an upper form boy, anything that would have been looked upon as such bad form.

The next morning, after breakfast, Frank walked down to "The Black Dog." He was one of Perkins's best pupils, and the latter had more than once been heard to express his regret that Frank had not been born in a lower class of life.

"He's got the making of a champion in him," the ex-pugilist would say regretfully; "in another five years, when he has got his full height and filled out, I warrant he will fight twelve stone; look how quick he is on his pins; and I tell you I have all my work to do now to guard my head, he hits like lightning, and once or twice has fairly knocked me off my pins. I'd back him now for fifty pounds against any novice in England; and as for pluck, I have never seen him wince, hit him as hard as you will he always comes up smiling. Barkley, he is a good boxer too, but he ain't got temper, sir; he gets nasty if he has a sharp counter; and though he keeps cool enough, there is an ugly look about his face which tells its tale. He would never keep his temper, and I doubt if he's real game at bottom. I knows my customers, and have never hit him as I hit Norris; I don't want to lose a pupil as pays fair and square, and I know I should mighty soon lose him if I were to let out at him sharp. No, there is bad blood in that chap somewhere."

"Well, Master Norris, and what do you want at this time of the morning?" he said, as Frank, after entering the saloon, rang a bell which sounded in the bar and summoned him to the saloon. "Not a lesson at this time of the day, surely?"

"Not exactly, Perkins, considering I am due at ten o'clock, and therefore have only five minutes to stay. I just dropped in to ask you about something on which you can perhaps advise us."

"Fire away, Master Norris; anything I can do for you you knows as I will."

"I was thinking, Perkins, that it would be a great lark to go up to one of those halls where those Chartist fellows meet, and to hear their speeches."

"I don't see that there would be any lark in it," Perkins replied, "unless you meant getting up a row."

"I don't know that I exactly meant to get up a row; but if there was a row, so much the more lark."

"Well, sir, if I might give my advice, I don't think, if I was you, I would do it in school-time. Your hands can guard your face pretty tidy, I grant you, but the chances is as you would not get out of such a row as that would be without being marked. I knows of a place over the other side of the water, not far from the New Cut, where they meet. Bill Lowe, him as comes here to spar twice a week, yer know, he goes there; he takes up with them Chartist notions, which I don't hold with no ways. I don't see nothing in them seven pints as would do anything for the ring; and that being so, let it alone, says I. However, Master Norris, since you have a fancy that way I will talk the matter over with him, and then if you really makes up your mind you would like to go, I will get four or five of my lads as can use their mawleys, and we will go in a body.

"Then if there should be a row, I reckon we can fight our way out. There ain't much in them chaps, tailors and shoemakers, and the like; they are always great hands for jaw, them tailors and shoemakers, but I never seed one as I would put five pound on in a twelve-foot ring. Poor undersized creatures, for the most part, but beggars for jaw; but there are some rough uns with 'em, and yer might get badly marked before yer got out."

But Frank's mind was now bent upon it.

"It will be a lark, Perkins, anyhow; things have been rather slow at School lately, and three or four of us have set our minds on it. So if you let me know what evening will suit you, we will be here."

Four evenings later Frank Norris, with the other three boys, slipped out after prayers were over, and started on their expedition. Frank's fag closed the door noiselessly behind them and rebolted it; he had strict orders to take his place at an upper window at eleven o'clock and watch for their return. If when they made their appearance the house was quiet and the lights out, he was to slip down and let them in; if not, they were to go away again and return an hour later. All four boys were in thick pea-jackets, and wore rough caps which they had bought for the purpose.

When they reached Perkins's public-house, the prize-fighter surveyed them closely.

"Ye will pass in a crowd," he said; "but keep your caps well down over yer faces. Now mind, young gents, if there's a row comes over this 'ere business, I ain't to blame in the matter."

"All right, Perkins, but there will be no row."

Being joined by Bill Lowe and three other boxers, they set out together for the New Cut; past the New Houses of Parliament—still in the hands of the builders—over Westminster Bridge, past the flaring lights in front of Astley's, and into the New Cut.

Here, as usual, business was brisk; the public-houses were doing a roaring trade. Rows of costermongers' carts lined the road on either side, and the hoarse shouts of the vendors of fruit, vegetables, and shell-fish, mingled with the Babel of voices from the throng of people who loitered about the street, which was regarded as the promenade of the neighbourhood. Sounds of musical instruments and a loud chorus came from the upper windows of many of the public-houses and from the low music-halls known by the name of "penny gaffs."

It was in front of one of these that the party stopped. Unlike the others, no row of flaring lights burned over the entrance, no posters with huge letters and sensational headings invited the public to enter; one solitary lamp hung over the door, which was kept closed; men were passing in, however, after exchanging a word with one of those stationed at the door.

"It's a private sort of affair," Perkins said; "none ain't supposed to go but those as is in the swim. They pretend to be mighty afraid of the peelers; but, Lor' bless you! the police don't trouble about them. When these chaps gets to making rows in the street, and to kicking up a rumpus, then they will have something to say about it sharp enough; but as long as they merely spout and argue among themselves, the peelers lets them go on. Well, young gents, here we goes."

Bill Lowe advanced first; he was known to the doorkeeper, and the words "All right, mate, friends of mine," were sufficient. He stood aside, and the party entered. Passing through a passage, they were in a hall some fifty feet long by half as wide; the walls had originally been painted blue, with wreaths of flowers along the top, but these and the roof were so discoloured by smoke and dirt, that the whole were reduced to a dingy brown. At the end at which they entered was a gallery extending some fifteen feet into the room, at the other end was a raised platform, with a drop curtain. The latter was now raised, and displayed a table with half a dozen chairs. The chairman for the evening was seated in the centre of the table. He was a young man with a pale face, eyes bloodshot from many nights spent in the reeking atmosphere of the room, and tumbled hair, which looked as if weeks had passed since it had made the acquaintance of a brush. He had just risen as the party entered; the room, which was fairly filled with men, rang with the applause which had greeted the speaker who had sat down.

"Fellow-workmen," said the chairman—("I wonder what you work at," Frank muttered below his breath; "nothing that requires washing, anyhow.")—"Fellow-workmen, your cheers are evidence how deeply you have been moved by the noble words of my friend Mr. Duggins, and how your blood boils at the hideous slavery to which we are condemned by a tyrannical aristocracy. You will now be addressed by my eloquent friend Mr. Simpkins, boot-closer."

Mr. Simpkins rose. He was a short, round-shouldered man, made still shorter by the bend which he had acquired by the operation of boot-closing; his eyes were small, and sunken in his head; his nose wide and flat, as if in his early youth he had fallen on the edge of a pewter pot, and he too had the appearance of regarding water with as deep an aversion as he viewed the aristocracy.

"Fellow-workmen," he began, "or rather I should say fellow-slaves,"—this sentiment was received with a roar of applause,—"the time is approaching when our chains will be broken, when the bloodstained power known as the British Constitution will be rent and trampled under foot, when the myrmidons of power will flee before an uprisen people. They know it, these oppressors of ours; they tremble in their palaces and mansions, where they feast upon the wealth drained from the blood of the people. They know that the day is at hand, and that the millions whose labour has created the wealth of this country are about to reclaim their own."

A roar of applause went up as the speaker paused and mopped his forehead with a red handkerchief. But the applause was suddenly stilled by the sound of the emphatic "Bosh!" which Frank shouted at the top of his voice. Every one turned round, and shouts arose of "Who is that?" "Down with him!" "Turn him out!" "Knock him down!" The orator seized the occasion.

"A spy of the tottering government has intruded upon the deliberations of this assembly, but I tell him I fear him not."

"Never mind, out he goes," one of the men shouted, and all began to press upon the little group standing at the back of the room, and from one of whom the objectionable word had evidently come.

"We are in for a row, Mr. Norris, and no mistake," Perkins said; "the sooner we gets out of this the better."

But this was not so easily done; the crowd had already interposed between them and the door.

"Now stand back," Perkins said, "and let us out. We ain't no spies, and we don't want to hurt any one. Some of you may know me: I am Perkins of the Black Dog, over at Westminster, so you had best leave us alone."

The greater part of those present, however, had imbibed sufficient to render them valorous, and a rush was made upon the party.

Their reception was a warm one; the five prize-fighters struck out right and left, while Frank and his schoolfellows ably seconded them. A tall red-haired fellow who had singled out Frank, was met by a blow which knocked him off his feet, and he fell backward as if shot. Their vigorous blows drove the leading assailants back, and in spite of their numbers the crowd of angry men recoiled before their handful of opponents.

"Come on," Perkins said, "make for the door; they are breaking up the chairs, and we shall have it hot in a few minutes."

Keeping together, they fought their way, in spite of all opposition, to the door, Perkins leading, while Bill Lowe brought up the rear. They were soon in the open air.

"Now," Perkins exclaimed, "you hook it, gents, as fast as you can; me and Bill will keep the door for a minute." The boys dashed off, and after making at full speed into the Westminster Bridge Road, slackened their pace, and walked quietly back to Dean's Yard. They were in high glee over their adventure, which all agreed had been a splendid lark, and was the more satisfactory as all had escaped without any mark which would testify against them. It was still early, and they had for two hours to walk the streets until the whistle of the fag at the window told them that all were in bed and quiet, and they might safely make their entry. This was effected without noise; the bolts were slipped into their places again, and with their shoes in their hands, the party went noiselessly up to their rooms.

CHAPTER V. A TERRIBLE ACCUSATION.

TWO days later, as Frank was about to start for the cricket-field, a small boy, whom he recognised as a son of Perkins, stopped him.

"Father wants to speak to you perticular, Mr. Norris."

"All right, young un, I will go round there at once."

Wondering what Perkins could have to say to him, Frank took his way to the public-house.

"What is it, Perkins?" he asked the prize-fighter as the latter let him into his private parlour.

"Well sir, there's a rumpus over this business as we had the other night."

"How a rumpus, Perkins?"

"Well, sir, there was a tall red-haired chap—leastways I hear as he's tall and red-headed, and is a tailor by trade; his name is Suggs. It seems as how he got knocked down in the scrummage, and was so bad that the police, who came up after you left, took him to hospital; they brought him round all right, but it seems as how the bridge of his nose was broke, and it will be flat to his face for the rest of his life. Now I fancy that's a piece of your handiwork, Mr. Norris; I saw jist such a chap as that go down when you hit him, and I thought to myself at the time what a onener it was."

"Yes, I did knock down just such a fellow," Frank said, "and I am sorry I hit him so hard; I was afraid at the time that I hurt him."

"You should not let out from the shoulder in that sort of way, Mr. Norris," the pugilist said, shaking his head; "you hit like the kick of a horse, and you never know what mayn't come of them sort of blows. No, sir; half-armed hitting is the thing for a general row; it hurts just as much, and is just as good for closing up an eye, but it don't do no general damage, so to speak. Now, sir, there's a row over the business. In course I holds my tongue; but they says as four of the party was young uns, and they guessed as they was gents. Now they puts things together, and have found out as I gives lessons to some of you Westminster gents, and they guesses as some of you was with me. Now, as I tells them, what can they do? They was the first to begin it, and we was only standing on self-defence, that's the way I puts it. No magistrate would look at the charge for a minute. It stands to reason that nine men did not attack four or five hundred. They must have been attacking us, that's clear to any one; and if it was me I should not care the snap of a finger about it—that's what I tells the red-haired tailor when he came here with two of his pals this morning. 'We has as much right to our opinions as you have; you attacks us,' says I, 'and we gives you pepper, that's all about it.' 'His beauty's spoilt for life,' says one of his mates. 'He never had no beauty to spoil,' says I, 'by the look of 'im,' so we got to words. 'They was Westminster boys,' says he. 'That's all you knows about it,' says I. 'I will go to their masters,' says he, 'and report the case, and show him my nose,' says he. 'You have got no case to report,' says I, 'and no nose to show.' 'We will see about that,' says he; 'I ain't going to be made an object for the rest of my life for nothing.'

"So we goes on arguing; but at last he lets out that if I bring him a 'tenner' in the course of the week he will shut up. I ain't allowed of course, Mr. Norris, that any of you young gents had a hand in the fray, quite the contrary; but he has got it into his head that it is so, and he has made up his mind that he will go to the master. I don't think it likely that they could spot you, for they could hardly have got a fair look at your faces."

"No," Frank said, "I don't suppose they would recognise any of us; but the first thing Litter would do would be to ask us if any of us were concerned in the affair. It's a beastly nuisance, for just now I happen to be completely cleaned out, and I am sure I do not know where I could get ten pounds from."

"If it had been any other time I could have helped you, Mr. Norris, but I paid my brewers only last night, and I ain't got two quid in the house; but I might manage to get it for you by the end of the week, if there ain't no other way. But my advice to you would be, let the red-haired man go to the master; if you keep your own counsel, no one can swear it out against you."

"No, I won't do that, Perkins," Frank said, "it's known in the house; besides, if I am asked I must say it's me. Thank you for your offer. I will see you again in a day or two."

Frank walked back to his boarding-house, moody and dejected. Harris was in his room working. Frank told him what had happened.

"This is a bad business indeed," Harris said. "By Jove! if it comes out, Litter would expel the four of us. What is to be done? I am sure I don't know."

"I don't see where I am to get ten pounds; I have only got fifteen shillings now."

"I have only seven and sixpence," Harris said. "I have paid Shotten's bill for last term this week, and I know that Travers and James have not much more than I have. We might get something on our watches; but they are all silver, and I don't suppose we could get more than a pound apiece for them. But still that's something, and with our united silver would make up six pounds."

"I could get a pound or two from my cousin," Frank said; "Fred always seems to be well supplied with money."

"Because he never spends any," Harris said. "I am mistaken if Barkley will lend you anything."

"Oh, he will lend it if he's got it." But Harris turned out to be right. After the next school Frank laid the case before his cousin, who listened in silence to the story.

"I am very sorry, Frank," he said when he had finished, "but I am entirely out of money at present."

"I thought you always had money," Frank said shortly.

"Not always," Fred replied quietly. "As you know, I am fond of books, and last week I paid my bill for that edition of Shakespeare that you were admiring."

Fred Barkley had indeed a library of books of which he was very proud, and which was worth more than all those belonging to the rest of the boys up College together. Frank was too proud to suggest that his cousin could, if he chose, easily raise the amount required on a few of his favourites, and left the room without saying a word.

Fred Barkley did not continue the work upon which he was engaged after his cousin had left the room, but sat looking fixedly at the papers before him.

"This is a grand opportunity," he muttered to himself, "and I should be a fool if I let it slip. The question is, how is it best to be managed. I should be an idiot indeed if I cannot put a spoke into Master Frank's wheel somehow."

The next day the Sixth Form, as usual, went into the library to do their construing. Dr. Litter, according to his usual custom, walked up and down hearing them and asking questions, the form sitting at their desks, which ran round the room. The Doctor was a fidgety man, and was always either twirling his watch-chain or eye-glass, or rattling the keys, knife, and other articles in his trousers pockets. Being perfectly conscious of the habit, he often emptied the contents of his pocket on to the table before starting to walk about the room, and this he did on the present occasion.

As often happened, he was called from the room in the course of the lesson, and, ordering the boys to get up twenty additional lines of their Greek play in his absence, he left the room and did not return for half an hour. While he was away the boys moved freely about, some to consult each other's lexicons, others to chat. When Dr. Litter returned the lesson was finished, and the boys went back to the great schoolroom.

On the following morning Frank Norris received a letter. On his opening it he found, to his astonishment, that it contained only a bank-note for ten pounds, with the words "From a friend." Frank was simply astounded.

Who on earth could have sent him the exact sum of which he stood in need? He at once told his three friends what had occurred, and they were as much astonished as himself. All agreed that it was a perfect Godsend, though how any one could have got to know of his necessity for ten pounds at this special time none could imagine, as this was, as far as they were aware, known only to themselves and Fred Barkley. Frank at once concluded that his cousin must have sent him the money, and immediately sent up College and asked him to come to his room. Fred soon came up, and Frank at once proceeded to thank him for his gift. Fred, however, appeared as surprised as himself, and disclaimed any knowledge whatever of the note.

"I told you, Frank," he said reproachfully, "that I had no money. Do you think that if I had it I would not have given it to you at once, instead of sending it in that roundabout manner? Do you know the handwriting? that may afford you some clue."

"No," Frank said; "the name and address, as well as the words within, are done in printing characters, so that it is impossible to say who wrote them. Well, it is an extraordinary business, and I can only say that I am extremely thankful to the good fairy who has got me out of the scrape."

Frank felt indeed relieved. He felt sure that the head-master would consider such an escapade by boys of the Sixth Form an unforgivable crime, and that expulsion would follow discovery; and knowing the hot temper of his uncle, he feared that the latter would view the matter in the most serious light. It was therefore with a light heart that he went across to the Black Dog and placed the note in the hands of Perkins, merely saying that he was glad to say that he had been able to get the money to satisfy the red-haired tailor for his loss of beauty.

"It goes agin my heart to give it to him, Mr. Norris; but in course if you decide not to face it out there's nothing for it. I am glad you have got the money together."

A week later one of the monitors informed Frank that the head-master wished to see him in the library. Wondering at this unusual order, Frank at once repaired there. Dr. Litter was sitting at his table, and he raised his eyes gravely as Frank entered.

"Norris," he said, "I have been shocked at what has happened more than at anything which has occurred to me during my head-mastership of Westminster. I may tell you that everything is discovered. Now I leave it to you to make a full and frank confession."

Frank was thunderstruck. So in some way his breaking out of bounds had become known to the headmaster. The tailor must have turned traitor and peached after having received his money.

For a minute he stood silent and confounded, while Dr. Litter looked at him gravely.

"I acknowledge, sir," Frank began, "that I broke out of bounds to go to a Chartist meeting, and that I got into a row there. I am very sorry now, but I really meant no harm by it; it was a foolish lark."

"And is that all you have to confess?" Dr. Litter said quietly.

"Yes, sir," Frank said in surprise, "I don't know that there's anything else for me to say."

"You have not come to the most serious part of it yet," the Doctor said.

"I don't know what you mean, sir," Frank said, more and more astonished.

"You hurt him, and very seriously."

"Yes, sir, I broke a man's nose in the fight, but I did it in self-defence."

"And you paid him ten pounds to prevent his coming to me," the Doctor said.

"I acknowledge that I did so, but I don't see there was any harm in that."

"And where did you get the ten pounds from?" the Doctor asked slowly.

"It was sent to me in an envelope," Frank replied.

"And who sent it to you?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Norris," the Doctor said sternly, "you stole that note from my table."

Frank stepped back as if struck, the blood left his face, and he stood deadly pale.

"Stole it!" he repeated, in a low, wondering tone.

"Yes," the Doctor repeated, "stole it from my table when I left the room."

"It is a lie!" Frank exclaimed, in a burst of passion; "it is a lie, sir, whoever said it."

Without replying to the outburst, the Doctor touched a bell which stood on the table, and a junior waiting outside entered.

"Tell Mr. Wire and Mr. Richards I wish to speak to them."

Not a word was spoken in the library until the under-masters entered. A thousand thoughts passed rapidly through Frank's brain. He was bewildered, and almost stupefied by this sudden charge, and yet he felt how difficult it would be to clear himself from it. The under-master and Frank's house-master entered.

"I have sent for you, gentlemen, on a most painful business," Dr. Litter said. "I mentioned to you, Mr. Wire, a week since, that I had lost a ten-pound note. I placed it on the table here, during the morning lesson, with my keys and pencil. I was called out of the room for half an hour. When school was over I put the things back in my pocket, but it was not until the afternoon that I missed the note. Thinking it over, I could not recall taking it up with the other things from the table; but of this I could not be positively certain. As I told you, I could not for a moment believe that any of the boys of my form could have taken it, and I could only suppose that I had dropped it between the School and my house.

"As it happened, I had only got the note the day before from my bankers, and had therefore no difficulty in obtaining the number. I gave notice at the Bank of England at once that the note had been lost, and requested them to obtain the name and address of the presenter, should it be brought in. It was presented yesterday by a man who, after being questioned, said he was a tailor, living in Bermondsey. As I was determined to follow the matter up, I saw the Superintendent of Police, and a policeman was sent across to him. The man said that he had been seriously injured by one of my boys at a low meeting held at some place in the New Cut, and that the ten pounds had been given him as compensation, he having threatened to come and complain to me.

"He was ignorant of the name of the boy, but he had received the note from a prize-fighter named Perkins, who keeps a low public-house down at Millbank. I sent a note to the man, requesting him to be good enough to call upon me this morning early. He did so. I told him that I had heard that he had paid to that man ten pounds as compensation for an injury which he had received from one of my boys, and I asked him from whom he had received it.

"He told me that nothing whatever would have induced him to tell; but as he knew the young gent would himself confess the instant the question was put, for he had told him he should do so did it come to my ears, there was no motive in his keeping silence, and it was Mr. Norris who had given it to him. On inquiry I find that the meeting in question was held between half-past nine and eleven; therefore, to have been present, Norris must have broken out of bounds and got into the boarding-house at night.

"This, in itself, would be a very grave offence, but it is as nothing by the side of the other. I am most reluctantly obliged to admit that I can come to but one conclusion: Norris, having broken bounds, and got into a disgraceful fray, was afraid that the matter would come to my ears. It was absolutely necessary for him to procure ten pounds to buy the silence of this man; my own very culpable carelessness, which I most deeply regret, left the note on the table, and the temptation was too much for him.

"I have questioned him how he got it. If he had said that he had picked it up in the yard, and, not knowing to whom it belonged, had very improperly, without making inquiry, devoted it to the purpose of silencing this man, I should have gladly believed him—for hitherto he has stood high in my estimation, and I should certainly have considered him incapable of an act of theft. But he tells me that it was sent to him in an envelope, by whom he does not know; and this absurd story is, to my mind, a clear proof that he must have stolen it from the table."

The two masters had at first looked at Frank with incredulous surprise, but as the narrative continued and the proofs appeared to accumulate, the expression changed, and they regarded him with horror, not unmixed with pity. For a minute there was silence, then Mr. Richards said:—

"Strong as the proofs seem to be, sir, I can hardly believe in the possibility of Norris having behaved in this way. He has always been a particularly straightforward, honest, and honourable lad; there is not a boy in the house of whom I would so absolutely have disbelieved this tale. That he did send this note to the man there can, by his own confession, be no doubt, but I still cannot believe that he stole it. Come now, Norris, you have got into a terrible scrape, but don't make matters worse; tell us frankly the truth about it."

"I have told the truth," Frank said, in a low and unnatural voice. "I received the note in an envelope; here it is, sir, with, as you see, only the words 'From a friend.' I showed it when I had got it to Harris, Travers, James, and Barkley, and had not the remotest idea who it came from."

"To whom had you mentioned the need you had of ten pounds?" Mr. Wire asked.

"No one knew it except those four and Perkins, not a soul."

The three masters looked even more grave. The four boys were sent for one by one, and were asked if they had mentioned to any one the need which Frank had of ten pounds; but all declared they had spoken to no one on the subject.

"He showed you the envelope containing the note he received; what did you think about it?"

"It seemed a curious thing, sir," Harris said, "but none of us could account for it."

"I am accused," Frank said, in a harsh voice, "of having stolen that note from Dr. Litter's table."

For the moment the four boys stood in silent astonishment.

"Nonsense, Frank," Harris burst out impetuously, "we know you better than that, old fellow; if an angel from heaven came down and told me you were a thief I would not believe him," and Harris seized his friend's hand and wrung it warmly, an example followed by his three companions.

Hitherto Frank's face had been hard and set, but he broke down now, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.

"You can go now," Dr. Litter said, and when the door closed upon them he continued: "I would give much, very much, Norris, to be able to believe in your innocence; but I cannot see a possibility of it; the evidence to my mind is overwhelming. I acquit you of any idea of deliberate theft. You were pressed and afraid of exposure, and the temptation offered by the note was too strong for you; you thought you saw a way of escape, and to account to your comrades for the possession of the money, you put it in an envelope and posted it, directed to yourself. Even now, if you will confess the truth, I will send you home privately, and avoid public expulsion and disgrace in consideration of the good character you have always hitherto borne; if not, I must at once lay the whole facts before your uncle and guardian, and to-morrow you will be publicly expelled."

"I have nothing to say, sir," Frank said quietly; "overwhelming as the proof appears against me, I have spoken the simple truth, and I swear that I never saw that note until I took it from the envelope."

"Go to your room, sir!" Dr. Litter said, with indignation, "this continued denial is almost worse than the offence."

Without a word Frank rose and left the library.

"This is indeed a shocking business," Mr. Wire said, as he followed Dr. Litter to the schoolroom.

"I cannot credit it," Mr. Richards put in; "I know him so well, that, absolutely conclusive as I allow the evidence to be, I still hesitate to believe him to be guilty."

After school was over Fred Barkley ran up to his cousin's room.

"My dear Frank," he exclaimed, "we are ordered not to communicate with you, but I could not help running in to tell you that every one believes you to be innocent."

"I hardly know whether I believe it myself," Frank said bitterly. "But you can do something for me, Fred; I have written a line to my uncle, will you post it for me at once?"

"Certainly," Fred replied; "but there is some one coming upstairs, so I must be off." He took the letter and was gone. It contained only a few words:—

"My dear Uncle,—If you believe me innocent of this hideous charge, which I swear to you I am not guilty of, send me one line by hand when you get this. As long as I know that you have faith in me I can face it out."

The afternoon passed slowly to the prisoner. His uncle would get the letter between three and four, and he might have an answer half an hour afterwards. Hour after hour passed, and, except the servant who brought up his tea, no one came near him. He reasoned to himself that his uncle might be out. At eight o'clock he heard a noise on the stairs; a number of feet approached his room, and then the door opened, and the whole of the boys in the boarding-house poured in.

"Norris, old fellow," Harris said, "we could stop away no longer, and in spite of orders we have come to see you. I beg to tell you in the name of the whole house, and I may say the whole School, that not a boy here believes you to be guilty. How the note came into your hands we don't know and we don't care, but we are certain you did not take it."

"No! no!" was shouted in a chorus.

"So keep up your spirits, old fellow," Harris said, "it will come right sooner or later."

For some time Frank was unable to speak.

"Thank you all," he said at last, in a choking voice, "it is a consolation to me indeed to know that my old friends still believe in me; but, till my innocence is proved, I shall never be able to look the world in the face again."

"Come, boys, this will not do," a voice at the door said; "Harris, you elder boys ought to set a better example to the younger ones. I told you that the Doctor's orders were positive that no one was to communicate with Norris."

"I can't help it, sir," Harris said; "we all felt we couldn't go to bed to-night without telling Norris that we knew he was innocent."

"Well, well, you must go downstairs now,"—not unkindly; "you must not stay a minute longer." There was a chorus of "Good night, Norris!" "Good night, old fellow!" "Keep up your pluck!" and various other encouraging expressions, and the party filed out of the door; Mr. Richards waited to see the last out, and then left Frank to his thoughts.

Not till ten o'clock did Frank give up all hope of hearing from his uncle, then he felt he had been condemned.

"All my school-fellows acquit me, and my uncle, who should know me better than any of them, condemns me. I wonder what Alice said. I don't believe she would believe me guilty if all the world told her."

At this moment the door opened quietly again, and Fred Barkley entered. Frank leapt to his feet to see if he was the bearer of a letter.

Fred shook his head in answer to the unasked question. "I have slipped out of College to see you, Frank, and Richards has given me leave to come up. I have no news, I only came to see what you were going to do."

"You posted the letter to my uncle, Fred?" he asked.

"Yes, at once," he replied.

Frank was silent.

"What do you mean to do?" Fred went on.

"Do?" Frank asked, "what do you mean?"

"Why, I suppose you don't mean to stop here until to-morrow."

"I don't know," Frank replied, "I had not thought about it."

"I shouldn't, if I were in your place. It would be a fearful business; there hasn't been a boy expelled from Westminster for the last thirty years. I shouldn't stop for it if I were you."

"But what am I to do? where am I to go?" said Frank listlessly.

"Do?" said Fred, "why, go abroad to be sure. I should go out to California, or Australia, or somewhere, and in time this will be all forgotten. Perhaps it will turn out who sent that money. It is not as if facing it out would do any good, for you can prove nothing. Every one who knows you believes you innocent."

"Uncle Harry doesn't," Frank said bitterly, "or he would have sent an answer to my letter."

"Ah! well, you know what he is," Fred said, "how passionate and hasty he is; but after a time he will think as we all do, never fear. Look here, I thought that you would want some money, so have been round to Ginger's and have sold all my books. The old beggar would not give me more than twenty pounds for them, though I have paid him more than double that, besides what I have bought from others. However, here are the twenty pounds at your service, if you like to take them."

Frank remained irresolute for a moment; then the thought of the terrible scene in the schoolroom, and of the tones in which the Doctor would pronounce his expulsion, overcame him.

"I may as well go before as after, for I could not go home after that. Thank you, Fred, with all my heart; I will take your money and advice, and if I get a rich man I will pay you again. Are the fellows in bed?"

"Yes," Fred replied, "and Richards is in his study, so you can go down with me and slip out easy enough."

"Tell the others," Frank said, "that I went because I could not face the scene to-morrow, and that I hope some day to return and prove my innocence."

Without another word he opened his drawers, packed some clothes in a small portmanteau, put on his pea-jacket and the low cap he had worn in his unfortunate expedition to the New Cut; then he stole softly downstairs with Fred, and sallied out into the night air.

CHAPTER VI. AT NEW ORLEANS.

FRANK NORRIS took his way eastward after leaving Westminster. He slept at a small hotel in the city, and at daybreak walked on to the docks. He was careless where he went, so that it was out of England; but he was determined, if possible, to work his passage, so as to leave the sum of money in his pocket untouched until he got to his destination. He went on board a number of ships and asked the captains if they wanted hands, but on his acknowledgment that he had never been at sea, none of them would ship him for the outward voyage only. At last he paused before a fine ship, the Mississippi; a printed placard on the wharf beside her mentioned that the well-known and favourite clipper would sail for New Orleans on that day. He walked on board and went up to the captain, who was talking to the first mate, while the latter was superintending the getting of cargo on board.

"Do you want a hand, sir?"

"Well, that depends," the captain said; "I am still two or three hands short, but they have promised to send me them this morning. Are you a sailor?"

"No, sir; but I can row and sail an open boat, and am ready to make myself useful. I want to work my passage out."

"You look an active young fellow," the captain said, "but I don't care about taking a landsman only for the voyage out; I should have to ship another hand in your place at New Orleans, and probably have to pay more wages there than I could get one for here. Still, likely enough, they may send me down at the last moment two or three hands who know no more about it than you do, and may not be half so willing to learn as I should judge you to be. What do you say, Ephraim; shall we take him?"

"He looks a likely sort," the mate said.

"Very well then, it's agreed; you can take off your coat and fall to work at once; I will send down word to the office that I have shipped you." Frank stripped off his coat and waistcoat, and stowed them, with his portmanteau, out of the way, and then set to work with a will, the whiteness of his shirt, and his general appearance, exciting some jeering comments among the other men at work; but the activity and strength which he showed soon astonished and silenced them.

By one o'clock the last bale of cargo was stowed, and the hatches put on. The landsmen who had been employed went on shore, and Frank went forward to the forecastle, with the men, to dinner.

"Not the sort of grub you have been accustomed to, lad," one of the men said.

"I have eaten worse," Frank said carelessly, "and don't care if I never eat better. How long do you suppose we shall be before we get to New Orleans?"

"It all depends upon the wind," the sailor answered, "may be a month, may be three. Are you going to leave us there?"

"Yes," Frank said, "I am only working my passage out."

"It's a roughish place is New Orleans," the sailor said; "the sort of place where you want to have a knife or pistol ready at hand. Lor', I have seen some rum doings there; it's a word and a blow, I can tell ye."

"Ah! well," Frank laughed, "I suppose I shall do as well as the rest."

The voice of the mate was now heard calling to all hands to prepare to cast off. The men had hurried through their dinner, for they knew that the time allowed them would be short, and began casting off hawsers, coiling down ropes, and preparing for a start. The bell was ringing, and the friends of the passengers were saying good-bye. The capstan was manned, and the vessel moved slowly away from the quay.

Five minutes later she was at the dock gates; these swung open, and the vessel slowly made her way through them, and was soon in the river.

As the men ran aloft to loosen the sails, Frank placed himself next to the sailor who had spoken to him at dinner, and followed him up the shrouds, and, imitating his actions, he was soon out on the yard hauling away with the others. When the sails were all set he returned below.

"Wall done, youngster," the mate said; "I reckon you are about as spry for a green hand as any I have come across; I had my eye on you, and you'll do. You go on like that, and you will make a first-rate hand afore long."

There was plenty of work to do as they went down the river. The sails had to be braced round as the wind took them on different sides in the winding reaches; the decks were sluiced down, to get rid of the first coat of dirt which they had acquired in the docks; ropes had to be coiled and tidied up, and the many articles lying loosely about the deck to be put in their places and lashed in readiness for sea work. The tide met them just as it was getting dark, and as the wind dropped, and was not sufficiently strong to carry the ship against it, the anchor was dropped a few miles below Gravesend.

The men were divided into two watches, but all were told that, with the exception of two stationed as an anchor watch, they could turn in till tide turned. Frank threw himself at once into the bunk which had been allotted to him. He had not closed an eye the night before, and was worn out by emotion and fatigue, and scarcely had he lain down than he was sound asleep. He had been placed in the starboard watch, and slept till he was roughly shaken at four o'clock in the morning.

"Get up, mate, your watch is called."

Frank leapt out and made his way on deck. The vessel had been now three hours under weigh. She had passed the Nore, whose light shone brightly over the stern.

"The wind is freshening a bit," one of the men said, "we shall be out round the Foreland by dinner-time."

The voyage was an uneventful one; Frank escaped the first fight in which new-comers generally have to take part before they settle down in their new sphere. He was thoroughly good-tempered, and fully a match for any of his messmates in chaff, and he soon became a favourite in the fo'castle. He was always ready to take his share of the work, and was soon as much at home on the yards as the rest. The change and the newness of the life were very good for him; he was never alone, and had no time to think or brood over his troubles, and he was almost sorry when the end of the voyage approached.

"Not a lively-looking shore," the mate said to him as he leaned against the bulwark, looking at the low banks of the river a few miles below New Orleans. "No, even an American may confess that there ain't much beauty about this river. It's a great river, and a mighty useful one, but it ain't beautiful. Now, what are you thinking of doing when you get ashore?"

"I was thinking to begin by getting employment on board a boat of some sort. What I shall do afterwards of course I do not know; but if I can earn my living on the water for a few months, till I have time to look round and see what is best to be done, I shall be well satisfied. I have got a few pounds, but I don't want to touch them; they will come in useful if I want to move, or to buy a horse, or anything of that sort."

"You will do," the mate said. "You have shown yourself a right-down sharp fellow on board this ship, and I expect you will make your way whatever you try a hand at. I have taken a fancy to you, and should be glad to do you a good turn if I can. I have been in and out of this port for some years, and know Orleans pretty tidy, and I can tell you that there ain't a port on this side of the water or the other where a fellow can be put out of the way more promptly than here; there are parts of New Orleans which, I tell you, are a sort of hell on earth.

"There are places you couldn't go into without some one picking a quarrel with you afore you have been in there two minutes, and a quarrel here means knives out afore you have time to think. On the other hand, Orleans is a place where a steady industrious fellow, with his head screwed on right, has a good chance of getting on. The trade up the river is immense, and will be far greater than it is now; and there's pretty well a continent to the west, with openings of all sorts, land and cattle, houses and mining, and trade with Mexico. But I don't see as you can do better than to follow out your own idea.

"I know a score of men here who own boats trading up the river, and the first time I go ashore I will take you with me and put you in good hands. The rate of pay ain't high, for it's looked on as easy work; still, a few months at it will open your eyes and put you into the ways of the country, and, once at home, I tell you there's money to be made on the river, heaps of it, and when it's seen that you are steady, and willing, and 'cute, you will find plenty who will give you a helping hand. There's no greater place for loafers than New Orleans, and a chap who will really work will soon make his mark."

Frank warmly thanked the mate for his offer. The moment the ship cast anchor off the town a crowd of negroes came on board and unloaded her, and the crew had comparatively little to do; the three or four passengers who had come out in her went on shore at once, but it was not until the third afternoon after her arrival that the mate was able to leave the ship.

"Now, lad," he said to Frank, "jump into the boat along with me, and I will see if I can't put you into the groove."

Keeping along the wharves for some distance, the mate presently entered a small wooden office, telling Frank to wait outside.

On entering he accosted the only occupant of the place, a man of some forty years of age, who was dressed entirely in white, and was sitting smoking a huge cigar, with his chair tilted back and his feet on the table.

"How are you, Ephraim?" he said, as the mate entered. "I saw your ship had arrived. Had a good voyage?"

"First-class," the mate replied; "not very fast, but quiet and comfortable," and he took a cigar from an open box on the table and lighted it. "I haven't come round for a talk with you now, I have only just come ashore for the first time; but I wanted to speak to you about a young chap as came out with us. He has worked his passage out, and is about the smartest young fellow I ever shipped, and has the makings of a first-class seaman in him, but he doesn't care about stopping at sea. He's of good family in the old country, as one can easily see. I expect he has got into some scrape, and has had to make a bolt of it; however, that's no business of mine. He's as strong as a horse, and as active as a squirrel; he can handle an oar and sail a boat. I didn't like the thought of his landing here and getting into bad hands, so I thought I would come straight to you. He said what he wanted to do was to work on the river, for a few months at any rate, until he got to know the place. Now I know you have a dozen tugs and a score of barges, and I thought you might set him on at once. He would make a good second hand on one of your large boats. If it's but to oblige me, I wish you would put him on board one with a sober, steady chap of a decent kind; as soon as he gets to know the work and the river, I will guarantee that he will be fit to take charge himself."

"That's easy enough done, Ephraim," the trader replied, "all except finding the sober and steady decent man to put him under. However, I will do my best. Have you got him here?"

"Yes, he is outside," Ephraim said; and rising, he went to the door and called Frank in. "This is the hand I was speaking to you about, Mr. Willcox."

"Well, young man," the trader said, "I hear you want a berth on board a tug or flat. Which would you rather have?"

"I would prefer to be on a flat,—at any rate for a time, sir," Frank said; "I am a pretty good hand at sailing or rowing, but I don't know anything about steamboats."

"There's not much to learn in that," the trader said; "the work is simply to keep the decks clean, to help to load and unload at each landing-place, and to pole off in shallows. However, I will put you on board a flat. The wages to begin with will be twenty dollars a month and your keep, if that will suit you."

"That will do, sir, very well," Frank said. "When shall I come to work?"

"If you come here this time to-morrow you can go aboard at once. One of the flats will go up the first thing in the morning."

"Thank you, sir, I will be here. I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Alderson, for your kind recommendation of me."

"I am glad to have put you into a berth," the mate said. "Now I should recommend you to get on board again soon."

Frank strolled about the wharves for an hour or two, and then went on board. Before going on shore the following day, the captain gave him a certificate, saying that he had sailed in the Mississippi, and was a good, willing, and reliable hand.

"You may not intend to go to sea again, but if you should, this will get you a better berth than if you had applied as a landsman. I am very pleased with your conduct on board the ship, and I am only sorry you are leaving us. I think it's a pity you don't stick to it, for it is clear that you are well educated, and would be able to pass as a mate as soon as you had been the requisite time at sea. However, you can fall back on that if you don't get on as well as you expect on shore."

The mate said good-bye to him warmly.

"Your employer is one of the very best in the place," said he. "You must not suppose he is in a small way because you see him in that little office: he is one of the largest tug and flat owners in New Orleans. He keeps his eye on his men, and will push you forward if he sees you deserve it. He has the name of having the best of captains on the river, and of being one of the best and most liberal of employers. But you must not expect much in flat life, you will find the men rough as well as the work."

"I shan't mind that," Frank said cheerfully; "our own bargemen on the Thames are not the most polished of men."

"And, lad," the mate added, "I should advise you to hand over any money you may have with you to Mr. Willcox; the less money you have in your pockets the better. You have no occasion for it on the river, and there are loafers hanging about at every landing who would think nothing of knocking a man on the head if they thought he had got fifty dollars in his pocket."

Frank promised to take his advice, and, with a hearty farewell to the mate, and a cordial one to his late shipmates, he put his portmanteau in the boat and was rowed ashore.

"Oh, here you are," Mr. Willcox said, as he entered; "just give a call to that man you see outside."

Before doing so, Frank handed over his twenty sovereigns to the trader, asking him to keep them for him, and then went to the door. On a log close by a tall, gaunt man was sitting smoking a short pipe. Frank asked him to step in.

"Hiram," the trader said, "this is the young Britisher who is going as your second hand. I have good accounts of him as a sailor, so you won't have to teach him that part of the business. Of course he is new to the river and its ways."

"I will put him through," the man said, "and will teach him as much as I knows myself if he cares to learn."

"There is no one knows the river better, Hiram; and, as you know, I would have given you the command of a steamer long ago if you would have taken it."

"No, sir," the man said emphatically, "not for Hiram Little. I have been on board a flat all my days, and am not going to be hurried along in one of them puffing things. They have their uses, I am ready enough to allow, when the current is swift and the wind light; I am glad enough of a cast now and then, but to be always in a bustle and flurry is more than I could stand. Come along, youngster, with your sack; the boat is a quarter of a mile down."

Taking up his portmanteau, Frank followed his conductor, who with long strides led the way along the wharf. Not a word was spoken till they reached the side of the boat. This was not a flat such as now are in general use, but a large boat some forty feet in length by fourteen wide, almost flat-bottomed, and capable of carrying a cargo of eight or ten tons of goods. In the stern was a little cabin some eight feet long for the captain and his mate. In front was a similar structure for the four negroes who formed the crew.

She carried one mast, with a large lug-sail. She had four sweeps, but these were seldom used. When the wind was fair she ran before it, when it was foul the mast was lowered; if it fell calm when they were coming down the stream they drifted with it, if when going up, they either anchored or poled her along in the back waters close inshore, or made their way up the numerous channels where the stream flowed sluggishly, or tied on behind a tug if one happened to come along.

Their principal work was to carry up supplies to the various plantations along the banks, to trade with the villages, and to bring down produce to New Orleans; for the stopping-places of the steamers were at wide distances apart, and the number of steamers themselves very small in comparison with those now afloat on the great river. At times they made longer journeys, going up as far as St. Louis; but in that case they were generally, as Frank afterwards learned, towed up the whole distance.

"Hi! Pete, shove that plank ashore," Hiram shouted, and a negro at once showed his head above a scuttle in the bow of the boat, and then emerging, pushed a plank across the fifteen feet of water which intervened between the flat and the wharf.

"That's your first lesson, young man," Hiram said. "Never on no account lay your craft close alongside; thar's river thieves at these landings as would empty half the cargo if you left the boat for ten minutes, if they could step aboard, and these niggers are always asleep the minute after you take your eyes off them. So, whether you have got anything aboard or not, stick to the rule and moor her a bit off the wharf. It's only the trouble of dropping the grapnel over on the outside in addition to the hawser ashore, and then there's never no trouble when you get back and have to report as how you have lost some of the bales. It ain't as how we carry up many things as would pay for taking; soft goods for the stores up the river mostly goes by steamer, but them as ain't hurried, and likes to keep their dollars in their pockets, has their goods up by flats. I have got ten hogsheads of sugar, twenty-four crates of hardware, some barrels of molasses, and forty casks of spirits on board, eighty kegs of nails and a ton or two of rice and flour. We reckon to go up light, and I don't care to have the flat more nor half-full, for when the river's low and the wind light the less we have on board the better. Now Pete, let's have tea as soon as may be."

By this time they had entered the cabin at the stern of the boat. It was only about five feet high, but was large and roomy, and Frank saw with pleasure that it was neat and clean, and was an abode infinitely preferable to the forecastle of the Mississippi.

"Now, lad, that's your side, and this is mine; that's your bunk. I am given to tidy ways, having all my life lived in small places, and I hope as you will fall into my ways; I keeps the cabin tidy myself, and Pete never comes aft here except to bring the food and take it away again; I can't a-bear niggers messing about a place. Victuals of all sorts is provided. You can do as you like about liquor. I keeps a keg of rum on board, and I likes my glass at night; if you likes to join me at that you can pay for half the keg, it has not been broached yet. If you want to drink more nor two glasses a night, ye had best get in yer own stock; if ye don't want to touch it at all, just leave it."

Frank said he liked a glass of grog at night, and should be glad to join in the cask, and that he would do his best to keep his side of the cabin as tidy as the other. In a few minutes the negro brought in the meal, which consisted of a steak fried with onions, followed by a large bowl of oatmeal, with a jug of molasses, and the whole was washed down with tea.

"The stream does not seem to run very rapidly," Frank said, as he and his companion, having lit their pipes, sat down on the deck above.

"It varies," Hiram replied; "sometimes it's sluggish, as you see it here, sometimes it runs like a mill-stream. The art of sailing here is to know the river; for what with its back currents and its eddies, its channels behind islands and its sandbanks, one who knows it can manage to make his way up, while one who didn't know would be drifting backward instead of getting forward. That's what you have got to learn. Fortunately the wind generally blows up the stream; when it don't it's a case of down anchor. There are places where one can hardly get along unless the wind happens to be unusually strong, and there I generally get a tow. The boss has got about twenty steamers on the river, so we don't generally have to wait many hours before one comes along. The tugs is gradually doing away with sailing boats, and in time there won't be many of our kind of craft left; but they are useful, you see, for small places where the steamers don't stop, and for the rivers which run into the Mississippi."

The next morning at daybreak the sail was hoisted, the hawsers thrown off from the shore, and the flat made her way up the river. Frank was surprised to see how fast she sailed, although the wind was but light. The work was easy, for the wind was steady and they seldom sailed at night, the wind generally dropping at sundown. They touched at numerous little settlements, and gradually got rid of the cargo with which they had started.

Sometimes they left the main river and sailed for many miles by narrow channels, where the current, for the most part, was almost imperceptible. They were more than a month from the time they started before they reached the spot at which they were to take in the cargo for their return voyage. The flat was then loaded up with grain, which was put in in bulk and covered with tarpaulin; the boat was now laden down nearly to the water's edge.

The downward voyage differed widely from that up the river; the sail was now seldom used, and instead of skirting the shores they kept in mid-channel, from time to time directing the boat's course by the use of the sweeps. The moon was nearly full when they started, and they continued their voyage by night as well as day. Hiram and Frank took it by turns to be on watch; but the former was seldom down below, except on the rare occasions when the river was free from shoals.

Frank had by this time learned by the ripples on the water to detect the shallows, and could direct the course without assistance; but as soon as the splash of oars was heard on the water, Hiram was sure to appear on deck, however short the time since he had retired to rest.

"You are seeing the river at its best," he was saying one day. "It is about half-full now; when the water's low, the channel where we can pass loaded is often only fifty yards wide, with the water running through it like a sluice. When the water is in flood there is no fear of shoals, but you have got to look about, for it is full of floating trees and logs; when these get stuck we call them snags, and if you were to run on one of them the chances are it would knock a hole as big as a cask in her bottom, and down you would go in two or three minutes."

CHAPTER VII. ON THE MISSISSIPPI.

WE are going to have a change of weather, I reckon," Hiram said one afternoon as they were drifting down the stream during their second voyage. "You have been lucky since we started, but we are going to have a change at last; and I can tell you when it blows here it's a caution. They have been having a lot of rain up the country, for the river has been rising regular for the last ten days. We had best make fast for the night, and the sooner we does it the better, for the wind is getting up fast and the rain is just a-going to begin."

In a quarter of an hour the boat was moored to a great tree at the lower end of an island.

"We shall be snug here," he said, "and out of the way of the drift that will be coming down presently. You can turn in and take a long spell of sleep to-night, for sometimes those storms last for days when they come on this time of year, and you will see there will be a sea on that the boat could hardly live in. I wish we had stopped two hours ago; there was a creek where we could have run her in and been snug all through it, but I didn't think it was coming up so quick, and it's too far on to the next place to risk it; however, I expect we shall do very well here."

In another half-hour the gale burst upon them furiously, and Frank congratulated himself that the boat was snugly moored. The thick muddy water of the river was speedily lashed into angry waves; the rain came down in torrents, and although the left-hand bank was but a quarter of a mile distant it was soon lost to view. Frank was glad to leave the deck and crawl into the little cabin, and sit down to a hot meal which the negro cook had prepared.

"Better here than outside, my lad," Hiram said. "I can go as wet as any man if need be, but I like to keep a dry jacket when I can. The wind is just howling outside. I reckon this is going to be a bigger storm nor ordinary, and I have seen some biggish storms on the Mississippi too. I have had some narrer escapes of it, I can tell you, special in the days before there was nary a tug on the river, and we had to row or pole all the way up; besides there ain't so many trees brought down as there used to be in a flood, seeing as the country is getting more and more cleared every day.

"I reckon the time will come when you will be able to go up either the Mississippi or Missouri to the upper waters without seeing a tree drifting down, and when there won't be a snag in their beds. I mind the time when the snags were ten times worse than they is now. I mind once we ran on one of the darned things in pretty nigh as wild a night as this is going to be. I had six hands along with me, and we wanted to get down, 'cause we knew the old man would have a cargo ready for us, and we wanted a run of a day or two on shore at Orleans before we started up again, so we held on. The wind was higher than we reckoned on, and we was just saying we should have done better to tie up, when there was a crash. I thought at first that she would have gone over with the shock, but she didn't—not that it would have made much odds, for there was a snag through her bottom, and the water pouring in like a sluice. It was darkish, but we could make out there was some trees a boat's-length or two ahead which had been caught as they rolled down by another snag, and hung there. The boat didn't float more than a minute after she struck, and then we were all in the river, those who couldn't swim gripping hold of the oars and poles; half a minute and we were all clinging to the boughs, and hoisting ourselves as well as might be clear of the water.

"I tell you, lad, that was a night. It wasn't that we was drenched to the skin with the rain pouring down, and the wind cutting through us—that kind of thing comes natural to a boatman—but it was the oncertainty of the thing. The trees moved and swayed with the waves and current; the flood we knew was rising still, and any moment they might break away from the snag and go whirling along, over and over, down the river. Even if they didn't break away of theirselves, another tree might drive down on us, and if it did, the chances was strong as the hull affair would break loose.

"All that night and all next day we hung on, and then the wind went down a bit, and a nigger who had made us out from the shore came off in a dug-out and took us ashore in two trips. That war a close shave. The wind was northerly and bitter cold, and I don't believe as we could have hung on another night more nor that. Next morning, when we turned out from the nigger's hut to have a look round, there wasn't no sign of them thar trees, they had just gone down the river in the night. Yes, I have had a good many narrow shaves of it, but I do think as that war the narrowest."

"Well, I am heartily glad," Frank said, "that we are tied safely up, out of the way of floating trees, snags, or anything of the kind. I always like hearing the wind when I am snug, and I shall sleep sound knowing that I am not going to hear your shout of 'Watch on deck' in my ear."

In spite of the howling of the gale Frank slept soundly. But he could scarcely believe that it was broad daylight when he awoke; the light was dim and leaden, and when he went out from the cabin he was startled at the aspect of the river. The waves had risen until it resembled an angry sea, the yellow masses of water being tipped with foam; the clouds hung so low that they almost touched the top of the trees; the rain was still falling, and the drops almost hurt from the violence with which they were driven by the wind. The river had risen considerably during the night, and the lower end of the island was already submerged; boughs of trees and driftwood were hurrying along with the stream, and more than one great tree passed, now lifting an arm high in the air, now almost hidden in the waves, as it turned over and over in its rapid course. Frank felt glad indeed that the boat lay in comparatively sheltered waters, though even here the swell caused her at times to roll violently.

"What do you think of it, lad?" Hiram, who had risen some time before Frank, asked.

"It is a wonderfully wild scene," Frank said enthusiastically, "a grand scene! I should not have had an idea that such a sea could have got up on any river. Look at that great tree rolling down, it looks as if it was wrestling for life."

"The wrestle is over, lad, there ain't no more life for that tree; it will just drift along till it either catches on a sandbank and settles down as a snag, or it will drift down to the mouth of the Mississippi, and may be help to choke up some of the shallow channels, or it may chance to strike the deep channel, and go away right out into the Gulf of Florida, and then the barnacles will get hold of it, and it will drift and drift till at last it will get heavier than the water, and then down it will go to the bottom and lie there till there ain't no more left of it. No, lad, there ain't no more life for that tree."

"May be it will wash ashore near the city, or some plantation," Frank said, "and be hauled up and cut into timber, or perhaps into firewood. After all, the useful life of a tree begins with its fall."

"Right you are, lad; yes, that might happen, and I am glad you put it in my mind, for somehow I have always had a sorter pity for a tree when I see it sweeping down in a flood like this. Somehow it's like looking at a drowned man; but, as you say, there's a chance of its getting through it and coming to be of use after all, and what can a tree wish better than that? But we had best be hauling the boat up to the tree and shifting the rope up the trunk a bit; it's just level with the water now, and was nigh eight feet above when we tied it yesterday. I tell you if this goes on there will be some big floods, for it will try the levees, and if they go there ain't no saying what damage may be done in the plantations."

All day the wind blew with unabated fury, and when evening came on Frank thought that it was increasing rather than diminishing in force.

"Let's have a glass of grog and tumble in, my lad," Hiram said, "it gives one the dismals to listen to the wind." They had scarcely wrapped themselves in their blankets when the boat swayed as if struck by an even stronger blast than usual; then there was a sudden crash, which rose even above the howling of the gale.

"What's that?" Frank exclaimed, sitting up.

"It's the tree," Hiram began; but while the words were in his mouth there was a shock and a crash, the roof of the little cabin was stove in, and the boat heeled over until they thought it was going to capsize. Frank was thrown on to the floor with the violence of the shock, but speedily gained his feet.

"What has happened?" he exclaimed.

"The tree has gone," Hiram said; "I have been looking at it all the afternoon, but I didn't want to scare you by telling you as I thought it might go. It's lucky it didn't fall directly on us, or it would have knocked the boat into pieces. The door is jammed. Get hold of that hatchet, lad, and make a shift to get your head out to look round and see what we are doing. Do you hear them niggers holloaing like so many tom-cats? What good do they suppose that will do?"

"I can't see anything," Frank said when he looked out; "it's pitch dark. I will make this hole a bit bigger, and then I will take the lantern and crawl forward and see what has become of the blacks. I am afraid the tree has stove the boat in: look at the water coming up through the float-boards."

"Ay, I expect she is smashed somewhere; it could hardly be otherwise; I reckon this is going to be about as bad a job as the one I was telling you about. Here, lad, put this bottle of rum into your jacket and this loaf of bread; I will take this here chunk of cold beef; like enough we may want 'em afore we are done."

When Frank had enlarged the hole sufficiently to allow his body to pass through, he put the lantern through and then crawled out. He was in a tangle of branches and leaves. The head-rope was a long one; the tree had fallen directly towards them, and the boat was, as far as Frank could see, wedged in between the branches, which forked some forty feet above the roots; a cross branch had stove in the cabin top, and another rested across the scuttle of the cabin used by the negroes.

"Hand me the axe, sharp, Hiram," he said; "the niggers can't get out, and our bow isn't a foot out of water."

Hiram handed up the axe, seized another, and with a great effort squeezed himself through the hole and joined Frank in the fore-part of the boat, which was waist-deep in water.

"Never mind the branch, lad, that will take too long to cut through, and another two or three minutes will do their business; here, rip off two or three of those planks, that will be the quickest way."

Although impeded in their work by the network of boughs, they speedily got off two or three planks and hauled up the frightened negroes. It was but just in time, for there were but a few inches between the water and the top of the low cabin.

"Shut your mouths and drop that howling," Hiram said, "and grip hold of the tree; the boat will sink under our feet in another minute. Stick to your lantern, lad, a light is a comfort anyhow; I'll fetch another from the cabin, and some candles; I know just where they are, and can feel them in the water."

In a minute he rejoined Frank, who was sitting astride of one of the branches.

"That's a bit of luck," he said; "the candles are dry. There ain't more than two feet of water in her aft."

Three or four minutes passed, and the boat still lay beneath their feet, sinking, apparently, no lower. "I will look round again," Hiram said; "it seems to me as she has got jammed, and won't go any lower."

Examining the boat, he found that it was so; she was so completely wedged among the branches that she could sink no lower.

"It's all right," he said joyously. "Jump down, all of you, and lend a hand and unreeve the halliards from the mast and bind her as tight as you can to the branches; pass the ropes under the thwarts. Make haste before she shakes herself free." For the tree, now well clear of the shelter of the land, was swaying heavily.

The work was soon done, and the boat securely fastened to the tree.

"How is it the tree lies steady without rolling over and over, Hiram?" Frank asked, after they paused on the completion of the work.

"I reckon it's the boat as keeps it steady, lad. As long as she lies here she is no weight, but she would be a big weight to lift out of water, and I reckon she keeps the whole affair steady. It couldn't be better if we had planned it. All these boughs break the force of the waves, and keep off a good bit of the wind too; we ain't going to do badly after all."

"Pete, get me that half-bottle of rum from my locker and a tin mug. That is right. Now here is a good strong tot each for you to make your faces black again; you were white with fear when we got you out of that cabin, and I don't blame you; I should have been in just as bad a fright myself if I had been there, though I shouldn't have made such a noise over it. Still, one can't expect men of one colour to have the same ways as those of another, and I am bound to say that if the boat had gone down your boss would have lost four good pieces of property. Feel more comfortable—eh?"

The negroes grinned assent. Easily cast down, their spirits were as easily raised, and seeing that the white men appeared to consider that there was no urgent danger, they soon plucked up their courage.

"I think," Frank said, "the best thing will be to manage to get the cabin door open. We can put a tarpaulin over the hole in the roof, and we shall then have a shelter we can go into; the water is not over the lockers, but I shouldn't like to go in until we get the door open. If this tree did take it into its head to turn round, it would be awkward if there were two or three of us in there, with only that hole to scramble through."

"You are about right, lad; it will be a sight more comfortable than sitting here, for what with the rain and the splashing up of this broken water one might as well be under a pump."

The axes were called into requisition again, for the door was jammed too firmly to be moved.

"Chop it up, and shove the pieces under the tarpaulin, Sam; they will get a bit drier there, and we may want them for a fire presently; there is no saying how long we may be in this here floating forest. That's right. Now, hang one of them lanterns up in the cabin. That's not so bad. Now, lad, our clothes-bags are all right on these hooks. I am just going to rig myself up in a dry shirt and jacket, and advise you to do the same; we may as well have the upper half dry if we must be wet below."

Frank was glad to follow Hiram's example, and a dry flannel shirt made him feel thoroughly warm and comfortable. He handed a shirt to each of the negroes, and the whole party, clustered in the little cabin, were soon comparatively warm and cheerful, in spite of the water, which came up to their knees, and when the boat rose on a wave, swashed up over the locker on which they were sitting. A supply of dry tobacco and some pipes were produced by Hiram, and the little cabin was soon thick with smoke.

"Taking it altogether," Hiram said, "I regard this as about the queerest sarcumstance that ever happened to me; it was just a thousand to one that tree would have smashed us up and sunk us then and thar. It was another thousand to one that when we were staved in we shouldn't have got fixed so that the boat couldn't sink; if any one had told it me as a yarn I should not have believed it."

"It has indeed been a wonderful escape," Frank said, "and I think now that we should be ungrateful indeed if every one of us did not fervently thank God for having preserved us."

"Right you are, lad; praying ain't much in my way—not regular praying; but we men as lives a life like this, and knows that at any moment a snag may go through the boat's bottom, thinks of these things at times, and knows that our lives are in God's hands. It ain't in nature to go up and down this broad river, special at night, when the stars are shining overhead, and the dark woods are as quiet as death, and there ain't no sound to be heard but the lap of the water against the bow for a man not to have serious thoughts. It ain't our way to talk about it. I think we try to do our duty by our employers, and if a mate is laid up, he need never fear getting on a shoal for want of a helping hand; and when our time comes, I fancy as there ain't many of us as is afeared of death, or feels very bad about the account they say we have got to render arterwards. It's different with the niggers; it's their way to be singing hymns and having prayer-meetings, and such like. There is some as is agin this, and says it gives 'em notions, and sets them agin their masters; but I don't see it: it pleases 'em, and it hurts no one; it's just the difference of ways. I expect it comes to the same in the end; leastways, I have seen many a wreck in this here river, when whites and blacks have been a-looking death in the face together, and sartin the white man, even if he has been a hard man, ain't no more afraid to die than the black, generally just the contrary. That's my notion of things."

Frank nodded, and for a time there was silence in the cabin.

"How long are we likely to be in this fix?" Frank asked presently.

"Thar ain't no saying; supposing we don't bring up agin a snag—which the Lord forbid, for like, enough, the tree would shift its position, and we should find ourselves bottom upwards if we did—we may drift on for days and days. Still, we shall be safe to make ourselves seen as soon as the weather clears, and there are boats out again; we have only got to light a fire of wet wood to call their attention. I don't expect this here gale will last much longer; after another day it ought to begin to blow itself out. As long as nothing happens to this tree, and the boat keeps fast where it is, there ain't nothing to make ourselves uncomfortable about. We'd best have a look at them lashings; I tell you, there is a tidy strain on them."

Examining the ropes carefully, they found some of them were already chafed, and, dragging out a piece of wet canvas from the lockers, they cut it into strips and lashed it round the ropes at the points where they were chafing. The strain was indeed very heavy, for the tree and the waterlogged boat rose but little with the waves, and the bow was submerged deeply every time a wave passed them, the gunwale being at no time more than a few inches out of water. Additional lashings were put on, and then Hiram and Frank returned to the cabin, and the latter dozed away the hours till morning, as did the negroes, Hiram remaining wide awake and watchful, and going out from time to time to look at the lashings. As soon as day broke Frank roused himself and went out; Hiram was just descending from one of the boughs.

"I have had a look round," he said; "I don't think it's blowing quite so hard, but thar ain't much change yet. It ain't not to say a cheerful kind of lookout."

Frank climbed up to take a view for himself, but he was glad to return very quickly to the shelter of the cabin. Overhead was a canopy of low grey cloud; around, a curtain of driving rain; below, a chaos of white-headed waves. The day passed slowly, and with little change. Sam found in the fore-part of the boat the iron plate on which he built his fire. They fixed this on the roof of the cabin, fastened a tarpaulin across the boughs so as to shelter it from the rain and drift, and then, with some difficulty, managed to make a fire. Some hot coffee was first prepared, and a frying-pan was then put on and filled with slices of pork. The flour was wet, but Sam made some flat cakes of the wet dough, and placed them in the fat to fry when the pork was done.

"Not a bad meal that," Hiram said, when he had finished, "for a floating forest."

The negroes had now completely recovered from the effects of their fright and wetting, and their spirits, as usual, found vent in merry choruses.

"Just like children, ain't they?" Hiram said, as he and Frank re-entered the cabin, while the negroes continued to feast overhead, "crying one moment and laughing the next. But I have known some good uns among them too, as good mates to work with as a man could want, and as good grit as a white man." Another meal, later in the afternoon, alone broke the monotony of the day. The aspect of the weather was unchanged at nightfall, but Hiram asserted that the wind had certainly gone down, and that in the morning there would probably be a break in the weather. They smoked for some time, and then the negroes dozed off, with their chins on their chests; and Frank was about to make an effort to do the same, when Hiram, who had been going in and out several times, said suddenly, "I reckon we are out of the main stream; don't you feel the difference?"

Now that his attention was called to it, Frank wondered that he had not noticed it before. The waves were no longer washing over the fore-part of the boat, and the sluggish efforts of the tree and boat to rise and fall with the water had ceased. He was still more struck, when he went outside, by the comparative silence. The wind still whistled overhead and swayed the branches, but the hiss and rustle of the water had ceased.

"We are out of the main stream, that's sartin," Hiram said, "though where we are is more nor I can tell till we get daylight."

Frank took the lantern and climbed up the bough which served as a lookout. It was pitch dark outside, and the surface of the water was no longer broken by white heads.

"Yes, we are certainly out of the main river, Hiram, and in behind some big islands. Where do you think it could be?"

"I reckon, lad, we are somewhere down near the mouth of the Arkansas. The stream has been running mighty strong for the last two days, and the wind, catching all these branches, must have helped us along a good bit. I reekon we can't be far away from the Arkansas. It's a bad stroke of luck drifting in here; we may expect to get hung up somewhere, and we shall be in a nice fix then, out of sight of boats going up and down, and with miles and miles of swamp stretching back from the shore. However, it will be time to think of that to-morrow. There ain't nothing for us to do; just lend us a hand, and we will get this iron plate off the roof. The tarpaulin keeps off the rain, and I will fetch a couple of blankets, and we can stretch ourselves out here; I despise going to sleep sitting up."

Frank was sound asleep in a few minutes. He had a confused notion of feeling a slight jerking motion, and of hearing Hiram say, "There, she is anchored"; but he did not suffer this to rouse him, and, dropping off, slept soundly till morning. At the first stir Hiram made he was awake.

"We have had a goodish spell of sleep, I reckon, lad, and I feel all the better for having had my legs stretched out straight."

"So do I, ever so much; the wind seems to have gone quite down, and it has stopped raining."

"We shall have the sun up soon."

Frank was soon up in the lookout.

"I can see trees on both sides of us, but I can make out nothing more than that; there's a mist hanging over them, though it's clear enough on the water. We are not moving."

"I could have told you that," Hiram said, "didn't we get fast on something before we went to sleep last night?"

"Oh, I forgot about that; I was just off when you spoke, and didn't quite take it in. We are quite out of the current; the water is moving very sluggishly past us."

"So much the worse, lad; that's just what I fancied. We have got blown out of the stream, and got in behind some of the islands, and are perhaps at the mouth of one of the loops where there ain't no stream to speak of; useful enough they are when you are making your way up-stream, but no-account places to get stuck in. Now you darkeys below there, wake up, and let's have some food; you will soon have the sun up to warm you and dry your clothes a bit. By the time we have had our breakfast," he went on to Frank, "the mist will have lifted, and we shall have some chance of seeing where we have been cast away, and can talk over what's the best thing to be done in this here business."

The iron plate was replaced on the cabin, the fire was lit, and coffee and fried bacon were soon ready. The first sparkle of the sun through the leaves brought a shout of delight from the negroes, and directly the meal was over they cut away some of the small branches and let the sun stream in on to the roof of the cabin.

"That's enough, boys," Hiram said; "by midday we shall be glad of the shade. Now, let you and I light our pipes, lad, and take a survey, and then talk this job over."

On looking round, they found that the passage, or creek, in which they were was some eighty yards wide; ahead it seemed to narrow; behind them, a bend shut out the view a quarter of a mile away.

"That's just what I expected. You see we have drove in here, and there's been just current enough to drift us on till the lower branches touched the bottom or caught in a snag; the water ain't flowing half a mile an hour now, and I reckon when the water begins to drop, which will be in a few days, if it holds fine, there won't be no current to speak of."

"But we are not going to stay here a few days, are we, Hiram?"

"Well, lad, I ain't no particular wish to stay here no time at all, if you will just pint out the way for us to be moving on."

"Well, we could all swim ashore," Frank said; "the distance is nothing, and all the blacks swim."

"And how fur do you reckon the shore to be, lad?"

"About forty yards," Frank said.

"I reckon it to be miles, lad—twenty, perhaps, or forty for aught I know."

Frank looked at his companion in surprise.

"Yes, that is about it, lad. Don't you see them trees are all growing out by the water, and what looks to you like low bush is just the top of the underwood. The river, I reckon, must have riz twenty feet, and all this low land is under water. As I told you, we are near the mouth of the Arkansas, and for miles and miles the country ain't much better than a swamp at the best of times. You can swim to them trees, and roost up in the branches, if the fancy takes yer, and may be we may decide that's the best thing to do, when we have talked it over; but as to getting to land, you may put that notion out of your head altogether. I told you, lad, last night, I didn't like the lookout, and I don't like it a bit better this morning, except that I look to be dry and comfortable in another hour. What's to come after that I don't quite see."

Frank was silent. The prospect, now that he understood it, was unpleasant indeed. There they were with a disabled and waterlogged boat, in the middle of a district submerged for many miles, and surrounded beyond that by fever-stricken swamps, while the prospect of any craft happening to come along was remote indeed. For some minutes he smoked his pipe in silence.

"You consider it impossible for us to make our escape through the wood."

"Just unpossible, lad. We might make our way from tree to tree, like a party of monkeys, but we should get to creeks where we couldn't cross; we should be half our time swimming. We could take no food to speak of with us; we should get lost in the swamps, if ever we got through the forest. No, lad; my present idea is it is unpossible, though, if we detarmines at last there ain't nothing else for us to do but to try for it, Hiram Little ain't the man to die without making a hard fight for his life; but I tell you, lad, I looks on it as unpossible. You have been on these banks with me, and you know how thick the trees and bushes grow, so that a snake could hardly make his way through them. When the river is at her level the ground ain't about a foot or two out of water, and when the river falls—and it mayn't fall to its level for weeks—it will just be a swamp of mud."

"Well, in that case," Frank said, "it seems to me that our only chance is to repair the boat."

"That's just my idee, young fellow. There is a biggish hole on each side, the ribs are smashed in, and a lot of damage is done, but we could make a shift to mend it if we could get her ashore; but there ain't no shore to get her to, that's the mischief of it; besides, here we are stuck, and if we were to cut away the tree to loose her she would go straight to the bottom."

"Yes, we mustn't cut her loose before we are alongside something. My idea is that if we first of all cut off all the boughs that are above us, close to the trunk, that will make a good deal of difference in the weight, and we should float higher. Then, with hatchet and saw, we must get rid of those below, taking a rope first to the trees and hauling her closer and closer alongside them as we get rid of the weight, till at last there is only the trunk and these two great arms that have nipped her. I think that way we might get alongside the trees."

"I reckon we might, lad. Yes, I don't see much difficulty about that. And what shall we do when we get there?"

"I should get under a big tree, like that one over there, with that great arm stretching over the stream. We've got plenty of ropes, and I should fasten them from her bow and stern, and from her thwarts, tight to that arm overhead. When I got her fixed, I would chop away one of these arms that grip her, and let her float free. We have no tackle that would be of any use in hoisting her, but if we take the plug out of her bottom, she will empty as the river sinks, and hang there. Once she is in the air there will be no difficulty in patching her up."

"That's a capital idee, young fellow," Hiram exclaimed, giving Frank a mighty pat on the shoulder. "I do believe it is to be done that way. I tell you, I did not see my way out of this fix nohow, but you have hit upon it, by gosh! Here, you darkies, get them axes and saws out of the cabin, and clear away this forest."

An hour's work cleared away all the wood above water. The sun was by this time well above the trees; the negroes woke up to life and cheerfulness in its warmth, and worked vigorously.

"Before we do anything more," Frank said, "I will swim with a light line to that tree, and then haul the tow-rope after me, and make it fast to it; it is possible that when we cut away some of the other boughs the whole affair may turn over and sink, but if the tow-rope is fast we may be able to drag it alongside."

When the rope was attached to the tree, they proceeded with their work. The two great arms were chopped through just beyond the point at which the boat was wedged, thus getting rid of the whole of the upper part of the tree.

"She's free now," Hiram said. "Stand in the middle of the boat, you boys; I can feel that a very little would sway her over now."

The bow sank some inches, and fully half the boat was submerged.

"Now, you and I will get out at this end of the trunk, lad, and tow her in, stern foremost."

They got within ten yards of the tree before she again stuck, and it took them some hours' work to cut away the branch which projected under water; but at last this was done, and the boat was placed in position under the arm of the great tree they had pitched upon, and a number of ropes fastened firmly to the arm.

"Now we will have some dinner," Hiram said; "and while Pete is cooking it we will get ashore with the saw and cut the heads off some of these small trees, and fasten them to this trunk, so as to make a sort of raft that we can put all these tubs on. The ropes would never hold her with her cargo on board. I reckon some of the sugar is spoilt; but the boss always has good casks, and may be there ain't much damage done. The rum is right enough, and I reckon there won't be much spoilt except them bales of calico."

They worked hard, but it was late in the evening before the raft was formed and the cargo all shifted into it.

"Now, we will just chop off this arm and free her," Hiram said, "and then we can stretch ourselves out for the night. We have done a tidy day's work, I reckon, and have arned our sleep."

The arm was chopped through, and the boat was freed from the tree which had, in the first place, so nearly destroyed it, but which, in the end, had proved their means of safety. The raft was fastened alongside by a rope, and the negroes betook themselves to it for the night, while the two white men, as before, lay down to sleep on the cabin-top.

CHAPTER VIII. STARTING FOR THE WEST.

THE next morning they found, to their satisfaction, that the river had sunk nearly a foot. The boat had risen considerably when the cargo had been removed the evening before, and the ropes overhead had been proportionately tightened, so that she now hung so high that the rents were well out of water, and they were able at once to set about the work of repair. There were tools on board, for during their prolonged trips it was often necessary to execute repairs of one kind or other. The flooring-boards were utilised for the repairs, and by evening the holes were closed effectually.

The next day the work was strengthened by additional ribs and stringers, a coat of pitch was put on outside and in, and Hiram pronounced the work complete. From time to time the ropes had been loosened as the river continued to fall, although less rapidly, and it was thought well not to put too great a strain upon them. The next morning the plug was again driven into the bottom of the boat, and they set to work to pump and bale her out, and then shifted the cargo back again from the raft. This was not a long job, and at night, after a great washing-up of the cabins, to get rid of the mud that had been left there, they had the satisfaction of taking possession of their old quarters.

"Well, lad," Hiram said, when they lighted their pipes after supper, "I never thought we were coming so well out of that job. With plenty of rice and sugar, not to speak of rum, on board, I didn't expect we war going to starve, but I thought we might have been weeks and weeks—ay, months, may be—before any one came along, and the thought as came into my mind was as we should have to make a raft and pole along till we got out into the river again. However, here we are, with the boat not much the worse, and everything on board ready for a start in the morning; and it's thanks to you as we have done it, for I am free to say as I don't think as I should have hit on this plan as we have carried out. You are a good mate to work with, lad, and no mistake. I don't wish never to get a better. It's a pity ye don't mean to stick to it for good, for I can swar that you would make one of the best hands on the Mississippi, in time."

The journey down the river was continued next morning. At the first place they stopped at they heard reports of widespread damage, of great tracts submerged, and of danger to life; the river was still at full flood, although it had fallen two feet from its highest level, and the next ten days were spent in rescuing the unfortunate people from the tops of the houses, trees, and patches of rising ground on which they had taken refuge. Then, having done all they were able, and the river having now fallen nearly to its average level, they continued their voyage down to New Orleans.

Hiram, in his report of the voyage to his employer, spoke in high terms of Frank's conduct, and ascribed to his quickness of invention their escape from what seemed likely to be an almost endless detention.

"But I am afraid he has made his last v'yage with me," he said; "he is talking of striking out across the plains to Californy. There was a good talk of gold thar before we started; and last night, after we came in, and went in for a drink and to hear the news, there didn't seem nothing else to talk about. The young chap was asking all sorts of questions, and I expect he's off; and I don't know as I blames him. He's the sort of fellow to get on. He has plenty of grit; he's strong and active now, and in a couple of years he will widen out and make a very big man. He's had a first-rate edication—he don't talk about it, but one would be blind not to see that—he will make his way wherever he goes, and I don't blame him for striking out from the river. He likes the river, too; but it ain't the place for making a fortin, unless you've got money at your back, as you have, boss. But I don't know if he had money, and could go into steamers and such-like, that he would stick to it.

"I don't know nowt of his history, but I think things must have gone hard with him somehow, and he came out here for excitement more than for making money. But there's nothing reckless about him; he don't drink, and he don't gamble, and it says a lot for a young fellow in New Orleans that he don't do one or the other. And he can fight, he can; there ain't no doubt about that. Why, I saw him give the biggest kind of a thrashing to the bully of a lumber camp, where we moored up alongside one night, as ever you seed. The chap was big enough to eat him, but he didn't have no kind of show. The young un just hit him where he liked, and in five minutes that chap's face was a thing to see, and the lad never got so much as a scratch. I wouldn't have thought as a man could have used his hands like that if I hadn't been thar. I shall be right-down sorry to lose him."

"I knew well-nigh when I took him on that he was not likely to stay, Hiram; he said as much. He wanted to get to know something about the ways of the country before he decided upon anything. If all young fellows would do as he did, go to work for a few months, instead of loafing about spending their money, and getting into bad ways, and among bad fellows, it would be better for them; he has only drawn a few dollars for his expenses—when he was down the last time—since he came to work, so he has got a good sum due to him. I will have a talk with him myself. There are a good many parties starting from here and taking the Santa Fé route; but, taking them all in all, I don't think I should recommend him to hang on to one of them."

"No, I should guess they would be a pretty hard lot who would go out from here—gamblers, and horse-thieves, and runaway sailors, and Mexican fighters—neither good to travel with or good to work with; he had better go up and strike from St. Louis."

"He had better go higher still, Hiram; there's a northern route, and I hear a lot of the Western men are making across that. However, I will talk to him."

That afternoon Frank went into Mr. Willcox's little office.

"Hiram has been speaking in very high terms of you, and I find that I am indebted to you for the saving of the boat, with what cargo she had on board, which Hiram said he had altogether given up as lost. You seem to have been in a position of very great danger, and to have had an extraordinarily narrow escape of your lives. However, I can understand that you are not content to settle down for life on the Mississippi, but I can tell you that with enterprise, judgment, and steadiness there is fortune to be made here still. I am not surprised that the gold-seeking mania has got hold of you."

"It is not so much, sir, the gold-seeking mania as the excitement attending it. I don't think I particularly care about making money, but I do want the excitement of such a life. I have come out for that, and not, as it is generally called, to make my fortune. The course of my life at home has been upset by circumstances into which I need not enter, and, at any rate for a time, I want action, and excitement. After that, perhaps, I may think of settling down, and what is called making my way."

"I can understand your feeling, lad, and will not try to persuade you to stop at this business. And now, what route are you thinking of taking across the continent?"

"I was thinking of joining a party going direct from here across to Santa Fé."

"I don't think that will be a good plan, lad. The caravans from here are composed, for the most part, of very hard characters, the sort of men who would shoot you for your horse if they took a fancy to it; I would by no means advise you to ally yourself with such men. I can, I think, put you in the way of a better plan than that. I find that a great number of caravans from the West are going by a northern route which crosses the Missouri at a point called Omaha. I have been thinking that this will become an important place, and have made up my mind to freight four or five flats with flour, bacon, and other goods of all sorts, and a frame store, and to go up there and open a business. I shall want a handy man with me at first; I shall take up a storekeeper to leave there in charge, but at first he will want help. If you like to go up in charge of one of the scows, and to stay to help put up the store and set things running, I will give you a hundred dollars, and you can have your passage up for your horse, which I should advise you to buy here. You will get one that will carry you, though of course not much to look at, for about fifty dollars; I know several horse-dealers here, and will get one for you if you like. You had also better get a stout pony to carry your traps and provisions; that will cost about forty dollars. Then you must have a rifle and a Colt. These are absolutely necessary for such a journey, for I hear that the Indians are very troublesome on the plains. These, however, I myself shall have much pleasure in presenting you with, in testimony of the obligation I feel I owe you for saving my boat and goods. The hundred dollars that are due to you, and the hundred that you will further earn at Omaha, will be sufficient for your horses and outfit, which will leave this money which you placed in my hands untouched. You will find that very useful, for you will want to buy a tent and provisions and tools out there, and money to keep you till you hit upon gold. Well, what do you think of my offer?"

"I am extremely obliged to you, sir; nothing could suit me better. And I am indeed greatly obliged for your kind offer of a rifle and revolver; they will certainly be most necessary, by what one hears of the journey."

"You have some other clothes, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir; I have another suit in my portmanteau."

"Very well, put them on, and come back here in an hour's time. It will be a week before my steamer starts, and you had better come and stop with me till then; it will keep you out of mischief, and I should be glad of your company."

At the appointed time Frank returned to the office, dressed in the suit of clothes he had brought with him. A light carriage with a pair of horses was standing at the door.

"Ah!" Mr. Willcox laughed, as he came out, "I fancy you look more like yourself now."

Frank took his place in the carriage, Mr. Willcox took the reins, the negro servant sprang up behind, and they were soon rattling through the streets of the town.

Mr. Willcox's house was situated two miles out of the city. It was a large building, with a verandah running round it, and standing in well-kept and handsome grounds; three or four negroes ran out as the carriage drove up.

"Sam, take this gentleman's portmanteau upstairs, and get a bath ready for him at once, and lay out a suit of white clothes for him.

"We always have a bath before dinner in this country," he said to Frank; "one wants to get rid of the dust of the day. Dinner will be ready in half an hour."

After enjoying a luxurious bath, and attiring himself in a suit of snowy-white gear, Frank descended to the dining-room.

Mr. Willcox was a widower, without children, and they therefore dined alone. As they were sitting over their wine after dinner in the verandah, Frank's host said, "I do not wish to be inquisitive, but if you don't mind telling me, I should like to know why a young fellow like yourself should embark upon a life of adventure."

Frank had met with such kindness from his employer, that he frankly told him the whole history of the events which had driven him from England.

"It is a singular story," the trader said, "and I own that appearances were against you. Of course I don't know him, and may be misjudge him altogether, but the only person who appears to me to have had any interest whatever in getting you into disgrace, and causing you to leave the country, is your cousin."

"Fred Barkley," Frank exclaimed, in surprise; "I can assure you such an idea never entered my mind; he is not at all a bad fellow, though certainly he is not popular at School."

"I should prefer taking the general verdict of the School to yours," the trader said; "boys are seldom far out in their estimate of persons; they have more instinct than men, and a boy is seldom far wrong in his estimate of character.

"The fact that he is generally unpopular is, in my mind, a proof that there is something wrong about this cousin of yours. Then what you tell me, that he refused to lend you the money which would have got you out of your scrape, while he afterwards came forward with twenty pounds to enable you to get away, is another strong point. The advice which he gave you was distinctly bad; for you had much better have remained, and to the last have protested your innocence. Then there is another point. Did I gather from your words that you and he are the nearest relations to the wealthy uncle with whom you lived?"

"Yes, that is so," Frank replied.

"Then, in case of your disgrace, it is by no means improbable that your uncle will leave him the whole of the money. Is that so?

"I have no doubt of it," Frank assented.

"Then you see he has a very strong interest in bringing you into discredit. Besides there were only, you say, five people who had any knowledge of this affair, and of your need for the money. None of the other four had the slightest possible interest in bringing you into disgrace; he had a very strong interest, and, take my word for it, your cousin is at the bottom of the whole affair."

"I cannot believe it," Frank said, rising from his chair and pacing up and down the verandah; "if I thought so I would return to England by the next ship and have it out with him."

"But you have no shadow of proof," Mr. Willcox said, "it is a matter of suspicion only. Even had the idea occurred to you at first, you would only have injured yourself by stating it, for it would have been regarded as a hideous aggravation of your crime to bring such a charge against your cousin unsupported by a shadow of proof. No; now you have taken your line you must go through with it, and trust to time to right you. It is a suspicion only, but you mark my words, if the mystery is ever solved it will be found that your cousin was at the bottom of it."

Frank spent a very pleasant week at the charming residence of Mr. Willcox. The latter entertained a good deal, and Frank met at his house several of the leading merchants of New Orleans, and acquired a good deal of knowledge of the state of the country. Most of them were incredulous as to the stories of the abundance of gold in California. That gold had been discovered they did not deny; but they were of opinion that the find would be an isolated one, and that ruin would fall upon the crowds who were hastening either across the continent, or by ship via Panama, to the new Eldorado. Several of them tried to dissuade Frank from his intention of going thither, and more than one offered to place him in their counting-houses, or to procure him employment of other kind.

Frank, however, was firm, for he was going, not for the sake of making money, but of finding adventure and excitement. He went down every day to the wharf and superintended the loading of the scows, and at the end of ten days he resumed his boatman's clothes and took his place on one of the scows. Hiram accompanied him, with eight negroes, two for each flat. A tug took them in tow, and they started up the river. Mr. Willcox was to follow by a steamer next day, and would arrive at Omaha some time before them, and have time to choose and buy a lot of land for his store, and to have all in readiness for their arrival. Frank had purchased a strong, serviceable horse for his own riding, and a pony for his baggage, together with blankets and other necessaries for the journey. His mining outfit he decided to get at Sacramento, as, although the cost would be considerable, he did not wish to encumber himself with it on his journey across the plains. The rifle and revolver had been presented him by Mr. Willcox, and he determined to practise steadily with both on his voyage up the river, as his life might depend on his proficiency with his weapons.

The voyage up the Mississippi and Missouri was performed without any notable adventure, although in the little-known waters of the upper river the tug ran several times aground. Those on board the flats had but little to do, their duties being confined to pumping out the water when there was any leakage; and the negroes had been taken up more for the purpose of unloading the cargo, carrying it to its destination, and putting up the store, than for any service they could render on the voyage. Frank, who had laid in a large store of ammunition for the purpose, amused himself by practising with his pistol at a bottle towed behind the scow, or with his rifle at floating objects in the stream, in feeding and taking care of his horses, and in listening to many yarns from Hiram.

"I can tell you, lad," the latter said one day, when, after passing St. Louis, they had entered the waters of the Missouri, "thar have been changes on this river since I was a youngster. I was raised at St. Louis, which was not much more than a frontier town in those days, and most of the work lay below; here and there there was a farm on the Missouri, but they got thinner as they got higher up, and long before we got to where we are going it was all Indian country. I used to go up sometimes with traders, but I never liked the job: first, I didn't like selling 'fire-water,' as they called it, to the Indians, for it made them mad, and brought on quarrels and wars; in the next place, it was a dangerous business. The Indians used to meet the traders at some place they had appointed beforehand, and there would be big feastings; sometimes the traders would come back with the boat loaded up with buffalo robes and skins, and Indian blankets, and such like; once or twice they didn't come back at all, and it was just a mercy that I didn't stay behind with them on one of the trips.

"I went up with a trading party to a place somewhere near this Omaha; we had three boats, with six voyageurs in each. I was about five-and-twenty then, and was steersman of one of them. There were four traders; they were in my boat, and they played cards and drank all the way up. One of the boats was a flat—not a flat like this, but just a big flat-bottomed boat,—for they were going, as I understood, to get some good horses from the Indians and take them down to St. Louis. We had pretty hard work getting her along, and a weak crew would never have got her against the stream, though of course we chose a time when the river was low and there wasn't much stream on. Sometimes we rowed, sometimes we poled, keeping along the shallows and back waters; and, though the pay was good, I wasn't sorry when we got to the place appointed; not only because the work was hard, but because I didn't like the ways of them traders, with their gambling, and drinking, and quarrelling. However, they gave up drink the last day, and were sober enough when they landed.

"I don't know why, but I didn't think things were going to turn out well. I had heard the traders say as they didn't mean to come up that part of the country agin, and I knew their goods warn't of no account, and that they were going to trade off bad stuff on the Indians. The first two days things went on all right; every evening large lots of goods were brought down to the boats, but except when I went up with the others to the traders' tent to bring the things down I didn't go about much. It was a large camp, with two or three hundred braves, as they calls 'em. I told the men in my boat what I thought of it; but they didn't think much of what I said, and traded a little on their own account, for it was part of the agreement that each man should be allowed to take up fifty dollars-worth of goods, and have room for what he could get for them. I traded mine away the first day for some buffalo robes, and so hadn't anything to take me away from the boat.

"The third day the trading was done; there was to be a grand feast that night, and the boats were to start the next morning. Most of the men went up to see the fun, but I persuaded two of my mates in my boat to stop quiet with me. Presently I heard a yell from the camp, which was about three hundred yards away. 'That's mischief,' says I. I had scarce spoken when there was a yelling fit to make your har stand on end, and I heard pistol-shots. 'Quick,' lads, says I, 'catch up a hatchet and stave a hole in the other boats, and push ours a little way out from the bank.' We warn't long in doing that, and then we stopped and listened.

"There was a sharp fight going on, that we could hear, and guessed how it must be going when they war twenty to one. Presently the shouting and firing ceased, and then against the sky-line—for they had lots of fires blazing in camp—we saw a crowd of Injuns come rushing down to the river. We shoved the boat off, and took to our oars; they shouted to us, and then fired at us, and shot their arrows, and swarmed down into the other two boats to come after us, and there was a fresh burst of yells when they found that they wouldn't swim. We didn't stop to talk, you may be sure, but rowed as hard as we could.

"The night was pretty dark, and though several bullets hit the boat, and a dozen of their arrows fell into it, only one of us had a scratch, and that wasn't serious. As soon as we war fairly away, we set to work to roll up the buffalo robes and skins into big bales, and lay them along on each side of the boat, so as to form a protection for us from their bullets and arrows; for we guessed they would follow us down, and in many places the river was so shallow they could ride pretty well out to us. They did follow us, on horseback, for the next two days, and shot at us pretty hot at times. Once they rode so far out in the shallows that we dared not pass them; so we dropped anchor above, and took to our rifles, and gave them a pretty sharp lesson, for they lost seven men. After that they didn't try that game any more, but just followed down in hopes we might stick on a sandbank. I tell you I never looked out so sharp for shallows as I did on that there voyage.

"Fortunately, at the end of the first day a breeze sprang up from the north, and we got up a sail, for we war pretty nigh done, having rowed by turns from the time we pushed off. We war afraid, you see, as they might patch up the other boats and set out after us, though we hoped they mightn't think of it, for these horse Indians don't know nothing of river work. They gave it up at last, and we got safely down to St. Louis. What the trouble was about I never heard, for not one of those who had landed ever got away to tell us. I expect it was some trouble about the quality of the goods, and that the Indians got a notion they were being cheated,—which, sure enough, they war."

"Was anything done to punish the Indians, Hiram?"

"Lor' bless you, who was to punish them? Why, there was scarce a settler then west of the Mississippi. No; if traders went among 'em they went among 'em at thar own risk; and, I am bound to say, that if the Indians were treated fair, and the men understood thar ways, thar was no great danger. The Indians knew if they killed traders that others wouldn't come among them, and they wanted goods—guns and powder most of all, but other things too, such as blankets, and cloth as they calls cotton, and hatchets, beads, and other things, and they wanted to trade off thar hosses and buffalo robes, and skins of all kinds. That was the protection the traders had; and it warn't very often the Indians fell foul of them, except it might be a muss got up over the fire-water.

"When the news came down to St. Louis there was a good deal of talk about it; but it got about that these fellows had been taking up trash, and the general verdict was that it sarved 'em right. All the traders on the frontier set their faces agin men who cheated the Indians, not because they cared for the Indians, mark you, but because anything that made bad blood did harm to the trade all over. However, it gave me a bad scare, and it was a good many years before I came up the Upper Missouri again. There's some men as seems to me to be downright fond of fighting; but I don't feel like that, anyway. If I get into a hard corner, and have got to fight, then I fights, but I had rather go round the other way if I could. Thar are dangers enough on this river for me; what with snags, and shoals, and storms, they are enough for any reasonable man. Then there are the river pirates; they are worse than all, though it's some years since we had much trouble with 'em."

"River pirates, Hiram? I have not heard you say anything about them before. I did not know there were any pirates on these rivers."

"Thar used to be, lad, years back, lots of them, and a pretty lively time we used to have on the river."

"But what sort of pirates, Hiram?"

"Well, thar war two sorts, you see, at that time. Five-and-twenty years ago the settlements on the river war a long way apart. You might go fifty miles without seeing a village when you once got past the plantations on the lower river; you may say as this region then was like what Kansas is now. Chaps who had made it too hot for them in the east came out here, and just had to wrestle round for a living. New Orleans is pretty bad now, but it was a sight worse then; and St. Louis was a pretty hard place. Then, too, thar war runaway slaves. So you see, one way or the other, a fellow who wanted to get together a band up to any mischief had not to look far for men.

"Well, as I said, thar war two sorts. Thar war the men who lived away from the river, say in the low country between the Arkansas and the main stream, which was then pretty nigh all swamp and forest; perhaps they had hosses, perhaps not, but mostly they had. Well, one fine morning a dozen of them would ride into one of the villages on the river. Thar wasn't much to take thar, you know, onless it war fever, and they had enough of that in thar own swamps. They would wait, may be, for a day or two, till a boat came in, and as soon as it had made fast they would cover the men with thar rifles, and just empty it of all it had got—powder, blankets, groceries, and dry goods, and what not—and make off again. I got my cargo lifted, I should say, a dozen times that way. It war onpleasant, but thar was nothing for it; and it warn't no use making a fuss when you saw half a dozen rifles pinted at you. Why, in the early days of steamers, more than once they got held up, and the fellows went through the passengers and cargo and took what they fancied.

"Well, that was one sort of pirate. The other was what you may call the regular water pirate. They lived on the islands, in among the back-waters, or where-ever thar might be a patch of raised ground among the swamps, and had boats; and they would attack you at night as you war dropping down the stream or poling up the backs. They war wuss nor the others. A sight more nor half of 'em war blacks; and good reason why, for the fevers carried off the whites as joined them before they had been thar long. They was a powerful bad lot, and those who fell into thar hands hadn't much chance of thar lives. The runaway slaves war down on a white man, and he had no marcy to expect at thar hands; besides, they didn't want no tales told which might scare boats from going near the places where they war hiding. So in general they fust emptied the boats, and then scuttled and sunk them, and cut the throats of all on board. Hundreds of boats war missed in those days, and none ever knew for sartin what had become of them.

"I tell you one had to keep one's eyes open in those days. We had strong crews, and every man was armed, and a pretty sharp lookout was kept; but for all that thar was places, back-waters, and cuts, and such like, whar I wouldn't have been stuck in after dark, not for all the money in Orleans. Even in the open river no one was safe from 'em, for they got so bold they would go out, four or five boat-loads, and attack in broad daylight; things got so bad that no one dared go up or down, unless it was ten or twelve boats together for protection. It war the steamers as broke 'em up; thar ain't no stopping a steamer, and every one took to being towed up or down. Then the population increased, and regular expeditions war got up to hunt 'em down. Altogether it got made too hot for 'em, and the game didn't pay; but for some years, I can tell you, they war a terror to the river."

"And were you never attacked, Hiram?"

"I was chased several times," Hiram said; "but I had a fast boat and a good crew, and we generally had four white men on board then, and plenty of arms. Yes, we had some skirmishes, but it was only once I had a regular set-to with 'em, and that war a pretty bad job."

"How was it, Hiram?"

"Well, you see, the river was pretty full, and the wind had been light for some time, and there warn't no way of making against the main stream; I had waited for three weeks, and me and my mates got sick of it. We had a cargo which was due up the river, and we made up our minds at last that we would push on and take our chance. We had eight negroes, all strong active fellows, armed with cutlasses and old ship muskets, and we four whites had rifles and pistols. We allowed we could make a good fight of it, so we agreed as we would go up the back-waters, so managing as to be able to get out into the stream every night and anchor thar. We shifted the cargo a bit, so as to pile it up round the sides, stowing the rice-bags so as to make a sort of breastwork; then off we started.

"For some days we got along well; the blacks poled thar best, and every evening we just hit a pint where we could go out into the stream agin. Two or three times we fancied we war watched, for we heard the snapping of twigs, and sounds in the thick swamp jungle ahead; but I reckon they thowt better of it when they saw two rifle-barrels peeping out from the sacks on each side, and saw we war ready for a tussle. But one day—it wasn't very far from the pint where we mended up that boat the other day—we war later than usual; the stream war stronger than we reckoned on, we had run aground two or three times on the mud, and it war getting dark, and we had two miles yet before we got to a place where we could get out into the river. The blacks war working thar hardest; it didn't need no words from us to keep 'em at it, for they knew as well as we did what was the danger, and the boat just flew along that narrow channel."

"We war on the watch, with our eyes fixed on the bank, and our ears pretty wide open to catch any sound ahead. All of a sudden a gun was fired close alongside. The blacks gave a yell, and would have jumped down into shelter, only I shouted, 'Stick to your poles, men; if you lose them we are done for; there's no danger, it's only one man.' So on we went again, for, luckily, no one was hit. 'That's a signal,' Bill, says I to one of my mates; 'I reckon we shall have trouble afore we are out of this.' On we went, flying between the bushes, which warn't fifteen yards apart. Not a sound was heard but the panting of the blacks, the splash of their poles in the water, and a sort of sighing noise behind, as the ripples the boat made as she glided along rustled among the boughs which dipped down into the stream.

"We had got a mile further when we heard a noise. It was much as a pole might make knocked against the side of the boat. I knew thar was mischief now. 'Get in your poles, lads,' I said; 'four of you get out oars through the holes we have left for them atween the bags, and put your muskets close at hand; the other four get your muskets, and station yourselves two on each side.' We went on slowly now; we knew they war ahead of us, and that hurrying wouldn't do no good, and that we had got to fight anyhow. It might have been five minutes when thar was a flash from the bushes on either side—which we could scarce see in the darkness,—and fully a dozen muskets poured a volley into us, buckshot and ball, as we found on looking over the boat the next morning. It was a good job as we put them rice-bags in place, for I reckon thar wouldn't have been many of us up to fighting if they hadn't been thar. We had agreed not to fire back if we war fired at from the wood, for they couldn't do us much harm thar, and it was best to keep our fire for the boats which they war sure to have as well.

"The moment the volley was fired two boats shot out, one from each side. 'Now, give it 'em,' says I. Up we jumped, four on each side, and poured our fire into the boats, which warn't twelve feet away. The darkies who war rowing had been told what to do, and, to do 'em justice, they did it well. Thar was a yell from the boats as we fired, for I reckon every shot told; but the way they had got brought 'em on, and their bows struck us just at the same moment. Then at it we went with our pistols as they crowded forward and tried to get on board. It was over in half a minute, for the four blacks had seized their poles, and, shoving them into the boats, two on each side, pushed 'em off.

"I have heard pretty tall language on the Mississippi, but I never heard such volleys of cussing as came up from them boats; some of the men blazed away with thar guns, some shouted to others to row alongside, some who war hit yelled and cussed like fiends; and all this time we war lying behind the bags, ramming down fresh charges for the bare life. We gave 'em eight more shots before they could cast off the poles and come at us again. This time they came along more on the broadside, and five or six of 'em sprang on board; but we war ready with the butts of our rifles, and the blacks with thar cutlasses, and we cleared them off again. The four darkies had stuck to thar poles; one boat was shoved off, and one of the blacks run his pole right through the bottom of the other, and in a minute she went down.

"The other boat didn't know what had happened, and came up agin; but leaving two of the blacks to chop down any of the fellows in the water who might try to climb aboard, the other ten of us stood up and fought 'em fair. Our blood was up now, and our darkies fought like demons. The pirates soon found they had the worst of it, and would have got apart from us if they could; but we jumped into thar boat and fought them thar, and they soon jumped over and made for the bank. Directly it was over they began to fire agin from the shore, and we jumped back into shelter agin in our own boat and manned the four oars agin. We fastened the painter of the boat on to our stern, and towed her behind us, and in another half an hour were out in the stream. It was a toughish fight, I can tell you, while it lasted; two of the blacks and one of my mates had been hit by thar musket-balls, and the rest of us war either gashed by thar knives or had got ugly cracks. However, six of them war lying in the boat when we hauled it alongside; two war stone-dead, the other four had been stunned with the butt ends of the muskets, or cut down by the darkies' sabres. We took 'em down to the next place and handed 'em over to the sheriff; and as thar happened to be a lot of boats waiting thar for the wind, you may guess it warn't many hours afore they tried and hung 'em.

"When the chaps heard the particulars, and that we had sunk one boat, besides bringing off another, they guessed as likely enough the pirates war trapped thar; and so they got up a regular expedition, six boats, each with a dozen men. I went back to show 'em the place. They brought dogs with them, and hunted through the woods and swamps till they came to the patch of higher ground whar the pirates had got thar huts. Thar were about twenty of 'em, mostly negroes, and they fought hard, for thar was no escape, the boat having drifted away after it had sunk. Behind thar war some widish channels, and some of the boats had gone round thar to cut 'em off if they took to swimming. They war killed, every man jack, and that put an end to one of the very worst lots of pirates we ever had on the river."

"You were lucky to have got out of it so well, Hiram. I suppose that sort of thing is quite over now."

"Yes. In course thar are water thieves still, chaps who steal things from the boats if thar is no one with 'em, or if you are all asleep below; but thar haven't been no real pirates for years now—leastways not above New Orleans. Down in the great swamps, by the mouth of the river, thar's always gangs of runaway slaves, and desperate characters of all sorts, who have got to live somehow. Thar are still boats sometimes missing up the river, which may have been snagged and gone down with all hands, and which may be have comed to thar end some other way. Anyhow, no one thinks much about pirates now, and the river's quite as safe as the streets of New Orleans. That mayn't be saying much, perhaps, but it's good enough. Of course a party might any day take to the swamps and stop up-passing boats, just as they might take to the roads and stop waggons going west; but one doesn't trouble about things onless they get so as to be what you might call a general danger.

"You can't go into a bar-room without a risk of getting into a fight with a drunken rowdy; you can't stop at one of these landing-places but what thar's a chance of getting into a mess with fellows who come in from the backs for a spree, and one doesn't look to have these rivers which, one and the other, are tens of thousands of miles long, just kept as free from hard characters as a street in Boston. It's as good as we can look for at present. Settlement is going on wonderful fast, and, like enough, in another forty years there won't be any more pirates on the great rivers here than thar are on the seas. Steam and settlements is bound to wipe 'em out at last."

During the last two or three hundred miles of the journey up the Missouri a few settlements only were passed, little villages nestling closely together on the edge of the river, surrounded often by a stockade; for although the Indians were gradually falling back before the advance of the whites, Indian wars were of frequent occurrence, and then the bands of wild horsemen swept down to the Missouri, carrying fire and destruction in their course. In front of every settlement lay a scow or two, used partly for the transportation of the crops, but valuable also as an ark of refuge in case of attack. The shores were low, and shallows and banks abounded in the stream, and sometimes the tug ran aground four or five times in the course of the day. In spite of his practice with his firearms, and Hiram's talk and stories, Frank began to find the days pass very slowly, and was not a little glad when Hiram pointed out a cluster of huts on the left bank, and said, "There is Omaha."

Half an hour later the tug was alongside, and Mr. Willcox was on board.

"I am glad to see you up," he said, as the flats were moored to the bank, and Frank stepped ashore and joined him. "The time has gone slowly here; for though I stayed four days at St. Louis, I have been here nearly a week. There is lots to do, and I am greatly pleased that I went in for it. I wish you could have made up your mind to settle here; you would have made a precious deal better thing of it than you ever will do by digging for gold. However, I know it's no use talking about that. I have got a capital location on the main street; I bought it off a fool who came up in the steamboat with me, and had made up his mind to sell out and cross the plains. I had an offer for it yesterday at five times the price I gave for it; but, bless you, I wouldn't have taken twenty times. This is going to be a big place. I am glad you have come for another reason. I am putting up at one of the shanties they call an hotel, but one might as well try to live in the Tower of Babel. There is an uproar day and night; every inch of the floor is taken up for sleeping on, and I have been nearly driven out of my mind. Now I can live on board the tug till she goes down with the empty flats. I am glad I brought up those eight negroes, for there would be the greatest difficulty in hiring hands here; every one seems to have gone stark mad, and to consider every hour's delay in pushing west as so much loss of a chance of making a fortune."

For the next fortnight the labour was incessant. Hiram, Frank, and the eight negroes toiled in landing the stores and the framework of the house, and in transporting them to the lot which Mr. Willcox had purchased. Even the engineers of the tug were induced by the high payment Mr. Willcox offered to aid in the work. Several stretchers, or hand-barrows, had been brought up with them, and on these such bales and boxes as were too heavy for one man to carry were transported. The framework of the house was first carried to the site, and four of the negroes who were good carpenters at once began to put it together, so that by the time the last of the goods were brought up the store was ready to receive them. It was a building some sixty feet long by twenty wide, and was divided into two by a partition: the one end, twenty feet in length, was the saleroom; in the other, forty feet long, the bulk of the heavy goods, flour, rice, bacon, hogsheads of sugar, and chests of tea, were stored. There was, in addition, a lean-to, nine feet square, at one end, which was to serve as the habitation of the storekeeper. The assortment of goods was very large. In addition to the stock of provisions, which filled the storeroom nearly up to the roof, were a great quantity of clothing fitted for the rough work of the plains, a large assortment of rifles and pistols, kegs of ammunition, casks of axle-grease, ironwork for waggons, and all the miscellaneous stores, down to needles and thread, which would be likely to be required by the emigrants. As soon as the stores were all safely on shore and housed, the tug started down the river again with the flats; Hiram and six of the negroes accompanied them, two of the latter being retained as assistants to the storekeeper. Between Hiram and Frank there was a very cordial adieu.

"I likes yer, young fellow," the boatman said; "you will make your way, never fear, some day, if you get a chance. Send a line to me, to the charge of the boss, and let me know how things go with you. I shall be gladder than I can tell you to hear as you're making your way, and I shall be anxious like till I hear as you have got safely over this journey, for they do say as the Indians are playing all sorts of devilry with the caravans. Well, there's one thing, you are a good shot now; but be careful, lad, and don't get into no fights if you can keep out of 'em."

Frank remained for another fortnight assisting in the store; by the end of that time things had settled down. They were already doing a very large business, and Mr. Willcox had sent down orders, both to St. Louis and New Orleans, for fresh consignments of stores very greatly exceeding those which he had brought up with him.

Three months previously Omaha had been a tiny settlement of a dozen houses, but was rapidly growing into a considerable place.

Many stores were rising, but the distance from the inhabited settlements, and the difficulties of carriage, were enormous. The population was, for the most part, a floating one, scores of waggons and vehicles of all sorts arriving every day, while as many departed. This was the last point of civilisation, and here the emigrants generally halted for a few days to rest their weary cattle, and to fill up their stores of provisions for the journey across the wilderness.

All believed that a vast fortune awaited them on the other side of the continent, and the most fabulous tales of the abundance of gold were circulated and believed. In some cases the parties consisted only of men who had clubbed together and purchased a waggon, and started, leaving their wives and families behind them. In others they were composed of whole families, who had sold off farms or businesses in the east in the assurance of acquiring a fortune at the gold-diggings. Around the little settlement the plain was dotted with the white tilts of the waggons, mingled with the tents which had been extemporised of sail-cloth, tarpaulins, and blankets.

CHAPTER IX. ON THE PLAINS.

"I THINK now that you can spare me, Mr. Willcox," Frank said, just a month after the day of landing. "The store has got into swing now; the two negroes know their work well, and everything is going on smoothly; therefore, if you have no objection, I shall see about making a start."

"I shall be sorry to lose you," Mr. Willcox said; "but, as you say, the place will run itself now. I shall go down by the next steamer, and send up two more storekeepers and a clerk from my office there. This is going to be a big thing. Well, lad, here's the money you gave me to take care of, and the two hundred dollars due to you. I will give orders to Simpson that you are to take everything you can require for your journey from the store, and mind don't stint yourself; you have done right-down good service here, and I feel very much indebted to you for the way you have stuck to me at this pinch. I wish you every luck, lad, and I hope some day that rascally affair at home will be cleared up, and that you can go back again cleared of that ugly charge. Anyhow, it is well for you to make your way out here. It will be a satisfaction for you, if you do go back, to have shown that you were dependent on no one, but that you could fight your own way, and make your living by the aid of your own hands and your own brain. And now look here, if at any time you get sick of gold-digging, as you very well may, and want to turn your hand to anything else—and in a country like that, mind you, with a population pouring in from all parts, there will be big opportunities,—if you want capital to start you, just you send a letter to David Willcox, New Orleans, and tell me you have drawn on me for five thousand dollars. I am a rich man, lad, and have no children of my own; I have some nephews and nieces who will get my money some day, but I can do what I like with it, and you will be heartily welcome to the sum I mention. I have taken a fancy to you, and it will be a real pleasure to me to help you. If you do well you can some day send the money back, if you like; if you don't do well, there's an end of it. Don't let it trouble you for a moment, for it certainly won't trouble me, and be sure you don't hesitate to draw it when you want it. Remember, I shan't regard it as an obligation, but it will be a real genuine pleasure to me to cash that order."

Frank thanked Mr. Willcox very heartily for his kind offer, of which he promised to avail himself should an opportunity arise, and in any case to write to him occasionally to tell him how he was getting on. Then he strolled out to examine the great gathering round the settlement, which hitherto he had had no time to do, having been at work from daybreak until late at night. As he wandered among the motley throng of emigrants, he was struck with the hopefulness which everywhere prevailed, and could not but feel that many of them were doomed to disappointment. Many of them were storekeepers, men who had never done a day's work in their life; some were aged men, encumbered with wives and large families, and Frank wondered how these would ever survive the terrible journey across the plains, even if they escaped all molestation from the marauding Indians. He paused for a moment near four men who were seated round a fire cooking their meals.

All were sturdy, sunburnt men, who looked inured to hardship and work. The fact that all were animated by a common impulse rendered every one friendly and communicative, and Frank was at once invited to sit down.

"Of course you are going through, young fellow?"

"Yes," Frank said, "I am going to try."

"Got a horse, I suppose?"

"Yes," Frank said, "a riding horse, and a pony for my baggage."

"We calls it swag out on the plains," one said; "we don't talk of baggage here. Are you with any one?"

"No," Frank replied, "I am alone; but I am open to join some party. I suppose there will be no difficulty about that."

"None on airth," the other answered; "the stronger the better. In course you have a rifle, besides that Colt in your belt."

"Yes," Frank replied; "but I suppose all this Indian talk is exaggeration, and there is not much danger from them."

"Don't you go to think it, young man; the Injins is thar, you bet, and no mistake, and a big grist of scalps they will take. The news of this here percession across the plains will bring them down as thick as bees on the track, and I tell you there will be some tough fights afore we get across."

"Have you had much experience of the plains?" Frank asked.

"We are hunters," the other said briefly, "and have been out there, more or less, since we were boys. We knows what Injins is, and have fought them agin and agin; but none of us have ever made this journey,—indeed there warn't five men who had ever crossed the Rockies by the northern track afore the gold scare began. But I know enough of the country to know as it will be a fearful journey, and full half of these people as you see fooling about here as if they were out for a summer excursion will leave their bones by the way."

"You don't really think things are as bad as that," Frank said.

"I does," the other replied emphatically. "What with Injins, and want of food and water, and fatigue, and the journey across the plains, it will want all a man to make the journey. We four means to get through, and are bound to do it; but as for this crowd you see here, God help them!"

"Do you mean to go with one of the caravans, or start alone?"

"There is a lot going on to-morrow, and we shall join them. We may be of some use, for the best part of them are no better than a flock of sheep, and four good hands may keep them out of some mischief; but I expect we shall have to push on by ourselves before the journey is over."

"I am intending to go on to-morrow also," Frank said, "and I hope you won't mind giving me some instructions in the ways of the wilderness, which are, I own, altogether new to me."

"All right, young fellow; we shall see you on the road, and if you likes to chum up with us you may, for I likes yer looks, and you seems to be one of the right sort."

Frank said that he would gladly chum with them if they would allow him, and the next morning, at daybreak, having said adieu to Mr. Willcox, he saddled his horse and loaded up his pony, and moved across to the spot where his new acquaintances were encamped. They were preparing for a start. All had good riding horses, while two baggage animals carried the provisions for the party. The caravan which they intended to accompany was already far out on the plain.

"They are off in good time," Frank said; "I did not think they would manage to move till midday."

"No more they would," one of the hunters said; "but the chap as is bossing the team moved them off yesterday evening, and got them a mile out of camp, so they were able to start right off the first thing this morning."

In a few minutes they were on horseback, and, riding at easy pace for the sake of the baggage-horses, they overtook the caravan in two hours. It consisted of fourteen waggons, and four or five light carts with tilts over them. The waggons were all drawn by oxen, having six, eight, or ten according to their size or weight. The men walked by the side of their cattle; the greater part of the women and children trudged along behind the waggons, while a few with babies were seated within them. From time to time one of the men or boys would set up a song, and all would join in the chorus. One of these was ringing out in the air when the hunters joined them.

"Poor critturs!" the eldest of the hunters, who was called Abe by the others, said, "they are as light-hearted as if they war a-going to a camp meeting; they don't know what's afore them."

The party rode on to the head of the waggons, where the oxen were led by the man who was regarded as the head of the party. He had at one time been a hunter, but had married and settled down on a farm. Two sons, nearly grown-up, walked by his side. He had been chosen as leader by the rest as being the only one of the party who had any previous knowledge of the plains and their dangers and difficulties.

"Well, mate," Abe said, "I told you two days ago that I thought that we should go on with your lot, and here we are. I don't say as how we shall go all the way with you; that will depend upon circumstances; at any rate we will stay with ye for a bit. Now my proposal is this: you shall hitch our three baggage-horses on behind your waggons, and tell off one of the boys to look after them; we shall hunt as we go along, and what meat there is will be for the service of the camp, but if we supply you with meat it will only be fair that you supply us with flour and tea."

"That's a bargain," the man said. "You bring us in meat, and we will supply you with everything else; and I needn't tell you how glad I am to have you with me. Five extra rifles may make all the difference if we are attacked. We have got about twenty rifles in camp; but that ain't much, as, with women and children, we count up to nigh sixty souls, and none of us here except myself have had any experience of Indian ways."

"That's fixed, then," Abe said. "At any rate you need not be afraid of a surprise so long as we are with you."

The addition to their party gave great satisfaction to the whole caravan. Of flour and bacon they had ample stores to last them upon their long journey, and the prospect of a supply of fresh meat was exceedingly welcome; still more was the thought that the hunters would be able to warn them against any surprise by the Indians, and would, in case of the worst, aid them in their defence.

The hunters were equally satisfied. Their supplies were quite insufficient for the journey, and they were now free from the necessity of accommodating their pace to that of the baggage-horses. Their progress would, indeed, be slower than it would have been had they journeyed alone, but time was a matter of no importance to them. Even in the matter of Indian surprises they were better off than they would have been had they been alone. In case of meeting these marauders, they must have abandoned their baggage-animals; and their prospects, either of flight or defence, would have been poor had they met with a large body when alone, whereas the force with the caravan could defend the waggons against even a resolute attack of the redskins. There was no occasion for the hunters to set out in the pursuit of game for the first day or two, as a supply of fresh meat had been brought from Omaha. They therefore rode with the caravan, making the acquaintance of its various members.

One of the women had volunteered to cook for them; and thus, when they encamped on the banks of a small stream, they had only to attend to the watering of their animals. While the meal was preparing they walked about in the camp, and gave many hints to the women as to the best way of preparing fires. These were gratefully received, for the emigrants were wholly unaccustomed to cooking without the usual appliances, and their efforts, in many cases, had been very clumsy and unsuccessful. They were surprised to find that by digging a trench in the direction from which the wind was blowing, and covering it over with sods, they could get a draught to their fire equal to that which they could obtain in a grate; while by building a low wall of sod close to leeward of the fire, they prevented the flames from being driven away, and concentrated them upon their pots and kettles.

"It does not matter for to-night," Abe said to the leader, "nor for a good many nights to come; but if I was you I should begin to-morrow to make 'em arrange the waggons in proper form, the same as if we was in the Injin country. It ain't no more trouble, and there's nothing like beginning the right way."

"You are right," the man said, "to-morrow night we will pitch them in good form; but for a time there will be no occasion for the cattle to be driven in every night, the longer they have to graze the better."

"That's so," Abe said; "they will want all their condition for the bad country further on."

The following day the hunters left the camp early. There was little chance of finding game anywhere near the line which they were following, for the wild animals would have been scared away by the constantly passing caravans. After riding for ten miles they began to keep a watchful eye over the country, which, although flat to the eye, was really slightly undulating. Proceeding at an easy pace, they rode on for upwards of an hour. Then Dick, one of the hunters, suddenly drew rein.

"What is it, Dick?" Abe asked.

"I saw a horn over there to the left, or I am mistaken," the hunter said.

"We will see, anyhow," Abe said; "fortunately we are down wind now. You had better stop behind this time, young fellow, and watch us."

In a moment the four men dismounted and threw their reins on the horses' necks—a signal which all horses on the plains know to be an order that they are not to move away—and the animals at once began cropping the grass. For a short distance the men walked forward, and then, as they neared the brow over which Dick declared he had seen the horn, they went down on all fours, and finally, when close to the brow, on their stomachs.

Very slowly they drew themselves along. Frank looked on with the greatest attention and interest, and presently saw them halt, while Abe proceeded alone. He lifted up his head slightly, and immediately laid it down again, while the other three crawled up close to him. There was a moment's pause, then the guns were thrust forward, and each slightly raised himself.

A moment later the four rifles flashed, and the men sprang to their feet and disappeared over the brow. Frank rode forward at full speed to the spot, and arrived there just in time to see a number of deer dashing at full speed far across the plain, while the four hunters were gathered round three dead stags in the hollow. The hunters' shots had all told; but two had fired at the same animal, the bullet-holes being close to each other behind the shoulder.

"Dick was right, you see," Abe said. "It was lucky he caught sight of that horn, for we might not have come upon another herd to-day. Now we will make our way on to the camping-ground; we can go easy, for we shall be there long before the teams."

Their horses were brought up, and the deer placed upon them. The hunters then mounted, and took their way in the direction of the spot where the caravans would encamp for the night.

"I understand how you find your way now, because the sun is up," Frank said, "but I cannot understand how you would do it on a cloudy day, across a flat country like this, without landmarks."

"It's easier to do than it is to explain it," Abe said. "In the first place there's the wind; it most always blows here, and one only has to keep that in a certain quarter. If there ain't no wind, there's the grass and the bushes; if you look at these bushes you will see that they most all turn a little from the direction in which the wind generally blows, and this grass, which is in seed, droops over the same way. Then, in course, there is the general direction of the valleys, and of any little streams. All of these are things one goes by at first, but it gets to come natural, what they call by instinct; one knows, somehow, which is the way to go without looking for signs. You will get to it in time, if you are long enough on the plains; but at present you watch the forms of all the bushes and the lay of the grass, 'cause you see in hunting we might get separated, and you might miss your way. If you should do so, and ain't sure of your direction, fire your gun three times, as quick as you can load it, and if we are in hearing we will fire a gun in reply and come to you; but you will soon get to know the signs of the country if you will pay attention and keep your eyes skinned."

They arrived at the stream fixed upon for the camping-ground early in the afternoon. The point at which the caravans would cross it was plain enough, for the waggons all travelled by the same line, and the trail was strongly marked by the ruts of wheels where the ground was soft, by broken bushes, and trampled herbage. The saddles were taken off the horses, and these were allowed to graze at will; those of the hunters were too well-trained to wander far, and Frank's horse was certain to keep with the others.

Late in the afternoon the waggons arrived; it had been a long march of more than twenty miles, and men and beasts were alike tired. The women and children had, during the latter part of the journey, ridden in the waggons. There was a general feeling of satisfaction at the sight of the hunters and their spoil, and at the blazing fire, over which a portion of the meat was already roasting. The oxen were unharnessed and watered, the waggons were ranged six on each side, and two across one end, the other end being left open for convenience; across this the light carts were to be drawn at night. The deer were skinned, cut up, and divided among the various families in proportion to their numbers.

For two months the caravan moved forward without adventure. The hunters kept it well provided with game, which was now very plentiful. Very disquieting rumours were afloat along the road. These were brought down by the express riders who carried the mails across the plains, and for whose accommodation small stations were provided, twenty or thirty miles apart; and as these were placed where water was procurable, they were generally selected as camping-grounds by the emigrants.

The tales of Indian forays, which had at first been little more than rumours, were now confirmed. The express riders reported that the Indians were out in large numbers, and that many attacks had been made upon parties of emigrants, sometimes successfully, and involving the massacre of every soul in them. The caravan was still some distance from the scene of these attacks; but as the Indians ranged over the whole plains, it could not be said that they were beyond the risk of assault. Acting under the hunters' advice, the caravan now moved in much closer order, the waggons advancing two abreast, so that they could be formed in position for defence at the shortest notice; and the rifles were always kept loaded, and strapped on the outsides of the waggons in readiness for instant use.

Frank had by this time become an adept in hunting, and though still very far behind his companions in skill with the rifle, was able to make a fair contribution towards the provisioning of the camp. The hunters now divided into two parties, three going out in search of game on one side of the line of march, two on the other; they thus acted as scouts on either side, and would be able to bring in word should any suspicious signs be observed. Several small herds of buffalo had been met with, and a sufficient number killed to provide the party with meat for some time to come.

Frank had never passed a more enjoyable time than those two months of travel. The air was clear, bright, and exhilarating; the long days spent in the saddle, and the excitement of the chase, seemed to quicken his pulse and to fill him with a new feeling of strength and life. His appetite was prodigious, and he enjoyed the roughly cooked meals round the blazing fire of an evening, as he had never enjoyed food before. The country was, it is true, for the most part monotonous, with its long low undulations, and the bare sweeps, unbroken by tree or bush; but there was always something new and interesting to be seen,—for Frank was fond of Natural History, and the habits and ways of the wild creatures of the prairie were full of interest for him. His companions, although taciturn when on horseback and engaged in scouting the country, or in hunting, were full of anecdote as they sat round the fire of an evening, and Frank heard many a story of wild adventure with the Indians or in the chase.

When they returned early to the camp, there was plenty of amusement in wandering about among the waggons, watching the various groups engaged at their work as unconcernedly as if they had been still in their little farms among the settlements, instead of on the plains with months of toilsome and dangerous journey before them. Some of the women cooked, while others mended their clothes and those of their husbands and children, while the men attended to the oxen, or made such repairs as were needed to the waggons and harness.

As for the children, the life suited them admirably; to them it was a continual picnic, without school or lessons. And yet they too had their share of the work, for as soon as the waggons halted, all save the very little ones started at once over the plain to search for the dried buffalo dung, or, as it was called, chips, which formed the staple of the fires; for wood was very scarce, and that in the neighbourhood of the camping-grounds, which were always at a stream or water-hole, had long since been cleared off by the travellers who had preceded them. The chips afforded excellent fuel, burning with a fierce, steady glow, and making a fire something like that afforded by well-dried peat. Another source of fuel were the bones which lay in many places, scattered pretty thickly. Sometimes these marked the spot where long before a party of Indians had come upon a herd of buffalo, sometimes they were remains of the cattle of caravans which had preceded them; these were often quite fresh, the herds of coyotes stripping off the flesh of any animals that fell by the way, and leaving nothing in the course of a day or two after their death but the bare bones. Whenever the caravan came upon such a skeleton upon the line of march, the men broke it up, and flung the bones into one of the waggons for the night's fire.

Sometimes, as they got well on in their journey, they came to patches of soap-weed, a vegetable of soft, pulpy nature, which grows to a considerable height, and dies from the bottom, retaining its greenness of appearance long after the stem has become brown and withered; it burns freely, with a brilliant flame. The women of the party rejoiced when a clump of soap-weed was discovered, and it was always the occasion of a general wash, as by immersing some of it in water it had all the properties of soap, except that it did not make the lather which distinguishes the real article. But in places where the soap-weed was not to be found, and chips were scarce, the hunters did their best to supply fuel, and would generally bring home large bundles of wood upon such of the horses as were not carrying game.

The children's greatest delight was when the camp happened to be pitched near a prairie-dog town, and they were never weary of watching the antics of these funny little creatures. Some of these towns were of considerable extent, the ground within their circle being quite bare of herbage from their scratching, and the constant scampering of their little feet, and covered thickly with the mounds which marked the entrances to the innumerable holes. The prairie-dogs themselves were about the size of rabbits, but seemed to Frank, from their quick, jerking motions, and their habit of sitting up on their hind-legs, to resemble squirrels more than any other animal. They were as much interested in the travellers as the latter were with them, almost every mound having its occupant sitting up watching them inquisitively. There were four or five dogs with the caravan, and until the novelty had passed off, and they became convinced of the utter futility of the chase, the dogs exhausted themselves in their endeavours to capture the prairie-dogs. These seemed to feel an absolute enjoyment in exasperating the dogs, sitting immovable until the latter were within a few yards of them, and then suddenly disappearing like a flash of lightning down their holes, popping their heads out again and resuming their position on the tops as soon as the dogs had dashed off in another direction.

But the prairie-dogs were not the only occupants of the towns; with them, apparently on terms of great friendship, lived a colony of little owls, sharing their abodes, and sitting with them on their hillocks. There were also a third species of inhabitant, and the presence of these caused strict orders to be given to the children not to wander over the ground; these were rattlesnakes, of which, on a sunny afternoon, many could be seen basking on the sand-heaps.

"Yes, you always find the three together," Abe said, in answer to Frank's question, "and how such contrary things get to be friends is more nor I can tell. Sartin they must eat each other, there ain't anything else for 'em to eat. The prairie-dogs air a puzzle; you never see 'em any distance beyond thar towns, and yet they must live on grass and roots. The owls, no doubt, live on little prairie-dogs, and the rattlesnakes may sometimes eat an old one. Still, there it is; they never seem afraid of each other, and no one, as far as I knows, has ever seen a prairie dog fifty yards away from his town. The rummest thing about them is as every town has got its well. The prairie-dogs have all got their holes, and though you may see 'em going about popping in and out of each other's houses, I fancy as they always keep to their own. But there's one hole which they all use, and that goes down to the water. No matter how deep it is, they takes it down; I fancy the whole lot digs at it by turns till they get there. You will see thar towns are always on lowish ground, so that they can get down to water all the sooner; that's why they build up those mounds round each hole."

"I thought it was just the earth they had thrown out, Abe."

"So it is, partly; but it serves to keep the water out in the wet season too. If you watch 'em you can see 'em building the earth up and patting it down hard if it gets broken down. Sometimes, in very wet weather, thar will be a flood, and then the whole lot, dogs and owls and snakes, get drowned all together. Mighty nasty places they are, I tell yer, when they are desarted. At other times you can see 'em plain enough, and can ride through 'em at a gallop, for the horses are accustomed to pick thar way; but after a year or two, when the grass grows again, and is breast high in summer, and you come across one of them, the first you know about it is the horse puts his foot in a hole, and you are flying through the air. Many a fall have I had from them darned little things."

"Are they good eating, Abe?"

"Yes, they ain't bad eating; and if you lie down quiet, and shoot straight, you ain't long in making a bag. But you have got to kill 'em to get 'em; if you don't put your bullet through thar head, they just chucks themselves straight down the hole, and it would take an hour's digging, and it may be more, to get at 'em."

"There seems to be a tremendous lot of rattlesnakes in some places, Abe."

"Thar are that, lad; I have seen places where you might kill a hundred in an hour with your Colt. Thar are two sorts, them as you finds on the plains and them as you finds among rocks; one are twice as big as the other, but thar ain't much difference in thar bite."

"Is it always fatal, Abe?"

"Not often, lad, either to man or horse, though I have known horses die when they have been bit in the head when they have been grazing. The best thing is to tie a bandage tightly above the place, and to clap on a poultice of fresh dung—that draws out the poison; and then, if you have got it, drink half a bottle of spirits. It ain't often we get bit, because of these high boots; but the Injins get bit sometimes, and I never heard of thar dying. The only thing as we are regular feered of out in these plains is a little beast they call the hydrophobia cat."

"I never heard of that. What is it like, Abe?"

"It is a pretty little beast, marked black and white, and about the size of a big weasel. It has got a way of coming and biting you when you are asleep, and when it does it is sartin death; thar ain't no cure for it; the best plan is to put your Colt to your head and finish it at once."

"What horrible little beasts!" Frank said; "I hope they are not common."

"No, they ain't common, and there's more danger from them down south; if you sleeps in an old Mexican hut that's been deserted, or places of that sort, it's best to look sharp round afore you goes to sleep."

The game most commonly met with were the black-tailed and white-tailed deer. These were generally met with in parties of from six to twelve, and were usually stalked, although sometimes, by dividing and taking a wide circle, they could manage to ride them down and get within shot. This could seldom be done with the antelope, which ran in much larger herds, but were so suspicious and watchful that there was no getting within shot, while, once in motion, they could leave the horses behind with ease. The only way in which they could get them would be by acting upon their curiosity. One or two of the hunters would dismount, and crawl through the grass until within three or four hundred yards of the herd; then they would lie on their backs and wave their legs in the air, or wave a coloured blanket, as they lay concealed in the grass. The herd would stop grazing and look on curiously, and gradually approach nearer and nearer to investigate this strange phenomenon, until they came well within shot, when the hunters would leap to their feet and send their unerring bullets among them.

"You would hardly believe, now," Peter said, one day when he and Frank had brought down two fine antelopes by this man[oe]uvre, "that the coyotes are just as much up to that trick as we are. They haven't got a chance with the deer when they are once moving, although sometimes they may pick up a fawn a few days old, or a stag that has got injured; but when they want deer-meat they just act the same game as we have been doing. Over and over again have I seen them at their tricks; two of them will play them together. They will creep up through the grass till they can get to a spot where the antelope can see them, and then they will just act as if they were mad, rolling over on their backs, waving their legs about, twisting and rolling like balls, and playing the fool, till the antelope comes up to see what is the matter. They let them come on till they are only a few yards away, and then they are on one like a flash, before he has time to turn and get up his speed. One will catch him by a leg, and the other will get at his throat, and between them they soon pull him down. They will sham dead too. Wonderful 'cute beasts is them coyotes; they are just about the sharpest beasts as live."

"Do they live entirely upon deer?"

"Bless you, no; they will eat anything. They hang about behind the great buffalo herds, and eat them as drops; where there are such tens of thousands there is always some as is old or injured and can't keep up; besides, sometimes they get scared, and then they will run over a bluff and get piled up there dead by hundreds. The coyotes pick the bones of every beast as dies in the plains. The badgers helps them a bit; there are lots of those about in some places."

CHAPTER X. A BUFFALO STORY.

SOMETIMES, instead of taking his rifle and accompanying the other hunters, Frank would borrow a shot-gun, and go out on foot and return with a good bag of prairie-fowl, birds resembling grouse. Occasionally, in the canyons, or wooded valleys, far away from the track, the hunters came across the trail of wild turkeys; then two of them would camp out for the night, and search under the trees until they saw the birds perched on the boughs above them, and would bring into camp in the morning half a dozen dangling from each of their saddles. Frequently, in their rides, they came across skunks, pretty black and white little animals. Frank was about to shoot the first he saw, but Peter, who was with him, shouted to him not to fire.

"It's a skunk," he said; "it ain't no use wasting your powder on that varmin. Why, if you were to kill him, and went to take it up, you wouldn't be fit to go into camp for a week; you would stink that bad no one couldn't come near you. They are wuss than pizen, skunks. Why, I have seen dogs sit up and howl with disgust after interfering with one of them. I don't say as they can't be eaten, cos the Indians eat them; and, for the matter of that, I have ate them myself. But they have to be killed plump dead, and then the stink-bag has to be cut out from them directly; but if you ain't hard pressed for food, I advise you to let skunks alone."

The first time that they came across a large herd of buffalo was a day Frank long remembered. He was out with the four hunters; they had just scampered to the top of one of the swells, when they simultaneously reined in their horses, for the valley—half a mile wide—in front of them was filled with a dark mass of moving animals, extending back for two or three miles.

"There, Frank," Abe said, "there is meat for you—enough for an army for months."

Frank was too surprised to speak for a time; the number seemed countless.

"What a wonderful sight!" he exclaimed at last.

"Ay, that it is, lad, to one who has never seen it afore; and to think that thar are scores of herds like that out on these plains. It's one of the mightiest sights of natur. But it's nothing to see 'em now, going along quiet, to what it is to see 'em when they are on the stampede, when the ground shakes with thar tread, and the air seems in a quiver with thar bellowing; thar don't seem nothing as could stop 'em, and thar ain't. If it's a river, they pours into it; if it's a bluff, they goes over it, and tens of thousands of them gets killed. The Injins is mighty wasteful of thar flesh, but I doubt whether all the Injins in the continent kills as many as kills themselves in them wild stampedes. We will just wait where we are until they are past, and then we will drop down on 'em and cut three or four of 'em off. We will take one apiece; that will give us as much flesh as the waggons can load up, and I don't hold to taking life unless the meat's wanted. Now, lad, all that you have got to do is, when you ride down just single out your beast, ride alongside of him, and empty your Colt behind his shoulder. Keep rather behind him, and have your horse well in hand to wheel if he twists round and charges you."

A few minutes later the signal was given, and the five horsemen dashed down the slope. A deep bellow proclaimed that the herd had become aware of the presence of their enemies. The leisurely pace at which they were proceeding changed instantly into a gallop on the part of those conscious of danger. The impulse was communicated to those in front, and in a few seconds the whole herd was tearing along like a mighty torrent.

But they were too late to escape the hunters, who came down upon their rear, and each proceeded to single out an animal. Following Abe's instructions, Frank ranged up alongside a fine bull, and opened fire with his revolver at a point just behind the shoulder. At the third shot the great beast swerved sharply round, and had not Frank been on the alert he would have lost his seat, so sharply did the horse wheel to avoid the animal's horns. The buffalo at once resumed its course behind the herd; but Frank was soon alongside again, and as he fired the last shot of his revolver had the satisfaction of seeing the great beast stagger and then fall prostrate. He at once reined in his horse and looked round. His companions were all some distance in the rear, having brought down their game with less expenditure of lead, knowing exactly the right spot where a wound would be fatal.

"That's a fair lot of meat," Abe said, as they gathered into a group. "That will last 'em a long time. Now, if we had been Injins, we should have gone on shooting and shooting till we had killed a score or more, and then taken just the best bits, and left the rest for the coyotes; but I call it downright wicked to waste meat. Kill what you want—that's natural and right; but I am agin drawing a bead on an animal, whether he be buffalo or deer, or what-not, onless you want his meat, or onless his hide be of value to you. If men acted on that thar rule there would be game on these plains for any time; it's wilful destruction as is clearing 'em out, not fair hunting.

"Now we will ride off and stop the teams as they come along and bring 'em round here. It won't be so very far out of thar way. We can stop a couple of days to cut up and dry the meat. The rest will do the cattle good, and there's nothing like having a supply of dried meat; I don't say it's as toothsome as fresh, but it ain't ter be despised, and the time may come, in fact it's pretty sure to come, when we shan't be able to do much hunting round the waggons. We are getting nigh the country where we may expect to meet with Injin troubles. It's just as well we met with this herd afore we got thar, for we should have been pretty sure to find a party of them hanging on the rear of the buffalo."

Three hours later the waggons arrived at the spot, the emigrants in high spirits at the news that such an abundant supply of meat had been procured. The hunters skinned and cut up the five buffaloes; the waggons were placed some fifteen yards apart, and several cords stretched tightly between them; upon these was hung the flesh, which was cut in strips some four inches wide and half an inch thick. By the end of the third day the whole of the meat was dried by the united action of the sun and wind. The skins had been pegged out in the sun, and some of the boys, under Abe's instructions, roughly cured them, first scraping them inside, and then rubbing them with fat mixed with salt.

"It's a rough way," Abe said, "and the Injin women would laugh to see it; they just rub and rub at them till they get them as soft and pliable as the leather they make gloves of East. Still, they will keep as they are, and will do to chuck in the bottom of the waggons for the women and children to sit upon; besides, we shall find it cold at night as we get on, and a buffalo-robe ain't to be despised,—even if it ain't dressed to perfection. When they dry and get stiff the boys can take another rub at 'em when we halts; it will give them something to do, and keep them out of mischief."

"Talking of buffalo," Abe began, as the hunters were sitting round the fire on the evening of the hunt, "that reminds me that it wasn't so very far from this har spot that me and Rube was nearly wiped out by the Utes some ten years ago. Rube, he was a young chap then, and had not been long out on the plains. We war hunting with a party of Cheyennes, and had been with them well-nigh all the summer. One day we war in pursuit of buffalo—they were plentiful then; you think they are plentiful now, but you would see ten herds then for every one you see now. But they are going, and I expect in another twenty years that a man might ride across the plains and never catch sight of a hump. If the gold turns out to be as rich as they say, there will be hundreds of thousands of people cross these plains, and, like enough, settlements be formed right across the continent. However, there war plenty of herds ten years ago.

"We had come upon a big herd, and was chasing them. I had singled out an old bull, and had pushed right into the herd after him; Rube, he was pretty close to me. Well, I came up to the bull, and put a rifle-ball between his ribs. The herd had rather separated as we got amongst them, making way for us right and left as we rode after the bull. As he fell we reined in our horses, and looked round. Not a Cheyenne was to be seen: five minutes afore they had been hanging on the herd, sending their arrows in up to the feather among the buffalo; now not a soul was to be seen. You may guess this staggered me and I says to Rube, 'Look out, Rube, there's something up, as sure as fate.'

"Well, I had scarcely spoken afore I saw a big party of Injins come charging down across our rear. 'Utes,' says I, 'by thunder! They are after the Cheyennes! Fling yourself flat on your horse, Rube, and get into the herd.'

"The buffalo war only fifty yards away yet, and yer may be sure we spurred up pretty sharp till we got up to them. I seed at once it was our only chance. Our horses war blowed, for we had had a sharp chase afore we caught the herd, and there was no chance of our getting away from the Utes in the open plains. We soon caught up the herd, and charged in among them. The brutes were packed so close together that they could hardly make room for us; but we managed to wedge ourselves in. Those next to us snuffed and roared, but they war too pressed by those behind to do much; but by shouting and waving our hats we managed to keep a clear space three or four yards on either side of us. All this time we war lying down on our horses' necks, and there war no fear that any one would see us in the midst of that sea of tossing cattle; but I war afraid they would have caught sight of us afore we got among 'em. I cussed myself for having fired that last shot; they must have heard it, and would have known that some of us hadn't seen them coming, and must be somewhere among the herd.

"I raised my head a little at last, and took a look round. Sure enough, there was a dozen Utes coming up behind the herd. I puts spurs again into my horse, and, catching up an old bull in front of me, progged him with my bowie-knife, and Rube did the same to the beast next to him. They gave a roar and plunged on ahead through the mass, and we followed close to their heels. It was tight work, I can tell you, for the buffaloes on both sides war touching one another. We kept going about half a length behind the beasts next to us, so that the horses' shoulders war just behind the shoulders of the buffaloes; as you know, the buffaloes have got no necks to speak of, and so, although they gave savage thrusts with their horns, they couldn't get at the horses. Our beasts were frightened near out of their lives, but they war well broken, and we managed to keep 'em in hand.

"The thing I was most afraid of was that they would be knocked off their legs, and in that case we should be trampled to death in a minute. As I leaned forward I kept one hand fixed on the neck of the buffalo next me, and I shouted to Rube to do the same, so as we could make a shift to jump on to the buffalo's back if our horses fell; but, I tell you, I was beginning to fear that we shouldn't see any way out of it. What with us in the middle, and the Utes yelling behind them, the herd war fairly mad with fright; and there war no saying where they would go to, for, you know, a herd of buffaloes, when fairly stampeded, will go clean over a precipice a hundred yards high, and pile themselves up dead at the foot till there is not one left. It war a bad fix, you bet, for I war sure that the Utes war after us, and not after the buffaloes, for they kept on, though they could soon have killed as many of the herd as they wanted. It was may be four in the afternoon when the chase commenced, and so it went on till it was dark. The buffaloes war going nigh as fast as when we started, but the horses could scarce keep their legs; I was sure they couldn't run much longer, so I says to Rube, 'We must get out of this, or else we shall be done for.'

"So we sets to work a-probing the buffalo with our knives again. They started on ahead as hard as they could, bursting a way through the crowd. We followed close behind them, keeping up the scare until we finds ourselves in front of the herd; then we spurred our horses on, and dashed out in front. Done as the horses were, they knew they had got to go, for, with the herd coming like thunder upon their heels, it was death to stop. We swerved away to the right, but it took us half an hour afore we war clear of the front of the herd. We went a few hundred yards further, and then drew rein.

"Rube's horse fell dead as he stopped, and mine wasn't worth much more. For half an hour we could hear the herd rushing along, and then it had passed. We had got out of our biggest fix, but it warn't a pleasant position.

"There we war out on the plains, with only one horse between us, and he so done up that he couldn't put one foot afore the other.

"Where the Cheyennes war there was no saying; the band might have been wiped out by the Utes, or they might have got away. At any rate there was no counting on them. The Utes who had followed the herd would be sure to be on our trail in the morning; they would follow all night, or as long as the herd ran. When the buffalo war fairly tired out they would lay down, and the Utes would see then as we warn't there. Then they would set out upon the back-trail, skirting along each side of the line trampled by the herd until they came upon our trail; the dead horse was a sign as they could see a mile away, so it was clear that we must foot it as soon as we could. We gave the horse an hour's rest; and it did us as much good as him, for I can tell you we war pretty well used up. We drove him afore us until, after six hours' walking, we came to a stream. We went up this for an hour, then we both filled our hunting-shirts with stones and fastened them on the horse, and then drove him off."

"What did you put the stones on his back for?" Frank asked.

"To make the Utes think as he was carrying double. Each of the loads was about the weight of a man, and the horse was so tired that he staggered as he walked; so as they would see his tracks, and wouldn't see ours, they would naturally come to the conclusion as we war both on his back. It warn't likely as the critter would go far before he laid down, perhaps not more than half a mile; but that would do for us. We went back a few hundred yards in the stream, and then struck off across the prairie, the same side as we had come from, taking care to make as little sign as possible.

"The Utes would be riding along by the side of the stream and looking for a horse's print, and the chances war that they wouldn't see ours. When they came up to the horse and found out the trick, they would gallop back again; at least half of them would go up the stream and half would take the back-track; but, you see, as they went up they would have trampled across our track, and they would find it mighty hard work to pick it up again.

"We footed it all day, and the prospect warn't a pleasant one. The nearest settlement was nigh a thousand miles away, we had no horses, and we daren't fire a gun for fear of bringing Utes down upon us. We had made up our minds to strike for the Cheyennes' country, that being the nearest where we could expect to find friends. For two days we tramped on. The third day we war sitting by the side of a stream, eating a prairie-dog as we had trapped, when Rube stopped eating suddenly, and said, 'Listen!'

"I threw myself down and put my ear to the ground, and, sure enough, could hear the gallop of horses. 'Injins,' says I, and chucks a lot of wet sand and gravel over the fire, which was fortunately a small one. I knew, in course, if they came close that way, as they would see it; but if they passed at some distance they would not notice us. Then Rube and I bounded into the water, and laid down close under a high bank, where the grass grew long, and drooped over to the water so as to cover our heads.

"We heard the redskins coming nearer and nearer, and they stopped at the stream a quarter of a mile or so above us. We listened, I can tell you, for the sound of their going on again; but no such luck, and after a quarter of an hour we knew as they were going to camp there. I felt pretty thankful as it was late in the afternoon, for I guessed, in the first place, as they would light their fire and cook their food, so none of them war likely to be coming down our way until it was after dark.

"We waited and waited, till it got quite dark; then we followed the stream down for another four or five miles, and then took to the plains again. It was another three days afore we fell in with a party of Cheyennes. It seemed as how most of those we had been with had been killed by the Utes; the others had taken the news home, and the whole tribe had been turned out. We war pretty well done up, but the chief dismounted two of his men and put us on their horses, and we set off at once. We knew pretty well the line that the party as was following us had taken, and the next night we saw the fires of their camp, and you bet not one of them went home to tell the tale."

"That was a narrow escape indeed, Abe," Frank said.

"It war all that. It war lucky that it war late afore the hunt began; if it had been early in the day nothing could have saved us—onless, of course, our horses had been fresh, and faster than those of the Utes, and then we should have made straight away instead of getting into the herd."

"They don't seem to go as fast as a horse, Abe. I seemed to keep up quite easily with that bull I shot."

"Yes, for a burst a horse is faster than a buffalo, but when they once gets going on a downright stampede they will tire out any horse, and go well-nigh as fast too. I tell you you have to be pretty spry, even if you are well-mounted, when a downright big herd, well on the stampede, comes on you. It's a terrible sight, and it makes one tingle, I can tell you, especially as the horse is pretty nigh mad with fear."

"It must be as bad as a prairie fire."

"Worse, my lad; ever so much worse. You can see a prairie fire fifty miles away—more nor that at night, ever so much—and you have plenty of time to set the grass afire ahead of you, and clear the ground afore it comes up, though it does travel, when the wind is blowing, much faster than a horse can gallop. I have seen it go thirty miles an hour, the flames just leaping out ahead of it and setting grass alight a hundred yards before the main body of the fire came up. I tell you it is a terrible sight when the grass has just dried, and is breast-high; but, as I say, there ain't no cause to be afraid if you do but keep your head. You just pulls up a band of grass a couple of feet wide, and lights it ahead of you; the wind naturally takes it away from you, and you look sharp with blanket or leggings to beat it down, and prevent it working back agin the wind across the bit of ground you have stripped. As it goes it widens out right and left, and you have soon got a wide strip cleared in front of you. In course you don't go on to it as long as you can help it, not till you are drove by the other fire coming up; that gives it time to cool a bit. If you must go on soon, owing to being pressed, or from the fire you have lit working round agin the wind—as it will do if the grass is very dry—the best plan is to cut up your leggings, or any bit of hide you have got with you, the rawer the better, and wrap them round your horse's feet and legs; but it ain't often necessary to do that, as it don't take long for the ashes to cool enough so as to stand on."

Fortunately a bottom with good grass had been found close at hand to the place where they encamped, and when the caravan proceeded the draft oxen were all the better for their two days' rest.

"We shall have to begin to look out pretty sharp for Injin signs," Abe said, as they started early next morning. "Fresh meat is good, but we can do without it; there's enough pork and jerked meat in the waggons to last pretty nigh across the plains; but we are getting where we may expect Injins in earnest. We might, in course, have met 'em anywhere, but as they know the caravans have all got to come across their ground, it don't stand to reason as they would take the trouble to travel very far east to meet 'em. I don't say as we won't knock down a stag, now and agin, if we comes across 'em, but the less firing the better. We have been hunting up till now, but we must calculate that for the rest of the journey we are going to be hunted; and if we don't want our scalps taken, not to talk of all these women and children, we have got to look out pretty spry. I reckon we can beat them off in anything like a fair fight—that is, provided we have got time to get ready before they are on us, and it depends on us whether we do have time or not."

CHAPTER XI. HOW DICK LOST HIS SCALP.

TWO or three days after they had moved from their last halting-place, when they were sitting at the fire one evening, and Abe had been telling a yarn of adventure, he said, when he had finished:—

"About the closest thing as I know was that adventure that Dick thar had. Dick, take off that thar wig of yourn."

The hunter put his hand to his head and lifted at once his cap, made of skin, and the hair beneath it, showing, to Frank's astonishment, a head without a vestige of hair, and presenting the appearance of a strange scar, mottled with a deep purple, as if it was the result of a terrible burn.

"You see I have been scalped," the hunter said. "I don't suppose you noticed it—few people do. You see, I never takes off my fur cap night or day, so that no one can see as I wears a wig."

"There's nought to be ashamed of in it," Abe said, "for it is as honourable a scalp as ever a man got. Do you tell the story, Dick."

"You know it as well as I do," the hunter replied, "and I ain't good at talking."

"Well, I will tell you it then," Abe said, "seeing that I knows almost as much about it as Dick does. The affair occurred the very year after what I have been telling you about. Dick was attached as hunter and scout to Fort Charles, which was, at that time, one of the furthest west of all our stations. There was fifty infantry and thirty cavalry there, and little enough too, for it war just on the edge of the Dacota country. The Dacotas are a powerful tribe, and are one of the most restless, troublesome lots I knows. Several strong parties of our troops have been surprised and cut to pieces by them; and as to settlements, no one but a born fool would dream of settling within reach of them.

"I never could quite make out why we wanted to put a fort down so close to them, seeing as there warn't a settlement to protect within a hundred and fifty miles; but I suppose the wiseacres at Washington had some sort of an idea that the redskins would be afraid to make excursions to the settlements with this fort in their rear, just as if they couldn't make a sweep of five hundred miles if they took it into their heads, and come back into their country on the other side.

"Just at that time there was no trouble with them; the hatchet was buried, and they used to come into the fort and sell skins and furs to the traders there for tobacco and beads. After that affair I was telling ye of, Rube and me, we went back for a spell to the settlement, and then took a fancy to hunt on another line, and, after knocking about for a time, found ourselves at Fort Charles. That was where we met Dick for the first time.

"The Commander of the fort was a chap named White, a captain; he had with him his wife and daughter. A worse kind of man for the commander of a frontier station you could hardly find. He was not a bad soldier, and was well liked by his men, and I have no doubt if he had been fighting agin other white men he would have done well enough; but he never seemed to have an idee what Injin nature was like, and weren't never likely to learn.

"First place, he despised them. Now, you know, the redskins ain't to be despised. You may hate them, you may say they are a cussed lot of rascals and thieves, but there ain't no despising them, and any one as does that is sure to have cause to repent it, sooner or later. There was the less reason with the Dacotas, for they had cut up stronger bodies of troops than there was at Fort Charles without letting a soul escape. Then, partly because the captain despised them, I suppose, he was always hurting their feelings.

"Now, a chief is a chief, and a man who can bring three hundred horsemen into the field, whether he is redskin or white, is a man to whom a certain respect should be paid. But Captain White never seemed to see that, but just treated one redskin like another, just as if they war dirt beneath his feet. Well, as I told you, he had with him his wife and daughter. His wife was too fine a lady for a frontier fort, still, she was not badly liked: but as to the daughter, there warn't a man in the fort but would have died for her. She war about fifteen year old, and as pretty as a flower. She war always bright and merry, with a kind word to the soldiers as she rode past them on her pretty white mustang.

"Dick, here, he worshipped her like the rest of us. If he got a particular good skin, or anything else, if he thought she would like it he would put it by for her, and she used, in her merry way, to call him her scout. Well, one day Black Dog, one of the most powerful chiefs of the Dacotas, rode into the fort with twenty of his braves. Just as he came in, Queen May, as we all called her, came galloping up on her mustang, and leapt like a bird from her saddle at the door of the commander's house, where her father was standing. I war standing next to him, and so I saw Black Dog's eye fall on her, and as long as she stood talking there to her father he never took it off; then he said something to the brave as was sitting on his horse next to him.

"'Cuss him!' Dick said to me, and I could see his hold on his rifle tighten, 'what does he look at Queen May like that for? You mark my words, Abe, trouble will come of this.'

"It was not long before trouble did come, for half an hour later the Dacota rode out of the fort with his men in great wrath, complaining that Captain White had not received him as a chief, and that his dignity was insulted. It war like enough that Captain White was not as ceremonious as he should have been to a great chief—for, as I told you, he war short in his ways with the redskins—but I question if harm would have come of it if it hadn't been that Black Dog's eye fell on that gal.

"I believe that there and then he made up his mind to carry her off. We didn't see any redskins in camp for some time; and then rumours were brought in by the scouts that there war going to be trouble with them, that a council had been held, and that it war decided the hatchet should be dug up again. Captain White he made light of the affair; but he was a good soldier, and warn't to be caught napping, so extra sentries were put on.

"As Rube and me didn't belong to the fort, of course we war independent, and went away hunting, and would sometimes be away for weeks together. One day, when we war some forty miles from the fort, we came upon the trail of a large number of redskins going east. We guessed as there must be nigh two hundred of them. They might, in course, have been going hunting, but we didn't think as it were so; sartainly they had no women with them, and they had been travelling fast. We guessed the trail was three days old, and we thought we had best push on straight to the fort to let them know about it.

"When we got thar we found we were too late. On the morning of the day after we had started a scout had arrived with the news that a strong war-party of Dacotas were on their way to the settlements. Captain White at once mounted half his infantry on horses, and with them and the cavalry set out in pursuit, leaving the fort in charge of a young officer with twenty-four men. Just after nightfall there was a sound of horsemen approaching, and the officer, thinking it was the Captain returning, ordered the gate of the stockade to be left open. In a moment the place was full of redskins. The soldiers tried to fight, but it were no use; all war cut down, only one man making his escape in the darkness.

"At daybreak, the Captain, with his troops, rode into the fort. Dick, who had been with him, had, when the party was returning, gone out scouting on his own account, and had come across the back-track of the redskins. The moment he had brought in the news the horses were re-saddled again, and the party started back; but they had gone nearly sixty miles the day before, and it was not until morning that, utterly exhausted and weary, they got within sight of the fort. Then they saw as it war too late.

"Not a roof was to be seen above the stockade, and a light smoke rising everywhere showed as fire had done it. They rode into camp like madmen. There lay all their comrades, killed and scalped; there were the bodies of Mrs. White and her servants, and the nigger labourers, and the trader and his clerks, and of all who had been left behind in the camp, except the Captain's little daughter; of her there weren't no signs. Rube and me arrived half an hour later, just as the soldier who had escaped had come in and was telling how it all came about.

"It war a terrible scene, I can tell you; the Captain he were nigh mad with grief, and the men were boiling over with rage. If they could have got at the Dacotas then they would have fought if there had been twenty to one against them. Dick war nowhere to be seen; the man said that he had caught a fresh horse, which had broken its rope and stampeded through the gate while the massacre was going on, and that he had ridden away on it on the Indian trail.

"If the horses had been fresh the Captain would have started in pursuit at once, and every man was burning to go. But it was lucky as they couldn't, for if they had I have no doubt the whole lot would have been wiped out by the Dacotas. However, there was no possibility of moving for at least a couple of days, for the horses war altogether used up after the march. So they had time to get cool on it.

"That afternoon the Captain, who was in council with the two officers who remained, sent for Rube and me, and asked us our opinion as to what was best to be done. We says at once that there weren't nothing. 'You have lost nigh a third of your force,' says I, 'and have got little over forty left. If we were to go up into the Dacota country we should get ambushed to a certainty, and should have a thousand of them, perhaps two thousand, down on us, and the odds would be too great, Captain; it couldn't be done. Besides, even if you licked them—and I tell you as your chance of doing so would be mighty small—they would disperse in all directions, and then meet and fight you agin, and ye wouldn't be no nearer getting your daughter than you war before.

"'If you ask my advice, it would be that you should send back to the nearest fort for more men, and that you should at once get up the stockade where it has been burnt down, for there is no saying when you will be attacked again. I tell you, Captain, that to lead this party here into the Dacota country would mean sartin death for them.'

"Mad as the Captain was to go in search of his daughter, he saw that I was right, and indeed I concluded he had made up his mind he could do nothing before he sent for us, only he hoped, I suppose, as we might give some sort of hope. 'I am afraid what you say is true,' says he. 'At any rate we must wait till Dick, the scout, returns; he will tell us which way they have gone, and what is their strength.'

"By nightfall the soldiers had buried all the dead just outside the stockade, and had built a temporary wall—for there wasn't a stick of timber within miles—across the gaps in the fence.

"At nightfall Rube and me, whose horses war fresh, started for the nearest fort, and four days afterwards got back with forty more horse-soldiers. We found that Dick had not come back, and we made up our minds as he had gone under. When we were away we had heard that the redskins had attacked the settlements in a dozen different places, and that there was no doubt a general Injin war had broken out. The officer at the fort where I went to was a major; it was a bigger place than Fort Charles, which was a sort of outlying post. I had, in course, told him about the Captain's daughter being carried off.

"He sent up a letter with the soldiers to the Captain, saying how sorry he was to hear of his loss, and he sent up forty men; but he ordered that unless Captain White had received some intelligence which would, in his opinion, justify his undertaking an expedition into the Indian country with so small a force as he could command, he was at once to evacuate the place and fall back with his force on the settlement, as the position was quite untenable, and every man was needed for the defence of the settlers.

"When the Captain got the order he walked up and down by hisself for four or five minutes. Yer see it war a hard choice for him; as a father he was longing to go in search of his child, as a soldier he saw that he should be risking the whole force under his command if he did so, and that at a time when every man was needed at the settlements. At last the order was given that the troops should take the back-track to the settlements on the following evening.

"The Captain told the officers that he should wait till then to give the horses of the men who had arrived with us time to rest; but I know in his heart he wanted to wait in the hope of Dick arriving with news.

"The next day, at four in the afternoon, the men war beginning to saddle their horses, when the sentry suddenly gave the cry of 'Injins, Injins!'

"In a moment every man seized his carbine and sword, and shoved his bridle on his horse's head, buckled up, and jumped into the saddle. There was no occasion for any orders. I climbed up on to the stockade, for the country was pretty nigh a dead flat, and the lookout had been burnt with the huts.

"Sure enough, there in the distance war some horsemen coming across the plain; but they war straggling, and not many of them. I could not make head nor tail of it. They war Injins, sure enough, for even at that distance I could tell that by their figures. Then I saw as there was more of them coming behind them; the idea suddenly struck me: 'Ride, Captain!' I shouted; 'ride with your men for your life, they are chasing some one.'

"There warn't any necessity for Captain White to give any orders; there was a rush to the gate, and as fast as they could get through they started out at full gallop. Me and Rube dropped over the stockade, for our critters war picketed outside. We didn't wait to saddle them, you may guess, but pulled up the ropes, jumped on to their backs, and galloped on; and we war soon by the side of Captain White, who was riding as if he was mad. We could see them a little plainer now, and says I, suddenly, 'Captain, there is a white horse in front, by gum!'

"A sort of hoarse cry came from the Captain, and he spurred his horse agin, although the critter was going at its best speed. They war two miles from us yet, but I could soon make out as the white horse and another was a bit ahead, then came eight or ten Injins in a clump, and a hundred or more straggling out behind. It seemed to me as they war all going slow, as if the horses war dead-beat; but what scared me most was to see as the clump of Injins war gaining on the two ahead of them, one of whom I felt sure now was the Captain's daughter, and the other I guessed was Dick.

"The Captain saw it too, for he gave a strange sort of cry. 'My God!' he said, 'they will overtake her.' We war still a mile from them, when we saw suddenly the man in front—this chap Dick here—part sudden from the white horse, wheel straight round, and go right back at the Injins. They separated as he came to them. We saw two fall from their horses, and the wind presently brought the sound of the cracks of pistols. There war no 'Colts' in those days, but I knew that Dick carried a brace of double-barrelled pistols in his holsters. Then the others closed round him.

"There was a sort of confusion; we could see tomahawks waving, and blows given, and when it was over there war but four Injins out of the eight to be seen on their horses. But the white horse had gained a hundred yards while the fight was going on, and the Injins saw that we war a-coming on like a hurricane, so they turned their horses and galloped back again.

"Three minutes later the Captain's daughter rode up. She war as white as death, and the Captain had just time to leap off and catch her as she fainted dead away. The rest of us didn't stop, you bet; we just gave a cheer and on we went, and the Dacotas got a lesson that day as they will remember as long as they are a tribe. Their horses were so dead-beat they had scarcely a gallop in them, while ours were fresh, and I don't think ten of the varmints got away.

"We didn't draw rein till it was dark, and next morning we counted two hundred and fifteen dead redskins on the plains. The first thing in the morning, Rube and me rode back to where the fight began, to give Dick a burial. We looked about, but couldn't find him. There was Black Dog, with one of his bullets through his forehead, two others shot through the body, and one with his skull stove in with a blow from Dick's rifle, which was lying there with the stock broken. So we supposed the Captain had had him carried to the fort, and we rode on there.

"When we got there we found as he was alive. It seems at the moment the Captain's daughter recovered from her faint she insisted on going back with the Captain to see if Dick was alive. They found him well-nigh dead. He had got an arrow through the body, and two desperate clips with tomahawks, and had been scalped, but he was still breathing. There war no one else nigh, for every man had ridden on in pursuit; but they managed, somehow, between them, to get him upon the Captain's horse. The Captain he rode in the saddle, and held him in his arms, while his daughter led her horse back to the fort. There they dressed his wounds, and put wet cloths to his head, and watched him all night.

"In the morning he was quite delirious. Fortunately the Captain considered that after the way they had licked the redskins the day before there was no absolute necessity for evacuating the Fort; so the troops cut turf and made huts, and parties were sent off to the nearest timber to bring in boughs for roofs, and there we stopped, and in six weeks Dick was about again with his wig on his head.

"You will wonder whar he got his wig from, seeing as that sort of thing ain't a product of the plains; but he is wearing his own hair. Among the fust of the Injins we overtook and killed was a chap with Dick's scalp hanging at his girdle, and when it was known as he was alive they searched and found it; and one of the soldiers who was fond of collecting bird-skins, and such like, just preserved it in the same way, and when Dick was able to go out again he presented him with his own scalp. So if any one says to Dick as he ain't wearing his own hair, Dick can tell him he is a liar.

"Lor', how grateful that gal was to Dick; he never was a particular good-looking young fellow, and he wasn't improved by the scrimmage, but I believe if he had axed her she would have given up everything and settled down as a hunter's wife."

Dick growled an angry denial.

"Well, mate, it may be not quite that, but it war very nigh it. It was downright pretty to see the way she hung about him, and looked after him, just for all the world as if she had been his mother, and he a sick child. The Captain, too, didn't know how to make enough of Dick; and as for the men, they would have done anything for him for having saved the life of Queen May. I heard, three or four years afterwards, as she married the young officer who was in command of the horse-soldiers at the next fort."

"But tell me," Frank said, "how did Dick manage to get her away from the Indians?"

"That," Abe said, "he'd better tell you himself, seeing as concerning that part of the business he knows more nor I do. Now, Dick, speak out."

"There ain't much to tell," Dick said gruffly, taking the pipe from his mouth. "Directly as we got back to camp, and I found she had gone, it seemed to me as I had got to follow her; and my eye lighting on the loose horse, I soon managed to catch the critter, and, shifting my saddle to it, I started. As you may guess, there war no difficulty in following the trail. They had ridden all night, though they knew there was no chance of their being pursued. But about fifty miles from the fort I came upon their first halting-place; they had lit fires and cooked food there, and had waited some hours.

"The ashes were still warm, and I guess they had left about four hours afore I arrived; so I went on more carefully, knowing that if I threw away my life there was no chance of recovering the gal. I guessed, by the direction which they were taking, they were going to Black Dog's village; and, after going a bit further on the trail to make sure, I turned off, and went round some miles, in case they should have left any one to see if they war followed. I knew where the village was, for I had been hunting near it.

"I camped out on the plains for the night, and next day rode to within five miles of the village, which was among the hills. I left my horse in a wood where there was water, and, taking my rifle and pistols, went forward on foot to the village and arrived there after dark. As I expected, I found the hull place astir. A big fire was blazing in the centre; on a pole near it hung the scalps they had taken, and they were a-dancing round it and howling and yelling. I didn't see any signs of the gal; but as there were two redskins with their rifles hanging about the door of a wigwam next to that of the chief, I had no doubt she was there.

"This wigwam was in the centre of the village, and there were lots of old squaws and gals about, so that I could not, for the life of me, see any way of stealing her out. Next night I went back to the camp and watched, but the more I thought on it, the more difficult it seemed. The second night I catched an Injin boy who was wandering outside the camp. I choked him, so that he couldn't hollo, and carried him off; and when I got far enough away I questioned him, and found that in two days there was to be a grand feast, and Black Dog was then going to take the white gal as his squaw. So I saw as there was no time to be lost. I strapped up the Indian boy and tied him to a tree, and then went back to the village.

"This time the gal was sitting at the door of the tent. I crept up behind, cut a slit in the skins, and got inside. As I expected, there was no one in there, the squaws as was watching her was outside; so I crept up close to the entrance, and I says to her, 'Hush! don't move, your scout Dick is here.' She gave a little tremble when I began, and then sat as still as a mouse.

"Says I, 'I don't see no plan for getting you away secret, you are watched altogether too close, the only plan is to make a race for it. There ain't many horses on the plain as can beat that mustang of yours, and I know you can ride him barebacked. Do you take a head of maize now and walk across to where he is picketed, and feed and pat him; then to-morrow morning early do the same. They won't be watching very closely, for they will think you are only going to do the same as to-night. I have put an open knife down behind you. You cut his rope, jump on his back, and ride straight; I will join you at the bottom of the valley. They may overtake us, but they won't hurt you; if they do catch you, they will just bring you back here again, and you will be no worse off than you are now. Will you try?' The gal nodded, and I crept away out of sight.

"A few minutes afterwards I saw her going along with some ears of maize to where the horses were tied up. Two Indians followed her at a little distance, but she walked across so natural that I don't think they had any suspicion; she fed the horse, and talked to it, and petted it, and then went back to the village. Next morning, before daylight, I mounted my horse and rode to the mouth of the valley, a quarter of a mile from the village.

"Half an hour after daylight I heard a yell, and almost directly afterwards the sounds of a horse's hoofs in full gallop. I rode out, and along she came as hard as the horse could go. Three or four mounted Indians war just coming into the other end of the valley four hundred yards away.

"'All right, Queen May, we have got a fine start,' says I, and then we galloped along together. 'Not too fast,' I told her, 'it ain't speed as will win the race. There is a long hundred miles between us and the fort. We must keep ahead of them varmint for a mile or two, and then they will settle down.'

"For the first five or six miles we had to ride fast, for the redskins tried the speed of their horses to the utmost; but none of them gained anything on us, indeed we widened the gap by a good bit. You see at first they only thought it was a wild scheme on the part of the gal, and the first as started jumped on the first horses that came to hand; it wasn't till they saw me that they found it was a got-up thing. One of the first lot galloped back with the news. But by the time the alarm was spread, and the chase really taken up in earnest, we was a good mile away, and a mile is a long start.

"Black Dog and some of his best-mounted braves rode too hard at first. Ef we had only had a short start they would have catched us, perhaps; but a mile's start was too much to be made up by a rush, and so Black Dog should have known; but I reckon he was too mad at first to calculate. By hard riding he and his best-mounted braves got within half a mile of us when we war about ten miles from the village. But by that time, as you may guess, the steam was out of their horses, while we had been riding at a steady gallop.

"The first party that had started had now tailed away, and was as far back as the chief. It was safe to be a long chase now, and I felt pretty sure as the gal would escape, for her mustang was a beautiful critter, and the Captain had given a long price for it; besides, it was carrying no weight to speak of. I didn't feel so sure about myself, for though my horse was a first-class one, and had over and over again, when out hunting, showed herself as fast as any out, there might be as good ones or better among the redskins, for anything I knew. When we were fairly out on the plains, I could see that pretty nigh the whole tribe of redskins had joined in the chase.

"At first I couldn't make out why; for although they are all wonderful for bottom, some of the redskins' horses ain't much for speed, and many of them could never have hoped to have come up with us. But when I thought it over, I reckoned that seeing I had joined the gal, they might have thought that I had brought her news that the Captain, with all the soldiers from the fort, was coming up behind, and I expect that's why the chief and his braves rode so fast at first.

"I don't know as I ever passed a longer day than that. We went at a steady gallop, always keeping just about half a mile ahead of the redskins. Sometimes I jumped off my horse and ran alongside of him with my hand on the saddle for half a mile, to ease him a bit. The gal rode splendidly; the mustang had a beautiful easy pace, and she set him as if she was in a chair. For the first fifty miles I don't think the redskins gained a yard on us; they warn't pressing their horses more than we were, for it was a question only of last now. Then little by little I could see that a small party was leaving the rest and gaining slowly upon us; I darn't press my horse further, but I began to give the gal instructions as to the course she should keep.

"'What does it matter, Dick,' she asked, 'when you are here to guide me?' 'But I mayn't be with you all the time,' says I; 'it air quite possible that them redskins will overtake me twenty miles afore I get to the fort, but your critter can keep ahead of them easy, he is going nigh as light now as when he started; when they get a bit closer to us you must go on alone.' 'I shan't leave you,' she says. 'Dick, you got into this scrape to save me, and I am not going to run away and leave you to be killed; if you are taken, I will be taken too.'

"'That would be a foolish thing,' says I, 'and a cruel one, ef you like to put it so. I have risked my life to save you, just as I have risked it a score of times before on the plains; ef my time has come, it will be a comfort to me to know as I have saved you, but ef you were taken too I should feel that I had just chucked my life away. Besides, you have got to think of the Captain; now that your mother has gone you have got to be a comfort to him. So you see, Miss, ef you was to get taken wilful you would be doing a bad turn to yerself, and to me, and to yer father.'

"It was a long time before she spoke again, and then she didn't say anything about what we had been talking of, but began to ask whether I thought we were sure to find the soldiers still at the fort. In course I couldn't say for sartin, but, to cheer her up, I talked hopeful about it, though I thought it was likely enough they had fallen back on the settlements. I did some long spells of running now, and got more hopeful, for the Injins didn't gain anything to speak of.

"We war all going very slow now, for the horses were pretty nigh beat. We had crossed two or three streams by the way, and at each they had had a few mouthfuls of water. It wasn't till we were within ten miles of the fort that the Injins really began to gain. They must have felt that there was a good chance of our slipping through their fingers, and they determined to catch us if they killed every horse in the tribe.

"I tried to urge my critter forward, but he hadn't got it in him; and what frightened me more was that the mustang didn't seem much faster; he had trod in a dog-hole when we war about half-way across the plains, and must have twisted his foot. I could see now he was going a little lame with it. The redskins gained on us bit by bit, and were pressing us hard when first we caught sight of the fort about four miles away.

"I had begun to despair, for they warn't more than two hundred yards behind now. The gal had held on bravely, but she was nigh done. Good rider as she was, it was a terrible ride for a young gal, and it was only the excitement which kept her going; but she was nigh reeling on the horse now. Sudden I says to her, 'Thank God! Miss, there are the soldiers; keep up your heart, your father's coming to save you.'

"The Injins saw him too, for I heard the war-whoop behind, and the sound of the horses came nearer and nearer. I spurred my horse, and it was the first time I had touched him since we started, but it wasn't no good. 'Ride, Queen May, ride for your life!' I cried out; but I don't think she heard me. She was looking straight forward now at the sojers; her face was like death, and with a hard set look on it, and I expected every moment to see her drop from her horse.

"I saw as it was all up; the redskins war but fifty yards behind, and were gainin' fast upon us. So I says, 'Thar's your father, Miss, ride on for his sake,' then I turns my horse, and, with a pistol in each hand, I rides back at the redskins. The gal told me afterwards that she did not hear me speak, that she didn't know I had turned, and that all that time after she had first caught sight of the sojers seemed a dream to her.

"I don't remember much of the scrimmage. Black Dog was the first redskin I met, and I hit him fair between the eyes; arter that it was all confusion, I threw away my pistols, and went at them with my rifle. I felt as if a hot iron went through my body, then there was a crash on my head, and I remember nothing more until I found myself lying, as weak as a baby, in the hut in the fort, with Queen May a-sitting working beside the bed. So, as you see, it ain't much of a story."

"I call it a great deal of a story," Frank said; "I would give a great deal to have done such a thing."

"Well, shut up, and don't say no more about it," Dick growled, "ef you want us to keep friends. Abe's always a-lugging that old story out, and he knows as I hates it like pizen. We have had more than one quarrel about it, and this is the last time, by gosh, as ever I opens my lips about it. Pass over the liquor, I am dry."

CHAPTER XII. THE ATTACK ON THE CARAVAN.

ALTHOUGH great uneasiness had been caused by the reports as to the Indians, the members of the caravan were in good spirits. So far the journey had been a success. The difficulties met with in crossing streams and bad bits of ground had been considerable, but were no greater than they had looked for. The animals had preserved their health and condition. The supply of fresh meat had been regular, and all were in excellent health. The rise of ground had been so gradual that it had scarcely been felt; but they were now at a considerable height above the sea, and the brisk clear air braced their nerves, and enabled even the feeblest to stand the fatigue without inconvenience.

One day when Frank was out alone with Dick on the north of the line of march, they came within sight of some buffalo grazing, and Frank was about to set spurs to his horse when his companion suddenly checked him.

"What is it?" Frank said in surprise. "They don't see us, and if we follow that hollow we shall be able to get close to them before they can catch sight of us."

"That's so," Dick said, "but just at present it air a question of something more serious than bufflars, it air a question of Injins."

"Indians!" Frank exclaimed, gazing round in every direction. "Where, Dick? I see no signs of them."

"No, and if you were to look round all day you wouldn't see 'em; they are at your feet."

Frank looked down in surprise.

"I can see nothing," he said, after a minute examination of the ground.

"It's thar, though," Dick said, throwing himself off his horse. "Look at this soft piece of ground; that is a hoof-print, and there is another and another."

Frank also dismounted and examined the ground.

"Yes," he said, "I can see a number of hoof-prints now you point them out. But how do you know that they are Indian prints?"

"Because they are unshod; besides, you see, instead of coming along in a crowd, as a drove of turned loose horses would do, the marks are all together, one after the other, as they came along in single file. There is no doubt they are a party of Indians."

"They are ahead of us," Frank said.

"They were," Dick said, "but thar ain't no saying where they are now; may be watching us."

The thought was not a comfortable one, and Frank grasped his rifle tightly as he looked round.

"Just stay where you are," Dick said; "we are in a hollow, and I will have a look round."

Dick made his way upon his hands and knees to the top of the brow, choosing a spot where the shrubs grew thickest, and making his way with such caution that Frank could scarcely keep him in sight. When he reached the brow he raised his head and looked round in all directions and then went on. It was nearly half an hour before he rejoined his companion.

"They have gone straight ahead," he said. "I went over the brow, and down the next hollow, and found their trail strong there, for the ground is swampy; they had certainly passed within an hour of the time I got there."

"How did you know that?" Frank asked.

"Because the water was still muddy where they had passed; it would have settled again in an hour after being disturbed, so they could not have been more than that time ahead. They were keeping just parallel with the line of march of the caravan."

"How many of them do you think there were?"

"Between fifty and sixty," Dick said confidently.

"Perhaps they were merely journeying quietly along," Frank suggested.

"Not likely," Dick replied; "they must have seen these bufflars, and would have been after them, almost to a sartinty, had they not had other business on hand. No, I expect they were watching the caravan, and had made up their minds to wait till nightfall, or perhaps till it came to some place where they can get up close without being seen, and fall upon it by surprise. We will ride back at once with the news, and put them on their guard."

An hour's riding brought them to the caravan, where their news created a great sensation. Hitherto the danger from Indians had appeared a remote trouble, which might not, after all, befall them. The news that fifty or sixty of these dreaded foes were marching along, almost within sight, and might at any moment attack them, brought the danger close indeed. The waggons were driven in even closer order; the women and children were told to keep between the lines; the men distributed themselves among the teams, ready to unyoke the oxen at the shortest notice, and to form the waggons in order of defence. Abe and his companions had not yet returned; but a quarter of an hour later they were seen galloping towards the camp.

"You must keep close together and look spry," Abe shouted as he approached; "we have come upon signs of a large body of Indians, a hundred and fifty or two hundred strong, I reckon, out there on the plains. They have passed along this morning, and ain't up to no good, I expect."

"We have found signs of a smaller party, Abe, some fifty or sixty, on our left; these were marching straight along, pretty well in the line we are going."

"Then," Abe said, "ye had best look to yer guns, for they mean mischief; they must have been watching us this morning when we started, but concluded that the ground was too level, and that we should have time to get into position before they could get up to us, besides we had all the advantage in the stockades at the station. There ain't no station this evening."

"Do you think they will attack us on the road?" Frank asked.

"That will depend on whether they think they can take us unawares. Get on yer horses again. Dick, do you ride half a mile ahead of the caravan, don't keep in the hollows, but follow the line of the brow on the right. Young Frank and I will scout half a mile out on the right of the caravan; Rube and Jim, you go the same distance on the left; that way we can see them coming, and the teamsters will have plenty of time to form up the waggons. But I don't reckon as they will attack; when they sees as we are on the lookout they will guess we have come across their tracks, and will see that their chances of a surprise are gone for the day."

"Do you think they will attack us to-night?" Frank asked his companions.

"They may, and they may not. As a general thing these Plain Injins are not fond of night attacks; it's part superstition, no doubt, and part because they are much more at home on horseback than on foot. Still there's never no saying with an Injin; but I should say, lad, that they ain't likely to do that yet. They will try other ways fust. They knows as how they have got plenty of time, and can choose their opportunity, if it's a month hence. They are wonderful patient, are the redskins, and time air of no account to them; but at present I think the most dangerous times will be after we have camped and before night comes on, and at daybreak before we makes our start."

Two more days passed quietly, and a feeling of hope pervaded the caravan that the Indians had ridden on and sought for other prey. But Abe assured them that they must not relax their precautions, and that the failure of the Indians to attack was no proof whatever that they had abandoned their intention to do so.

"An Injin is always most dangerous just when you ain't thinking of him. You may be sure we have been watched, although we haven't seen no one, and that seeing as we are on guard they are waiting for us to become careless again; or it may be they have fixed upon their place of attack, and if so, you may bet yer life it is a good one. Above all things you men impress upon the women and children that in case of a sudden attack they shall each take refuge at once in the waggons, in the places allotted to them, and that they shall do it with out any squealing or yelling; there's nothing bothers men and flurries them, just as they have got need to be cool and steady, as the yelping of a pack of women. Just impress on them as it does no good, and adds to the chances of their getting their throats cut and their har raised."

The hunter's orders were very strongly impressed upon the women and children, and even the latter were made to feel thoroughly the importance of silence in case of an attack.

Upon the following day they came upon a spot where the trail crossed a deep hollow; the sides were extremely steep, the bottom flat and swampy. Rough attempts had been made by preceding travellers to reduce the steepness of the bank, but it was in no way improved thereby; the upper edge was indeed more gradual, but the soil cut away there, and shovelled down, had been softened by subsequent rains, while the torn surface of the bottom, and the deep tracks left by the wheels, showed how the teams had struggled through it. They explored for some little distance up and down to see if an easier point for crossing could be discovered, but came to the conclusion that the spot at which the tracks crossed it was the easiest, as in most places the bank had been eaten away by winter rains and was almost perpendicular. They had reached this spot late in the evening, and prepared to cross soon after daybreak "You will have to fix up three teams to each waggon," Abe had said, "and take one over at a time. We will be out early scouting—for, mind you, this is a likely place to be attacked by the redskins; they will know there is a bad spot here, and will guess as you will be in confusion and divided, some on one side of the gulch, some on the other. Give particular charge to the men to have their rifles handy, and to prepare to defend the waggons to the last, and pass round word among the women and children not to be scared in case of an attack, as we shall drive the Injins off handsomely if they come."

At daybreak, Abe, Dick, and Frank crossed the gulch, the other two hunters remaining behind.

"We must not go far from the crossing," Abe said. "We don't know which way the tarnal critters may come, and in case of attack, all our guns will be wanted. They will guess as we shall begin to cross the first thing in the morning, and that it will take three or four hours to get over. So, if they are coming, it will be in a couple of hours, so as to catch us divided."

They took their station on a rise a few hundred yards from the crossing, one of them riding back from time to time to see how the operation of crossing was going on. It was one of immense difficulty. The oxen were mired almost up to their chests, and the waggons sunk axle-deep. The waggons stuck fast in spite of the efforts of all the men in the party. Frank looked on for some time, and then a thought struck him.

"Look here, you will never get the waggons on in that way, the oxen cannot pull an ounce. The best way will be to unyoke them, take them across, and get them up on the level ground on the top; then fasten your ropes together and hitch them to the waggon. The bullocks, on firm ground, can easily pull it across."

The suggestion was at once acted upon. The bottom was some fifty yards wide, and there were plenty of ropes in the waggons which had been brought for lowering them down difficult places, and for replacing any of the long rope traces which might be broken and worn out. Two of these were attached to the waggon, and the oxen were taken over and up the further side. A team was attached to each rope, and as the whip cracked the ponderous waggon was at once set in motion, and was soon dragged through the mud and up the incline.

"That's a capital plan of yourn, young fellow," John Little said. "I don't know how we ever should have got across the other way, and I had just made up my mind to give it up and move down this hollow till we came to firmer ground."

Five more waggons were got across in the same manner. Suddenly Abe discharged his rifle.

"What's the matter?" Frank exclaimed.

"Injins," Abe said briefly. "Them's the heads of the tarnal cusses just coming over the line of that rise."

The spot to where he pointed was about half a mile distant, and soon Frank perceived a number of dark objects rising above it. Almost at the same instant the sound of a gun was heard on the other side of the gulch.

"They are going to attack both sides at once," Abe said, as they galloped back towards the crossing; "that shows they are strong. If they had any doubts about licking us they would have thrown thar whole strength on one party or the other."

On reaching the waggons they found the men there working with all their might to get the six waggons in position, side by side across the top of the ascent. The oxen had already been taken down into the hollow.

"That's right," Abe shouted, as they leapt from their horses and aided in the movement. "It couldn't be better. Well and steady. You have three or four minutes yet."

The waggons were drawn up in two lines with their wheels touching, the inner line being on the very edge of the descent. The women and children were placed in the inner waggons, while the eight men who had come across with them, and the three hunters, took their places in the outside waggons.

Almost all the men had been across with the teams when the guns were fired, but the remainder had run back to aid in the defence of the waggons on the other side. These were already in a position of defence, having been so arranged before the crossing began. So well had Abe's orders been carried out, that no confusion whatever had occurred. At the sound of the guns the women had climbed, and helped the children, into the waggons allotted to them, and the men, on arriving, quietly took up their positions.

The Indians were not visible until they reached a spot about three hundred yards from the waggons. As they dashed up the rise they checked their horses. Instead of seeing, as they had expected, everything in confusion and dismay, not a soul was visible, and the clumps of waggons stood, one on either side, ranged as for defence. However, after waiting for three days for their prey, they were not to be balked. Their wild war-cry rose in the air, and the two bodies of horsemen charged down on the travellers.

In an instant a deadly fire broke out, the men kneeling in the bottom of the waggons and resting their rifles on the rail, the tilt being raised a few inches to enable them to see under it. Every shot told among the mass of horsemen. The emigrants were all new to Indian warfare, but most of them were farmers accustomed from boyhood to the use of the rifle, and the coolness of the hunters, and their preparation for attack, steadied them, and gave them confidence. Several of the Indians fell at the first discharge, but the advance was not checked, and at full speed they came on.

"Steady, lads; don't throw away a shot," Abe shouted, as the men loaded and discharged their rifles as quickly as possible; "see that every bullet tells."

Already the Indians were checking the speed of their horses, for the position was a most difficult one to attack. It could not be surrounded, and, indeed, could only be attacked on the face of the outside waggons, from which a stream of fire was pouring. As the leaders came on Frank and the two hunters, who both, like himself, carried revolvers, laid aside their rifles and brought these deadly weapons into action, resting them on the rail to secure an accurate fire. The quick, sharp cracks of these, followed in almost every case by the fall of one of the horsemen in front, completed the dismay of the Indians. Quick as thought, those who had fallen were lifted across the horses of their comrades, and the whole band, turning, galloped away at full speed, pursued, as long as they were in sight, by the rifle-balls of the defenders of the waggons.

"So much for them," Abe said, as he leapt to the ground. "Now let us give a hand to our comrades."

The fight was still raging on the other side. The number of waggons was larger, and the facilities for defence less. The waggons were surrounded by a throng of Indians, who were cutting at them with their tomahawks, discharging their rifles into the tilts, and some, having thrown themselves from their horses, were endeavouring to climb up. The defenders were still fighting desperately. They had no longer time to load, but with hatchets and clubbed rifles beat down the Indians who tried to climb the waggons. A few minutes, however, would have ended the resistance had not help been at hand.

From the opposite side of the gulch eleven men poured the contents of their rifles among the Indians. One of the leading chiefs and four of his followers fell dead, and almost before the Indians had recovered from their surprise a dropping fire was opened, almost every shot taking effect. A cheer broke from the defenders of the waggons, and they fought with renewed hope, while the Indians, startled by this unlooked-for attack, and by the repulse of their comrades, began to lose heart.

Only for a few minutes longer did they continue the attack. The deadly flank fire proved too much for their courage, and soon they too were in full flight, carrying off with them their killed and wounded. A shout of triumph rose from the two parties of whites, and a scene of wild delight took place; the women, now that the excitement was over, cried and laughed alternately in hysterical joy; the children shouted, while the men grasped each other's hands in fervent congratulation.

"We all owe our lives to you and your comrades," John Little said to Abe. "If it had not been for you we should all have gone under; and, I tell you, if ever we get across these plains we will find some way to show our gratitude. As long as John Little has a crust in the world he will share it with you."

When the excitement had somewhat abated, the work of crossing was recommenced, and in two hours all were over and the journey was continued.

"Do you think the Indians will attack us again?" John Little asked Abe, when the caravan was set in motion.

"They will, if they see a chance," Abe replied. "They have lost a lot of men, and will get vengeance if they can. It depends partly whether thar big chief was killed or not; if he war they may give it up now; they sees as we are strong and well-armed. If not, thar chief will do all he can to wipe us out, for he will be held responsible for the affair, and such a defeat would lower his influence in the tribe."

Five days later they saw some waggons in the distance. Since the attack the hunters had not left the caravan, as the emigrants all declared that they would far rather go without fresh meat than have the hunters absent from the camp. A few deer only, which had been seen from the line of march, had been stalked and shot.

"There is a caravan halting ahead," Frank said. "We heard at the last station that one passed ten days back. I wonder what they are halting for. The next water, according to the distances the station-keeper gave us, must be ten miles away."

"I don't like the look of it," Abe replied. "Travelling at about the same rate as we do, they should still be about ten days ahead. I am very much afraid that something has happened; those varmint we thrashed, or some other, may have attacked them."

For another mile not a word was spoken; then they reached a spot from which the waggons and the ground around them was clearly visible.

"I see no sign of movement," Abe said to John Little, "and thar seems to be a lot of dark objects lying about I will ride forward with my mates. If, as I calculate, there has been a massacre, you had better take the waggons a detour a mile round, so that the women and children may be spared the sight of it. It would be enough to make them skeery for the rest of the journey."

Abe and his comrades galloped forward.

"Have your rifles ready," the former said; "there may be some of the varmint hiding about still, though I don't think it likely. I expect the attack took place some days back."

On nearing the waggons their apprehensions were verified. Around lay the carcasses of the oxen with bales and boxes broken open and rifled of their contents. In and near the waggons were the bodies of their defenders, mingled with those of the women and children. All had been scalped, and the bodies were mutilated with gashes of the tomahawks. No attempt had been made to put the waggons into any position of defence; they still stood in a long line, as they had been travelling when the Indians fell upon them. There were twelve waggons, and they counted eighty bodies lying around them.

"It has been a regular surprise," Abe said, "and I expect there war very little fighting. The Injins burst out on them, there war a wild panic, a few shots war fired, and it war all over; that's how I read it. Hillo! what's that?"

A deep growl was heard, and turning they saw under a bush a mastiff, standing over the body of a child. The animal could with difficulty keep its legs; it had been pierced by a lance, and had received a blow with a tomahawk on the head which had nearly cut off one of its ears. It had doubtless been left for dead, but had recovered itself, and crawled to the side of one of the children of the family to which it belonged. Its head was covered with matted blood, and its tongue hung out, black and parched with thirst; but it growled savagely, its hair bristled on its back, and it prepared to defend to the last the body of its young master.

"Poor fellow!" Frank said, dismounting. "Poor old boy, we are friends."

At the kind tones of the voice the dog relaxed the fierceness of its aspect, it gave a faint whine, and lay down by the child's body. Frank took off his thick felt hat, filled it with water from the skin hanging from his saddle, and carried it to the dog. The animal raised itself again with an effort, and drank eagerly; when it had finished, it thrust its great nose into Frank's hand and wagged its tail, then it returned to the body and gave a piteous howl. The tears stood in Frank's eyes.

"Lend a hand with your knives," he said to his comrades, who were looking on; "let us dig a grave for the child, then the dog will perhaps follow us; it is a grand dog, and I should like to have it."

The others dismounted, and with their knives and hands they soon scraped a hole in the earth capable of containing the body. The mastiff stood by watching their operations. Frank doubted whether it would allow him to touch the body of the child; but the animal seemed to comprehend his intentions, and suffered him to raise the child and lay it in the ground. No sooner was the grave filled up than the mastiff laid himself down beside it. Frank now offered the animal some meat from his wallet, and after this was eaten, bathed its head with water and brought the edges of the wound together, and bandaged it with a strip torn from his hunting-shirt.

"Come along, old fellow; come along with us, you can do no good here."

He mounted his horse, and the mastiff rose to its feet and stood irresolute, and gave another piteous howl.

"Will you ride back to the caravan, Abe, and tell them there is no danger? I will move slowly with the dog, and join them when they get abreast of us."

The four men started at a gallop. Frank dismounted again and patted the mastiff; then tying his handkerchief to its collar, he walked slowly away, leading his horse. The mastiff followed at once, walking with difficulty, for its hind-legs were almost paralysed from the spear-wound, which had passed through its body just under the spine, behind the ribs. It seemed, however, to feel that Frank was its master now, and laid its great head in his hand as he walked beside it.

As Frank saw the line on which the caravan was now moving, he walked slowly across to it and halted until the waggons came up. The mastiff was lifted into one of them, and laid on some empty flour-sacks. Some more water was given it, and the caravan proceeded on its way.

The terrible fate which had befallen their predecessors cast a deep gloom over the party, who shuddered to think how narrowly they had escaped such a fate; there was no need now to impress upon any the necessity of avoiding straggling, and redoubled vigilance was observed during the march.

Frank attended assiduously to the mastiff, to whom he gave the name of Turk. The spear-wound was kept poulticed, and that in the head was plastered. Had the dog received such wounds at any other time they would have probably proved fatal; but on the plains wounds heal rapidly, and the brisk air and the life of activity and exercise render man and beast alike able to sustain serious injuries without succumbing.

In a week Turk was able to walk with the caravan; a fortnight later it could gallop by Frank's side. They were now entering the Alkali Plains, a wide and desolate region, where water is extremely scarce, and, when found, brackish and bitter to the taste, and where the very shrubs are impregnated with salt, and uneatable by most animals. In anticipation of the hardships to be endured in crossing this region, the bullocks had been allowed for some time a daily ration of grain in addition to the grass they could pick up during the halt, and were therefore in good condition.

A halt was made for three days before entering this district, and the teams were fresh and full of work when they started. The marches across the salt plain were long and painful to man and beast; the dust, which rose in clouds, was so impregnated with salt that it caused an intense irritation to the lips and nostrils.

Everything was done as far as possible to alleviate the sufferings of the animals. Casks were filled with water at each halting-place, and each time the oxen halted for rest their mouths and nostrils were sponged, and a small allowance given them to drink. As they progressed they had reason to congratulate themselves on the precautions they had taken, for scarce a mile was passed without their coming across signs of the misfortunes which had befallen those who had gone before, in the shape of abandoned waggons, stores cast out to lighten the loads, and skeletons of oxen and horses. But, on the other hand, there was now comparatively slight danger of an Indian attack, for even the horses of the redskins, hardy as they are, could not support the hardships of a prolonged stay on the Alkali Plains.

CHAPTER XIII. AT THE GOLD-FIELDS.

IT was with intense delight that all in the caravan noticed the gradual change of herbage which showed that they were approaching the confines of this terrible region; and when, at their first halt after leaving it, they came upon flowing streams, a general bath was indulged in by man and beast, the oxen lying down in the water, and being with great difficulty induced to emerge from it. The hunters now recommenced their excursions in search of game, for all were suffering from the want of fresh meat, the children especially feeling the privation.

Turk accompanied the party. The dog was now completely restored, and nothing could induce it to leave Frank's side. It was quite young, and Frank soon taught it to remain by his horse while he dismounted to stalk game; while in pursuit on horseback, Turk often pursued and pulled down deer who would otherwise have escaped.

One day Dick and Frank had gone out alone, and had been led a long distance from the line of march in pursuit of a herd of deer. These had finally gone up a narrow cañon in the mountains. The hunters pursued them for some distance, and then, despairing of overtaking them, turned their horses, and began to retrace their steps. Suddenly Turk, who was in advance, stopped, uttered a deep growl, and its hair bristled from its head to its tail.

"What is it, Turk?" Frank asked.

The animal replied with another low, deep growl.

"It must be some savage beast," Frank said.

"That ain't likely," Dick said; "any beast in this cañon would have moved away when we passed before. I think the dog must scent Injins. A party may have seen us entering the gap, and may be in pursuit."

He threw himself off his horse, and listened, with his ear to the ground.

"It's Injins, sure enough!" he exclaimed; "I can hear the clattering of horses' hoofs on the hard rock. There's nothing for it but for us to make our way up the cañon."

They turned their horses, and galloped forward, Turk, after one more growl in the direction of the Indians, following. Presently the defile divided.

"Shall we take the main branch, or the one to the right?" Frank asked.

"Better keep straight on," Dick said; "the other may lead into some valley from which there could be no getting out, and we should be caught in a trap. See!" he said, as he halted, "the deer have gone that way. Do you see some of the pebbles have been thrown out of that little stream?

"Jump off your horse, and cut some bits off your blankets and tie them round your horse's feet. If the Indians see no marks going forward, they will naturally suppose we have turned off here in pursuit of the deer."

Frank did what his comrade suggested; but quickly as the work was performed, they heard the sound of the horsemen in pursuit, loud and distinct, before they again set forward. Then, springing on their horses, they rode up the cañon. After a while they halted; the sounds of pursuit had ceased, and they had no doubt the Indians had turned off into the other ravine.

"It all depends how far that runs," Dick said, "how soon they will be in pursuit again. If it comes soon to an end it will not be long before we have them after us; if it goes on for some miles we are safe."

Winding between perpendicular cliffs of great height, they rode forward, mounting steadily. It was impossible to make rapid progress, for although in some places the bottom of the ravine was bare, smooth rock, at others it was piled with boulders.

It was three hours before they emerged from it, and upon doing so found they were upon an elevated plateau. Before they moved forward, Frank said, "Turk, do you hear them?" The dog stood with ears erect and quivering nostrils, looking down the ravine which they had just left. Presently he gave a low, deep growl.

"They are coming," Frank said; "but they must be a good way off, for Turk did not hear them at first. Which way shall we go, Dick?"

"We had better turn to the left," Dick said, "for our natural line leads to the right. However, it does not make much difference, for they will be able to track us; still, it may puzzle them. It will be dark in a couple of hours, and if we can keep ahead till then we are safe."

They started at a gallop, and for an hour rode at full speed in the direction which would take them down to the plain at or near the spot where they had halted the night before.

"Look out, Frank! rein up!" Dick suddenly shouted. Frank pulled his horse back on its haunches, and but just in time, for at the brow of the swell up which they had been galloping, the ground fell suddenly away in a precipice two hundred feet deep, and the horse was barely a length from it when he brought it to a standstill.

"We are in a mess," Dick said. "The Injins behind us will know of this, and instead of following will scatter to the right and left, as they will know that we must turn one way or the other."

"In that case," Frank said, "our best plan will be to go straight back."

"You are right," Dick exclaimed, "that is the best thing we can do. We won't follow the exact track, as a few of them may have kept our line, but will bear a little distance off it, and hope they may pass us unseen; the sun is setting already, half an hour and it will be dark."

Taking every precaution to conceal their trail, they rode back, keeping a hundred yards or so to the right of the line by which they had come. A quarter of an hour passed, and then Turk gave his growl of warning.

"Could not have been better," Dick exclaimed, "this brushwood is just the place for us."

They threw themselves from their horses, and made the animals lie down at full length in the low bushes, and laid themselves down beside them.

"Hush! Turk," Frank said to the dog, as he laid his hand upon it's head. "You must lie quiet, sir, and not make the least noise."

The dog, who was quivering with excitement, lay down quietly, as if it comprehended the need for silence.

"One, two, three, four, five, six," Dick counted, peering through the bushes. "Six of them; we could fight that lot easy, but the sound of our rifles would bring the whole gang down upon us."

The Indians were not riding at full speed, for their horses were tired, having already made a long march before they saw the hunters following the deer to the cañon, and they did not expect to overtake those of whom they were in pursuit, believing that when they reached the precipice they would make along it to the right or left, and so fall into the hands of one or other of the parties who had gone to intercept them.

No sooner were they fairly out of sight than the hunters rose, and, remounting their horses, continued their way.

"It's well-nigh dark," Dick said, "and I doubt if they will be able to make out our back-track when they get to the edge; at any rate they cannot follow it."

They rode on until they found that their horses could no longer carry them, then, dismounting, led them by the bridle. They had been steering by the stars, and presently found themselves at the upper end of the ravine.

"We won't enter this now," Dick said, "for some of them may take it into their heads to gallop back, although that ain't very likely. Anyhow the horses can't go any further, and if they could, we couldn't make our way over these stones; it'll be as dark as pitch down there. So we will move away two hundred yards, and let the horses feed while we get a few hours' sleep. That dog of yourn will give us notice if any of the varmint are coming this way."

The night passed without alarm, and at the first dawn of light they were upon their feet again. The horses were given a mouthful of water from the skins, and then the hunters mounted and rode down the cañon. There would be pursuit, they knew well; but the Indians would not be able to take up the trail until daylight, and would be an hour and a half following it to the top of the cañon, so that they had fully two hours' start. This being the case, they did not hurry their horses, but kept up a steady pace until they emerged at the lower end of the ravine; then they urged them forward, and two hours later arrived at the halting-place of the caravan. No move had been made, but the instant they were seen approaching, Abe and his two comrades rode up to meet them.

"What has happened?" he asked, as he reached them. "We have been terrible uneasy about you, and I was just going to start to try and pick up your track and follow you."

Dick related the adventure.

"It war well it war no worse," Abe said. "That critter's sense has saved your lives, for ef he hadn't given you warning you would have ridden slap into the hands of the Injins; you may consider you are quits with him now, Frank. But it war a nasty fix, and I congratulate you both on having brought your har safely back to camp; that coming straight back on your trail when you was stopped by the fall of the ground was a judgmatical business."

"It was Frank's idee," Dick said.

"Wall, he just hit the right thing; if it hadn't been for that you would have been rubbed out sure."

At the next halting-place they found that three or four of the caravans which had preceded them had halted, being afraid to move forward in small parties, as the Indians had made several attacks. With the accession of force given by the arrival of John Little's party, they considered themselves able to encounter any body of redskins they might meet, as there were now upwards of fifty waggons collected, with a fighting force of seventy or eighty men.

They therefore moved forward confidently. Several times parties of Indian horsemen were seen in the distance, but they never showed in force, the strength of the caravan being too great for any hope of a successful attack being made upon it.

It was nearly five months from the time of their leaving Omaha before the caravan approached the point where the great plateau of Nevada falls abruptly down to the low lands of California many thousand feet below. Here the hunters bade farewell to the emigrants, whom they had so long escorted. All danger of Indians had been long since passed, and they were now within a short distance of the gold regions.

Very deep and sincere were the thanks which were poured upon them by the emigrants, who felt that they owed their lives entirely to the vigilance and bravery of Abe and his companions. They expected to meet again ere long at the gold-fields, and many were the assurances that should by any chance better luck attend their search than was met with by the hunters, the latter should share in their good fortune.

The change in the character of the scenery was sudden and surprising. Hitherto the country had been bare and treeless, but the great slopes of the Nevada mountains were covered from top to bottom with a luxuriant growth of timber. Nowhere in the world are finer views to be obtained than on the slopes of the Nevada Mountains. The slopes are extremely precipitous, and sometimes, standing on a crag, one can look down into a valley five or six thousand feet below, clothed from top to bottom with luxuriant foliage, while far away in front, at the mouth of the valley, can be seen the low, rich flats of California.

On the lower slopes of these mountains lay the gold deposits. These were found in great beds of gravel and clay, which in countless generations had become so hardened that they almost approached the state of conglomerate. The gold from these beds had been carried, either by streams which ran through them, or by the action of rain and time, into the ravines and valleys, where it was found by the early explorers. These great beds of gravel have been since worked by hydraulic machinery, water being brought by small canals, or flumes, many miles along the face of the hills, to reservoirs situated one or two hundred feet above the gravel to be operated upon.

From the reservoirs extremely strong iron pipes lead down to the gravel, and to the end of these pipes are fitted movable nozzles, like those of fire-engines, but far larger. The water pours out through these nozzles with tremendous force, breaking up the gravel, and washing it away down a long series of wooden troughs, in which the gold settles, and is caught by a variety of contrivances.

But in the early days of gold discovery the very existence of these beds of gravel was unknown, and gold was obtained only in the ravines and valleys by washing the soil in the bottom. It had already been discovered that the soil was richer the further the searchers went down, by far the greater finds being made when the diggers reached the solid rock at the bottom, in the irregularities of which, worn by water thousands of years before, large quantities of rough gold were often discovered.

There was no difficulty in following the track through the forest, and after two days' travelling the party arrived at the first mining village. They chose a piece of ground for their camp, fastened their horses to stumps, erected a tent of blankets, and placed in it the stores brought on their baggage-horses, which had remained untouched since they started. Then, leaving one of their number in charge, they started off to visit the diggings.

The whole of the bottom of the narrow valley was a scene of life and bustle. The existence of gold in the valley had been discovered but three weeks before, but a rush had taken place from other diggings. The ground had been allotted out, and a number of tents pitched, and rough huts erected. Men were working as if for bare life. The lots were small, and the ground was already perfectly honeycombed with holes. Generally the diggers worked in batches of four or five, each member of which took up a claim, so that the space for operations was enlarged.

Two men laboured with pick and shovel, and the baskets, as they were filled with earth and sand, were first screened in a sieve to remove the larger portion of stones and rock, and were then poured into what was known as a cradle, which was a long trough on rockers; one man brought water in buckets from the stream, and poured it into this, while another kept the cradle in constant motion. The mud and lighter portions of stone flowed away over the edge, or were swept off by the hand of the men employed in working it, the particles of gold sinking to the bottom of the machine, where they were found at the clean-up at the end of the day's work.

The new-comers looked on with great interest at the work, asking questions as to the luck which attended the operators. The majority gave but a poor account of their luck, the value of the finds at the end of the day being barely sufficient to pay the enormous rate charged for provisions, which had to be carried up from the coast some hundreds of miles away. The stores were brought in waggons as far as Sacramento, and from that town were carried to the diggings on the backs of mules and horses. Consequently it was impossible for a man to live on the poorest necessities of life for less than three or four dollars a day, and in the out-of-the-way valleys the cost was often considerably more.

Some of the diggers owned that they were doing well, but there was a general disinclination to state even the approximate amount of their daily winnings. The hunters found, however, that the general belief was that some of those who had claims in the centre of the valley, where of course the gold would settle the thickest, were making from ten to twenty ounces per day.

"That's something like!" Dick said. "Just fancy making from forty to eighty pounds per day. I vote we set to work at once. As well here as anywhere else."

"Yes, I suppose we may as well begin here," Frank agreed; "at any rate until we hear what is being done in the other places. But you see we must be ready to move off as soon as a report comes of some fresh discovery, so as to get good places. Here, of course, we must be content to settle down outside the rest. We will mark out five claims at once, turn up the ground, and put our tools there; they say that's sufficient to take possession. Then we will go up into the forests and cut down a pine or two, and slit it up into planks for making one of those cradles. That will take us all day to-morrow, I reckon."

As they sat round the fire that evening, talking over their prospects, Abe said—

"I tell you what it is, mates, I have been thinking this here matter over, and when I sees what tremendous prices are being charged for grub here, I concluded there must be a big thing to be made in the way of carrying. Now we have got our five riding-horses, and the three baggage-horses, that makes eight. Now what I proposes is this: three of us shall work the claims, and the other two shall work the horses; we can sell the riding-saddles down at Sacramento, and get pack-saddles instead. We can begin by carrying for one of the traders here.

"I hear that a horse can earn from five to ten dollars a day, so our eight horses will earn forty to eighty dollars a day. Now that's a good sartin living for us all, especially as we shall bring up the provisions for ourselves, instead of paying big rates here. Arterards we will see how things go, and if we like we can open a store here, and one of us mind it. Anyhow the horses will keep us well. If the claim turns out well, so much the better; if it don't, we can do very well without it. I proposes as we take it by turns to drive the horses and dig."

The counsel was good and prudent, but it was only adopted after some discussion, for the sums which the more fortunate diggers were earning were so large that all looked forward to making a rapid fortune, and were inclined to despise the small but steady gains offered by the plan Abe suggested. However, Frank sided with Abe, and offered to go with him on the first trip to Sacramento, and the others thereupon fell in with the plan.

The next day the cradle was made by Abe and Frank, the others setting to to dig and wash out in a bucket. At the end of a day of hard work they had got about a quarter of an ounce of glittering yellow dust. This was not paying work, but they were not disappointed; they had not expected to strike upon good ground at the first attempt, and were quite satisfied by the fact that they really had met with the gold which they had come so far to seek.

That evening Abe made a bargain to bring up goods from Sacramento for one of the store-keepers, having previously found the rate which was current. At daybreak next morning he and Frank started off on horseback, each with three horses tied, head and tail, behind the one he was riding, Turk marching gravely by their side.

The distance to Sacramento was upwards of seventy miles. On their road they met numerous parties making their way up the mountains. All carried a pick and shovel, a bucket and blanket, and a small sack with flour and bacon. Many of them were sailors, who had deserted from their ships at San Francisco, where scores of vessels were lying unable to leave for want of hands.

All, as they passed, asked the last news from the diggings, where the last rush was, and what was the average take at the camp, and then hurried on, eager to reach the spot where, as every man believed, fortune awaited him.

Two days of travel down the mountains took them to Sacramento. Here their saddles were disposed of, and pack-saddles bought. The horses were laden with sacks of sugar and flour, sides of bacon, and mining tools, and after a day's stay in town, they started back for the camp.

Sacramento, but a few months before a sleepy, quiet city, mostly inhabited by Spaniards, or rather people of Spanish descent, was now a scene of animation and bustle. Long teams of waggons, laden with stores, rolled in almost hourly across the plains from San Francisco, while the wharves at the river-side were surrounded by laden barges. Bands of newly-arrived emigrants wandered through the streets, asking eager questions of any one who had time enough to talk as to the best way of getting to the diggings, and as to the camp which they had better select for their first attempt. Dark-looking men, half Spaniard and half Indian, went along on their little ponies, or rode at the head of a string of laden animals, with an air of perfect indifference to the bustle around them.

Sounds of shouting and singing came through the doors of some saloons, in which many of the fortunate diggers were busily engaged in dissipating their hard-earned gains. Men sunburnt almost to blackness, in red shirts and canvas trousers, walked along the streets as if the town and all in it belonged to them in virtue of the store of gold-dust tied up in their waist-belts. In these, revolvers and bowie-knives were stuck conspicuously, and the newly-arrived emigrants looked with awe and envy at these men who had already reaped a harvest at the mines.

Shooting affrays were of frequent occurrence in the drinking saloons, where at night gambling was invariably carried on, the diggers being as reckless of their lives as of their money.

"About ten days of that place would be enough to ruin any man," Abe said, as they walked at the head of their cavalcade from the town. "I reckon as Sacramento is a sort of hell on arth, and guess there's more wickedness goes on in that ere little town than in any other place its own size on the face of creation. They tells me as San Francisco is worse, but at any rate Sacramento is bad enough for me."

On the evening of the third day after leaving Sacramento they arrived at the mining camp, and having delivered the stores they had brought up to the trader, and received the amount agreed upon, they took their way to the spot where they had pitched their camp.

"Well, lads, what luck?" Abe asked, as at the sound of their feet their comrades came out to greet them.

"We have got about four ounces of dust," Dick said, "and our backs are pretty nigh broken, and our hands that blistered we can hardly hold the shovel. However, we have been better the last two days. I expect there have been two or three hundred people arrived here since you left, and they are all at work now."

"Well, that's pretty well for a beginning," Abe said, "though you wouldn't have much of your four ounces left if you had had to pay for grub. However, we've brought up another half-sack of flour, twenty pounds of sugar, and five pounds of tea, and a half-side of bacon, so we have got quite enough to go on for a long time yet. I have brought up, too, a good stout tent, which will hold us comfortable, and, after paying for all that, here's thirty pounds in money. I got five pounds a horse-load, so with your earnings and ours we haven't made a bad week's work; that's pretty nigh ten pounds a man. I don't say that's anything wonderful, as times goes here; but when we hit on a good spot for our digging, we shall pick it up quick. Now let's pitch the new tent, and then we will have supper, for I can tell you walking twenty-five miles in this mountain air gives one something like an appetite."

CHAPTER XIV. CAPTAIN BAYLEY.

DURING the time which had elapsed between the departure of Frank Norris from England, and his arrival at the gold-diggings in California, much had happened at home which he would have been interested to learn had he maintained any communication with his relatives there. On the morning when Frank had been accused by Dr. Litter of abstracting the note from his table, the latter had, as he had informed Frank he intended to do, sent a note to Captain Bayley informing him that a most painful circumstance had taken place with reference to his nephew, and begging him to call upon him between twelve and one.

Captain Bayley had done so, and had, as Fred Barkley stated, been furious at the news which the Doctor conveyed to him; his fury, however, being in no degree directed towards his nephew, but entirely against the head-master for venturing to bring so abominable an accusation against Frank.

The evidence which Dr. Litter adduced had no effect whatever in staying his wrath, and so vehement and angry was the old officer, that Dr. Litter was obliged to ring the bell and order the servant to show him out. From Dean's Yard he took a cab, and drove direct to his solicitor, and requested him instantly to take proceedings against the head-master for defamation of character.

"But, Captain Bayley," the lawyer urged, "we must first see whether this gentleman had any reasonable cause for his belief. If the evidence is what may be considered as strong, we must accept his action as taken bonâ fide."

"Don't tell me, sir," Captain Bayley exclaimed angrily. "What do I care for evidence? Of course he told me a long rigmarole story, but he could not have believed it himself. No one but a fool could believe my nephew Frank guilty of theft; the idea is preposterous, it was as much as I could do to restrain myself from caning him when he was speaking."

The lawyer smiled inwardly, for Dr. Litter was a tall, stately man, six feet two in height, while Captain Bayley was a small, slight figure, by no means powerful when in his prime, and now fully twenty years the senior of the head-master.

"Well, Captain Bayley," he said, "in the first place it is necessary that I should know the precise accusation which this gentleman has brought against your nephew. Will you be good enough to repeat to me, as nearly as you can, the statement which he made, as, of course, if we proceed to legal measures, we must be exact in the matter?"

"Well, this is about the story he told me," Captain Bayley said, more calmly. "In the first place, it seems that the lad broke bounds one night, and went with a man named Perkins—who is a prize-fighter, and who I know gave him lessons in boxing, for I gave Frank five pounds last half to pay for them—to a meeting of these Chartist blackguards somewhere in the New Cut.

"Well, there was a row there, as there naturally would be at such a place, and it seems Frank knocked down some Radical fellow—a tailor, I believe—and broke his nose. Well, you know, I am not saying this was right; still, you know, lads will be lads, and I used to be fond of getting into a row myself when I was young, for I could spar in those days pretty well, I can tell you, Griffith. I would have given a five-pound note to have seen Frank set to with that Radical tailor. Still, I dare say, if the lad had told me about it I should have got into a passion and blown him up."

"I shouldn't be surprised at all," the lawyer said drily.

"No. Well that would do him no harm; he knows me, and he knows that I am peppery. Well, it seems this fellow found out who he was, and threatened to report the thing to the head-master, in which case this Dr. Litter said he should have expelled him for being out of bounds, a thing which in itself I call monstrous. Now, here is where Frank was wrong. He ought to have come straight to me and told me the whole affair, and got his blowing-up and his money. Instead of that, he asked three or four of the other boys—among them my nephew Fred—to lend him the money, but they were all out of funds. Well, somebody, it seems, sent Frank a ten-pound note in an envelope, with the words, 'From a friend,' and no more. Frank showed the envelope to the others, and they all agreed that it was a sort of godsend, and Frank sent the note to the tailor. Now it seems that the day before Frank got the note, the head-master, when he was hearing his form, had put a ten-pound note, with some other things, on the table, and being called out, he, like a careless old fool, left them lying there.

"Some time afterwards he missed the note, and does not remember taking it up from the table; still, he says, he did not suspect any of the boys of his form of taking it, and thinking that he had dropt it on the way to his house, he stopped the note at the bank, happening to have its number. A few days afterwards the note was presented; it was traced to the tailor, who admitted having received it from Frank; and would you believe it, sir, this man now pretends to believe that my nephew stole it from the table, and sent it to himself in an envelope. It's the most preposterous thing I ever heard."

Mr. Griffith looked grave.

"Of course, Captain Bayley, having met your nephew at your house several times, I cannot for a moment believe him guilty of taking the note; still, I must admit that the evidence is strongly circumstantial, and were it a stranger who was accused, I should say at once the thing looked nasty."

"Pooh! nonsense, Griffith," the old officer said angrily; "there's nothing in it, sir—nothing whatever. Somebody found the note kicking about, I dare say, and didn't know who it belonged to; he knew Frank was in a corner, and sent it to him. The thing is perfectly natural."

"Yes," the lawyer assented doubtfully; "but the question is, Who did know it? Was the fact of your nephew requiring the money generally known in the school?"

"No," Captain Bayley admitted. "The doctor examined the four boys before Frank. They all declared that they knew nothing of the note, and that they had not mentioned the circumstance to a soul; but my opinion is that one of them is a liar."

"It is certainly necessary to believe," Mr. Griffith said slowly, "that one of them is either a liar or a thief. Of course there may be some other solution of the matter, but the only one that I can see, just at the present moment, is this: Your nephew is the sort of lad to be extremely popular among his schoolmates; either one of these four boys took the note from the master's table, with the good-natured but most mistaken idea of getting him out of a scrape, or they must have mentioned his need of money to some of their school-fellows, one of whom finding the note, perhaps in the yard, where the head-master may have dropped it, sent it to Frank to relieve him of the difficulty.

"These are possible solutions of the mystery, at any rate. But if you will take my advice, Captain Bayley, you will not, in the present state of affairs, take the steps which you propose to me against Dr. Litter. It will be time enough to do that when your nephew's innocence is finally and incontestably proved. Of course," he said, seeing that his listener was about to break out again, "you and I, knowing him, know that he is innocent; but others who do not know him might entertain some doubt upon the subject, and a jury might consider that the Doctor was justified, with the evidence before him, in acting as he did, in which case an immense deal of damage might be done by making the matter a subject of general talk."

With some difficulty Captain Bayley was persuaded to allow his intention to rest for a while.

"It is late now," he said, "but I shall go and see Frank to-morrow. I wish I had seen him this afternoon before I came to you. However, I have no doubt when I get home I shall find a letter from him—not defending himself, of course, as he would know that to be unnecessary, but telling me the story in his own way."

But no letter came that evening, to Captain Bayley's great irritation. He told Alice Hardy the whole circumstances, and she was as indignant as himself, and warmly agreed that the head-master should be punished for his unjust suspicions.

"And do you say he is really going to be expelled to-morrow?" she asked, in a tone of horror.

"So the fellow said, my dear; but he shall smart for it, and the laws of the land shall do Frank justice."

At half-past nine the next morning Fred Barkley arrived at Captain Bayley's.

"Well," his uncle exclaimed, as he entered, "I suppose you have been sent to tell me they have got to the bottom of this rigmarole affair."

"No, uncle," Fred said, "I have, I am sorry to say, been sent to tell you that Frank last night left his boarding-house and is not to be found."

Captain Bayley leapt from his seat in great wrath.

"The fool! the idiot! to run away like a coward instead of facing it out; and not a line or a message has he sent to me. Did you know, sir, that your cousin was going to run away?"

Fred hesitated.

"Yes, uncle, I knew that he was going, and did my best to dissuade him, but it was useless."

Captain Bayley walked up and down the room with quick steps, uttering exclamations testifying his anger and annoyance.

"Has he got any money?" he said suddenly, halting before Fred. "Did he get any money from you?"

Fred hesitated again, and then said.

"Well, uncle, since you insist upon knowing, I did let him have twenty pounds which I got for the sale of my books."

"I believe, sir," the old officer said furiously, "that you encouraged him in this step, a step which I consider fatal to him."

Fred hesitated again, and then said.

"Well, uncle, I am sorry that you should be so angry about it, but I own that I did not throw any obstacle in the way."

"You did not, sir," Captain Bayley roared, "and why did you not? Are you a fool too? Don't you see that this running away instead of facing matters out cannot but be considered, by people who do not know Frank, as a proof of his guilt, a confession that he did not dare to stay to face his accusers?"

Fred was silent.

"Answer me, sir," Captain Bayley said; "don't stand there without a word to explain your conduct. Do you or do you not see that this cowardly flight will look like a confession of guilt?"

"I did see that, uncle," Fred said, "but I thought that better than a public expulsion."

"Oh! you did, did you?" his uncle said sarcastically, "when you knew that if he had stopped quietly at home we should have proved his innocence in less than no time."

Fred made no reply.

"Do you think we shouldn't have proved his innocence?" roared his uncle.

"I am sorry to say anything which is displeasing to you, uncle, but I fear that you would never have proved Frank's innocence."

The words seemed to have a sobering effect on Captain Bayley. The blood seemed to die out of his face; he put one hand on a chair, as if to steady himself, while he looked fixedly in his nephew's face.

"Do you mean, Fred," he said, in a low voice, "do you mean that you have a doubt of Frank's innocence?"

"I should rather not say anything about it," Fred replied. "I hope with all my heart that Frank is not guilty, but——"

"What do you think?" Captain Bayley repeated; "have you any grounds whatever for believing him guilty?"

"No, sir, and I do not wish you to be in the slightest degree influenced by what I said." He paused, but Captain Bayley's eyes were still fixed upon him, as if commanding a complete answer.

"Well, sir," he went on hesitatingly, "I must own that, sad as it is to say so, I fear Frank did it."

"Did he confess it to you?" Captain Bayley asked, in a strained, strange voice.

"No, uncle, not in so many words, but he said things which seemed to me to mean that. When I tried to dissuade him from running away, and urged him to remain till his innocence could be proved, he said angrily, 'What's the use of talking like that, when you know as well as I do that it can't be proved.' Afterwards he said, 'It is a bad job, and I have been an awful fool. But who could have thought that note would ever be traced back to Litter?' and other remarks of the same kind. He may be innocent, uncle—you know how deeply I wish we could prove him so—but I fear, I greatly fear, that we shall be doing Frank more service by letting the matter drop. You know the fellows in the school all believe him innocent, and though his going away has staggered some of them, the general feeling is still all in his favour; therefore they are sure to speak of him as a sort of victim, and when he returns, which of course he will do in a few years' time, the matter will have died away and have been altogether forgotten."

The old officer sat down at the table and hid his face in his hands.

All this time Alice, pale and silent, had sat and listened with her eyes fixed upon the speaker, but she now leapt up to her feet.

"Uncle," she said, "don't believe him, he is not speaking the truth, I am sure he is not. He hates Frank, and I have known it all along, because Frank is bigger and better than he; because Frank was generous and kind-hearted; because every one liked Frank and no one liked him. He is telling a lie now, and I believe every word he has said since he came into the room is false."

"Hush! child," the old officer said; "you must not speak so, my dear. If it was only the word of one lad against another, it would be different; but it is not so. The proof is very strong against Frank. I would give all I am worth if I could still believe him innocent, and had he come to me and put his hand in mine, and said, 'Uncle, I am innocent,' I would have believed him against all the evidence in the world. It is not I who condemn him, he has condemned himself. He sends me no word; he cannot look me in the face and declare himself innocent. He runs away at night, knowing well that there could be but one construction as to this, and that all would judge him guilty. No, Alice, it breaks my heart to say so, but I can struggle no longer against these facts. The lad whom I have loved as a son has turned out a thief."

"No, uncle, no," the girl cried passionately, "I will never believe it, not to the end of my life. I cannot prove him innocent, but I know he is so, and some day it will be proved; but till then I shall still think of him as my dear brother, as my true-hearted brother, who has been wrongfully accused, and who is the victim of some wicked plot of which, perhaps, Fred Barkley knows more than any one else," and, bursting into a passion of tears, she ran from the room. Fred looked after her with an expression of pity and sorrow.

"Poor child!" he said, "it is a terrible blow for her, and she scarce knows what she is saying."

"It is a terrible blow," Captain Bayley said, in a dreary voice, "a most terrible blow to me and to her. No wonder she feels it; and I have been planning and hoping that some day, a few years hence, those two would get to like each other in a different way. I had, by my will, divided my fortune equally between you and him, but I have liked him best. Of course, I brought him up, and he has been always with me; it was natural that I should do so. Still I wanted to be fair, and I divided it equally. But I was pleased at the thought that her fortune, which is, as you know, a very large one, would be his, and enable him to make a great figure in the world if he had chosen; and now it is all over.

"Go away now, my boy, the blow has been too much for me. I am getting an old man, and this is the second great blow I have had. Do not take to heart the wild words of poor little Alice. You see she scarcely knows what she is saying."

Without another word Fred took his departure. When once out of sight of the house his steps quickened, and he walked briskly along.

"Splendid!" he said to himself; "a grand stroke indeed, and perfectly safe. Frank is not likely to return for twenty years, if ever, and I don't think the old man is good for another five. I expect I shall have some trouble with that little cat, Alice; but she is only a child, and will come round in time, and her fortune will be quite as useful to me as it would have been to him. I always knew he was little better than a fool, but I could hardly have hoped that he would have walked into the trap as he has done. I suppose that other blow old Bayley spoke of was that affair of his daughter. That was a lucky business for me too."

Fred Barkley was not mistaken, it was of his daughter Captain Bayley had been thinking when he spoke. He had married young when he first went out to India, and had lost his wife two years later, leaving him with a daughter six months old. He had sent her home to England, and after a twenty years' absence he had returned and found her grown up.

She had inherited something of her father's passionate disposition, and possessed, in addition, an amount of sullen obstinacy which was wholly alien to his nature. But her father saw none of these defects in her character. She was very beautiful, with an air of pride and hauteur which he liked. She had a right to be proud, he thought, for she was a very wealthy heiress, for, his two elder brothers having died childless while he was in India, the fine property of their father had all descended to him.

Though the girl had many suitors, she would listen to none of them, having formed a strong attachment to a man in station altogether beneath her. He had given lessons in drawing at the school which had been her home as well as her place of education during her father's absence, for Captain Bayley had quarrelled with his sisters, both of whom, he considered, had married beneath them.

The fact that Ella Bayley was an only child, and that her father was a wealthy man, was known in the school, and had, in some way, come to the ears of the drawing-master, who was young, and by no means ill-looking. He had played his cards well. Ella was romantic and impetuous, and, before long, returned the devotion which her teacher expressed for her.

When her father returned home, and Ella left school to take her place at the head of his establishment, she had hoped that she should be able to win from him a consent to her engagement; but she found his prejudices on the subject of birth were strong, and she waited two years before she broached the subject.

The wrath of Captain Bayley was prodigious; he heaped abusive epithets upon the man of her choice, till Ella's temper rose also. There was a passionate quarrel between father and daughter. The next morning Ella was missing; a week afterwards Captain Bayley received a copy of the certificate of her marriage, with a short note from Ella, saying that when he could make his mind up to forgive her and her husband, and to acknowledge that the latter did not deserve the abusive language that he had applied to him, she should be glad to return and resume her place as his affectionate and loving daughter. She gave an address at which he could communicate to her.

Three years passed before Captain Bayley's anger had sufficiently calmed down for him to write to his daughter saying that he forgave her. The letter was returned by the people at the house, with a note saying that many months had elapsed since any inquiries had been made for letters for Mrs. Smedley, and that they had altogether lost sight of her. Now that the Captain had once made up his mind to forgive his daughter, he was burning with impatience to see her again, and he at once employed a detective to find out what had become of her.

From the person to whose house the letter had been directed the detective learned the address where she and her husband had resided while in London.

For a time it seemed they had lived expensively, the sale of Ella's jewels keeping them in luxury for some months. Then hard times had come upon them; the man had altogether lost his connection as a teacher, and could, or would, do nothing to support his wife and himself; they had moved from the place they had first lived at, and taken much smaller lodgings.

Here the people of the house reported their life had been very unhappy; the husband had taken to drink, and there had been fierce and frequent quarrels between them, arising—the landlady had gleaned, from the loud and angry utterance of the husband—from the wife's refusal to appeal to her father for assistance. They had left this place suddenly, and in debt; thence they had moved from lodging to lodging at short intervals, their position getting worse, until they were last lodged in a wretched garret. From this point they were traced with great trouble down to Nottingham, where the husband obtained a precarious living by producing designs for embroidery and curtains.

Had he been steady he might have soon done fairly, but a great part of his time was spent in public-houses, and he was seldom sober. When returning home one night in a state of drunkenness, he was run over by a heavy van and killed. As his wife possessed but a few shillings in the world, he was buried at the expense of the parish and his widow at once left the town.

The people where she lodged believed that she had gone to London, taking with her her six months old child, and had started to tramp the way on foot. The woman said that she doubted whether she could ever have got there. She was an utterly broken woman, with a constant racking cough, which was like to tear her to pieces, and before she set out her landlady had urged upon her that the idea of her starting to carry a heavy child to London was nothing short of madness.

After this all trace of Ella had been lost. Advertisements offering large rewards appeared in the papers; the books of every workhouse between Nottingham and London, and indeed of almost every workhouse in England, were carefully searched to see if there was any record of the death of a woman with a child about the time of her disappearance. A similar search was made at all the London hospitals, and at every institution where she might have crawled to die; but no trace had ever been found of her.

That she was dead was not doubted; for it was found that at Nottingham she had once gone to the parish doctor for some medicine for her child. The physician had taken particular notice of her, had asked her some questions, and had made a note in his case-book that the mother of the child he had prescribed for was in an advanced stage of consumption, and had probably but a few weeks, certainly not more than a few months, to live.

It was long before the search was given up as hopeless, and many hundreds of pounds were spent by Captain Bayley before he abandoned all hope of discovering, if not his daughter, at least her child. During the year which elapsed before he was forced to acknowledge that it was hopeless, Captain Bayley had suffered terribly. His self-reproaches were unceasing, and he aged many years in appearance.

It was three years after this, on the death of his sister, Mrs. Norris, whose husband had died some years before, that he took Frank into his house and adopted him as his son, stating, however, to all whom it might concern, that he did not regard him as standing nearer to him as his heir than his other nephew, Fred Barkley, but that his property would be divided between them as they might show themselves worthy of it. It was three years later still, that, at the death of her father, an old fellow-officer, his household was increased by the addition of Alice, who had been left to his guardianship, but who had soon learned, like Frank, to address him as uncle.

CHAPTER XV. THE MISSING HEIR.

IT was a long time before the house in Eaton Square in any way recovered its former appearance. Captain Bayley had lost much of his life and vivacity, and, as the servants remarked to each other, nothing seemed to put him out. He went for his morning ride in the Park, or his afternoon visit to the Club, as usual, but his thoughts seemed far away; he passed old friends without seeing them, and if stopped he greeted them no longer with a cheery ring in his voice, or a quick smile of welcome. Every one who knew him remarked that Bayley was going down hill terribly fast, and was becoming a perfect wreck.

Frank's name was never now mentioned in the house. Its utterance had not been forbidden, but it had been dropped as a matter concerning which a hopeless disagreement existed. Alice had changed almost as much as her uncle. Her spirits were gone; her voice was no longer heard singing about the house; she no longer ran up and down the stairs with quick springing footsteps, and indeed seemed all at once to have changed from a young girl into a young woman. Sometimes, as she sat, the tears filled her eyes and rolled fast down her cheeks; at other times she would walk about with her eyebrows knitted, and hands clenched, and lips pursed together, a little volcano of suppressed anger.

Although no discussion on the subject had taken place between her and her guardian, it was an understood thing that she maintained her opinion, and that she regarded Fred Barkley as an enemy. If she happened to be in the room when he was announced, she would rise and leave it without a word; if he remained to a meal, she would not make her appearance in the dining or drawing rooms.

"Alice still regards me as the incarnation of evil," Fred said, with a forced laugh, upon one of those occasions.

"The child is a trump," Captain Bayley said warmly, "a warm lover and a good hater. What a thing it is," he said, with a sigh, "to be at an age when trust and confidence are unshakable, and when nothing will persuade you that what you wish to believe is not right; what would I not give for that child's power of trust?"

The household in Eaton Square were almost unanimous in Frank's favour. His genial, hearty manners rendered him a universal favourite with the servants; and although none knew the causes of Frank's sudden disappearance, the general opinion was that, whatever had happened, he could not have been to blame in the matter.

His warmest adherent was Evan Holl, who had months before been introduced to the house as assistant knife and boot cleaner by Frank. He did not sleep there, going home at nine o'clock in the evening when his work was done.

"Do you know, Harry," he said, one day, "what a rum crest, as they calls it,—I asked the butler what it meant, and he says as how it was the crest of the family—Captain Bayley has; he's got it on his silver, and I noticed it when I was in the pantry to-day helping the butler to clean some silver dishes which had been lying by unused for some time. 'All families of distinction,' the butler said,—he is mighty fond of using hard long words—'all families of distinction,' says he, ''as got their own crest, which belongs to them and no one else. Now this 'ere crest of the guv'nor's is a hand holding a dagger, and the hand has only got three fingers.' I said as how there was two missing, and that the chap as did it couldn't have known much of his business to go and leave out two fingers. But the butler says, 'That's your hignorance,' says he; 'the hand 'as got only three fingers because a hancestor of the Captain's in the time of the Crusaders'—— 'And what's the Crusaders?' says I. 'The Crusaders was a war between the English and the Americans hundreds of years ago,' says he."

Harry burst into a shout of laughter. "Mr. Butler does not know anything about it, for the Crusades were wars between people who went out to the Holy Land to recover the Holy Sepulchre from the Turks who held it."

"Ah, well," Evan said, "it don't make no odds whether they was Turks or Americans. However, the butler says as how the Captain Bayley what lived in those days, he saw a red Injun a-crawling to stab the king, who was a-lying asleep in his tent, and just as his hand was up to stick in the knife, Captain Bayley he gives a cut with his sword which whips off two of the fingers, and before the Injun could turn round and go at him he gives another cut, and takes off his hand at the wrist, and the next cut he takes off his head; so the hand with three fingers holding a dagger was given him to carry as a crest. I suppose after a time the hand got wore out, or got bad, so as he couldn't have carried it about no longer, and instead of that, as a kind of remembrance of the affair, he 'as them put on his forks and spoons."

Mrs. Holl had been listening with grave interest to the narrative.

"Does I understand you to say, Evan, that no other family but that of the master's put this three-fingered hand with a knife on to their things?"

"That's so, mother; leastways it's what the butler says about it."

"Then if that's the case," Mrs. Holl said thoughtfully, "any one who has got this crest, as you calls it, on his things must be a relation of the Captain."

"I suppose so, mother; he might be a long distance off, you know, because this ere affair took place hundreds of years ago, and there may be a lot of the same family about in different parts."

"So there might," Mrs. Holl said, in a disappointed voice.

"Why, mother," Harry said, "one would think it made some difference to you, you speak so mournfully about it."

"It don't make no difference to me, Harry," Mrs. Holl said, "but it makes a lot of difference to you. You know I told you two or three months ago how you come to be here. I don't know as I told you that round the neck of your mother, when she died in that room, was a bit of silk ribbon, and on it was a little seal of gold, with a red stone in it, which I put by very careful for you, though what good such a thing would do to you, or anybody else, I didn't see. Well, on that red stone there was something cut; and father he took it to a chap as understands about those things, who got some red wax, and hotted it, and dropped some of it on a paper, and then squeezed this 'ere stone down on it, and looks at the mark through a eye-glass, and he tells father that it was a hand with three lingers holding a dagger."

"That was curious, mother," Harry said, "very curious. Can you fetch me the seal and let me have a look at it? I don't remember ever having seen it."

The seal was fetched by Mrs. Holl from a pill-box, in which it was carefully stored away in the corner of a drawer. Harry examined it closely.

"It looks like a hand holding a dagger," he said, "but it's too small for me to see whether it has three fingers or four. Evan, will you run round with it to the little watchmaker's in the next street, and ask him to look at it with one of the glasses he sticks in his eye when he is at work, and to tell you whether it has three fingers or four."

Evan returned in a few minutes with the news that the watchmaker at once said that the hand had but three fingers.

"Well, from that, Harry," Mrs. Holl said, "if what this man have been and told Evan is right, you must be some relation to Captain Bayley."

"A cousin, fifty times removed, perhaps," Harry laughed, "but at any rate, it is pleasant to be able to think that I come of a good family."

"You knew that before, Harry," Mrs. Holl said severely, "for I told you over and over again that your mother was a lady, though she was in bad circumstances, and I think, after charring in respectable houses for the last twenty years, I ought to know a lady when I sees one. Well, there's nothing as you think I could do about it?"

"I should think not," Harry laughed. "How the old gent would stare if Evan was to walk up to him and say, 'Captain Bayley, I have got a foster-brother at home who, I think, is a relation of yours.' That would be a nice piece of cheek, wouldn't it?"

Evan laughed.

"However, mother, I votes as in future we calls Harry Harry Bayley instead of Harry Holl."

"You won't do anything of the sort, Evan," the cripple lad answered hotly. "Holl's my name, and you don't suppose I am going to drop the name of the father and mother who brought me up, and have tended me all these years, for Bayley or any other name; besides, even if it should turn out that I am remotely connected with the family, there is no reason why my name should be Bayley, for, of course, if my mother had been a Bayley, she would have changed her name when she married."

Harry thought but little more of the matter, but Mrs. Holl turned it over frequently in her mind, and discussed it with John. John said, "He didn't think much would come of it; still, he didn't see as how there could be any harm in asking, seeing that she had set her mind on it."

So Mrs. Holl resolved to move in the matter. Evan, on being appealed to, said that he did not see how she was to get to speak with Captain Bayley; the footman wouldn't be likely to show her in to his master unless she stated her business. But after much pressing, and declaring over and over again he wished he had never said a word about the hand with three fingers, Evan consented, if he found an opportunity, to ask Captain Bayley to see his mother. This opportunity, however, did not arrive, Evan's duties never bringing him in contact with his employer. At last Mrs. Holl became desperate, and one morning, after breakfast, she went to Captain Bayley's house. The ring at the area-bell brought out the cook.

"What is it?" she said sharply.

"I am the mother, ma'am, of Evan, as works here."

"Well, come down, if you want to see him."

"I don't want to see him, I want to see Captain Bayley."

"I will tell the footman," the cook said, "but I don't think it likely as you can see the Captain."

The footman soon made his appearance. Fortunately he was very young, and had not yet acquired that haughtiness of manner which characterises his class. Evan had before told him that his mother wanted to see Captain Bayley, and had begged him to do his best, should she come, to facilitate her doing so.

"Good morning," he said. "Your boy told me you would be likely enough coming. So you want to see the Captain; he has just finished his breakfast and gone into the study. Now, what shall I say you wants to see him for? I can't show you in, you know, without asking him first."

The young footman was, indeed, curious to know what Mrs. Holl's object could be in wishing to see his master. Evan had resisted all his attempts to find out, simply saying that it was a private affair of his mother's.

"Will you say to him," Mrs. Holl said, "that the mother of the boy as works here under you is most anxious for to see him just for two or three minutes; that it ain't nothing to do with the boy, but she wishes particular to ask Captain Bayley a question—if he will be so good as to see her—that no one else but hisself could answer."

"It's a rum sort of message," the young footman said, "but, anyhow, I will give it; the Captain ain't as hot-tempered as he used to be, and he can but say he won't see you."

Captain Bayley looked mystified when the footman delivered Mrs. Holl's message to him; then he remembered that it was Frank who had introduced her son to help in the house, and he wondered whether her errand could have any connection with him.

"Well, show her up, James," he said; "but just tell her that my time is precious, and that I don't want to listen to long rambling stories, so whatever she has got to say, let her say it straight out."

"It's all right," James said, as, descending to the kitchen, he beckoned Mrs. Holl to follow him; "but the Captain says you are to cut it short; so if you wants an answer you had best put your question, whatever it is, short and to the point, or he will snap you up in a minute, I can tell you."

Mrs. Holl followed into the library. She was at no time a very clear-headed thinker, and the difficulty of putting her question into a few words pressed heavily upon her.

"Now, my good woman, what is it?" Captain Bayley said, as she entered. "I am going out in a few minutes, so come straight to the point, if you please."

"I will come as straight as I can, sir," Mrs. Holl said breathlessly, "but indeed, sir, I am a bad hand at explaining things, and if you snaps me up I shall never get on with it."

Captain Bayley smiled a little. "Well, I will try and not snap you up if you will come to the point. Now, what is the point?"

"The point, sir," Mrs. Holl said despairingly, "is a hand with three fingers a-holding of a dagger."

Captain Bayley looked astonished. "You mean my crest," he said; "why, what on earth are you driving at?"

"Evan saw it on the forks," Mrs. Holl explained.

"Yes, no doubt he did," Captain Bayley said; "but what of that? That's my crest."

"Yes, sir, so Evan said, and when he told me it just knocked me silly like, and says I to him, says I——"

"Never mind what you said to him," Captain Bayley broke in, "what is it you want to say to me? What is there curious in my crest being on my spoons? Now just wait one minute, and tell me as plainly as you can."

Mrs. Holl waited a minute.

"Well, sir, it struck me all in a heap, because I've got in the house a thing with just such another hand, a-holding of a knife in it."

"Oh!" Captain Bayley said, "you have got some article with my crest on it in your house. How did you come by it? It must have been stolen."

"No, sir, I will take my davey as the young person as was my son Harry's mother never stole nothing in her life."

"The young person who was your son Harry's mother," Captain Bayley repeated, in a somewhat puzzled tone. "Are you talking of yourself?"

"Lor' no, sir, the young person."

"But what young person do you mean? How can any young person have been your son Harry's mother except yourself?"

"He ain't really my son, you see, sir; he is the son of a young person who we took in, John and I, and who died at our house; Harry is her son."

A great change passed over Captain Bayley's face, the expression of impatience died out, and was succeeded by one almost of awe. He dropped the paper which he had hitherto held in his hand, and leaning forward he asked in low tones—

"Do you mean that a woman who had in her possession some article with my crest on it, and who had a child with her, died in your house?"

"Yes, sir, that's what I mean; the article is a little gold seal, with a red stone to it."

"How long ago was this?" came slowly from Captain Bayley's lips.

"About seventeen years ago," Mrs. Holl said. "The mother died a few days afterwards; the child is our Harry; and I came to ask you—but, good lawks!"

An ashen greyness had been stealing across the old officer's face, and Mrs. Holl was terrified at seeing him suddenly fall forward across the table.

She rushed to the door to ask for help. James was in the hall, having waited there, expecting momentarily to hear his master tell him to show his visitor out. He began to utter exclamations of dismay at seeing his master's senseless figure.

"I will lift him up," she said. "Run and fetch the butler and the cook, and then go for the doctor as quick as you can run; he has got a stroke."

The butler was first upon the scene. Mrs. Holl had already lifted Captain Bayley into a sitting position. "I have taken off his necktie and opened his collar," she said. The butler, who was unaware of Mrs. Holl's presence there, was astonished at the scene.

"Who are you?" he gasped, "and what have you been doing to the Captain? If you have killed him it will be a hanging matter, you know."

"Don't you be a fool," retorted Mrs. Holl sharply, "but run for some water; he has got a stroke, though what it came from is more nor I can tell."

To be called a fool by this unknown woman of coarse appearance roused the butler's faculties. He was sincerely attached to his master, and without reply he at once hurried away for water.

In five minutes the doctor, who lived close by, entered. Mrs. Holl was still holding up the insensible man; Alice stood crying beside her, the servants were looking on.

"Open the windows," he said.

Then he felt the Captain's pulse. For some time he stood silent; then he said—

"Lay him down at full length on the couch." Mrs. Holl, without the least effort, lifted the slight figure and laid it on the sofa.

"Now," the doctor said, "will you all leave the room except Miss Hardy and you?" he nodded to Mrs. Holl. As the servants retired reluctantly, the butler said—

"Please, sir, I don't know whether you know it, but that woman was with him alone when he got insensible. I don't know what she did to him, but I should recommend that we should have a policeman in readiness."

"Nonsense," the surgeon said. "However, it will be better that she should retire; but let her wait outside, close at hand, in case he wishes to speak to her."

Sarah Holl followed the servants into the hall. The doctor poured a few drops of cordial between Captain Bayley's lips, and placed some strong salts beneath his nostrils.

"You think he will come round?" Alice asked.

"He will come round," the doctor said confidently; "his pulse is gaining power rapidly. It is not paralysis, but a sort of fainting-fit, brought on, I should imagine, by some sudden shock; his heart is weak, and there was a sudden failure of its powers. I have warned him over and over again not to excite himself. However, I think there is no great harm done this time; but he must be careful in future; another such attack and it might go hard with him. See, he is coming round." In a few minutes Captain Bayley opened his eyes and looked round vaguely.

"Lie quiet for a little while, my dear sir," the doctor said cheerfully; "you have been ill, a sort of fainting-fit, but you will be all right in a short time. Drink this glass of cordial." He lifted his patient's head, and held the glass to his lips. As Captain Bayley drank it Alice placed a pillow under his head.

"How was it?" Captain Bayley asked, in a low tone.

"We don't know," the Doctor said; "but don't think about it at present. What you have to do now is to get quite strong again; it will be time afterwards for you to think what upset you. You have given Miss Hardy here quite a fright."

Captain Bayley nodded to Alice. "I never did such a thing before," he said. "I was reading here in the library——" Then he stopped, a sudden flush came to his face.

"Don't agitate yourself, my dear sir," the Doctor said soothingly, "agitation now would be a very serious thing. Drink a little more of this."

Captain Bayley did as he was told, and then asked—

"Where is the woman who was speaking to me?"

"She is outside," the Doctor said. "I told her to wait. But you really must not see her for a time."

"I am all right now," Captain Bayley said, rising to his elbow, "and it will agitate me less to see her than to wait. She brought me very strange news, news which I never thought to hear. It is not bad news, my dear," he said, to Alice, "it is the best news I ever heard. You need not go away, Doctor," he said, seeing the physician was preparing to leave; "you are an old friend, and know all about it; besides, it is no secret. You know how I searched for very many years for my daughter and her child, and came at last to the conclusion that both must be dead, for she was in a dying state when last heard of. Well, I have found that the boy is alive. He has been brought up by the woman who is the mother of a boy who works here."

"Oh! I know," Alice exclaimed, "Frank told me the story. She had told him about a woman who had fallen down at her door years ago, and how she had brought up the child. But O uncle!" she said pitifully, "I have a sad thing to tell you. Frank said that he was such a nice boy, so clever and good. Frank used to go and help him with his books, and he can read Latin and all sorts of things; but, uncle, he met with an accident when he was little, and he is a cripple."

For a minute Captain Bayley was silent.

"It is part of my punishment, dear," he said at last, "God's will be done. However, cripple or not, I am thankful to find that, from what you say, he is a boy whom I can own without shame, for the thought has troubled me always, that, should Ella's son be alive, he might have grown up a companion of thieves, a wandering vagabond. Thank God, indeed, it is not so! I am glad you told me, Alice. Now, let me see this good woman who has been a mother to him."

Mrs. Holl was again called in, and was asked to sit down.

"The question you wished to ask me," Captain Bayley said, "was, I suppose, whether I could give you any clue as to who was the woman you took in, and whose child you adopted? She was my daughter."

"Lor', sir!" Mrs. Holl exclaimed, "who would have thought such a thing?"

"Who, indeed," Captain Bayley repeated; "but so it was. For years I sought for her in vain, and had long since given up all hope of ever hearing of her. Have you got the seal with you?"

After some search Mrs. Holl produced from the corner of her capacious pocket the seal, carefully wrapped up in paper.

"That is it," Captain Bayley said, with a sigh. "Alice, go to my desk, open the inner compartment, and there you will see the fellow to it." Alice did as he requested.

"There, you see, Doctor, they are exactly alike. They were both made at the same time, soon after I returned from India, and now, Mrs. Holl, please tell us the whole story as I understand you told it to my nephew."

Mrs. Holl repeated the story in nearly the same words that she had used to Frank.

"God bless you!" Captain Bayley said, when she finished. "No words can tell how grateful I am to you, or how deeply I am moved at the thought of the kindness which you and your husband, strangers as you were to her, showed to my poor girl. I hope you will not mind sparing him to me now; your claims are far greater than mine, but you have other children, while I, with the exception of my ward here, am alone in the world."

"Lor', sir," Mrs. Holl said, wiping her eyes with her apron, "of course we will spare him. We shall miss him sorely, for he has indeed been a comfort and a blessing to us; but it is for his good, and you won't mind his coming to see us sometimes."

"Mind!" Captain Bayley exclaimed, "he would be an ungrateful rascal if he did not want to come and see you constantly. Well, if you will go home and prepare him a little, I will come round this afternoon and see him. It's no use shaking your head, Doctor, I feel myself again now; but I will lie down till lunch-time, and will promise not to excite myself."

CHAPTER XVI. JOHN HOLL, DUST CONTRACTOR.

IT was a pathetic meeting between Captain Bayley and his newly-found grandson. The latter had been astounded at the wonderful news that Mrs. Holl had brought home. His first thought was that of indignation, that his mother should have been a penniless wanderer in the streets of London, while her father was rolling in wealth; but Mrs. Holl's description of the old officer's agitation and pleasure, and the long efforts which he had made to find his daughter, convinced him that there must at least have been some fault on both sides.

"My poor boy," Captain Bayley said, as he entered the room, "if you knew how long and earnestly I have sought for you, and how many years I have grieved and repented my harshness to your mother, you would not find it in your heart to think hardly of me. We were both to blame, my boy, and we were both punished, heavily punished; but you shall have all the story some day. I know that it must be a bitter thought for you that she died homeless, save for the shelter which this good woman afforded her; but I hope that you will be able to find it in your heart to forgive an old man who has been terribly punished, and that you will let me do my best to atone by making your life as happy as I can."

Harry took the hand which the old officer held out to him.

"For myself, I have nothing to forgive, sir. My life has been a happy one, thanks to the kindness and love of my father and mother here; as to my real mother, of course, I do not remember her, nor is it for me to judge between her and you. At any rate I can well believe that you must have suffered greatly. I have been thinking it over, and it seems to me that the mere fact that your wishes have at last been carried out, and that you have so strangely found your daughter's son, would seem as if any wrongs you did her are considered by God as atoned for. I am sorry that I am a cripple; I have been sorry before sometimes, but never so sorry as now, for it must be a great disappointment to you."

"I am so pleased at finding you as you are, my boy," Captain Bayley said, "for I had feared that if you were alive it must be as a vagrant, or perhaps even a criminal, that your bodily misfortune is as nothing in my eyes. This is my ward, Miss Hardy; she is something like a granddaughter to me, and is prepared to be a sister to you."

"I have heard of her from Evan, sir," Harry said, with a bright look at the girl. "He has told me how every one in the house loves her, and how fond my kind friend——" But here he stopped abruptly. The tale of Frank's sudden departure was a subject of frequent discussion at the Holls', as well as in the servants' hall in Eaton Square; and although Harry's indignation on behalf of his friend had been extreme, he paused now before uttering the name, for at this first meeting with his relation he felt that no unpleasant topic should be introduced.

There was a moment's silence as he paused, but Alice advanced fearlessly and gave the boy her hand.

"Thank you, Harry, for what you say, and we shall be all the better friends because you love, as I do, my dear good cousin, Frank."

"Well, Harry," Captain Bayley said hastily, "when will you come home to me? I don't want to press you to leave your kind friends here too suddenly, but I am longing to have you home. I have the carriage at the end of the street if you will come now."

"No, grandfather, not to-day; I will come to-morrow. Father took his dinner away with him, and he will not be back till this evening, and I am not going to let him come and find me gone."

"Quite right, my boy, quite right," Captain Bayley said. "Then to-morrow, at eleven o'clock, I will come round in the carriage and fetch you. Mrs. Holl, remember that Harry Bayley owes you a deep debt of gratitude, which he will do his best some day to repay as far as it is in his power. Good-bye, Harry, for the present. I am glad your mother gave you my name; it seems to show she thought kindly of me at the last. Perhaps she found, poor girl, that I had not been altogether wrong in my opposition to her unhappy fancy."

The following day Harry was installed in Eaton Square. Captain Bayley was delighted to find how easily and naturally he fell into the new position, how well he expressed himself, and how wide was his range of knowledge.

"He is a gentleman, every inch," he exclaimed delightedly to Alice. "If you knew how I have thought of him you would understand how happy it makes me to see him what he is."

Captain Bayley lost no time in obtaining the best possible surgical advice for his grandson; their opinion was not as favourable as he had hoped. Had he been properly treated at the time of his accident he might, they said, have made a complete recovery; but now it was too late. However, they thought that by means of surgical appliances, and a course of medicinal baths, he might recover the use of his legs to some extent, and be able to walk with crutches. This was something, and the Captain determined at once to carry their advice into effect.

Between Alice Hardy and the lad a strong friendship speedily sprang up. The girl's bright talk, which was so different from anything he had hitherto experienced was very delightful to the lad; but the strong bond between them was their mutual feeling about Frank. From her Harry learned the charge under which Frank laboured, and his indignant repudiation of the possibility of such a thing delighted Alice's heart; hitherto she had been alone in her belief, and it was delightful to her to talk with one who was of her own way of thinking. She infected Harry with her own dislike and suspicions of Fred Barkley, and amused the lad greatly by telling him how, when she had heard of the discovery of his existence, she had, when Mrs. Holl left, gone straight up to her room and indulged in a wild dance of delight at the destruction of Fred's hope of being Captain Bayley's sole heir.

"It was glorious," she said. "I knew Fred hated Frank, though Frank, silly old boy, was always taking his part with me, and scolding me because I didn't like his cousin; and I am quite, quite sure that he has had something to do with getting Frank into this dreadful scrape, and it was glorious to think that just when he thought that he had got the field clear, and uncle Harry all to himself, you should suddenly appear and put his nose out of joint. That's a very unladylike expression, Harry, and I know I oughtn't to use it, but there's nothing else does so well. It's Fred's holidays now, and he is away; I expect uncle will write and tell him all about it. I wish he wouldn't, for I would give anything to see his face when he walks in and sees you sitting here and hears who you are."

"Oh! but I hope," Harry said, "that grandfather won't make any difference to any one because of me. What would be the use of much money to me. Of course I should like to have a little house, with a man to wheel me about; but what could I want beyond that?"

"Oh! nonsense, Harry. In the first place you are going to get better; and even if you were not, you could enjoy life in lots of ways. Of course you would have nice carriages and horses; you might keep a yacht—Frank was always saying that he would like to have a yacht,—and I don't see why you shouldn't go into Parliament. I am sure you are clever enough, and I have heard uncle say that three-fourths of the members are fools. He says something naughty before fools, but you know he swears dreadfully; he does not mean it, not in the least; I suppose he learned it in India. I tell him it is very wrong sometimes, but he says he is too old to get rid of bad habits. I wish he wouldn't do it; and the worst of it is, Harry," she said plaintively, "that instead of being very much shocked, as I ought to be, very often I can hardly help laughing, he does put in that dreadful word so funnily."

"No, I should not care about being in Parliament," the boy said. "If I were ever so rich I think I might like a yacht; still, a yacht, if it were only a small one, would cost a great deal of money, and I do hope that grandfather won't disappoint any one for my sake."

Captain Bayley had, however, a few days after the discovery of his grandson, and after having satisfied himself how lovable the lad was, and how worthy in all respects to be his heir, written to Fred Barkley, telling him that his grandson had been found, and that he was all that he could wish to find him.

"Naturally, Fred," he wrote, "this will make a considerable difference in your prospects. At the same time, as you have been led to believe that you would come into a considerable property at my death, and as you have done nothing to forfeit my confidence and affection, having proved yourself in all ways a steady and industrious and honourable young fellow, I do not consider it right that you should be altogether disinherited by a discovery which has occasioned me such vast pleasure. I have therefore instructed my solicitor to prepare a new will. By this he will settle my property in Warwickshire, and my town house, upon my grandson; but my other house property, and a portion of my money in stocks and shares, which has been accumulating for many years, will be left to you, the value of the legacy being, I calculate, about one-half of that of the property left to my grandson. Thus you will be in nearly the same position you would have occupied had not your cousin Frank forfeited, by his disgraceful conduct, his place in my affections."

Whatever may have been the feelings of Fred Barkley when he received this communication, he wrote a graceful letter of congratulation to his uncle, expressing his pleasure at the discovery of his long-lost grandson, and with many thanks for his kind intention on his own behalf. His anger and disappointment were so great that he did not return to town until the day before he was going up to Cambridge—having left Westminster at the end of the preceding term—for he did not feel himself equal, before that time, to continue to play his part, and to express personally the sentiments which he had written. What rendered his disappointment even more bitter was the thought that, indirectly, it was Frank who had dealt him the blow, for Captain Bayley had mentioned in his letter that it was through the boy whom his cousin had recommended as an assistant to the footman that the discovery had been made.

The visit that he paid at Eaton Square was a short one. To his relief Alice was not present, for he was certain that she would have watched him with malicious pleasure. But there had been a passage of arms between her and her guardian of a more serious nature than any which had occurred since she had been under his care, owing to her having expressed herself with her usual frankness respecting Fred's visit.

Her guardian had resented this warmly, and had rated her so severely as to what he called her wicked prejudice against Fred, that she had retired to her room in tears. This defeat of his favourite had not predisposed Harry to any more favourable opinion of his unknown cousin; but Fred, relieved from the presence of Alice, acted his part so well, and infused so genuine a ring into the tone of his congratulations, that he did much to dissipate the prejudice with which Harry was prepared to regard him. Alice was quick to observe the impression which Fred had made, and quarrelled hotly with Harry concerning it.

"I am disappointed in you altogether, Harry. I have looked upon you as being a real friend of Frank, and now you desert him directly his enemy says a few soft words to you. I despise such friendship, and I don't want to have anything more to say to you."

In vain Harry protested. The girl flung herself out of the room in deep anger, and thenceforth, for a long time, Harry was made to feel that although she wished to be civil to him as her guardian's grandson, yet that the bond of union between them was entirely broken. Harry himself had lost no time in speaking to his grandfather on behalf of Frank.

"My dear Harry," the old man said, "my faith in his innocence was as strong as yours, and, crushing as the proofs seemed to be, I would never have doubted him had he defended himself. But he did not; he never sent me a line to ask me to suspend my judgment or to declare his innocence; he ran away like a thief at night, and, although Fred generously tried to soften the fact to me, there is no doubt he admitted his guilt to him. Still, after the lesson I had in your mother's case, I would forgive him did I know where he was.

"I do not say, Harry, that I would restore him to his place in my affection and confidence, that of course would be impossible; but I would willingly send him a cheque for a handsome amount, say for five thousand pounds, to establish him in business, or set him up in a farm in one of the colonies."

"That is no use, grandfather," Harry said, "if he is innocent—as I most firmly believe him to be, in spite of everything against him, and shall believe him to be to my dying day, unless he himself tells me that he was guilty—he will not accept either your forgiveness or your money. What I wish is that he could be found. I wish that I could see him, or that you could see him, face to face, and that we could hear from his own lips what he has to say. He might, at least, account for his foolish running away instead of facing it out.

"We do not know how desperate he might have been at being unable to clear himself from the charge brought against him. Remember, he could not have known how hotly you were working on his behalf, and may have believed himself altogether deserted. He may account for not having written to you. And we must remember, grandfather—mind I do not share all Alice's prejudice, and have no inclination in any way to doubt the honesty of my cousin Fred—but at the same time, in bare justice to Frank, we must not forget that Fred was really a rival of his in your affections, and that he would possibly benefit greatly by Frank's disgrace, and, we must also remember that the only evidence against Frank, with the exception of the circumstantial proof, comes from him.

"It was he who furnished Frank with funds to enable him to run away, and we cannot tell whether or not he did not even urge him to fly. You must remember, grandfather, that Alice asserts Fred always hated Frank. I know she is prejudiced, and that you never noticed the feeling, nor did Frank; but children's perceptions are very quick. And even allowing that she liked Frank much the best, Fred was always, as she admits, very kind and attentive to her—more so, in some ways, than Frank, and there was no reason, therefore, for her taking up such a prejudice had she not been convinced that it was true.

"Now, grandfather, I will tell you what has occurred to me. I know it will appear a hideously unjust suspicion to you, but I will tell you once for all, and we will not recur to the subject again; God knows I may be wronging him cruelly, but the wrong would be no greater than that which has been done to Frank if he is really innocent.

"Ever since you told me the whole story, I have lain awake at night thinking it over. It may be that what Alice has said may have turned my thoughts that way, but I can see only two explanations of the affair.

"Frank is really guilty, or he is altogether innocent. If he is innocent, who was guilty? Some one took the note, some one sent it to Frank, and this some one must be a person who knew that Frank was in need of it; whoever did so can only have done it with one of two motives, either to get Frank out of trouble, or to bring disgrace upon him. Only four boys knew of the affair, and they all declare that they told no one else. If they spoke truly it was one of these four sent him the note—always supposing that he did not take it himself. Of the other three I know nothing; but I will take the case of Fred and view it as if he was a stranger to both of us.

"He was a rival of Frank's. Alice declares he hated him. At any rate he would benefit greatly by Frank's disgrace. What did he do when Frank asked him to help him? He refused to do so, on the ground that he had no money; but two days later he was able to raise double the sum Frank then wanted in order to assist him to fly. Dreadful as the supposition is, it seems to me that the only positive alternative to supposing Frank to be guilty is to believe that his cousin took this note and sent it to him in order to bring him into disgrace, and that he afterwards urged and assisted him to fly in order to stamp his guilt more firmly upon him."

While Harry had been speaking Captain Bayley had paced up and down the room.

"Impossible, Harry," he exclaimed, "impossible. For, bad as was the case of Frank taking the note on the pressure of the moment to get himself out of the silly scrape into which he had got, this charge which you bring against Fred would be a hundred times, ay, a thousand times worse. It would be a piece of hideous treachery, a piece of villainy of which I can scarce believe a human being capable."

"I do not bring the charge, grandfather," Harry said quietly, "I only state the alternative. That one of your nephews took this note seems to me to be clear; the crime would be infinitely greater, infinitely more unpardonable in the one case than the other, but the incentive, too, was enormously greater. In the one case the only object for the theft would be to avoid the consequence of a foolish, but, after all, not a serious freak; in the other to obtain a large fortune, and to ruin the chances of a dangerous rival.

"Remember, at that time Fred did not know how you had determined to dispose of your property. Frank was living with you, and was apparently your favourite, therefore he may have deemed that it was all or nothing. There, grandfather, I have done. I need not say that I know little of the real disposition of your two nephews. Frank behaved to me with the greatest kindness when I was a poor cripple without the slightest claim upon him. Fred has behaved kindly and courteously, although I have come between him and you. I can only say that I believe that one of these two must be guilty; which it is, God alone knows."

"I wish you had said nothing about it," Captain Bayley groaned, "it is dreadful; I don't know what to do or what to think."

"There is nothing to be done," Harry said, "except, grandfather, to find Frank. Let us find him and see him face to face; let us hear his story from beginning to end, and I think then we shall arrive at a just conclusion. I have no doubt he has gone abroad, and I should advise that you should advertise in all the Colonial and American papers begging him to return to have an interview with you, and offering a handsome reward to any one who will give you information of his whereabouts. If we find where he is, and he will not come to us, we will go to him."

"That's what I will do, Harry. I will not lose a moment's time, but will set about it at once; if I spend ten thousand pounds in advertising I will find him. As to Fred, I cannot meet him again until I get to the bottom of the affair, so we will stay away from England till I get some news of Frank."

Before starting abroad, Captain Bayley carried out his plan for rewarding John and Sarah Holl for the kindness they had shown to Harry. After consultation with his grandson, he had concluded that the best plan of doing so would be to help them in their own mode of life. He accordingly called upon the dust-contractor for whom John Holl worked, a man who owned twenty carts. An agreement was soon come to with him, by which Captain Bayley agreed to purchase his business at his own price, with the whole of the plant, carts, and horses. A fortnight after this John's master said to him one day—

"John, I have sold my business, you are going to have a new master."

"I am sorry for that," John said, "for we have got on very well together for the last fifteen years. Besides," he added thoughtfully, "it may be a bad job for me; I am not as young as I used to be, and he may bring new hands with him."

"I will speak to him about you, John," his master said; "he is a good sort, and I dare say I can manage it. The thing is going to be done well. Three or four new carts are going to be put on instead of some of the old ones, and there are ten first-rate horses coming in place of some of those that are getting past work. The stables are all being done up, and the thing is going to be done tip-top. Curiously enough his name is the same as yours, John Holl."

"Is it now?" John said. "Well, that will be a rum go, to see my own name on the carts, 'John Holl, Dust Contractor.' It don't sound bad, neither. So you will speak to him, gaffer?"

"Ay, I will speak to him," his employer answered.

Three days later John received a message from his master to the effect that the new gaffer would take possession next day, and that he was to call at the office at eleven o'clock. He added that his new employer said that he wished Mrs. Holl to go round with her husband.

John and Sarah were greatly mystified with the latter part of this message, until the solution occurred to them that probably their late employer had mentioned that Mrs. Holl went out charring and cleaning, and that he might intend to engage her to keep the office tidy.

Accordingly, at eleven o'clock on the following day, John and Sarah presented themselves at the office at Chelsea. As they entered the yard they were greatly amused at seeing all the carts ranged along, in the glory of new paint, with "John Holl, Dust Contractor," in large letters on their sides. A boy was in the office, who told them that they were to go to the house. The yard was situated near the river, and the house which adjoined it was a large old-fashioned building, standing in a pretty, walled garden. They went to the back door, and knocked. It was opened by a bright-looking servant-girl.

"Is Mr. Holl in?" Sarah asked.

"You are to be shown in," the girl said, and ushered them into a large, old-fashioned parlour, comfortably furnished.

John and Sarah gave a cry of surprise, for, sitting by the fire, in his wheeled box, just as in the olden time, was Harry.

Scarce a day had passed since he had left them without his coming in for a half-hour for a chat with them, but his appearance here struck them with astonishment.

"What on arth be you a-doing here, Harry?" Mrs. Holl asked. "Do you know our new gaffer?"

"Yes, mother, I know him. Captain Bayley has had some business with him, and asked me to come down here to see him. You are to sit down until he comes."

"But that will never do, Harry. Why, what would he think of us if he comes in and finds us sitting down in his parlour just as if the place belonged to us?"

"It's all right, mother, I will make it right with him; he's a good fellow, is the new gaffer—a first-rate fellow."

"Is he, now?" John asked, interested, as he and Sarah, seeing nothing else to do, sat down. "And his name is John Holl, just the same as mine?"

"Just the same, John, and he's not unlike you either. Now, when I tell you what a kind action he did once, you will see the sort of fellow he is. Once, a good many years ago, when he wasn't as well off as he is now, when he was just a hard-working man, earning his weekly pay, a poor woman with a child fell down dying at his door. Well, you know, other people would have sent for a policeman and had her taken off to the workhouse, but he and his wife took her into their house and tended her till she died."

"That was a right-down good thing," John said, quite oblivious of the fact that he too had done such an action.

Sarah did not speak, but gave a little gasping cry, and threw her apron, which she wore indoors and out, over her head, a sure sign with her that she was going to indulge in what she called "a good cry." John looked at her in astonishment.

"And more than that, John," Harry went on, "they took in the child, and brought it up as one of their own; and though afterwards they had a large family, they never made him feel that he was a burden to them, though he grew up a cripple, and was able to do nothing to repay them for all their goodness. Well, at last the boy's friends were found. They had lots of money, and the time came at last when they bought a business for John Holl; and when he came, there the cripple boy was, sitting at the fire, to welcome them, and say, 'Welcome, father! and welcome, mother!'" and Harry held out his hands to them both.

Even now John Holl did not understand. He was naturally dull of comprehension, and the loud sobbing of his wife so bewildered and confounded him, that it divided his attention with Harry's narrative.

"Yes, Harry," he said, "it's all very nice. But what's come to you, Sarah? What are you making all this fuss about? We shall be having the new master coming in and finding you sobbing and rocking yourself like a mad woman. Cheer up, old woman. What is it?"

"Don't you see, John," Sarah sobbed out, "don't you see Harry has been telling you your own story? Don't you see that it is you he has been talking about, and that you are 'John Holl, Dust Contractor'?"

"Me?" John said, in utter bewilderment.

"Yes, father," Harry said, taking his hand, "you are the John Holl. This house, and the business, and the carts and horses, are yours; Captain Bayley has bought them all for you. He would not come here himself, as I wished him, but he asked me to tell you and mother how glad he was to be able to repay, in a small way, he said your great kindness to me, and how he hoped that you would prosper here, and be as happy as you deserve to be. You will be better off than your last gaffer, for he had to pay rent for this house and yard, but, as grandfather has bought the freehold of them all for you, you will have no rent to pay; and therefore I hope, even in bad times, you will be able to get along comfortably. There, father, there, mother, dry your eyes, and look sharp, for I can hear voices in the garden. Evan went to your house after you had gone to bring all the children round here in a cab.

"You will find everything in the house, mother, and you must get a grand tea as soon as possible. I have got a servant for you—for, you know, you must have a servant now."

The next minute the children came bounding in, wild with delight, and a happier party never assembled than those who sat round the table of "John Holl, Dust Contractor," on the evening of his first taking possession of his new property.

CHAPTER XVII. THE LONELY DIGGERS.

THE camp increased rapidly, for although no extraordinarily rich finds were made, the valley bottom widened out at this point, and the gold was generally disseminated in quantities sufficient to enable the miners; to live, and every one hoped that, as they got deeper, their claims would increase in value. Every day added to the number of tents and huts. Three bars competed with each other for the favour of the diggers, and two large stores drove a profitable trade in food and mining tools and materials; brawls at the gambling-tables were of nightly occurrence, and no small proportion of the gold obtained by the more fortunate diggers found its way into the pockets of the gamblers.

"I tell you what, Abe," Frank said, a short time after their arrival, when they heard that a young man had been shot down by one of the most notorious ruffians in the camp, "I think it would be a good plan if we were all to agree that we will not enter one of these saloons. I know it's a temptation, after work is over, to saunter in there; but I think such a party as we are are enough for each other. We have done well enough for months out on the plains, and I don't see why we should not do so now. We are friends, and should be awfully sorry to see any one of our number losing his share of our joint earnings at the gambling-tables, or brought home with a bullet-hole in his head.

"If we want a little change, we can always ask one or two of the quiet men to join us round our fire. If we want drink, it is cheaper and better to buy it by the bottle, and have a glass in company here. There is no doubt that any one who takes to drink here may as well hang himself at once, for he will never do any good. I don't know that any of us are inclined that way, but I think it would be a good plan to enter into a sort of agreement with each other that, as long as we are in partnership, none of us shall enter a saloon or stake a dollar in play."

"I agrees with you, Frank. Time has been when I have gone in for as heavy sprees as any one. I don't think as I am likely to do it again, but I am sure that an agreement like that would be a good thing for me as well as the others. What do yer say, boys?"

"The only thing is," Peter suggested, "that we might, one or other, very well get into a bad quarrel by refusing to drink when we are asked. You see it's pretty nigh a deadly offence to refuse to drink with a man; and if it got noticed that none of us ever went into a bar, there are men here who would make a point of asking us to drink just for the sake of making a quarrel if we refused."

"I allow there's something in that," Abe said; "there's no surer way of getting into a mess among a set of men like this than in refusing to drink."

"Well, if that's the case," Frank said, "we must modify the arrangement, and agree that none of us will go into a bar unless actually asked to go and take a drink—that wouldn't be very often, the invitation is generally given inside. We come back from work about the same time that every one else knocks off, and they are not thinking of going to the bars till they have had a meal, and when we are once quietly seated round the fire here no one is very likely to ask any of us to get up and go off to one of the saloons."

The suggestion was adopted, and all bound themselves not to enter a saloon to drink or gamble unless invited to take a drink under circumstances in which a refusal would be taken in bad part.

"I am mighty glad you proposed that," Abe said, afterwards. "Rube is all right, but Peter and Dick are both of 'em fond of going on a spree now and then, and this may keep them from it. I told 'em when we started that I was ready to go partners as long as they kept from drink, but I wasn't going to tie myself up with any one as was going in for that. When we dissolves partnership each one will have a right to do with his share what he likes; he can gamble it away, or drink it away, or fool it away as he chooses, but no man as drinks overnight will do his fair share of work next day. Besides, luck may at any time go agin us, and we may have to fall back on what we have laid by when times were good; and if any one had been and spent his share he couldn't be looking to the others to support him. Besides, as I pinted out, we might want all the money we has got atween us to buy up a claim in a good place. They agreed to it, and so far they have kept to it; not, of course, as they had much chance to do otherwise on the way. Still, I think this fresh agreement's likely to do good. We are working here on shares, and each man is bound to do his best for the others."

After sitting by the fire for some time of an evening, Frank generally got up and strolled round the camp, accompanied by Turk. There were many phases of life presented to him. While the successful diggers were drinking and gambling in the saloons, there were many who could barely keep life together. It was true this was in most cases their own fault, for men willing to work could earn their five dollars a day by labouring in the claims of wealthier or more successful diggers; but many would hold on to their own claims, hoping against hope, and believing always that the ground would get richer as they went down.

Frank chatted freely with every one, and he and his great dog were soon known to every one in camp. He was able to do many little acts of kindness to those whose luck was bad; for on arriving at the end of the journey each of the party had, at Abe's suggestion, put twenty dollars into the common fund, and beyond this amount the sum he had brought with him from Omaha was still untouched; and many a man who would otherwise have gone to bed supperless after a hard day's work, was indebted to him for the means of procuring a few pounds of flour and a pound or two of pork.

His attention had been particularly attracted to two men who lived in a small tent a hundred yards away from any of the others, and who worked a claim by themselves. They did not seem to have any communication with the rest of the diggers, and kept themselves entirely apart. While at work Frank had heard several jeering remarks as to the absurdity of working a claim in a part of the ground which had over and over again been tried and abandoned, and Frank felt sure that the men were doing badly.

One day he observed that only one of the men was at work, the younger of the two; and as he continued to wield his shovel after the others had thrown down their tools for the evening, Frank walked over to him.

"Is your partner ill?" he asked. "I see he is not working with you to-day."

The man nodded, but continued his work without speaking. He was evidently indisposed for conversation.

"Why I asked," Frank said, "was not for mere curiosity, but because we have brought up with us from Sacramento a few bottles of fever medicine, and other things likely to be wanted here, and if any of them would be of use you will be heartily welcome to them. We ought all to help each other, for no one knows whether he himself may not want a helping hand next."

"Thank you," the man said, somewhat gruffly; "we shall get on all right, and my mate isn't fond of strangers."

"I need not trouble him myself," Frank said; "I can bring you round any medicines here, and you can give them to him without saying how you got them."

"Thank you; medicine wouldn't do him any good," the man said, and resumed his work as if anxious to avoid further conversation.

Frank, however, was not to be discouraged. The man looked thin and haggard, and Frank suspected that it might be food rather than medicine of which the man's mate was in need. He therefore stood his ground.

"I am afraid you haven't hit on a very good spot," he said. "I don't know much about it myself, for I have only been here about a month; but I hear every one say that there have been several trials made here, and that none of them have found anything to speak of."

"We must work where we can," the man said. "The places were pretty well all taken up when we came, and it didn't suit us to go further."

"Well," said Frank, "I don't want to be inquisitive, mate, or to interfere in other people's affairs, but I noticed your mate looked an elderly man, and that you seemed pretty much alone. I am only just out here myself, and I and the party I am working with are doing fairly; so I thought it would be only neighbourly to come over and see if I could be of use in any way."

"No, thank you," the man repeated; "there's nothing we want."

Frank saw that at present he could do nothing; but he had little doubt that the two men were really suffering severely. Still he understood and respected their pride, and with a friendly "Good evening," strolled off to his own hut.

The next evening he again went round to the solitary workman.

"How is your mate?" he asked.

The man shook his head. "He's pretty bad."

The tone was softer and less repellent than that which he had used the evening before. He was a young man of not more than three or four and twenty, and Frank saw that his lip quivered as he turned away from him and dug his shovel into the ground.

"If your mate is worse," Frank said, "you have no right to refuse my offer. I cannot help feeling that you are doing badly; in that case, why should you not let me lend you a hand? There's no disgrace in being unlucky. Here men are unlucky one week, and make a rich strike on the week following, and then they can lend a hand to others, just as a hand may have been lent to them when they wanted it. I think by your accent that you are an Englishman, and an educated one, just as I am myself. Why on earth don't you let me be a friend to you?"

The man did not reply; but Frank could guess by the random way in which he was doing his work, that a struggle was going on.

"He would not hear of it," he said at last.

"Then don't let him hear of it," Frank said promptly. "If he has any mistaken ideas about taking help from a stranger, the sort of ideas one would naturally have at home, and is ill and wants something, we must help him in spite of himself. If, as I suspect, he needs other matters as well as medicine, you should provide him, even if it be necessary to carry out a little harmless deception."

"I would not tell him a lie," the man said, almost fiercely.

"No, there's no occasion for that," Frank went on. "You can tell him that you have come across that nugget in the claim," and Frank tossed into the hole a nugget for which he had half an hour before given a digger ten dollars from his own store.

For a moment the man stood irresolute, and then burst into a passion of tears. Frank saw that he had gained the day, and saying, "I will come round for a chat to-morrow afternoon. That's my camp up there—that tent just on the ridge. I have really medicines, if you think they will be of any use," strolled away to his supper. He glanced round when he had gone a little distance, and saw the digger running at full speed towards the solitary tent.

The next evening the young man dropped his shovel as he approached him, and came to meet him.

"I did not thank you last night," he began.

"Nonsense," Frank said, interrupting; "there is no occasion whatever for thanks. Why, it's the custom here, whenever any one is taken ill, or is unfortunate, and has to move on, a few friends, or, as it often happens, a few strangers, will each chip in a pinch of gold dust to help him on. It's the rule here that we stand by each other, and being both Englishmen, it is natural we should lend each other a hand. How is your mate?"

"He is a good deal better, thanks to the food I was able to get for him; for, as you guessed, we have been nearly starving the last fortnight."

"But why did you keep on working at such a place as this?" Frank asked. "Why didn't you go on wages? There are plenty of men here who would be glad to take on an extra hand if they could get him."

The young man hesitated.

"I know it must seem utter folly," he said at last, "but the fact is my partner has a fixed idea that claim will turn out well; he dreamt it."

"Pooh!" Frank said; "diggers are constantly dreaming about lucky places—and no wonder, when they are always thinking about them. I consider it madness to keep on toiling here, even if your mate is ill. It is folly to give in to him in this way, and for you both to be half-starved when you can earn, at any rate, enough to keep you both by working for others."

"That is just what I knew you would say," the young man replied, "and I feel it myself, thoroughly."

"Then why on earth do you keep on doing it?"

"I have a reason, a very particular reason, though I am not at liberty to explain it."

"Well, then, there's no more to be said," Frank replied, vexed at what he regarded as obstinate folly. He talked for a few minutes, and then strolled away, and for the next two days did not go near the digger who seemed so bent on slaving uselessly.

The third day Frank noticed that the man was not at work on his claim. As soon as he knocked off in the evening he walked across to the spot. The tools still lay in the hole, showing that the claim had not been abandoned, although work had temporarily ceased.

Next day the claim was still unworked; the tent stood in its place, showing that the diggers had not moved away. Although, from their previous conversation, Frank thought that he might not improbably meet with a repulse, after work was done he strolled over to the tent.

"Are you in, mate?" he asked, outside. "Seeing you were not at work for the last two days, I thought I would walk over and ask you if anything was the matter."

The young man came out from the tent; he looked utterly worn-out.

"My father has been too ill for me to leave him," he said, in a low tone. "I spoke of him as my mate before, but he is my father."

"Can I do anything?" Frank asked.

"No, thank you; I don't think any one can do anything. If there were a doctor in camp, of course I should call him in; but I don't think it would be of any use. He's broken down, altogether broken down. We don't want for anything, thanks to your kindness."

"You look worn-out yourself," Frank said.

"I suppose I do. I have not lain down for the past five days."

"Then," Frank said, "I insist on taking your place to-night. Is he sensible?"

The young man shook his head.

"Sometimes, for a little while, I think he knows where he is, but most of the time he lies perfectly still, or just talks to himself.

"Very well, then," Frank said, "he will not know the difference. Besides, you can lie down in the tent, and I can wake you at once if there is any occasion."

The man hesitated; but he was too worn-out to resist, and he made no opposition as Frank entered the tent. An elderly man lay stretched upon some blankets, one of which was thrown loosely over him. Frank stooped and put his fingers on his wrist. He could scarcely feel the pulse.

"What have you been giving him?"

"I got a piece of fresh meat and boiled it down into broth."

"Have you given him any stimulants? I think he wants keeping up."

"He never touches them," the young man said.

"All the better," Frank replied; "they will have all the more effect upon him as medicine. If you will wait here a few minutes, I will go up to my tent and fetch down a blanket and a few things. I will be with you in ten minutes."

Frank briefly announced to his comrades that he was going to sit up for the night with a sick man. He put a bottle containing a glass or two of brandy in his pocket, and went into a store and purchased some lemons and a piece of fresh beef; this he took back to the camp fire, and asked Abe to put it on and let it simmer all night in the ashes, in just enough water to cover it, and then to strain it in the morning, and bring the broth across to what was known in the camp as the "lonely tent." He took a small phial of laudanum and quinine from the store of medicines, to use if they might appear likely to be needed, and then went back to the tent.

"Now," he said to the young man, "you lie down at once. If you are wanted I will be sure and wake you. I shall make myself comfortable, never fear; one of my mates will bring me down a pannikin of tea the last thing."

He squeezed one of the lemons into a tin drinking-cup, and added water and a few spoonfuls of brandy, and, with a spoon he had brought down with him, poured some of it between the old man's lips.

"I don't know whether it's right," he thought to himself, "but it's the best thing I can do for him. It is evident he must be kept up. When Abe comes down I will ask his advice; after knocking about as many years as he has been, he ought to know what is the best thing to be done."

In half an hour he gave the patient a few spoonfuls of the broth which had been prepared, and continued every half-hour to give him the lemonade and broth alternately.

When Abe came down with the tea Frank went outside to meet him, and explained some of the circumstances of the case, and then took him in to see his patient.

"I think you are doing the right thing, lad," Abe said, when they went out into the air again. "He is evidently pretty nigh gone under. I expect he has been working beyond his strength, and starving, like enough, at that. He's regular broke up, and has got the fever besides. I should just keep on at that till morning, and then we shall see; if he gets on raving you might give him a few drops of laudanum with his brandy, but I wouldn't do it otherwise. I will bring down that broth first thing in the morning, it will be a sight stronger than that stuff you are giving him now."

Fortified by this opinion, Frank lit his pipe, and sat down to his long watch. He was the more satisfied that he was doing right by the fact that the pulse was distinctly stronger than it had been when he first felt it. Occasionally the patient muttered a few words, but he generally lay perfectly still, with his eyes staring wide open. It was this fixed stare that tempted Frank at last to give him a few drops of laudanum, and in an hour later he had the satisfaction of seeing him close his eyes.

Abe was round soon after daylight, with two pannikins of tea, some rashers of bacon, and a jug of the essence of beef.

"How is your patient, Frank?"

"I can't tell, except by his pulse; but that certainly seems to me to be stronger. I gave him a few drops of laudanum a couple of hours ago, and it seems to me he has been dozing since; at any rate his eyes have been half-closed. I think that it is extreme weakness more than anything else; he has overtaxed his strength, and is worn-out with fatigue and starvation. I shouldn't be surprised if he gets round all right with quiet and food." The opening of the tent, and the sound of voices outside, roused the younger digger, who had slept without stirring from the moment he had lain down. He joined the others outside.

"How I have slept!" he said. "I can't tell you how much I am obliged to you; I was regularly done up, and now I shall be able to take a fresh start again."

"My partner, Abe, here, has just brought us down some tea and breakfast, and some really strong soup for your mate." For Frank did not know whether the young man would wish the fact of the relationship between him and his companion generally known.

"Thank you, heartily," the young man said, as he seated himself by the side of Frank, on the stump of a felled tree, and took the tea and food from Abe's hands.

"I feel ready to go on again now; but last night I quite broke down. I have no one to speak to, you see, and it was awful to see him lying there, and to be able to do nothing. Your friend here," and he nodded to Frank, "had been so kind to us a week ago, that I felt sure he would not mind sitting up with him, though I know he thought me a fool to go on digging at that wretched hole. I think he looks "—and he motioned to the tent—"a little better this morning. Of course there's not much change; but his face does not look quite as it did yesterday. I don't know what the difference is, but I am sure there is a difference."

"His pulse is certainly a little stronger," Frank said, "and I hope we shall pull him round, though I did not think so when I saw him yesterday. I have been giving him broth every hour, and a few spoonfuls of lemonade with brandy in it between times, and I think the brandy has done him more good than the soup; if I were in your place, I would go on doing just the same to-day. This soup Abe has brought down is very strong, and two or three spoonfuls at a time will be all he will want; there is another lemon in there, and I would go on giving him brandy too; I think it's just strength he wants."

"Strength and hope," the young man said. "He has all along made up his mind that claim would pay, and I think its failure did more to break him down than even the fatigue and want of food; that was why I kept on working as long as he was sensible. He still believed in it, and would not hear of my stopping to nurse him. He was very bad that night I went home with the nugget, almost as bad as he was last night; but when I showed it him he seemed to revive, and it was only when three days passed without my being able to show another spec of gold that he fell back again."

"Oh! you did find a nugget, then?" Abe said. "No one thought you would strike on anything thar."

"I found it because your friend put it there," the young man said, "and he saved both our lives, for we were starving."

Abe grunted.

"You shouldn't have kept it so dark, lad. We ain't bad fellows, we diggers, though we are a rough lot, and no one need starve in a mining camp. But no doubt you had your reasons," he added, seeing the miner's face blush up. "But what on arth made your mate stick to that thar hole? Any one could have seen with half an eye that it wasn't a likely place."

"He has a sort of belief in dreams, and he dreamt three times, as he told me, of a stunted tree with gold underneath it. We have been to half the mining camps in the country, and never had any luck; but directly he came here he saw a tree standing just where our claim is, and he declared it was the one he dreamt of. I told him then it didn't seem a likely place to work, but he would have it that it was the tree, and that there was gold under it. He was already weak and ill, and to please him I set to work there. I may tell you, as I have told your friend, that he is my father; there is no reason that there should be any mystery about it, and my only reason for wishing that it should not be generally known is that he had a sort of fancy against it."

"I guessed as much, young man," Abe said, "when I saw you working together three weeks ago. A young man don't tie himself to an old partner who ain't no more good than a child at work unless there's some reason for it, and there's many a father and son, aye, and a father and four or five sons, working together in every mining camp here. Still, if the old man has a fancy agin it we will say nought on the subject. So he dreamt three times of the tree, did he? Well, then, I don't blame him for sticking to the claim; I don't suppose there are a dozen miners in this camp who wouldn't have done the same. I believes there's something in dreams myself; most of us do. And he recognised the tree directly, you say? Wall, it's time for my mate and I to be off to work, but this evening I will walk round and have a look at your claim; thar may be somewhat in it, arter all."

"You don't really believe in dreams, Abe?" Frank said, as they walked off together.

"I think thar's something in 'em," Abe said. "I have heard many a queer story about dreams, and I reckon thar ain't many men as has lived out all thar lives in the plains as doubts thar's something in 'em. The Injins believe in 'em, and, though they ain't got no books to larn 'em, the Injins ain't fools in their own way. I have known a score of cases where dreams came true."

"Yes, I dare say you have," Frank said; "but then there are tens of thousands of cases in which dreams don't come true. A man dreams, for instance, that his wife, or his mother, or some one he cares for, is dead; when he gets home he finds her all right, and never thinks any more about the dream, or says anything about it. If in one case out of ten thousand he finds she is dead, he tells every one about his dream, and it is quoted all about as an instance that dreams come true."

"Yes, perhaps there's something in that," Abe agreed. "But I think there's more than that too. I know a case of a chap who was out in the plains hunting for a caravan on its way down to Santa Fé. There weren't, as far as he knew, any Injins about, and what thar was had always shown themselves friendly and peaceable. He laid down by the fire and went to sleep, and he dreamed that a party of Injins scalped him. He woke in a regular sweat from fright, and he was so badly scared that he scattered the ashes of his fire and took to his horse, and led him into a cedar bush close by. He hadn't been thar twenty minutes when he heard tramping of horses, and along came a party of Injins. They halted not twenty yards away from where his fire had been, and camped till the morning, and then rode on again. He could see by thar dress and paint they were up to mischief, and the very next day they fell upon a small caravan and killed every soul. Now that man's dream saved his life; thar warn't no doubt about that. If he hadn't had warning, and had time to scatter his fire, and move quiet into the bush, and get a blanket over his horse's head to prevent it snorting, it would have been all up with him; and I could tell you a dozen tales like that."

"I think that could be accounted for," Frank said. "The man perhaps was sleeping with his ear on the ground, and in his sleep may have heard the tramping of the Indians' horses as they went over a bit of stony ground, long before he could hear them when he arose to his feet, and the noise set his brain at work, and he dreamt the dream you have told me. But I know from what I have heard that gold-miners are, almost to a man, full of fancies and superstitions, and that they will often take up claims from some idea of luck rather than from their experience and knowledge of ground."

After the work was over Abe and Frank went down to the claim.

"Well, I am free to own," Abe said, "that I don't see no chance of gold here; it's clear out of the course of the stream."

Frank was silent for two or three minutes, and then said:—

"Well, Abe, you know I put no faith whatever in a dream, but if you look at that sharp curve in the opposite bank higher up, you will see that it is quite possible that in the days when this was a river instead of being a mere stream, it struck that curve and came over by where we are standing now. As the water decreased it would naturally find its way down the middle of the valley, as it does now; but I think it likely enough that in the old times it flowed under where we are standing."

"By gosh, lad, I think you are about right. What do you say to our taking up the claims next to this? We are not doing much more than paying our way where we are, and it's the horses who are really earning the money."

"I don't know, Abe. We are a good deal above the present bed of the stream, and should probably have to sink a considerable distance before we got down to paying ground; that young fellow said they have hardly found a speck of gold. It would be a risky thing to do; still, we can think it over, there's no hurry about it."

That night Abe insisted on taking his turn to sit up with the old man. The son, who had now told them that his name was James Adams, urged that the previous night's long sleep had quite set him up again, but Abe would not listen to him.

"It's done you good, lad, no doubt, but ye will be all the better for another. It wants more than one night's sleep when you have had four or five out of bed, and a night's watch is nothing one way or other to me. You just do as you are told."

So James Adams had another long night's sleep, while Abe sat by his father.

There was no doubt now that the old man was recovering from the exhaustion which had brought him to death's door; the set, pinched look of his features was passing away, and the evening following Abe's watch, when Frank went round to the tent to inquire how he was getting on, the son came out and said—

"He is better. He went off this morning in what looked like a natural sleep, and when he woke, an hour ago, I could see that he knew me. I don't suppose he knew he had been lying insensible for a week, but thought I had just come back from work. He whispered, 'How does it look to-day, Jim?' and after what you told me about what you thought about the old course of the river, I was able to say honestly, 'I think the chances look more favourable.' He whispered, 'We shall make a fortune yet, Jim,' and then drank some soup and went off to sleep again. Tomorrow morning I will set to work again. I don't believe a bit in the dream myself, but it will make him more comfortable to know that I am at work upon it; and after all it may turn out some good."

"My partners have more faith in it than I have," Frank said. "Abe told them about the dream, and about what I had noticed of the probable course of the river in the olden times, and I have a proposal to make to you. We will take up five claims by the side of your two, two on one side and three on the other; then three of us will help you sink your shaft. All that's found in your claims will be yours; and if it turns out rich you shall pay us just as if we had been working for you by the day. When we have cleared out your claims we are to have the right of using your shaft for working right and left along the bottom over our claims. I think that's a fair offer."

"I think it's more than fair; it is most kind," the young man said. "You are risking getting nothing for your labour if it turns out poor."

"Yes, we are risking that," Frank agreed, "but we are not doing ourselves much good now. The two who are working the horses earn enough to keep the five of us, and if by any chance your claims should turn out well, we shall be paid for our work for you, and will be able to work out our own claims very cheaply; if we sunk a shaft on our own account we should similarly lose our labour if it turned out poor, and should not get so much if it turned out rich. So I think the bargain is really a fair one; and if you do not agree, my mates have quite resolved to sink a shaft on their own account on the strength of your father's dream."

"In that case I agree most heartily," James Adams said, "and it will gladden my father's heart to be told that the work is now to go on really in earnest."

"If he is better to-morrow," Frank said, "it will be as well to get your father's consent to the agreement, and then we will begin on the following day."

The next morning the old man woke up a good deal better. His first question, after he had taken some soup, was—

"How is it you aren't at work, Jim? It's broad daylight."

"I have knocked off for to-day, father, I wanted to have a chat with you. A party of five miners, who have been very kind to me while you have been ill—for you have been ill now for more than a week, though you don't know it—have made me a very good offer, although I could not accept it until I consulted you. You see I cannot get on much with the claim by myself; the ground falls in and wants timbering, and I can do nothing alone. Well these miners have offered to help sink our shaft, on the conditions that they get no pay if it turns out poor, but if it turns out well they are to be paid for their daily labour, and when we have worked out our claims they are to have the right of using our shaft for working out the claims they have staked out next to ours."

"No shares, Jim," the old man said; "you are sure they are not to have any share in our claims, because I won't agree to that."

"No, father; the agreement is just as I told you. If it turns out well they get their wages and the right to use our shaft to get at their claims."

"Very well, I will agree to that; we shall get down all the sooner to our gold. But mind, have it put down on paper, else they will be setting up a claim to a share in our treasure."

"I will get it done regularly, father," Jim said. "They mean very fairly. As I told you, they have shown me the greatest kindness—indeed you owe your life to them, for if it had not been for them, I had, as you know, no means whatever of holding on. Whilst you have been ill two of them have been sitting up with you at night. They have showed themselves true friends."

"Well, I am glad you have found some friends, Jim," the old man said feebly. "But you must be careful, you know, very careful, and be sure the agreement is signed and witnessed properly."

CHAPTER XVIII. A DREAM VERIFIED.

ON the following morning, to the astonishment of the miners of Cedar Camp, Frank and his companions took their tools out of their claims and shifted to the claims of the two men of the "solitary tent." Every one asked himself what could be the meaning of this move, and the general supposition was that they must have discovered that the two men had struck upon rich ground. Scores of miners sauntered across during the day, looked on, and asked a question or two; but the answers they obtained threw no light upon the mystery. The ground looked most unpromising; it was a flat some ten feet above the level of the river-bed, and the spot where they were digging was twenty yards from the edge.

Fifteen yards further back the ground rose abruptly to a height of thirty or forty feet; the ground around was covered with bushes, through which a few good-sized trees rose. The two men had dug through two feet of alluvial soil, and about five feet of sand. Altogether, it was a place which seemed to afford no promise whatever; and although, at the first impulse, some miners who were doing badly had marked out claims next to those staked out by Frank and his party, no steps were taken to occupy them.

The first day was spent in getting out planks and lining the proposed shaft, which was made much smaller than the hole already dug, which extended over the whole of the two claims. The next day a windlass was put in position, and the work began in earnest. At the depth of twenty feet they came upon gravel, a result which greatly raised their spirits, as its character was precisely similar to that in the bed of the stream, and showed that Frank's conjecture was a correct one, and that the river had at one time flowed along the foot of the high ground beyond.

When it was known in camp that the party were getting up gravel, there was a great deal of talk. Some of the older hands came and examined the place, and, noticing the sharp curve in the opposite bank above, concluded, as Frank had done, that instead of being, as was generally supposed, beyond the edge of the old river-bed, it was by no means improbable that the party were working over what was at one time a point which was swept by the main body of water coming down.

More claims were staked out, and although no one had any intention of beginning in earnest until they discovered what luck attended the party who were sinking the shaft, just enough was done each day to retain possession of the claims. Before they had gone far into the gravel they discovered specks of gold, and, washing a basinful from time to time, found that it was fairly rich, certainly as good as any that had been found a few feet below the surface of the ground at any other spot in the camp. They determined, however, not to wash at present, but to pile the stuff near the mouth of the shaft, to be washed subsequently, and to continue to sink steadily.

A fortnight after the work had begun, the old man had gained sufficient strength to make his way across to the shaft, and after that he spent his whole time watching the progress of the work. His tent was brought over and pitched close at hand. By this time, as their prospects really looked good, Jim had told him the true history of the nugget he had brought home, and how much they owed to Frank; and he so far overcame his shrinking from intercourse with his neighbours, as to become really cordial with Frank, who, when supper was over, often strolled across and smoked a pipe with Jim in the tent.

Frank often wondered what could have brought a man of some sixty years of age, and evidently well educated, and a gentleman, but, as was equally clear, wholly unfitted by age, habits, and constitution for rough labour in such a country as that. The son had not denied that he was English, but as he had not admitted it in so many words, Frank thought that his father might object to any questions on the subject, and in their many conversations the past was seldom alluded to.

Turk, who was Frank's constant companion, took remarkably to the old man, and in the daytime, when the latter was sitting watching the baskets coming up from below, generally took up his position by him, sometimes lying blinking lazily in the sun, at other times sitting up and watching the operations gravely, as if he were thoroughly aware of their importance.

While the ground was still unpromising, Frank and his party had bought up, for a few dollars, the claims of several of the men who had staked out ground next to their own, and now held six on either side of the claim they were sinking on. Beyond these, as soon as the gravel was known to contain gold, other miners began to work—for the most part in parties, as the depth at which paying ground lay beneath the surface was so great that it could only be reached by joint labour—and the flat so long neglected now became one of the busiest points in the camp.

"The gravel is getting richer and richer every day," Frank said to the elder Adams, five weeks after they began work. "I think now it would be as well to hire half a dozen men to carry it down to the stream and wash it there; you could superintend them, and one of us will work at the cradle. The stuff will pay splendidly now, I am sure, and there's a big heap on the bank."

"If you think so, by all means let us do so," the old man said. "I should like to begin to get some gold; we are in your debt more than a hundred dollars already, since you have been advancing money for our living as the work has gone on."

"There is no hurry on that account," Frank said. "Ever since we washed the first pail of gravel it has been evident that there was at least sufficient gold to pay for washing out, and that my advances were perfectly safe; so there is no hurry on that account. But at present it has so improved that it would be rich enough to pay really well; besides, we shall be getting it stolen. I fancy last night two or three buckets-full were taken away at that edge of the bank; and as there has been a perfect rush for staking out claims to-day, I have no doubt that it was found to pan out very rich."

The result of the first day's washing more than realised their anticipations, for when the cradle was cleared up over fifty ounces of gold were found at the bottom; and at the end of three days the old man paid Frank and his party their wages at four dollars a day each from the time they had commenced working at the shaft.

Another fortnight and they reached the bed rock. Each day the find had become heavier, but the climax was reached when they touched the rock. It was found that just where they reached the bottom, the rock which formed the bank bordering the flat came down almost perpendicularly to the level rock which had formed the old bed of the stream. This was worn perfectly smooth by the action of the water, and in the bed rock was a great caldron scooped out by an eddy of the stream. This was filled up with gravel, among which nuggets of gold were lying thickly; and when its contents were taken to the surface and separated, the gold was found to weigh over three thousand ounces. The lower part of the ground was then dug out to the full size of the claim, and when all this was washed it was found that the total amount of gold obtained from the claim was over six thousand ounces.

As the work went on from day to day, Frank observed a gradual change coming over the elder of the two men. At first he had been excited, and at times irritable; but as each day showed increased returns, and it became a moral certainty that the claim was going to turn out extremely rich, the excitement seemed to pass away. He talked less, and spent less of his time in watching the work going on, sometimes not even coming down to watch the clear-up at the end of the day's work. Even the discovery of the rich pocket in the rock scarcely seemed to stir him. His son, upon the contrary, made no secret of his satisfaction at the fortune which was falling to them. He shook off the reserve which had at first distinguished him; a weight of care seemed to fall from his shoulders, and his spirits became at times almost exuberant.

At first he had looked to Frank almost a middle-aged man, although his face and figure showed that he could not be many years his own senior; now he looked almost like a schoolboy, so full was he of life and spirits. The old man had taken much to Frank, and although during the latter part of the time he had talked but little, he liked him to come into the tent every evening to smoke a pipe and chat with his son. He had several times endeavoured to draw from Frank his reason for leaving England and coming out to California at an age when many lads are still at school; but he had obtained no reply to his hints, for Frank did not care to enter upon the story of that incident at Westminster.

The evening when the claims had been worked out, and the last cradle washed out, the old man asked Frank to bring Abe and his companions to the tent after they had had their supper. The tent showed little signs of the altered circumstances of its owners; a few more articles of cheap crockery and a couple of folding chairs were the only additions that had been made. Some boxes had been brought in now to serve as seats, and on one in the centre were placed half a dozen bottles of champagne, which the young man proceeded to open.

"My friends," the elder said, "I am going away to-morrow, and I trust that your claims will turn out every bit as rich as ours has done."

"Even if they don't turn out as rich," Frank said, "there is no fear of their not turning out well. We consider we have made a capital bargain with you; we have been paid by you for our work in sinking the shaft, and now it will be easy for us to work our claims. It was a lucky day for us when we made that contract to sink your shaft."

"I am glad you think so, and very glad that you are likely to share my luck; still, I feel greatly indebted to you. It was a bargain, of course, but it was a bargain in which you were taking all the risk. There is, as you say, every probability of your claims turning out well; but there's no certainty in gold-mining, and at any rate we cannot go away with a fortune without feeling that, to some small extent at least, you will participate in it. Therefore I here hand you over each a bag with a hundred ounces of gold, so that, come what may, your time and labour here will not have been thrown away. You will not, I hope, pain me by refusing," he said, seeing that the men looked doubtfully at each other. "We owe it all to you, for when you threw in your lot with us we were desperate and starving."

"Wall, if you put it in that way, I don't see that we can say no, mate," Abe said, "though we are well content with our look-out, I can tell you, and could get a biggish sum for our claims to-night if we were disposed to sell them. Still, what you says is true, though it isn't every one who makes a good thing out of a bargain as is ready to go beyond it. It was a fortunate day for you may be that you fell in with my mate here, and it was a fortunate day for us when he fell in with you. When I goes back east and settles down on a farm I has got my eyes on, I shall always say as I owed my luck to my mate strolling over to talk to the two men as was working what seemed a hopeless claim in Cedar Camp.

"Wall, I suppose you are going back with your pile to the old country. I can only say as we wish you good luck thar, and plenty of enjoyment out of your money. Here's luck."

The miners all emptied their glasses, and then, shaking hands with father and son, filed out of the tent. Frank was about to follow them when he was stopped by a gesture from the old man. He had not liked accepting the present, but he did not wish to act differently from his comrades, and he saw that his refusal would really hurt the donor.

"Sit down a bit, lad," he said; "James is going to the camp to get a few things for our journey to-morrow, and I shall be alone, and now that it's all over I feel the reaction. It has been an exciting time the last month."

"It has indeed," Frank agreed, "and I have often thought to myself what a comfort it was that they had established a regular way of sending down gold twice a week with an escort; it would have been terrible if you had had to keep all that gold by you."

"Yes, I often thought so myself, and your offer to keep the gold in your tent on the days when the escort wasn't going was a great relief to me."

"It was safe enough with us," Frank said. "No one would venture to try a tent with a pretty strong party; but with only your son and yourself there might have been a temptation to some broken-down gambler to carry it off. Besides, we have Turk as a guard, and I don't fancy any one would venture to try any tricks with our tent while he is inside it."

"Well, I hope it will be your turn now," the old man said, "and that before another two months are over you too will be setting out on your way home with what your friend called your pile."

"I shall not be doing that," Frank said; "whatever we find, I have no thought of going back to England."

"No? Well, lad, I don't want your confidence if you would rather not give it; but I will tell you my story, and perhaps when you have heard it you may be the more inclined to tell me yours. It is a painful story to tell, but that is part of my punishment; and you, lad, have a right to hear it, for I know that it is to you I owe my life, and that it is through you that I am to-morrow going home to do all that I can to retrieve my fault, and to wipe out the stain on my name. I was a solicitor, with a good practice, in a town of the west of England,—it does not matter what it's name was. I lost my wife, and then, like a fool, I took to drink. No one knew it except my son, for I never went out in the evening, but would sit at home drinking by myself till I could scarce stagger up to bed.

"He did all that he could to persuade me to give it up, but it had got too strong a hold upon me. At last we quarrelled over it, and he left the house, and henceforth we only met at the office. He was engaged to be married to the daughter of our Vicar. When the crash came—for in these cases a crash is sure to come sooner or later—the business had fallen off, and a bill was presented for payment which I had altogether forgotten I had signed. Then there was an investigation into my affairs. I could help but little, for there were but few hours in the day now when my brain was clear enough to attend to any business whatever. Then it was found that ten thousand pounds which had been given me to invest by one of my clients had never been invested, and that it was gone with the rest.

"I had not intended to do anything dishonest, that even now I can affirm. I had intended to invest it, but in my muddled state put off doing so, and had gone on paying the interest as if it had been invested as ordered. When I knew that I had not enough in the bank to replace it, I went into foolish speculations to regain what I had lost; but until the crash came I had never fairly realised that I had not only ruined myself but was a swindler. I shall never forget the morning when James, who had been up all night going through my papers with my head-clerk, came down and told me what he had discovered. I was still stupid from what I had drunk overnight, but that sobered me. I need not tell you what passed between my son and me. I swore never to touch liquor again. He sold out of consols five thousand pounds which he had inherited from his mother, and handed it over to the man I had defrauded, giving him his personal bond that he would repay the rest of the money, should he live; and on those terms my client agreed to abstain from prosecuting me, and to maintain an absolute silence as to the affair.

"Then Jim broke off his engagement, and took passages for us in a sailing ship for Panama, and so on to San Francisco. I need not tell you the struggle it was to keep to my promise; but when Jim had given up everything for me, the least I could do was to fight hard for his sake. My thoughts were always fixed on California, my only hopes that I might live to see the rest of the debt repaid, and the boy's money replaced, so that he could buy a business and marry the woman he loved. I dreamt of it over and over again, and, as I told you, three times I dreamt of the exact spot where we are now sitting.

"Somehow, in my dreams, I knew that if I dug straight down under the old tree that formed the centre of the dream I should find gold. This became a fixed idea with me, and when we reached the gold-fields I never stopped long in camp, so bent was I upon finding the tree of my dreams. Jim bore with me wonderfully. I knew he did not believe in my dream, but he was always ready to go where I wanted. I think now he thought that I was going out of my mind, or feared that if he thwarted me I might take to drink again. However, at last we found the tree—at least I was positive it was the tree of my dreams. James tried to dissuade me from digging in a place which looked so unpromising; but nothing would deter me save death, and you see the result. We shall go back; the debt will be cleared off, Jim will marry his sweetheart, and I shall live with him to the end of my days. He is a grand fellow is Jim, though I dare say it didn't strike you so when you first knew him."

"He is a grand fellow," Frank agreed heartily, "and I am truly glad, Mr. Adams, that all has turned out so well."

"And now, can you tell me something of yourself, Frank? It is to you we owe it that things have turned out well; and if, as I rather guess, you have got into some scrape at home, I can only say that my son and myself will be very glad to share our fortune with you, and to take one-third of it each."

"I thank you greatly, sir, for your generous offer, but it would be of no use to me. I have, as you suspect, got into a scrape at home, but it is from no fault of my own. I have been wrongfully suspected of committing a crime; and until that charge is in some way or other cleared up, and the slur on my name wiped off, I would not return to England if I had a hundred thousand pounds."

"And can nothing be done? Would it be any use whatever to set to work on any line you can suggest? I would make it my own business, and follow up any clue you could give me."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Adams; thank you with all my heart: but nothing can be done, there is nothing to follow. It was not a question of a crime so committed that many outside persons would be interested in it, or that it could be explained in a variety of ways. So far as the case went it was absolutely conclusive, so conclusive that I myself, knowing that I was innocent, could see no flaw in the evidence against myself, nor for months afterwards could I perceive any possible explanation save in my own guilt. Since then I have seen that there is an alternative. It is one so painful to contemplate that I do not allow myself to think of it, nor does it seem to me that even were I myself upon the spot, with all the detective force of England to aid me, I could succeed in proving that alternative to be the true one except by the confession of the person in question.

"If he were capable of planning and carrying out the scheme which brought about my disgrace, he certainly is not one who would under any conceivable circumstances confess what he has done. Therefore, there is nothing whatever to be done in the matter. Years and years hence, if I make a fortune out here, I may go home and say to those whose esteem and affection I have lost, 'I have no more evidence now than I had when I left England to support my simple declaration that I was innocent, but at least I have nothing to gain by lying now. I have made a fortune, and would not touch one penny of the inheritance which would once have been mine. I simply come before you again solemnly to declare that I was innocent, wholly and conclusively as appearances were against me.' It may be that the word of a prosperous man will be believed though that of a disgraced schoolboy was more than doubted."

"And is there no one to whom I could carry the assurance of your innocence?" Mr. Adams asked. "Some one may still be believing in you in spite of appearances. It might gladden some one's heart were I to bear them from your lips this fresh assurance; were I to tell them how you have saved me when all hope seemed lost; were I to tell them how all here speak well of you, and how absolutely I am convinced that some hideous mistake must have been made."

Frank sat for some time silent.

"Yes," he said, at last. "I have a little cousin, a girl, she was like my sister; I hope—I think that, in spite of everything, she may still have believed me innocent. Will you see her and tell her you have seen me? Say no more until you see by her manner whether she believes me to be a rascal or not. If she does, give her no clue to the part of the world where you have come across me; simply say that I wished her to know that I was alive and well. If you see that she still, in spite of everything, believes that I am innocent, then tell her that I affirm on my honour and word that I am innocent, though I see no way whatever of ever proving it; that I do not wish her to tell my uncle she heard from me; that I do not wish her to say one word to him, for that, much as I value his affection, I would not for the world seem to be trying to regain the place he thinks I have forfeited, until I can appear before him as a rich man whom nothing could induce to touch one penny of his money, and who values only his good-will and esteem. That is her name and address."

And Frank wrote on the leaf of his pocket-book, "Alice Hardy, 354 Eaton Square."

"I do not think you will have to deliver the message; it is hardly possible that she should not, as my uncle has done, believe me to be guilty. Still, I do cling to the possibility of it. That is why I hesitate in giving you the commission, for if it fails I shall lose my last pleasant thought of home. If you find she has believed in me, write to me at Sacramento, to the care of Woolfe & Company, of whom I always get my stores. There is no saying where I may be in four or five months' time, for it will take that before I can hear from you. It may be, in that case, she too will write. If she does not believe in me, do not write at all; I shall understand your silence; and, above all, unless you find she believes in me, say no more than that I am alive and well, and give no clue whatever to the part of the world where we have met."

"I will discharge your commission," Mr. Adams said. "But do not be impatient for an answer; I may not find a steamer going down to Panama for some time, and may have to go thence to New York, and thence take a steamer to Europe. I may find on my arrival that the young lady is absent from home, perhaps travelling with her father, and there may be delays."

"My uncle is not her father," Frank said; "she is a ward of his. But I will not be impatient; not for six months will I give up such hope as I have."

"There is one more thing before I say good night," Mr. Adams said. "I have been in great need, and know how hard it is to struggle when luck is against one, and I should like to give a small sum as a sort of thank-offering for the success which has attended me. In a mining camp there must be many whom a little might enable to tide on until luck turns. Will you be my almoner? Here is a bag with a hundred ounces of gold, the last we got to-day from our claim. Will you take it, and from time to time give help in the way of half a sack of flour and other provisions to men who may be down in the world from a run of ill-luck, and not from any fault of their own."

"I will gladly do so," Frank replied; "such a fund as this would enable me to gladden the hearts of scores of men. You can rely upon it, sir, that I will take care to see that it is laid out in accordance with your instructions."

After leaving the tent, Frank found James Adams sitting down on a log a short distance away.

"I would not disturb you," the latter said, "as I thought perhaps you were having a chat with my father—indeed he told me he should like to have a talk with you alone; but I want myself to tell you how conscious I am that I owe my happiness to you. Has my father told you how I am situated, and that I am going home to claim the dearest girl in the world, if, as I hope and believe, I shall find she has waited for me?"

"Your father has told me more," Frank said; "he has told me how nobly you devoted your life to his, and why, and I am truly glad that so much good has come of our meeting. More than that first little help I must disclaim, for it was Abe and not I who believed in your father's dreams, which I confess I had no shadow of belief in, though they have, so unaccountably to me, been verified."

"Nothing you can say, Frank, will minimise what you have done for us. You saved my father's life. If it had not been for you his dream would never have been carried into effect, and he would now be lying in the graveyard on the top of the hill, and I should be working hopelessly as a day labourer. I only want to say, that if at any time you want a friend, you can rely upon James Adams up to the last penny he has in the world."

The next morning Mr. Adams and his son started for San Francisco, and Frank and his party began to work their claims from the bottom of the shaft. Although they paid well, they proved far less rich than they had expected; they got good returns from the gravel, but found no pockets in the bed rock, which was perfectly smooth and even. They found that on either side of the Adams' claims the wall of rock behind swept round; this, no doubt, had caused an eddy at this spot, which had worked out the hole in the bed rock, and caused the deposit of so large a quantity of gold here; and, singularly enough, Mr. Adams' dream had led him to take up the exact spot under which alone the gold had been so largely deposited. The party had taken on several hands, and six weeks sufficed to clear out the paying stuff in their claims, and it was found that, after paying all their expenses, there remained eight hundred ounces of gold; a handsome result, but still very far below what they had reason to expect from the richness of the stuff in the claims lying in the centre of their ground.

This, however, added to the five hundred ounces they had received from Mr. Adams, gave them a total of about a thousand pounds each. They held a consultation on the night of the final clean-up. Two of the party were disposed to return east with their money, but they finally came round to Abe's view.

"A thousand pounds is a nice sum—I don't say it ain't—for less than six months' work; still, to my mind, now we are here, with the chance of doing just as well if we go on, I think it would be a fool's trick to give it up. Five thousand dollars will buy a good farm east, but one could work it with a good deal more comfort and sartainty if one had another five thousand lying in the bank ready to draw upon in case of bad times. We ain't fools; we don't mean to gamble or drink away what we have made; it will just lie in the bank at Sacramento until we want to draw it. If we work another year we may double it, but we can't make it less; we have got our horses still, and I vote we go back to our work as it was before, three of us digging and two carrying. We know that way we can pay our expenses, however bad our luck may be, so thar ain't nothing to loose in sticking to it for a bit longer, and thar may be a lot to gain."

This view prevailed, and in a short time the party moved off to another place; for Cedar Camp was getting deserted, the other claims taken up on the flat had paid their way, but little more, and the men were off to new discoveries, of which they had heard glowing accounts.

For the next two months no marked success attended the labours of Frank and his comrades, they paid their expenses, and that was all. Frank enjoyed the life; he was in no hurry to get rich, and it gave him great pleasure to be able occasionally to give a helping hand to miners whose luck was bad, from the fund with which Mr. Adams had intrusted him. The work was hard, but he scarcely felt it, for his muscles were now like steel, and his frame had widened out until he was as broad and strong as any of his companions, and few would have recognised in him the lad who had shipped on board the Mississippi fifteen months before.

CHAPTER XIX. STRIKING IT RICH.

TWICE the party of gold-diggers shifted their location, each time following a rush to some freshly-discovered locality; but no stroke of good fortune attended them. At the end of each week a few ounces of gold remained to be added to the pile after the payment of expenses, but so far the earnings of the carriers far exceeded those of the diggers. One day, as Abe and Frank were just starting on their way down to Sacramento, they met three men coming along, each leading two laden horses. As the two teams met there was a shout of recognition.

"Hello, Abe! I have been asking for you of every one since we got here six months ago, but no one seemed to know your party."

"We have been asking for you too," Abe said. "It seems curious that we should be here so long and never run agin each other; but there are such a lot of mining camps, and every one works too hard to spend much time thinking about his neighbours. I expected we should run across each other one of these days. And how goes it with you? How's every one?"

"We are broke up a bit," John Little said. "It wasn't to be expected as we should hang together long after we once got out here; one thought one place best, and another another; but I and my two mates here, and long Simpson, and Alick, and Jones, we have stuck together."

"And where are you now?" Abe inquired.

"Well, I will tell you, Abe, and I wouldn't tell any one else; but I said to you, 'If we ever makes a strike you are in it.' We have been prospecting up in the gulches of the North Yuba. We found as we couldn't get places worth working in the other camps, so we concluded it war best to find out a spot for ourselves; so we six have been a-grubbing and digging up among the mountains, and I tell you we have hit it hot. We three, washing with pans for four hours one morning, got out eight-and-twenty ounces of gold."

"That was something like," Abe said, in admiration.

"I reckon it war. Well, we covered the place up, and left our three mates to look arter it, telling them not to dig or make any sign until we came back. We sold the waggons and teams when we first got over, for they were no good to us in the mountains, and bought horses so as to keep ourselves supplied with provisions. We agreed before we began work we would come down to the town and get enough to last us, then we would move up quietly at night to our find, stake out our claims, and begin to work. Now if you and your four mates likes to join us, you are welcome."

"Well, that's a downright friendly offer, mate, and you bet we accept it. We had one capital stroke of luck, but since that worked out we haven't done much at digging, though Frank here and me has done very fair, trucking goods up from Sacramento. Where are your women?"

"Well," the other said, "we had some trouble about them. You see thar ain't many women up at the camps, they are rough places, and not fit for them. So we agreed that for the present it were best they should keep out of it. So we bought a little place with ten or twelve acres of ground, down at the foot of the hills, and there our wives and the kids are stopping. There's a big orchard, and they are raising vegetables, and when we goes down for supplies we brings up a load or two of fruit and vegetables, and rare prices they fetch, I can tell you, more nor enough to keep them all down there. But we have agreed to bring two of them up now to cook and wash, and leave the others to look arter the place and the kids. Simpson and Jones ain't married, you know. Women have a right to claims as well as men, and of course we shall take up for those we bring up, as well as for two big lads; so that will give us ten claims, besides the extra claims for discovery. So with your five claims we can get hold of a tidy bit of ground. We are going to take these stores up now, and leave them in charge of our friends in the gulch, who will keep them hid in the woods, and then we can go back and bring up the women and a cargo of vegetables."

"Well, in four days we will meet you here. I will take all the horses and load them up. We were going to bring up flour for the storekeeper, but now we will get stores for ourselves. We will bring as much as we can get along with. We can sell what we don't want, for there is sure to be a rush in a short time. Frank shall go back and tell the storekeeper we ain't a-coming with the flour."

This was arranged, and four days later Abe and his party arrived at the spot agreed on, and an hour or two later the cavalcade, with the three men, two women, and two boys of fifteen or sixteen years old, came up, and the united party started together. It was some fifty miles to the spot where the gold had been discovered. Sometimes they wound along in deep valleys, passing several camps in full operation. At the last camp, which was a small one, a few questions were asked them as to their destination.

"We are just going a-prospecting for the mountain of gold," Abe replied, "and as we have got six months' stores aboard we mean to find it. We will send you down a few nuggets when we get up there."

"We shall have some of them after us in a day or two," John Little said; "every one suspects every one else; and they will make a pretty story of it, I guess, thinking as we shouldn't have brought the women up all this distance without having some place in our minds."

At last they arrived at their destination, the mouth of a little gorge running off the deep valley of the north Yuba. The gorge widened out into a narrow valley, and the party made its way among the pebbles and boulders at its bottom for a quarter of a mile, and then three men came out from among the trees and greeted them heartily.

"No one has been up here?" John Little asked.

"Two chaps came up and prospected about a bit, but they did not seem to hit on the right place; at any rate they went away again."

"All the better," John said. "Now let us stake out our claims at once, then we are all right, whoever comes."

The spot selected was at the head of the little valley; it ended here abruptly, and the stream came down forty feet precipitously into a hollow.

"This looks a likely spot, indeed," Abe said; "there must have been a thundering great waterfall here in the old days. I expect it wore a hole for itself in the rock, and if it is as rich as you say on the surface, there is no saying how rich it may be when we get down to the bed rock."

They had already settled that the two parties should work in partnership, and as, including the women and boys, they numbered fifteen, and could take up the five claims which, by mining law, the discoverer of a new place was entitled to, they had in all twenty claims, which gave them the whole of the little amphitheatre at the foot of the fall for a distance of fifty yards down.

The men all set to work with their axes, and by nightfall much had been done. Frank's party had their tent, and the two small tents of the other party were allotted to the married couples. A rough hut was got up for the rest of the men; this was to act as the kitchen and general room. A storehouse was erected of stout logs, with earth piled thickly over it to keep out the wet, and here their stores were securely housed. The tents and huts were on the slope, where the rocks widened out twenty yards below the bottom of their claim.

It was late in the second evening before the work was done. All were anxious to test the ground, but it was agreed not to touch it until they had housed themselves. At daybreak they were at work, and soon all were washing out pans of gravel at the stream; the results fully justified their expectations,—there being a residuum of glittering grains at the bottom of each pan varying in weight from a pennyweight to a quarter of an ounce.

"Now," Abe said, "I should suggest that we makes a big cradle, fifteen feet long by three feet wide, and hang it on cross poles so as to be able to rock it easily; then we will dam up the stream at the top of the fall, and lead it down straight through a shoot into the cradle; of course the shoot will have a sluice so as to let in just as much water as we want, and that way two men will do the work of eight or ten washing."

Abe's plan was agreed to, and all the men set to work to construct the dam, cradle, and shoot.

It took two days' hard labour before all was in readiness, and then the work began in earnest. Two men swayed the cradle, four others shovelled the gravel and dirt into it, three continually stirred the contents and swept off the large stones and pebbles from the top, while the other two carried them away beyond the boundaries of their claims.

At the lower end of the cradle was a sheet of iron perforated with holes, large at the top, but getting smaller lower down, and altogether closed four inches from the bottom; through these holes the sand and gravel flowed away. All day they worked vigorously and without intermission, and great was the excitement when, at the end of the day's work, they proceeded to clear-up by emptying the cradle and examining the bottom. A shout of satisfaction arose as the particles of gold were seen lying thickly in the gravel at the bottom of the cradle. Very carefully this was washed out, and it was found that there were over fifty ounces of gold dust.

"I believe," Abe said, "that we have hit upon the richest spot in Californy. Ef it's like this on the surface, what is it going to be like when we get down to the bed rock?"

The next morning two diggers arrived on the scene; they saw at once by the methodical manner in which the place was being worked that the party must have found gold in paying quantities.

"Is it rich, mates?" they asked eagerly.

"Ay," Abe replied, "rich enough for anything. There are the boundaries of our claims, lads, and ye are welcome to set to work below them."

The miners threw off their coats, and at once set to work, and a shout of exultation greeted the result of the first bucket of stuff they washed out.

"Another week," Abe said, "and every foot of ground in the gulch from here down to the Yuba will be taken up. The news will spread like wildfire."

His anticipations were justified, and no one who came along a fortnight later would have recognised, in the scene of life and activity, the quiet wooded valley which Abe and his party had entered. The trees on the lower slopes were all felled; huts and tents stood along on the slopes from the head to the mouth of the valley, and several hundred men were hard at work.

For once every man was satisfied, and it was agreed that it was the richest place which had been discovered in California. But though all were doing well, their finds did not approach those of the party at the head of the valley. The spot on which these were at work was indeed a natural trap for gold. At the lower end of the claim the bed rock was found at the depth of three feet only; but it sloped rapidly down to the foot of the fall, and here an iron rod had been driven down and showed it to be forty feet below the surface.

The bed rock had indeed, in the course of ages, been pounded away by the fall of water, and by the boulders and rocks brought down in time of flood, and in the deep hole the gold had lodged, a comparatively small proportion being carried away over the lower lip of the basin. When the bed rock was found at the lower end of the claim, they set to work to clear away and wash the whole surface to that depth, as far as the foot of the rocks on either side of the little amphitheatre.

Frank and two of the men went down to Sacramento with horses to bring up pumps, for below the level of the lip of the hole it was, of course, full of water. The stream was carried in a shoot beyond this point, and when the pumps arrived they were soon set to work.

Every foot that they descended they found, as they expected, the gravel to be richer and richer; and many nuggets, some of them weighing upwards of a pound, were found.

At the end of each week four of the miners, armed to the teeth, carried down the gold and deposited it at the Bank of Sacramento. An escort was needed, for many attacks were made on gold convoys by parties of desperadoes; four men would indeed have been an insufficient guard, but at the same time other diggers in the valley sent down their find, and the escort was always made up to eight men from the general body.

Frank, from the first, generally formed one of the escort; he himself was perfectly ready to take his share in the more laborious work of digging, but where Frank went Turk went, and Turk formed so valuable a member of the escort that the rest of the party begged his master always to go with the treasure. Every week had added to the weight and power of the animal, and he was now a most formidable-looking beast. He was extremely quiet and good-tempered at ordinary times, except that he would not allow any stranger to touch him; but when at all excited, his hair bristled from his neck to his tail, and his low, formidable growl, gave a warning which few men would have been inclined to despise,—indeed, of the many rough characters in the camp, there was not one who would not rather have faced a man with a revolver in his hand than have ventured upon a conflict with Turk.

The dog appeared to know that the escort duty was one which demanded especial vigilance. On the road a low growl always gave notice of the approach of strangers; and at night, when they stopped, and the heavy valises were carried from the pack animals into the wayside resting-places, Turk always lay down with his head upon them. He seemed so thoroughly to understand that this was in his special charge, that although at no other time would he leave Frank's side for a moment, he was, when thus on guard, content to lie quiet even should Frank take a stroll after reaching the hotel.

This guardianship greatly relieved the cares of the escort, as once placed under Turk's charge they felt no further anxiety about the treasure, for it would have been as much as any stranger's life was worth to have entered the room where Turk lay on guard. Once, indeed, the attempt was made. While the escort were taking their meals, a man went round to the window of the room, and, opening it, threw a large piece of poisoned meat to Turk. The dog placed one paw upon it, but remained, with his great head on the treasure, watching the man outside holding another piece in his hand, and speaking in soothing tones. The man, seeing that he did not move, began to climb in through the window. Suddenly, as if shot from a spring, Turk hurled himself from his recumbent position upon him.

The movement was so rapid and unexpected, that before the man could spring back from the window Turk had seized him by the shoulder. A shriek, followed by a heavy fall, brought the party rushing into the room. It was empty, but there was the sound of a scuffle outside; they ran to the window, but their interference was too late. Turk had shifted his hold, and, grasping the man by the throat, was shaking him as a terrier would a rat; and when, in obedience to Frank's voice, he loosened his hold, life was extinct. Not only was there a terrible wound in the throat of the robber, but his neck was broken by the shaking.

This was the only attempt which was ever made upon the treasure; for Turk gained such a reputation by the deed, that it was questionable whether, had he accompanied the pack-mules as their sole escort to Sacramento, the bravest stage-robbers in the district would have ventured to interfere with them.

After a time the lower valley became worked out, and numbers drifted away to other diggings; but it was four months before the party at the waterfall completely worked out their claims. The value of the ground in the last few feet, at the lower end of the hole, was immense; for in this, for ages, the gold from above had settled, and for the last fortnight the clear-up each day was worth a thousand pounds. When the last spadeful had been cleared up, and the last consignment sent down to the bank, they made up their total, and found that in four months they had taken from the hole upwards of sixty thousand pounds.

It had been agreed before beginning that the two women and the boys were each to have a half-share, and that the two women who had looked after the families below were to have the same. There were then in all six half-shares, and eleven shares, and each share was therefore worth over four thousand pounds. There were many instances in California in which parties of two or three men had made larger sums than this in the same time, but there were few in which a company had taken out so large a quantity from one hole.

At the meeting that night the partnership was dissolved, it being agreed that they should all go down to Sacramento together, and there each receive his share. One or two of the party said that they would go down to San Francisco for a spree, and then return and try their luck again. Four of the western farmers said that they should buy farms in the State and settle down there. Abe, and two other hunters, said they should return east.

"And what are you going to do, Frank?"

"I don't know," Frank said. "I don't want to return to Europe, and have no particular object in view. I think that I shall let my money remain in the bank for a bit, at any rate, and go in for freighting on a large scale. I shall buy a couple of dozen mules, and hire some Mexicans to drive them. I like the life among these mountains, and there is a good thing to be made out of carrying. But I have had enough of digging; it's tremendously hard work, and I couldn't expect to meet with such a slice of luck as this again if I worked for fifty years."

"Well, Frank, I shall not try to dissuade you," Abe said. "If I was going on hunting, I should say 'Come along with me to the plains'; but me and my mate is going east, as each of us has got some one waiting for us thar, and I expect we shall marry and settle down. I will write to you at Sacramento when I get fixed, and I needn't tell you how glad the sight of your face will make me if you are ever travelling my way."

A few days afterwards the party separated at Sacramento, Frank only remaining two days in that town. The wild scenes of dissipation and recklessness disgusted him; he looked with loathing upon the saloons where gambling went on from morning till night, broken only by an occasional fierce quarrel, followed in most cases by the sharp crack of a revolver, or by desperate encounters with bowie knives. Bad as things were, however, they were improving somewhat, for a Vigilance Committee had just been started, comprising all the prominent citizens of the town. Parties of armed men had seized upon some of the most notorious desperadoes of the place, and had hung them on the lamp-posts, while others had been warned that a like fate awaited them if they were found three hours later within the limits of the town.

Similar scenes took place in San Francisco, for the force of the law was wholly insufficient to restrain the reckless and desperate men who congregated in the towns, and who thought no more of taking life than eating a meal. To put a stop to the frightful state of things prevailing, the more peaceful of the San Francisco citizens had also been obliged to organise a Vigilance Committee to carry out what was called Lynch law, a rough and ready method of justice subject to grave abuses under other circumstances, but admirably suited to such a condition of things as at that time prevailed in California.

For some time Frank worked between Sacramento and the diggings. He enjoyed the life, riding in the pure mountain air, under the shade of the forests, at the head of the team. Sometimes he wondered vaguely how long this was to last; if he was always to remain a rover, or whether he would ever return to England. Sometimes he resolved that he would go home and make an effort to clear himself of this stain which rested upon his name; but he could see no method whatever of doing so, as he had nothing but his own unsupported assertion of his innocence to adduce against the circumstantial evidence against him, and there was no reason why his word should be taken now more than it was before.

In many of the camps life had now become more civilised. In cases where the bed of gold-bearing gravel was large, and where, consequently, work would be continued for a long time, wooden towns had sprung up, with hotels, stores, drinking and gambling saloons. Work was here carried on methodically; water was, in some cases, brought many miles in little canals from mountain lakes down to the diggings, and operations were carried on on a large scale. Companies were being formed for buying up and working numbers of claims together.

The valleys were honeycombed with shafts driven down, sometimes through a hundred feet of gravel, to the bed rock, as it was found much more profitable working this way than in surface-washing. Stage-coaches and teams of waggons were running regularly now along well-made roads. Frank's earnings were therefore smaller than they had been at first, but they still paid his expenses, and added a few pounds each trip to his account at the bank.

He took shares in many of the companies formed for bringing down water from the lakes, and these were soon found to be an exceedingly valuable property, paying in many cases a return each month equal to the capital.

The life of a teamster was not without danger: bears in considerable numbers were found among the mountains, and these, when pressed by hunger, did not hesitate to attack passing teams. In times of rain the rivers rose rapidly, and the valleys were full of fierce torrents, sometimes preventing horses from crossing for many hours, and being still more dangerous if the rise commenced when the track to be followed wound along in the foot of the valley. Several times Frank narrowly escaped with his life when thus surprised; but in each case he managed to reach some spot where his horses could climb the sides before the water took them off their feet.

The greatest danger, however, of the roads, arose from the lawless men that frequented them. Coaches were frequently stopped and plundered, and even the gold escorts were attacked with success. Strong parties of the miners sometimes went out in pursuit of the highwaymen, but it was very seldom that success attended them, for the great forests extended so vast a distance over the hills, that anything like a thorough search was impossible.

Frank, however, treated this danger lightly; he never carried money with him save what he received on arrival at camp for the carriage of his goods, while the flour, bacon, and other stores which he carried up offered no temptation to the robbers.

One evening, however, having been detained some hours before he could cross a river swollen by a thunderstorm, he was travelling along the road much later than usual; the moon was shining brightly, and as the long team of mules descended a hill he meditated camping for the night at its foot.

Suddenly he heard a pistol-shot ahead, followed by five or six others. Ordering his men to follow slowly, he put spurs to his horse, and, drawing his revolver, galloped on. The firing had ceased just as he caught sight of a coach standing at the bottom of a hill; three bodies were lying in the road, and the passengers were in the act of alighting under the pistols of four mounted men who stood beside them. Frank rode up at full speed, Turk bounding beside him.

The highwaymen turned, and two pistol-shots were fired at the new-comer. The balls whistled close to him, but Frank did not answer the fire until he arrived within three paces of the nearest highwayman, whom he shot dead; the other three fired, and Frank felt a sensation as of a hot iron crossing his cheek, while his left arm dropped useless by his side. Another of the highwaymen fell under his next shot; at the same instant Turk, with a tremendous bound, leapt at the throat of one of the others who was in the act of levelling his pistol. The impetus was so tremendous that man and horse rolled in the road, the pistol exploding harmlessly in the air. The struggle on the ground lasted but a few seconds, and then Turk, having disposed of his adversary, turned to look after a fresh foe; but the field was clear, for the remaining robber had, on seeing Turk, turned his horse with a cry of alarm, and ridden away at full speed. The passengers crowded round Frank, thanking him for their rescue.

"I am glad to have been of use," Frank said, "and to have arrived just in time; and now will one of you help me off my horse, for my left arm is broken, I think."

The driver of the coach had been shot through the heart by the first shot fired by the robbers. There were two armed guards, one of whom had been killed, and the other wounded, while two of the passengers who had left the coach to take part in the defence had also been killed; the wounded guard was helped down from the coach.

"You have done a good night's work," he said to Frank; "there are nigh ten thousand ounces of gold in the coach. No doubt those fellows got wind of the intention of the bank people at Yuba to send it down to Sacramento; it was kept very dark too, and I don't believe that one of the passengers knew of it. They would have sent more than two of us to guard it if they had thought that it had been let out; there must have been some one in the secret who gave notice beforehand to these chaps.

"Now, gentlemen, if one of you will take the ribbons we will be moving on. I will get up beside him, and I will trouble any of you who have got Colts to take your places up behind; there ain't no chance of another attack to-night, still, we may as well look out. Now, sir, if you will take your place inside we will take you on until we get to some place where your arm can be looked to. You will hear from the directors of the bank as to this night's work."

Frank's team had now arrived on the spot, and he directed the men to complete their journey and deliver their stores, and then to go down to the stables where they put up at Sacramento and there to wait his arrival.

Frank was left behind at the next town, his fellow-passengers overwhelming him with thanks, many having considerable amounts of gold concealed about them, the result, in some cases, of months' work at the diggings.

One of them proposed that each man should contribute one-fourth of the gold he carried to reward their rescuer, a proposition which was at once accepted. Frank, however, assured them that although leading a team of mules he was well off, and in no need whatever of their kind offer.

Seeing that he was in earnest, his fellow-passengers again thanked him cordially, and took their places in the coach. They were not to be balked in their gratitude, and three days later a very handsome horse, with saddle and holsters with a brace of Colt's revolvers, arrived up from Sacramento for Frank, with the best wishes of the passengers in the coach. On the same day a letter arrived saying that at a meeting of the directors of the bank it had been resolved that, as he had saved them from a loss of fifty thousand pounds by his gallantry, a sum of two thousand pounds should be placed to his credit at the bank in token of their appreciation of the great service he had rendered them.

CHAPTER XX. A MESSAGE FROM ABROAD.

I LIKE this, grandfather. I think I like it better than anything I have seen. In the sunlight the cathedral is too dazzling and white, and the eye does not seem to find any rest; but in the moonlight it is perfectly lovely. And then the music of that Austrian band is just right from here; it is not too loud, and yet we can hear every note. Somehow, I always like better not to see the players, but just to have the benefit of the music as we do now, and to sit taking it in, and looking at that glorious cathedral, all silver and black, in the moonlight. It is glorious!" Harry murmured, "I could not have believed there was anything so lovely."

"Yes, yes," Captain Bayley said absently, "the ices are good."

"I am not talking of the ices, grandfather, though no doubt they are good. I am talking about the cathedral."

"Are you, my boy?" Captain Bayley said, rousing himself. "Yes, there are cathedrals which beat Milan when seen in broad daylight, but in the moonlight there is no building in the world to compare with it, unless it be the Taj Mahal at Agra. Of course they differ wholly and entirely in style, and no comparison can be made between them; the only resemblance is that both are built of white marble; but of the two, I own that I prefer the Taj."

"I am afraid I shall never see that," Alice Hardy said, "but I am quite content with Milan; I could stop here for a month."

"A month, my dear!" Captain Bayley exclaimed, in consternation, "three days will be ample. You know we agreed to stop here till Friday, and then to go on to Como."

"Well, perhaps we will let you go on Friday, but we shall have to dawdle about the lakes for some time. We can't rush through them as we have been rushing through all these grand old Italian towns. We must have a long rest there, you know."

"Yes, I suppose so," the old officer said reluctantly; "but I like to be on the move."

Captain Bayley had, indeed, somewhat tried his two young companions by his eagerness to be ever on the move. They had now been nearly two years absent from England; they had visited all the principal towns of Germany and Austria, had gone down the Danube and stopped at Constantinople, had spent a fortnight in the Holy Land, and had then gone to Egypt and ascended the Nile as far as the First Cataract, then they had taken a steamer to Naples, and thence made their way up through Italy to Milan, and now were about to cross over into Switzerland, and were, after spending a month there, to go on to Paris, and thence home.

The highest surgical advice, and the most skilful appliances, aided by the benefit he had derived from the German baths, had done much for Harry, and he had for months passed many hours a day in the hands of a skilful shampooer, who travelled with him as valet. He had, to a great extent, recovered the use of his legs, and now walked with the assistance of two sticks, and there was every hope that in time he would be able to dispense with these aids, although he would always walk somewhat stiffly. Captain Bayley was delighted at this improvement in his grandson, and would have been perfectly happy had it not been for the continual worry caused him by the failure of his advertisements to elicit any news whatever of Frank.

It was this uncertainty that caused his restlessness, and he was for ever pressing forward to the next town to which he had directed letters to be sent, constantly suffering disappointments when he found the usual announcement from his solicitor that no news had been obtained of his missing nephew.

Alice and Harry shared his anxiety; but their pleasure in the new scenes they were visiting prevented their being so entirely engrossed in the subject as he was; and although scarcely a day passed without some talk as to Frank's whereabouts, and the probability of his discovery, they were able to put the subject aside and to enter with full zest into the scenes they were visiting. But in Captain Bayley's mind the question was always uppermost; sincerely attached as he had always been to Frank, the thought that his favourite might have suffered a cruel and dastardly wrong, and might now be slaving for his living in some unknown part of the world, worried and troubled him incessantly, and he felt that, happy as he was at the discovery of his grandson, he could never be contented and tranquil until this matter was cleared up. Besides, in his will Fred Barkley was still standing as heir to one-third of his fortune, and the thought that he might die before the mystery was cleared up, and that possibly this property might go to the man he suspected of so foul a crime, was absolutely intolerable to the old officer. He had, indeed, been engaged in a correspondence with his lawyer, Mr. Griffith, in reference to his will, which he wanted worded so that Fred Barkley should not take the fortune left him until the question of the theft of the ten pounds should be cleared up. Mr. Griffith pointed out that it was scarcely possible to frame a will in such a way.

"Had your nephew been publicly accused of the crime, doubtless a clause might be framed by which the money would remain in the hands of trustees until he had cleared himself to their satisfaction; but in this case there is no shadow of suspicion against him. Another person has, in the eyes of those who know the circumstances of the affair, been adjudged guilty. No one has breathed a word against the honour of your nephew; and therefore to say that he shall not touch the legacy until his honour is cleared would be to take a most extraordinary, and, I think, unprecedented course. In fact I don't see how it could be done."

Captain Bayley had replied hotly that it must be done, and, owing to his frequent changes of address, and the time occupied in the letters passing to and fro, the correspondence had already lasted for some months. What enraged Captain Bayley most of all was that Mr. Griffith would not admit that any doubt whatever existed as to Frank Norris's guilt, nor that there was a shadow of reasonable suspicion against his cousin; and each time the evidence was marshalled up, Captain Bayley had to acknowledge to himself that the lawyer's arguments were unanswerable, and that the only grounds that he himself had for his doubts were his affection for Frank, and the fixed, passionate belief of Alice Hardy in his innocence. That day Captain Bayley was exceptionally out of temper and irascible, for he had that morning received a letter from Mr. Griffith positively declining to draw up a clause for insertion in the will of the nature he desired, and saying that if Captain Bayley insisted upon its insertion, much as he should regret it after so long a connection had existed between them, he should prefer that his client should place himself in other hands.

"I trust," he said, "that this will cause no interruption in the personal friendship which has for years existed between us, but I would risk even that rather than draft a clause which I consider would be in the highest degree unjust, and which, I tell you fairly, would, I believe, be upset in any court of law. Nothing would, in my opinion, be more unfair, I may say more monstrous, than that a hand should be stretched from the grave to strike a blow at the honour of a young man of stainless reputation."

Captain Bayley at all times disliked opposition; he disliked it especially when, as in the present instance, he felt that he was in the wrong.

When they returned to their hotel the waiter informed Alice that a gentleman had called twice, while they were out, to see her. He had not left a card, saying that Miss Hardy would not know his name, but that he had a message to give her, and that he would not occupy her time more than a few minutes if she would be good enough to see him.

"It sounds quite mysterious," Alice said, smiling to her uncle.

"Was it a young gentleman or an old?" she asked the waiter in French.

"An elderly gentleman, Signora."

"Some elderly millionaire, Alice," Captain Bayley growled sarcastically, as they ascended the stairs, "who has seen you in the streets, and wishes to lay himself and his fortune at your feet."

"That must be it," Alice laughed. "But perhaps he has brought me a message from some of the many ladies we have met in our travels. I suppose I had better see him if he comes again."

"I suppose so," Captain Bayley said. "He is not likely to eat you, and as my room opens off the sitting-room, you have only to scream and I can come in to your rescue."

"Very well, I will scream, uncle, if necessary. But do you think he wants to see me alone?"

"As he has only asked for you, and no one else, I suppose he does. At any rate I have no lively curiosity as to his visit, and I don't suppose Harry has either. Most likely it's some man who wants to sell you jewellery or cameos, or to ask you for a subscription for the chaplain, or to beg of you on some pretext or other; they are always at it. He saw your name on the hotel list standing without any male protector of the same name. No doubt he thinks you are an elderly spinster with money."

"I expect it's something of that sort, Alice," Harry laughed.

But Alice insisted that she was convinced that the mysterious stranger had something important to communicate to her. As she was taking her things off there was a knock at the door, and the waiter said—

"The gentleman who before called is below."

"Show him up into our sitting-room," she said, and at once went in to receive him. "He's just coming up, uncle," she said, tapping at Captain Bayley's door. He opened it a few inches.

"I have got my pistol handy, Alice, in case you scream."

Alice laughed, and as she turned round there was a knock at the door. The waiter announced Monsieur Adams, and an elderly gentleman entered.

"You must be surprised at the intrusion of a stranger at this hour of the evening, Miss Hardy; but my excuse must be that I have for nearly two months been following your footsteps, and I was afraid that if I put off calling upon you until the morning I might find that you had gone."

"Following me for two months!" Alice repeated, in great surprise. "I do not understand, sir."

"Naturally, Miss Hardy, the statement appears a strange one to you; but the fact is I made a promise to deliver a message to you. I found upon reaching England that you had left; I obtained your address at Cairo, and went there only to find you had left a fortnight before my arrival; then I followed you to Naples, and was a week too late. At Rome I missed you by a day, and as I could not learn there, at your hotel, where you were going next, beyond the fact that you had gone North, I have been hunting for you ever since."

"But, sir," Alice said, more and more surprised, "what message could possibly be of sufficient importance for you to undertake so long a journey to deliver it?"

"I did not know how long you might be before you returned to England, Miss Hardy, and as I knew how anxiously the answer to my message would be expected, I preferred to follow you, in order that there might be no more delay than necessary."

Suddenly a thought flashed across Alice Hardy's brain. She advanced a step nearer to her visitor, and exclaimed—

"Do you come from my cousin Frank?"

"You have guessed rightly. I met him abroad; I am not at liberty at present to say where. He rendered me one of the greatest services one man can render to another—he saved my life, and did much more; but upon that it is not now necessary to enter."

"But the message, sir," Alice interrupted, "you cannot know how we have been longing for a word from him all this time."

"I do not know yet, Miss Hardy, whether I have any message to deliver; it depends upon what you say in answer to what I tell you. I think I can give you his very words as we sat together the night before I left for England: 'I have a little cousin, a girl, she was like my sister; I think, I hope, that in spite of everything she may still have believed me innocent. Will you see her, and tell her you have seen me? Say no more until you see by her manner whether she believes me to be a rascal or not.'"

"No, no," Alice broke in, with a cry, "not for one moment; surely Frank never doubted me. Never for a single instant did I believe one word against him."

"Is anything the matter, my dear?" Captain Bayley asked, opening his door, for the sound of her raised voice had reached him.

"No, uncle," she cried, hurrying to him, "it is a message from Frank. Go away a minute, or——No," and she turned again to Mr. Adams, "surely my uncle can hear too, he is as interested as I am."

"My message was to you alone, Miss Hardy," Mr. Adams said gravely; "I must deliver it as it was delivered to me. It will be for you to decide whether, after hearing it, you think it right to observe the injunction it contains for your absolute silence."

"At least tell me, sir," Captain Bayley exclaimed, as much agitated as Alice, "whether he is alive and well."

"He is alive and well, sir—at least he was when I saw him last, now nearly four months ago."

"Thank God for that, at least," Captain Bayley said fervently. "Do not be long, Alice; you know what I shall be feeling." He went back into his room again, and closed the door, and Mr. Adams continued—

"'If she thinks me a rascal, give her no clue to the part of the world where you have come across me, simply say that I wished her to know that I am alive and well.' There, Miss Hardy, my message would have ended had you not declared your faith in his innocence; I can now go on: 'If you see that she still, in spite of everything, believes that I am innocent, then tell her that I affirm on my honour and word that I am so'—Alice gave a cry of joy—'though I see no way of proving it. Tell her that I do not wish her to tell my uncle that she has heard of me; that I do not wish her to say one word to him, for, much as I value his affection, I would not for the world seem to be trying to gain the place he thinks I have forfeited, until I can appear before him as a rich man whom nothing could induce to touch one penny of his money, and who values only his good-will and esteem.'

"That is all the message, Miss Hardy. But now that I see you have never believed him guilty, I am at liberty to tell you that we met in California, and to give you an address to which you can write at Sacramento, and I can tell you the story of our acquaintance; but as the story is a long one, and it is now late, I will, with your permission, call in the morning again."

Tears were streaming down the girl's face as she lifted her head.

"Thank you, sir! oh, thank you so much! You cannot tell how happy your message has made me—how happy it will make us all, for I am sure that Frank will not blame me for breaking his injunction. He cannot tell the circumstances; he does not know that my uncle has fretted as much as myself. He evidently thinks that he believes him guilty, though why he should do so I don't know, for at first he was just as much convinced as I was of Frank's innocence, and it was only Frank's silence and his going away without saying one word in defence of himself that made him doubt him. Would you mind sitting here for a minute or two while I go in to him? We want to hear so much, if you are not in a hurry."

"I am in no hurry," Mr. Adams said, smiling. "After travelling for two months to deliver a message, one would not mind sitting up for a few hours to deliver it thoroughly; and let me tell you that if my message has made you happy, your reception of it has given me almost equal satisfaction. I should have been grieved beyond expression to have had to write to him that you doubted him, for my dear friend said, 'If your commission fails, I shall lose my last pleasant thought of home.'"

"Poor Frank!" Alice murmured, as she turned to go to her uncle's room, "how could he have ever doubted us?"

"Uncle," she said, as she entered, "I feel quite justified in telling you Frank's message to me. Why it was sent to me instead of to you I do not know, except that it seems as if he thought that I might believe him innocent, while somehow he had an idea that you thought he was guilty."

"Does he say he is innocent, Alice?" Captain Bayley broke in.

"He does, uncle; he declares on his honour and word that he is innocent."

"Thank God!" the old officer said, dropping into a chair and covering his face with his hands. For a minute he sat silent, but Alice could see how deeply he was affected.

"Don't say any more, my dear," he said, in a low, shaken voice. "I have heard quite enough; it was only Frank's assurance that I have been wanting all this time. I am content now. Thank God that this burden is lifted off one's mind. Go in and tell Harry; I should like to be alone for a few minutes."

"Yes, uncle; and Frank's friend is in the next room, and will tell us all about him when you are ready to hear it."

Harry was greatly delighted at the news, and after a few minutes Alice returned with him to the sitting-room. She knocked at her uncle's door, and called out, "We are here, uncle, when you are ready to come in." In another minute Captain Bayley entered. He went up to Mr. Adams.

"You have brought me the best news I have ever heard, sir; you cannot tell what a weight you have lifted from my shoulders, and how I feel indebted to you."

"Yes, uncle, and do you know that Mr. Adams has been travelling nearly two months to deliver the message, knowing how anxious Frank will be to hear how it was received. He went to Egypt after us, and finding we had left has been following us ever since."

"God bless you, sir!" Captain Bayley said, seizing Mr. Adams's hand and shaking it violently, "you are a friend indeed. Now in the first place, please tell me the message you have given my niece, for so far I have only heard that Frank declared that he is innocent; that was quite enough for me at first. I want to know why I was to be kept in the dark."

"The message will explain that," Mr. Adams replied, and he again repeated the message he had given Alice.

"Yes, that explains it," Captain Bayley said, when he had finished; "that's just like the boy of old. I like him for that. But why on earth did he not say he was innocent at first?"

"That I cannot tell you; I know no more of the past than the message I have given you, except he said that he had been wrongfully suspected of committing a crime, and that, although he was innocent, the case appeared absolutely conclusive against him, and that he saw no chance whatever of his being cleared, save by the confession of the person who had committed the offence."

"But why on earth didn't he say he was innocent?" Captain Bayley repeated, with something of his old irritation. "What possessed him to run away as if he were guilty without making one protest to us that he was innocent?"

"I cannot tell you, sir. As I said, I know nothing whatever of the circumstance; I do not even know the nature of the accusation against him. I only know, from my knowledge of his character, that he is a noble and generous young man, and that he never could have been guilty of any dishonourable action."

"Nobody would ever have thought he would," Captain Bayley said sharply, "unless he had as much as said so himself by running away when this ridiculous accusation was brought forward. I should as soon have doubted my own existence as supposed he had stolen a ten-pound note had he not run away instead of facing it like a man. Until he bolted without sending me a word of denial or explanation. I would have knocked any man down who had said he believed him guilty. The evidence had no more weight in my mind than the whistling of the wind; my doubts are of his own creation. Thank God they are at an end now that he has declared he is innocent. He has behaved like a fool, but there are so many fools about that there is nothing out of the way in that. Still it was one of the follies I should not have expected of Frank. That he should get into a foolish scrape from thoughtlessness, or high spirits, or devilry, or that sort of thing, I could imagine; but I am astonished that he should have committed an act of folly due to cowardice."

"I won't hear you, uncle, any more," Alice exclaimed; "I know that you don't mean anything you say, and that you are one of the happiest men in the world this evening; but of course Mr. Adams does not know you as we do, and does not understand that all this means that you are so relieved from the anxiety that you have felt for the last two years that you are obliged to give vent to your feelings somehow. Please, Mr. Adams, don't regard what my uncle says in the slightest, but tell us all about Frank. As to his going away, we know nothing about his motives, or why he went, or anything else, and I am quite sure he will be able to explain it when we see him; as to running away from cowardice, uncle knows as well as we do that the idea is simply ridiculous. So please go on, and if uncle interrupts we will go down to another sitting-room and he shall hear nothing about it."

Mr. Adams then told the story of his acquaintance with Frank; how, when all seemed dark, when he was lying prostrate with fever brought on by overexertion and insufficient food, Frank had come to his son and had insisted on helping him; how he had helped to nurse him, and how, finally, Frank and his companions had worked the claim and realised a fortune for him. He told how popular Frank was among his companions, how ready he was to do a kindly action to any one needing it, and finally repeated the conversation they had had together the last evening, and Frank's determination not to return to England until he had gained such a fortune that he could not be suspected of desiring to gain anything but his uncle's esteem when he presented himself before him and declared he was innocent.

"The young scamp," Captain Bayley growled, "thinking all the time of his own feelings and not of mine. It's nothing to him that I may be fretting myself into my grave in the belief of his guilt; nothing that I may be dead years and years before he comes home with this precious fortune he relies on making. Oh no! we are all to wait another twenty years in order that this jackanapes may not be suspected of being mercenary; three dozen at the triangles would do him a world of good, and if he were here I would——"

"You wouldn't do anything but shake his hand, and shout 'Frank, my boy, I am glad to see you back again,' so it's no use pretending that you would," Alice interrupted. "And now, Mr. Adams, it's past twelve, and I feel ashamed that we should have kept you so long; but I know you don't mind, and you have made us all very happy. You will come again in the morning, will you not? There is so much to ask about, and we have not yet even begun to tell you how deeply we are all obliged to you for your goodness in hurrying away from England directly you got home, and in spending weeks and weeks wandering about after us."

"I shall be glad to call again in the morning, Miss Hardy, but I shall start for England in the evening; I am anxious to be back now that my mission is fulfilled. My son is to be married in ten days' time, and he would like me to be present, although he said in his last letter that he quite agreed that the first thing of all was to find you and deliver the message, whether I got home or not. As I have several matters to arrange before his marriage, presents to get, or one thing or other, I shall go straight through."

"That is right," Captain Bayley said, "we will travel together, my dear sir; for of course we shall go straight back to England now. We have been dawdling about in this wretched country long enough. Besides, everything has to be arranged, and we have got to get to the bottom of this matter; so if you have no objection, we will travel home together. If the young people here want to dawdle about any longer they can do so; I dare say they can look after themselves, or if not, I can make an arrangement with some old lady or other to act as Alice's chaperon."

"You silly old man," Alice said, kissing him, "as if we were not just as anxious to get home and to get to the bottom of the thing as you are."

So the next afternoon the party started in the diligence which was to take them over the St. Gothard to Lucerne.

Alice had by this time heard, somewhat to the confusion of her ideas, that Frank was no longer the lad she had always depicted him, but a tall, powerful young man, rough and tanned by exposure, and a fair match in strength for the wildest character in the mining camp.

By the time they reached London Mr. Adams and Captain Bayley had become fast friends, and the first thing the next morning, Captain Bayley drove with Alice to Bond Street and purchased the handsomest gold watch and chain he could find as a wedding-present for young Adams, and a bracelet as handsome for Alice to send to the bride; then he sent Alice home in the carriage and proceeded to his lawyer's. He returned home in the worst of tempers. Mr. Griffith had refused to admit that the receipt of Frank's message had in any way changed the position.

"I understood all along, Captain Bayley, that your nephew, when accused by his master, had denied the theft; the mere fact that he now, three years later, repeats the denial to you, does not, so far as I can see, alter the situation in the slightest. He says that he's not in a position to disprove any of the circumstances alleged against him. Of course you are at liberty to believe him now, just as you believed him at first, and as, on mature consideration, you disbelieved him afterwards; but that is a matter quite of individual opinion. You have announced to Mr. Barkley that you intend to leave him a third of your fortune, and it would be in the highest degree unjust to make any alteration now, without a shadow of reason for doing so. Personally, no doubt, it is a satisfaction to you to have recovered your belief in Frank's innocence, but that ought not to interfere in any way with the arrangements that you have made. My own belief is, as I have told you, that, pressed for money, and afraid of expulsion were his escapade of going out at night discovered, Frank yielded to a momentary temptation—a grievous fault, but not an irreparable one—one, at any rate, for which he has been severely punished, and for which he may well be forgiven. So far I am thoroughly with you, but I cannot and will not follow you in what I consider your absolutely unfounded idea that he is innocent, and that his cousin—against whom there is not a vestige of evidence, while the proof the other way is overwhelming—is the real offender."

Whereupon Captain Bayley had returned home in a state of fury.

"But, after all, uncle," Alice said, after listening for some time to his outburst against lawyers in general, and Mr. Griffith in particular, "it really is reasonable what Mr. Griffith says. You and I and Harry, who know Frank so well, are quite sure that he is innocent; but other people who don't know him in the same way might naturally take the other view, for, as Mr. Griffith says, the proofs were strong against him, and there was nothing whatever to connect Fred Barkley with the crime. I have been talking it over with Harry since I came back, and he agrees with me that we must, as you say, get to the bottom of the whole affair before we go any further.

"Well, isn't that what we have been trying to do all along?" Captain Bayley exclaimed angrily. "How are we to get to the bottom of it? If you will tell me that I will grant that you have more sense in your head than I have ever given you credit for."

"My idea, grandfather, is this," Harry said. "We have not yet heard Frank's side of the story. I am convinced that if we heard that we should get some new light upon it; and my proposal is that you and I shall at once start for California and see Frank, and hear all about it. It seems to me that he has been silent because he has some mistaken idea that you believe in his guilt, and when you assure him that you have an absolute faith in his innocence, he will go into the whole matter, and in that case we shall probably find some clue which we can follow up and get at the truth."

"The very thing, Harry," the Captain exclaimed impetuously, "we will start by the first ship, you and I, and find this troublesome young rascal, and have it out with him."

"And I shall go too, of course, uncle," Alice Hardy exclaimed; "I am not going to be left behind by myself."

"Impossible, Alice! you don't know what the country is. You could not go wandering about up in the mountains, looking for him through all sorts of mining camps, with no decent place for a woman to sleep."

"No, uncle; but I could stay at San Francisco till you came back with him; there must be some sort of people there you could leave me with. I am sure you would not be so unkind as to leave me in England in a state of anxiety all these months. You know I enjoy the sea, and you will want somebody to look after you during the voyage, and to see that you don't get into scrapes with that dreadful temper of yours. Besides, you must have some one to scold; you could not get on without it, and you don't scold Harry half so vigorously as you do me."

And so at last it was settled, and a week later Captain Bayley, his grandson, and Alice Hardy, sailed for Panama.

CHAPTER XXI. HAPPY MEETINGS.

FRANK was in splendid health, and his bones set rapidly. A fortnight after the encounter with the brigands he rode down to the camp on the Yuba with his arm in a sling. His attack single-handed upon the four stage-robbers had rendered him quite a noted character, and he was warmly greeted upon his arrival. As soon as he had got to the wooden shanty dignified by the name of the "hotel," a deputation waited upon him.

"We have come," the leader of the party said, "to congratulate you in the name of the hull of this mining camp on having pretty well cleared out that gang of stage-robbers. The safety of the roads air a matter of great importance to this camp, as well as to all the other camps in the State, seeing that we air obliged to pay a heavy rate of insurance on our gold being carried down, and have the risk of losing it all if we takes it down ourselves; therefore it air the opinion of this community that you have done them a considerable sarvice, and we are obliged to you."

The four members of the deputation then shook Frank solemnly by the hand.

"I can only say I am much obliged to you," Frank said, "and I only regret that one of the four got off safe. However, they had a lesson, and I hope the roads will be safer in future."

"Now," the spokesman of the deputation said, "let's liquor."

Five glasses were poured out by the bar-tender, and drunk off solemnly; this was considered to bring the ceremony to a close.

In the evening Frank was sitting around a fire with some of his acquaintances, when two persons were seen approaching.

"Can you tell me," one of them said, when he got up to the group, "whether Frank Norris is in the camp, and if so, where I can find him?"

Frank sprang to his feet with a cry of astonishment.

"Uncle," he exclaimed, "is it you, or am I dreaming?"

"My dear boy," Captain Bayley exclaimed, as he grasped Frank's hand, "thank God we have found you! We have been advertising and looking for you ever since you left, nearly three years ago."

For a minute or two they stood grasping each other's hand, their feelings being too full for further speech.

"Sit you down right here, Norris," one of the miners said, rising, "no doubt you will like a talk together, and we will leave you to yourselves."

The other miners rose, and with the real courtesy and kindness which lurked under the rough nature of the diggers, all left the spot. Captain Bayley was the first to speak.

"But here is some one else wants to shake your hand, Frank, an old friend too."

The fire was not burning very brightly, and although Frank seemed to know the young fellow who stood leaning lightly on two sticks, he could not recall where he had seen him before.

"Don't you remember me, Frank," he said, "the lad whom you took so much trouble with over his Homer."

"Harry Holl," Frank said in astonishment.

"It was as Harry Holl that you knew him, but we have since found out that he is my grandson, the son of my daughter Ella," Captain Bayley explained.

"Then you are my cousin," Frank said, advancing and shaking Harry's hand; "but how on earth have you and uncle come out here?"

"Let us sit down by the fire, Frank, for the evening is chilly, and then I will tell you all about it. But first, how about that enormous brute of a dog, who doesn't seem to have made up his mind whether the proper thing is not to devour us at once."

"Come, Turk, good dog, these are friends of mine."

Finding that the intentions of the new-comers were amicable, of which at first he had entertained some doubts, Turk threw himself down by the side of his master.

"First of all, uncle," Frank said, as he sat down, "has that affair been cleared up?"

"Well, not exactly cleared up, Frank, but we have our suspicions. Harry and I never for a moment thought it was you—that is not till you ran away instead of facing it out. I don't want to scold you now, but that was a foolish business."

"Then if you thought me innocent, uncle, why did you not answer my letter? I should never have dreamt of running away if I had not been heart-broken at the thought that you believed me guilty."

"Letter!" Captain Bayley repeated in astonishment, "what letter? That was just the thing, if you had written me only one line to say you were innocent I should never have doubted you for a moment, and even your running away would have made no difference to me."

"But I did write, uncle; I wrote to you the very first thing, telling you that I was innocent, although appearances were all against me, and saying that I could bear anything if I knew that you believed in me, and I begged you to send me just one line by hand. I waited all day for the answer, and all the evening, and when night came and no letter I felt that you believed me guilty; I became desperate, and when Fred advised me to bolt, and offered me the money to take me away, I thought I might as well go at once as go after the disgrace of being publicly expelled before the whole school."

"But I never got the letter," Captain Bayley said, "never got a line from you, and it was that which shook my faith."

"I gave the letter to Fred Barkley to post, half an hour after I came down from school, that is before eleven o'clock, and he told me he posted it at once."

"I am afraid," Captain Bayley said sternly, "that Fred Barkley is a vile young scoundrel; we have had our suspicions of him, Harry and I, and this seems to confirm them. I believe that villain is at the bottom of the whole affair. Have you ever suspected him, Frank?"

"Such an idea has flitted across my mind, uncle, but I have never allowed it to rest there; it was too shocking to believe."

"I am afraid it must be believed," Captain Bayley said. "It was Harry who first pointed it out to me that, looking at the whole case, the matter really lay between him and you, and that it was just as probable that he took the note and sent it to you as that you should have taken it and sent it to yourself. Harry urged indeed that Fred had far greater motives for doing so than you; for whereas you had only to get out of a stupid scrape, he would be playing for the money which I was to leave, which was a heavy stake. On the other hand, he admitted that the crime of stealing the note for the purpose of ruining you would be infinitely greater than the taking of money in your case.

"I have nearly worried myself into a lunatic asylum over the matter. I have been away from England for upwards of a year—partly for the sake of Harry here, who has got rid of his box long ago, and now gets along very fairly on sticks, partly to avoid seeing Fred, for as long as this thing was unsettled, it was impossible that I could give him my hand.

"My heart has all along been with you, my boy, for you know I loved you as a son; but your silence and your running away were ugly weights in the scale against you. Now that I find that that villain suppressed your letter—for he must have done so, else I should have got it—and that it was he who urged you to fly to get you out of the way, I have no longer a shadow of doubt in my mind. I must tell you that Harry here never doubted you from the first; and as for Alice, she became a veritable little fury when the possibility of your guilt was suggested. We have had some rare battles and rows over that and her absolute refusal to speak to Fred, whom from the first she insisted was at the bottom of it, though how she arrived at that conclusion, except by instinct, is more than I can tell. Her joy when Harry here was found, and of course took the position I had intended for you, and her delight in Fred's discomfiture, were, as I told her several times, absolutely indecent. Not that she minded a farthing; she is the most insubordinate young person I ever came across. You will hardly know her again, Frank, she is growing fast into a young woman, and a very pretty one too."

"But how did you find me, uncle? Was it from Mr. Adams that you heard where I was?"

"Well, Frank, we advertised for you, for over two years, in the American and Colonial papers, and at last began almost to despair.

"About two months ago, when we were in Milan—for we have been wandering about Europe for the last eight or nine months—your friend Adams found us out; the good fellow had been hunting for us for two months."

"Ah! that explains why I have not heard from him," Frank interrupted. "I have been looking for a letter for the last two months, and had begun to conclude that as he had nothing pleasant to tell me he had not written, and that I should never hear now."

"Then you thought like a young fool," Captain Bayley said angrily. "Well, as soon as Adams had given your message to Alice—and why you should have supposed that Alice should have believed in your innocence any more than me, except that women never will believe what they don't want to believe, I don't know—well, of course, she told us about it at once, and we came back to England and talked it over, and settled that the best thing was for us all to come out and see you."

"All!" Frank repeated in surprise.

"Yes, all; the headstrong young woman would not be left behind, and she is at Sacramento now, that is if she hasn't been shot by some of these red-shirted miners, or come to her end some other way. We stayed two days at San Francisco. I have wandered about a good deal, but I thought before I saw Sacramento and these places, that city was the residence of the roughest and most dangerous set of rascals I ever met.

"We travelled by coach across the plains, and on going to the bank at Sacramento found that you had been just shooting some highwaymen, and had got your arm broken by a bullet. So we put Alice in charge of the landlady of the hotel, and dared her to stir out of the room till we got back; we came on to the place where they said you were stopping, but found that you had come on here this morning. So we took our places in the coach again, and here we are; and the sooner we get away from here the better, so I hope you will be ready to start early in the morning."

"But, my dear uncle," Frank began.

"Don't give me any of your buts, sir," Captain Bayley said peremptorily. "You have been hiding too long, now you must go back and take your place again."

"But I can't clear myself of this affair."

"Don't tell me, sir," the old officer said angrily "you have cleared yourself to me, and I will take good care that the truth is known. As for that rascal Fred, I deserve all the trouble that I have gone through for being such an old fool as to let him take me in. I want to get back as quickly as possible to make my will again. Ever since Harry put the idea into my mind I have been fretting about the one I had made leaving Fred a third of my property. I thought if anything happened to me before the matter was cleared up, and I found out in the next world—where I suppose people know everything—that I had been wrong, I should have been obliged to have asked for a furlough to come back again to set it straight. Alice will be fidgeting her life out, and we must set out at once; so let us have no more nonsense about delay."

Frank offered no further resistance, and agreed to start on the following morning.

"You look more like yourself now, Frank," his uncle said, "for, except by the tones of your voice, I should hardly have known you. You must have grown ten inches bigger round the shoulders than you were, and have grown into a very big man. You don't look so big here, where there are so many burly miners about, but when you get back to London people will quite stare at you. Your face at present is tanned almost black, and that beard, which I suppose is the result of exposure, makes you look half a dozen years older than you really are. I hope you will shave it off at once, and look like a civilised English gentleman."

"I suppose I must do so," Frank said, rather ruefully, "for one never sees a beard in London, except on a foreigner. I suppose some day men will be sensible and wear them."

They sat talking until late in the night, Frank hearing all particulars of the discovery of Harry's relationship to Captain Bayley, and the news of all that had taken place since he had left England. He arranged for sleeping accommodation for them for the night in the hut of the storekeeper for whom he brought up provisions, judging that this was more comfortable and quiet for them than in the crowded and noisy plank edifice called the hotel. The next morning they started by the coach for Sacramento, Frank ordering the muleteers to follow with the animals at once. It was a twenty-four hours' drive; but it did not seem a long one to any of them, for Frank had so much to tell about his doings and adventures from the day when he last saw them, that there was scarce a pause in their talk, until at night Captain Bayley and Harry dozed in their corner of the coach, while Frank got outside and sat and smoked by the driver, being altogether too excited by the sudden arrival of his uncle, and the change in all his plans, to feel inclined for sleep. It was ten o'clock in the morning when they drove into Sacramento.

"I think, uncle, I will just go round to my house, for I keep one regularly here, and put on the garb of civilisation. Alice would not recognise me in this red shirt and high boots."

"Stuff and nonsense!" Captain Bayley said. "You had a wash-up when we breakfasted, and what do you want more? There, go up and see the girl at once, Harry and I will join you in a minute or two; according to my experience, these sort of meetings are always better without the presence of a third party," and the old officer winked at his grandson as Frank sprang up the stairs after the waiter whom Captain Bayley directed to show him to Miss Hardy's sitting-room.

Although Captain Bayley had told him that Alice had become a young woman, Frank had not realised the change that three years had produced in her. He had left her a laughing girl—a dear little girl, Frank had always thought—but scarcely pretty, and he stood for a moment in astonishment at the tall and very beautiful young woman of eighteen who stood before him. Alice was no less astonished, and for a moment could scarcely credit that this broad muscular man was her old playfellow, Frank. The pause was but momentary on both parties, and with a cry of joy and welcome the girl ran into his arms as frankly and naturally as she had done as a child.

"There, that's enough, Frank," she said presently. "You mustn't do that any more, you know, because I am grown up, and you know we are not really even cousins."

"Cousins or not, Alice," Frank said, laughing, "I have kissed you from the time you were a child, and if you suppose I am going to give it up now, when there is a real pleasure in kissing you, you are mistaken, I can tell you."

"We shall see about that, sir," the girl said; "we are in California now, among wild people, but when we get back to England we must behave like civilised beings. But, O Frank, what a monster of a dog! Is he savage? He looks as if he were going to fly at me."

For Turk, to whom greetings of this sort were entirely new, was standing at the door, his bristles half-raised, doubtful whether Alice was to be treated as a friend or foe.

"Come here, Turk. He is the best of dogs, Alice, though it is well not to put him out, for he has killed two men, one in defence of our money, the other of myself; but he is the dearest of dogs, and I will tell you some day how I found him. Come here, Turk, and give your hand to this lady, she is a very great friend of your master."

Turk gravely approached and offered his paw, which Alice took cautiously, Frank's report of his doings being by no means encouraging. Turk, satisfied now that there was no occasion for his interference, threw himself down at full length upon the hearthrug, and Alice turned to Frank.

"I am so glad you are coming home again."

"And I am glad to be coming home again," Frank said, "or rather I shall be when this matter is quite cleared up."

"I should not bother any more about it," Alice said decidedly. "Uncle Harry and I are all quite, quite sure that you had nothing to do with that horrible business, and that ought to be quite enough for you."

"It isn't quite enough, Alice," he said, "although it is a very great deal; but we need not talk about that now. Oh, here is uncle."

In the course of the day Alice heard of the new light which had been thrown on the matter by the discovery that Frank had written to protest his innocence, which letter had never come to hand, and that it was Fred who had urged Frank to fly and had supplied him with money to do so.

"I always knew he was at the bottom of it," Alice said decidedly. "I always said it was Fred. But I hope, Frank, you or uncle don't mean to take any steps to get him into trouble. I hate him, you know, and always have; still, I think he will be punished enough with the loss of the money he so wickedly tried to gain."

"I think so too, Alice; he has behaved like a scoundrel of the worst kind, but, for my part, I am quite content to leave him alone. Still, we must if possible prove that I was innocent."

"But we all know you are innocent, Frank. Uncle never would have doubted it if it had not been for the stories Fred told."

"Yes, Alice; but all the fellows at Westminster were told I was guilty. I shall be constantly meeting them in the world, and all my life this blot will hang to me if it is not set straight. When we get home I shall go back to the School and see if I cannot hit on some clue or other. Of course if Fred would confess it would be all right, but, after all, we have not a shadow of real proof against him. We have only our suspicion, and the fact that the letter did not come to hand; and if he faces it out, and declares he posted it all right, who is to gainsay him? Letters have gone wrong before now. I must clear myself if I can, but I promise you that I will not bring public disgrace upon him if it can possibly be avoided."

"He ought to be publicly disgraced," Captain Bayley roared, "the mean scoundrel, with his quiet voice and his treacherous lies. Not disgrace him? I would tie him up to a post in St. Paul's Churchyard, and hire a bellman to stand on a chair beside him and tell the story of what he has done every half-hour. Why, sir, he would have taken in St. Dunstan with his pretended hesitation to say anything to your disadvantage, and the affectation of pain with which he hinted that you had confessed your guilt to him. The scoundrel, the rascal, the hypocrite! When I think what his work has done, that you were disgraced at school, and sent wandering for three years—not that that has done you any harm, rather the contrary—to think that Alice has been wretched, and I have been on thorns and out of temper with myself and every one else for the same time, that for the last year we have been wandering about Europe like three sentimental travellers, wasting our lives, spending our money, and making fools of ourselves, I tell you, sir, if I was sitting as president of a court-martial on him, I would give him five hundred lashes, and then order him to be drummed out of the regiment."

Frank was about to speak, but Alice shook her head to him behind her uncle's back; she knew that his bark was much worse than his bite, and that, while contradiction would only render him obstinate, he would, if left alone, cool down long before the time for action arrived, and could then be coaxed into any course they might all agree upon.

The next morning the party started for San Francisco. Frank had already found a purchaser for his team of mules at a good price, had wound up all his affairs, and obtained an order from the bank on their agents in England for the amount standing to his credit, which came to seven thousand five hundred and sixty pounds.

His uncle was astounded when he heard how much Frank had earned in less than two years' work. "I shall look at these red-shirted ruffians with more respect in future, Frank; for, for aught I know, they may have tens of thousands standing to their credit at the bank."

"My luck has been exceptional, sir," Frank said. "I might dig for another fifty years without making so much. Of course, there are people who have made a good deal more in the same time, but then there are thousands who are no richer than when they began. We had done little more than keep ourselves when we went to work on Adams's claim. We had nearly four hundred apiece from him, besides what we made for our labour, for the horses pretty well kept us; then from the claim six hundred apiece. We had four thousand each out of the rich strike we made at the head of the gulch; the bank gave me two thousand more; the odd money represents the receipts of the rest of my digging and of my earnings with the mule team."

They started for Europe by the first steamer which left San Francisco for Panama, and reached home without adventure. The next morning Captain Bayley took Frank to Mr. Griffith, and told him the story as he had learned it from Frank.

"There, Griffith," he said triumphantly, when he had finished, "if you are not ready to admit that you are the most obstinate, pig-headed fellow that ever lived, I give you up altogether."

"I was wrong, I am glad to see," the lawyer said, smiling, "but I cannot admit that I was wrong as far as the evidence that was before me went; but certainly with the light our young friend has thrown upon the matter I cannot doubt that the view you took was the correct one. Still, remember there is still no actual proof such as a court of justice would go upon. Morally we may be convinced, but unless you obtain further evidence I do not think you are in a position openly to charge Fred Barkley with stealing that ten-pound note, nor do I see how you are to set about getting such evidence."

"We are going to try, anyhow," Captain Bayley said. "Frank and I are going down to Westminster to-morrow to open the investigation again, and with what we know now it is hard if we don't manage to get something."

CHAPTER XXII. CLEARED AT LAST.

THE following day, after lunch, Captain Bayley and Frank drove round to Westminster. Football was going on in Dean's Yard, and Frank recognised among the players many faces that he knew. It seemed strange to him to think that while he had gone through so much, and had grown from a boy into a man, that they had changed so little, and had been working away regularly at the old round of Euripides and Homer, Terence and Virgil. The carriage stopped at the entrance to Dean's Yard, and, alighting, they walked across to Mr. Richards'.

Captain Bayley had written a line to the master, asking him if possible to remain at home, as he wished particularly to see him, and he and Frank were ushered straight into the master's study. He shook hands with Captain Bayley, whose acquaintance he had made while Frank had boarded with him, and then looked at Frank; for a minute he did not recognise him, then he exclaimed in surprise, "Frank Norris!"

"Yes, it's I, sir," Frank said; "I don't ask you to take my hand, for you believe me guilty of the crime of which I was accused here. I can only say now, as I said then, that I am innocent. I know now that I was a fool to run away instead of facing it out, but I was desperate, because every one thought me guilty."

"Your schoolfellows did not, Norris," Mr. Richards said. "I don't think that I did, even at first; a few hours afterwards I almost knew you were innocent, and had you not run away I could have gone far to prove it."

Frank gave an exclamation of joy, and Captain Bayley exclaimed indignantly—

"Then why did you not prove it, sir? Why did you allow my nephew to remain with the foul disgrace on his name?"

"I did not act without consideration," Mr. Richards said calmly. "Norris had gone, and I resolved if he returned again to say what I had learned; but my proofs were not absolute. We had made, it seemed to me, a terrible mistake, and I did not wish to cause ruin to another boy unless it was absolutely necessary to do so to clear Norris. Now that he has returned I can no longer hesitate; but before I begin I must ask you both whether your suspicions have fallen on any one else?"

"It is not suspicion, sir, it is certainty," Captain Bayley said; "we have no doubt whatever that the whole thing was the work of Frank's rascally cousin, Fred Barkley. He was, you know, a sort of rival of Frank for my favour, and he had reason to believe that I had determined that Frank should inherit the larger portion of my property; thus he had a motive for bringing disgrace on him. It was just as probable that he should have stolen the money and sent it to Frank as that Frank should have stolen it himself; so far it seemed to me that it might lie between either of them.

"What has settled the case in my mind is that I have learned that Fred was intrusted with a letter by Frank to me, declaring his innocence, which, as you know, I never doubted until Frank left without writing to me. That letter I never received, and I believe that it was suppressed. In the second place it was Fred who persuaded his cousin to take that ruinous step of running away, and pressed upon him money to enable him to do so, although he had refused to lend him a halfpenny when Frank required it to pay that broken-nosed tailor to hold his tongue."

"Very well," Mr. Richards said, "then I can speak freely; my silence was caused to some considerable extent by regard for your feelings. You had lost one nephew, who had gone away with a cloud of disgrace surrounding him—for aught I could tell, Norris, in his despair, might have committed suicide, or he might have so cut himself off from you that you might never have heard from him again—thus, then, I felt that it would be cruel indeed to prove that your other nephew was a villain, unless by so doing I could restore Norris to you. So, after much thought and deliberation, I determined to hold my tongue until I heard that Norris had either returned or had been heard of.

"On the morning when it was discovered that Frank had fled, I called up one by one the whole of the boys in the house. Even after his flight I could not believe that Norris had done this thing, it was so absolutely contrary to all that I knew of his disposition, and I determined to sift the matter to the bottom. From the elder boys I learned nothing, although I questioned them most closely as to everything that had taken place in the house during the past week. I was not disappointed, for I had hardly expected to learn much from them.

"It was from the four boys who were the fags of the four who had been in Frank's secret that I hoped to learn something, and I was not mistaken. From the three in the house I learned nothing; but when I came to Pearson, who was Barkley's junior and fag, I met with even more success than I had expected. At first, of course, the boy did not like to say anything; but I told him that unless he answered my questions freely I should have him up before Doctor Litter, and he then told me all he knew about it.

"The more willingly, for, like most other boys in the School, he was fond of Norris, while Barkley was by no means a kind master. He said that twice Barkley had got into a rage with him about things which didn't seem of any importance. The first occasion was a week previous. He had gone into Barkley's study to ask him to explain some difficulty in his Cæsar; the door was not fastened, and as he had been working with his shoes off, Barkley did not hear him till he was close to the table. The boy noticed that he had a sheet of writing-paper before him, on which he was writing, not in his usual hand, but in printed characters. He would have thought nothing of it had not Barkley, on looking up and seeing him standing there, jumped up in a sudden rage and boxed his ears furiously, calling him a prying little sneak. The boy could not fix this to a day, but it was certainly just about the time when this letter was posted to you.

"The other affair had happened the day previously. He had gone into Barkley's room with his books on coming down from school at twelve o'clock, and seeing on his table a letter stamped and ready for the post, he supposed that as usual he was to post it, and was running downstairs with it in his hand when he met Barkley coming up. 'What have you got there?' he asked. 'I am taking your letter to the post,' he said; whereupon Barkley flew into another rage, called him an officious little beast, gave him a box in the ear, and took the letter from him. I asked the boy if he noticed to whom the letter was directed. He said he had, and that it was to you. Knowing nothing about the suppression of a letter of Norris's, and thinking that perhaps Barkley had written to his uncle about the matter, and had then changed his mind about posting it, this second affair did not strike me as having any importance whatever. The first matter, however, seemed important, for that just at the time when a letter was sent to Norris written in printing characters Barkley should have been seen writing a letter of that sort, struck me as most remarkable; and although I did not know exactly how the two lads stood in reference to yourself, it struck me at once that it was at least possible that we had been wrong, and that it was Barkley after all who took the note.

"Had I suspected for an instant that he had done it to bring disgrace upon his cousin, I should at once have communicated with Dr. Litter, and have probed the affair from the bottom; but I thought that he had taken the note with the intention of helping his cousin out of his difficulty, and that when the note was traced, and the matter became public, he had in a base and cowardly manner allowed Frank to bear the blame. This would have been bad enough in all conscience, although comparatively venial to his deliberate attempt to bring disgrace upon Norris.

"However, the matter seemed bad enough to me as it stood; but, as I said, I shrunk from causing the ruin of another young fellow unless it was necessary to clear Norris. I hesitated for a long time whether, knowing as much as I did, I ought not to take some steps in the matter; but for the reasons I have told you I determined to wait, hoping that you would soon have Norris back again, and knowing that I should hear of his return from some of the boys who were his special friends. Barkley must have seen from my manner that there was something wrong between him and me; but he never asked me the reason for the change in my manner to him, and completely ignored my coolness. It was a relief to me when the time came for his going up to the University, for I then felt that some of the responsibility was off my shoulders, and that I was no longer shirking my duty to expose him.

"That is all, Captain Bayley; but I think that this, with what you have told me, is quite sufficient to bring the guilt home to the true party, and to completely clear Norris."

"Quite sufficient," Captain Bayley said, "and I am thankful indeed that you obtained the one missing link of evidence necessary to prove Frank's innocence. I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Richards, for the kind and thoughtful manner in which you acted, which was indeed in every way for the best; for had I at the time been made aware that Fred was the culprit, I should have gone half out of my mind at the injustice we had done Frank, and at not knowing where to find him or how to communicate with him. And now what is to be done next? I do not want this unhappy lad to be punished, but at the same time it is absolutely necessary that Frank's innocence shall be publicly proclaimed. Fred will no doubt brazen it out."

There was silence for a minute or two, and then Mr. Richards said.

"If you like, Captain Bayley, I will take the matter in hand. I will write to Barkley and tell him that Norris has now come home, and that I must therefore take up the matter at the point at which I dropped it. I will recapitulate to him the reasons that there are for supposing that he stole the money,—first, his interest in Frank's disgrace; secondly, the fact that he was seen writing a letter in printed characters on the day on which the note was sent to Norris; thirdly, his suppression of the letter to yourself; fourthly, the part he took in persuading Norris to run away; lastly, the hints which you say he gave you that Norris had confessed his guilt.

"I shall tell him I have had this interview with you; that you are thoroughly convinced of his guilt and of Norris's innocence; and that while you are determined that Norris shall be vindicated, you are desirous that his act of treacherous villainy shall not be made public; if, then, he will write a confession, saying that he took it, this confession shall not be made public.

"I shall of course show it to the Doctor, and explain the whole circumstances to him, and ask him to make a public statement in school to the boys, to the effect that it has been found out that Norris was not guilty of the act of which two years ago he was charged, and that the real thief has been discovered, but that as he is no longer at school it is unnecessary now to mention his name, and that, moreover, he has been heavily punished for the crime—which indeed is the case—by his loss of your favour and of the fortune which he looked to obtain under your will.

"I shall tell Barkley that if he refuses to confess it will be necessary, in order to clear Norris, that the affair should be investigated in a Public Court, and that Dr. Litter will at once apply for a warrant for his apprehension on the charge of theft, and that the whole matter will then be gone into in a Police Court. I cannot doubt but that he will accept the first alternative, for the second will be ruin to him."

Captain Bayley cordially assented. Three days later Frank received a letter from Dr. Litter asking him to call upon him.

"I am truly sorry, Norris," the head-master said, as he entered, "for the injustice I did you; truly and heartily sorry. The affair caused me intense pain at the time; it has been on my mind ever since. Over and over again something has told me that you were innocent; and yet, thinking the case over again, my reason has always convinced me for the time of your guilt, for I could see no other possible solution of the mystery. I am glad indeed to find that I was mistaken, and that you were a victim of a piece of what I can only term villainy. The affair will be a lesson to me for my life, and henceforth I will never allow appearances, however apparently conclusive, to weigh against a uniformly excellent character. I trust that you will forgive my terrible error."

"I don't see that you could have acted otherwise, sir," Frank said, "for even at the time, although I knew that I was innocent, I perceived that the proofs against me were so overwhelmingly strong that my guilt must appear a certainty to every one. I am happy indeed that I am cleared at last; and, after all, it has done me no harm. I have, of course, lost the University education which I looked forward to; but I think, after all, that the three years I have spent in America have in many ways done me more good than the University could have done."

"Very likely, Norris," the doctor said; "they have in every sense of the word made a man of you, and a very fine man too, and I sincerely trust that no further cloud will ever fall upon your career. And now I want you to come up School with me, for I must publicly make amends for my error, and set you right before the School."

As Frank followed Dr. Litter into the great schoolroom he felt infinitely more nervous than he had done in any of the dangers he had passed through in his journey across the plains. When the head-master was seen to enter the School accompanied by a gentleman, a silence of surprise fell upon the boys, for such an event was altogether unprecedented there. As in the stranger, who stood nearly as tall and far broader than the doctor, many of the boys in the upper forms recognised Frank Norris, a buzz ran round the School, followed again by the silence of excited expectation. Dr. Litter walked to his table at the further end of the School and then turned.

"You will all stand up," he said. "Boys," he went on, "all of you in the Fifth Form, and those above it, and some of you in the under forms, will recognise in the gentleman who stands beside me your former schoolfellow Norris; those who do will be aware of the circumstances under which he left, and will be aware that I charged him with stealing a note of the value of ten pounds from my desk. I am happy to say that it has been proved that charge was entirely false."

A sudden burst of enthusiastic cheering broke from the upper forms. Norris's innocence had been a matter of faith among his schoolfellows, and even his running away had not sufficed to shake their trust in him. They stood upon the forms and cheered until they were hoarse. At last a wave of the doctor's hand restored silence, and he went on.

"I wish now, before you all, boys, to express my deep regret to Norris, and to apologise to him most heartily for the accusation which I made. I have now in my hand the confession of the real culprit. I shall not mention his name; he has long since ceased to be among you, and I may say that he has been punished severely, though to my mind most insufficiently, for his crime, and as Norris is desirous that the matter shall be dropped, the least I can do is to give in to his wishes. And now, as I think that after this you will scarcely do any useful work this afternoon, you may as well go down at once."

A fresh roar of cheering broke out, and then the boys who had been at school with Frank jumped from their forms and crowded round him, each striving to grasp his hand, and all shouting words of welcome and congratulation.

It was some time before Frank could reply to these greetings, so shaken was he by the scene. On emerging from the schoolroom his old house-mates urged him to go up to Richards', and the Sixth were invited to accompany him. Although contrary to the usual rules, an unlimited supply of shandy-gaff was sent for, and for an hour Frank sat and chatted with his old schoolfellows, and to their great admiration gave them an outline of his adventures on the Mississippi, his journey across the plains, and as a gold-digger in California; then with a glad heart, and a feeling that he was at last cleared of the cloud which had so long hung over him, Frank returned to Eaton Square.

His path in life never afterwards crossed that of his cousin. The latter, after passing through the University with credit, entered the Bar. Somehow he was not successful there. That he was clever all allowed, but a cloud seemed to hang over him. The tale of Frank's reinstallation had gone up from Westminster to the University; his old schoolfellows there had talked the matter over, and although nothing was known for certain, somehow the belief that Barkley was the culprit spread among them.

He had never been popular, and now his old schoolfellows gradually drew aloof from him. Nothing was ever openly said. The thing was talked of in whispers, but even whispers, sometimes, are heard; and during his last year at the University Fred Barkley stood alone among his fellows. The whispers found their echo in town, and Fred Barkley found that a cloud rested on him which all his efforts were unable to dissipate. After some years of useless attempts to make his way, he was glad to accept the offer of a petty judgeship in India, and there, ten years later, he died, stabbed to the heart by a Mahomedan dacoit whom he had sentenced to a term of imprisonment.

A year after his return from America Frank married Alice. Turk, for some time after his arrival in England, had steadily declined all advances which she made to him, perceiving clearly in his heart that she was a rival in his master's affection. He had at last, however, the good sense to accept the situation; but to the end of his life, which was a long one, he never accorded her more than toleration, keeping all the affection of his great heart for his master, although in his old years he took to his master's children, and endured patiently, if not cordially, the affection which they bestowed upon him.

Frank sits in Parliament at present, as member for the county in which the broad estates which came to him with his wife are situated. It was rather a disappointment to her that he did not distinguish himself greatly in Parliament, but he was fonder of the country life of an English gentleman than of the squabbles at Westminster. He can always be depended upon to vote with his party, and he occasionally makes vigorous and indignant attacks against any policy which he believes to be lowering the prestige and position of his country; but, except upon occasions when subjects of national interest are being discussed, he is seldom to be found in the house, and his wife is now well content with his reputation as one of the best masters of fox-hounds, one of the best landlords, and one of the most popular country gentlemen in England.

Captain Bayley died but ten years ago, at a great age, and his grandson, long since able to dispense with his crutches, is one of the most prominent members in the House of Commons. He could, had he chosen, have long since had a place in the Ministry, but he declined, as it would have taken too much of his time from the favourite subject which occupies the chief part of his thoughts and life, namely the effort to ameliorate the condition of the poorer classes in the great towns.

Evan Holl is a distinguished engineer. The business of John Holl, Dust Contractor, is still carried on under that name by the children of John and Sarah, who died within a few days of each other, some twenty years since, full of happiness and contentment.

Table of Contents

With Lee In Virginia

PREFACE.

CHAPTER I. A VIRGINIAN PLANTATION.

CHAPTER II. BUYING A SLAVE.

CHAPTER III. AIDING A RUNAWAY.

CHAPTER IV. SAFELY BACK.

CHAPTER V. SECESSION.

CHAPTER VI. BULL RUN.

CHAPTER VII. THE MERRIMAC AND THE MONITOR.

CHAPTER VIII. McCLELLAN'S ADVANCE.

CHAPTER IX. A PRISONER.

CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE.

CHAPTER XI. FUGITIVES.

CHAPTER XII. THE BUSHWHACKERS.

CHAPTER XIII. LAID UP.

CHAPTER XIV. ACROSS THE BORDER.

CHAPTER XV. FREDERICKSBURG.

CHAPTER XVI. THE SEARCH FOR DINAH.

CHAPTER XVII. CHANCELLORSVILLE.

CHAPTER XVIII. A PERILOUS UNDERTAKING.

CHAPTER XIX. FREE.

CHAPTER XX. THE END OF THE STRUGGLE.

With Lee in Virginia

PREFACE.

MY DEAR LADS:

The Great War between the Northern and Southern States of America possesses a peculiar interest for us, not only because it was a struggle between two sections of a people akin to us in race and language, but because of the heroic courage with which the weaker party, with ill-fed, ill-clad, ill-equipped regiments, for four years sustained the contest with an adversary not only possessed of immense numerical superiority, but having the command of the sea, and being able to draw its arms and munitions of war from all the manufactories of Europe. Authorities still differ as to the rights of the case. The Confederates firmly believed that the States having voluntarily united, retained the right of withdrawing from the Union when they considered it for their advantage to do so. The Northerners took the opposite point of view, and an appeal to arms became inevitable. During the first two years of the war the struggle was conducted without inflicting unnecessary hardship upon the general population. But later on the character of the war changed, and the Federal armies carried wide-spread destruction wherever they marched. Upon the other hand, the moment the struggle was over the conduct of the conquerors was marked by a clemency and generosity altogether unexampled in history, a complete amnesty being granted, and none, whether soldiers or civilians, being made to suffer for their share in the rebellion. The credit of this magnanimous conduct was to a great extent due to Generals Grant and Sherman, the former of whom took upon himself the responsibility of granting terms which, although they were finally ratified by his government, were at the time received with anger and indignation in the North. It was impossible, in the course of a single volume, to give even a sketch of the numerous and complicated operations of the war, and I have therefore confined myself to the central point of the great struggle—the attempts of the Northern armies to force their way to Richmond, the capital of Virginia and the heart of the Confederacy. Even in recounting the leading events in these campaigns, I have burdened my story with as few details as possible, it being my object now, as always, to amuse as well as to give instruction in the facts of history.

G. A. HENTY.

CHAPTER I. A VIRGINIAN PLANTATION.

"I won't have it, Pearson; so it's no use your talking. If I had my way you shouldn't touch any of the field hands. And when I get my way—that won't be so very long—I will take good care you sha'n't. But you sha'n't hit Dan."

"He is not one of the regular house hands," was the reply; "and I shall appeal to Mrs. Wingfield as to whether I am to be interfered with in the discharge of my duties."

"You may appeal to my mother if you like, but I don't think that you will get much by it. I tell you you are a deal too fond of that whip, Pearson. It never was heard of on the estate during my father's time, and it sha'n't be again when it comes to be mine, I can tell you. Come along, Dan; I want you at the stables."

So saying, Vincent Wingfield turned on his heel, and followed by Dan, a negro lad of some eighteen years old, he walked off toward the house, leaving Jonas Pearson, the overseer of the Orangery estate, looking after him with an evil expression of face.

Vincent Wingfield was the son of an English officer, who, making a tour in the States, had fallen in love with and won the hand of Winifred Cornish, a rich Virginian heiress, and one of the belles of Richmond. After the marriage he had taken her home to visit his family in England; but she had not been there many weeks before the news arrived of the sudden death of her father. A month later she and her husband returned to Virginia, as her presence was required there in reference to business matters connected with the estate, of which she was now the mistress.

The Orangery, so called from a large conservatory built by Mrs. Wingfield's grandfather, was the family seat, and the broad lands around it were tilled by upward of two hundred slaves. There were in addition three other properties lying in different parts of the State. Here Vincent, with two sisters, one older and one younger than himself, had been born. When he was eight years old Major and Mrs. Wingfield had gone over with their children to England, and had left Vincent there for four years at school, his holidays being spent at the house of his father's brother, a country gentleman in Sussex. Then he had been sent for unexpectedly; his father saying that his health was not good, and that he should like his son to be with him. A year later his father died.

Vincent was now nearly sixteen years old, and would upon coming of age assume the reins of power at the Orangery, of which his mother, however, would be the actual mistress as long as she lived. The four years Vincent had passed in the English school had done much to render the institution of slavery repugnant to him, and his father had had many serious talks with him during the last year of his life, and had shown him that there was a good deal to be said upon both sides of the subject.

"There are good plantations and bad plantations, Vincent; and there are many more good ones than bad ones. There are brutes to be found everywhere. There are bad masters in the Southern States just as there are bad landlords in every European country. But even from self-interest alone, a planter has greater reason for caring for the health and comfort of his slaves than an English farmer has in caring for the comfort of his laborers. Slaves are valuable property, and if they are overworked or badly cared for they decrease in value. Whereas if the laborer falls sick or is unable to do his work the farmer has simply to hire another hand. It is as much the interest of a planter to keep his slaves in good health and spirits as it is for a farmer to feed and attend to his horses properly.

"Of the two, I consider that the slave with a fairly kind master is to the full as happy as the ordinary English laborer. He certainly does not work so hard, if he is ill he is carefully attended to, he is well fed, he has no cares or anxieties whatever, and when old and past work he has no fear of the workhouse staring him in the face. At the same time I am quite ready to grant that there are horrible abuses possible under the laws connected with slavery.

"The selling of slaves, that is to say, the breaking up of families and selling them separately, is horrible and abominable. If an estate were sold together with all the slaves upon it, there would be no more hardship in the matter than there is when an estate changes hands in England, and the laborers upon it work for the new master instead of the old. Were I to liberate all the slaves on this estate to-morrow and to send them North, I do not think that they would be in any way benefited by the change. They would still have to work for their living as they do now, and being naturally indolent and shiftless would probably fare much worse. But against the selling of families separately and the use of the lash I set my face strongly.

"At the same time, my boy, whatever your sentiments may be on this subject, you must keep your mouth closed as to them. Owing to the attempts of Northern Abolitionists, who have come down here stirring up the slaves to discontent, it is not advisable, indeed it is absolutely dangerous, to speak against slavery in the Southern States. The institution is here, and we must make the best we can of it. People here are very sore at the foul slanders that have been published by Northern writers. There have been many atrocities perpetrated undoubtedly, by brutes who would have been brutes whenever they had been born; but to collect a series of such atrocities, to string them together into a story, and to hold them up, as Mrs. Beecher Stowe has, as a picture of slave-life in the Southern States, is as gross a libel as if any one were to make a collection of all the wife-beatings and assaults of drunken English ruffians, and to publish them as a picture of the average life of English people.

"Such libels as these have done more to embitter the two sections of America against each other than anything else. Therefore, Vincent, my advice to you is, be always kind to your slaves—not over-indulgent, because they are very like children and indulgence spoils them—but be at the same time firm and kind to them, and with other people avoid entering into any discussions or expressing any opinion with regard to slavery. You can do no good and you can do much harm. Take things as you find them and make the best of them. I trust that the time may come when slavery will be abolished; but I hope, for the sake of the slaves themselves, that when this is done it will be done gradually and thoughtfully, for otherwise it would inflict terrible hardship and suffering upon them as well as upon their masters."

There were many such conversations between father and son, for feeling on the subject ran very high in the Southern States, and the former felt that it was of the utmost importance to his son that he should avoid taking any strong line in the matter. Among the old families of Virginia there was indeed far less feeling on this subject than in some of the other States. Knowing the good feeling that almost universally existed between themselves and their slaves, the gentry of Virginia regarded with contempt the calumnies of which they were the subject. Secure in the affection of their slaves, an affection which was afterward abundantly proved during the course of the war, they scarcely saw the ugly side of the question. The worst masters were the smallest ones; the man who owned six slaves was far more apt to extort the utmost possible work from them than the planter who owned three or four hundred. And the worst masters of all were those who, having made a little money in trade or speculation in the towns, purchased a dozen slaves, a small piece of land, and tried to set up as gentry.

In Virginia the life of the large planters was almost a patriarchal one; the indoor slaves were treated with extreme indulgence, and were permitted a far higher degree of freedom of remark and familiarity than is the case with servants in an English household. They had been the nurses or companions of the owners when children, had grown up with them, and regarded themselves, and were regarded by them, as almost part of the family. There was, of course, less connection between the planters and their field hands; but these also had for the most part been born on the estate, had as children been taught to look up to their white masters and mistresses, and to receive many little kindnesses at their hands.

They had been cared for in sickness, and knew that they would be provided for in old age. Each had his little allotment, and could raise fruit, vegetables, and fowls for his own use or for sale in his leisure time. The fear of loss of employment or the pressure of want, ever present to English laborers, had never fallen upon them. The climate was a lovely one, and their work far less severe than that of men forced to toil in cold and wet, winter and summer. The institution of slavery assuredly was capable of terrible abuses, and was marked in many instances by abominable cruelty and oppression; but taken all in all, the negroes on a well-ordered estate, under kind masters, were probably a happier class of people than the laborers upon any estate in Europe.

Jonas Pearson had been overseer in the time of Major Wingfield, but his authority had at that time been comparatively small, for the major himself personally supervised the whole working of the estate, and was greatly liked by the slaves, whose chief affections were, however, naturally bestowed upon their mistress, who had from childhood been brought up in their midst. Major Wingfield had not liked his overseer, but he had never had any ground to justify him making a change. Jonas, who was a Northern man, was always active and energetic; all Major Wingfield's orders were strictly and punctually carried out, and although he disliked the man, his employer acknowledged him to be an excellent servant.

After the major's death, Jonas Pearson had naturally obtained greatly increased power and authority. Mrs. Wingfield had great confidence in him, his accounts were always clear and precise, and although the profits of the estate were not quite so large as they had been in her husband's lifetime, this was always satisfactorily explained by a fall in prices, or by a part of the crops being affected by the weather. She flattered herself that she herself managed the estate, and at times rode over it, made suggestions, and issued orders, but this was only in fits and starts; and although Jonas came up two or three times a week to the house nominally to receive her orders, he managed her so adroitly that while she believed that everything was done by her directions, she in reality only followed out the suggestions which, in the first place, came from him.

She was aware, however, that there was less content and happiness on the estate than there had been in the old times. Complaints had reached her from time to time of overwork and harsh treatment. But upon inquiring into these matters, Jonas had always such plausible reasons to give that she was convinced he was in the right, and that the fault was among the slaves themselves, who tried to take advantage of the fact that they had no longer a master's eye upon them, and accordingly tried to shirk work, and to throw discredit upon the man who looked after the interests of their mistress; and so gradually Mrs. Wingfield left the management of affairs more and more in the hands of Jonas, and relied more implicitly upon him.

The overseer spared no pains to gain the good-will of Vincent. When the latter declared that the horse he rode had not sufficient life and spirit for him, Jonas had set inquiries on foot, and had selected for him a horse which, for speed and bottom, had no superior in the State. One of Mrs. Wingfield's acquaintances, however, upon hearing that she had purchased the animal, told her that it was notorious for its vicious temper, and she spoke angrily to Jonas on the subject in the presence of Vincent. The overseer excused himself by saying that he had certainly heard that the horse was high spirited and needed a good rider, and that he should not have thought of selecting it had he not known that Mr. Vincent was a first-class rider, and would not care to have a horse that any child could manage.

The praise was not undeserved. The gentlemen of Virginia were celebrated as good riders; and Major Wingfield, himself a cavalry man, had been anxious that Vincent should maintain the credit of his English blood, and had placed him on a pony as soon as he was able to sit on one. A pony had been kept for his use during his holidays at his uncle's in England, and upon his return Vincent had, except during the hours he spent with his father, almost lived on horseback, either riding about the estate, or paying visits to the houses of other planters.

For an hour or more every day he exercised his father's horses in a paddock near the house, the major being wheeled down in an easy-chair and superintending his riding. As these horses had little to do and were full of spirit, Vincent's powers were often taxed to the utmost, and he had many falls; but the soil was light, and he had learned the knack of falling easily, and from constant practice was able at the age of fourteen to stick on firmly even without a saddle, and was absolutely fearless as to any animal he mounted.

In the two years which had followed he had kept up his riding. Every morning after breakfast he rode to Richmond, six miles distant, put up his horse at some stable there, and spent three hours at school; the rest of the day was his own, and he would often ride off with some of his schoolfellows who had also come in from a distance, and not return home till late in the evening. Vincent took after his English father rather than his Virginian mother both in appearance and character, and was likely to become as tall and brawny a man as the former had been when he first won the love of the rich Virginian heiress.

He was full of life and energy, and in this respect offered a strong contrast to most of his schoolfellows of the same age. For although splendid riders and keen sportsmen, the planters of Virginia were in other respects inclined to indolence; the result partly of the climate, partly of their being waited upon from childhood by attendants ready to carry out every wish. He had his father's cheerful disposition and good temper, together with the decisive manner so frequently acquired by a service in the army, and at the same time he had something of the warmth and enthusiasm of the Virginian character.

Good rider as he was he was somewhat surprised at the horse the overseer had selected for him. It was certainly a splendid animal, with great bone and power; but there was no mistaking the expression of its turned-back eye, and the ears that lay almost flat on the head when any one approached him.

"It is a splendid animal, no doubt, Jonas," he said the first time he inspected it; "but he certainly looks as if he had a beast of a temper. I fear what was told my mother about him is no exaggeration; for Mr. Markham told me to-day, when I rode down there with his son, and said that we had bought Wildfire, that a friend of his had had him once, and only kept him for a week, for he was the most vicious brute he ever saw."

"I am sorry I have bought him now, sir," Jonas said. "Of course I should not have done so if I had heard these things before; but I was told he was one of the finest horses in the country, only a little tricky, and as his price was so reasonable I thought it a great bargain. But I see now I was wrong, and that it wouldn't be right for you to mount him; so I think we had best send him in on Saturday to the market and let it go for what it will fetch. You see, sir, if you had been three or four years older it would have been different; but naturally at your age you don't like to ride such a horse as that."

"I sha'n't give it up without a trial," Vincent said shortly. "It is about the finest horse I ever saw; and if it hadn't been for its temper, it would be cheap at five times the sum you gave for it. I have ridden a good many bad-tempered horses for my friends during the last year, and the worst of them couldn't get me off."

"Well, sir, of course you will do as you please," Jonas said; "but please to remember if any harm comes of it that I strongly advised you not to have anything to do with it, and I did my best to dissuade you from trying."

Vincent nodded carelessly, and then turned to the black groom.

"Jake, get out that cavalry saddle of my father's, with the high cantle and pommel, and the rolls for the knees. It's like an armchair, and if one can't stick on on that, one deserves to be thrown."

While the groom was putting on the saddle, Vincent stood patting the horse's head and talking to it, and then taking its rein led it down into the inclosure.

"No, I don't want the whip," he said, as Jake offered him one. "I have got the spurs, and likely enough the horse's temper may have been spoiled by knocking it about with a whip; but we will try what kindness will do with it first."

"Me no like his look, Massa Vincent; he debbil ob a hoss dat."

"I don't think he has a nice temper, Jake; but people learn to control their temper, and I don't see why horses shouldn't. At any rate we will have a try at it. He looks as if he appreciates being patted and spoken to already. Of course if you treat a horse like a savage he will become savage. Now, stand out of the way."

Gathering the reins together, and placing one hand upon the pommel, Vincent sprang into the saddle without touching the stirrups; then he sat for a minute or two patting the horse's neck. Wildfire, apparently disgusted at having allowed himself to be mounted so suddenly, lashed out viciously two or three times, and then refused to move. For half an hour Vincent tried the effect of patient coaxing, but in vain.

"Well, if you won't do it by fair means you must by foul," Vincent said at last, and sharply pricked him with his spurs.

Wildfire sprang into the air, and then began a desperate series of efforts to rid himself of his rider, rearing and kicking in such quick succession that he seemed half the time in the air. Finding after awhile that his efforts were unavailing, he subsided at last into sulky immovability. Again Vincent tried coaxing and patting, but as no success attended these efforts, he again applied the spur sharply. This time the horse responded by springing forward like an arrow from a bow, dashed at the top of his speed across the inclosure, cleared the high fence without an effort, and then set off across the country.

He had attempted to take the bit in his teeth, but with a sharp jerk as he drove the spurs in, Vincent had defeated his intention. He now did not attempt to check or guide him, but keeping a light hand on the reins let him go his own course. Vincent knew that so long as the horse was going full speed it could attempt no trick to unseat him, and he therefore sat easily in his saddle.

For six miles Wildfire continued his course, clearing every obstacle without abatement to his speed, and delighting his rider with his power and jumping qualities. Occasionally, only when the course he was taking would have led him to obstacles impossible for the best jumper to surmount, Vincent attempted to put the slightest pressure upon one rein or the other, so as to direct it to an easier point.

At the end of six miles the horse's speed began slightly to abate, and Vincent, abstaining from the use of his spurs, pressed it with his knees and spoke to it cheerfully urging it forward. He now from time to time bent forward and patted it, and for another six miles kept it going at a speed almost as great as that at which it had started Then he allowed it gradually to slacken its pace, until at last first the gallop and then the trot ceased, and it broke into a walk.

"You have had a fine gallop, old fellow," Vincent said, patting it; "and so have I. There's been nothing for you to lose your temper about, and the next road we come upon we will turn our face homeward. Half a dozen lessons like this, and then no doubt we shall be good friends."

The journey home was performed at a walk, Vincent talking the greater part of the time to the horse. It took a good deal more than six lessons before Wildfire would start without a preliminary struggle with his master, but in the end kindness and patience conquered. Vincent often visited the horse in the stables, and, taking with him an apple or some pieces of sugar, spent some time there talking to and petting it. He never carried a whip, and never used the spurs except in forcing it to make its first start.

Had the horse been naturally ill-tempered Vincent would probably have failed, but, as he happened afterward to learn, its first owner had been a hot-tempered and passionate young planter, who, instead of being patient with it, had beat it about the head, and so rendered it restive and bad-tempered. Had Vincent not laid aside his whip before mounting it for the first time, he probably would never have effected a cure. It was the fact that the animal had no longer a fear of his old enemy the whip as much as the general course of kindness and good treatment that had effected the change in his behavior.

It was just when Vincent had established a good under standing between himself and Wildfire that he had the altercation with the overseer, whom he found about to flog the young negro Dan. Pearson had sent the lad half an hour before on a message to some slaves at work at the other end of the estate, and had found him sitting on the ground watching a tree in which he had discovered a possum. That Dan deserved punishment was undoubted. He had at present no regular employment upon the estate. Jake, his father, was head of the stables, and Dan had made himself useful in odd jobs about the horses, and expected to become one of the regular stable hands. The overseer was of opinion that there were already more negroes in the stable than could find employment, and had urged upon Mrs. Wingfield that one of the hands there and the boy Dan should be sent out to the fields. She, however, refused.

"I know you are quite right, Jonas, in what you say. But there were always four hands in the stable in my father's time, and there always have been up to now; and though I know they have an easy time of it, I certainly should not like to send any of them out to the fields. As to Dan, we will think about it. When his father was about his age he used to lead my pony when I first took to riding, and when there is a vacancy Dan must come into the stable. I could not think of sending him out as a field hand, in the first place for his father's sake, but still more for that of Vincent. Dan used to be told off to see that he did not get into mischief when he was a little boy, and he has run messages and been his special boy since he came back. Vincent wanted to have him as his regular house servant; but it would have broken old Sam's heart if, after being my father's boy and my husband's, another had taken his place as Vincent's."

And so Dan had remained in the stable, but regarding Vincent as his special master, carrying notes for him to his friends, or doing any odd jobs he might require, and spending no small portion of his time in sleep. Thus he was an object of special dislike to the overseer; in the first place because he had not succeeded in having his way with regard to him, and in the second because he was a useless hand, and the overseer loved to get as much work as possible out of every one on the estate. The message had been a somewhat important one, as he wanted the slaves for some work that was urgently required; and he lost his temper, or he would not have done an act which would certainly bring him into collision with Vincent.

He was well aware that the lad did not really like him, and that his efforts to gain his good-will had failed, and he had foreseen that sooner or later there would be a struggle for power between them. However, he relied upon his influence with Mrs. Wingfield, and upon the fact that she was the life-owner of the Orangery, and believed that he would be able to maintain his position even when Vincent came of age. Vincent on his side objected altogether to the overseer's treatment of the hands, of which he heard a good deal from Dan, and had already remonstrated with his mother on the subject. He, however, gained nothing by this. Mrs. Wingfield had replied that he was too young to interfere in such matters, that his English ideas would not do in Virginia, and that naturally the slaves were set against the overseer; and that now Pearson had no longer a master to support him, he was obliged to be more severe than before to enforce obedience. At the same time it vexed her at heart that there should be any severity on the Orangery estate, where the best relations had always prevailed between the masters and slaves, and she had herself spoken to Jonas on the subject.

He had given her the same answer that she had given her son: "The slaves will work for a master, Mrs. Wingfield, in a way they will not for a stranger. They set themselves against me, and if I were not severe with them I should get no work at all out of them. Of course, if you wish it, they can do as they like; but in that case they must have another overseer. I cannot see a fine estate going to ruin. I believe myself some of these Abolition fellows have been getting among them and doing them mischief, and that there is a bad spirit growing up among them. I can assure you that I am as lenient with them as is possible to be. But if they won't work I must make them, so long as I stay here."

And so the overseer had had his way. She knew that the man was a good servant, and that the estate was kept in excellent order. After all, the severities of which she had heard complaints were by no means excessive; and it was not to be expected that a Northern overseer could rule entirely by kindness, as the owner of an estate could do. A change would be most inconvenient to her, and she would have difficulty in suiting herself so well another time. Besides, the man had been with her sixteen years, and was, as she believed, devoted to her interests. Therefore she turned a deaf ear to Vincent's remonstrances.

She had always been somewhat opposed to his being left in England at school, urging that he would learn ideas there that would clash with those of the people among whom his life was to be spent; and she still considered that her views had been justified by the result.

The overseer was the first to give his version of the story about Dan's conduct; for on going to the house Vincent found his sisters, Rosa and Annie, in the garden, having just returned from a two days' visit to some friends in Richmond, and stayed chatting with them and listening to their news for an hour, and in the meantime Jonas had gone in and seen Mrs. Wingfield and told his story.

"I think, Mrs. Wingfield," he said when he had finished, "that it will be better for me to leave you. It is quite evident that I can have no authority over the hands if your son is to interfere when I am about to punish a slave for an act of gross disobedience and neglect. I found that all the tobacco required turning, and now it will not be done this afternoon owing to my orders not being carried out, and the tobacco will not improbably be injured in quality. My position is difficult enough as it is; but if the slaves see that instead of being supported I am thwarted by your son, my authority is gone altogether. No overseer can carry on his work properly under such circumstances."

"I will see to the matter, Jonas," Mrs. Wingfield said decidedly. "Be assured that you have my entire support, and I will see that my son does not again interfere."

When, therefore, Vincent entered the house and began his complaint he found himself cut short.

"I have heard the story already, Vincent. Dan acted in gross disobedience, and thoroughly deserved the punishment Jonas was about to give him. The work of the estate cannot be carried on if such conduct is to be tolerated; and once for all, I will permit no interference on your part with Jonas. If you have any complaints to make, come to me and make them; but you are not yourself to interfere in any way with the overseer. As for Dan, I have directed Jonas that the next time he gives cause for complaint he is to go into the fields."

Vincent stood silent for a minute, then he said quietly:

"Very well, mother. Of course you can do as you like; but at any rate I will not keep my mouth shut when I see that fellow ill-treating the slaves. Such things were never done in my father's time, and I won't see them done now. You said the other day you would get me a nomination to West Point as soon as I was sixteen. I should be glad if you would do so. By the time I have gone through the school, you will perhaps see that I have been right about Jonas."

So saying, he turned and left the room and again joined his sisters in the drawing-room.

"I have just told mother that I will go to West Point, girls," he said. "Father said more than once that he thought it was the best education I could get in America."

"But I thought you had made up your mind that you would rather stop at home, Vincent?"

"So I had, and so I would have done, but mother and I differ in opinion. That fellow Jonas was going to flog Dan, and I stopped him this morning, and mother takes his part against me. You know, I don't like the way he goes on with the slaves. They are not half so merry and happy as they used to be, and I don't like it. We shall have one of them running away next, and that will be a nice thing on what used to be considered one of the happiest plantations in Virginia. I can't make mother out; I should have thought that she would have been the last person in the world to have allowed the slaves to be harshly treated."

"I am sure we don't like Jonas more than you do, Vincent; but you see mamma has to depend upon him so much. No, I don't think she can like it; but you can't have everything you like in a man, and I know she thinks he is a very good overseer. I suppose she could get another?"

Vincent said he thought that there could not be much difficulty about getting an overseer.

"There might be a difficulty in getting one she could rely on so thoroughly," Rosa said. "You see a great deal must be left to him. Jonas has been here a good many years now, and she has learned to trust him. It would be a long time before she had the same confidence in a stranger; and you may be sure that he would have his faults, though, perhaps, not the same as those of Jonas. I think you don't make allowance enough for mamma, Vincent. I quite agree with you as to Jonas, and I don't think mamma can like his harshness to the slaves any more than you do; but every one says what a difficulty it is to get a really trustworthy and capable overseer, and, of course, it is all the harder when there is no master to look after him."

"Well, in a few years I shall be able to look after an overseer,"

Vincent said.

"You might do so, of course, Vincent, if you liked; but unless you change a good deal, I don't think your supervision would amount to much. When you are not at school you are always on horseback and away, and we see little enough of you, and I do not think you are likely for a long time yet to give up most of your time to looking after the estate."

"Perhaps you are right," Vincent said, after thinking for a minute; "but I think I could settle down too, and give most of my time to the estate, if I was responsible for it. I dare say mother is in a difficulty over it, and I should not have spoken as I did; I will go in and tell her so."

Vincent found his mother sitting as he had left her. Although she had sided with Jonas, it was against her will; for it was grievous to her to hear complaints of the treatment of the slaves at the Orangery. Still, as Rosa had said, she felt every confidence in her overseer, and believed that he was an excellent servant. She was conscious that she herself knew nothing of business, and that she must therefore give her entire confidence to her manager. She greatly disliked the strictness of Jonas; but if, as he said, the slaves would not obey him without, he must do as he thought best.

"I think I spoke too hastily, mother," Vincent said as he entered; "and I am sure that you would not wish the slaves to be ill-treated more than I should. I dare say Jonas means for the best."

"I feel sure that he does, Vincent. A man in his position cannot make himself obeyed like a master. I wish it could be otherwise, and I will speak to him on the subject; but it will not do to interfere with him too much. A good overseer is not easy to get, and the slaves are always ready to take advantage of leniency. An easy master makes bad work, but an easy overseer would mean ruin to an estate. I am convinced that Jonas has our interests at heart, and I will tell him that I particularly wish that he will devise some other sort of punishment, such as depriving men who won't work of some of their privileges instead of using the lash."

"Thank you, mother. At any rate, he might be told that the lash is never to be used without first appealing to you."

"I will see about it, Vincent, and talk it over with him." And with that Vincent was satisfied.

CHAPTER II. BUYING A SLAVE.

Mrs. Wingfield did talk the matter over with the overseer, and things went on in consequence more smoothly. Vincent, however, adhered to his wish, and it was arranged that as soon as he could get a nomination he should go to West Point, which is to the American army what Sandhurst and Woolwich are to England. Before that could be done, however, a great political agitation sprang up. The slaves States were greatly excited over the prospect of a Republican president being chosen, for the Republicans were to a great extent identified with the abolition movement; and public feeling, which had for some time run high, became intensified as the time approached for the election of a new president, and threats that if the Democrats were beaten and a Republican elected the slave States would secede from the Union, were freely indulged in.

In Virginia, which was one of the most northern of the slave States, opinion was somewhat divided, there being a strong minority against any extreme measures being taken. Among Vincent's friends, however, who were for the most part the sons of planters, the Democratic feeling was very strongly in the ascendant, and their sympathies were wholly with the Southern States. That these had a right to secede was assumed by them as being unquestionable.

But in point of fact there was a great deal to be said on both sides. The States which first entered the Union in 1776 considered themselves to be separate and sovereign States, each possessing power and authority to manage its own affairs, and forming only a federation in order to construct a central power, and so to operate with more effect against the mother country. Two years later the constitution of the United States was framed, each State giving up a certain portion of its authority, reserving its own self-government and whatever rights were not specifically resigned.

No mention was made in the constitution of the right of a State to secede from the Union, and while those who insisted that each State had a right to secede if it chose to do so declared that this right was reserved, their opponents affirmed that such a case could never have been contemplated. Thus the question of absolute right had never been settled, and it became purely one of force.

Early in November, 1860, it became known that the election of Mr. Lincoln, the Republican candidate, was assured, and on the ninth of that month the representatives of South Carolina met at Charleston, and unanimously authorized the holding of a State convention to meet in the third week in December. The announcement caused great excitement, for it was considered certain that the convention would pass a vote of secession, and thus bring the debated question to an issue. Although opinion in Virginia was less unanimous than in the more southern States, it was generally thought that she would imitate the example of South Carolina.

On the day following the receipt of the news, Vincent, who had ridden over to the plantations of several of his friends to talk the matter over, was returning homeward, when he heard the sound of heavy blows with a whip and loud curses, and a moment later a shrill scream in a woman's voice rose in the air.

Vincent checked his horse mechanically with an exclamation of anger. He knew but too well what was going on beyond the screen of shrubs that grew on the other side of the fence bordering the road. For a moment he hesitated, and then muttering, "What's the use!" was about to touch the horse with the whip and gallop on, when the shriek again rose louder and more agonizing than before. With a cry of rage Vincent leaped from his horse, threw the reins over the top of the fence, climbed over it in a moment, and burst his way through the shrubbery.

Close by a negro was being held by four others, two having hold of each wrist and holding his arms extended to full length, while a white lad, some two years Vincent's senior, was showering blows with a heavy whip upon him. The slave's back was already covered with weals, and the blood was flowing from several places. A few yards distant a black girl, with a baby in her arms, was kneeling on the ground screaming for mercy for the slave. Just as Vincent burst through the bushes, the young fellow, irritated at her cries, turned round and delivered a tremendous blow with the whip on her bare shoulders.

This time no cry came from her lips, but the slave, who had stood immovable while the punishment was being inflicted upon himself, made a desperate effort to break from the men who held him. He was unsuccessful, but before the whip could again fall on the woman's shoulders, Vincent sprang forward, and seizing it, wrested it from the hands of the striker. With an oath of fury and surprise at this sudden interruption, the young fellow turned upon Vincent.

"You are a coward and a blackguard, Andrew Jackson!" Vincent exclaimed, white with auger. "You are a disgrace to Virginia, you ruffian!"

Without a word the young planter, mad with rage at this interference, rushed at Vincent; but the latter had learned the use of his fists at his English school, and riding exercises had strengthened his muscles, and as his opponent rushed at him, he met him with a blow from the shoulder which sent him staggering back with the blood streaming from his lips. He again rushed forward, and heavy blows were exchanged; then they closed and grappled. For a minute they swayed to and from but although much taller, the young planter was no stronger than Vincent, and at last they came to the ground with a crash, Vincent uppermost, Jackson's head as he fell coming with such force against a low stump that he lay insensible.

The contest had been so sudden and furious that none had attempted to interfere. Indeed the negroes were so astonished that they had not moved from the moment when Vincent made his appearance upon the scene. The lad rose to his feet.

"You had better carry him up to the house and throw some water on him," he said to the negroes, and then turned to go away. As he did so, the slave who had been flogged broke from the others, who had indeed loosened their hold, and ran up to Vincent, threw himself on his knees, and taking the lad's hand pressed it to his lips.

"I am afraid I haven't done you much good," Vincent said. "You will be none the better off for my interference; but I couldn't help it." So saying he made his way through the shrubbery, cleared the fence, mounted, and rode homeward.

"I have been a fool," he said to himself as he rode along. "It will be all the worse for that poor beggar afterward; still I could not help it. I wonder will there be any row about it. I don't much expect there will, the Jacksons don't stand well now, and this would not do them any good with the people round; besides I don't think Jackson would like to go into court to complain of being thrashed by a fellow a head shorter than himself. It's blackguards like him who give the Abolitionists a right to hold up the slave-owners as being tyrants and brutes."

The Jacksons were newcomers in Virginia. Six years before, the estate, of which the Cedars, as their place was called, formed a part, was put up for sale. It was a very large one, and having been divided into several portions to suit buyers, the Cedars had been purchased by Jackson, who, having been very successful as a storekeeper at Charleston, had decided upon giving up the business and leaving South Carolina, and settling down as a land-owner in some other State. His antecedents, however, were soon known at Richmond, and the old Virginian families turned a cold shoulder to the newcomer.

Had he been a man of pleasant manners, he would gradually have made his way; but he was evidently not a gentleman. The habits of trade stuck to him, and in a very short time there were rumors that the slaves, whom he had bought with the property, found him a harsh and cruel master. This in itself would have been sufficient to bring him disrepute in Virginia, where as a rule the slaves were treated with great kindness, and indeed considered their position to be infinitely superior to that of the poorer class of whites. Andrew Jackson had been for a few months at school with Vincent; he was unpopular there, and from the rumors current as to the treatment of the slaves on the estate, was known by the nickname of the "slave-driver."

Had Vincent been the son of a white trader, or a small cultivator, he knew well enough that his position would be a very serious one, and that he would have had to ride to the border of the State with all speed. He would have been denounced at once as an Abolitionist, and would have been accused of stirring up the slaves to rebellion against their masters; a crime of the most serious kind in the Southern States. But placed as he was, as the heir of a great estate worked by slaves, such a cry could hardly be raised against him. He might doubtless be filled and admonished for interfering between a master and his slave; but the sympathy of the better classes in Virginia would be entirely with him. Vincent, therefore, was but little concerned for himself; but he doubted greatly whether his interference had not done much more harm than good to the slave and his wife, for upon them Andrew Jackson would vent his fury. He rode direct to the stables instead of alighting as usual at the door. Dan, who had been sitting in the veranda waiting for him, ran down to the stables as he saw him coming.

"Give the horse to one of the others, Dan; I want to speak to you.

Dan," he went on when he had walked with him a short distance

from the stables, "I suppose you know some of the hands on

Jackson's plantation."

Dan grinned, for although there was not supposed to be any communication between the slaves on the different estates, it was notorious that at night they were in the habit of slipping out of their huts and visiting each other.

"I know some ob dem, Massa Vincent. What you want ob dem?

Berry bad master, Massa Jackson. Wust master hereabouts."

Vincent related what had happened, to Dan's intense delight.

"Now, Dan," he went on, "I am afraid that after my interference they will treat that poor fellow and his wife worse than before. I want you to find out for me what is going on at Jackson's. I do not know that I can do anything, however badly they treat them; but I have been thinking that if they ill-treat them very grossly, I will get together a party of fifteen or twenty of my friends and we will go in a body to Jackson's, and warn him that if he behaves with cruelty to his slaves, we will make it so hot for him that he will have to leave the state. I don't say that we could do anything; but as we should represent most of the large estates round here, I don't think old Jackson and his son would like being sent to Coventry. The feeling is very strong at present against ill-treatment of the slaves. If these troubles lead to war almost all of us will go into the army, and we do not like the thought of the possibility of troubles among the hands when the whites are all away."

"I will find out all about it for you to-night, sah. I don't suspect dat dey will do nuffin to-day. Andrew Jackson too sick after dat knock against de tump. He keep quiet a day or two."

"Well, Dan, you go over to-night and find out all about it. I expect I had better have left things alone, but now I have interfered I shall go on with it."

Mrs. Wingfield was much displeased when Vincent told her at dinner of his incident at Jackson's plantation and even his sisters were shocked at this interference between a master and his slave.

"You will get yourself into serious trouble with these fanciful notions of yours," Mrs. Wingfield said angrily. "You know as well as I do how easy it is to get up a cry against any one as an Abolitionist and how difficult to disprove the accusation; and just at present, when the passions of every man in the South are inflamed to the utmost, such an accusation will be most serious. In the present instance there does not seem that there is a shadow of excuse for your conduct. You simply heard cries of a slave being flogged. You deliberately leave the road and enter these people's plantation and interfere without, so far as I can see, the least reason for doing so. You did not inquire what the man's offense was; and he may for aught you know have half murdered his master. You simply see a slave being flogged and you assault his owner. If the Jacksons lay complaints against you it is quite probable that you may have to leave the state. What on earth can have influenced you to act in such a mad-brained way?"

"I did not interfere to prevent his flogging the slave, mother, but to prevent his flogging the slave's wife, which was pure wanton brutality. It is not a question of slavery one way or the other. Any one has a right to interfere to put a stop to brutality. If I saw a man brutally treating a horse or a dog I should certainly do so; and if it is right to interfere to save a dumb animal from brutal ill-treatment surely it must be justifiable to save a woman in the same case. I am not an Abolitionist. That is to say, I consider that slaves on a properly managed estate, like ours, for instance, are just as well off as are the laborers on an estate in Europe; but I should certainly like to see laws passed to protect them from ill-treatment. Why, in England there are laws against cruelty to animals; and a man who brutally flogged a dog or a horse would get a month's imprisonment with hard labor. I consider it a disgrace to us that a man may here ill-treat a human being worse than he might in England a dumb animal."

"You know, Vincent," his mother said more quietly, "that I object as much as you do to the ill-treatment of the slaves, and that the slaves here, as on all well-conducted plantations in Virginia, are well treated; but this is not a time for bringing in laws or carrying out reforms. It is bad enough to have scores of Northerners doing their best to stir up mischief between masters and slaves without a Southern gentleman mixing himself up in the matter. We have got to stand together as one people and to protect our State rights from interference."

"I am just as much in favor of State rights as any one else, mother; and if, as seems likely, the present quarrel is to be fought out, I hope I shall do my best for Virginia as well as other fellows of my own age. But just as I protest against any interference by the Northerners with our laws, I say that we ought to amend our laws so as not to give them the shadow of an excuse for interference. It is brutes like the Jacksons who have afforded the materials for libels like 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' upon us as a people; and I can't say that I am a bit sorry for having given that young Jackson what he deserved."

"Well, I hope there will be no trouble come of it," Mrs. Wingfield said. "I shouldn't think the Jacksons would like the exposure of their doings which would be caused by bringing the matter into court; but if they do, you may be quite sure that a jury in Richmond at the present time would find against you."

"I don't suppose that they will do anything, mother. But if they must, they must; and I don't suppose anything serious will come of it any way."

The next morning Vincent went down early to the stables. As he approached them Dan came out to meet him.

"Well, Dan, what's your news?"

"Berry great bobbery ober at Jackson's last night, Massa Vincent. Fust of all I crept round to de huts ob de field hands. Dey all know nuffin bout it; but one of dem he goes off and gets to hab a talk with a gal employed in de house who was in de habit of slipping out to see him. She say when de young un war carried in de old man go on furious; he bring suit against you, he hab you punished berry much—no saying what he not going to do. After a time de young un come round, he listen to what the old man say for some time; den he answer: 'No use going on like dat. Set all de county families against us if we have suit. As to dat infernal young villain, me pay him out some other way.' Den de old man say he cut de flesh off de bones ob dat nigger; but de young one say: 'Mustn't do dat. You sure to hear about it, and make great bobbery. Find some oder way to punish him.' Den dey talk together for some time, but girl not hear any more."

"Well, then, there will be no suit anyhow," Vincent said. "As to paying me out some other way, I will look after myself, Dan. I believe that fellow Jackson is capable of anything, and I will be on the lookout for him."

"Be sure you do, Massa Vincent. You ride about a great deal, dat fellow bery like take a shot at you from behind tree. Don't you go near dat plantation, or sure enuff trouble come."

"I will look out, Dan. There is one thing, I always ride fast; and it wants a very good shot to hit one at a gallop. I don't think they will try that; for if he missed, as he would be almost sure to do, it would be a good deal worse for him than this affair would have been had he brought it into court. You keep your ears open, Dan, and find out how they are thinking of punishing that poor fellow for my interference on his behalf."

After breakfast a negro arrived with a note for Mrs. Wingfield from Mr. Jackson, complaining of the unwarrantable and illegal interference by her son on behalf of a slave who was being very properly punished for gross misconduct; and of the personal assault upon his son. The writer said that he was most reluctant to take legal proceedings against a member of so highly respected a family, but that it was impossible that he could submit to such an outrage as this.

Although Mrs. Wingfield had expressed her disapproval of Vincent's conduct on the evening before, there was no trace of that feeling in her reply to this letter. She wrote in the third person, coldly acknowledging the receipt of Mr. Jackson's letter, and saying that she had heard from her son of his interference to put a stop to one of those brutal scenes which brought discredit upon the Southern States, and that she considered he had most rightly punished Mr. Jackson, jun., for his inhuman and revolting conduct; that she was perfectly aware the interference had been technically illegal, but that her son was fully prepared to defend his conduct if called upon to do so in the courts, and to pay any fine that might be inflicted for his suffering himself to be carried away by his righteous indignation. She ended by saying that as Mr. Jackson was a stranger in Virginia, he was perhaps not aware that the public sentiment of that State was altogether opposed to such acts of brutality as that of which his son had been guilty.

"What have you been doing to that fellow Andrew Jackson?" one of Vincent's friends, a young fellow two years older than himself, said to him a few days later. "There were a lot of us talking over things yesterday, in Richmond, and he came up and joined in. Something was said about Abolitionists, and he said that he should like to see every Abolitionist in the State strung up to a tree. He is always pretty violent, as you know; but on the present occasion he went further than usual, and then went on to say that the worst and most dangerous Abolitionists were not Northern men but Southerners, who were traitors to their State.

"He said: 'For example, there is that young Wingfield. He has been to England, and has come back with his heart filled with Abolitionist notions;' and that such opinions at the present time were a danger to the State.

"Two or three of us took the matter up, as you might guess, and told him he had better mind what he was saying or it would be the worse for him. Harry Furniss went so far as to tell him that he was a liar, and that if he didn't like that he would have satisfaction in the usual way. Master Jackson didn't like it, but muttered something and slunk off. What's the matter between you?"

"I should not have said anything about it," Vincent replied, "if Jackson had chosen to hold his tongue; but as he chooses to go about attacking me, there is no reason why I should keep the matter secret." And he then related what had taken place.

The young Virginian gave a low whistle.

"I don't say I blame you, Wingfield; but I tell you, you might have got yourself into an awful mess if the Jacksons had chosen to take it up. You know how hot the feeling is at present, and it is a serious matter at any time to interfere between a master and his slaves in the Southern States. Of course among us our feelings would be all against Jackson; but among the poorer class of whites, who have been tremendously excited by the speeches, both in the North and here, the cry of Abolitionist at the present moment is like a red rag to a bull. However, I understand now the fellow's enmity to you.

"None of us ever liked him when he was at school with us. He is an evil-tempered brute, and I am afraid you may have some trouble with him. If he goes about talking as he did to us, he would soon get up a feeling against you. Of course it would be nonsense to openly accuse a member of an old Virginian family of being an Abolitionist; but it would be easy enough to set a pack of the rough classes of the town against you, and you might get badly mauled if they caught you alone. The fellow is evidently a coward or he would have taken up what Furniss said; but a coward who is revengeful is a good deal more dangerous than an open foe. However, I will talk it over with some of the others, and we will see if we can't stop Andrew Jackson's mouth."

The result of this was that the next day half a dozen of Vincent's friends wrote a joint letter to Andrew Jackson, saying that they regarded his statements respecting Vincent as false and calumnious, and that if he repeated them they would jointly and severally hold him responsible; and that if, as a result of such accusations, any harm happened to Vincent, they should know where to look for the originator of the mischief, and punish him accordingly.

"You should be more careful, Andrew," his father said, as white with fury, he showed him his letter. "It was you who were preaching prudence the other day, and warning me against taking steps that would set all the whole country against us; and now, you see, you have been letting your tongue run, and have drawn this upon yourself. Keep quiet for the present, my son; all sorts of things may occur before long, and you will get your chance. Let this matter sleep for the present."

A day or two later when Vincent went down to the stables he saw that Dan had something to tell him, and soon found out that he wished to speak to him alone.

"What is your news, Dan?"

"I heard last night, Massa Vincent, that old man Jackson is going to sell Dinah; dat de wife ob de man dey flogged."

"They are going to sell her!" Vincent repeated indignantly. "What are they going to do that for?"

"To punish Tony, sah. Dar am no law against dar selling her. I hear dat dey are going to sell two oder boys, so dat it cannot be said dat dey do it on purpose to spite Tony. I reckon, sah, day calculate dat when dey sell his wife Tony get mad and run away, and den when dey catch him again day flog him pretty near to death. Folk always do dat with runaway slaves; no one can say nuffin agin dem for dat."

"It's an infamous shame that it should be lawful to separate man and wife," Vincent said. "However, we will see what we can do. You manage to pass the word to Tony to keep up his spirits, and not let them drive him to do anything rash. Tell him I will see that his wife does not get into bad hands. I suppose they will sell the baby too?"

"Yes, Massa Vincent. Natural the baby will go wid de modder."

Vincent watched the list of advertisements of slaves to be sold, and a day or two later saw a notice to the effect that Dinah Morris, age twenty-two, with a male baby at her breast, would be sold on the following Saturday. He mounted his horse and rode into Richmond. He had not liked to speak to his mother on the subject, for she had not told him of the letter she had written to Jackson; and he thought that she might disapprove of any interference in the matter, consequently he went down to Mr. Renfrew, the family solicitor.

"Mr. Renfrew," he said, "I want some money; can you lend it me?"

"You want money," the solicitor said in surprise. "What on earth do you want money for? and if you want it, why don't you ask your mother for it? How much do you want?"

"I don't know exactly. About eight hundred dollars, I should think; though it may be a thousand. I want to buy a slave."

"You want to buy a slave!" repeated Mr. Renfrew. "What on earth do you want to buy a slave for? You have more than you want now at the Orangery."

"It's a slave that man Jackson is going to sell next Saturday, on purpose to spite the poor creature's husband and drive him to desperation," and Vincent then repeated the whole story of the circumstances that had led up to the sale.

"It is all very abominable on the part of these Jacksons," Mr. Renfrew said, "but your interference was most imprudent, my young friend; and, as you see, it has done harm rather than good. If you are so quixotic as to become the champion of every ill-treated slave in the State, your work is pretty well cut out for you."

"I know that, sir," Vincent replied, smiling, "and I can assure you I did not intend to enter upon any such crusade; but, you see, I have wrongly or rightly mixed myself up in this, and I want to repair the mischief which, as you say, I have caused. The only way I can see is to buy this negress and her baby."

"But I do not see that you will carry out your object if you do, Vincent. She will be separated just as much from her husband if you buy her as if any one else does. He is at one plantation and she is at another, and were they ten miles apart or a hundred, they are equally separated."

"I quite see that, Mr. Renfrew; but, at least, she will be kindly treated, and his mind will be at rest on that score. Perhaps some day or other the Jacksons may put him up for sale, and then I can buy him, and they will be reunited. At any rate, the first step is to buy her. Can you let me have the money? My mother makes me a very good allowance."

"And I suppose you spend it," the lawyer interrupted.

"Well, yes, I generally spend it; but then, you see, when I come of age I come in for the outlying estates."

"And if you die before, or get shot, or any other accident befalls you," Mr. Renfrew said, "they go to your sisters. However, one must risk something for a client, so I will lend you the money. I had better put somebody up to bid for you, for after what has happened the Jacksons would probably not let her go if they knew that you were going to be the purchaser."

"Thank you very much," Vincent said warmly; "it will be a great weight off my mind," and with a light heart he rode back to the Orangery.

Vincent said nothing during the next two days to any of his friends as to the course the Jacksons were taking in selling Tony's wife; for he thought that if the news got about, some of his friends who had heard the circumstances might go down to the auction and make such a demonstration that Jackson would be obliged to withdraw Dinah from the sale, in which case he would no doubt dispose of her privately. On the Saturday he mounted his horse and rode into Richmond, telling Dan to meet him there. At the hour the sale was announced he went to the yard where it was to take place.

This was a somewhat quiet and secluded place; for although the sale of slaves was permitted by law in Virginia, at any rate these auctions were conducted quietly and with as little publicity as possible. For although the better classes still regarded slavery as a necessary institution, they were conscious that these sales, involving as they did the separation of families, were indefensible, and the more thoughtful would gladly have seen them abolished, and a law passed forbidding the sale of negroes save as part and parcel of the estate upon which they worked, an exception only being made in the case of gross misconduct. Many of the slave-owners, indeed, forbade all flogging upon their estates, and punished refractory slaves, in the first place, by the cutting off of the privileges they enjoyed in the way of holidays, and if this did not answer, threatened to sell them—a threat which was, in the vast majority of cases, quite sufficient to ensure good behavior; for the slaves were well aware of the difference between life in the well-managed establishments in Virginia and that in some of the other Southern States. Handing his horse to Dan, Vincent joined a knot of four or five of his acquaintances who had strolled in from mere curiosity.

There were some thirty or forty men in the yard, a few of whom had come in for the purpose of buying; but the great majority had only attended for the sake of passing an idle hour. Slaves had fallen in value; for although all in the South professed their confidence that the law would never attempt by force of arms to prevent their secession, it was felt that slave property would in future be more precarious, for the North would not improbably repeal the laws for the arrest of fugitive slaves, and consequently all runaways who succeeded in crossing the border would be lost to their masters.

Upon the other side of the yard Vincent saw Andrew Jackson talking to two or three men who were strangers to him, and who, he guessed, were buyers from some of the more southern States There were in all twelve lots to be disposed of. Of these two or three were hands who were no longer fit for field work, and who were bought at very low prices by men who owned but a few acres of land, and who could utilize them for odd jobs requiring but little strength. Then there was a stir of attention. Dinah Moore took her stand upon the platform, with her baby in her arms. The message which Dan had conveyed from Vincent to her husband had given her some hope, and though she looked scared and frightened as she clasped her babe to her breast, she was not filled with such utter despair as would otherwise have been the case.

The auctioneer stated the advantages of the lot in the same business-like tone as if he had been selling a horse:

"Lot 6. Negro wench, Dinah; age twenty-two; with male child. Strong and well made, as you see, gentlemen; fit for field work, or could be made a useful hand about a house; said to be handy and good-tempered. Now, gentlemen, what shall we say for this desirable lot?"

One of the men standing by Andrew Jackson bid a hundred dollars. The bid was raised to a hundred and fifty by a rough-looking fellow standing in front of the platform. For some time the bidding was confined to these two, and it rose until it reached seven hundred and fifty, at which point the man near the platform retired, and there was a pause.

Vincent felt uncomfortable. He had already been round to Mr. Renfrew, who had told him that he had deputed an agent to buy; and until the man near the platform stopped he had supposed that he was the solicitor's agent.

"Now, gentlemen," the auctioneer said, "surely you are not going to let this desirable piece of property go for seven fifty? She would be cheap at double the price. I have sold worse articles for three thousand."

"I will go another twenty-five dollars," a tall man in homespun and a broad planter's straw hat said quietly.

The contest now recommenced, and by bids of twenty-five dollars at a time the amount was raised to twelve hundred and fifty dollars.

"That's enough for me," the man standing by Andrew Jackson said; "he may have her at twelve fifty, and dear enough, too, as times go."

"Will any one else make an offer?" the auctioneer asked. There was no response, and the hammer fell.

"What name?"

"Nathaniel Forster," the tall man said; and advancing to the table he counted out a roll of notes and gave them to the auctioneer, who handed to him a formal note certifying to his having duly and legally purchased Dinah Moore and her infant, late the property of Andrew Jackson, Esquire, of the Cedars, State of Virginia.

The purchaser had evidently made up his mind beforehand to secure the lot, for he handed a parcel he had been holding to Dinah, and said briefly, "Slip those things on, my lass."

The poor girl, who had before been simply attired in the scantiest of petticoats, retired to a corner of the yard, and speedily came forward again dressed in a neat cotton gown. There were several joking remarks made by the bystanders, but Dinah's new master took no notice of them, but with a motion of his hand to her to follow him, walked out of the yard.

A minute later Vincent followed, and although he had no doubt that the man was the agent Mr. Renfrew had employed, he did not feel thoroughly satisfied until he saw them enter the lawyer's office. He quickly followed. They had just entered the private room of Mr. Renfrew.

"That's right, Wingfield," the lawyer said. "You see we have settled the business satisfactorily, and I think you have got a fairly cheap bargain. Just wait a moment and we will complete the transaction."

Dinah gave a start as Vincent entered, but with the habitual self-repression of a slave she stood quietly in the corner to which she had withdrawn at the other end of the room.

The lawyer was busy drawing up a document, and touching the bell ordered a clerk to go across to Mr. Rawlins, justice of the peace, and ask him to step across the road.

In a minute Mr. Rawlins entered.

"I want you to witness a deed of sale of a slave," Mr. Renfrew said. "Here are the particulars: 'Nathaniel Forster sells to Vincent Wingfield his slave, Dinah Moore and her male infant, for the sum of fourteen hundred dollars.' These are the parties. Forster sign this receipt."

The man did so. The justice put his signature as witness to the transaction, dropped into his pocket the fee of five dollars that the lawyer handed to him, and without a word strolled out again.

"There, Dinah," Mr. Renfrew said, "Mr. Wingfield is now your master."

The girl ran forward, fell on her knees before Vincent, seized his hand and kissed it, sobbing out her thanks as she did so.

"There, that will do, Dinah," the lawyer said, seeing that Vincent was confused by her greeting. "I think you are a lucky girl, and have made a good exchange for the Orangery instead of the Cedars. I don't suppose you will find Mr. Wingfield a very hard master. What he is going to do with you I am sure I don't know."

Vincent now went to the door and called in Dan and told him to take Dinah to the Orangery, then mounting his horse he rode off home to prepare his mother for the reception of his new purchase.

CHAPTER III. AIDING A RUNAWAY.

"Well, you are an extraordinary boy, Vincent," Mrs. Wingfield said as her son told her the story, while his sisters burst into fits of laughter at the idea of Vincent owning a female slave with a baby. "Why did you not tell me that you wanted the money instead of going to Mr. Renfrew? I shall tell him I am very angry with him for letting you have it for such a purpose."

"I was not sure whether you would let me have it, mother; and if you had refused, and I had got it afterward from Mr. Renfrew, I should not have liked to bring her home here."

"That would have been fun," Annie said. "Fancy Vincent's troubles with a female slave on his hands and nowhere to put her. What would you have done, Vincent?"

"I suppose I could have got a home for her somewhere," Vincent said quietly. "I don't think there would have been any difficulty about that. Still I am glad I didn't have to do so, and one slave more or less can make no difference here."

"Not at all," Mrs. Wingfield said; "I dare say Chloe will find something for her to do in the way of washing, and such other light work that she is fit for about the house. It is not that, but it is years since a slave was brought into the Orangery; never since I can remember. We raise more than we want ourselves; and when I see all those children about, I wonder sometimes what on earth we are to find for them all to do. Still, it was a scandalous thing of that man Jackson selling the girl to punish her husband; and as you say it was your foolish interference in the matter that brought it about, so I do not know that I can blame you for doing what you can to set the matter straight. Still, except that the knowledge that she is here and will be well treated will be a comfort to the man, I do not see that he will be much the better off, unless indeed the Jacksons should try to sell him also, in which case I suppose you would want to buy him."

"I am afraid they won't do that, mother. Still, somehow or other, in time they may come together again."

"I don't see how they can, Vincent. However we need not think of that now. At any rate I hope there will be no further opportunity for your mixing yourself up in this business. You have made two bitter enemies now, and although I do not see that such people as these can do you any harm, it is always well not to make enemies, especially in times like these when no one can foresee exactly what may occur."

And so Dinah Moore became an inmate of the Orangery; and though the girls had laughed at their brother, they were very kind to her when she arrived with Dan, and made much of her and of her baby. The same night Dan went over to the Cedars, and managed to have an interview with Tony, and to tell him that his wife had been bought by Vincent. The joy of the negro was extreme. The previous message had raised his hopes that Vincent would succeed in getting her bought by some one who would be kind to her, but he knew well that she might nevertheless fall to the lot of some higher bidder and be taken hundreds of miles away, and that he might never again get news of her whereabouts. He had then suffered terrible anxiety all day, and the relief of learning that Vincent himself had bought her, and that she was now installed as a house servant at the Orangery, but a few miles away, was quite overpowering, and for some minutes he could only gasp out his joy and thankfulness. He could hope now that when better times came he might be able to steal away some night and meet her, and that some day or other, though how he could not see, they might be reunited. The Jacksons remained in ignorance that their former slave was located so near to them.

It was for this reason that Mr. Renfrew had instructed his agent to buy her in his own name instead of that of Vincent; and the Jacksons, having no idea of the transfer that had subsequently taken place, took no further interest in the matter, believing that they had achieved their object of torturing Tony, and avenging upon him the humiliation that Andrew had suffered at Vincent's hands. Had they questioned their slaves, and had these answered them truly, they would have discovered the facts. For although Tony himself said no word to any one of what he had learned from Dan, the fact that Dinah was at the Orangery was speedily known among the slaves; for the doings at one plantation were soon conveyed to the negroes on the others by the occasional visits which they paid at night to each other's quarters, or to some common rendezvous far removed from interruption.

Occasionally Tony and Dinah met. Dan would come up late in the evening to the house, and a nod to Dinah would be sufficient to send her flying down the garden to a clump of shrubs, where he would be waiting for her. At these stolen meetings they were perfectly happy; for Tony said no word to her of the misery of his life—how he was always put to the hardest work and beaten on the smallest pretext, how in fact his life was made so unendurable that the idea of running away and taking to the swamps was constantly present to him.

As to making his way north, it did not enter his mind as possible. Slaves did indeed at times succeed in traveling through the Northern States and making their way to Canada, but this was only possible by means of the organization known as the underground railway, an association consisting of a number of good people who devoted themselves to the purpose, giving shelter to fugitive slaves during the day, and then passing them on to the next refuge during the night. For in the Northern States as well as the Southern any negro unprovided with papers showing that he was a free man was liable to be arrested and sent back to the South a prisoner, large rewards being given to those who arrested them.

As he was returning from one of these interviews with his wife, Tony was detected by the overseer, who was strolling about round the slaves' quarters, and was next morning flogged until he became insensible. So terrible was the punishment that for some days he was unable to walk. As soon as he could get about he was again set to work, but the following morning he was found to be missing. Andrew Jackson at once rode into Richmond, and in half an hour placards and handbills were printed offering a reward for his capture. These were not only circulated in the neighborhood, but were sent off to all the towns and villages through which Tony might be expected to pass in the endeavor to make his way north. Vincent soon learned from Dan what had taken place.

"You have no idea, I suppose, Dan, as to which way he is likely to go?"

Dan shook his head.

"Me suppose, massa, dat most likely he gone and hidden in de great woods by de James River. Berry difficult to find him dere."

"Difficult to find him, no doubt," Vincent agreed. "But he could not stop there long—he would find nothing to eat in the woods; and though he might perhaps support himself for a time on corn or roots from the clearings scattered about through the James Peninsula, he must sooner or later be caught."

"Dar are runaways in de woods now, Massa Vincent," Dan said; "some ob dem hab been dar for month."

"But how do they live, Dan?"

"Well, sah, you see dey hab friends on de plantations, and sometimes at night one of de slaves will steal away wid a basket ob yams and corn-cakes and oder things and put dem down in a certain place in de forest, and next morning, sure enough, dey will be gone. Dangerous work dat, massa; because if dey caught with food, it known for sure dat dey carry it to runaway, and den you know dey pretty well flog the life out of dem."

"Yes, I know, Dan; it is a very serious matter hiding a runaway slave, and even a white man would be very heavily punished, and perhaps lynched, if caught in the act. Well, make what inquiries you can among the slaves, and find out if you can whether any of those Jacksons have an idea which way Tony has gone. But do not go yourself on to Jackson's place; if you were caught there now it would be an awkward matter for both of us."

"I will find out, Massa Vincent; but I don't s'pose Tony said a word to any of the others. He know well enough dat de Jacksons question ebery one pretty sharp, and perhaps flog dem all round to find out if dey know anything. He keep it to himself about going away for suah."

The Jacksons kept up a vigorous hunt after their slave and day after day parties of men ranged through the woods but without discovering any traces of him. Bloodhounds were employed the first day, but before these could be fetched from Richmond the scent had grown cold; for Tony had gone off as soon as the slaves had been shut up for the night and had, directly he left the hut, wrapped leaves round his feet, therefore the hounds, when they arrived from Richmond, were unable to take up the scent.

A week after Tony's escape, Vincent returned late one evening from a visit to some friends. Dan, as he took his horse, whispered to him: "Stop a little on your way to house, Massa Vincent; me hab something to tell you."

"What is it, Dan?" Vincent asked, as the lad, after putting up his horse in the stable, came running up to him.

"Me have seen Tony, sah. He in de shrubs ober dar. He want to see Dinah, but me no take message till me tell you about him. He half starved, sah; me give him some yams."

"That's right, Dan."

"He pretty nigh desperate, sah; he say dey hunt him like wild beast."

"I will see him, Dan. If I can help him in any way I will do so. Unfortunately I do not know any of the people who help to get slaves away, so I can give him no advice as to the best way to proceed. Still I might talk it over with him. When I have joined him, do you go up to the house and tell Chloe from me to give you a pile of corn-cake—it's no use giving him flour, for he would be afraid to light a fire to cook it. Tell her to give you, too, any cold meat there may be in the house. Don't tell Dinah her husband is here till we have talked the matter over."

Dan led Vincent up to a clump of bushes.

"It am all right, Tony," he said; "here is Massa Vincent come to see you."

The bushes parted and Tony came out into the full moonlight. He looked haggard and worn; his clothes were torn into strips by the bushes.

"My poor fellow," Vincent said kindly, "I am sorry to see you in such a state."

A great sob broke from the black

"De Lord bress you, sah, for your goodness and for saving Dinah from de hands of dose debils! Now she safe wid you and de child, Tony no care berry much what come to him—de sooner he dead de better. He wish dat one day when dey flog him dey had kill him altogether; den all de trouble at an end. Dey hunt him ebery day with dogs and guns, and soon dey catch him. No can go on much longer like dis. To-day me nearly gib myself up. Den me thought me like to see Dinah once more to say good-by, so make great effort and ran a bit furder."

"I have been thinking whether it would be possible to plan some way for your escape, Tony."

The negro shook his head.

"Dar never escape, sah, but to get to Canada; dat too far any way. Not possible to walk all dat way and get food by de road. Suah to be caught."

"No, I do not think it will be possible to escape that way, Tony. The only possible plan would be to get you on board some ship going to England."

"Ships not dare take negro on board," Tony said. "Me heard dat said many times—dat against de law."

"Yes, I know it's against the law," Vincent said, "and it's against the law my talking to you here, Tony; but you see it's done. The difficulty is how to do it. All vessels are searched before they start, and an officer goes down with them past Fortress Monroe to see that they take no one on board. Still it is possible. Of course there is risk in the matter; but there is risk in everything. I will think it over. Do not lose heart. Dan will be back directly with enough food to last you for some days. If I were you I would take refuge this time in White Oak Swamp. It is much nearer, and I hear it has already been searched from end to end, so they are not likely to try again; and if you hear them you can, if you are pressed, cross the Chickahominy and make down through the woods. Do you come again on Saturday evening—that will give me four days to see what I can do. I may not succeed, you know; for the penalty is so severe against taking negroes on board that I may not be able to find any one willing to risk it. But it is worth trying."

"De Lord bless you, sah!" Tony said. "I will do juss what you tole me; but don't you run no risks for me, my life ain't worth dat."

"I will take care, Tony. And now here comes Dan with the provisions."

"Can I see Dinah, sah?" Tony pleaded.

"I think you had better not," Vincent replied. "You see the Jacksons might at any moment learn that she is here, and then she might be questioned whether she had seen you since your escape; and it would be much better for her to be able to deny having done so. But you shall see her next time you come, whether I am able to make any arrangements for your escape or not. I will let her know to-morrow morning that I have seen you, and that you are safe at present."

The next morning Vincent rode over to City Point, where ships with a large draught of water generally brought up, either transferring their goods into smaller craft to be sent up by river to Richmond, or to be carried on by rail through the town of Petersburg. Leaving his horse at a house near the river, he crossed the James in a boat to City Point. There were several vessels lying here, and for some hours he hung about the wharf watching the process of discharging. By the end of that time he had obtained a view of all the captains, and had watched them as they gave their orders, and had at last come to the conclusion as to which would be the most likely to suit his purpose. Having made up his mind, he waited until the one he had fixed upon came ashore. He was a man of some five-and-thirty years old, with a pleasant face and good-natured smile. He first went into some offices on the wharf, and half an hour later came out and walked toward the railway-station. Vincent at once followed him, and as he overtook him said:

"I want very much to speak to you, sir, if you could spare me a minute or two."

"Certainly," the sailor said with some surprise. "The train for Petersburg does not go for another half hour. What can I do for you?"

"My name is Vincent Wingfield. My father was an English officer, and my mother is the owner of some large estates near Richmond. I am most anxious to get a person in whom I am interested on board ship, and I do not know how to set about it."

"There's no difficulty about that," the captain said smiling; "you have only to go to an office and pay for his passage to where he wants to go."

"I can't do that," Vincent replied; "for unfortunately it is against the law for any captain to take him."

"You mean he is a negro?" the captain asked, stopping short in his walk and looking sharply at Vincent.

"Yes, that is what I mean," Vincent said. "He is a negro who has been brutally ill-treated and has run away from his master, and I would willingly give five hundred dollars to get him safely away."

"This is a very serious business in which you are meddling, young sir," the sailor said. "Putting aside the consequences to yourself, you are asking me to break the law and to run the risk of the confiscation of my ship. Even if I were willing to do what you propose it would be impossible, for the ship will be searched from end to end before the hatches are closed, and an official will be on board until we discharge the pilot after getting well beyond the mouth of the river."

"Yes, I know that," Vincent replied; "but my plan was to take a boat and go out beyond the sight of land, and then to put him on board after you have got well away."

"That might be managed, certainly," the captain said. "It would be contrary to my duty to do anything that would risk the property of my employers; but if when I am out at sea a boat came alongside, and a passenger came on board, it would be another matter. I suppose, young gentleman, that you would not interfere in such a business, and run the risk that you certainly would run if detected, unless you were certain that this was a deserving case, and that the man has committed no sort of crime; for I would not receive on board my ship a fugitive from justice, whether he was black or white."

"It is indeed a deserving case," Vincent said earnestly. "The poor fellow has the misfortune of belonging to one of the worst masters in the State. He has been cruelly flogged on many occasions, and was finally driven to run away by their selling his wife and child."

"The brutes!" the sailor said. "How you people can allow such things to be done is a mystery to me. Well, lad, under those circumstances I will agree to do what you ask me, and if your boat comes alongside when I am so far away from land that it cannot be seen, I will take the man to England."

"Thank you very much indeed," Vincent said; "you will be doing a good action. Upon what day do you sail?"

"I shall drop down on Monday into Hampton Roads, and shall get up sail at daylight next morning. I shall pass Fortress Monroe at about seven in the morning, and shall sail straight out."

"And how shall I know your ship?" Vincent asked. "There may be others starting just about the same time."

The sailor thought for a moment. "When I am four or five miles out I will hoist my owner's flag at the foremast-head. It is a red flag with a white ball, so you will be able to make it out a considerable distance away. You must not be less than ten or twelve miles out, for the pilot often does not leave the ship till she is some miles past Fortress Monroe, and the official will not leave the ship till he does. I will keep a sharp lookout for you, but I cannot lose my time in waiting. If you do not come alongside I shall suppose that you have met with some interruption to your plans."

"Thank you very much, sir. Unless something goes wrong I shall be alongside on Tuesday."

"That's settled, then," the captain said, "and I must be off, or else I shall lose my train. By the way, when you come alongside do not make any sign that you have met me before. It is just as well that none of my crew should know that it is a planned thing, for if we ever happened to put in here again they might blab about it, and it is just as well not to give them the chance. Good-by, my lad; I hope that all will go well. But, you know, you are doing a very risky thing; for the assisting of a runaway slave to escape is about as serious an offense as you can commit in these parts. You might shoot half a dozen men and get off scot free, but if you were caught aiding a runaway to escape there is no saying what might come of it."

After taking leave of the captain, Vincent recrossed the river and rode home. He had friends whose fathers' estates bordered some on the James and others on the York River, and all of these had pleasure-boats. It was obviously better to go down the York River, and thence round to the mouth of the James at Fortress Monroe, as the traffic on the York was comparatively small, and it was improbable that he would be noticed either going down or returning. He had at first thought of hiring a fishing-boat from some of the free negroes who made their living on the river. But he finally decided against this; for the fact of the boat being absent so long would attract its owner's attention, and in case any suspicion arose that the fugitive had escaped by water, the hiring of a boat by one who had already befriended the slave, and its absence for so long a time, would be almost certain to cause suspicion to be directed toward him. He therefore decided upon borrowing a boat from a friend, and next morning rode to the plantation of the father of Harry Furniss, this being situated on a convenient position on the Pamunkey, one of the branches of the York River.

"Are you using that sailing-boat of yours at present, Harry? Because, if not, I wish you would let me have the use of it for a week or so."

"With pleasure, Vincent; and my fishing-lines and nets as well, if you like. We very seldom use the boat. Do you mean to keep it here or move it higher up the river, where it would be more handy for you, perhaps?"

"I think I would rather leave it here, Furniss. A mile or two extra to ride makes no difference. I suppose it's in the water?"

"Yes; at the foot of the boathouse stairs. There is a padlock and chain. I will give you the key, so you can go off whenever you like without bothering to come up to the house. If you just call in at the stable as you ride by, one of the boys will go down with you and take your horse and put him up till you come back again."

"That will do capitally," Vincent replied. "It is some time since I was on the water, and I seem to have a fancy for a change at present. One is sick of riding into Richmond and hearing nothing but politics talked of all day. Don't be alarmed if you hear at any time that the boat has not come back at night, for if tide and wind are unfavorable at any time I might stop at Cumberland for the night."

"I have often had to do that," Furniss said. "Besides, if you took it away for a week, I don't suppose any one would notice it; for no one goes down to the boathouse unless to get the boat ready for a trip."

The next day Vincent rode over to his friend's plantation, sending Dan off an hour beforehand to bail out the boat and get the masts and sails into her from the boathouse. The greater part of the next two days was spent on the water, sometimes sailing, sometimes fishing. The evening of the second of these days was that upon which Vincent had arranged to meet Tony again, and an hour after dark he went down through the garden to the stable; for that was the time the fugitive was to meet him, for he could not leave his place of concealment until night fell. After looking at the horses, and giving some instructions to the negroes in charge, he returned to the shrubbery, and, sending Dan up to summon Dinah, he went to the bushes where he had before met Tony. The negro came out as he approached.

"How are you, Tony?"

"Much better dan I was, massa. I hab not been disturbed since I saw you, and, thanks to dat and to de good food and to massa's kind words, I'm stronger and better now, and ready to do whatever massa think best."

"Well, Tony, I am glad to say that I think I have arranged a plan by which you will be got safely out of the country. Of course, it may fail; but there is every hope of success. I have arranged for a boat, and shall take you down the river, and put you on board a ship bound for England."

The black clapped his hands in delight at the news.

"When you get there you will take another ship out to Canada, and as soon as I learn from you that you are there, and what is your address, I will give Dinah her papers of freedom and send her on to you."

"Oh, massa, it is too much," Tony said, with the tears running down his cheeks; "too much joy altogeder."

"Well, I hope it will all come right, Tony. Dinah will be here in a minute or two. Do not keep her long, for I do not wish her absence from the house to be observed just now. Now, listen to my instructions. Do you know the plantation of Mr. Furniss, on the Pamunkeyunky, near Coal harbor?"

"No, sir; but me can find out."

"No, you can't; because you can't see any one or ask questions. Very well, then, you must be here again to-morrow night at the same hour. Dan will meet you here, and act as your guide. He will presently bring you provisions for to-morrow. Be sure you be careful, Tony, and get back to your hiding-place as soon as you can, and be very quiet to-morrow until it is time to start. It would be terrible if you were to be caught now, just as we have arranged for you to get away."

On the following afternoon Vincent told his mother that he was going over that evening to his friend Furniss, as an early start was to be made next morning; they intended to go down the river as far as Yorktown, if not further; that he certainly should not be back for two days, and probably might be even longer.

"This new boating freak of yours, Vincent, seems to occupy all your thoughts. I wonder how long it will last."

"I don't suppose it will last much longer, mother," Vincent said with a laugh. "Anyhow, it will make a jolly change for a week. One had got so sick of hearing nothing talked about but secession that a week without hearing the word mentioned will do one lots of good, and I am sure I felt that if one had much more of it, one would be almost driven to take up the Northern side just for the sake of a change."

"We should all disown you, Vin," Annie said, laughing; "we should have nothing to say to you, and you would be cut by all your friends."

"Well, you see, a week's sailing and fishing will save me from all that, Annie; and I be all be able to begin again with a fresh stock of patience."

"I believe you are only half in earnest in the cause, Vincent," his mother said gravely.

"I am not indeed, mother. I quite agree with what you and every one say as to the rights of the State of Virginia, and if the North should really try to force us and the other Southern States to remain with them, I shall be just as ready to do everything I can as any one else; but I can't see the good of always talking about it, and I think it's very wrong to ill-treat and abuse those who think the other way. In England in the Civil War the people of the towns almost all thought one way, and almost all those of the counties the other, and even now opinions differ almost as widely as to which was right. I hate to hear people always laying down the law as if there could not possibly be two sides of the case, and as if every one who differed from them must be a rascal and a traitor. Almost all the fellows I know say that if it comes to fighting they shall go into the State army, and I should be quite willing, if they would really take fellows of my age for soldiers, to enlist too; but that is no reason why one should not get sick of hearing nothing but one subject talked of for weeks."

It was nearly dark when Vincent started for his walk of ten miles; for he had decided not to take his horse with him, as he had no means of sending it back, and its stay for three days in his friend's stables would attract attention to the fact of his long absence.

After about three hours' walking he reached the boat house, having seen no one as he passed through the plantation. He took the oars and sails from the boathouse and placed them in the boat, and then sat down in the stern to await the coming of the negroes. In an hour they arrived; Tony carrying a bundle of clothes that Dan had by Vincent's orders bought for him in Richmond, while Dan carried a large basket of provisions. Vincent gave an exclamation of thankfulness as he saw the two figures appear, for the day having been Sunday he knew that a good many men would be likely to join the search parties in hopes of having a share in the reward offered for Tony's capture, and he had felt very anxious all day.

"You sit in the bottom of the boat, Tony, and do you steer, Dan. You make such a splashing with your oar that we should be heard a mile away. Keep us close in shore in the shadow of the trees; the less we are noticed the better at this time of night."

Taking the sculls, Vincent rowed quietly away. He had often been out on boating excursions with his friends, and had learned to row fairly. During the last two days he had diligently instructed Dan, and after two long days' work the young negro had got over the first difficulties, but he was still clumsy and awkward. Vincent did not exert himself. He knew he had a long night's row before him, and he paddled quietly along with the stream. The boat was a good-sized one, and when not under sail was generally rowed by two strong negroes accustomed to the work.

Sometimes for half an hour at a time Vincent ceased rowing, and let the boat drift along quietly. There was no hurry, for he had a day and two nights to get down to the mouth of the river, a distance of some seventy miles, and out to sea far enough to intercept the vessel. At four o'clock they arrived at Cumberland, where the Pamunkey and Mattapony Rivers unite and form the York River. Here they were in tidal waters; and as the tide, though not strong, was flowing up, Vincent tied the boat to the branch of a tree, and lay down in the bottom for an hour's sleep, telling Dan to wake him when the tide turned, or if he heard any noise. Day had broken when the boat drifted round, and Dan aroused him.

The boat was rowed off to the middle of the river, as there could be no longer any attempt at concealment. Dan now took the bow oar, and they rowed until a light breeze sprang up. Vincent then put up the mast, and, having hoisted the sail, took his place at the helm, while Dan went forward into the bow. They passed several fishing-boats, and the smoke was seen curling up from the huts in the clearings scattered here and there along the shore. The sun had now risen, and its heat was pleasant after the damp night air.

Although the breeze was light, the boat made fair way with the tide, and when the ebb ceased at about ten o'clock the mouth of the river was but a few miles away. The mast was lowered and the sails stowed. The boat was then rowed into a little creek and tied up to the bushes. The basket of provisions was opened, and a hearty meal enjoyed, Tony being now permitted for the first time to sit up in the boat. After the meal Vincent and Dan lay down for a long sleep, while Tony, who had slept some hours during the night, kept watch.

At four in the afternoon tide again slackened, and as soon as it had fairly turned they pushed out from the creek and again set sail. In three hours they were at the mouth of the river. A short distance out they saw several boats fishing, and dropping anchor a short distance away from these, they lowered their sail, and taking the fishing-lines from the locker of the boat, set to to fish. As soon as it was quite dark the anchor was hauled up, and Vincent and Dan took the oars, the wind having now completely dropped. For some time they rowed steadily, keeping the land in sight on their right hand.

Tony was most anxious to help, but as he had never had an oar in his hand in his life, Vincent thought that he would do more harm than good. It was, he knew, some ten miles from the mouth of the York River to Fortress Monroe, at the entrance to Hampton Roads, and after rowing for three hours he thought that he could not be far from that point, and therefore turned the boat's head out toward the sea. They rowed until they could no longer make out the land astern, and then laying in their oars waited till the morning, Vincent sitting in the stern and often nodding off to sleep, while the two negroes kept up a constant conversation in the bow.

As soon as it was daylight the oars were again got out. They could clearly make out the outline of the coast, and saw the break in the shore that marked the entrance to Hampton Roads. There was a light breeze now, but Vincent would not hoist the sail lest it might attract the attention of some one on shore. He did not think the boat itself could be seen, as they were some eight or nine miles from the land. They rowed for a quarter of an hour, when Vincent saw the white sails of a ship coming out from the entrance.

The breeze was so light that she would, he thought, be nearly three hours before she reached the spot where they were now, and whether she headed to the right or left of it he would have plenty of time to cut her off. For another two hours he and Dan rowed steadily. The wind had freshened a good deal, and the ship was now coming up fast to them. Two others had come out after her, but were some miles astern. They had already made out that the ship was flying a flag at her masthead, and although they had not been able to distinguish its colors, Vincent felt sure that it was the right ship; for he felt certain that the captain would get up sail as soon as possible, so as to come up with them before any other vessels came out. They had somewhat altered their course, to put themselves in line with the vessel. When she was within a distance of about a mile and a half Vincent was able to make out the flag, and knew that it was the right one.

"There's the ship, Tony," he said; "it is all right, and in a few minutes you will be on your way to England."

Tony had already changed his tattered garments for the suit of sailor's clothes that at Dan had bought for him. Vincent had given him full instructions as to the course he was to pursue. The ship was bound for Liverpool; on his arrival there he was at once to go round the docks and take a passage in the steerage of the next steamer going to Canada.

"The fare will be about twenty-five dollars," he said. "When you get to Canada you will land at Quebec, and you had better go on by rail to Montreal, where you will, I think, find it easier to get work than at Quebec. As soon as you get a place you are likely to stop in, get somebody to write for you to me, giving me your address. Here are a hundred dollars, which will be sufficient to pay your expenses to Montreal and leave you about fifty dollars to keep you till you can get something to do."

CHAPTER IV. SAFELY BACK.

When the ship came within a few hundred yards, Vincent stood up and waved his cap, and a minute later the ship was brought up into the wind and her sails thrown aback. The captain appeared at the side and shouted to the boat now but fifty yards away:

"What do you want there?"

"I have a passenger for England," Vincent replied. "Will you take him?"

"Come alongside," the captain said. "Why didn't he come on board before I started?"

The boat was rowed alongside, and Vincent climbed on board.

The captain greeted him as a stranger and led the way to his cabin.

"You have managed that well," he said when they were alone, "and I am heartily glad that you have succeeded. I made you out two hours ago. We will stop here another two or three minutes so that the men may think you are bargaining for a passage for the negro, and then the sooner he is on board and you are on your way back the better, for the wind is rising, and I fancy it is going to blow a good deal harder before night."

"And won't you let me pay for the man's passage, captain? It is only fair anyhow that I should pay for what he will eat."

"Oh, nonsense!" the captain replied. "He will make himself useful and pay for his keep. I am only too glad to get; the poor fellow off. Now, we will have a glass of wine together and then say good-by."

Two minutes later they returned to the deck. Vincent went to the side.

"Jump on board, Tony. I have arranged for your passage."

The negro climbed up the side.

"Good-by, captain, and thank you heartily. Good-by, Tony."

The negro could not speak, but he seized the hand Vincent held out to him and pressed it to his lips. Vincent dropped lightly into his boat; and pushed off from the side of the vessel. As he did so he heard orders shouted, the yards swung round, and the vessel almost at once began to move through the water.

"Now, Dan, up with the mast; and sail again; but let me put two reefs in first, the wind is getting up."

In five minutes the sail was hoisted, and with Vincent at the helm and Dan sitting up to windward, was dashing through the water. Although Vincent understood the management of a sailing-boat on the calm waters of the rivers, this was his first experience of sea-sailing; and although the waves were still but small, he felt at first somewhat nervous as the boat dashed through them, sending up at times a sheet of spray from her bows. But he soon got over this sensation, and enjoyed the lively motion and the fresh wind. The higher points of the land were still visible; but even had they not been so it would have mattered little, as he had taken the precaution to bring with him a small pocket-compass. The wind was from the southwest; and he was therefore able, with the sheet hauled in, to make for a point where he judged the mouth of the York River lay.

"Golly, massa! how de boat do jump up and down."

"She is lively, Dan, and it would be just as well if we had some ballast on board; however, she has a good beam and walks along splendidly. If the wind keeps as it is, we shall be back at the mouth of the York in three or four hours. You may as well open that basket again and hand me that cold chicken and a piece of bread; cut the meat off the bones and put it on the bread, for I have only one hand disengaged; and hand me that bottle of cold tea. That's right. Now you had better take something yourself. You must be hungry. We forgot all about the basket in our interest in the ship."

Dan shook his head.

"A little while ago, massa, me seem berry hungry, now me doesn't feel hungry at all."

"That's bad, Dan. I am afraid you are going to be seasick."

"Me no feel seasick, massa; only me don't feel hungry." But in a few minutes Dan was forced to confess that; he did feel ill, and a few moments afterward was groaning in the agonies of seasickness.

"Never mind, Dan," Vincent said cheerfully. "You will be better after this."

"Me not seasick, massa; de sea have nuffin to do with it. It's de boat dat will jump up and down instead of going quiet."

"It's all the same thing, Dan; and I hope she won't jump about more before we get into the river."

But in another half hour Vincent had to bring the boat's head up to the wind, lower the lug, and tie down the last reef.

"There, she goes easier now, Dan," he said, as the boat resumed her course; but Dan, who was leaning helplessly over the side of the boat, could see no difference.

Vincent, however, felt that; under her close sail the boat was doing better, and rising more easily on the waves, which were now higher and farther apart than before. In another hour the whole of the shore-line was visible; but the wind had risen so much that, even under her reduced sail, the boat had as much as she could carry, and often heeled over until her gunwale was nearly under water. Another hour and the shore was but some four miles away, but Vincent felt he could no longer hold on.

In the hands of an experienced sailor, who would have humored the boat and eased her up a little to meet the seas, the entrance to the York River could no doubt have been reached with safety; but Vincent was ignorant of the art of sailing a boat in the sea, and she was shipping water heavily. Dan had for some time been bailing, having only undertaken the work in obedience to Vincent's angry orders, being too ill to care much what became of them.

"Now, Dan, I am going to bring her head up to the wind, so get ready to throw off that halyard and gather in the sail as it; comes down. That's right, man; now down with the mast."

Vincent had read that the best plan when caught in an open boat in a gale, was to tie the oars and mast, if she had one, together, and to throw them overboard with the head rope tied to them, as by that means the boat would ride head to sea. The oars, sculls, mast, and sail were firmly tied together and launched overboard, the rope being first taken off the anchor and tied round the middle of the clump of spars.

Vincent carefully played out the rope till some fifteen yards were over, then he fastened it to the ring of the head rope, and had the satisfaction of finding that the boat rode easily to the floating anchor, rising lightly over the waves, and not shipping a drop of water. He then took the bailer and got rid of the water that had found its way on board, Dan, after getting down the sail, having collapsed utterly.

"Now, Dan, sit up; there, man, the motion is much easier now, and we are taking no water on board. I will give you a glass of rum, that will put new strength into you. It's lucky we put it in the basket in case of emergency."

The negro, whose teeth were chattering from cold, fright, and exhaustion, eagerly drank off the spirit. Vincent, who was wet to the skin with the spray, took a little himself, and then settled himself as comfortably as he could on the floor-boards in the stern of the boat, and quietly thought out the position. The wind was still rising, and a thick haze obscured the land. He had no doubt that by night it would be blowing a gale; but the boat rode so easily and lightly that he believed she would get through it.

They might, it was true, be blown many miles off the shore, and not be able to get back for some time, for the gale might last two or three days. The basket of provisions was, however, a large one. Dan had received orders to bring plenty and had obeyed them literally, and Vincent saw that the supply of food, if carefully husbanded, would last; without difficulty for a week. The supply of liquor was less satisfactory. There was the bottle of rum, two bottles of claret, and a two-gallon jar, nearly half empty, of water. The cold tea was finished.

"That would be a poor supply for a week for two of us," Vincent; muttered, as he removed the contents of the basket and stored them carefully in the locker; "however, if it's going to be a gale there is sure to be some rain with it, so I think we shall manage very well."

By night it was blowing really heavily, but although the waves were high the boat shipped but little water. Dan had fallen off to sleep, and Vincent had been glad to wrap himself in the thick coat he had brought with him as a protection against the heavy dews when sleeping on the river. At times sharp rain squalls burst upon them, and Vincent had no difficulty in filling up the water-bottle again with the bailer.

The water was rather brackish, but not sufficiently so to be of consequence. All night the boat was tossed heavily on the waves. Vincent dozed off at times, rousing himself occasionally and bailing out the water, which came in the shape of spray and rain. The prospect in the morning was not cheering. Gray clouds covered the sky and seemed to come down almost on to the water, the angry sea was crested with white heads, and it seemed to Vincent wonderful that the boat should live in such a sea.

"Now, Dan, wake yourself up and get some breakfast," Vincent said, stirring up the negro with his foot.

"Oh Lor'!" Dan groaned, raising himself into a sitting position from the bottom of the boat, "dis am awful; we neber see the shore no more, massa."

"Nonsense, man," Vincent said cheerily; "we are getting on capitally."

"It hab been an awful night, sah."

"An awful night! You lazy rascal, you slept like a pig all night, while I have been bailing the boat and looking out for you. It is your turn now, I can tell you. Well, do you feel ready for your breakfast?"

Dan, after a moment's consideration, declared that he was. The feeling of seasickness had passed off, and except that he was wet through and miserable, he felt himself again, and could have eaten four times the allowance of food that Vincent handed him. A pannikin of rum and water did much to restore his life and vitality, and he was soon, with the light-heartedness of his race, laughing and chatting cheerfully.

"How long dis go on, you tink, sah?"

"Not long, I hope, Dan. I was afraid last night it was going to be a big gale, but I do not think it is blowing so hard now as it was in the night."

"Where have we get to now, sah?"

"I don't exactly know, Dan; but I do not suppose that we are very many miles away from shore. The mast and oars prevent our drifting fast, and I don't think we are further off now than we were when we left that ship yesterday. But even if we were four or five times as far as that, we should not take very long in sailing back again when the wind drops, and as we have got enough to eat for a week we need not be uncomfortable about that."

"Not much food for a week, Massa Vincent."

"Not a very great deal, Dan; but quite enough to keep us going.

You can make up for lost time when you get to shore again."

In a few hours it was certain that the wind was going down. By midday the clouds began to break up, and an hour later the sun was shining brightly. The wind was still blowing strongly, but the sea had a very different appearance in the bright light of the sun to that which it had borne under the canopy of dark gray clouds. Standing up in the boat two hours later, Vincent could see no signs of land.

"How shall we find our way back, Massa Vincent?"

"We have got a compass; besides, we should manage very well even if we had not. Look at the sun, Dan. There it is right ahead of us. So, you know, that's the west—that's the way we have to go."

"That very useful ob de sun, sah; but suppose we not live in de west de sun not point de way den."

"Oh, yes, he would, just the same, Dan. We should know whether to go away from him, or to keep him on the right hand or on the left."

This was beyond Dan. "And I s'pose the moon will show de way at night, massa?"

"The moon would show the way if she were up, but she is not always up; but I have got a compass here, and so whether we have the sun or the moon, or neither of them, I can find my way back to land."

Dan had never seen a compass, and for an hour amused himself turning it round and round and trying to get it to point in some other direction than the north.

"Now, Dan," Vincent said at last, "give me that compass, and get out the food. We will have a better meal than we did this morning, for now that the wind is going down there's no chance of food running short. When we have had dinner we will get up the sail again. The sea is not so rough as it was, and it is certainly not so high as it was before we lowered the sail yesterday."

"De waves berry big, massa."

"They are big, Dan; but they are not so angry. The heads are not breaking over as they did last night, and the boat will go better over those long waves than she did through the choppy sea at the beginning of the gale."

Accordingly the bundle of spars was pulled up alongside and lifted. The mast was set up and the sail hoisted. Dan in a few minutes forgot his fears and lost even his sense of uneasiness as he found the boat mounted wave after wave without shipping water. Several times, indeed, a shower of spray flew high up in the air, but the gusts no longer buried her so that the water came over the gunwale, and it was a long time before there was any occasion to use the bailer. As the sun set it could be seen that there was a dark line between it and the water.

"There is the land, Dan; and I do not suppose it is more than twenty miles away, for most of the coast lies low."

"But how we find de York River, massa? Will de compass tell you dat?"

"No, Dan. I don't know whether we have drifted north or south of it. At ordinary times the current runs up the coast, but the wind this morning was blowing from the north of west, and may have been doing so all through the night for anything I know. Well, the great thing is to make land. We are almost sure to come across some fishing-boats, but, if not, we must run ashore and find a house."

They continued sailing until Vincent's watch told him it was twelve o'clock, by which time the coast was quite close. The wind now almost dropped, and, lowering their sail, they rowed in until, on lowering the anchor, they found that it touched the ground. Then they lay down and slept till morning. Dan was the first to waken.

"Dar are some houses dere close down by the shore, sah, and some men getting out a boat."

"That's all right, Dan," Vincent said as he roused himself and looked over. "We shall learn soon where we are."

In a quarter of an hour the fishing-boat put off, and the lads at once rowed to it.

"How far are we from the mouth of the York River?" Vincent asked the two negroes on board.

"About twenty miles, sah. Where you come from?"

"We were off the mouth of the river, and were blown off in the gale."

"You tink yourself berry lucky you get back," one of them said.

"Berry foolish to go out like dat when not know how to get back."

"Well, we have managed to get back now, you see, and none the worse for it. Now, Dan, up with the sail again."

There was a light wind off shore, and all the reefs being shaken out the boat ran along fast.

"I should think we are going about five miles an hour, Dan. We ought to be off the mouth of the river in four hours. We must look out sharp or else we shall pass it, for many of these islets look just like the mouth of the river. However, we are pretty sure to pass several fishing-boats on our way, and we shall be able to inquire from them."

There was no need, however, to do this. It was just the four hours from the time of starting when they saw some eight or ten fishing-boats ahead of them.

"I expect that that is the entrance to the river. When we get half a mile further we shall see it open."

On approaching the fishing-boats they recognized at once the appearance of the shore, as they had noticed it when fishing there before, and were soon in the entrance to the river.

"It will be high tide in about two hours," Vincent said, "according to the time it was the other day. I am afraid when it turns we shall have to get down our sails; there will be no beating against both wind and tide. Then we must get out oars and row. There is very little tide close in by the bank, and every little gain will be a help. We have been out four days. It is Thursday now, and they will be beginning to get very anxious at home, so we must do our best to get back."

Keeping close under the bank, they rowed steadily, making on an average about two miles an hour. After five hours' rowing they tied up to the bank, had a meal, and rested until tide turned; then they again hoisted their sail and proceeded on their way. Tide carried them just up to the junction of the two rivers, and landing at Cumberland they procured beds and slept till morning.

Another long day's work took them up to the plantation of Mr. Furniss, and fastening up the boat, and carrying the sails and oars on shore, they started on their walk home.

"Why, Vincent, where on earth have you been all this time?" Mrs. Wingfield said as her son entered. "You said you might be away a couple of nights; and we expected you back on Wednesday at the latest, and now it is Friday evening."

"Well, mother, we have had great fun. We went sailing about right down to the mouth of the York River. I did not calculate that it would take me more than twice as long to get back as to get down; but as the wind blew right down the river it was precious slow work, and we had to row all the way. However, it has been a jolly trip, and I feel a lot better for it."

"You don't look any better for it," Annie said. "The skin is all off your face, and you are as red as fire. Your clothes look shrunk as well as horribly dirty. You are quite an object, Vincent."

"We got caught in a heavy gale," Vincent said, "and got a thorough ducking. As to my face, a day or two will set it all to rights again; and so they will my hands, I hope, for I have got nicely blistered tugging at those oars. And now, mother, I want some supper, for I am as hungry as a hunter. I told Dan to go into the kitchen and get a good square meal."

The next morning, just after breakfast, there was the sound of horses' hoofs outside the house, and, looking out, Vincent saw Mr. Jackson, with a man he knew to be the sheriff, and four or five others. A minute later one of the servants came in, and said that the sheriff wished to speak to Mrs. Wingfield.

"I will go out to him," Mrs. Wingfield replied. Vincent followed her to the door.

"Mrs. Wingfield," the sheriff said, "I am the holder of a warrant; to search your slave-huts and grounds for a runaway negro named Anthony Moore, the property of Mr. Jackson here."

"Do you suppose, sir," Mrs. Wingfield asked angrily, "that I am the sort of person to give shelter to runaway slaves?"

"No, madam, certainly not," the sheriff replied; "no one would suppose for a moment that Mrs. Wingfield of the Orangery would have anything to do with a runaway, but Mr. Jackson here learned only yesterday that the wife of this slave was here, and every one knows that where the wife is the husband is not likely to be far off."

"I suppose, sir," Mrs. Wingfield said coldly, "that there was no necessity for me to acquaint Mr. Jackson formerly with the fact that I had purchased through my agent the woman he sold to separate her from her husband."

"By no means, madam, by no means; though, had we known it before, it might have been some aid to us in our search. Have we your permission to see this woman and to question her?"

"Certainly not," Mrs. Wingfield said; "but if you have any question to ask I will ask her and give you her answer."

"We want to know whether she has seen her husband since the day of his flight from the plantation?"

"I shall certainly not ask her that question, Mr. Sheriff. I have no doubt that, as the place from which he has escaped is only a few miles from here, he did come to see his wife. It would have been very strange if he did not. I hope that by this time the man is hundreds of miles away. He was brutally treated by a brutal master, who, I believe, deliberately set to work to make him run away, so that he could hunt him down and punish him. I presume, sir, you do not wish to search this house, and you do not suppose that the man is hidden here. As to the slave-huts and the plantation, you can, of course, search them thoroughly; but as it is now more than a fortnight since the man escaped, it is not likely you will find him hiding within a few miles of his master's plantation."

So saying she went into the house and shut the door behind her.

Mr. Jackson ground his teeth with rage, but the sheriff rode off toward the slave-huts without a word. The position of Mrs. Wingfield of the Orangery, connected as she was with half the old families of Virginia, and herself a large slave-owner, was beyond suspicion, and no one would venture to suggest that such a lady could have the smallest sympathy for a runaway slave.

"She was down upon you pretty hot, Mr. Jackson," the sheriff said as they rode off. "You don't seem to be in her good books." Jackson muttered an imprecation.

"It is certainly odd," the sheriff went on, "after what you were telling me about her son pitching into Andrew over flogging this very slave, that she should go and buy his wife. Still, that's a very different thing from hiding a runaway. I dare say that, as she says, the fellow came here to see his wife when he first ran away; but I don't think you will find him anywhere about here now. It's pretty certain from what we hear that he hasn't made for the North, and where the fellow can be hiding I can't think. Still the woods about this country are mighty big, and the fellow can go out on to the farms and pick corn and keep himself going for a long time. Still, he's sure to be brought up sooner or later."

A thorough search was made of the slave-huts, and the slaves were closely questioned, but all denied any knowledge of the runaway. Dan escaped questioning, as he had taken up Vincent's horse to the house in readiness for him to start as soon as he had finished breakfast.

All day the searchers rode about the plantation examining every clump of bushes, and assuring themselves that none of them had been used as a place of refuge for the runaway.

"It's no good, Mr. Jackson," the sheriff said at last. "The man may have been here; he ain't here now. The only place we haven't; searched is the house, and you may be quite sure the slaves dare not conceal him there. Too many would get to know it. No, sir, he's made a bolt of it, and you will have to wait now till he is caught by chance, or shot by some farmer or other in the act of stealing."

"I would lay a thousand dollars," Andrew Jackson exclaimed passionately, "that young Wingfield knows something about his whereabouts, and has lent him a hand!"

"Well, I should advise you to keep your mouth shut about it till you get some positive proof," the sheriff said dryly. "I tell you it's no joke to accuse a member of a family like the Wingfields of helping runaway slaves to escape."

"I will bide my time," the planter said. "You said that some day you would lay hands on Tony dead or alive. You see if some day I don't lay hands on young Wingfield."

"Well, it seems, Mr. Jackson," the sheriff remarked with a sneer, for he was out of temper at the ill success of the day's work, "that he has already laid hands on your son. It seems to me quite as likely that he will lay hands on you as you on him."

Two days afterward as Vincent was riding through the streets of Richmond he saw to his surprise Andrew Jackson in close conversation with Jonas Pearson.

"I wonder what those two fellows are talking about?" he said to himself. "I expect Jackson is trying to pump Pearson as to the doings at the Orangery. I don't like that fellow, and never shall, and he is just the sort of man to do one a bad turn if he had the chance. However, as I have never spoken to him about that affair from beginning to end, I don't see that he can do any mischief if he wants to."

Andrew Jackson, however, had obtained information which he considered valuable. He learned that Vincent had been away in a boat for five days, and that his mother had been very uneasy about him. He also learned that the boat was one belonging to Mr. Furniss, and that it was only quite lately that Vincent had taken to going out sailing.

After considerable trouble he succeeded in getting at one of the slaves upon Mr. Furniss' plantation. But he could only learn from him that Vincent had been unaccompanied when he went out in the boat either by young Furniss or by any of the plantation hands; that he had taken with him only his own slave, and had come and gone as he chose, taking out and fastening up the boat himself, so that no one could say when he had gone out, except that his horse was put up at the stables. The slave said that certainly the horse had only stood there on two or three occasions, and then only for a few hours, and that unless Mr. Wingfield had walked over he could never have had the boat out all night, as the horse certainly had not stood all night in the stables.

Andrew Jackson talked the matter over with his son, and both agreed that Vincent's conduct was suspicious. His own people said he had been away for five days in the boat. The people at Furniss' knew nothing about this, and therefore there must be some mystery about it, and they doubted not that that mystery was connected with the runaway slave, and they guessed that he had either taken Tony and landed him near the mouth of the York River on the northern shore, or that he had put him on board a ship. They agreed, however, that whatever their suspicions, they had not sufficient grounds for openly accusing Vincent of aiding their runaway.

CHAPTER V. SECESSION.

While Vincent had been occupied with the affairs of Tony and his wife, public events had moved forward rapidly. The South Carolina Convention met in the third week in December, and on the 20th of that month the Ordinance of Secession was passed. On the 10th of January, three days after Vincent returned home from his expedition, Florida followed the example of South Carolina and seceded. Alabama and Mississippi passed the Ordinance of Secession on the following day; Georgia on the 18th, Louisiana on the 23d, and Texas on the 1st of February.

In all these States the Ordinance of Session was received with great rejoicing: bonfires were lit, the towns illuminated, and the militia paraded the streets, and in many cases the Federal arsenals were seized and the Federal forts occupied by the State troops. In the meantime the Northern Slave States, Virginia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Kentucky, and Missouri, remained irresolute. The general feeling was strongly in favor of their Southern brethren; but they were anxious for peace, and for a compromise being arrived at. Whether the North would agree to admit the constitutional rights of secession, or whether it would use force to compel the Seceding States to remain in the Union, was still uncertain; but the idea of a civil war was so terrible a one that the general belief was that some arrangement to allow the States to go their own way would probably be arrived at.

For the time the idea of Vincent going to West Point was abandoned. Among his acquaintances were several young men who were already at West Point, and very few of these returned to the academy. The feeling there was very strongly on the side of secession. A great majority of the students came from the Southern States, as while the sons of the Northern men went principally into trade and commerce, the Southern planters sent their sons into the army, and a great proportion of the officers of the army and navy were Southerners.

As the professors at West Point were all military men, the feeling among them, as well as among the students, was in favor of State rights; they considering that, according to the constitution, their allegiance was due first to the States of which they were natives, and in the second place to the Union. Thus, then, many of the professors who were natives of the seven States which had seceded resigned their appointments, and returned home to occupy themselves in drilling the militia and the levies, who were at once called to arms.

Still all hoped that peace would be preserved, until on the 11th of April General Beauregard, who commanded the troops of South Carolina, summoned Major Anderson, who was in command of the Federal troops in Fort Sumter, to surrender, and on his refusal opened fire upon the fort on the following day.

On the 13th, the barracks of the fort being set on fire, and Major Anderson seeing the hopelessness of a prolonged resistance, surrendered. The effect of the news throughout the United States was tremendous, and Mr. Lincoln at once called out 75,000 men of the militia of the various States to put down the rebellion—the border States being ordered to send their proportion. This brought matters to a climax. Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee, and Missouri all refused to furnish contingents to act against the Southern States; and Virginia, North Carolina, and Kansas a few days later passed Ordinances of Secession and joined the Southern States. Missouri, Maryland, and Delaware were divided in their counsels.

The struggle that was about to commence was an uneven one. The white population of the Seceding States was about 8,000,000; while that the Northern States were 19,614,885. The North possessed an immense advantage, inasmuch as they retained the whole of the Federal navy, and were thereby enabled at once to cut off all communication between the Southern States and Europe, while they themselves could draw unlimited supplies of munitions of war of all kinds from across the Atlantic.

Although the people of Virginia had hoped to the last that some peaceful arrangement might be effected, the Act of Secession was received with enthusiasm. The demand of Mr. Lincoln that they should furnish troops to crush their Southern brethren excited the liveliest indignation, and Virginia felt that there was no course open to her now but to throw in her lot with the other Slaves States. Her militia was at once called out, and volunteers called for to form a provisional army to protect the State from invasion by the North.

The appeal was answered with enthusiasm; men of all ages took up arms; the wealthy raised regiments at their own expense, generally handing over the commands to experienced army officers, and themselves taking their places in the ranks; thousand of lads of from fifteen to sixteen years of age enrolled themselves, and men who had never done a day's work in their life prepared to suffer all the hardships of the campaign as private soldiers.

Mrs. Wingfield was an enthusiastic supporter of State rights; and when Vincent told her that numbers of his friends were going to enroll themselves as soon as the lists were opened, she offered no objection to his doing the same.

"Of course you are very young, Vincent; but no one thinks there will be any serious fighting. Now that Virginia and the other four States have cast in their lot with the seven that have seceded, the North can never hope to force the solid South back into the Union. Still it is right you should join. I certainly should not like an old Virginian family like ours to be unrepresented; but I should prefer your joining one of the mounted corps.

"In the first place it will be much less fatiguing than carrying a heavy rifle and knapsack; and in the second place, the cavalry will for the most part be gentlemen. I was speaking only yesterday when I went into Richmond to Mr. Ashley, who is raising a corps. He is one of the best riders in the country, and a splendid specimen of a Virginian gentleman. He tells me that he has already received a large number of applications from young volunteers, and that he thinks he shall be able without any difficulty to get as many as he wants. I said that I had a son who would probably enroll himself, and that I should like to have him in his corps.

"He said that he would be glad to put down your name, and that he had had many applications from lads no older than yourself. He considered that for cavalry work, scouting, and that sort; of thing age mattered little, and that; a lad who was at once a light weight, a good rider, and a good shot was of as much good as a man."

"Thank you, mother. I will ride into Richmond to-morrow morning and see Ashley. I have often met him at one house or another, and should like to serve under him very much. I should certainly prefer being in the cavalry to the infantry."

Rosie and Annie, who were of course enthusiastic for the South, were almost as pleased as was Vincent when they heard that their mother had consented to his enrolling himself. So many of the girls of their acquaintance had brothers or cousins who were joining the army, that they would have felt it as something like a slur upon the family name had Vincent remained behind.

On the following morning Vincent rode over and saw Mr. Ashley, who had just; received his commission as major. He was cordially received.

"Mrs. Wingfield was speaking to me about you, and I shall be glad to have you with me—the more so as you are a capital rider and a good shot. I shall have a good many in my ranks no older than you are. Did I not hear a few months since that you bought Wildfire? I thought when I heard it; that you would be lucky if you did not get your neck broken in the course of a week. Peters, who owns the next estate to mine, had the horse for about three weeks, and was glad enough to get rid of it for half what he had given for it. He told me the horse was the most savage brute he ever saw. I suppose you did not keep it many days?"

"I have got it still, and mean to ride it with you. The horse was not really savage. It was hot-tempered, and had, I think, been badly treated by its first owner. Who-ever it had belonged to, I found no difficulty with it. It only wanted kindness and a little patience; and as soon as it found that it could not get rid of me, and that I had no intention of ill-treating it, it settled down quietly, after running away a few times and giving me some little trouble at starting. And now I would not change it for any horse in the State."

"You must be a first-rate rider," Major Ashley said, "to be able to tame Wildfire. I never saw the horse, for I was away when Peters had him, but from his description it was a perfect savage."

"Are we allowed to bring a servant with us?" Vincent asked.

"Yes, if you like. I know that a good many are going to do so, but you must not make up your mind that you will get much benefit from one. We shall move rapidly, and each man must shift for himself, but at the same time we shall of course often be stationary; and then servants will be useful. At any rate I can see no objection to men having them. We must be prepared to rough it to any extent when it is necessary, but I see no reason why at other times a man should not make himself comfortable. I expect the order to-morrow or next day to begin formally to enroll volunteers. As I have now put down your name there will be no occasion for you to come in then. You will receive a communication telling you when to report yourself.

"I shall not trouble much about uniform at first. High boots and breeches, a thick felt hat that will turn the edge of a sword, and a loose coat-jacket of dark-gray cloth. That is the name of the tailor who has got the pattern, and will make them. So I should advise you to go to him at once, for he will be so busy soon that; there is no saying when the whole troop will get their uniforms."

Upon his return home Vincent related to his mother and sisters the conversation that he had had with Major Ashley.

"Certainly you had better take a servant with you," his mother said. "I suppose when you are riding about; you will have to clean your horse, and cook your dinner, and do everything for yourself; but when you are in a town you should have these things done for you. Who would you like to take?

"I should like to take Dan, mother, if you have no objection. He is very strong and active, and I think would generally be able to keep up with us; besides, I know he would always stick to me."

"You shall have him certainly, Vincent; I will make him over formally to you."

"Thank you, mother," Vincent said joyfully; for he had often wished that Dan belonged to him, as he would then be able to prevent any interference with him by the overseer or any one else, and could, if he liked, give him his freedom—although this would, he knew, be of very doubtful advantage to the lad as long as he remained in the South.

The next morning the necessary papers were drawn up, and the ownership of Dan was formally transferred to Vincent. Dan was wild with delight when he heard that Vincent was now his master, and that he was to accompany him to the war. It had been known two days before that Vincent was going, and it seemed quite shocking to the negroes that the young master should go as a private soldier, and have to do everything for himself-"just," as they said, "like de poor white trash;" for the slaves were proud to belong to an old family, and looked down with almost contempt upon the poorer class of whites, regarding their own position as infinitely superior.

Four days later Vincent received an official letter saying that the corps would be mustered in two days' time. The next day was spent in a long round of farewell visits, and then Vincent mounted Wildfire, and, with Dan trotting behind, rode off from the Orangery amid a chorus of blessings and good wishes from all the slaves who could on any pretext get away from their duties, and who had assembled in front of the house to see him start.

The place of meeting for the regiment was at Hanover

Courthouse—a station on the Richmond and Fredericksburg

Railway, close to the Pamunkey River, about eighteen miles from

the city.

The Orangery was a mile from the village of Gaines, which lay to the northeast of Richmond, and was some twelve miles from Hanover Courthouse.

A month was spent in drill, and at the end of that time the corps were able to execute any simple maneuver. More than this Major Ashley did not care about their learning. The work in which they were about to engage was that of scouts rather than that of regular cavalry, and the requirements were vigilance and attention to orders, good shooting and a quick eye. Off duty there was but little discipline. Almost the whole of the men were in a good position in life, and many of them very wealthy; and while strict discipline and obedience were expected while on duty, at all other times something like equality existed between officers and men, and all were free to live as they chose.

The rations served out were simple and often scanty, for at present the various departments were not properly organized, and such numbers of men were flocking to the standards that the authorities were at their wit's end to provide them with even the simplest food. This mattered but little, however, to the regiment, whose members were all ready and willing to pay for everything they wanted, and the country people round found a ready market for all their chickens, eggs, fruit, and vegetables at Hanover Courthouse, for here there were also several infantry regiments, and the normally quiet little village was a scene of bustle and confusion.

The arms of the cavalry were of a very varied description. Not more than a dozen had swords; the rest were armed with rifles or shot-guns, with the barrels cut short to enable them to be carried as carbines. Many of them were armed with revolvers, and some carried pistols so antiquated that they might have been used in the revolutionary war. A certain number of tents had been issued for the use of the corps. These, however, were altogether insufficient for the numbers, and most of the men preferred to sleep in shelters composed of canvas, carpets, blankets, or any other material that came to hand, or in arbors constructed of the boughs of trees, for it was now April and warm enough to sleep in the open air.

In the third week in May the order came that the corps was to march at once for Harper's Ferry—an important position at the point where the Shenandoah River runs into the Potomac, at the mouth of the Shenandoah Valley. The order was received with the greatest satisfaction. The Federal forces were gathering rapidly upon the northern banks of the Potomac, and it was believed that, while the main army would march down from Washington through Manassas Junction direct upon Richmond, another would enter by the Shenandoah Valley, and, crossing the Blue Ridge Mountains, come down on the rear of the Confederate army, facing the main force at Manassas. The cavalry marched by road, while the infantry were despatched by rail as far as Manassas Junction, whence they marched to Harper's Ferry. The black servants accompanied the infantry.

The cavalry march was a pleasant one. At every village through which they passed the people flocked out with offerings of milk and fruit. The days were hot, but the mornings and evenings delightful; and as the troops always halted in the shade of a wood for three or four hours in the middle of the day, the marches although long were not fatiguing. At Harper's Ferry General Johnston had just superseded Colonel Jackson in command. The force there consisted of 11 battalions of infantry, 16 guns, and after Ashley's force arrived, 300 cavalry. Among the regiments there Vincent found many friends, and learned what was going on.

He learned that Colonel Jackson had been keeping them hard at work. Some of Vincent's friends had been at the Virginia Military Institute at Lexington, where Jackson was professor of natural philosophy and instructor of artillery.

"He was the greatest fun," one of the young men said; "the stiffest and most awkward-looking fellow in the institute. He used to walk about as if he never saw anything or anybody. He was always known as Old Tom, and nobody ever saw him laugh. He was awfully earnest in all he did, and strict, I can tell you, about everything. There was no humbugging him. The fellows liked him because he was really so earnest about everything, and always just and fair. But he didn't look a bit like a soldier except as to his stiffness, and when the fellows who had been at Lexington heard that he was in command here they did not think he would have made much hand at it; but I tell you, he did. You never saw such a fellow to work.

"Everything had to be done, you know. There were the guns, but no horses and no harness. The horses had to be got somehow, and the harness manufactured out of ropes; and you can imagine the confusion of nine battalions of infantry, all recruits, with no one to teach them except a score or two of old army and militia officers. Old Tom has done wonders, I can tell you. You see, he is so fearfully earnest himself every one else has got to be earnest. There has been no playing about anything, but just fifteen hours' hard work a day. Fellows grumbled and growled and said it was absurd, and threatened to do all sorts of things. You see, they had all come out to fight if necessary, but hadn't bargained for such hard work as this.

"However, Jackson had his way, and I don't suppose any one ever told him the men thought they were too hard worked. He is not the sort of man one would care about remonstrating with. I don't know yet whether he is as good at fighting as he is at working and organizing; but I rather expect a fellow who is so earnest about everything else is sure to be earnest about fighting, and I fancy that when he once gets into the thick of it he will go through with it. He had such a reputation as an oddity at Lexington that there were a lot of remarks when he was made colonel and sent here; but there is no doubt that he has proved himself the right man so far, and although his men may grumble they believe in him.

"My regiment is in his brigade, and I will bet any money that we have our share of fighting. What sort of man is Johnston? He is a fine fellow—a soldier, heart and soul. You could tell him anywhere, and we have a first-rate fellow in command of the cavalry—Colonel Stuart—a splendid dashing fellow, full of life and go. His fellows swear by him. I quite envy you, for I expect you will astonish the Yankee horsemen. They are no great riders up there, you know, and I expect the first time you meet them you will astonish them."

Here he suddenly stopped, stood at attention, and saluted.

Vincent at once did the same, although, had he not been set the example by his friend, he would never have thought of doing so to the figure who passed.

"Who is it?" he asked, as his companion resumed his easy attitude.

"Why, that's Old Tom."

"What! Colonel Jackson!" Vincent said in surprise. "Well, he is an odd-looking fellow."

The figure that had passed was that of a tall, gaunt man, leaning awkwardly forward in his saddle. He wore an old gray coat, and there was no sign of rank, nor particle of gold lace upon the uniform. He wore on his head a faded cadet cap, with the rim coming down so far upon his nose that he could only look sideways from under it. He seemed to pay but little attention to what was going on around him, and did not enter into conversation with any of the officers he met.

The brigade commanded by Jackson was the first of the army of the Shenandoah, and consisted of the 2d, 4th, 5th, and 27th Virginians, to which was shortly afterward added the 33d. They were composed of men of all ranks and ages, among them being a great number of lads from fifteen and upward; for every school had been deserted. Every boy capable of carrying a musket had insisted upon joining, and among them were a whole company of cadets from Lexington. The regiments selected their own officers, and among these were many who were still lads. Many of the regiments had no accouterments, and were without uniforms, and numbers carried no better arms than a double-barreled shot-gun; but all were animated with the same spirit of enthusiasm in their cause, and a determination to die rather than to allow the invaders to pass on through the fertile valleys of their native land.

Of all these valleys that of Shenandoah was the richest and most beautiful. It was called the Garden of Virginia; and all writers agreed in their praises of the beauties of its fields and forests, mountains and rivers, its delicious climate, and the general prosperity which prevailed among its population.

It was a pleasant evening that Ashley's horse spent at Harper's Ferry on the day they marched in. All had many friends among the other Virginian regiments, and their camp-fires were the center toward which men trooped by scores. The rest was pleasant after their hard marches; and, although ready to do their own work when necessary, they appreciated the advantage of having their servants again with them to groom their horses and cook their food.

The negroes were not less glad at being again with their masters. Almost all were men who had, like Dan, been brought up with their young owners, and felt for them a strong personal attachment, and, if it had been allowed, would gladly have followed them in the field of battle, and fought by their side against the "Yankees." Their stay at Harper's Ferry was to be a short one. Colonel Stuart, with his 200 horse, was scouting along the whole bank of the Potomac, watching every movement of the enemy, and Ashley's horse was to join them at once.

It was not difficult for even young soldiers to form an idea of the general nature of the operations. They had to protect the Shenandoah Valley, to guard the five great roads by which the enemy would advance against Winchester, and not only to save the loyal inhabitants and rich resources of the valley from falling into the hands of the Federals, but what was of even greater importance, to prevent the latter from marching across the Blue Ridge Mountains, and falling upon the flank of the main Confederate army at Manassas.

The position was a difficult one, for while "the grand army" was assembling at Alexandria to advance against Manassas Junction, McClellan was advancing from the northwest with 20,000 men, and Patterson from Pennsylvania with 18,000.

In the morning before parading his troop, 100 strong, Ashley called them together and told them that, as they would now be constantly on the move and scattered over a long line, it was impossible that they could take their servants with them.

"I should never have allowed them to be brought," he said, "had I known that we should be scouting over such an extensive country; at the same time, if we can manage to take a few on it would certainly add to our comfort. I propose that we choose ten by lot to go on with us. They must be servants of the troop and not of individuals. We can scatter them in pairs at five points, with instructions to forage as well as they can, and to have things in readiness to cook for whoever may come in off duty or may for the time be posted there. Henceforth every man must groom and see to his own horse, but I see no reason, military or otherwise, why we shouldn't get our food cooked for us; and it will be just as well, as long as we can, to have a few bundles of straw for us to lie on instead of sleeping on the ground.

"Another ten men we can also choose by lot to go to Winchester; which is, I imagine, the point we shall move to if the enemy advance, as I fancy they will, from the other side of the Shenandoah Valley. The rest must be sent home."

Each man accordingly wrote his name on a piece of paper, and placed them in a haversack. Ten were then drawn out; and their servants were to accompany the troop at once. The servants of the next ten were to proceed by train to Winchester, while the slaves of all whose names remained in the bag were to be sent home at once, provided with passes permitting them to travel. To Vincent's satisfaction his name was one of the first ten drawn, and Dan was therefore to go forward. The greater part of the men evaded the obligation to send their servants back to Richmond by despatching them to friends who had estates in the Shenandoah Valley, with letters asking them to keep the men for them until the troop happened to come into their neighborhood.

At six o'clock in the morning the troop mounted and rode to Bath, thirty miles away. It was here that Stuart had his headquarters, whence he sent out his patrols up and down the Potomac, between Harper's Ferry on the east and Cumberland on the west. Stuart was away when they arrived, but he rode in a few hours afterward.

"Ah! Ashley, I am glad you have arrived," he said, as he rode up to the troop, who had hastily mounted as he was seen approaching. "There is plenty for you to do, I can tell you; and I only wish that you had brought a thousand men instead of a hundred. I am heartily glad to see you all, gentlemen," he said to the troop. "I am afraid just at first that the brightness of your gray jackets will put my men rather to shame; but we shall soon get rid of that. But dismount your men, Ashley; there is plenty for them and their horses to do without wasting time in parade work. There is very little of that here, I can tell you. I have not seen a score of my men together for the last month."

Vincent gazed with admiration at the young leader, whose name was soon to be celebrated throughout America and Europe. The young Virginian—for he was not yet twenty-eight years old—was the beau ideal of a cavalry officer. He was singularly handsome, and possessed great personal strength and a constitution which enabled him to bear all hardships. He possessed unfailing good spirits, and had a joke and laugh for all he met; and while on the march at the head of his regiment he was always ready to lift up his voice and lead the songs with which the men made the woods resound.

He seemed to live in his saddle, and was present at all hours of the night and day along the line he guarded seeing that the men were watchful and on the alert, instructing the outposts in their duty, and infusing his own spirit and vigilance among them. He had been educated at West Point, and had seen much service with the cavalry against the Indians in the West. Such was the man who was to become the most famous cavalry leader of his time. So far he had not come in contact with the enemy, and his duties were confined to obtaining information regarding their strength and intentions, to watching every road by which they could advance, and to seeing that none passed north to carry information to the enemy as to the Confederate strength and positions, for even in the Shenandoah Valley there were some whose sympathies were with the Federals.

These were principally Northern men settled as traders in the towns, and it was important to prevent them from sending any news to the enemy. So well did Stuart's cavalry perform this service, and so general was the hostility of the population against the North, that throughout the whole of the war in Virginia it was very seldom that the Northern generals could obtain any trustworthy information as to the movements and strength of the Confederates, while the latter were perfectly informed of every detail connected with the intentions of the invaders.

The next morning Ashley's troop took up their share of the work at the front. They were broken up into parties of ten, each of which was stationed at a village near the river, five men being on duty night and day. As it happened that none of the other men in his squad had a servant at the front, Vincent was able without difficulty to have Dan assigned to his party. A house in the village was placed at their disposal, and here the five off duty slept and took their meals while the others were in the saddle. Dan was quite in his element, and turned out an excellent cook, and was soon a general favorite among the mess.

CHAPTER VI. BULL RUN.

The next fortnight passed by without adventure. Hard as the work was, Vincent enjoyed it thoroughly. When on duty by day he was constantly on the move, riding through the forest, following country lanes, questioning every one he came across; and as the men always worked in pairs, there was no feeling of loneliness. Sometimes Ashley would draw together a score of troopers, and crossing the river in a ferryboat, would ride twenty miles north, and, dashing into quiet villages, astonish the inhabitants by the sight of the Confederate uniform. Then the villagers would be questioned as to the news that had reached them of the movement of the troops; the post office would be seized and the letters broken open; any useful information contained in them being noted. But in general questions were readily answered; for a considerable portion of the people of Maryland were strongly in favor of the South, and were only prevented from joining it by the strong force that held possession of Baltimore, and by the constant movement of Federal armies through the State. Vincent was often employed in carrying despatches from Major Ashley to Stuart, being selected for that duty as being the best mounted man in the troop. The direction was always a vague one. "Take this letter to Colonel Stuart, wherever he may be," and however early he started, Vincent thought himself fortunate if he carried out his mission before sunset; for Stuart's front covered over fifty miles of ground, and there was no saying where he might be. Sometimes after riding thirty or forty miles, and getting occasional news that Stuart had passed through ahead of him, he would learn from some outpost that the colonel had been there but ten minutes before, and had ridden off before he came, and then Vincent had to turn his horse and gallop back again, seldom succeeding in overtaking his active commander until the latter had halted for his supper at one or other of the villages where his men were stationed. Sometimes by good luck he came upon him earlier, and then, after reading the despatch, Stuart would, if he were riding in the direction where Ashley's command lay, bid him ride on with him, and would chat with him on terms of friendly intimacy about people they both knew at Richmond, or as to the details of his work, and sometimes they would sit down together under the shade of some trees, take out the contents of their haversacks, and share their dinners.

"This is the second time I have had the best of this," the colonel laughed one day; "my beef is as hard as leather, and this cold chicken of yours is as plump and tender as one could wish to eat."

"I have my own boy, colonel, who looks after the ten of us stationed at Elmside, and I fancy that in the matter of cold rations he gives me an undue preference. He always hands me my haversack when I mount with a grin, and I quite understand that it is better I should ask no questions as to its contents."

"You are a lucky fellow," Stuart said. "My own servant is a good man, and would do anything for me; but my irregular hours are too much for him. He never knows when to expect me; and as he often finds that when I do return I have made a meal an hour before at one of the outposts, and do not want the food he has for hours been carefully keeping hot for me, it drives him almost to despair, and I have sometimes been obliged to eat rather than disappoint him. But he certainly has not a genius for cooking, and were it not that this riding gives one the appetite of a hunter, I should often have a good deal of difficulty in devouring the meat he puts into my haversack."

But the enemy were now really advancing, and on the 12th of June a trooper rode in from the extreme left, and handed to Vincent a despatch from Colonel Stuart.

"My orders were," he said, "that, if you were here, you were to carry this on at all speed to General Johnston. If not, some one else was to take it on."

"Any news?" Vincent asked, as aided by Dan he rapidly saddled

Wildfire.

"Yes," the soldier said; "2,000 of the enemy have advanced up the

Western side and have occupied Romney, and they say that all

Patterson's force is on the move."

"So much the better," Vincent replied, as he jumped into the saddle. "We have been doing nothing long enough, and the sooner it comes the better."

It was a fifty-mile ride; but it was done in five hours, and at the end of that time Vincent dismounted in front of General Johnston's quarters.

"Is the general in?" he asked the sentry at the door.

"No, he is not in; but here he comes," the soldier replied, and two minutes later the general, accompanied by three or four officers, rode up.

Vincent saluted, and handed him the despatch. The general opened it and glanced at the contents.

"The storm is going to burst at last, gentlemen," he said to the officers. "Stuart writes me that 2,000 men, supposed to be the advance of McClellan's army, are at Romney, and that he hears Patterson is also advancing from Chambersburg on Williamsport. His despatch is dated this morning at nine o'clock. He writes from near Cumberland. No time has been lost, for that is eighty miles away, and it is but five o'clock now. How far have you brought this despatch, sir?"

"I have brought it from Elmside, general; twenty miles on the other side of Bath. A trooper brought it in just at midday, with orders for me to carry it on at once."

"That is good work," the general said. "You have ridden over fifty miles in five hours. You must be well mounted, sir."

"I do not think there is a better horse in the State," Vincent said, patting Wildfire's neck.

The general called an orderly.

"Let this man picket his horse with those of the staff," he said, "and see that it has forage at once. Take the man to the orderly's quarters, and see that he is well cared for."

Vincent saluted, and, leading Wildfire, followed the orderly. When he had had a meal, he strolled out to see what was going on. Evidently some movement was in contemplation. Officers were riding up or dashing off from the general's headquarters. Two or three regiments were seen marching down from the plateau on which they were encamped into the town. Bells rang and drums beat, and presently long trains of railway wagons, heavily laden, began to make their way across the bridge. Until next morning the movement continued unceasingly; by that time all the military stores and public property, together with as much private property belonging to inhabitants who had decided to forsake their homes for a time rather than to remain there when the town was occupied by the enemy, as could be carried on in the available wagons, had been taken across the bridge. A party of engineers, who had been all night hard at work, then set fire both to the railway bridge across the river and the public buildings in the town. The main body of troops had moved across in the evening. The rear-guard passed when all was in readiness for the destruction of the bridge.

General Johnston had been preparing for the movement for some time; he had foreseen that the position must be evacuated as soon as the enemy began to advance upon either of his flanks, and a considerable portion of his baggage and military stores had some time previously been sent into the interior of Virginia. The troops, formed up on the high grounds south of the river, looked in silence at the dense volumes of smoke rising. This was the reality of war. Hitherto their military work had been no more than that to which many of them were accustomed when called out with the militia of their State; but the scene of destruction on which they now gazed brought home to them that the struggle was a serious one—that it was war in its stern reality which had now begun.

The troops at once set off on their march, and at night bivouacked in the woods around Charlestown. The next day they pushed across the country and took up a position covering Winchester; and then the enemy, finding that Johnston's army was in front of them ready to dispute their advance, recrossed the river, and Johnston concentrated his force round Winchester.

Vincent joined his corps on the same afternoon that the infantry marched out from Harper's Ferry, the general sending him forward with despatches as soon as the troops had got into motion.

"You will find Colonel Stuart in front of the enemy; but more than that I cannot tell you."

This was quite enough for Vincent, who found the cavalry scouting close to Patterson's force, prepared to attack the enemy's cavalry should it advance to reconnoiter the country, and to blow up bridges across streams, fell trees, and take every possible measure to delay the advance of Patterson's army, in its attempt to push on toward Winchester before the arrival of General Johnston's force upon the scene.

"I am glad to see you back, Wingfield," Major Ashley said, as he rode up. "The colonel tells me that in the despatch he got last night from Johnston the general said that Stuart's information had reached in a remarkably short time, having been carried with great speed by the orderly in charge of the duty. We have scarcely been out of our saddles since you left. However, I think we have been of use, for we have been busy all round the enemy since we arrived here in the afternoon, and I fancy he must think us a good deal stronger than we are. At any rate, he has not pushed his cavalry forward at all; and, as you say Johnston will be up to-morrow afternoon. Winchester is safe anyhow."

After the Federals had recrossed the river, and Johnston had taken up his position round Winchester, the cavalry returned to their old work of scouting along the Potomac.

On the 20th of June movements of considerable bodies of the enemy were noticed; and Johnston at once despatched Jackson with his brigade to Martinsburg, with orders to send as much of the rolling-stock of the railroad as could be removed to Winchester, to destroy the rest, and to support Stuart's cavalry when they advanced. A number of locomotives were sent to Winchester along the highroad, drawn by teams of horses. Forty engines and 300 cars were burned or destroyed, and Jackson then advanced and took up his position on the road to Williamsport, the cavalry camp being a little in advance of him. This was pleasant for Vincent, as when off duty he spent his time with his friends and schoolfellows in Jackson's brigade.

On the 2d of July the scouts rode into camp with the news that a strong force was advancing from Williamsport. Jackson at once advanced with the 5th Virginia Infantry, numbering 380 men and one gun, while Stuart, with 100 cavalry, started to make a circuitous route, and harassed the flank and rear of the enemy. There was no intention on the part of Jackson of fighting a battle, his orders being merely to feel the enemy; whose strength was far too great to be withstood even had he brought his whole brigade into action, for they numbered three brigades of infantry, 500 cavalry, and some artillery.

For some hours the little Confederate force skirmished so boldly that they checked the advance of the enemy, whose general naturally supposed that he had before him the advanced guard of a strong force, and therefore moved forward with great caution. Then the Confederates, being threatened on both flanks by the masses of the Federals, fell back in good order. The loss was very trifling on either side, but the fact that so small a force had for hours checked the advance of an army greatly raised the spirits and confidence of the Confederates. Stuart's small cavalry force, coming down upon the enemy's rear, captured a good many prisoners—Colonel Stuart himself capturing forty-four infantry. Riding some distance ahead of his troop to find out the position of the enemy, he came upon a company of Federal infantry sitting down in a field, having no idea whatever that any Confederate force was in the neighborhood. Stuart did not hesitate a moment, but riding up to them shouted the order, "Throw down your arms, or you are all dead men." Believing themselves surrounded, the Federals threw down their arms, and when the Confederate cavalry came up were marched off as prisoners.

Jackson, on reaching his camp, struck his tents and sent them to the rear, and formed up his whole brigade in order of battle. The Federals, however, instead of attacking, continued their flank movement, and Jackson fell back through Martinsburg and halted for the night a mile beyond the town.

Next day he again retired, and was joined six miles further on by Johnston's whole force. For four days the little army held its position, prepared to give battle if the enemy advanced; but the Federals, though greatly superior in numbers, remained immovable at Martinsburg, and Johnston, to the great disgust of his troops, retired to Winchester. The soldiers were longing to meet the invaders in battle, but their general had to bear in mind that the force under his command might at any moment be urgently required to join the main Confederate army and aid in opposing the Northern advance upon Richmond.

Stuart's cavalry kept him constantly informed of the strength of the enemy gathering in his front. Making circuits round Martinsburg, they learned from the farmers what numbers of troops each day came along; and while the Federals knew nothing of the force opposed to them, and believed that it far outnumbered their own, General Johnston knew that Patterson's force numbered about 22,000 men, while he himself had been joined only by some 3,000 men since he arrived at Winchester.

On the 18th of July a telegram from the government at Richmond announced that the Federal grand army had driven in General Beauregard's pickets at Manassas, and had begun to advance, and Johnston was directed if possible to hasten to his assistance. A few earthworks had been thrown up at Winchester, and some guns mounted upon them, and the town was left under the protection of the local militia. Stuart's cavalry was posted in a long line across the country to prevent any news of the movement reaching the enemy. As soon as this was done the infantry, 8,300 strong, marched off. The troops were in high spirits now, for they knew that their long period of inactivity was over, and that, although ignorant when and where, they were on their march to meet the enemy.

They had no wagons or rations, the need for speed was too urgent even to permit of food being cooked. Without a halt they pressed forward steadily, and after two days' march, exhausted and half famished, they reached the Manassas Gap Railroad. There they were put into trains as fast as these could be prepared, and by noon on the 20th joined Beauregard at Manassas. The cavalry had performed their duty of preventing the news of the movement from reaching the enemy until the infantry were nearly a day's march away, and then Stuart reassembled his men and followed Johnston. Thus the Confederate plans had been completely successful. Over 30,000 of the enemy, instead of being in line of battle with the main army, were detained before Winchester, while the little Confederate force who had been facing them had reached Beauregard in time to take part in the approaching struggle.

In the North no doubt as to the power of the grand army to make its way to Richmond was entertained. The troops were armed with the best weapons obtainable, the artillery was numerous and excellent, the army was fed with every luxury, and so confident were the men of success that they regarded the whole affair in the light of a great picnic. The grand army numbered 55,000 men, with 9 regiments of cavalry and 49 rifle-guns. To oppose these, the Confederate force, after the arrival of Johnston's army, numbered 27,833 infantry, 35 smooth-bored guns, and 500 cavalry. Many of the infantry were armed only with shot-guns and old fowling-pieces, and the guns were small and ill-supplied with ammunition. There had been some sharp fighting on the 18th, and the Federal advance across the river of Bull Run had been sharply repulsed; therefore their generals determined, instead of making a direct attack on the 31st against the Confederate position, to take a wide sweep round, cross the river higher up, and falling upon the Confederate left flank, to crumple it up.

All night the Federal troops had marched, and at daybreak on the 21st nearly 40,000 men were in position on the left flank of the Confederates. The latter were not taken by surprise when Stuart's cavalry brought in news of the Federal movement, and General Beauregard, instead of moving his troops toward the threatened point, sent orders to General Longstreet on the right to cross the river as soon as the battle began, and to fall upon the Federal flank and rear.

Had this movement been carried out, the destruction of the Federal army would have been complete; but by one of those unfortunate accidents which so frequently occur in war and upset the best laid plans, the order in some way never came to hand, and when late in the day the error was discovered it was too late to remedy it.

At eight o'clock in the morning two of the Federal divisions reached the river, and while one of them engaged the Confederate force stationed at the bridge, another crossed the river at a ford. Colonel Evans, who commanded the Confederate forces, which numbered but fifteen companies, left 200 men to continue to hold the bridge, while with 800 he hurried to oppose General Hunter's division, which had crossed at the ford.

This consisted of 16,000 infantry, with cavalry and artillery, and another division of equal force had crossed at the Red House ford higher up. To check so great a force with this handful of men seemed all but impossible; but Colonel Evans determined to hold his ground to the last, to enable his general to bring up reinforcements. His force consisted of men of South Carolina and Louisiana, and they contested every foot of the ground.

The regiment which formed the advance of the Federals charged, supported by an artillery fire, but was repulsed. As the heavy Federal line advanced, however, the Confederates were slowly but steadily pressed back, until General Bee, with four regiments and a battery of artillery, came up to their assistance. The newcomers threw themselves into the fight with great gallantry, and maintained their ground until almost annihilated by the fire of the enemy, who outnumbered them by five to one. As, fighting desperately, they fell back before Hunter's division, the Federals who had crossed at Red House Ford suddenly poured down and took them in flank.

Swept by a terrible musketry fire, these troops could no longer resist, and in spite of the efforts of their general, who rode among them imploring them to stand firm until aid arrived, they began to fall back. Neither entreaties nor commands were of avail; the troops had done all that they could, and broken and disheartened they retreated in great confusion. But at this moment, when all seemed lost, a line of glittering bayonets was seen coming over the hill behind, and the general, riding off in haste toward them, found Jackson advancing with the first brigade.

Unmoved by the rush of the fugitives of the brigades of Bee and Evans, Jackson moved steadily forward, and so firm and resolute was their demeanor, that Bee rode after his men, and pointing with his sword to the first brigade, shouted, "Look, there is Jackson standing like a stone wall." The general's words were repeated, and henceforth the brigade was known as the Stonewall Brigade, and their general by the nickname of Stonewall Jackson, by which he was ever afterward known. The greater part of the fugitives rallied, and took up their position on the right of Jackson, and the Federal forces, who were hurrying forward assured of victory, found themselves confronted suddenly by 2,000 bayonets. After a moment's pause they pressed forward again, the artillery preparing a way for them by a tremendous fire.

Jackson ordered his men to lie down until the enemy arrived within fifty yards, and then to charge with the bayonet. Just at this moment Generals Johnston and Beauregard arrived on the spot, and at once seeing the desperate nature of the situation, and the whole Federal army pressing forward against a single brigade, they did their best to prepare to meet the storm. First they galloped up and down the disordered lines of Bee, exhorting the men to stand firm; and seizing the colors of the 4th Alabama, Johnston led them forward and formed them up under fire.

Beauregard hurried up some reinforcements and formed them on the left of Jackson, and thus 6,500 infantry and artillery, and Stuart's two troops of cavalry, stood face to face with more than 20,000 infantry and seven troops of regular cavalry, behind whom at the lower fords were 35,000 men in reserve. While his men were lying down awaiting the attack, Jackson rode backward and forward in front of them as calm and as unconcerned to all appearance as if on the parade ground, and his quiet bravery greatly nerved and encouraged the young troops.

All at once the tremendous artillery fire of the enemy ceased, and their infantry came on in massive lines. The four Confederate guns poured in their fire and then withdrew behind the infantry. When the line came within fifty yards of him, Jackson gave the word, his men sprang to their feet, poured in a heavy volley, and then charged. A wild yell rose from both ranks as they closed, and then they were mingled in a desperate conflict. For a time all was in wild confusion, but the ardor and courage of Jackson's men prevailed, and they burst through the center of the Federal line.

Immediately Jackson had charged, Beauregard sent forward the rest of the troops, and for a time a tremendous struggle took place along the whole line. Generals Bee and Barlow fell mortally wounded at the head of their troops. General Hampton was wounded, and many of the colonels fell. So numerous were the Federals, that although Jackson had pierced their center, their masses drove back his flanks and threatened to surround him. With voice and example he cheered on his men to hold their ground, and the officers closed up their ranks as they were thinned by the enemy's fire, and for an hour the struggle continued without marked advantage on either side.

Jackson's calmness was unshaken even in the excitement of the fight. At one time an officer rode up to him from another portion of the field and exclaimed, "General, I think the day is going against us!" To which Jackson replied in his usual curt manner, "If you think so, sir, you had better not say anything about it."

The resolute stand of the Confederates enabled General Beauregard to bring up fresh troops, and he at last gave the word to advance.

Jackson's brigade rushed forward on receiving the order, burst through the Federals with whom they were engaged, and, supported by the reserves, drove the enemy from the plateau. But the Federals, still vastly superior in force, brought up the reserves, and prepared to renew the attack; but 1,700 fresh men of the army of the Shenandoah came upon the field of battle, Smith and Early brought up their division from the river, and the whole Southern line advanced at the charge, drove the enemy down the slopes and on toward the fords.

A panic seized them, and their regiments broke up and took to headlong flight, which soon became an utter rout. Many of them continued their flight for hours, and for a time the Federal army ceased to exist; and had the Confederates advanced, as Jackson desired that they should do, Washington would have fallen into their hands without a blow being struck in its defense.

This, the first great battle of the war, is sometimes known as the battle of Manassas, but more generally as Bull Run.

With the exception of one or two charges, the little body of Confederate horse did not take any part in the battle of Bull Run. Had they been aware of the utter stampede of the Northern troops, they could safely have pressed forward in hot pursuit as far as Washington, but being numerically so inferior to the Federal cavalry, and in ignorance that the Northern infantry had become a mere panic-stricken mob, it would have been imprudent in the extreme for such a handful of cavalry to undertake the pursuit of an army.

Many of the Confederates were of opinion that this decisive victory would be the end of the war, and that the North, seeing that the South was able as well as willing to defend the position it had taken up, would abandon the idea of coercing it into submission. This hope was speedily dissipated. The North was indeed alike astonished and disappointed at the defeat of their army by a greatly inferior force, but instead of abandoning the struggle, they set to work to retrieve the disaster, and to place in the field a force which would, they believed, prove irresistible.

Vincent Wingfield saw but little of the battle at Bull Run. As they were impatiently waiting the order to charge while the desperate conflict between Jackson's brigade and the enemy was at its fiercest, a shell from one of the Federal batteries burst a few yards in front of the troop, and one of the pieces striking Vincent on the side hurled him insensible from his horse. He was at once lifted and carried by Dan and some of the other men-servants, who had been told off for this duty, to the rear, where the surgeons were busily engaged in dressing the wounds of the men who straggled back from the front. While the conflict lasted those unable to walk lay where they fell, for no provision had at present been made for ambulance corps, and not a single man capable of firing a musket could be spared from the ranks. The tears were flowing copiously down Dan's cheeks as he stood by while the surgeons examined Vincent's wound.

"Is he dead, sah?" he sobbed as they lifted him up from his stooping position.

"Dead." the surgeon repeated. "Can't you see he is breathing, and did you not hear him groan when I examined his side? He is a long way from being a dead man yet. Some of his ribs are broken, and he has had a very nasty blow; but I do not think there is any cause for anxiety about him. Pour a little wine down his throat, and sprinkle his face with water. Raise his head and put a coat under it, and when he opens his eyes and begins to recover, don't let him move. Then you can cut up the side of his jacket and down the sleeve, so as to get it off that side altogether. Cut his shirt open, and bathe the wound with some water and bit of rag of any sort; it is not likely to bleed much. When it has stopped bleeding put a pad of linen upon it, and keep it wet. When we can spare time we will bandage it properly."

But it was not until late at night that the time could be spared for attending to Vincent; for the surgeons were overwhelmed with work, and the most serious cases were, as far as possible, first attended to. He had soon recovered consciousness. At first he looked with a feeling of bewilderment at Dan, who was copiously sprinkling his face with water, sobbing loudly while he did so. As soon as the negro perceived that his master had opened his eyes he gave a cry of delight.

"Tank de Lord, Marse Vincent; dis child tought you dead and gone for sure."

"What's the matter, Dan? What has happened?" Vincent said, trying to move, and then stopping suddenly with a cry of pain.

"You knocked off your horse, sah, wid one of de shells of dem cussed Yanks."

"Am I badly hurt, Dan?"

"Berry bad, sah; great piece of flesh pretty nigh as big as my hand come out ob your side, and doctor says some of de ribs broken. But de doctor not seem to make much ob it; he hard sort ob man dat. Say you get all right again. No time to tend to you now. Hurry away just as if you some poor white trash instead of Massa Wingfield ob de Orangery."

Vincent smiled faintly.

"It doesn't make much difference what a man is in a surgeon's eyes, Dan; the question is how badly he is hurt, and what can be done for him? Well, thank God it's no worse. Wildfire was not hurt, I hope?"

"No, sah; he is standing tied up by dat tree. Now, sah, de doctor say me cut your jacket off and bave de wound."

"All right, Dan; but be a little careful with the water, you seem to be pretty near drowning me as it is. Just wipe my face and hair, and get the handkerchief from the pocket of my jacket, and open the shirt collar and put the handkerchief inside round my neck. How is the battle going on? The roar seems louder than ever."

Dan went forward to the crest a of slight rise of the ground whence he could look down upon the field of battle, and made haste to return.

"Can't see berry well, sah; too much smoke. But dey in de same place still."

"Look round, Dan, and see if there are any fresh troops coming up."

"Yes, sah; lot of men coming ober de hill behind."

"That's all right, Dan. Now you can see about this bathing my side."

As soon as the battle was over Major Ashley rode up to where Vincent and five or six of his comrades of the cavalry were lying wounded.

"How are you getting on, lads? Pretty well I hope?" he asked the surgeon as he dismounted.

"First rate, major," one of the men answered. "We all of us took a turn as soon as we heard that the Yanks were whipped."

"Yes, we have thrashed them handsomely," the major said. "Ah, Wingfield, I am glad to see you are alive. I thought when you fell it was all over with you."

"I am not much hurt, sir," Vincent replied. "A flesh wound and some ribs are broken, I hear; but they won't be long mending I hope."

"It's a nasty wound to look at," the major said, as Dan lifted the pad of wet linen. "But with youth and health you will soon get round it, never fear."

"Ah, my poor lad, yours is a worse case," he said as he bent over a young fellow who was lying a few paces from Vincent.

"It's all up with me, major," he replied faintly; "the doctor said he could do nothing for me. But I don't mind, now we have beaten them. You will send a line to the old people, major, won't you, and say I died doing my duty? I've got two brothers, and I expect they will send one on to take my place."

"I will write to them, my lad," the major said, "and tell them all about you." He could give the lad no false hopes, for already a gray shade was stealing over the white face, and the end was close at hand; in a few minutes he ceased to breathe.

Late in the evening the surgeons, having attended to more urgent cases, came round. Vincent's wound was now more carefully examined than before, but the result was the same. Three of the ribs were badly fractured, but there was no serious danger.

"You will want quiet and good nursing for some time, my lad," the principal surgeon said. "There will be a train of wounded going off for Richmond the first thing in the morning, and you shall go by it. You had better get a door, lads," he said to some of the troopers who had come across from the spot where the cavalry were bivouacked to see how their comrades were getting on, "and carry him down and put him in the train. One has just been sent off, and another will be made up at once, so that the wounded can be put in it as they are taken down. Now I will bandage the wound, and it will not want any more attention until you get home."

A wad of lint was placed upon the wound and bandaged tightly round the body.

"Remember you have got to be perfectly quiet, and not attempt to move till the bones have knit. I am afraid that they are badly fractured, and will require some time to heal up again."

A door was fetched from an out-house near, and Vincent and two of his comrades, who were also ordered to be sent to the rear, were one by one carried down to the nearest point on the railway, where a train stood ready to receive them, and they were then laid on the seats.

All night the wounded kept arriving, and by morning the train was packed as full as it would hold, and with two or three surgeons in charge started for Richmond. Dan was permitted to accompany the train, at Vincent's urgent request, in the character of doctor's assistant, and he went about distributing water to the wounded, and assisting the surgeons in moving such as required it.

It was night before the train reached Richmond. A number of people were at the station to receive it; for as soon as the news of the battle had been received, preparations had been made for the reception of the wounded, several public buildings had been converted into hospitals, and numbers of the citizens had come forward with offers to take one or more of the wounded into their houses. The streets were crowded with people, who were wild with joy at the news of the victory which, as they believed, had secured the State from any further fear of invasion. Numbers of willing hands were in readiness to carry the wounded on stretchers to the hospitals, where all the surgeons of the town were already waiting to attend upon them.

Vincent, at his own request, was only laid upon a bed, as he said that he would go home to be nursed the first thing in the morning. This being the case it was needless to put him to the pain and trouble of being undressed. Dan had started as soon as he saw his master carried into the hospital to take the news to the Orangery, being strictly charged by Vincent to make light of his injury, and on no account whatever to alarm them. He was to ask that the carriage should come to fetch him the first thing in the morning.

It was indeed but just daybreak when Mrs. Wingfield drove up to the hospital. Dan had been so severely cross-examined that he had been obliged to give an accurate account of Vincent's injury. There was bustle and movement even at that early hour, for another train of wounded had just arrived. As she entered the hospital she gave an exclamation of pleasure, for at the door were two gentlemen in conversation, one of whom was the doctor who had long attended the family at the Orangery.

"I am glad you are here, Dr. Mapleston; for I want your opinion before I move Vincent. Have you seen him?"

"No, Mrs. Wingfield; I did not know he was here. I have charge of one of the wards, and have not had time to see who are in the others. I sincerely hope Vincent is not seriously hurt."

"That's want I want to find out, doctor. His boy brought us news late last night that he was here. He said the doctors considered that he was not in any danger; but as it seems that he had three ribs broken and a deep flesh wound from the explosion of a shell, it seems to me that it must be serious."

"I will go up and see him at once, Mrs. Wingfield, and find out from the surgeon in charge of his ward exactly what is the matter with him." Dan led the way to the bed upon which Vincent was lying. He was only dozing, and opened his eyes as they came up.

"My poor boy," Mrs. Wingfield said, struggling with her tears at the sight of his pale face, "this is sad indeed."

"It is nothing very bad, mother," Vincent replied cheerfully; "nothing at all to fret about. The wound is nothing to the injuries of most of those here. I suppose, doctor, I can be moved at once?"

Doctor Mapleston felt his pulse.

"You are feverish, my lad; but perhaps the best thing for you would be to get you home while you can be moved. You will do far better there than here. But I must speak to the surgeon in charge of you first, and hear what he says."

"Yes, I think you can move him," the surgeon of the ward said. "He has got a nasty wound, and the ticket with him said that three ribs were badly fractured; but I made no examination, as he said he would be fetched the first thing this morning. I only put on a fresh dressing and bandaged it. The sooner you get him off the better, if he is to be moved. Fever is setting in, and he will probably be wandering by this evening. He will have a much better chance at home, with cool rooms and quiet and careful nursing, than he can have here; though there would be no lack of either comforts or nurses, for half the ladies in the town have volunteered for the work, and we have offers of all the medical comforts that could be required were the list of wounded ten times as large as it is."

A stretcher was brought in, and Vincent was lifted as gently as possible upon it. Then he was carried down-stairs and the stretcher placed in the carriage, which was a large open one, and afforded just sufficient length for it. Mrs. Wingfield took her seat beside him. Dan mounted the box beside the coachman.

"I will be out in an hour, Mrs. Wingfield," Dr. Mapleston said. "I have to go round the ward again, and will then drive out at once. Give him lemonade and cooling drinks; don't let him talk. Cut his clothes off him, and keep the room somewhat dark, but with a free current of air. I will bring out some medicine with me."

The carriage drove slowly to avoid shaking, and when they approached the house Mrs. Wingfield told Dan to jump down and come to the side of her carriage. Then she told him to run on as fast as he could ahead, and to tell her daughters not to meet them upon their arrival, and that all the servants were to be kept out of the way, except three men to carry Vincent upstairs. The lad was consequently got up to his room without any excitement, and was soon lying on his bed with a sheet thrown lightly over him.

"That is comfortable," he said, as his mother bathed his face and hands and smoothed his hair. "Where are the girls, mother?"

"They will come in to see you now, Vincent; but you are to keep quite quiet you know, and not to talk." The girls stole in and said a few words, and left him alone again with Mrs. Wingfield. He did not look to them so ill as they had expected, for there was a flush of fever on his cheeks. Dr. Mapleston arrived in another half-hour, examined and redressed the wound, and comforted Mrs. Wingfield with the assurance that there was nothing in it likely to prove dangerous to life.

"Our trouble will be rather with the effect of the shock than with the wound itself. He is very feverish now, and you must not be alarmed if by this evening he is delirious. You will give him this cooling draught every three hours; he can have anything in the way of cooling drinks he likes. If he begins to wander, put cloths dipped in cold water and wrung out on his head, and sponge his hands with water with a little eau de Cologne in it. If he seems very hot set one of the women to fan him, but don't let her go on if it seems to worry him. I will come round again at half past nine this evening and will make arrangements to pass the night here. We have telegrams saying that surgeons are coming from Charleston and many other places, so I can very well be spared."

When the doctor returned in the evening, he found, as he had anticipated, that Vincent was in a high state of fever. This continued four or five days, and then gradually passed off; and he woke up one morning perfectly conscious. His mother was sitting on a chair at the bedside.

"What o'clock is it, mother?" he asked. "Have I been asleep long?"

"Some time, dear," she answered gently; "but you must not talk. You are to take this draught and to go off to sleep again; when you wake you may ask any questions you like." She lifted the lad's head, gave him the draught and some cold tea, then darkened the room, and in a few minutes he was asleep again.

CHAPTER VII. THE MERRIMAC AND THE MONITOR.

It was some weeks before Vincent was able to walk unaided. His convalescence was somewhat slow, for the shock to the system had been a severe one. The long railway journey had been injurious to him, for the bandage had become somewhat loose and the broken pieces of bone had grated upon each other, and were much longer in knitting together than they would have been had he been treated on the spot.

As soon as he could walk he began to be anxious to rejoin his troop, but the doctor said that many weeks must elapse before he would be ready to undergo the hardships of campaign. He was reconciled to some extent to the delay by letters from his friends with the troop and by the perusal of the papers. There was nothing whatever doing in Virginia. The two armies still faced each other, the Northerners protected by the strong fortifications they had thrown up round Washington—fortifications much too formidable to be attacked by the Confederates, held as they were by a force immensely superior to their own, both in numbers and arms.

The Northerners were indeed hard at work, collecting and organizing an army which was to crush out the rebellion. General Scott had been succeeded by McClellan in the supreme command, and the new general was indefatigable in organizing the vast masses of men raised in the North. So great were the efforts that in a few months after the defeat of Bull Run the North had 650,000 men in arms.

But while no move had at present been made against Virginia there was sharp fighting in some of the border states, especially in Missouri and Kentucky, in both of which public opinion was much divided, and regiments were raised on both sides.

Various operations were now undertaken by the Federal fleet at points along the coast, and several important positions were taken and occupied, it being impossible for the Confederates to defend so long a line of sea-coast. The South had lost rather than gained ground in consequence of their victory at Bull Run. For a time they had been unduly elated, and were disposed altogether to underrate their enemies and to believe that the struggle was as good as over. Thus, then, they made no effort at all corresponding to that of the North; but as time went on, and they saw the vastness of the preparations made for their conquest, the people of the Southern States again bestirred themselves.

Owing to the North having the command of the sea, and shutting up all the principal ports, they had to rely upon themselves for everything, while the North could draw arms and ammunition and all the requisites of war from the markets of Europe. Foundries were accordingly established for the manufacture of artillery, and factories for muskets, ammunition, and percussion caps. The South had, in fact, to manufacture everything down to the cloth for her soldiers uniforms and the leather for their shoes; and, as in the past she had relied wholly upon the North for such goods, it was for a time impossible to supply the troops with even the most necessary articles.

The women throughout the States were set to work, spinning and weaving rough cloth, and making uniforms from it. Leather, however, cannot be produced all at once, and indeed with all their efforts the Confederate authorities were never throughout the war able to provide a sufficient supply of boots for the troops, and many a battle was won by soldiers who fought almost barefooted and who reshod themselves for the most part by stripping the boots from their dead foes. Many other articles could not be produced in the Southern States, and the Confederates suffered much from the want of proper medicines and surgical appliances.

For these and many other necessaries they had to depend solely upon the ships which succeeded in making their way through the enemy's cruisers and running the blockade of the ports. Wine, tea, coffee, and other imported articles soon became luxuries beyond the means of all, even the very wealthy. All sorts of substitutes were used; grain roasted and ground being chiefly used as a substitute for coffee. Hitherto the South had been principally occupied in raising cotton and tobacco, depending chiefly upon the North for food; and it was necessary now to abandon the cultivation of products for which they had no sale, and to devote the land to the growth of maize and other crops for food.

By the time that the long period of inaction came to a close, Vincent had completely recovered his strength, and was ready to rejoin the ranks as soon as the order came from Colonel Stuart, who had promised to send for him directly there was a prospect of active service.

One of Vincent's first questions as soon as he became convalescent was whether a letter had been received from Tony. It had come, he was told, among the last batch of letters that crossed the frontier before the outbreak of hostilities, and Mrs. Wingfield, had, as he had requested, opened it. As had been arranged, it had merely contained Tony's address at a village near Montreal; for Vincent had warned him to say nothing in the letter, for there was no saying, in the troubled times which were approaching when Tony left, into whose hands it might fall.

Vincent had before starting told his mother of the share he had taken in getting the negro safely away, and Mrs. Wingfield, brought up as she had been to regard those who assisted runaway slaves to escape in the same light as those who assisted to steal any other kind of property, was at first greatly shocked when she heard that her son had taken part in such an enterprise, however worthy of compassion the slave might be, and however brutal the master from whose hands he had fled. However, as Vincent was on the point of starting for the war to meet danger, and possibly death, in the defense of Virginia, she had said little, and that little was in reference rather to the imprudence of the course he had taken than to what she regarded in her own mind as its folly, and indeed its criminality.

She had, however, promised that as soon as Tony's letter arrived she would, if it was still possible, forward Dinah and the child to him, supplying her with money for the journey, and giving her the papers freeing her from slavery which Vincent had duly signed in the presence of a justice. When the letter came, however, it was already too late. Fighting was on the point of commencing, all intercourse across the border was stopped, the trains were all taken up for the conveyance of troops, and even a man would have had great difficulty in passing northward, while for an unprotected negress with a baby such a journey would have been impossible.

Mrs. Wingfield had therefore written four times at fort-nightly intervals to Tony, saying that it was impossible to send Dinah off at present, but that she should be despatched as soon as the troubles were over, upon receipt of another letter from him saying that his address was unchanged, or giving a new one. These letters were duly posted, and it was probable that one or other of them would in time reach Tony, as mails were sent off to Europe whenever an opportunity offered for them to be taken by a steamer running the blockade from a Southern port. Dinah, therefore, still remained at the Orangery. She was well and happy, for her life there was a delightful one indeed after her toil and hardship at the Jackson's; and although she was anxious to join her husband, the knowledge that he was well and safe from all pursuit, and that sooner or later she would join him with her child, was sufficient to make her perfectly contented.

During Vincent's illness she had been his most constant attendant; for her child now no longer required her care, and passed much of its time down at the nursery, where the young children of the slaves were looked after by two or three aged negresses past active work. She had therefore begged Mrs. Wingfield to be allowed to take her place by the bedside of her young master, and, after giving her a trial, Mrs. Wingfield found her so quiet, gentle, and patient that she installed her there, and was able to obtain the rest she needed, with a feeling of confidence that Vincent would be well attended to in her absence.

When Vincent was well enough to be about again, his sisters were surprised at the change that had taken place in him since he had started a few months before for the war. It was not so much that he had grown, though he had done so considerably, but that he was much older in manner and appearance. He had been doing man's work: work requiring vigilance, activity, and courage, and they could no longer treat him as a boy. As he became stronger he took to riding about the plantation; but not upon Wildfire, for his horse was still with the troop, Colonel Stuart having promised to see that the animal was well cared for, and that no one should ride upon it but himself.

"I hope you like Jonas Pearson better than you used to do, Vincent," Mrs. Wingfield said a day or two before he started to rejoin his troop.

"I can't say I do, mother," he replied shortly. "The man is very civil to me now—too civil, in fact; but I don't like him, and I don't believe he is honest. I don't mean that he would cheat you, though he may do so for anything I know; but he pretends to be a violent Secessionist, which as he comes from Vermont is not natural, and I imagine he would sing a different tune if the blue coats ever get to Richmond. Still I have nothing particular to say against him, except that I don't like him and I don't trust him. So long as everything goes on well for the Confederacy I don't suppose it matters, but if we should ever get the worst of it you will see that fellow will be mischievous.

"However, I hear that he has obeyed your orders, and that there has been no flogging on the estate since I went away. In fact, as far as I can see, he does not keep anything like such a sharp hand over the slaves as he used to do; and in some of the fields the work seems to be done in a very slovenly way. What his game is I don't know; but I have no doubt whatever that he has some game in his mind."

"You are a most prejudiced boy," Mrs. Wingfield said, laughing. "First of all the man is too strict, and you were furious about it; now you think he's too lenient, and you at once suspect he has what you call a game of some sort or other on. You are hard to please indeed."

Vincent smiled. "Well, as I told you once before, we shall see. I hope I am wrong, and that Pearson is all that you believe him to be. I own that I may be prejudiced against him; but nothing will persuade me that it was not from him that Jackson learned that Dinah was here, and it was to that we owe the visit of the sheriff and the searching the plantation for Tony. However, whatever the man is at heart, he can, as far as I see, do you no injury as long as things go on as they are, and I sincerely trust he will never have an opportunity of doing so."

During the winter Vincent had made the acquaintance of many of the Southern leaders. The town was the center of the movement, the heart of the Confederacy. It was against it, as the capital of the Southern States, that the efforts of the Northerns were principally directed, and to it flocked the leading men from all parts of the country. Although every Virginian family had some of its members at the front, and a feeling of anxiety reigned everywhere, a semblance of gaiety was kept up. The theater was opened, and parties and balls given, in order to keep up the spirits of the people by the example of those of higher rank.

These balls differed widely in appearance from those of eighteen months before. The gentlemen were almost all in uniform, and already calicoes and other cheap fabrics were worn by many of the ladies, as foreign dress materials could no longer be purchased. Mrs. Wingfield made a point of always attending with her daughters at these entertainments, which to the young people afforded a cheerful break in the dullness and monotony of their usual life; for, owing to the absence of almost all the young men with the army, there had been a long cessation of the pleasant interchange of visits, impromptu parties, and social gatherings that had formed a feature in the life in Virginia.

The balls would have been but dull affairs had only the residents of Richmond been present; but leave was granted as much as possible to officers stationed with regiments within a railway run of the town, and as these eagerly availed themselves of the change from the monotony of camp life, the girls had no reason to complain of want of partners. Here and at the receptions given by President Davis, Vincent met all the leaders of the Confederacy, civil and military. Many of them had been personal friends of the Wingfields before the Secession movement began, and among them was General Magruder, who commanded the troops round Richmond.

Early in the winter the general had called at the Orangery. "We are going to make a call upon the patriotism of the planters of this neighborhood, Mrs. Wingfield," he said during lunch time. "You see, our armies are facing those of the Federals opposite Washington, and can offer a firm front to any foe marching down from the North; but, unfortunately they have the command of the sea, and there is nothing to prevent their embarking an army on board ship and landing it in either the James or the York Rivers, and in that case they might make a rush upon Richmond before there would be time to bring down troops to our aid. I am therefore proposing to erect a chain of works between the two rivers, so as to be able to keep even a large army at bay until reinforcements arrive; but to do this a large number of hands will be required, and we are going to ask the proprietors of plantations to place as many negroes as they can spare at our disposal."

"There can be no doubt as to the response your question will meet with, general. At present we have scarce enough work for our slaves to do. I intend to grow no tobacco next year, for it will only rot in the warehouse, and a comparatively small number of hands are required to raise corn crops. I have about a hundred and seventy working hands on the Orangery, and shall be happy to place a hundred at your disposal for as long a time as you may require them. If you want fifty more you can of course have them. Everything else must at present give way to the good of the cause."

"I thank you much, Mrs. Wingfield, for your offers, and will put your name down the first on the list of contributors."

"You seem quite to have recovered now," he said to Vincent a few minutes afterward.

"Yes; I am quite ashamed of staying here so long, general. But I feel some pain at times; and as there is nothing doing at the front, and my doctor says that it is of importance I should have rest as long as possible, I have stayed on. Major Ashley has promised to recall me as soon as there is a prospect of active work."

"I think it is quite likely that there will be active work here as soon as anywhere else," the general said. "We know pretty well what is doing at Washington, and though nothing has been decided upon, there is a party in favor of a landing in force here; and if so, we shall have hot work. What do you say? If you like I will get you a commission and appoint you one of my aides-de-camp. Your knowledge of the country will make you useful, and as Ashley has specially mentioned your name in one of his despatches, you can have your commission by asking for it.

"If there is to be fighting round here, it will be of more interest to you defending your own home than in taking part in general engagements for the safety of the State. It will, too, enable you to be a good deal at home; and although so far the slaves have behaved extremely well, there is no saying exactly what may happen if the Northerners come among us. You can rejoin your own corps afterward, you know, if nothing comes of this."

Vincent was at first inclined to decline the offer, but his mother and sisters were so pleased at having him near them that he finally accepted with thanks, being principally influenced by the general's last argument, that possibly there might be trouble with the slaves in the event of a landing in the James Peninsula by the Northerners. A few days later there came an official intimation that he had received a commission in the cavalry, and had at General Magruder's request been appointed to his staff, and he at once entered upon his new duties.

The fortress of Monroe, at the entrance of Hampton Roads, was still in the hands of the Federals, and a large Federal fleet was assembled here, and was only prevented from sailing up the James River by the Merrimac, a steamer which the Confederates had plated with railway iron. They had also constructed batteries upon some high bluffs on each side of the river. In a short time 5,000 negroes were set to work erecting batteries upon the York River at Yorktown and Gloucester Point, and upon a line of works extending from Warwick upon the James River to Ship Point on the York, through a line of wooded and swampy country intersected by streams emptying themselves into one or other of the rivers.

This line was some thirty miles in length, and would require 25,000 men to guard it; but Magruder hoped that there would be sufficient warning of an attack to enable reinforcements to arrive in time to raise his own command of about 10,000 men to that strength. The negroes worked cheerfully, for they received a certain amount of pay from the State; but the work was heavy and difficult, and different altogether to that which they were accustomed to perform. The batteries by the sides of the rivers made fair progress, but the advance of the long line of works across the peninsula was but slow. Vincent had, upon receiving his appointment, written at once to Major Ashley, sending his letter by Dan, who was ordered to bring back Wildfire. Vincent stated that had he consulted his personal feeling he should have preferred remaining in the ranks of his old corps; but that as the fighting might be close to his home, and there was no saying what might be the behavior of the slave population in the event of a Northern invasion, he had, for the sake of his mother and sisters, accepted the appointment, but as soon as the danger was over he hoped to rejoin the corps and serve under his former commander.

Dan, on his return with Wildfire, brought a letter from the major saying that although he should have been glad to have had him with him, he quite agreed with the decision at which he had, under the circumstances, arrived. Vincent now took up his quarters at the camp formed a short distance from the city, and much of his time was spent in riding to and from the peninsula, seeing that the works were being carried out according to the plan of the general, and reporting upon the manner in which the contractors for the supply of food to the negroes at work there performed their duties. Sometimes he was away for two or three days upon this work; but he generally managed once or twice a week to get home for a few hours.

The inhabitants of Richmond and its neighborhood were naturally greatly interested in the progress of the works for their defense, and parties were often organized to ride or drive to Yorktown, or to the batteries on the James River, to watch the progress made. Upon one occasion Vincent accompanied his mother and sisters, and a party of ladies and gentlemen from the neighboring plantations, to Drury's Bluff, where an entrenched position named Fort Darling had been erected, and preparations made to sink vessels across the river, and close it against the advance of the enemy's fleet should any misfortune happen to the Merrimac.

Several other parties had been made up, and each brought provisions with them. General Magruder and some of his officers received them upon their arrival, and conducted them over the works. After this the whole party sat down to a picnic meal on the ground, and no stranger could have guessed that the merry party formed part of a population threatened with invasion by a powerful foe. There were speeches and toasts, all of a patriotic character, and General Magruder raised the enthusiasm to the highest point by informing them that in a few days—the exact day was a secret, but it would be very shortly—the Merrimac, or, as she had been re-christened, the Virginia, would put out from Norfolk Harbor, and see what she could do to clear Hampton Roads of the fleet that now threatened them. As they were riding back to Richmond the general said to Vincent:

"I will tell you a little more than I told the others, Wingfield. I believe the Merrimac will go out the day after to-morrow. I wish I could get away myself to see the affair; but, unfortunately, I cannot do so. However, if you like to be present, I will give you three days' leave, as you have been working very hard lately. You can start early to-morrow, and can get down by train to Norfolk in the evening. I should advise you to take your horse with you, and then you can ride in the morning to some spot from which you will get a fair view of the Roads, and be able to see what is going on."

"Thank you very much, sir," Vincent said. "I should like it immensely."

The next day Vincent went down to Norfolk. Arriving there, he found that although there was a general expectation that the Merrimac would shortly go out to try her strength with the enemy, nothing was known of the fact that the next morning had been fixed for the encounter, the secret being kept to the last lest some spy or adherent of the North might take the news to the fleet. After putting up his horse Vincent went down to the navy yard, off which the Merrimac was lying.

This ship had been sunk by the Federals when at the commencement of hostilities they had evacuated Norfolk. Having been raised by the Confederates, the ship was cut down, and a sort of roof covered with iron was built over it, so that the vessel presented the appearance of a huge sunken house. A ram was fixed to her bow, and she was armed with ten guns. Her steam-power was very insufficient for her size, and she could only move through the water at the rate of five knots an hour.

"She is an ugly-looking thing," a man observed to Vincent as he gazed at the ship.

"Frightfully ugly," Vincent agreed. "She may be a formidable machine in the way of fighting, but one can scarcely call her a ship."

"She is a floating-battery, and if they tried their best to turn out the ugliest thing that ever floated they could not have succeeded better. She is just like a Noah's ark sunk down to the eaves of her roof."

"Yes, she is a good deal like that," Vincent agreed. "The very look of her ought to be enough to frighten the Federals, even if she did nothing else."

"I expect it will not be long before she gives them a taste of her quality," the man said. "She has got her coal and ammunition on board, and there's nothing to prevent her going out this evening if she wants to."

"It will be worth seeing when she does go out to fight the Northerners," Vincent said. "It will be a new experiment in warfare, and, if she turns out a success, I suppose all the navies in the world will be taking to cover themselves up with iron."

The next morning, which was the 8th of March—a date forever memorable in naval annals—smoke was seen pouring out from the funnels of the Merrimac, and there were signs of activity on board the Patrick Henry, of six guns, and the Jamestown, Raleigh, Beaufort, and Teazer, little craft carrying one gun each, and at eleven o'clock they all moved down the inlet on which Norfolk is situated. The news that the Merrimac was going out to attack the enemy had now spread, and the whole population of Norfolk turned out and hastened down toward the mouth of the inlet on horseback, in vehicles, or on foot, while Vincent rode to the batteries on Sewell's Point, nearly facing Fort Monroe.

He left his horse at a farmhouse a quarter of a mile from the battery; for Wildfire was always restless under fire, and it was probable that the batteries would take a share in the affair. At one o'clock some of the small Federal lookout launches were seen to be at work signaling, a bustle could be observed prevailing among the large ships over by the fortress, and it was evident that the Merrimac was visible to them as she came down the inlet. The Cumberland and Congress men-of-war moved out in that direction, and the Minnesota and the St. Lawrence, which were at anchor, got under weigh, assisted by steam-tugs.

The Merrimac and the fleet of little gunboats were now visible from the battery, advancing against the Cumberland and Congress. The former opened fire upon her at a distance of a mile with her heavy pivot guns, but the Merrimac, without replying, continued her slow and steady course toward them. She first approached the Congress, and as she did so a puff of smoke burst from the forward end of her pent-house, and the water round the Congress was churned up by a hail of grape-shot. As they passed each other both vessels fired a broadside. The officers in the fort, provided with glasses, could see the effect of the Merrimac's fire in the light patches that showed on the side of the Congress, but the Merrimac appeared entirely uninjured. She now approached the Cumberland, which poured several broadsides into her, but altogether without effect. The Merrimac, without replying, steamed straight on and struck the Cumberland with great force, knocking a large hole in her side, near the water-line. Then backing off she opened fire upon her.

For half an hour the crew of the Cumberland fought with great bravery. The ships lay about three hundred yards apart, and every shot from the Merrimac told on the wooden vessel. The water was pouring in through the breach. The shells of the Merrimac crushed through her side, and at one time set her on fire; but the crew worked their guns until the vessel sank beneath their feet. Some men succeeded in swimming to land, which was not far distant, others were saved by small boats from the shore, but nearly half of the crew of 400 men were either killed in action or drowned.

The Merrimac now turned her attention to the Congress, which was left to fight the battle alone, as the Minnesota had got aground, and the Roanoake and St. Lawrence could not approach near enough to render them assistance from their draught of water. The Merrimac poured broadside after broadside into her, until the officer in command and many of the crew were killed. The lieutenant who succeeded to the command, seeing there was no prospect of help, and that resistance was hopeless, hauled down the flag. A gunboat was sent alongside, with orders that the crew should leave the Congress and come on board, as the ship was to be burned. But the troops and artillery lining the shore now opened fire on the little gunboat, which consequently hauled off. The Merrimac, after firing several more shells into the Congress, moved away to attack the Minnesota, and the survivors of the 200 men who composed the crew of the Congress were conveyed to shore in small boats. The vessel was set on fire either by her own crew or the shells of the Merrimac, and by midnight blew up.

Owing to the shallowness of the water the Merrimac could not get near enough to the Minnesota to use her own small guns to advantage, and the gunboat was driven off by the heavy ten-inch gun of the Federal frigate, and therefore at seven o'clock the Merrimac and her consorts returned to Norfolk. The greatest delight was felt on shore at the success of the engagement, and on riding back to Norfolk Vincent learned that the ram would go out again next morning to engage the rest of the Federal fleet.

She herself had suffered somewhat in the fight. Her loss in men was only two killed and eight wounded; but two of her guns had the muzzles shot off, the armor was damaged in some places, and most serious of all she had badly twisted her ram in running into the Cumberland. Still it appeared that she was more than a match for the rest of the Federal fleet, and that these must either fly or be destroyed.

As the general had given him three days' leave, Vincent was able to stay to see the close of the affair, and early next morning again rode down to Sewell's Point, as the Merrimac was to start at daybreak. At six o'clock the ironclad came out from the river and made for the Minnesota, which was still aground. The latter was seen to run up a signal, and the spectators saw an object which they had not before perceived coming out as if to meet the ram. The glasses were directed toward it, and a general exclamation of surprise was heard.

"What is the thing? It looks like a raft with two round turrets upon it, and a funnel." A moment's consideration, and the truth burst upon them. It was the ship they had heard of as building at New York, and which had been launched six weeks before. It was indeed the Monitor, which had arrived during the night, just in time to save the rest of the Federal fleet. She was the first regular ironclad ever built. She was a turret ship, carrying two very heavy guns, and showing only between two and three feet above the water.

The excitement upon both shores as these adversaries approached each other was intense. They moved slowly, and not until they were within a hundred yards distance did the Monitor open fire, the Merrimac replying at once. The fire for a time was heavy and rapid, the distance between the combatants varying from fifty to two hundred yards. The Monitor had by far the greatest speed, and was much more easily turned than the Confederate ram, and her guns were very much heavier, and the Merrimac while still keeping up the fight made toward the mouth of the river.

Suddenly she turned and steamed directly at the Monitor, and before the latter could get out of her way struck her on the side; but the ram was bent and her weak engines were insufficient to propel her with the necessary force. Consequently she inflicted no damage on the Monitor, and the action continued, the turret-ship directing her fire at the iron roof of the ram, while the latter pointed her guns especially at the turret and pilot-house of the Monitor. At length, after a battle which had lasted six hours, the Monitor withdrew, one of the plates of her pilot-house being seriously damaged and her commander injured in the eyes.

When her foe drew off the Merrimac steamed back to Norfolk. There were no men killed in either battle, and each side claimed a victory; the Federals upon the ground that they had driven off the Merrimac, the Confederates because the Monitor had retreated from the fight. Each vessel however held the strength of the other in respect, the Monitor remaining as sentinel over the ships and transports at Fortress Monroe, while the Merrimac at Norfolk continued to guard the entrance into the James River.

As soon as the fight was over Vincent Wingfield, greatly pleased that he had witnessed so strange and interesting a combat, rode back to Norfolk, and the same evening reached Richmond, where his description of the fight was received with the greatest interest and excitement.

CHAPTER VIII. McCLELLAN'S ADVANCE.

IT WAS not until three weeks after the fight between the ironclads that the great army under General McClellan arrived off Fortress Monroe, the greater portion of the troops coming down the Potomac in steam transports. Vast quantities of stores had been accumulated in and around the fortress. Guns of a size never before used in war were lying on the wharfs in readiness to be placed in batteries, while Hampton Roads were crowded with transports and store vessels watched over by the Monitor and the other war ships. McClellan's army was a large one, but not so strong a force as he had intended to have taken with him, and as soon as he arrived at Fortress Monroe he learned that he would not be able to expect much assistance from the fleet. The Merrimac completely closed the James River; and were the more powerful vessels of the fleet to move up the York River, she would be able to sally out and destroy the rest of the fleet and the transports.

As it was most important to clear the peninsula between the two rivers before Magruder should receive strong reinforcements, a portion of the troops were at once landed, and on the 4th of April 56,000 men and 100 guns disembarked and started on their march against Yorktown. As soon as the news of the arrival of the Northern army at Fortress Monroe reached Richmond fresh steps were taken for the defense of the city. Magruder soon found that it would be impossible with the force at his command to hold the line he had proposed, and a large body of negroes and troops were set to work to throw up defenses between Yorktown and a point on the Warwick River thirteen and a half miles away.

A portion of this line was covered by the Warwick Creek, which he dammed up to make it unfordable, and erected batteries to guard the dams. Across the intervening ground a weak earthwork with trenches was constructed, there being no time to raise stronger works; but Magruder relied chiefly upon the swampy and difficult nature of the country, and the concealment afforded by the forest, which rendered it difficult for the enemy to discover the weakness of the defenders.

He posted 6,000 men at Yorktown and Gloucester Point, and the remaining 5,000 troops under his command were scattered along the line of works to the Warwick River. He knew that if McClellan pushed forward with all his force he must be successful; but he knew also that if the enemy could but be held in check for a few days assistance would reach him from General Johnston's army.

Fortunately for the Confederates, the weather, which had been fine and clear during the previous week, changed on the very day that McClellan started. The rain came down in torrents, and the roads became almost impassable. The columns struggled on along the deep and muddy tracks all day, and bivouacked for the night in the forests. The next morning they resumed their march, and on reaching the first line of intrenchments formed by the Confederates found them deserted, and it was not until they approached the Warwick Creek that they encountered serious opposition. Had they pushed forward at once they would have unquestionably captured Richmond. But McClellan's fault was over-caution, and he believed himself opposed by a very much larger force than that under the command of Magruder; consequently, instead of making an attack at once he began regular siege operations against the works on Warwick Creek and those at Yorktown.

The delay saved Richmond. Every day reinforcements arrived, and by the time that McClellan's army, over 100,000 strong, had erected their batteries and got their heavy guns into position, Magruder had been reinforced by some 10,000 men under General Johnston, who now assumed the command, while other divisions were hurrying up from Northern and Western Virginia. Upon the very night before the batteries were ready to open, the Confederates evacuated their positions and fell back, carrying with them all their guns and stores to the Chickahominy River, which ran almost across the peninsula at a distance of six miles only from Richmond.

The Confederates crossed and broke down the bridges, and prepared to make another stand. The disappointment of the Federals was great. After ten days of incessant labor and hardship they had only gained possession of the village of Yorktown and a tract of low swampy country. The divisions in front pressed forward rapidly after the Confederates; but these had managed their plan so well that all were safely across the stream before they were overtaken.

The dismay in Richmond had for a few days been great. Many people left the town for the interior, taking their valuables with them, and all was prepared for the removal of the state papers and documents. But as the Federals went on with their fortifications, and the reinforcements began to arrive, confidence was restored, and all went on as before.

The great Federal army was so scattered through the forests, and the discipline of some of the divisions was so lax that it was some days before McClellan had them ranged in order on the Chickahominy. Another week elapsed before he was in a position to undertake fresh operations; but General Johnston had now four divisions on the spot, and he was too enterprising a general to await the attack. Consequently he crossed the Chickahominy, fell upon one of the Federal divisions and almost destroyed it, and drove back the whole of their left wing. The next morning the battle was renewed, and lasted for five hours.

It was fortunate indeed for the Confederates that the right wing of the Northern army did not, while the action was going on, cross the river and march straight upon Richmond; but communication was difficult from one part of the army to another, owing to the thick forests and the swampy state of the ground, and being without orders they remained inactive all day. The loss on their side had been 7,000 men, while the Confederates had lost 4,500; and General Johnston being seriously wounded, the chief command was given to General Lee, by far the ablest soldier the war produced. Satisfied with the success they had gained, the Confederates fell back across the river again.

On the 4th of June, General Stuart—for he had now been promoted— started with 1,200 cavalry and two guns, and in forty-eight hours made one of the most adventurous reconnaissances ever undertaken. First the force rode out to Hanover Courthouse, where they encountered and defeated, first, a small body of cavalry, and afterward a whole regiment. Then, after destroying the stores there they rode round to the Pamunkey, burned two vessels and a large quantity of stores, captured a train of forty wagons, and burned a railway bridge.

Then they passed right round the Federal rear, crossed the river, and re-entered the city with 165 prisoners and 200 horses, having effected the destruction of vast quantities of stores, besides breaking up the railways and burning bridges.

Toward the end of June McClellan learned that Stonewall Jackson, having struck heavy blows at the two greatly superior armies which were operating against him in the valley of the Shenandoah, had succeeded in evading them, and was marching toward Richmond.

He had just completed several bridges across the river, and was about to move forward to fight a great battle when the news reached him. Believing that he should be opposed by an army of 200,000 men, although, in fact, the Confederate army, after Jackson and all the available reinforcements came up, was still somewhat inferior in strength to his own, he determined to abandon for the present the attempt upon Richmond, and to fall back upon the James River.

Here his ships had already landed stores for his supply, for the river was now open as far as the Confederate defenses at Fort Darling. Norfolk Navy Yard had been captured by the 10,000 men who formed the garrison of Fortress Monroe. No resistance had been offered, as all the Confederate troops had been concentrated for the defense of Richmond. When Norfolk was captured the Merrimac steamed out to make her way out of the river; but the water was low, and the pilot declared that she could not be taken up. Consequently she was set on fire and burned to the water's edge, and thus the main obstacle to the advance of the Federal fleet was removed.

They had advanced as far as Fort Darling and the ironclad gunboats had engaged the batteries there. Their shot, however, did little damage to the defenders upon the lofty bluffs, while the shot from the batteries so injured the gunboats that the attempt to force the passage was abandoned. While falling back to a place called Harrison's Landing on the James River, the Federals were attacked by the Confederates, but after desperate fighting on both sides, lasting for five days, they succeeded in drawing off from the Chickahominy with a loss of fifty guns, thousands of small arms, and the loss of the greater part of their stores.

All idea of a further advance against Richmond was for the present abandoned. President Lincoln had always been opposed to the plan, and a considerable portion of the army was moved round to join the force under General Pope, which was now to march upon Richmond from the north.

From the commencement of the Federal advance to the time when, beaten and dispirited, they regained the James River, Vincent Wingfield had seen little of his family. The Federal lines had at one time been within a mile of the Orangery. The slaves had some days before been all sent into the interior, and Mrs. Wingfield and her daughters had moved into Richmond, where they joined in the work, to which the whole of the ladies of the town and neighborhood devoted themselves, of attending to the wounded, of whom, while the fighting was going on, long trains arrived every day at the city.

Vincent himself had taken no active part in the fighting. Magruder's division had not been engaged in the first attack upon McClellan's force; and although it had taken a share in the subsequent severe fighting, Vincent had been occupied in carrying messages from the general to the leaders of the other divisions, and had only once or twice come under the storm of fire to which the Confederates were exposed as they plunged through the morasses to attack the enemy. As soon as it was certain that the attack was finally abandoned, and that McClellan's troops were being withdrawn to strengthen Pope's army, Vincent resigned his appointment as aide-de-camp, and was appointed to the 7th Virginian Cavalry, stationed at Orange, where it was facing the Federal cavalry. Major Ashley had fallen while protecting the passage of Jackson's division when hard pressed by one of the Federal armies in Western Virginia.

No action in the war had been more brilliant than the manner in which Stonewall Jackson had baffled the two armies—each greatly superior in force to his own—that had been specially appointed to destroy him if possible, or at any rate to prevent his withdrawing from the Shenandoah Valley and marching to aid in the defense of the Confederate capital. His troops had marched almost day and night, without food, and depending entirely upon such supplies as they could obtain from the scattered farmhouses they passed.

Although Richmond was for the present safe, the prospect of the Confederates was by no means bright. New Orleans had been captured; the blockade of the other ports was now so strict that it was difficult in the extreme for a vessel to make her way in or out; and the Northerners had placed flotillas of gunboats on the rivers, and by the aid of these were gradually making their way into the heart of several of the States.

"Are you thinking of going out to the Orangery again soon, mother?" Vincent asked on the evening before setting out on the march north.

"I think not, Vincent. There is so much to do in the hospitals here that I cannot leave. I should be ashamed to be living in luxury at the Orangery with the girls while other women are giving up their whole time nursing the wounded. Besides, although I do not anticipate that after the way they have been hurled back the Northerners will try again for some time, now they are in possession of Harrison's Landing they can at any moment advance. Besides, it is not pleasant being obliged to turn out of one's house and leave everything to their mercy. I wrote yesterday to Pearson to bring the slaves back at once and take up the work, and I shall go over occasionally to see that everything is in order; but at any rate for a time we will stop here."

"I think that is best, mother. Certainly I should feel more comfortable knowing that you are all at Richmond than alone out there."

"We should be no worse off than thousands of ladies all over the State, Vincent There are whole districts where every white capable of using a gun has gone to the war, leaving nothing but women and slaves behind, and we have not heard of a single case in which there has been trouble."

"Certainly there is no chance of trouble with your slaves, mother; but in some of the other plantations it may not be so. At any rate the quiet conduct of the slaves everywhere is the very best answer that could be given to the accusations that have been made as to their cruel treatment. At present the whole of the property of the slave-owners throughout the Southern States is at their mercy, and they might burn, kill, and destroy; and yet in no single instance have they risen against what are called their oppressors, even when the Federals have been close at hand.

"Please keep your eye on Dinah, mother. I distrust; that fellow Jackson so thoroughly that I believe him capable of having her carried off and smuggled away somewhere down south, and sold there if he saw a chance. I wish, instead of sending her to the Orangery, you would keep her as one of your servants here."

"I will if you wish it, Vincent; but I cannot believe for a moment that this Jackson or any one else would venture to meddle with any of my slaves."

"Perhaps not, mother; but it is best to be on the safe side. Anyhow,

I shall be glad to know that she is with you. Young Jackson will

be away, for I know he is in one of Stuart's troops of horse, though

I have never happened to run against him since the war began."

The firing had hardly ceased before Harrison's Landing, when General Jackson, with a force of about 15,000 men, composed of his own division, now commanded by General Winder, General Ewell's division, and a portion of that of General Hill, started for the Rapidan to check General Pope, who, plundering and wasting the country as he advanced, was marching south, his object being to reach Gordonsville, where he would cut the line of railway connecting Richmond with Western Virginia. Vincent was glad that the regiment to which he had been appointed would be under Jackson's command, and that he would be campaigning again with his old division, which consisted largely of Virginian troops and contained so many of his old friends.

With Jackson, too, he was certain to be engaged in stirring service, for that general ever kept his troops upon the march, striking blows where least expected, and traversing such an extent of country by rapid marches that he and his division seemed to the enemy to be almost ubiquitous.

It was but a few hours after he received his appointment that Vincent took train from Richmond to Gordonsville, Dan being in the horse-box with Wildfire in the rear of the train. His regiment was encamped a mile or two away, and he at once rode on and reported himself to Colonel Jones, who commanded it.

"I am glad to have you with me, sir," the colonel said. "I had the pleasure of knowing your father, and am an old friend of your mother's family. As you were in Ashley's horse and have been serving on Magruder's staff, you are well up in your duties; and it is a comfort to me that the vacancy has been filled up by one who knows his work instead of a raw hand. We have had a brush or two already with the enemy; but at present we are watching each other, waiting on both sides till the generals have got their infantry to the front in readiness for an advance. Jackson is waiting for Hill's division to come up, and I believe Pope is expecting great reinforcements from McClellan."

A few days later Colonel Jones was ordered to take charge of the pickets posted on the Rapidan, but before reaching Orange a gentleman rode up at full speed and informed them that the enemy were in possession of that town. Colonel Jones divided his regiment into two parts, and with one charged the Federal cavalry in the main street of Orange, while the other portion of the regiment, under Major Marshall, attacked them on the flank. After a sharp fight the enemy were driven from the place; but they brought up large reinforcements, and, pouring in a heavy fire, attacked the town on both sides, and the Confederates had to fall back. But they made another stand a little way out of the town, and drove back the Federal cavalry who were pressing them.

Although the fight had been but a short one the losses in the cavalry ranks had been serious. Colonel Jones, while charging at the head of his men, had received a saber-wound, and Major Marshall was taken prisoner.

Five days later, on the 7th of August, Jackson received certain intelligence that General Burnside, with a considerable portion of McClellan's force, had embarked, and was on the way to join Pope. He determined to strike a blow at once, and marched with his entire force from Gordonsville for Barnett Ford on the Rapidan.

At daybreak next morning the cavalry crossed the river and attacked and routed a body of Federal cavalry on the road to Culpepper Courthouse. On the following day Jackson came up with his infantry to a point about eight miles from Culpepper, where Pope's army, 32,000 strong, were stationed upon the crest of a hill. General Ewell's division, which was the only one then up, at once advanced, and, after a severe artillery fight, gained a point on a hill where his guns could command the enemy's position.

Jackson's division now came up, and as it was moving into position General Winder was killed by a shell. For some hours Jackson did not attempt to advance, as Hill's division had not come up. Encouraged by this delay, the enemy at five o'clock in the afternoon took the offensive and advanced through some cornfields lying between the two armies and attacked Ewell's division on the Confederate right; while shortly afterward they fell with overwhelming strength on Jackson's left, and, attacking it in front, flank, and rear, drove it back, and pressed upon it with such force that the day appeared lost.

At this moment Jackson himself rode down among the confused and wavering troops, and by his voice and example rallied them. At the same moment the old Stonewall Brigade came up at a run and poured their fire into the advancing enemy. Jackson led the troops he had rallied forward. The Stonewall Brigade fell upon the enemy's flank and drove them back with terrible slaughter. Other brigades came up, and there was a general charge along the whole Confederate line, and the Federals were driven back a mile beyond the position they had occupied at the commencement of the fight to the shelter of some thick woods. Four hundred prisoners were taken and over 5,000 small-arms.

The battle was known as Cedar Run, and it completely checked Pope's advance upon Richmond. The troops were too much exhausted to follow up their victory, but Jackson urged them to press forward. They moved a mile and a half in advance, and then found themselves so strongly opposed that Jackson, believing that the enemy must have received reinforcements, halted his men. Colonel Jones was sent forward to reconnoiter, and discovered that a large force had joined the enemy.

For two days Jackson remained on the field he had won; his troops had been busy in burying the dead, in collecting the wounded and sending them to the rear, and in gathering the arms thrown away by the enemy in their flight. Being assured that the enemy were now too strong to be attacked by the force under his command, Jackson fell back to Orange Courthouse. There was now a few days' delay, while masses of troops were on both sides moving toward the new field of action. McClellan marched his troops across the James Peninsula from Harrison's Landing to Yorktown, and there the greater portion were embarked in transports and taken up the Rappahannock to Aquia Creek, landed there, and marched to Fredericksburg.

Lee, instead of attacking McClellan on his march across the peninsula, determined to take his army north at once to join Jackson and attack Pope before he was joined by McClellan's army. But Pope, although already largely reinforced, retired hastily and took up a new position so strongly fortified that he could not be attacked. General Stuart had come up with Lee, and was in command of all the cavalry.

"We shall see some work now," was the remark round the fires of the 7th Virginian Cavalry. Hitherto, although they had been several times engaged with the Federals, they had been forced to remain for the most part inactive owing to the vast superiority in force of the enemy's cavalry; but now that Stuart had come up they felt certain that, whatever the disparity of numbers, there would soon be some dashing work to be done.

Except when upon actual duty the strict lines of military discipline were much relaxed among the cavalry, the troopers being almost all the sons of farmers and planters and of equal social rank with their officers, many of whom were their personal friends or relatives. Several of Vincent's schoolfellows were in the ranks; two or three of them were fellow officers, and these often gathered together round a camp fire and chatted over old schooldays and mutual friends.

Many of these had already fallen, for the Virginian regiments of Stonewall Jackson's brigade had been terribly thinned; but the loss of so many friends and the knowledge that their own turn might come next did not suffice to lessen the high spirits of the young fellows. The hard work, the rough life, the exposure and hardship, had braced and invigorated them all, and they were attaining a far more vigorous manhood than they would ever have possessed had they grown up in the somewhat sluggish and enervating life led by young planters.

Many of these young men had, until the campaign began, never done half an hour's hard work in their lives. They had been waited upon by slaves, and their only exercise had been riding. For months now they had almost lived in the saddle, had slept in the open air, and had thought themselves lucky if they could obtain a sufficient meal of the roughest food to satisfy their hunger once a day. In this respect, however, the cavalry were better off than their comrades of the infantry, for scouting as they did in small parties over a wide extent of country, they were sure of a meal and a hearty welcome whenever they could spare time to stop for half an hour at the house of a farmer.

"It's a glorious life, Wingfield! When we chatted over the future at school we never dreamed of such a life as this, though some of us did talk of entering the army; but even then an occasional skirmish with Indians was the limit of our ideas."

"Yes, it is a glorious life!" Vincent agreed. "I cannot imagine anything more exciting. Of course, there is the risk of being shot, but somehow one never seems to think of that. There is always something to do and to think about; from the time one starts on a scout at daybreak to that when one lies down at night one's senses are on the stretch. Besides, we are fighting in defense of our country and not merely as a profession, though I don't suppose, after all, that makes much difference when one is once in for it. As far as I have read all soldiers enjoy campaigning, and it does not seem to make any difference to them who are the foe or what they are fighting about. But I should like to feel a little more sure that we shall win in the long run."

There was a chorus of indignant protests against there being any possible doubts as to the issue.

"Why, we have thrashed them every time we have met them,

Wingfield."

"That is all very well," Vincent said. "Here in Virginia we have held our own, and more than held it. We have beat back Scott and McClellan, and now we have thrashed Pope; and Stonewall Jackson has won a dozen battles in Western Virginia. But you must remember that in other parts they are gradually closing in; all the ports not already taken are closely blockaded; they are pushing all along the lines of the great rivers; and worst of all, they can fill up their vacancies with Irishmen and Germans, and as fast as one army disappears another takes its place. I believe we shall beat them again and again, and shall prove, as we have proved before, that one Southerner fighting for home and liberty is more than a match for two hired Germans or Irishmen, even with a good large sprinkling of Yankees among them. But in the long run I am not sure that we shall win, for they can go on putting big armies into the field, while some day we must get used up.

"Of course it is possible that we may some day capture Washington, and that the North may get weary of the tremendous drain of money and men caused by their attempt to conquer us. I hope it may be so, for I should like to think that we should win in the long run. I never feel any doubt about our winning a battle when we begin. My only fear is that we may get used up before the North are tired of it."

"I did not expect to hear you talk so, Wingfield, for you always seem to be in capital spirits."

"I am in capital spirits," Vincent replied, "and ready to fight again and again, and always confident we shall lick the Yankees; the fact that I have a doubt whether in the long run we shall outlast them does not interfere in the slightest degree with my comfort at present. I am very sorry though that this fellow Pope is carrying on the war so brutally instead of in the manner in which General McClellan and the other commanders have waged it. His proclamation that the army must subsist upon the country it passes through gives a direct invitation to the soldiers to pillage, and his order that all farmers who refuse to take the oath to the Union are to be driven from their homes and sent down south means ruin to all the peaceful inhabitants, for there is scarcely a man in this part of Virginia who is not heartily with us."

"I hear," one of the other officers said, "that a prisoner who was captured this morning says that Pope already sees that he has made a mistake, and that he yesterday issued a fresh order saying that the proclamation was not meant to authorize pillage. He finds that the inhabitants who before, whatever their private sentiments were, maintained a sort of neutrality, are now hostile, that they drive off their cattle into the woods, and even set fire to their stacks, to prevent anything from being carried off by the Yanks; and his troops find the roads broken up and bridges destroyed and all sorts of difficulties thrown in their way."

"It does not always pay—even in war—to be brutal. I am glad to see he has found out his mistake so soon," another officer said. "McClellan waged war like a gentleman; and if blackguards are to be allowed to carry fire and sword through the land they will soon find it is a game that two can play at, and matters will become horribly embittered."

"We shall never do that," Vincent said. "Our generals are all gentlemen, and Lee and Jackson and many others are true Christians as well as true soldiers, and I am sure they will never countenance that on our side whatever the Northerners may do. We are ready to fight the hordes of Yankees and Germans and Irishmen as often as they advance against us, but I am sure that none of us would fire a homestead or ill-treat defenseless men and women. It is a scandal that such brutalities are committed by the ruffians who call themselves Southerners. The guerrillas in Missouri and Tennessee are equally bad whether on our side or the other, and if I were the president I would send down a couple of regiments, and hunt down the fellows who bring dishonor on our cause. If the South cannot free herself without the aid of ruffians of this kind she had better lay down her arms at once."

"Bravo, Wingfield! spoken like a knight of chivalry!" one of the others laughed. "But many of these bands have done good nevertheless. They have kept the enemy busy there, and occupied the attention of a very large force who might otherwise have been in the woods yonder with Pope. I agree with you, it would be better if the whole thing were fought out with large armies, but there is a good deal to be said for these bands you are so severe upon. They are composed of men who have been made desperate by seeing their farms harried and their buildings burned by the enemy. They have been denounced as traitors by their neighbors on the other side, and if they retaliate I don't know that they are to be altogether blamed. I know that if my place at home were burned down and my people insulted and ill-treated I should be inclined to set off to avenge it."

"So would I," Vincent agreed, "but it should be upon those who did the wrong, not upon innocent people."

"That is all very well, but if the other side destroy your people's farms, it is only by showing them that two can play at the game that you can make them observe the laws of war. I grant it would be very much better that no such thing should take place; but if the Northerners begin this sort of work they may be sure that there will be retaliation. Anyhow, I am glad that I am an officer in the 7th Virginians and not a guerrilla leader in Missouri. Well, all this talking is dry work. Has no one got a full canteen?"

"I have," Vincent said. "Dan managed to buy a gallon of rum at a farmhouse yesterday. I think the farmer was afraid that the enemy might be paying him a visit before many days, and thought it best to get rid of his spirits. Anyhow, Dan got the keg at ordinary city prices, as well as that couple of fine turkeys he is just bringing along for our supper. So you had better each get your ration of bread and fall to."

There was a cheer as Dan placed the turkeys down in the center of the group, and soon the whole party, using their bread as plates, fell to upon them, and afterward joined in many a merry song, while Dan handed round the jar of spirits.

CHAPTER IX. A PRISONER.

The party round the fire were just about to disperse when the captain of Vincent's troop approached. He took the horn of spirits and water that Vincent held up to him and tossed it off.

"That is a stirrup-cup, Wingfield."

"What! are we for duty, captain?" Vincent asked as he rose to his feet.

"Yes; our troop and Harper's are to muster. Get the men together quietly. I think it is a serious business; each of the regiments furnish other troops, and I believe Stuart himself takes the command."

"That sounds like work, indeed," Vincent said. "I will get the troop together, sir."

"There are to be no trumpet calls, Wingfield; we are to get off as quietly as possible."

Most of the men were already fast asleep, but as soon as they learned that there was a prospect of active work all were full of life and animation. The girths of the saddles were tightened, swords buckled on, and revolvers carefully examined before being placed in the holsters. Many of the men carried repeating rifles, and the magazines were filled before these were slung across the riders' shoulders.

In a few minutes the three troops were mounted and in readiness for a start, and almost directly afterward Colonel Jones himself rode up and took the command. A thrill of satisfaction ran through the men as he did so, for it was certain that he would not himself be going in command of the detachment unless the occasion was an important one. For a few minutes no move was made.

"I suppose the others are going to join us here," Vincent said to the officer next him.

"I suppose so," he replied. "We lie in the middle of the cavalry brigade with two regiments each side of us, so it is likely enough this is the gathering place. Yes, I can hear the tramping of horses."

"And I felt a spot of rain," Vincent said. "It has been lightning for some time. I fear we are in for a wet ride."

The contingent from the other regiments soon arrived, and just as the last came up General Stuart himself appeared and took his place at the head of the party, now some 500 strong. Short as the time had been since Vincent felt the first drop, the rain was now coming down in torrents. One by one the bright flames of the fires died down, and the darkness became so intense that Vincent could scarcely see the officer on his right hand.

"I hope the man who rode up with the general, and is no doubt to be our guide, knows the country well. It is no joke finding our way through a forest on such a night as this."

"I believe Stuart's got eyes like a cat," the officer said. "Sometimes on a dark night he has come galloping up to a post where I was in command, when one could scarcely see one's hand before one. It never seems to make any difference to him; day or night he rides about at a gallop."

"He trusts his horse," Vincent said. "That's the only way in the dark. They can see a lot better than we can, and if men would but let them go their own way instead of trying to guide them they would seldom run against anything. The only thing is to lie well down on the horse's neck, otherwise one might get swept out of the saddle by a bough. It's a question of nerve, I think not many of us would do as Stuart does, and trust himself entirely to his horse's instinct."

The word was now passed down the line that perfect silence was to be observed, and that they were to move forward in column, the ranks closing up as much as possible so as not to lose touch of each other. With heads bent down, and blankets wrapped round them as cloaks, the cavalry rode off through the pouring rain. The thunder was clashing overhead, and the flashes of the lightning enabled them to keep their places in close column. They went at a rapid trot, and even those who were ready to charge a body of the enemy, however numerous, without a moment's hesitation, experienced a feeling of nervousness as they rode on in the darkness through the thick forest on their unknown errand. That they were going northward they knew, and knew also, after a short time, that they must be entering the lines of the enemy. They saw no signs of watch-fires, for these would long since have been quenched by the downpour. After half an hour's brisk riding all knew by the sharp sound of the beat of the horses' hoofs that they had left the soft track through the forest and were now upon a regular road.

"Thank goodness for that!" Vincent said in a low tone to his next neighbor. "I don't mind a brush with the enemy, but I own I don't like the idea that at any moment my brains may be knocked out by the branch of a tree."

"I quite agree with you," the other replied; "and I fancy every man felt the same."

There was no doubt as to this. Hitherto no sound had been heard save the jingling of accouterments and the dull heavy sound of the horses' tread; but now there could be heard mingled with these the buzz of voices, and occasionally a low laugh. They were so accustomed to wet that the soaking scarce inconvenienced them. They were out of the forest now, and felt sure of their guide; and as to the enemy, they only longed to discover them.

For another hour the rapid advance continued, and all felt sure that they must now have penetrated through the enemy's lines and be well in his rear. At last they heard a challenge of sentry. Then Stuart's voice shouted, "Charge!" and at full gallop they rode into the village at Catlet's Station on the Orange and Alexandria railroad, where General Pope had his headquarters. Another minute and they were in the midst of the enemy's camp, where the wildest confusion reigned. The Federal officers rushed from their teats and made off in the darkness; but the soldiers, who were lying on the line of railroad, leaped to their feet and opened a heavy fire upon their invisible foes. Against this the cavalry, broken up in the camp, with its tents, its animals, and its piles of baggage, could do little, for it was impossible to form them up in the broken and unknown ground.

The quarters of Pope were soon discovered; he himself had escaped, leaving his coat and hat behind. Many of his officers were captured, and in his quarters were found a box of official papers which were invaluable, as among them were copies of his letters asking for reinforcements, lists giving the strength and position of his troops, and other particulars of the greatest value to the Confederates. No time was lost, as the firing would set the whole Federal army on the alert, and they might find their retreat cut off. Therefore placing their prisoners in the center, and taking the box of papers with them, the cavalry were called off from the camp, and without delay started on their return ride.

They did not take the road by which they had come, but made a long detour, and just as daylight was breaking re-entered the Confederate lines without having encountered a foe from the time of their leaving Catlet's Station. Short as their stay in the camp had been, few of the men had returned empty handed. The Northern army was supplied with an abundance of excellent food of all descriptions, forming the strongest possible contrast to the insufficient rations upon which the Confederate troops existed, and the troopers had helped themselves to whatever they could lay hands upon in the darkness and confusion.

Some rode in with a ham slung on each side of their saddle, others had secured a bottle or two of wine or spirits. Some had been fortunate enough to lay hands on some tins of coffee or a canister of tea, luxuries which for months had been unknown to them save when they were captured from the enemy. The only article captured of no possible utility was General Pope's coat, which was sent to Richmond, where it was hung up for public inspection; a wag sticking up a paper beside it, "This is the coat in which General Pope was going to ride in triumph into Richmond. The coat is here, but the general has not yet arrived."

The Confederates had lost but two or three men from the fire of the Federal infantry, and they were in high spirits at the success of their raid. No sooner had General Lee informed himself of the contents of the papers and the position of the enemy's forces than he determined to strike a heavy blow at him; and General Jackson, who had been sharply engaged with the enemy near Warrenton, was ordered to make a long detour, to cross the Blue Ridge mountains through Thoroughfare Gap, to fall upon Pope's rear and cut his communications with Washington, and if possible to destroy the vast depot of stores collected at Manassas.

The cavalry, under Stuart, were to accompany him. The march would be a tremendous one, the danger of thus venturing into the heart of the enemy's country immense, but the results of such an expedition would, if successful, be great; for Lee himself was to advance with his army on Pope's flank, and there was therefore a possibility of the utter defeat of that general before he could be joined by the army marching to reinforce him from Fredericksburg.

It was on Monday the 25th of August that Jackson started on his march, ascending the banks of the Rappahannock, and crossed the river at a ford, dragging his artillery with difficulty up the narrow and rocky road beyond. There was not a moment to be lost, for if the news reached the enemy the gorge known as Thoroughfare Gap would be occupied, and the whole object of the movement be defeated. Onward the force pushed, pressing on through fields and lanes without a single halt, until at night, hungry and weary but full of spirit, they marched into the little town of Salem, twenty miles from their starting-place. They had neither wagons nor provisions with them, and had nothing to eat but some ears of corn and green apples plucked on the road.

It was midnight when they reached Salem, and the inhabitants turned out in blank amazement at the sight of Confederate troops in that region, and welcomed the weary soldiers with the warmest manifestations. At daylight they were again upon the march, with Stuart's cavalry, as before, out upon each flank. Thoroughfare Gap was reached, and found undefended, and after thirty miles' marching the exhausted troops reached the neighborhood of Manassas. The men were faint from want of food, and many of them limped along barefooted; but they were full of enthusiasm.

Just at sunset, Stuart, riding on ahead, captured Bristoe, a station on the Orange and Alexandria Railroad four miles from Manassas. As they reached it a train came along at full speed. It was fired at, but did not stop, and got safely through to Manassas. Two trains that followed were captured; but by this time the alarm had spread, and no more trains arrived. Jackson had gained his point. He had placed himself on the line of communication of the enemy, but his position was a dangerous one indeed. Lee, who was following him, was still far away. An army was marching from Fredericksburg against him, another would be despatched from Washington as soon as the news of his presence was known, and Pope might turn and crush him before Lee could arrive to his assistance.

Worn out as the troops were, it was necessary at once to gain possession of Manassas, and the 21st North Carolina and 21st Georgia volunteered for the service, and, joined by Stuart with a portion of his cavalry, marched against it. After a brief contest the place was taken, the enemy stationed there being all taken prisoners. The amount of arms and stores captured was prodigious: Eight pieces of artillery, 250 horses, 3 locomotives, and tens of thousands of barrels of beef, pork, and flour, with an enormous quantity of public stores and the contents of innumerable sutlers' shops.

The sight of this vast abundance to starving men was tantalizing in the extreme. It was impossible to carry any of it away and all that could be done was to have at least one good meal. The troops therefore were marched in and each helped himself to as much as he could consume, and the ragged and barefooted men feasted upon tinned salmon and lobsters, champagne and dainties of every description forwarded for the use of officers. Then they set to work to pile the enormous mass of stores together and to set it on fire. While they were engaged at this a brigade of New Jersey troops which had come out from Washington to save Manassas was attacked and utterly routed. Ewell's division had remained at Bristoe, while those of Hill and Jackson moved to Manassas, and in the course of the afternoon Ewell saw the whole of Pope's army marching against him.

He held them in check for some hours, and thus gave the troops at Manassas time to destroy completely the vast accumulation of stores, and when Stuart's cavalry, covering the retreat, fell back at nightfall through Manassas, nothing but blackened cinders remained where the Federal depots had been situated. The blow to the Northerners was as heavy as it was unexpected. Pope had no longer either provisions for his men or forage for his cattle, and there was nothing left for him but to force his way past Jackson and retire upon Washington.

Jackson had now the option of falling back and allowing the enemy to pass, or of withstanding the whole Federal army with his own little force until Lee came up to the rescue. He chose the latter course, and took up a strong position. The sound of firing at Thoroughfare Gap was audible, and he knew that Longstreet's division of Lee's army was hotly engaged with a force which, now that it was too late, had been sent to hold the gorge. It was nearly sunset before Pope brought up his men to the attack. Jackson did not stand on the defensive, but rushed down and attacked the enemy—whose object had been to pass the position and press on—with such vigor that at nine o'clock they fell back.

An hour later a horseman rode up with the news that Longstreet had passed the Gap and was pressing on at full speed, and in the morning his forces were seen approaching, the line they were taking bringing them up at an angle to Jackson's position. Thus their formation as they arrived was that of an open V, and it was through the angle of this V that Pope had to force his way. Before Longstreet could arrive, however, the enemy hurled themselves upon Jackson, and for hours the Confederates held their own against the vast Federal army, Longstreet's force being too far away to lend them a hand. Ammunition failed, and the soldiers fought with piles of stones, but night fell without any impression being made upon these veterans. General Lee now came up with General Hood's division, and hurled this against the Federals and drove them back. In the evening Longstreet's force took up the position General Lee had assigned to it, and in the morning all the Confederate army had arrived, and the battle recommenced.

The struggle was long and terrible; but by nightfall every attack had been repulsed, and the Confederates, advancing on all sides, drove the Northerners, a broken and confused crowd, before them, the darkness alone saving them from utter destruction. Had there been but one hour more of daylight the defeat would have been as complete as was that in the battle of Bull Run, which had been fought on precisely the same ground. However, under cover of the darkness the Federals retreated to Centreville, whence they were driven on the following day.

In the tremendous fighting in which Jackson's command had for three long days been engaged, the cavalry bore a comparatively small part. The Federal artillery was too powerful to permit the employment of large bodies of cavalry and although from time to time charges were made when an opportunity seemed to offer itself, the battle was fought out by the infantry and artillery. When the end came Jackson's command was for a time hors de combat. During the long two days' march they had at least gathered corn and apples to sustain life; but during these three days' fighting they had had no food whatever, and many were so weak that they could no longer march.

They had done all that was possible for men to do; had for two days withstood the attack of an enemy of five times their numbers, and had on the final day borne their full share in the great struggle, but now the greater part could do no more, thousands of men were unable to drag themselves a step further, and Lee's army was reduced in strength for the time by nearly 20,000 men. All these afterward rejoined it; some as soon as they recovered limped away to take their places in the ranks again, others made their way to the depot at Warrenton, where Lee had ordered that all unable to accompany his force should rendezvous until he returned and they were able to rejoin their regiments.

Jackson marched away and laid siege to Harper's Ferry, an important depot garrisoned by 11,000 men, who were forced to surrender just as McClellan with a fresh army, 100,000 strong, which was pressing forward to its succor, arrived within a day's march. As soon as Jackson had taken the place he hurried away with his troops to join Lee, who was facing the enemy at the Antietam river. Here upon the following day another terrible battle was fought; the Confederates, though but 39,000 strong, repulsing every attack by the Federals, and driving them with terrible slaughter back across the river.

Their own loss, however, had been very heavy, and Lee, knowing that he could expect no assistance, while the enemy were constantly receiving reinforcements, waited for a day to collect his wounded, bury his dead, and send his stores and artillery to the rear, and then retired unpursued across the Rappahannock. Thus the hard-fought campaign came to an end.

Vincent Wingfield was not with the army that retired across the Rappahannock. A portion of the cavalry had followed the broken Federals to the very edge of the stream, and just as they reined in their horses a round shot from one of the Federal batteries carried away his cap, and he fell as if dead from his horse. During the night some of the Northerners crossed the stream to collect and bring back their own wounded who had fallen near it, and coming across Vincent, and finding that he still breathed, and was apparently without a wound, they carried him back with them across the river as a prisoner.

Vincent had indeed escaped without a wound, having been only stunned by the passage of the shot that had carried away his cap, and missed him but by the fraction of an inch. He had begun to recover consciousness just as his captors came up, and the action of carrying him completely restored him. That he had fallen into the hands of the Northerners he was well aware; but he was unable to imagine how this had happened. He remembered that the Confederates had been, up to the moment when he fell, completely successful, and he could only imagine that in a subsequent attack the Federals had turned the tables upon them.

How he himself had fallen, or what had happened to him, he had no idea. Beyond a strange feeling of numbness in the head he was conscious of no injury, and he could only imagine that his horse had been shot under him, and that he must have fallen upon his head. The thought that his favorite horse was killed afflicted him almost as much as his own capture. As soon as his captors perceived that their prisoner's consciousness had returned they at once reported that an officer of Stuart's cavalry had been taken, and at daybreak next morning General McClellan on rising was acquainted with the fact, and Vincent was conducted to his tent.

"You are unwounded, sir?" the general said in some surprise.

"I am, general," Vincent replied. "I do not know how it happened, but I believe that my horse must have been shot under me, and that I must have been thrown and stunned; however, I remember nothing from the moment when I heard the word halt, just as we reached the side of the stream, to that when I found myself being carried here."

"You belong to the cavalry?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was Lee's force all engaged yesterday?"

"I do not know," Vincent said. "I only came up with Jackson's division from Harper's Ferry the evening before."

"I need not have questioned you," McClellan said. "I know that

Lee's whole army, 100,000 strong, opposed me yesterday."

Vincent was silent. He was glad to see that the Federal general, as usual, enormously overrated the strength of the force opposed to him.

"I hear that the whole of the garrison of Harper's Ferry were released on parole not to serve again during the war. If you are ready to give me your promise to the same effect I will allow you to return to your friends; if not, you must remain a prisoner until you are regularly exchanged."

"I must do so, then, general," Vincent said quietly. "I could not return home and remain inactive while every man in the South is fighting for the defense of his country, so I will take my chance of being exchanged."

"I am sorry you choose that alternative," McClellan said. "I hate to see brave men imprisoned if only for a day; and braver men than those across yonder stream are not to be found. My officers and men are astonished. They seem so thin and worn as to be scarce able to lift a musket, their clothes are fit only for a scarecrow, they are indeed pitiful objects to look at; but the way in which they fight is wonderful. I could not have believed had I not seen it, that men could have charged as they did again and again across ground swept by a tremendous artillery and musketry fire; it was wonderful! I can tell you, young sir, that even though you beat us we are proud of you as our countrymen; and I believe that if your General Jackson were to ride through our camp he would be cheered as lustily and heartily by our men as he is by his own."

Some fifty or sixty other prisoners had been taken; they had been captured in the hand-to-hand struggle that had taken place on some parts of the field, having got separated from their corps and mixed up with the enemy, and carried off the field with them as they retired. These for the most part accepted the offered parole; but some fifteen, like Vincent, preferred a Northern prison to promising to abstain from fighting in defense of their country, and in the middle of the day they were placed together in a tent under a guard at the rear of the camp.

The next morning came the news that Lee had fallen back. There was exultation among the Federals, not unmingled with a strong sense of relief; for the heavy losses inflicted in the previous fighting had taken all the ardor of attack out of McClellan's army, and they were glad indeed that they were not to be called upon to make another attempt to drive the Confederates from their position. Vincent was no less pleased at the news. He knew how thin were the ranks of the Confederate fighting men, and how greatly they were worn and exhausted by fatigue and want of food, and that, although they had the day before repulsed the attacks of the masses of well-fed Northerners, such tremendous exertions could not often be repeated, and a defeat, with the river in their rear, approachable only by one rough and narrow road, would have meant a total destruction of the army.

The next morning Vincent and his companions were put into the train and sent to Alexandria. They had no reason to complain of their treatment upon the way. They were well fed, and after their starvation diet for the last six weeks their rations seemed to them actually luxurious. The Federal troops in Alexandria, who were for the most part young recruits who had just arrived from the north and west, looked with astonishment upon these thin and ragged men, several of whom were barefooted. Was it possible that such scarecrows as these could in every battle have driven back the well-fed and cared-for Northern soldiers!

"Are they all like this?" one burly young soldier from a western state asked their guard.

"That's them, sir," the sergeant in charge of the party replied. "Not much to look at, are they? But, by gosh, you should see them fight! You wouldn't think of their looks then."

"If that's soldiering," the young farmer said solemnly, "the sooner I am back home again the better. But it don't seem to me altogether strange as they should fight so hard, because I should say they must look upon it as a comfort to be killed rather than to live like that."

A shout of laughter from the prisoners showed the young rustic that the objects of his pity did not consider life to be altogether intolerable even under such circumstances, and he moved away meditating on the discomforts of war, and upon the remarks that would be made were he to return home in so sorrowful a plight as that of these Confederate prisoners.

"I bargained to fight," he said, "and though I don't expect I shall like it, I sha'n't draw back when the time comes; but as to being starved till you are nigh a skeleton, and going about barefooted and in such rags as a tramp wouldn't look at, it ain't reasonable." And yet, had he known it, among those fifteen prisoners more than half were possessors of wide estates, and had been brought up from their childhood in the midst of luxuries such as the young farmer never dreamed of.

Among many of the soldiers sympathy took a more active form, and men pressed forward and gave packets of tobacco, cigars, and other little presents to them, while two or three pressed rolls of dollar notes into their hands, with words of rough kindness.

"There ain't no ill feeling in us, Rebs. You have done your work like men and no doubt you thinks your cause is right, just as we does; but it's all over now, and maybe our turn will come next to see the inside of one of your prisons down south. So we are just soldiers together, and can feel for each other."

Discipline in small matters was never strictly enforced in the American armies, and the sergeant in charge offered no opposition to the soldiers mingling with the prisoners as they walked along.

Two days later they were sent by railway to the great prison at Elmira, a town in the southwest of the State of New York. When they reached the jail the prisoners were separated, Vincent, who was the only officer, being assigned quarters with some twenty others of the same rank. The prisoners crowded round him as he entered, eager to hear the last news from the front, for they heard from their guards only news of constant victories won by the Northerners; for every defeat was transformed by the Northern papers into a brilliant victory, and it was only when the shattered remains of the various armies returned to Alexandria to be re-formed that the truth gradually leaked out. Thus Antietam had been claimed as a great Northern victory, for although McClellan's troops had in the battle been hurled back shattered and broken across the river, two days afterward Lee had retired.

One of the prisoners, who was also dressed in cavalry uniform, hung back from the rest, and going to the window looked out while Vincent was chatting with the others. Presently he turned round, and Vincent recognized with surprise his old opponent Jackson. After a moment's hesitation he walked across the room to him.

"Jackson," he said, "we have not been friends lately, but I don't see why we should keep up our quarrel any longer; we got on all right at school together; and now we are prisoners together here it would be foolish to continue our quarrel. Perhaps we were both somewhat to blame in that affair. I am quite willing to allow I was, for one, but I think we might well put it all aside now."

Jackson hesitated, and then took the hand Vincent held out to him.

"That's right, young fellows," one of the other officers said. "Now that every Southern gentleman is fighting and giving his life, if need be, for his country, no one has a right to have private quarrels of his own. Life is short enough as it is, certainly too short to indulge in private animosities. A few weeks ago we were fighting side by side, and facing death together; to-day we are prisoners; a week hence we may be exchanged, and soon take our places in the ranks again. It's the duty of all Southerners to stand shoulder to shoulder, and there ought to be no such thing as ill-feeling among ourselves."

Vincent was not previously aware that Jackson had obtained a commission. He now learned that he had been chosen by his comrades to fill a vacancy caused by the death of an officer in a skirmish just before Pope fell back from the Rappahannock, and that he had been made prisoner a few days afterward in a charge against a greatly superior body of Federal cavalry.

The great majority of the officers on both sides were at the commencement of the war chosen by their comrades, the elections at first taking place once a year. This, however, was found to act very badly. In some cases the best men in the regiment were chosen; but too often men who had the command of money, and could afford to stand treat and get in supplies of food and spirits, were elected. The evils of the system were found so great, indeed, that it was gradually abandoned; but in cases of vacancies occurring in the field, and there being a necessity for at once filling them up, the colonels of the regiments had power to make appointments, and if the choice of the men was considered to be satisfactory their nominee would be generally chosen.

In the case of Jackson, the colonel had hesitated in confirming the choice of the men. He did not for a moment suspect him to be wanting in courage; but he regarded him as one who shirked his work, and who won the votes of the men rather by a fluent tongue and by the violence of his expressions of hatred against the North than by any soldierly qualities.

Some of the officers had been months in prison, and they were highly indignant at the delays that had occurred in effecting their exchange. The South, indeed, would have been only too glad to get rid of some of their numerous prisoners, who were simply an expense and trouble to them, and to get their own men back into their ranks. They could ill spare the soldiers required to guard so large a number of prisoners, and a supply of food was in itself a serious matter.

Thus it was that at Harper's Ferry and upon a good many other occasions they released vast numbers of prisoners on their simple paroles not to serve again. The North, however, were in no hurry to make exchange; and moreover, their hands were so full with their enormous preparations that they put aside all matters which had not the claim of urgency.

CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE.

The discipline in the prison at Elmira was not rigorous. The prisoners had to clean up the cells, halls, and yard, but the rest of their time they could spend as they liked. Some of those whose friends had money were able to live in comparative luxury, and to assist those who had no such resources; for throughout the war there was never any great difficulty in passing letters to and from the South. The line of frontier was enormous, and it was only at certain points that hostilities, were actively carried on; consequently letters and newspapers were freely passed, and money could be sent in the same way from one part of the country to another.

At certain hours of the day hawkers and vendors of such articles as were in most demand by the prisoners were allowed to enter the yard and to sell their wares to the Confederates. Spirits were not allowed to be carried in, but tobacco and all kinds of food were permitted to pass. Vincent had at Alexandria written a letter to his mother, and had given it to a man who represented that he made it his business to forward letters to an agent at Richmond, being paid for each letter the sum of a dollar on its delivery. Vincent therefore felt confident that the anxiety that would be felt at home when they learned that he was among the missing at the battle of Antietam would be relieved.

He was fairly supplied with money. He had, indeed, had several hundred dollars with him at the time he was captured; but these were entirely in Confederate notes, for which he got but half their value in Northern paper at Alexandria. He himself found the rations supplied in the prison ample, and was able to aid any of his fellow-prisoners in purchasing clothes to replace the rags they wore when captured.

One day Vincent strolled down as usual toward the gate, where, under the eye of the guard, a row of men and women, principally negroes and negresses, were sitting on the ground with their baskets in front of them containing tobacco, pipes, fruit, cakes, needles and thread, buttons, and a variety of other articles in demand, while a number of prisoners were bargaining and joking with them. Presently his eye fell upon a negro before whom was a great pile of watermelons. He started as he did so, for he at once recognized the well-known face of Dan. As soon as the negro saw that his master's eye had fallen upon him he began loudly praising the quality of his fruit.

"Here, massa officer, here berry fine melyons, ripe and sweet; no green trash; dis un good right through. Five cents each, sah. Berry cheap dese."

"I expect they cost you nothing, Sambo," one of the Confederate soldiers said as he bought a melon. "Got a neighbor's patch handy, eh?"

Dan grinned at the joke, and then selecting another from the bottom of his pile in the basket, offered it to Vincent.

"Dis fine fruit, sah. Me sure you please with him!"

Vincent took the melon and handed Dan five cents. A momentary glance was exchanged, and then he walked away and sat down in a quiet corner of the yard and cut open the melon. As he expected, he found a note rolled up in the center. A small piece of the rind had been cut out and the pulp removed for its reception. The bit of rind had then been carefully replaced so that the cut would not be noticed without close inspection. It was from one of his fellow-officers, and was dated the day after his capture. He read as follows:

"MY DEAR WINGFIELD.-

We are all delighted this afternoon to hear that instead, as we had believed, of your being knocked on the head you are a prisoner among the Yanks. Several of us noticed you fall just as we halted at the river, and we all thought that from the way in which you fell you had been shot through the head or heart. However, there was no time to inquire in that terrific storm of shot and shell. In the morning when the burying parties went down we could find no signs of you, although we knew almost to a foot where you had fallen.

"We could only conclude at last that you had been carried off in the night by the Yanks, and as they would hardly take the trouble of carrying off a dead body, it occurred to us that you might after all be alive. So the colonel went to Lee, who at once sent a trumpeter with a flag down to the river to inquire, and we were all mightily pleased, as you may imagine, when he came back with the news that you were not only a prisoner, but unwounded, having been only stunned in some way. From the way you fell we suppose a round shot must have grazed your head; at least that is the only way we can account for it.

"Your horse came back unhurt to the troop, and will be well cared for until you rejoin us, which we hope will not be long. Your boy kept the camp awake last night with his howlings, and is at present almost out of his mind with delight. He tells me he has made up his mind to slip across the lines and make his way as a runaway to Alexandria, where you will, of course, be taken in the first place. He says he's got some money of yours; but I have insisted on his taking another fifty dollars, which you can repay me when we next meet. As he will not have to ask for work, he may escape the usual lot of runaways, who are generally pounced upon and set to work on the fortifications of Alexandria and Washington.

"He intends to find out what prison you are taken to, and to follow you, with some vague idea of being able to aid you to escape. As he cannot write, he has asked me to write this letter to you, telling you what his idea is. He will give it to you when he finds an opportunity, and he wishes you to give him an answer, making any suggestion that may occur to you as to the best way of his setting about it. He says that he shall make acquaintances among the negroes North, and will find some one who will read your note to him and write you an answer. I have told him that if he is caught at the game he is likely to be inside a prison a bit longer than you are, even if worse doesn't befall him. However, he makes light of this, and is bent upon carrying out his plans, and I can only hope he will succeed.

"I have just heard that we shall fall back across the Rappahannock to-morrow, and I imagine there will not be much hard fighting again until spring, long before which I hope you will be in your place among us again. We lost twenty-three men and two officers (Ketler and Sumner) yesterday. Good-by, old fellow! I need not say keep up your spirits, for that you are pretty sure to do.

"Yours truly,

"JAMES SINCLAIR."

After the first start at seeing Dan, Vincent was scarcely surprised, for he had often thought over what the boy would do, and had fancied that while, if he supposed him dead, he would go straight back to the Orangery, it was quite possible that, should he hear that he was a prisoner, Dan might take it into his head to endeavor to join him. As to his making his escape, that did not appear to be a very difficult undertaking now that he had a friend outside. The watch kept up was not a very vigilant one, for such numbers of prisoners were taken on both sides that they were not regarded as of very great importance, and, indeed, the difficulty lay rather in making across the country to the Southern border than in escaping from prison; for with a friend outside, with a disguise in readiness, that matter was comparatively easy. All that was required for the adventure was a long rope, a sharp file, and a dark night.

The chief difficulty that occurred to Vincent arose from the fact that there were some twenty other prisoners in the same ward. He could hardly file through the bars of the window unnoticed by them, and they would naturally wish to share in his flight; but where one person might succeed in evading the vigilance of the guard, it was unlikely in the extreme that twenty would do so, and the alarm once given all would be recaptured. He was spared the trouble of making up his mind as to his plans, for by the time he had finished his letter the hour that the hucksters were allowed to sell their goods was passed, and the gates were shut and all was quiet.

After some thought he came to the conclusion that the only plan would be to conceal himself somewhere in the prison just before the hour at which they were locked up in their wards. The alarm would be given, for the list of names was called over before lock-up, and a search would of course be made. Still, if he could find a good place for concealment, it might succeed, since the search after dark would not be so close and minute as that which would be made next morning. The only disadvantage would be that the sentries would be especially on the alert, as, unless the fugitive had succeeded in some way in passing out of the gates in disguise, he must still be within the walls, and might attempt to scale them through the night. This certainty largely increased the danger, and Vincent went to bed that night without finally determining what had better be done.

The next morning while walking in the grounds he quite determined as to the place he would choose for his concealment if he adopted the plan he had thought of the evening before. The lower rooms upon one side of the building were inhabited by the governor and officers of the prison, and if he were to spring through an open window unnoticed just as it became dusk, and hide himself in a cupboard or under a bed there he would be safe for a time, as, however close the search might be in other parts of the building, it would be scarcely suspected, at any rate on the first alarm, that he had concealed himself in the officers' quarters. There would, of course, be the chance of his being detected as he got out of the window again at night, but this would not be a great risk. It was the vigilance of the sentries that he most feared, and the possibility that, as soon as the fact of his being missing was known, a cordon of guards might be stationed outside the wall in addition to those in the yard. The danger appeared to him to be so great that he was half inclined to abandon the enterprise. It would certainly be weary work to be shut up there for perhaps a year while his friends were fighting the battles of his country; but it would be better after all to put up with that than to run any extreme risk of being shot.

When he had arrived at this conclusion he went upstairs to his room to write a line to Dan. The day was a fine one, and he found that the whole of the occupants of the room had gone below. This was an unexpected bit of good fortune, and he at once went to the window and examined the bars. They were thick and of new iron, but had been hastily put up. The building had originally been a large warehouse, and when it had been converted into a prison for the Confederate prisoners the bars had been added to the windows. Instead, therefore, of being built into solid stone and fastened in by lead, they were merely screwed on to the wooden framework of the windows, and by a strong turn-screw a bar could be removed in five minutes. This altogether altered the position. He had only to wait until the rest of the occupants of the room were asleep and then to remove the bar and let himself down.

He at once wrote:

"I want twenty yards of strong string, and the same length of rope that will bear my weight; also a strong turn-screw. When I have got this I will let you know night and hour. Shall want disguise ready to put on."

He folded the note up into a small compass, and at the hour at which Dan would be about to enter he sauntered down to the gate. In a short time the vendors entered, and were soon busy selling their wares. Dan had, as before, a basket of melons. Vincent made his way up to him.

"I want another melon," he said, "as good as that you me last night."

"Dey all de same, sah. First-rate melyons dose; just melt away in your mouf like honey."

He held up one of the melons, and Vincent placed in his hands the coppers in payment. Between two of them he had placed the little note. Dan's hands closed quickly on the coins, and dropping them into his pocket he addressed the next customer, while Vincent sauntered away again. This time the melon was a whole one, and Vincent divided it with a couple of other prisoners for the fruit was too large for one person to consume, being quite as large as a man's head.

The next day another melon was bought, but this time Vincent did not open it in public. Examining it closely, he perceived that it had been cut through the middle, and no doubt contained a portion of the rope. He hesitated as to his next step. If he took the melon up to his room he would be sure to find some men there, and would be naturally called upon to divide the fruit; and yet there was nowhere else he could hide it. For a long time he sat with his back to the wall and the melon beside him, abusing himself for his folly in not having told Dan to send the rope in small lengths that he could hide about him. The place where he had sat down was one of the quietest in the yard, but men were constantly strolling up and down. He determined at last that the only possible plan was in the first place to throw his coat over his melon, to tuck it up underneath it, then to get hold of one end of the ball of rope that it doubtless contained and to endeavor to wind it round his body without being observed. It was a risky business, and he would gladly have tossed the melon over the wall had he dared to do so; for if he were detected, not only would he be punished with much more severe imprisonment, but Dan might be arrested and punished most severely.

Unfortunately the weather was by no means hot, and it would look strange to take off his coat, besides, if he did so, how could he coil the rope round him without being observed? So that idea was abandoned. He got up and walked to an angle in the wall, and there sat down again, concealing the melon as well as he could between him and the wall when any one happened to come near him. He pulled the halves apart and found, as he had suspected, it was but a shell, the whole of the fruit having been scooped out. But he gave an exclamation of pleasure on seeing that instead, as he feared, of a large ball of rope being inside, the interior was filled with neatly-made hanks, each containing several yards of thin but strong rope, together with a hank of strong string.

Unbuttoning his coat, he thrust them in; then he took the melon rind and broke it into very small pieces and threw them about. He then went up to his room and thrust the hanks, unobserved, one by one among the straw which, covered by an army blanket, constituted his bed. To-morrow, no doubt, Dan would supply him somehow with a turn-screw. On going down to the gate next day he found that the negro had changed his commodity, and that this time his basket contained very large and fine cucumbers. These were selling briskly, and Vincent saw that Dan was looking round anxiously, and that an expression of relief came over his face as he perceived him. He had, indeed, but eight or ten cucumbers left.

"Cucumbers to-day, sah? Berry fine cucumbers—first-rate cucumbers dese."

"They look rather over-ripe," Vincent said.

"Not a bit, sah; dey just ripe. Dis berry fine one-ten cents dis."

"You are putting up your prices, darkey, and are making a fortune out of us," Vincent said as he took the cucumber, which was a very large and straight one. He had no difficulty with this, as with the melon; a sharp twist broke it in two as he reached the corner he had used the day previously. It had been cut in half, one end had been scooped out for the reception of the handle of the turn-screw, and the metal been driven in to the head in the other half. Hiding it under his jacket, he felt that he was now prepared for escape.

He now asked himself whether he should go alone or take one or more of his comrades into his confidence, and finally determined to give a young Virginian officer named Geary, with whom he had been specially friendly during his imprisonment, and Jackson, a chance of escape. He did not like the latter, but he thought that after the reconciliation that had taken place between them it was only right to take him rather than a stranger. Drawing them aside, then, he told them that he had arranged a mode of escape; it was impossible that all could avail themselves of it, but that they were welcome to accompany him. They thanked him heartily for the offer, and, when he explained the manner in which he intended to make off, agreed to try their fortune with him.

"I propose," he said, "as soon as we are fairly beyond the prison, we separate, and each try to gain the frontier as best he can. The fact that three prisoners have escaped will soon be known all over the country, and there would be no chance whatever for us if we kept together. I will tell my boy to have three disguises ready; and when we once put aside our uniforms I see no reason why, traveling separately, suspicion should fall upon us; we ought to have no difficulty until at any rate we arrive near the border, and there must be plenty of points where we can cross without going anywhere near the Federal camps." The others at once agreed that the chances of making their way separately were much greater than if together. This being arranged, Vincent passed a note next day to Dan, telling him to have three disguises in readiness, and to be at the foot of the western wall, halfway along, at twelve o'clock on the first wet night. A string would be thrown over, with a knife fastened to it. He was to pull on the string till the rope came into his hand, and to hold that tight until they were over. Vincent chose this spot because it was equally removed from the sentry-boxes at the corners of the yard, and because there was a stone seat in the yard to which one end of the rope could be attached.

That night was fine, but the next was thick and misty. At nine o'clock all were in bed, and he lay listening to the clocks in the distance. Ten struck, and eleven, and when he thought it was approaching twelve he got up and crept to the window. He was joined immediately by the others; the turn-screw was set to work; and, as he expected, Vincent found no trouble whatever with the screws, which were not yet rusted in the wood, and turned immediately when the powerful screw-driver was applied to them. When all were out the bar was carefully lifted from its place and laid upon the floor.

The rope was then put round one of the other bars and drawn through it until the two ends came together. These were then dropped to the ground below. Geary went first, Jackson followed, and Vincent was soon standing beside them. Taking one end of the rope, he pulled it until the other passed round the bar and fell at their feet. All three were barefooted, and they stole noiselessly across the yard to the seat, which was nearly opposite their window. Vincent had already fastened his clasp-knife to the end of the string, and he now threw it over the wall, which was about twenty feet high.

He had tied a knot at forty feet from the end, and, standing close to the wall, he drew in the string until the knot was in his hand. Another two yards, and he knew that the knife was hanging a yard from the ground against the wall. He now drew it up and down, hoping that the slight noise the knife made against the wall might aid Dan in finding it. In two or three minutes he felt a jerk, and knew that Dan had got it. He fastened the end of the string to the rope and waited. The rope was gradually drawn up; when it neared the end he fastened it to the stone seat.

"Now," he said, "up you go, Geary."

The order in which they were to ascend had been settled by lot, as Geary insisted that Vincent, who had contrived the whole affair, should be the first to escape; but Vincent declined to accept the advantage, and the three had accordingly tossed up for precedence.

Geary was quickly over, and lowered himself on the opposite side. The others followed safely, but not without a good deal of scraping against the wall, for the smallness of the rope added to the difficulty of climbing it. However, the noise was so slight that they had little fear of attracting attention, especially as the sentries would be standing in their boxes, for the rain was now coming down pretty briskly. As soon as they were down Vincent seized Dan by the hand.

"My brave lad," he said, "I owe you my freedom, and I sha'n't forget it. Now, where are the clothes?"

"Here day are, sah. One is a rough suit, like a workingman's; another is a black-and-white sort of suit—a check-suit; de oder one is for you—a clargy's suit, sir. You make very nice young minister, for sure."

"All right, Dan!" Vincent said laughing; "give me the minister's suit."

"Then I will be the countryman," Geary said.

There was a little suppressed laughter as they changed their clothes in the dark; and then, leaving their uniforms by the wall, they shook hands and started at once in different directions, lest they might come across some one who would, when the escape was known, remember four men having passed him in the dark.

"Now, Dan, what is the next move?" Vincent asked as they walked off. "Have you fixed upon any plan?"

"No special plan, sah, but I have brought a bag; you see I have him in my hand."

"I suppose that's what you carried the clothes in?"

"No, sir; I carried dem in a bundle. Dis bag has got linen, and boots, and oder tings for you, sah. What I tink am de best way is dis. Dar am a train pass trou here at two o'clock and stop at dis station. Some people always get out. Dar is an hotel just opposite the station, and some of de passengers most always go there. I thought the best way for you would be to go outside the station. Just when the train come in we walk across de road wid the others and go to hotel. You say you want bedroom for yo'self, and that your sarvant can sleep in de hall. Den in de morning you get up and breakfast, and go off by de fust train."

"But then they may send down to look at the passengers starting, and I should be taken at once."

"De train go out at seven o'clock, sah. I don't expect dey find dat you have got away before dat."

"No, Dan. We all turn out at seven, and I shall be missed then; but it will be some little time before the alarm is given, and they find out how we got away, and send out search-parties. If the train is anything like punctual we shall be off long before they get to the station."

"Besides, sah, dar are not many people knows your face, and it not likely de bery man dat know you come to the station. Lots of oder places to search, and dey most sure to tink you go right away—not tink you venture to stop in town till the morning."

"That is so, Dan; and I think your plan is a capital one."

Dan's suggestion was carried out, and at seven o'clock next morning they were standing on the platform among a number of other parsons waiting for the train. Just as the locomotive's whistle was heard the sound of a cannon boomed out from the direction of the prison.

"That means some of the prisoners have escaped," one of the porters on the platform said. "There have been five or six of them got away in the last two months, but most of them have been caught again before they have gone far. You see, to have a chance at all, they have got to get rid of their uniforms, and as we are all Unionists about here that ain't an easy job for 'em to manage."

Every one on the platform joined in the conversation, asking which way the fugitive would be likely to go, whether there were any cavalry to send after him, what would be done to him if he were captured, and other questions of the same kind, Vincent joining in the talk. It was a relief to him when the train drew up, and he and Dan took their place in it, traveling, however, in different cars. Once fairly away, Vincent had no fear whatever of being detected, and could travel where he liked, for outside the prison there were not ten people who knew his face throughout the Northern States. It would be difficult for him to make his way down into Virginia from the North as the whole line of frontier there was occupied by troops, and patrols were on the watch night and day to prevent persons from going through the lines. He therefore determined to go west to St. Louis, and from there work his way down through Missouri. After two days' railway traveling they reached St. Louis, a city having a large trade with the South, and containing many sympathizers with the Confederate cause. Vincent, having now no fear of detection, went at once to an hotel, and taking up the newspaper, one of the first paragraphs that met his eye was headed:

"Escape of three Confederate officers from Elmira. Great excitement was caused on Wednesday at Elmira by the discovery that three Confederate officers had, during the night, effected their escape from prison. One of the bars of the window of the ward on the first floor in which they were, with fifteen other Confederate officers, confined, had been removed; the screws having been taken out by a large screw-driver which they left behind them. They had lowered themselves to the yard, and climbed over the wall by means of a rope which was found in position in the morning. The rest of the prisoners professed an entire ignorance of the affair, and declare that until they found the beds unoccupied in the morning they knew nothing of the occurrence.

"This is as it may be, but it is certain they must have been aided by traitors outside the prison, for the rope hung loose on the outside of the wall, and must have been held by some one there as they climbed it. The inside end was fastened to a stone seat, and they were thus enabled to slide down it on the other side. Their uniforms were found lying at the foot of the wall, and their accomplice had doubtless disguises ready for them. The authorities of the prison are unable to account for the manner in which the turn-screw and rope were passed in to them, or how they communicated with their friends outside."

Then followed the personal description of each of the fugitives, and a request that all loyal citizens would be on the look-out for them, and would at once arrest any suspicious character unable to give a satisfactory account of himself. As Vincent sat smoking in the hall of the hotel he heard several present discussing the escape of the prisoners.

"It does not matter about them one way or the other," one of the speakers said. "They seem to be mere lads, and whether they escape or not will not make any difference to any one. The serious thing is that there must be some traitors among the prison officials, and that next time, perhaps two or three generals may escape, and that would be a really serious misfortune."

"We need not reckon that out at present," another smoker said. "We haven't got three of the rebel generals yet, and as far as things seem to be going on, we may have to wait some time before we have. They are pretty well able to take care of themselves, I reckon."

"They are good men, some of them, I don't deny," the first speaker said; "but they might as well give up the game. In the spring we shall have an army big enough to eat them up."

"So I have heard two or three times before. Scott was going to eat them up, McClellan was going to eat them up, then Pope was going to make an end of 'em altogether. Now McClellan is having a try again, but somehow or other the eating up hasn't come off yet. It looks to me rather the other way."

There was an angry growl from two or three of those sitting round, while others uttered a cordial "That's so."

"It seems to me, by the way you put it, that you don't wish to see this business come to an end."

"That's where you are wrong now. I do wish to see it come to an end. I don't want to see tens of thousands of men losing their lives because one portion of these States wants to ride roughshod over the other. The sooner the North looks this affair squarely in the face and sees that it has taken up a bigger job than it can carry through, and agrees to let those who wish to leave it go if they like, the better for all parties. That's what I think about it."

"I don't call that Union talk," the other said angrily.

"Union or not Union, I mean to talk it, and I want to know who is going to prevent me?"

The two men rose simultaneously from their chairs, and in a second the crack of two revolvers sounded. As if they had only been waiting for the signal, a score of other men leaped up and sprang at each other. They had, as the altercation grew hotter, joined in with exclamations of anger or approval, and Vincent saw that although the Unionists were the majority the party of sympathizers with the South was a strong one. Having neither arms nor inclination to join in a broil of this kind he made his escape into the street the instant hostilities began, and hurried away from the sound of shouts, oaths, the sharp cracks of pistols, and the breaking of glass. Ten minutes later he returned. The hotel was shut up, but an angry mob were assembled round the door shouting, "Down with the rebels! down with the Secessionists!" and were keeping up a loud knocking at the door. Presently a window upstairs opened, and the proprietor put out his head.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I can assure you that the persons who were the cause of this disturbance all left the hotel by the back way as soon as the affair was over. I have sent for the police commissioner, and upon his arrival he will be free to search the house, and to arrest any one concerned in this affair."

The crowd were not satisfied, and renewed their knocking at the door; but two or three minutes later an officer, with a strong body of police, arrived on the spot. In a few words he told the crowd to disperse, promising that the parties concerned in the affair would be taken in and duly deal with. He then entered the house with four of his men, leaving the rest to wait. Vincent entered with the constables, saying that he was staying at the house. The fumes of gunpowder were still floating about the hall, three bodies were lying on the floor, and several men were binding up their wounds. The police-officer inquired into the origin of the broil, and all present concurred in saying that it arose from some Secessionists speaking insultingly of the army of the Union.

Search was then made in the hotel, and it was found that eight persons were missing. One of the killed was a well-known citizen of the town; he was the speaker on the Union side of the argument. The other two were strangers, and no one could say which side they espoused. All those present declared that they themselves were Union men, and it was supposed that the eight who were missing were the party who had taken the other side of the question. The evidence of each was taken down by the police- officer. Vincent was not questioned, as, having entered with the constables, it was supposed he was not present at the affair.

In the morning Vincent read in the local paper a highly colored account of the fray. After giving a large number of wholly fictitious details of the fray, it went on to say: "The victims were Cyrus D. Jenkins, a much-esteemed citizen and a prominent Unionist; the other two were guests at the hotel; one had registered as P. J. Moore of Vermont, the other James Harvey of Tennessee. Nothing is as yet known as to the persons whose rooms were unoccupied, and who had doubtless made their escape as soon as the affray was over; but the examination of their effects, which will be made by the police in the morning, will doubtless furnish a clew by which they will be brought to justice."

Having read this, Vincent looked for the news as to the escape from Elmira, being anxious to know whether his companions had been as fortunate as himself in getting clear away. He was startled by reading the following paragraph: "We are enabled to state that the police have received a letter stating that one of the officers who escaped from Elmira prison has adopted the disguise of a minister, and is traveling through the country with a black servant. At present the authorities are not disposed to attach much credit to this letter, and are inclined to believe that it has been sent in order to put them on a wrong scent. However a watch will doubtless be kept by the police throughout the country for a person answering to this description."

Accustomed to rise early, Vincent was taking his breakfast almost alone, only two or three of the other guests having made their appearance. He finished his meal hastily, and went out to Dan, who was lounging in front of the hotel.

"Dan, go upstairs at once, pack the bag, bring it down and get out with it immediately. I will pay the bill. Don't stop to ask questions now."

Vincent then walked up to the desk at the end of the hall, at which a clerk was sitting reading the paper. Sincerely hoping that the man's eye had not fallen on this paragraph, he asked if his account was made out. As he had fortunately mentioned on the preceding evening that he should be leaving in the morning, the bill was ready; and the clerk, scarce looking up from the paper, handed it to him. Vincent paid him the amount, saying carelessly, "I think I have plenty of time to catch the train for the east?"

The clerk glanced at the clock.

"Yes, it goes at 8, and you have twenty minutes. It's only five minutes' walk to the station."

CHAPTER XI. FUGITIVES.

On leaving the hotel Vincent walked a short distance, and then stopped until Dan came up to him.

"Anyting de matter, sah?"

"Yes, Dan. There is a notice in the paper that the police have obtained information that I am traveling disguised as a minister, and have a negro servant with me.."

"Who told dem dat?" Dan asked in surprise.

"We can talk about that presently, Dan; the great thing at present is to get away from here. The train for the south starts at ten. Give me the bag, and follow me at a distance. I will get you a ticket for Nashville, and as you pass me in the station I will hand it to you. It must not be noticed that we are traveling together. That is the only clew they have got."

Dan obeyed his instructions. The journey was a long one. The train was slow and stopped frequently; passengers got in and out at every station. The morning's news from the various points at which the respective forces were facing each other was the general topic of conversation, and Vincent was interested in seeing how the tone gradually changed as the passengers from St. Louis one by one left the train and their places were taken by those of the more southern districts. At first the sentiment expressed had been violently Northern, and there was no dissent from the general chorus of hope and expectation that the South were on their last legs and that the rebellion would shortly be stamped out; but gradually, as the train approached the State of Tennessee, the Unionist opinion, although expressed with even greater force and violence, was by no means universal. Many man read their papers in silence and took no part whatever in the conversation, but Vincent could see from the angry glances which they shot at the speakers that the sentiments uttered were distasteful to them. He himself had scarcely spoken during the whole journey. He had for some time devoted himself to the newspaper, and had then purchased a book from the newsboy who perambulated the cars. Presently a rough-looking man who had been among the wildest and most violent in his denunciation of the South said, looking at Vincent:

"I see by the papers to-day that one of the cursed rebel officers who gave them the slip at Elmira is traveling in the disguise of a minister. I guess it's mighty unpleasant to know that even if you meet a parson in a train like as not he is a rebel in disguise. Now, mister, may I ask where you have come from and where you are going to?"

"You may ask what you like," Vincent said quietly; "but I am certainly not going to answer impertinent questions."

A hum of approval was heard from several of the passengers.

"If you hadn't got that black coat on," the man said angrily, "I would put you off the car in no time."

"Black coat or no black coat," Vincent said, "you may find it more difficult than you think. My profession is a peaceful one; but even a peaceful man, if assaulted, may defend himself. You say it's unpleasant to know that if you travel with a man in a black coat he may be a traitor. It's quite as unpleasant to me to know that if I travel with a man in a brown one he may be a notorious ruffian, and may as likely as not have just served his time in a penitentiary."

Two or three of the passengers laughed loudly. The man, starting up, crossed the car to where Vincent was sitting and laid his hand roughly on his shoulder.

"You have got to get out!" he said. "No man insults Jim Mullens twice."

"Take your hand off my shoulder," Vincent said quietly, "or you will be sorry for it."

The man shifted his hold to the collar of Vincent's coat amid cries of shame from some of the passengers, while the others were silent, even those of his own party objecting to an assault upon a minister. It was only the fact that the fellow was a notorious local ruffian that prevented their expressing open disapproval of the act. As the man grasped Vincent's collar with his right hand Vincent saw his left go under his coat toward the pocket in the back of the trousers where revolvers were always carried. In an instant he sprang to his feet, and before the man, who was taken by surprise at the suddenness of the movement, could steady himself, he struck him a tremendous blow between the eyes, and at the same moment, springing at his throat, threw him backward on to the floor of the carriage. As he fell the man drew out his revolver, but Vincent grasped his arm and with a sharp twist wrenched the revolver from his grasp, and leaping up, threw it out of the open window. The ruffian rose to his feat, for a moment half dazed by the violence with which he had fallen, and poured out a string of imprecations upon Vincent. The latter stood calmly awaiting a fresh attack. For a moment the ruffian hesitated, and then, goaded to fury by the taunting laughter of the lookers-on, was about to spring upon him when he was seized by two or three of the passengers.

"I reckon you have made a fool enough of yourself already," one of them said; "and we are not going to see a minister ill-treated, not if we know it."

"You need not hold him," Vincent said. "It is not because one wears a black coat and is adverse to fighting that one is not able to defend one's self. We all learn the same things at college whether we are going into the church or any other profession. You can let him alone if he really wants any more, which I do not believe. I should be ashamed of myself if I could not punish a ruffian of his kind."

"Let me get at him!" yelled Mullens; and the men who held him, taking Vincent at his word, released him. He rushed forward, but was received with another tremendous blow on the mouth. He paused a moment in his rush, and Vincent, springing forward, administered another blow upon the same spot, knocking him off his legs on to the floor. On getting up he gave no sign of a desire to renew the conflict. His lips were badly cut and the blood was streaming from his mouth, and he looked at Vincent with an air of absolute bewilderment. The latter, seeing that the conflict was over, quietly resumed his seat; while several of the passengers came up to him, and, shaking him warmly by the hand, congratulated him upon having punished his assailant.

"I wish we had a few more ministers of your sort down this way," one said. "That's the sort of preaching fellows like this understand. It was well you got his six-shooter out of his hand, for he would have used it as sure as fate. He ought to have been lynched long ago, but since the troubles began these fellows have had all their own way. But look to yourself when he gets out; he belongs to a hand who call themselves Unionists, but who are nothing but plunderers and robbers. If you take my advice, when you get to the end of your journey you will not leave the station, but take a ticket straight back north. I tell you your life won't be safe five minutes when you once get outside the town. They daren't do anything there, for though folks have had to put up with a good deal they wouldn't stand the shooting of a minister; still, outside the town I would not answer for your life for an hour."

"I have my duties to perform," Vincent said, "and I shall certainly carry them through; but I am obliged to you for your advice I can quite understand that ruffian," and he looked at Mullens, who, with his handkerchief to his mouth, was sitting alone in a corner—for the rest had all drawn away from him in disgust—and glaring ferociously at him, "will revenge himself if he has the opportunity. However as far as possible I shall be on my guard."

"At any rate," the man said, "I should advise you when you get to Nashville to charge him with assault. We can all testify that he laid hands on you first. That way he will get locked up for some days anyhow, and you can go away about your business, and he won't know where to find you when he gets out."

"Thank you—that would be a very good plan; but I might lose a day or two in having to appear against him; I am pressed for time and have some important business on hand and I have no doubt I shall be able to throw him off my track, finish my business, and be off again before he can come across me."

"Well, I hope no harm will come of it," the other said. "I like you, and I never saw any one hit so quickly and so hard. It's a downright pity you are a preacher. My name's John Morrison, and my farm is ten miles from Nashville, on the Cumberland River. If you should be going in that direction I should be right glad if you would drop in on me."

The real reason that decided Vincent against following the advice to give his assailant in charge was that he feared he himself might be questioned as to the object of his journey and his destination. The fellow would not improbably say that he believed he was the Confederate officer who was trying to escape in the disguise of a clergyman and that he had therefore tried to arrest him. He could of course give no grounds for the accusation, still questions might be asked which would be impossible for him to answer; and, however plausible a story he might invent, the lawyer whom the fellow would doubtless employ to defend him might suggest that the truth of his statements might be easily tested by the despatch of a telegram, in which case he would be placed in a most awkward situation. It was better to run the risk of trouble with the fellow and his gang than to do anything which might lead to inquiries as to his identity.

When the train reached Nashville, Vincent proceeded to an hotel. It was already late in the afternoon, for the journey had occupied more than thirty hours. As soon as it was dark he went out again and joined Dan, whom he had ordered to follow him at a distance and to be at the corner of the first turning to the right of the hotel as soon as it became dark. Dan was at the point agreed upon, and he followed Vincent until the latter stopped in a quiet and badly lighted street.

"Things are going badly, Dan. I had a row with a ruffian in the train, and he has got friends here, and this will add greatly to our danger in getting to our lines. I must get another disguise. What money have you left?"

"Not a cent, sah. I had only a five-cent piece left when we left St.

Louis, and I spent him on bread on de journey."

"That is bad, Dan. I did not think your stock was so nearly expended."

"I had to keep myself, sah, and to pay for de railroad, and to buy dem tree suits of clothes, and to make de nigger I lodged with a present to keep him mouth shut."

"Oh, I know you have had lots of expenses, Dan, and I am sure that you have not wasted your money; but I had not thought about it. I have only got ten dollars left, and we may have a hundred and fifty miles to travel before we are safe. Anyhow, you must get another disguise, and trust to luck for the rest. We have tramped a hundred and fifty miles before now without having anything beyond what we could pick up on the road. Here's the money. Get a rough suit of workingman's clothes, and join me here again in an hour's time. Let us find out the name of the street before we separate, for we may miss our way and not be able to meet again."

Passing up into the busy streets, Vincent presently stopped and purchased a paper of a newsboy who was running along shouting, "News from the war. Defeat of the rebels. Fight in a railway car near Nashville; a minister punishes a border ruffian."

"Confound those newspaper fellows!" Vincent muttered to himself as he walked away. "They pick up every scrap of news. I suppose a reporter got hold of some one who was in the car." Turning down a quiet street, he opened the paper and by the light of the lamp read a graphic and minute account of the struggle in the train.

"I won't go back to the hotel," he said to himself. "I shall be having reporters to interview me. I shall be expected to give them a history of my whole life; where I was born, and where I went to school, and whether I prefer beef to mutton, and whether I drink beer, and a thousand other things. No; the sooner I am away the better. As to the hotel, I have only had one meal, and they have got the bag with what clothes there are; that will pay them well." Accordingly when he rejoined Dan he told him that they would start at once.

"It is the best way, anyhow," he said. "To-morrow, no doubt, the fellow I had the row with will be watching the hotel to see which way I go off, but after once seeing me go to the hotel he will not guess that I shall be starting this evening. What have you got left, Dan?"

"I got two dollars, sah."

"That makes us quite rich men. We will stop at the first shop we come to and lay in a stock of bread and a pound or two of ham."

"And a bottle of rum, sah. Berry wet and cold sleeping out of doors now, sah. Want a little comfort anyhow."

"Very well, Dan; I think we can afford that."

"Get one for half a dollar, massa. Could not lay out half a dollar better."

Half an hour later they had left Nashville behind them, and were tramping along the road toward the east, Dan carrying a bundle in which the provisions were wrapped, and the neck of the bottle of rum sticking out of his pocket. As soon as they were well in the country Vincent changed his clothes for those Dan had just bought him, and making the others up into a bundle continued his way.

"Why you not leave dem black clothes behind, sah? What good take dem wid you?"

"I am not going to carry them far, Dan. The first wood or thick clump of bushes we come to I shall hide them away; but if you were to leave them here they would be found the first thing in the morning, and perhaps be carried into the town and handed over to the police, and they might put that and the fact of my not having returned to the hotel—which is sure to be talked about—together, and come to the conclusion that either Mullens was right and that I was an escaped Confederate, or that I had been murdered by Mullens. In either case they might get up a search, and perhaps send telegrams to the troops in the towns beyond us. Anyhow, it's best the clothes should not be found."

All night they tramped along, pausing only for half an hour about midnight, when Dan suggested that as he had only had some bread to eat—and not too much of that—during the last forty-eight hours, he thought that he could do with some supper. Accordingly the bundle was opened, and they sat down and partook of a hearty meal. Dan had wisely taken the precaution of having the cork drawn from the bottle when he bought it, replacing it so that it could be easily extracted when required, and Vincent acknowledged that the spirit was a not unwelcome addition to the meal. When morning broke they had reached Duck's River, a broad stream crossing the road.

Here they drew aside into a thick grove, and determined to get a few hours' sleep before proceeding. It was nearly midday before they woke and proceeded to the edge of the trees. Vincent reconnoitered the position.

"It is just as well we did not try to cross, Dan. I see the tents of at least a regiment on the other bank. No doubt they are stationed there to guard the road and railway bridge. This part of the country is pretty equally divided in opinion, though more of the people are for the South than for the North; but I know there are guerrilla parties on both sides moving about, and if a Confederate band was to pounce down on these bridges and destroy them it would cut the communication with their army in front, and put them in a very ugly position if they were defeated. No doubt that's why they have stationed that regiment there. Anyhow, it makes it awkward for us. We should be sure to be questioned where we are going, and as I know nothing whatever of the geography of the place we should find it very difficult to satisfy them. We must cross the river somewhere else. There are sure to be some boats somewhere along the banks; at any rate, the first thing to do is to move further away from the road."

They walked for two or three miles across the country. The fields for the most part were deserted, and although here and there they saw cultivated patches, it was evident that most of the inhabitants had quitted that part of the country, which had been the scene of almost continued fighting from the commencement of the war; the sufferings of the inhabitants being greatly heightened by the bands of marauders who moved about plundering and destroying under the pretense of punishing those whom they considered hostile to the cause in whose favor—nominally, at least—they had enrolled themselves. The sight of ruined farms and burned houses roused Vincent's indignation; for in Virginia private property had, up to the time of Pope's assuming command of the army, been respected, and this phase of civil war was new and very painful to him.

"It would be a good thing," he said to Dan, "if the generals on both sides in this district would agree to a month's truce, and join each other in hunting down and hanging these marauding scoundrels. On our side Mosby and a few other leaders of bands composed almost entirely of gentlemen, have never been accused of practices of this kind; but, with these exceptions, there is little to choose between them."

After walking for four or five miles they again sat down till evening, and then going down to the river endeavored to find a boat by which they could cross, but to their disappointment no craft of any kind was visible, although in many places there were stages by the riverside, evidently used by farmers for unloading their produce into boats. Vincent concluded at last that at some period of the struggle all the boats must have been collected and either sunk or carried away by one of the parties to prevent the other crossing the river.

Hitherto they had carefully avoided all the farmhouses that appeared to be inhabited; but Vincent now determined to approach one of them and endeavor to gain some information as to the distance from the next bridge, and whether it was guarded by troops, and to find out if possible the position in which the Northern forces in Tennessee were at present posted—all of which points he was at present ignorant of. He passed two or three large farmhouses without entering, for although the greater part of the male population were away with one or other of the armies, he might still find two or three hands in such buildings. Besides, it was now late, and whatever the politics of the inmates they would be suspicious of such late arrivals, and would probably altogether refuse them admittance. Accordingly another night was spent in the wood.

The next morning, after walking a mile or two, they saw a house at which Vincent determined to try their fortune. It was small, but seemed to have belonged to people above the class of farmer. It stood in a little plantation, and was surrounded by a veranda. Most of the blinds were down, and Vincent judged that the inmates could not be numerous.

"You remain here, Dan, and I will go and knock at the door. It is better that we should not be seen together." Vincent accordingly went forward and knocked at the door. An old negress opened it.

"We have nothing for tramps," she said. "De house am pretty well cleared out ob eberyting." She was about to shut the door when Vincent put his foot forward and prevented it closing. "Massa Charles," the negress called out, "bring yo' shot-gun quick; here am tief want to break into the house."

"I am neither a thief nor a tramp," Vincent said; "and I do not want anything, except that I should be glad to buy a loaf of bread if you have one that you could spare. I have lost my way, and I want to ask directions."

"Dat am pretty likely story," the old woman said. "Bring up dat shot-gun quick, Massa Charles."

"What is it, Chloe?" another female voice asked.

"Here am a man pretend he hab lost his way and wants to buy a loaf. You stand back, Miss Lucy, and let your broder shoot de villain dead."

"I can assure you that I am not a robber, madam," Vincent said through the partly opened door. "I am alone, and only beg some information, which I doubt not you can give me."

"Open the door, Chloe," the second voice said inside; "that is not the voice of a robber."

The old woman reluctantly obeyed the order and opened the door, and Vincent saw in the passage a young girl of some sixteen years old. He took off his hat.

"I am very sorry to disturb you," he said; "but I am an entire stranger here, and am most desirous of crossing the river, but can find no boat with which to do so."

"Why did you not cross by the bridge?" the girl asked. "How did you miss the straight road?"

"Frankly, because there were Northern troops there," Vincent said, "and I wish to avoid them if possible."

"You are a Confederate?" the girl asked, when the old negress interrupted her:

"Hush! Miss Lucy, don't you talk about dem tings; der plenty of mischief done already. What hab you to do wid one side or do oder?"

The girl paid no attention to her words, but stood awaiting Vincent's answer. He did not hesitate. There was something in her face that told him that, friend or foe, she was not likely to betray a fugitive, and he answered:

"I am a Confederate officer, madam. I have made my escape from

Elmira prison, and am trying to find my way back into our lines."

"Come in, sir," the girl said, holding out her hand. "We are Secessionists, heart and soul. My father and my brother are with our troops—that is, if they are both alive. I have little to offer you, for the Yankee bands have been here several times, have driven off our cattle, emptied our barns, and even robbed our hen-nests, and taken everything in the house they thought worth carrying away. But whatever there is, sir, you are heartily welcome to. I had a paper yesterday—it is not often I get one—and I saw there that three of our officers had escaped from Elmira. Are you one of them?"

"Yes, madam. I am Lieutenant Wingfield."

"Ah! then you are in the cavalry. You have fought under Stuart," the girl said. "The paper said so. Oh, how I wish we had Stuart and Stonewall Jackson on this side! we should soon drive the Yankees out of Tennessee."

"They would try to, anyhow," Vincent said, smiling, "and if it were possible they would assuredly do it. I was in Ashley's horse with the Stonewall division through the first campaign in the Shenandoah Valley and up to Bull Run, and after that under Stuart. But is not your brother here? Your servant called to him."

"There is no one here but ourselves," the girl replied. "That was a fiction of Chloe's, and it has succeeded sometimes when we have had rough visitors. And now what can I do for you, sir? You said you wanted to buy a loaf of bread, and therefore, I suppose, you are hungry. Chloe, put the bacon and bread on the table, and make some coffee. I am afraid that is all we can do, sir, but such as it is you are heartily welcome to it."

"I thank you greatly," Vincent replied, "and will, if you will allow me, take half my breakfast out to my boy who is waiting over there."

"Why did you not bring him in?" the girl asked. "Of course he will be welcome too."

"I did not bring him in before because two men in these days are likely to alarm a lonely household; and I would rather not bring him in now, because, if by any possibility the searchers, who are no doubt after me, should call and ask you whether two men, one a white and the other a negro, had been here, you could answer no."

"But they cannot be troubling much about prisoners," the girl said. "Why, in the fighting here and in Missouri they have taken many thousands of prisoners, and you have taken still more of them in Virginia; surely they cannot trouble themselves much about one getting away."

"I am not afraid of a search of that kind," Vincent said; "but, unfortunately, on my way down I had a row in the train with a ruffian named Mullens, who is, I understand, connected with one of these bands of brigands, and I feel sure that he will hunt me down if he can."

The girl turned pale.

"Oh!" she said, "I saw that in the paper too, but it said that it was a minister. And it was you who beat that man and threw his revolver out of the window? Oh, then, you are in danger indeed, sir. He is one of the worst ruffians in the State, and is the leader of the party who stripped this house and threatened to burn it to the ground. Luckily I was not at home, having gone away to spend the night with a neighbor. His band have committed murders all over the country, hanging up defenseless people on pretense that they were Secessionists. They will show you no mercy if they catch you."

"No. I should not expect any great mercy if I fell into their hands,

Miss Lucy. I don't know your other name."

"My name is Kingston. I ought to have introduced myself to you at once."

"Now you understand, Miss Kingston, how anxious I am to get across the river, and that brings me to the question of the information I want you to give me. How far is it from the next bridge on the south, and are there any Federal troops there?"

"It is about seven miles to the bridge at William sport, we are just halfway between that and the railway bridge at Columbus. Yes, there are certainly troops there—"

"Then I see no way for it but to make a small raft to carry us across, Miss Kingston. I am a good swimmer, but the river is full and of considerable width; still, I think I can get across. But my boy cannot swim a stroke."

"I know where there is a boat hid in the wood near the river," the girl said. "It belongs to a neighbor of ours, and when the Yankees seized the boats he had his hauled up and hidden in the woods. He was a Southerner, heart and soul, and thought that he might be able sometimes to take useful information across the river to our people; but a few weeks afterward his house was attacked by one of these bands—it was always said it was that of Mullens—and he was killed defending it to the last. He killed several of the band before he fell, and they were so enraged that after plundering it they set it on fire and fastened the door, and his wife and two maid-servants were burned to death."

"I wish instead of throwing his pistol out of the window I had blown his brains out with it," Vincent said; "and I would have done so if I had known what sort of fellow he was. However, as to the boat, can you give me instructions where to find it, and is it light enough for two men to carry?"

"Not to carry, perhaps, but to push along. It is a light boat he had for pleasure. He had a large one, but that was carried away with the others. I cannot give you directions, but I can lead you to the place."

"I should not like you to do that," Vincent said. "We might be caught, and your share in the affair might be suspected."

"Oh! there is no fear of that," the girl said; "besides, I am not afraid of danger."

"I don't think it is right, Miss Kingston, for a young lady like you to be living here alone with an old servant in such times as these. You ought to go into a town until it's all over."

"I have no one to go to," the girl said simply. "My father bought this place and moved here from Georgia only six years ago, and all my friends are in that State. Except our neighbors round here I do not know a soul in Tennessee. Besides, what can I do in a town? We can manage here, because we have a few fowls, and some of our neighbors last spring plowed an acre or two of ground and planted corn for us, and I have a little money left for buying other things; but it would not last us a month if we went into a town. No, I have nothing to do but to stay here until you drive the Yankees back. I will willingly take you down to the boat to-night. Chloe can come with us and keep me company on the way back. Of course it would not be safe to cross in the daytime."

"I thank you greatly, Miss Kingston, and shall always remember your kindness. Now, when I finish my meal I will go out and join my boy, and will come for you at eight o'clock; it will be quite dark then."

"Why should you not stay here till then, Mr. Wingfield? It is very unlikely that any one will come along."

"It is unlikely, but it is quite possible," Vincent replied, "and were I caught here by Mullens, the consequence would be very serious to you as well as to myself. No, I could not think of doing that. I will go out, and come back at eight o'clock. I shall not be far away; but if any one should come and inquire, you can honestly say that you do not know where I am."

"I have two revolvers here, sir; in fact I have three. I always keep one loaded, for there is never any saying whether it may not be wanted; the other two I picked up last spring. There was a fight about a quarter of a mile from here and after it was over and they had moved away, for the Confederates won that time and chased them back toward Nashville, I went out with Chloe with some water and bandages to see if we could do anything for the wounded. We were at work there till evening, and I think we did some good. As we were coming back I saw something in a low bush, and going there found a Yankee officer and his horse both lying dead; they had been killed by a shell, I should think. Stooping over to see if he was quite dead I saw a revolver in his belt and another in the holster of his saddle, so I took them out and brought them home, thinking I might give them to some of our men, for we were then, as we have always been, very short of arms; but I never had an opportunity of giving them away, and I am very glad now that I have not. Here they are, sir, and two packets of cartridges, for they are of the same size as those of the pistol my father gave me when he went away. You are heartily welcome to them."

"Thank you extremely," Vincent said, as he took the pistols and placed the packets of ammunition in his pocket. "We cut two heavy sticks the night we left Nashville so as to be able to make something of a fight; but with these weapons we shall feel a match for any small parties we may meet. Then at eight o'clock I will come back again."

"I shall be ready," the girl said; "but I wish you would have stopped, there are so many things I want to ask you about, and these Yankee papers, which are all we see now, are full of lies."

"They exaggerate their successes and to some extent conceal their defeats," Vincent said; "but I do not think it is the fault of the newspapers, whose correspondents do seem to me to try and tell the truth to their readers, but of the official despatches of the generals. The newspapers tone matters down, no doubt, because they consider it necessary to keep up the public spirit; but at times they speak out pretty strongly too. I am quite as sorry to leave as you can be that I should go, Miss Kingston, but I am quite sure that it is very much the wisest thing for me to do. By the way, if I should not be here by half-past eight I shall not come at all, and you will know that something has occurred to alter our plans. I trust there is no chance of anything doing so, but it is as well to arrange so that you should not sit up expecting me. Should I not come back you will know that I shall be always grateful to you for your kindness, and that when this war is over, if I am alive, I will come back and thank you personally."

"Good-by till this evening!" the girl said. "I will not even let myself think that anything can occur to prevent your return."

"Golly, Massa Vincent, what a time you hab been!" Dan said when Vincent rejoined him. "Dis child began to tink dat somefing had gone wrong, and was going in anoder five minutes to knock at do door to ask what dey had done to you."

"It is all right, Dan, I have had breakfast, and have brought some for you; here is some bread and bacon and a bottle of coffee."

"Dat good, massa; my teeth go chatter chatter wid sleeping in dese damp woods; dat coffee do me good, sah. After dat I shall feel fit for anyting."

CHAPTER XII. THE BUSHWHACKERS.

"By the way, Dan," Vincent said when the negro had finished his meal, "we have not talked over that matter of my clothes. I can't imagine how that letter saying that one of us was disguised as a minister and would have a negro servant came to be written. Did you ever tell the people you lodged with anything about the disguise?"

"No, sah, neber said one word to dem about it; dey know nothing whatsoeber. De way me do wid your letter was dis. Me go outside town and wait for long time. At last saw black fellow coming along. Me say to him, 'Can you read?' and he said as he could. I said 'I got a letter, I want to read him, I gib you a quarter to read him to me;' so he said yes, and he read de letter. He a long time of making it out, because he read print but not read writing well. He spell it out word by word, but I don't tink he understand dat it come from prison, only dat it come from some one who wanted some rope and a turn-screw. Me do just de same way wid de second letter. As for de clothes, me buy dem dat day, make dem up in bundle, and not go back to lodging at all. Me not know how any one could know dat I buy dat minister clothes for you, sah. Me told de storekeeper dat dey was for cousin of mine, who preach to de colored folk, and dat I send him suit as present. Onless dat man follow me and watch me all de time till we go off together, sah, me no see how de debbil he guess about it."

"That's quite impossible, Dan; it never could have been that way. It is very strange, for it would really seem that no one but you and I and the other two officers could possibly know about it."

"Perhaps one of dem want to do you bad turn, massa, and write so as to get you caught and shut up again."

Vincent started at the suggestion. Was it possible that Jackson could have done him this bad turn after his having aided him to make his escape It would be a villainous trick; but then he had always thought him capable of villainous tricks, and it was only the fact that they were thrown together in prison that had induced him to make up his quarrel with him; but though Jackson had accepted his advances, it was probable enough that he had retained his bad feeling against him, and had determined, if possible, to have his revenge on the first opportunity.

"The scoundrel," he said to himself, "after my getting him free, to inform against me! Of course I have no proof of it, but I have not the least doubt that it was him. If we ever meet again, Mr. Jackson, I will have it out with you."

"You got two pistols, sah," Dan said presently. "How you get dem?"

"The lady of that house gave them to me, Dan; they are one for you and one for me."

"Dis chile no want him, sah; not know what to do wid him. Go off and shoot myself, for sure."

"Well, I don't suppose you would do much good with it, Dan. As I am a good shot, perhaps I had better keep them both. You might load them for me as I fire them."

"Berry well, sah; you show me how to load, me load."

Vincent showed Dan how to extricate the discharged cartridge- cases and to put in fresh ones, and after a quarter of an hour's practice Dan was able to do this with some speed.

"When we going on, sah?" he said as, having learned the lesson, he handed the pistol back to Vincent.

"We are not going on until the evening, Dan. When it gets dark the lady is going to take us to a place where there is a boat hidden, and we shall then be able to cross the river."

"Den I will hab a sleep, sah. Noting like sleeping when there is a chance."

"I believe you could sleep three-quarters of your time, Dan. However, you may as well sleep now if you can, for there will be nothing to do till night."

Vincent went back to the edge of the wood, and sat down where he could command a view of the cottage. The country was for the most part covered with wood, for it was but thinly inhabited except in the neighborhood of the main roads. Few of the farmers had cleared more than half their ground; many only a few acres. The patch, in which the house with its little clump of trees stood nearly in the center, was of some forty or fifty acres in extent, and though now rank with weeds, had evidently been carefully cultivated, for all the stumps had been removed, and the fence round it was of a stronger and neater character than that which most of the cultivators deemed sufficient.

Presently he heard the sound of horses' feet in the forest behind him, and he made his way back to a road which ran along a hundred yards from the edge of the wood. He reached it before the horsemen came up, and lay down in the underwood a few yards back. In a short time two horsemen came along at a walking pace.

"I call this a fool's errand altogether," one of them said in a grumbling tone. "We don't know that they have headed this way; and if they have, we might search these woods for a month without finding them."

"That's so," the other said; "but Mullens has set his heart on it, and we must try for another day or two. My idea is that when the fellow heard what sort of a chap Mullens was, he took the hack train that night and went up north again."

Vincent heard no more, but it was enough to show him that a sharp hunt was being kept up for him; and although he had no fear of being caught in the woods, he was well pleased at the thought that he would soon be across the water and beyond the reach of his enemy. He went back again to the edge of the clearing and resumed his watch. It was just getting dusk, and he was about to join Dan when he saw a party of twelve men ride out from the other side of the wood and make toward the house. Filled with a vague alarm that possibly some one might have caught sight of him and his follower on the previous day, and might, on being questioned by the searchers, have given them a clew as to the direction in which they were going, Vincent hurried to the spot where he left Dan. The negro jumped up as he approached.

"Me awake long time, sah. Began to wonder where you had got to."

"Take your stick and come along, Dan, as fast as you can."

Without another word Vincent led the way along the edge of the wood to the point where the clump of trees at the back of the house hid it from his view.

"Now, Dan, stoop low and get across to those trees."

Greatly astonished at what was happening, but having implicit faith in his master, Dan followed without a question.

It was but ten minutes since Vincent had seen the horsemen, but the darkness had closed in rapidly, and he had little fear of his approach being seen. He made his way through the trees, and crept up to the house, and then kept close along it until he reached the front. There stood the horses, with the bridles thrown over their neck. The riders were all inside the house.

"Look here, Dan," he whispered, "you keep here perfectly quiet until I join you again or you hear a pistol-shot. If you do hear a shot, rush at the horses with your stick and drive them off at full gallop. Drive them right into the woods if you can and then lie quiet there till you hear me whistle for you. If you don't hear my whistle you will know that something has happened to me, and then you must make your way home as well as you can."

"Oh, Master Vincent," Dan began; but Vincent stopped him.

"It's no use talking, Dan; you must do as I order you. I hope all will be well; but it must be done anyhow."

"Let me come and load your pistol and fight with you, sah."

"You can do more good by stampeding the horses, Dan. Perhaps, after all, there will be no trouble."

So saying, leaving Dan with the tears running down his cheeks, Vincent went to the back of the house and tried the door there. It was fastened. Then he went to the other side; and here, the light streaming through the window, which was open, and the sound of loud voices, showed him the room where the party were. He crept cautiously up and looked in. Mullens was standing facing Lucy Kingston; the rest of the men were standing behind him. The girl was as pale as death, but was quiet and composed.

"Now," Mullens said, "I ask you for the last time. You have admitted that a man has been here to-day, and that you gave him food. You say he is not in the house; and as we have searched it pretty thoroughly, we know that's right enough. You say you don't know where he is, and that may be true enough in a sense; but I have asked you whether he is coming back again, and you won't answer me. I just give you three seconds;" and he held out his arm with a pistol in it. "One!" As the word "Two" left his lips, a pistol cracked, and Mullens fell back with a bullet in his forehead.

At the same time Vincent shouted at the top of his voice, "Come on, lads; wipe 'em out altogether. Don't let one of them escape." As he spoke he discharged his pistol rapidly into the midst of the men, who were for the moment too taken by surprise to move, and every shot took effect upon them. At the same moment there was a great shouting outside, and the trampling of horses' feet. One or two of the men hastily returned Vincent's fire, but the rest made a violent rush to the door. Several fell over the bodies of their comrades, and Vincent had emptied one of his revolvers and fired three shots with the second before the last of those able to escape did so. Five bodies remained on the floor. As they were still seven to one against him, Vincent ran to the corner of the house, prepared to shoot them as they came round; but the ruffians were too scared to think of anything but escape, and they could be heard running and shouting across the fields.

Vincent ran into the house. He had seen Lucy Kingston fall prostrate at the same instant as the ruffian facing her. Strung up to the highest tension, and expecting in another second to be shot, the crack of Vincent's pistol had brought her down as surely as the bullet of Mullens would have done. Even in the excitement of firing, Vincent felt thankful when he saw her fall, and knew that she was safe from the bullets flying about. When he entered the room he found the old negress lying beside her, and thought at first that she had fallen in the fray. He found that she was not only alive, but unhurt, having, the instant she saw her young mistress fall, thrown herself upon her to protect her from harm.

"Am dey all gone, sah?" she asked, as Vincent somewhat roughly pulled her off the girl's body.

"They have all gone, Chloe; but I do not know how soon they may be back again. Get your mistress round as soon as you can. I am sure that she has only fainted, for she fell the instant I fired, before another pistol had gone off."

Leaving the old woman to bring Miss Kingston round, he reloaded his pistols and went to the door. In a few minutes the sound of horses galloping was heard.

"Halt, or I fire!" he shouted.

"Don't shoot, sah! Don't shoot! It am me!" and Dan rode up, holding a second horse by the bridle. "I thought I might as well get two ob dem, so I jump on de back ob one and get hold ob anoder bridle while I was waiting to hear your pistol fire. Den de moment I heard dat I set de oders off, and chased dem to de corner where de gate was where dey came in at, and along de road for half a mile; dey so frightened dey not stop for a long time to come. Den I turn into de wood and went through de trees, so as not to meet dem fellows, and lifted two of de bars of the fence, and here I am. You are not hurt, massa?"

"My left arm is broken, I think, Dan; but that is of no consequence. I have shot five of these fellows—their leader among them—and I expect three of the others have got a bullet somewhere or other in them. There was such a crowd round the door that I don't think one shot missed. It was well I thought of stampeding the horses; that gave them a greater fright than my pistols. No doubt they thought that there was a party of our bushwhackers upon them. Now, Dan, you keep watch, and let me know if you see any signs of their returning. I think they are too shaken up to want any more fighting; but as there are seven of them, and they may guess there are only two or three of us, it is possible they may try again."

"Me don't tink dey try any more, sah. Anyhow, I look out sharp." So saying, Dan, fastening up one of the horses, rode the other in a circle round and round the house and little plantation, so that it would not be possible for any one to cross the clearing without being seen. Vincent returned to the house, and found Miss Kingston just recovering consciousness. She sat upon the ground in a confused way.

"What has happened, nurse?"

"Never mind at present, dearie. Juss you keep yourself quiet, and drink a little water."

The girl mechanically obeyed. The minute she put down the glass her eye fell upon Vincent, who was standing near the door.

"Oh! I remember now!" she said, starting up. "Those men were here and they were going to shoot me. One—two—and then he fired, and it seemed that I fell dead. Am I not wounded?"

"He never fired at all, Miss Kingston; he will never fire again. I shot him as he said 'two,' and no doubt the shock of the sudden shot caused you to faint dead away. You fell the same instant that he did."

"But where are the others?" the girl said with a shudder. "How imprudent of you to come here! I hoped you had seen them coming toward the house."

"I did see them, Miss Kingston, and that was the reason I came. I was afraid they might try rough measures to learn from you where I was hidden. I arrived at the window just as the scoundrel was pointing his pistol toward you, and then there was no time to give myself up, and I had nothing to do for it but to put a bullet through his head in order to save you. Then I opened fire upon the rest, and my boy drove off their horses. They were seized with a panic and bolted, thinking they were surrounded. Of course I kept up my fire, and there are four of them in the next room besides their captain. And now, if you please, I will get you, in the first place, to bind my arm tightly across my chest, for one of their bullets hit me in the left shoulder, and has, I fancy, broken it."

The girl gave an exclamation of dismay.

"Do not be alarmed, Miss Kingston; a broken shoulder is not a very serious matter, only I would rather it had not happened just at the present moment; there are more important affairs in hand. The question is, What is to become of you? It is quite impossible that you should stay here after what has happened. Those scoundrels are sure to come back again."

"What am I to do, Chloe?" the girl asked in perplexity. "I am sure we cannot stay here. We must find our way through the woods to Nashville, and I must try and get something to do there."

"There is another way, Miss Kingston, if you like to try it," Vincent said. "Of course it would be toilsome and unpleasant, but I do not think it would be dangerous, for even if we got caught there would be no fear of your receiving any injury from the Federal troops. My proposal is that you and Chloe should go with us. If we get safely through the Federal lines I will escort you to Georgia and place you with your friends there."

The girl looked doubtful for a moment, and then she shook her head.

"I could not think of that, sir. It would be difficult enough for you to get through the enemy by yourselves It would add terribly to your danger to have us with you."

"I do not think so," Vincent replied. "Two men would be sure to be questioned and suspected, but a party like ours would be far less likely to excite suspicion. Every foot we get south we shall find ourselves more and more among people who are friendly to us, and although they might be afraid to give shelter to men, they would not refuse to take women in. I really think, Miss Kingston, that this plan is the best. In the first place it would be a dangerous journey for you through the woods to Nashville and if you fall into the hands of any of those ruffians who have been here you may expect no mercy. At Nashville you will have great difficulty in obtaining employment of any kind and even suppose you went further north your position as a friendless girl would be a most painful one. As to your staying here that is plainly out of the question. I think that there is no time to lose in making a decision. Those fellows may go to the camp at the bridge, give their account of the affair, declare they have been attacked by a party of Confederate sympathizers, and return here with a troop of horse."

"What do you say, Chloe?" Lucy asked.

"I'se ready to go wid you whereber you like, Miss Lucy; but I do tink dat in times like dis dat a young gal is best wid her own folk. It may be hard work getting across, but as to danger dar can't be much more danger than dar has been in stopping along here, so it seems to me best to do as dis young officer says."

"Very well, then, I will, sir. We will go under your protection, and will give you as little trouble as we can. We will be ready in five minutes. Now, Chloe, let us put a few things together. The fewer the better. Just a small bundle which we can carry in our hands."

In a few minutes they returned to the room, Chloe carrying a large basket, and looking somewhat ruffled.

"Chloe is a little upset," the girl said, smiling, "because I won't put my best things on; and the leaving her Sunday gown behind is a sore trouble to her."

"No wonder, sah," Chloe said, "why dey say dat thar am no pretty dresses in de 'Federacy, and dat blue gown wid red spots is just as good as new, and it am downright awful to tink dat dose fellows will come back and take it."

"Never mind, Chloe," Vincent said, smiling. "No doubt we are short of pretty dresses in the South, but I dare say we shall be able to find you something that will be almost as good. But we must not stand talking. You are sure you have got everything of value, Miss Kingston?"

"I have got my purse," she said, "and Chloe has got some food. I don't think there is anything else worth taking in the house."

"Very well, we will be off," Vincent said, leading the way to the door.

A minute later Dan rode past, and Vincent called him and told him they were going to start.

"Shall we take de horses, sah?"

"No, Dan. We are going to carry out our original plan of crossing the river in a boat, and I think the horses would be rather in our way than not. But you had better not leave them here. Take them to the farther side of the clearing and get them through the fence into the forest, then strike across as quickly as you can and join us where we were stopping to-day. Miss Kingston and her servant are going with us. They cannot stay here after what has taken place."

Dan at once rode off with the two horses, and the others walked across to the edge of the clearing and waited until he rejoined them.

"Now, Miss Kingston, you must be our guide at present."

"We must cross the road first," the girl said. "Nearly opposite to where we are there is a little path through the wood leading straight down to the river. The boat lies only a short distance from it."

The path was a narrow one, and it was very dark under the trees.

"Mind how you go," Vincent said as the girl stepped lightly on ahead. "You might get a heavy fall if you caught your foot on a root."

She instantly moderated her pace. "I know the path well, but it was thoughtless of me to walk so fast. I forgot you did not know it, and if you were to stumble you might hurt your arm terribly. How does it feel now?"

"It certainly hurts a bit," Vincent replied in a cheerful tone; "but now it is strapped tightly to me it cannot move much. Please do not worry about me."

"Ah!" she said, "I cannot forget how you got it—how you attacked twelve men to save me!"

"Still less can I forget, Miss Kingston, how you, a young girl, confronted death rather than say a word that would place me in their power."

"That was quite different, Mr. Wingfield. My own honor was pledged not to betray you, who had trusted me."

"Well, we will cry quits for the present, Miss Kingston; or, rather, we will be content to remain for the present in each other's debt."

A quarter of an hour's walking brought them to the river.

"Now," Lucy said, "we must make our way about ten yards through these bushes to the right."

With some difficulty they passed through the thick screen of bushes, the girl still leading the way.

"Here it is," she said; "I have my hand upon it." Vincent was soon beside her, and the negroes quickly joined them.

"There are no oars in the boat," Vincent said, feeling along the seat.

"Oh! I forgot! They are stowed away behind the bushes on the right; they were taken out, so that if the Yankees found the boat it would be of no use to them."

Dan made his way through the bushes, and soon found the oars. Then uniting their strength they pushed the boat through the high rushes that screened it from the river.

"It is afloat," Vincent said. "Now, Dan, take your place in the bow."

"I will row, Mr. Wingfield. I am a very good hand at it. So please take your seat with Chloe in the stern."

"Dan can take one oar, anyhow," Vincent replied; "but I will let you row instead of me. I am afraid I should make a poor hand of it with only one arm."

The boat pushed quietly out. The river was about a hundred yards wide at this point. They had taken but a few strokes when Vincent said:

"You must row hard, Miss Kingston, or we shall have to swim for it. The water is coming through the seams fast."

The girl and Dan exerted themselves to the utmost; but, short as was the passage, the boat was full almost to the gunwale before they reached the opposite bank, the heat of the sun having caused the planks to open during the months it had been lying ashore.

"This is a wet beginning," Lucy Kingston said laugh as she tried to wring the water out of the lower part of her dress. "Here, Chloe; you wring me and I will wring you."

"Now, Dan, get hold of that head-rope," Vincent said; "haul her up little by little as the water runs out over the stern."

"I should not trouble about the boat, Mr. Wingfield; it is not likely we shall ever want it again."

"I was not thinking of the boat; I was thinking of ourselves. If it should happen to be noticed at the next bridge as it drifted down, it would at once suggest to any one on the lookout for us that we had crossed the river; whereas, if we get it among the bushes here, they will believe that we are hidden in the woods or have headed back to the north, and we shall be a long way across the line, I hope, before they give up searching for us in the woods on the other side."

"Yes; I didn't think of that. We will help you with the rope."

The boat was very heavy, now that it was full of water. Inch by inch it was pulled up, until the water was all out except near the stern. Dan and Vincent then turned it bottom upward, and it was soon hauled up among the bushes.

"Now, Miss Kingston, which do you think is our best course? I know nothing whatever of the geography here."

"The next town is Mount Pleasant; that is where the Williamsport road passes the railway. If we keep south we shall strike the railway, and that will take us to Mount Pleasant. After that the road goes on to Florence, on the Tennessee River. The only place that I know of on the road is Lawrenceburg. That is about forty miles from here, and I have heard that the Yankees are on the line from there right and left. I believe our troops are at Florence; but I am not sure about that, because both parties are constantly shifting their position, and I hear very little, as you may suppose, of what is being done. Anyhow, I think we cannot do better than go on until we strike the railway, keep along by that till we get within a short distance of Mount Pleasant, and then cross it. After that we can decide whether we will travel by the road or keep on through the woods. But we cannot find our way through the woods at night; we should lose ourselves before we had gone twenty yards."

"I am afraid we should, Miss Kingston."

"Please call me Lucy," the girl interrupted. "I am never called anything else, and I am sure this is not a time for ceremony."

"I think that it will be better; and will you please call me Vin. It is much shorter and pleasanter using our first names; and as we must pass for brother and sister if we get among the Yankees, it is better to get accustomed to it. I quite agree with you that it will be too dark to find our way through the woods unless we can discover a path.

"Dan and I will see if we can find one. If we can, I think it will be better to go on a little way at any rate, so as to get our feet warm and let our clothes dry a little."

"They will not dry to-night," Lucy said. "It is so damp in the woods that even if our clothes were dry now they would be wet before morning."

"I did not think of that. Yes, in that case I do not see that we should gain anything by going farther; we will push on for two or three hundred yards, if we can, and then we can light a fire without there being any chance of it being seen from the other side."

"That would be comfortable, Mr.—I mean Vin," the girl agreed. "That is, if you are quite sure that it would be safe. I would rather be wet all night than that we should run any risks."

"I am sure if we can get a couple of hundred yards into this thick wood the fire would not be seen through it," Vincent said; "of course I do not mean to make a great bonfire which would light up the forest."

For half an hour they forced their way through the bushes, and then Vincent said he was sure that they had come far enough. Finding a small open space, Dan, and Lucy, and the negress set to work collecting leaves and dry sticks. Vincent had still in his pocket the newspaper he had bought in the streets of Nashville, and he always carried lights. A piece of the paper was crumpled up and lighted, a few of the driest leaves they could find dropped upon it, then a few twigs, until at last a good fire was burning.

"I think that is enough for the present," Vincent said. "We will keep on adding wood as fast as it burns down, so as to get a great pile of embers, and keep two or three good big logs burning all night."

He then gave directions to Dan, who cut a long stick and fastened it to two saplings, one of which grew just in front of the fire. Then he set to work and cut off branches, and laid them sloping against it, and soon had an arbor constructed of sufficient thickness to keep off the night dews.

"I think you will be snug in there," Vincent said when he had finished. "The heat of the fire will keep you dry and warm, and if you lie with your heads the other way I think your things will be dry by the morning. Dan and I will lie down by the other side of the fire. We are both accustomed to sleep in the open air, and have done so for months."

"Thank you very much," she said. "Our things are drying already, and I am as warm as a toast; but, indeed, you need not trouble about us. We brought these warm shawls with us on purpose for night-work in the forest. Now, I think we will try the contents of the basket Dan has been carrying."

The basket, which was a good-sized one, was opened. Chloe had before starting put all the provisions in the house into it, and it contained three loaves, five or six pounds of bacon, a canister of tea and loaf-sugar, a small kettle, and two pint mugs, besides a number of odds and ends. The kettle Dan had, by Chloe's direction, filled with water before leaving the river, and this was soon placed among the glowing embers.

"But you have brought no teapot, Chloe."

"Dar was not no room for it, Miss Lucy. We can make tea berry well in de kettle."

"So we can. I forgot that. We shall do capitally."

The kettle was not long in boiling. Chloe produced some spoons and knives and forks from the basket.

"Spoons and forks are luxuries, Chloe," Vincent said laughing.

"We could have managed without them."

"Yes, sah; but me not going to leave massa's silver for dose villains to find."

Lucy laughed. "At any rate, Chloe, we can turn the silver into money if we run short. Now the kettle is boiling."

It was taken off the fire, and Lucy poured some tea into it from the canister, and then proceeded to cut up the bread. A number of slices of bacon had already been cut off, and a stick thrust through them, and Dan, who was squatted at the other side of the fire holding it over the flames, now pronounced them to be ready. The bread served as plates, and the party were soon engaged upon their meal, laughing and talking over it as if it had been an ordinary picnic in the woods, though at times Vincent's face contracted from the sharp twitching of pain in his shoulder. Vincent and Lucy first drank their tea, and the mugs were then handed to Dan and Chloe.

"This is great fun," Lucy said. "If it goes on like it all through our journey we shall have no need to grumble. Shall we Chloe?"

"If you don't grumble, Miss Lucy, you may be quite sure dat Chloe will not. But we hab not begun our journey at present; and I spec dat we shall find it pretty hard work before we get to de end. But neber mind dat; anyting is better dan being all by ourselves in dat house. Terrible sponsibility dat."

"It was lonely," the girl said, "and I am glad we are away from it whatever happens. What a day this has been. Who could have dreamed when I got up in the morning that all this would take place before night. It seems almost like a dream, and I can hardly believe"—and here she stopped with a little shiver as she thought of the scene she had passed through with the band of bushwhackers.

"I would not think anything at all about it," Vincent said. "And now I should recommend your turning in, and getting to sleep as soon as you can. We will be off at daybreak, and it is just twelve o'clock now."

Five minutes later Lucy and her old nurse were snugly ensconced in their little bower, while Vincent and Dan stretched themselves at full length on the other side of the fire. In spite of the pain in his shoulder Vincent dozed off occasionally, but he was heartily glad when he saw the first gleam of light in the sky. He woke Dan.

"Dan, do you take the kettle down to the river and fill it. We had better have some breakfast before we make our start. If you can't find your way back, whistle and I will answer you."

Dan, however, had no occasion to give the signal. It took him little more than five minutes to traverse the distance that had occupied them half an hour in the thick darkness, and Vincent was quite surprised when he reappeared again with the kettle. Not until it was boiling, and the bacon was ready, did Vincent raise his voice and call Lucy and the nurse.

"This is reversing the order of things altogether," the girl said as she came out and saw breakfast already prepared. "I shall not allow it another time, I can tell you."

"We are old campaigners, you see," Vincent said, "and accustomed to early movements. Now please let us waste no time, as the sooner we are off the better."

In a quarter of an hour breakfast was eaten and the basket packed, and they were on their way. Now the bright, glowing light in the east was sufficient guide to them as to the direction they should take, and setting their face to the south they started through the forest. In a quarter of an hour they came upon a little stream running through the wood, and here Vincent suggested that Lucy might like a wash, a suggestion which was gratefully accepted. He and Dan went a short distance down the streamlet, and Vincent bathed his face and head.

"Dan, I will get you to undo this bandage and get off my coat; then I will make a pad of my handkerchief and dip it in the water and you can lay it on my shoulder, and then help me on again with my coat. My arm is getting horribly painful."

Vincent's right arm was accordingly drawn through the sleeve and the coat turned down so as to enable Dan to lay the wet pad on the shoulder.

"It has not bled much," Vincent said, looking down at it.

"No, sah, not much blood on de shirt."

"Pull the coat down as far as the elbow, Dan, and bathe it for a bit."

Using his cap as a bailer, Dan bathed the arm for ten minutes, then the wet pad was placed in position, and with some difficulty the coat got on again. The arm was then bandaged across the chest, and they returned to the women, who were beginning to wonder at the delay.

CHAPTER XIII. LAID UP.

"You must see a surgeon whatever the risk," Lucy said when the others joined them, for now that it was light she could see by the paleness of Vincent's face, and the drawn expression of the mouth, how much he had suffered.

"You have made so light of your wound that we have not thought of it half as much as we ought to do, and you must have thought me terribly heartless to be laughing and talking when you were in such pain. But it will never do to go on like this; it is quite impossible for you to be traveling so far without having your shoulder properly attended to."

"I should certainly be glad to have it looked to," Vincent replied. "I don't know whether the bullet's there or if it has made its way out, and if that could be seen to, and some splints or something of that sort put on to keep things in their right place, no doubt I should be easier; but I don't see how it is to be managed. At any rate, for the present we must go on, and I would much rather that you said nothing about it. There it is, and fretting over it won't do it any good, while if you talk of other things I may forget it sometimes."

In two hours they came upon the railway, whose course lay diagonally across that they were taking. They followed it until they caught sight of the houses of Mount Pleasant, some two miles away, and then crossed it. After walking some distance farther they came upon a small clearing with a log-hut, containing apparently three or four rooms, in the center.

"We had better skirt round this," Vincent suggested.

"No," Lucy said in a determined voice. "I have made up my mind I would go to the first place we came to and see whether anything can be done for you. I can see you are in such pain you can hardly walk, and it will be quite impossible for you to go much further. They are sure to be Confederates at heart here, and even if they will not take us in, there is no fear of their betraying us; at any rate we must risk it."

Vincent began to remonstrate, but without paying any attention to him the girl left the shelter of the trees and walked straight toward the house. The others followed her. Vincent had opposed her suggestion, but he had for some time acknowledged to himself that he could not go much further. He had been trying to think what had best be done, and had concluded that it would be safest to arrange with some farmer to board Lucy and her nurse for a time, while he himself with Dan went a bit further; and then, if they could get no one to take them in, would camp up in the woods and rest. He decided that in a day or two if no improvement took place in his wound he would give himself up to the Federals at Mount Pleasant, as he would there be able to get his wound attended to.

"I don't think there is any one in the house," Lucy said, looking back over her shoulder; "there is no smoke coming from the chimney, and the shutters are closed, and besides the whole place looks neglected."

Upon reaching the door of the house it was evident that it had been deserted. Lucy had now assumed the command.

"Dan," she said, "there is no shutter to the window of that upper room. You must manage to climb up there and get in at that window, and then open the door to us."

"All right, missie, me manage dat," Dan said cheerfully. Looking about he soon found a long pole which would answer his purpose, placed the end of this against the window, and climbed up. It was not more than twelve feet above the ground. He broke one of the windows, and inserting his hand undid the fastening and climbed in at the window. A minute later they heard a grating sound, and then the lock shot back under the application of his knife, and the door swung open.

"That will do nicely," Lucy said, entering. "We will take possession. If the owners happen to come back we can pay them for the use of the place."

The furniture had been removed with the exception of a few of the heavy articles, and Chloe and Lucy at once set to work, and with bunches of long grass swept out one of the rooms. Dan cut a quantity of grass and piled it upon an old bedstead that stood in the corner, and Lucy smoothed it down.

"Now, sir," she said peremptorily to Vincent, "you will lie down and keep yourself quiet, but first of all I will cut your coat off."

One of the table-knives soon effected the work, and the coat was rolled up as a pillow. Dan removed his boots, and Vincent, who was now beyond even remonstrating, laid himself down on his cool bed.

"Now, Chloe," Miss Kingston said when they had left Vincent's room, "I will leave him to your care. I am sure that you must be thoroughly tired, for I don't suppose you have walked so many miles since you were a girl."

"I is tired, missie; but I am ready to do anyting you want."

"I only want you to attend to him, Chloe. First of all you had better make some tea. You know what is a good thing to give for a fever, and if you can find anything in the garden to make a drink of that sort, do; but I hope he will doze off for some time. When you have done, you had better get this place tidy a little; it is in a terrible litter. Evidently no one has been in since they moved out."

The room, indeed, was strewed with litter of all sorts, rubbish not worth taking away, old newspapers, and odds and ends of every description. Lucy looked about among these for some time, and with an exclamation of satisfaction at last picked up two crumpled envelopes. They were both addressed "William Jenkins, Woodford, near Mount Pleasant."

"That is just what I wanted," she said.

"What am you going to do, Miss Lucy?"

"I am going to Mount Pleasant," she said.

"Lor' a marcy, dearie, you are not going to walk that distance! You must have walked twelve miles already."

"I should if it were twice as far, Chloe. There are some things we must get. Don't look alarmed, I shall take Dan with me. Now, let me see. In the first place there are lemons for making drink and linseed for poultices, some meat for making broth, and some flour, and other things for ourselves; we may have to stay here for some time. Tell me just what you want and I will get it."

Chloe made out a list of necessaries.

"I sha'n't be gone long," the girl said. "If he asks after me or Dan, make out we are looking about the place to see what is useful. Don't let him know I have gone to Mount Pleasant, it might worry him."

Dan at once agreed to accompany the girl to Mount Pleasant when he heard that she was going to get things for his master.

Looking about he found an old basket among the litter, and they started without delay by the one road from the clearing, which led, they had no doubt, to the town. It was about two miles distant, and was really but a large village. A few Federal soldiers from the camp hard by were lounging about the streets but these paid no attention to them. Lucy soon made her purchases, and then went to the house that had been pointed out to her as being inhabited by the doctor who attended to the needs of the people of Mount Pleasant and the surrounding district. Fortunately he was at home. Lucy looked at him closely as he entered the room and took his seat. He was a middle-aged man with a shrewd face, and she at once felt that she might have confidence in it.

"Doctor," she said, "I want you to come out to see some one who is very ill."

"What is the matter with him? Or is it him or her?"

"It is—it's—" and Lucy hesitated, "a hurt he has got."

"A wound, I suppose?" the doctor said quietly. "You may as well tell me at once, as for me to find out when I get there, then I can take whatever is required with me."

"Yes, sir. It is a wound," Lucy said. "His shoulder is broken, I believe, by a pistol bullet."

"Umph!" the doctor said. "It might have been worse. Do not hesitate to tell me all about it, young lady. I have had a vast number of cases on hand since these troubles began. By the way, I do not know your face, and I thought I knew every one within fifteen miles around."

"I come from the other side of the Duck river. But at present he is lying at a place called Woodford, but two miles from here."

"Oh, yes! I know it. But I thought it was empty. Let me see, a man named Jenkins lived there. He was killed at the beginning of the troubles in a fight near Murfreesboro. His widow moved in here; and she has married again and gone five miles on the other side. I know she was trying to sell the old place."

"We have not purchased it, sir; we have just squatted there. My friend was taken so bad that we could go no further. We were trying, doctor, to make our way down south."

"Your friend, whoever he is, did a very foolish thing to bring a young lady like yourself on such a long journey. You are not a pair of runaway lovers, are you?"

"No, indeed," Lucy said, flushing scarlet; "we have no idea of such a thing. I was living alone, and the house was attacked by bushwhackers, the band of a villain named Mullens."

"Oh! I saw all about that in the Nashville paper this morning.

They were attacked by a band of Confederate plunderers, it said."

"They were attacked by one man," the girl replied. "They were on the point of murdering me when he arrived. He shot Mullens and four of his band and the rest made off, but he got this wound. And as I knew the villains would return again and burn the house and kill me, I and my old nurse determined to go southward to join my friends in Georgia."

"Well, you can tell me more about it as we go," the doctor said. "I will order my buggy round to the door, and drive you back. I will take my instruments and things with me. It is no business of mine whether a sick man is a Confederate or a Federal; all my business is to heal them."

"Thank you very much, doctor. While the horse is being put in I will go down and tell the negro boy with me to go straight on with a basket of things I have been buying."

"Where is he now?" the doctor asked.

"I think he is sitting down outside the door, sir."

"Then you needn't go down," the doctor said. "He can jump up behind and go with us. He will get there all the quicker."

In five minutes they were driving down the village, with Dan in the back seat. On the way the doctor obtained from Lucy a more detailed account of their adventures.

"So he is one of those Confederate officers who broke prison at Elmira," he said. "I saw yesterday that one of his companions was captured."

"Was he, sir? How was that?"

"It seems that he had made his way down to Washington, and was staying at one of the hotels there as a Mr. James of Baltimore. As he was going through the street he was suddenly attacked by a negro, who assaulted him with such fury that he would have killed him had he not been dragged off by passers-by. The black would have been very roughly treated, but he denounced the man he had attacked as one of the Confederate officers who had escaped from the prison. It seems that the negro had been a slave of his who had been barbarously treated, and finally succeeded in making his escape and reaching England, after which he went to Canada; and now that it is safe for an escaped slave to live in the Northern States without fear of arrest or ill-treatment he had come down to Washington with the intention of engaging as a teamster with one of the Northern armies, in the hope when he made his way to Richmond of being able to gain some news of his wife, whom his master had sold before he ran away from him."

"It served the man right!" Lucy said indignantly. "It's a good thing that the slaves should turn the tables sometimes upon masters who ill-treat them."

"You don't think my patient would ill-treat his slaves?" the doctor asked with a little smile.

"I am sure he wouldn't," the girl said indignantly. "Why, the boy behind you is one of his slaves, and I am sure he would give his life for his master."

Dan had overheard the doctor's story, and now exclaimed:

"No, sah. Massa Vincent de kindest of masters. If all like him, do slaves everywhere contented and happy. What was de name of dat man, sah, you was speaking of?"

"His name was Jackson," the doctor answered.

"I tought so," Dan exclaimed in excitement. "Massa never mentioned de names of de two officers who got out wid him, and it war too dark for me to see their faces, but dat story made me tink it must be him. Berry bad man that; he libs close to us, and Massa Vincent one day pretty nigh kill him because he beat dat bery man who has catched him now on de street of Washington. When dat man sell him wife Massa Vincent buy her so as to prevent her falling into bad hands. She safe now wid his mother at de Orangery—dat's the name of her plantation."

"My patient must be quite an interesting fellow, young lady," the doctor said, with a rather slight twinkle of his eye. "A very knight-errant. But there is the house now; we shall soon see all about him."

Taking with him the case of instruments and medicines he had brought, the doctor entered Vincent's room. Lucy entered first; and although surprised to see a stranger with her, Vincent saw by her face that there was no cause for alarm.

"I have brought you a doctor," she said. "You could not go on as you were, you know. So Dan and I have been to fetch one."

The doctor now advanced and took Vincent's hand.

"Feverish," he said, looking at his cheeks, which were now flushed.

"You have been doing too much, I fancy. Now let us look at this

wound of yours. Has your servant got any warm water?" he asked

Lucy.

Lucy left the room, and returned in a minute with a kettleful of warm water and a basin, which was among the purchases she had made at Mount Pleasant.

"That is right," the doctor said, taking it from her. "Now we will cut open the shirt sleeve. I think, young lady, you had better leave us, unless you are accustomed to the sight of wounds."

"I am not accustomed to them, sir; but as thousands of women have been nursing the wounded in the hospitals, I suppose I can do so now."

Taking a knife from the case, the doctor cut open the shirt from the neck to the elbow. The shoulder was terribly swollen and inflamed, and a little exclamation of pain broke from Lucy.

"That is the effect of walking and inattention," the doctor said. "If I could have taken him in hand within an hour of his being hit the matter would have been simple enough; but I cannot search for the ball, or in fact do anything, till we have reduced the swelling. You must put warm poultices on every half-hour, and by to-morrow I hope the inflammation will have subsided, and I can then see about the ball. It evidently is somewhere there still, for there is no sign of its having made its exit anywhere. In the meantime you must give him two tablespoonfuls of this cooling draught every two hours, and to-night give him this sleeping draught. I will be over to-morrow morning to see him. Do not be uneasy about him; the wound itself is not serious, and when we have got rid of the fever and inflammation I have no doubt we shall pull him round before long."

"I know the wound is nothing," Vincent said; "I have told Miss

Kingston so all along. It is nothing at all to one I got at the first

battle of Bull Run, where I had three ribs badly broken by a shell.

I was laid up a long time over that business. Now I hope in a week

I shall be fit to travel."

The doctor shook his head. "Not as soon as that. Still we will hope it may not be long. Now all you have to do is to lie quiet and not worry, and to get to sleep as quick as you can. You must not let your patient talk, Miss Kingston. It will be satisfactory to you, no doubt," he went on turning to Vincent, "to know that there is no fear whatever of your being disturbed here. The road leads nowhere, and is entirely out of the way of traffic. I should say you might be here six months without even a chance of a visitor. Every one knows the house is shut up, and as you have no neighbor within half a mile no one is likely to call in. Even if any one did by accident come here you would be in no danger; we are all one way of thinking about here."

"Shall we make some broth for him?" Lucy asked after they had left the room.

"No; he had best take nothing whatever during the next twenty-four hours except his medicine and cooling drinks. The great thing is to get down the fever. We can soon build him up afterward."

By nightfall the exertions of Dan, Lucy, and Chloe had made the house tidy. Beds of rushes and grass had been made in the room upstairs for the women, and Dan had no occasion for one for himself, as he was going to stop up with his master. He, however, brought a bundle of rushes into the kitchen, and when it became dark threw himself down upon them for a few hours' sleep, Lucy and her old nurse taking their place in Vincent's room, and promising to rouse Dan at twelve o'clock.

During the easy part of the night Vincent was restless and uneasy, but toward morning he became more quiet and dozed off, and had but just awoke when the doctor drove up at ten o'clock. He found the inflammation and swelling so much abated that he was able at once to proceed to search for the ball. Chloe was his assistant. Lucy felt that her nerves would not be equal to it, and Dan's hand shook so that he could not hold the basin. In a quarter of an hour, which seemed to Lucy to be an age, the doctor came out of the room.

"There is the bullet, Miss Kingston."

"And is he much hurt, sir?"

"It is a nasty wound," the doctor replied. "The collarbone is badly broken, and I fancy the head of the bone of the upper arm, to put it in language you will understand, is fractured; but of that I cannot be quite sure. I will examine it again to-morrow, and will then bandage it in its proper position. At present I have only put a bandage round the arm and body to prevent movement. I should bathe it occasionally with warm water, and you can give him a little weak broth to-day. I think, on the whole, he is doing very well. The feeling that you are all for the present safe from detection has had as much to do with the abatement of the fever as my medicine."

The next morning the report was still satisfactory. The fever had almost disappeared, and Vincent was in good spirits. The doctor applied the splints to keep the shoulder up in its proper position, and then tightly bandaged it.

"It depends upon yourself now," he said, "whether your shoulders are both of the same width as before or not. If you will lie quiet, and give the broken bones time to reunite, I think I can promise you that you will be as straight as before; but if not—putting aside the chances of inflammation—that shoulder will be lower than the other, and you will never get your full strength in it again. Quiet and patience are the only medicines you require, and as there can be no particular hurry for you to get south, and as your company here is pleasant and you have two good nurses, there is no excuse for your not being quiet and contented."

"Very well, doctor. I promise that unless there is a risk of our being discovered I will be as patient as you can wish. As you say, I have everything to make me contented and comfortable."

The doctor had a chat with Lucy, and agreed with her that perhaps it would be better to inform the mistress of the house that there were strangers there. Some of the people living along the road might notice him going or coming, or see Dan on his way to market, and might come and ascertain that the house was inhabited, and communicate the fact to their old neighbor.

"I will see her myself, Miss Kingston, and tell her that I have sent a patient of mine to take up his quarters here. I will say he is ready to pay some small sum weekly as long as he occupies the house. I have no doubt she would be willing enough to let you have it without that; for although I shall say nothing actually I shall let her guess from my manner that it is a wounded Confederate, and that will be enough for her. Still, I have no doubt that the idea of getting a few dollars for the rent of an empty house will add to her patriotism. People of her class are generally pretty close-fisted, and she will look upon this as a little pocket-money. Good-by! I shall not call to-morrow, but will be round next day again."

On his next visit the doctor told Lucy that he had arranged the matter with her landlady, and that she was to pay a dollar a week as rent. "I should not tell your patient about this," he said. "It will look to him as if I considered his stay was likely to be a long one, and it might fidget him."

"How long will it be, doctor, do you think?"

"That I cannot say. If all goes well, he ought in a month to be fairly cured; but before starting upon a journey which will tax his strength, I should say at least six weeks."

Ten days later Vincent was up, and able to get about. A pile of grass had been heaped up by the door, so that he could sit down in the sun and enjoy the air. Lucy was in high spirits, and flitted in and out of the house, sometimes helping Chloe, at others talking to Vincent.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked as she came out suddenly on one of these occasions.

"I was just thinking," he said, "that no stranger who dropped in upon us would dream that we were not at home here. There is Dan tidying up the garden; Chloe is quite at her ease in the kitchen, and you and I might pass very well for brother and sister."

"I don't see any likeness between us—not a bit."

"No, there is no personal likeness; but I meant in age and that sort of thing. I think, altogether, we have a very homelike look."

"The illusion would be very quickly dispelled if your stranger put his head inside the door. Did any one ever see such a bare place?"

"Anyhow, it's very comfortable," Vincent said, "though I grant that it would be improved by a little furniture."

"By a great deal of furniture, you mean. Why, there isn't a chair in the house, nor a carpet, nor a curtain, nor a cupboard, nor a bed; in fact all there is is the rough dresser in the kitchen and that plank table, and your bedstead. I really think that's all. Chloe has the kettle and two cooking-pots, and there is the dish and six plates we bought."

"You bought, you mean," Vincent interrupted.

"We bought, sir; this is a joint expedition. Then, there is the basin and a pail. I think that is the total of our belongings."

"Well, you see, it shows how little one can be quite comfortable upon," Vincent said. "I wonder how long it will be before the doctor gives me leave to move. It is all very well for me who am accustomed to campaigning, but it is awfully rough for you."

"Don't you put your impatience down to my account, at any rate until you begin to hear me grumble. It is just your own restlessness, when you are pretending you are comfortable."

"I can assure you that I am not restless, and that I am in no hurry at all to be off on my own account. I am perfectly contented with everything. I never thought I was lazy before, but I feel as if I could do with a great deal of this sort of thing. You will see that you will become impatient for a move before I do."

"We shall see, sir. Anyhow, I am glad you have said that, because now whatever you may feel you will keep your impatience to yourself."

Another four weeks passed by smoothly and pleasantly. Dan went into the village once a week to do the shopping, and the doctor had reduced his visits to the same number. He would have come oftener, for his visits to the lonely cottage amused him; but he feared that his frequent passage in his buggy might attract notice. So far no one else had broken the solitude of their lives. If the doctor's calls had been noticed, the neighbors had not taken the trouble to see who had settled down in Jenkins' old place. His visits were very welcome, for he brought newspapers and books, the former being also purchased by Dan whenever he went into the village, and thus they learned the course of events outside.

Since Antietam nothing had been done in Northern Virginia; but Burnside, who had succeeded McClellan, was preparing another great army, which was to march to Richmond and crush out the rebellion. Lee was standing on the defensive. Along the whole line of the frontier, from New Orleans to Tennessee, desultory fighting was going on, and in these conflicts the Confederates had generally the worse of things, having there no generals such as Lee, Jackson, and Longstreet, who had made the army of Virginia almost invincible.

At the last of these visits the doctor told Vincent that he considered he was nearly sufficiently restored in health to be able to start on their journey.

"It is a much better job than I had expected it would turn out. I was almost afraid that your shoulder would never be quite square again. However, as you can see for yourself it has come out quite right; and although I should not advise you to put any great strain on your left arm, I believe that in a very short time it will be as strong as the other."

"And now, doctor, what am I in debt to you? Your kindness cannot be repaid, but your medical bill I will discharge as soon as I get home. We have not more than twenty dollars left between us, which is little enough for the journey there is before us. You can rely that the instant I get to Richmond I will send you the money. There is no great difficulty in smuggling letters across the frontier."

"I am very pleased to have been able to be of service to you," the doctor said. "I should not think of accepting payment for aid rendered to an officer of our army; but it will give me real pleasure to receive a letter saying you have reached home in safety. It is a duty to do all we can for the brave men fighting for our cause. As I have told you, I am not a very hot partisan, for I see faults on both sides. Still, I believe in the principle of our forefathers, that each State has its own government and is master of its own army, joining with the others for such purposes as it may think fit. If I had been a fighting man I should certainly have joined the army of my State; but as it is, I hope I can do more good by staying and giving such aid and comfort as I can to my countrymen. You will, I am sure, excuse my saying that I think you must let me aid you a little further. I understand you to say that Miss Kingston will go to friends in Georgia, and I suppose you will see her safely there. Then you have a considerable journey to make to Richmond, and the sum that you possess is utterly inadequate for all this. It will give me real pleasure if you will accept the loan of one hundred dollars, which you can repay when you write to me from Richmond. You will need money for the sake of your companions rather than your own. When you have once crossed the line you will then be able to appear in your proper character."

"Thank you greatly, doctor. I will accept your offer as frankly as it is made. I had intended telegraphing for money as soon as I was among our own people, but there would be delay in receiving it, and it will be much more pleasant to push on at once."

"By the way, you cannot cross at Florence, for I hear that Hood has fallen back across the river, the forces advancing against him from this side being too strong to be resisted. But I think that this is no disadvantage to you, for it would have been far more difficult to pass the Federals and get to Florence than to make for some point on the river as far as possible from the contending armies."

"We talked that over the last time you were here, doctor, and you know we agreed it was better to run the risk of falling into the hands of the Yankee troops than into those of one of those partisan bands whose exploits are always performed at a distance from the army. However, if Hood has retreated across the Tennessee there is an end of that plan, and we must take some other route. Which do you advise?"

"The Yankees will be strong all round the great bend of the river to the west of Florence and along the line to the east, which would, of course, be your direct way. The passage, however, is your real difficulty, and I should say that instead of going in that direction you had better bear nearly due south. There is a road from Mount Pleasant that strikes into the main road from Columbia up to Camden. You can cross the river at that point without any question or suspicion, as you would be merely traveling to the west of the State. Once across you could work directly south, crossing into the State of Mississippi, and from there take train through Alabama to Georgia.

"It seems a roundabout way, but I think you would find it far the safest, for there are no armies operating upon that line. The population, at any rate as you get south, are for us, and there are, so far as I have heard, very few of these bushwhacking bands about either on one side or the other. The difficult part of the journey is that up to Camden, but as you will be going away from the seat of war instead of toward it there will be little risk of being questioned."

"I had thought of buying a horse and cart," Vincent said. "Jogging along a road like that we should attract no attention. I gave up the idea because our funds were not sufficient, but, thanks to your kindness, we might manage now to pick up something of the sort."

The doctor was silent for a minute.

"If you will send Dan over to me to-morrow afternoon I will see what can be done," he said. "It would certainly be the safest plan by far; but I must think it over. You will not leave before that, will you?"

"Certainly not, doctor. In any case we should have stayed another day to get a few more things for our journey."

The next afternoon Dan went over to Mount Pleasant. He was away two hours longer than they had expected, and they began to feel quite uneasy about him, when the sound of wheels was heard, and Dan appeared coming along the road driving a cart. Vincent gave a shout of satisfaction, and Lucy and the negress ran out from the house in delight.

"Here am de cart. Me had to go to five miles from de town to get him. Dat what took me so long. Here am a letter, sah, from the doctor. First-rate man dat Good man all ober."

The letter was as follows:

"MY DEAR MR. WINGFIELD:

I did not see how you would be able to buy a cart, and I was sure that you could not obtain one with the funds in your possession. As from what you have said I knew that you would not in the least mind the expense, I have taken the matter upon myself, and have bought from your landlady a cart and horse, which will, I think, suit you well. I have paid for them a hundred and fifty dollars, which you can remit me with the hundred I handed you yesterday. Sincerely trusting that you may succeed in carrying out your plans in safety, and with kind regards to yourself and Miss Kingston,

"I remain, yours truly,

"JAMES SPENCER."

"That is a noble fellow," Vincent said, "and I trust, for his sake as well as our own, that we shall get safely through. Now, Lucy, I think you had better go into the town the first thing and buy some clothes of good homely fashion. What with the water and the bushes your dress is grievously dilapidated, to say the least of it. Dan can go with you and buy a suit for me—those fitted for a young farmer. We shall look like a young farmer and his sister jogging comfortably along to market; we can stop and buy a stock of goods at some farm on the way."

"That will be capital," the girl said. "I have been greatly ashamed of my old dress, but knowing we were running so short, and that every dollar was of consequence, I made the best of it; now that we are in funds we can afford to be respectable."

Lucy started early the next morning for the town, and the shopping was satisfactorily accomplished. They returned by eleven o'clock. The new purchases were at once donned, and half an hour later they set off in the cart, Vincent sitting on the side driving, Lucy in the corner facing him on a basket turned topsy-turvy, Dan and Chloe on a thick bag of rushes in the bottom of the cart.

CHAPTER XIV. ACROSS THE BORDER.

Dan on his return with the cart had brought back a message from its late owner to say that if she could in any way be of use to them she should be glad to aid them. Her farm lay on the road they were now following, and they determined therefore to stop there. As the cart drew up at the door the woman came out.

"Glad to see you," she said; "come right in. It's strange now you should have been lodging in my house for more than six weeks and I should never have set eyes on you before. The doctor talked to me a heap about you, but I didn't look to see quite such a young couple."

Lucy colored hotly and was about to explain that they did not stand in the supposed relationship to each other, but Vincent slightly shook his head. It was not worth while to undeceive the woman, and although they had agreed to pass as brother and sister Vincent was determined not to tell an untruth about it unless deceit was absolutely necessary for their safety.

"And you want to get out of the way without questions being asked, I understand?" the woman went on. "There are many such about at present. I don't want to ask no questions; the war has brought trouble enough on me. Now is there anything I can do? If so, say it right out."

"Yes, there is something you can do for us. We want to fill up our cart with the sort of stuff you take to market—apples and pumpkins, and things of that sort. If we had gone to buy them anywhere else there might have been questions asked. From what the doctor said you can let us have some."

"I can do that. The storeroom's chuck full; and it was only a few days ago I said to David it was time we set about getting them off. I will fill your cart, sir; and not overcharge you neither. It will save us the trouble of taking it over to Columbia or Camden, for there's plenty of garden truck round Mount Pleasant, and one cannot get enough to pay for the trouble of taking them there."

The cart was soon filled with apples, pumpkins, and other vegetables, and the price put upon them was very moderate.

"What ought we to ask for these?" Vincent soon inquired. "One does not want to be extra cheap or dear."

The woman informed them of the prices they might expect to get for the produce; and they at once started amid many warm good wishes from her.

Before leaving the farm the woman had given them a letter to her sister who lived a mile from Camden.

"It's always awkward stopping at a strange place," she said, "and farmers don't often put up at hotels when they drive in with garden truck to a town, though they may do so sometimes; besides it's always nice being with friends. I will write a line to Jane and tell her you have been my tenants at Woodford and where you are going, and ask her to take you in for the night and give you a note in the morning to any one she or her husband may know a good bit along that road."

When they reached the house it was dark, but directly Vincent showed the note the farmer and his wife heartily bade them come in.

"Your boy can put up the horse at the stable, and you are heartily welcome. But the house is pretty full, and we can't make you as comfortable as we should wish at night; but still we will do our best."

Vincent and Lucy were soon seated by the fire. Their hostess bustled about preparing supper for them, and the children, of whom the house seemed full, stared shyly at the newcomers. As soon as the meal was over, Chloe's wants were attended to, and a lunch of bread and bacon taken out by the farmer to Dan in the stables. The children were then packed off to bed, and the farmer and his wife joined Vincent and Lucy by the fire.

"As to sleeping," the woman said, "John and I have been talking it over, and the best way we can see is that you should sleep with me, ma'am, and we will make up a bed on the floor here for my husband and yours."

"Thank you—that will do very nicely; though I don't like interfering with your arrangements."

"Not at all, ma'am, not at all, it makes a nice change having some one come in, especially of late, when there is no more pleasure in going about in this country, and people don't go out after dark more than they can help. Ah! it's a bad time. My sister says you are going west, but I see you have got your cart full of garden truck. How you have raised it so soon I don't know; for Liza wrote to me two months since as she hadn't been able to sell her place, and it was just a wilderness. Are you going to get rid of it at Camden to-morrow?"

Vincent had already been assured as to the politics of his present host and hostess, and he therefore did not hesitate to say:

"The fact is, madam, we are anxious to get along without being questioned by any Yankee troops we may fall in with; and we have bought the things you see in the cart from your sister, as, going along with a cart full, any one we met would take us for farmers living close by on their road to the next market-town."

"Oh, oh! that's it!" the farmer said significantly. "Want to get through the lines, eh?"

Vincent nodded.

"Didn't I think so!" the farmer said, rubbing his hands. "I thought directly my eyes hit upon you that you did not look the cut of a granger. Been fighting—eh? and they are after you?"

"I don't think they are after me here," Vincent said. "But I have seen a good deal of fighting with Jackson and Stuart; and I am just getting over a collar-bone which was smashed by a Yankee bullet."

"You don't say!" the farmer exclaimed. "Well, I should have gone out myself if it hadn't been for Jane and the children. But there are such a lot of them that I could not bring myself to run the chance of leaving them all on her hands. Still, I am with them heart and soul."

"Your wife's sister told me that you were on the right side,"

Vincent said, "and that I could trust you altogether."

"Now, if you tell me which road you want to go, I don't mind if I get on my horse to-morrow and ride with you a stage, and see you put for the night. I know a heap of people, and I am sure to be acquainted with some one whichever road you may go. We are pretty near all the right side about here, though, as you get further on, there are lots of Northern men. Now, what are your ideas as to the roads?"

Vincent told him the route he intended to take.

"You ought to get through there right enough," the farmer said. "There are some Yankee troops moving about to the west of the river, but not many of them; and even if you fell in with them, with your cargo of stuff they would not suspect you. Anyhow, I expect we can get you passed down so as always to be among friends. So you fought under Jackson and Stuart, did you? Ah, they have done well in Virginia! I only wish we had such men here. What made you take those two darkies along with you? I should have thought you would have got along better by yourself."

"We couldn't very well leave them," Vincent said; "the boy has been with me all through the wars, and is as true as steel. Old Chloe was Lucy's nurse, and would have broken her heart had she been left behind."

"They are faithful creatures when they are well treated. Mighty few of them have run away all this time from their masters, though in the parts the Yankees hold there is nothing to prevent their bolting if they have a mind to it. I haven't got no niggers myself. I tried them, but they want more looking after than they are worth; and I can make a shift with my boys to help me, and hiring a hand in busy times to work the farm. Now, sir, what do you think of the look-out?"

The subject of the war fairly started, his host talked until midnight, long before which hour Lucy and the farmer's wife had gone off to bed.

"We will start as soon as it is light," the farmer said, as he and Vincent stretched themselves upon the heap of straw covered with blankets that was to serve as their bed, Chloe having hours before gone up to share the bed of the negro girl who assisted the farmer's wife in her management of the house and children.

"It's best to get through Camden before people are about. There are Yankee soldiers at the bridge, but it will be all right you driving in, however early, to sell your stuff. Going out you ain't likely to meet with Yankees; but as it would look queer, you taking your garden truck out of the town, it's just as well to be on the road before people are about. Once you get five or six miles the other side you might be going to the next place to sell your stuff."

"That is just what I have been thinking," Vincent said, "and I agree with you the earlier we get through Camden the better."

Accordingly as soon as daylight appeared the horse was put in the cart, the farmer mounting his own animal, and with a hearty good-by from his wife the party started away. The Yankee sentinels at each end of the bridge were passed without questions, for early as it was the carts were coming in with farm produce. As yet the streets of the town were almost deserted, and the farmer, who before starting had tossed a tarpaulin into the back of the cart, said:

"Now, pull that over all that stuff, and then any one that meets us will think that you are taking out bacon and groceries and such like for some store way off."

This suggestion was carried out, and Camden was soon left behind. A few carts were met as they drove along. The farmer knew some of the drivers and pulled up to say a few words to them. After a twenty-mile drive they stopped at another farm, where their friend's introduction ensured them as cordial a welcome as that upon the preceding evening. So step by step they journeyed on, escorted in almost every case by their host of the night before and meeting with no interruption. Once they passed a strong body of Federal cavalry, but these supposing that the party belonged to the neighborhood asked no questions; and at last, after eight days' traveling, they passed two posts which marked the boundary between Tennessee and Alabama.

For the last two days they had been beyond the point to which the Federal troops had penetrated. They now felt that all risk was at an end. Another day's journey brought them to a railway station, and they learned that the trains were running as usual, although somewhat irregular as to the hours at which they came along or as to the time they took upon their journey. The contents of the cart had been left at the farm at which they stopped the night before, and Vincent had now no difficulty in disposing of the horse and cart, as he did not stand out for price, but took the first offer made. Two hours later a train came along, and the party were soon on their way to the east. After many hours' traveling they reached Rome, in Georgia, and then proceeded by the southern line a few miles to Macon, at which place they alighted and hired a conveyance to take them to Antioch, near which place Lucy's relatives resided.

The latter part of the journey by rail had been a silent one. Lucy felt none of the pleasure that she had expected at finding herself safely through her dangers and upon the point of joining relations who would be delighted to see her, and she sat looking blankly out of the window at the surrounding country. At last Vincent, who had been half an hour without speaking, said:

"Are you sorry our journey is just over, Lucy?"

The girl's lip quivered, but she did not speak for a moment. "Of course it is unpleasant saying good-by when people have been together for some time," she said with an effort.

"I hope it will not be good-by for long," he said. "I shall be back here as soon as this horrible war is over."

"What for?" the girl asked, looking round in surprise. "You live a long way from here, and you told me you knew nobody in these parts."

"I know you," Vincent said, "and that is quite enough. Do you not know that I love you?"

The girl gave a start of surprise, her cheek flushed, but her eyes did not drop as she looked frankly at him.

"No, Vin," she said after a pause, "I never once thought you loved me, never once. You have not been a bit like what I thought people were when they felt like that."

"I hope not, Lucy. I was your protector then, that is to say when you were not mine. Your position has been trying enough, and I should have been a blackguard if I had made it more uncomfortable than it was by showing you that I cared for you. I have tried my best to be what people thought me—your brother; but now that you are just home and among your own people, I think I may speak and tell you how I feel toward you and how I have loved you since the moment I first saw you. And you, Lucy, do you think you could care for me?"

"Not more than I do now, Vin. I love you with all my heart. I have been trying so hard to believe that I didn't, because I thought you did not care for me that way."

For some minutes no further word was spoken. Vincent was the first to speak:

"It is horrid to have to sit here in this stiff, unnatural way, Lucy, when one is inclined to do something outrageous from sheer happiness. These long, open cars, where people can see from end to end what every one is doing, are hateful inventions. It is perfectly absurd, when one finds one's self the happiest fellow living, that one is obliged to look as demure and solemn as if one was in church."

"Then you should have waited, sir," the girl said.

"I meant to have waited, Lucy, until I got to your home, but directly I felt that there was no longer any harm in my speaking, out it came; but it's very hard to have to wait for hours perhaps."

"To wait for what?" Lucy asked demurely.

"You must wait for explanations until we are alone, Lucy. And now I think the train begins to slacken, and it is the next station at which we get out."

"I think, Lucy," Vincent said, when they approached the house of her relatives, "you and Chloe had better get out and go in by yourselves and tell your story. Dan and I will go to the inn, and I will come round in an hour. If we were to walk in together like this it would be next to impossible for you to explain how it all came about."

"I think that would be the best plan. My two aunts are the kindest creatures possible, but no doubt they will be bewildered at seeing me so suddenly. I do think it would be best to let me have a talk with them and tell them all about it before you appear upon the scene."

"Very well, then, in an hour I will come in."

When they arrived at the gate, therefore, Vincent helped Lucy and Chloe to alight, and then jumping into the buggy again told the driver to take him to the inn.

Having engaged a room and indulged in a thorough wash Vincent sallied out into the little town, and was fortunate enough to succeed in purchasing a suit of tweed clothes, which, although they scarcely fitted him as if they had been made for him, were still an immense improvement upon the rough clothes in which he had traveled. Returning to the hotel he put on his new purchases, and then walked to the house of Lucy's aunts, which was a quarter of a mile outside the town.

Lucy had walked up the little path through the garden in front of the house, and turning the handle of the door had entered unannounced and walked straight into the parlor. Two elderly ladies rose with some surprise at the entry of a strange visitor. It was three years since she had paid her last visit there, and for a moment they did not recognize her.

"Don't you know me, aunts?"

"Why, goodness me!" the eldest exclaimed, "if it isn't our little Lucy grown into a woman! My dear child, where have you sprung from?" And the two ladies warmly embraced their niece, who, as soon as they released her from their arms, burst into a fit of crying, and it was some time before she could answer the questions showered upon her.

"It is nothing, aunts," she said at last, wiping her eyes; "but I am so glad to be with you again, and I have gone through so much, and I am so happy, and it is so nice being with you again. Here is Chloe waiting to speak to you, aunts. She has come with me all the way."

The old negress, who had been waiting in the passage, was now called in.

"Why, Chloe, you look no older than when you went away from here six years ago," Miss Kingston said. "But how ever did you both get through the lines? We have been terribly anxious about you. Your brother was here only a fortnight ago, and he and your father were in a great way about you, and reproached themselves bitterly that they did not send you to us before the troubles began, which certainly would have been a wiser step, as I told them. Of course your brother said that when they left you to join the army they had no idea that matters were going so far, or that the Yankees would drive us out of Tennessee, or they would never have dreamed of leaving you alone. However, here you are, so now tell me all about it."

Lucy told the story of the various visits of the Federal bushwhackers to the house, and how they had narrowly escaped death for refusing to betray the Confederate officer who had come to the house for food. Her recital was frequently interrupted by exclamations of indignation and pity from her aunts.

"Well, aunts, after that," she went on, "you see it was impossible for me to stop there any longer. No doubt they came back again a few hours afterward and burned the house, and had I been found there I should have been sure to be burned in it, so Chloe agreed with me that there was nothing to do but to try and get through the lines and come to you. There was no way of my getting my living at Nashville except by going out as a help, and there might have been some difficulties about that."

"Quite right, my dear. It was clearly the best thing for you to come to us—indeed, the only thing. But how in the world did you two manage to travel alone all that distance and get through the Federal lines?"

"You see, we were not alone, aunts," Lucy said; "the Confederate officer and his servant were coming through, and of course they took care of us. We could never have got through alone, and as Chloe was with me we got on very nicely; but we have been a long time getting through, for in that fight, where he saved my life and killed five of the band, he had his shoulder broken by a pistol bullet, and we had to stop in a farmhouse near Mount Pleasant, and he was very ill for some time, but the doctor who attended him was a true Southerner, and so we were quite safe till he was able to move again."

"And who is this officer, Lucy?" Miss Kingston asked rather anxiously.

"He is a Virginian gentleman, auntie. His mother has large estates near Richmond. He was in the cavalry with Stuart, and was made prisoner while he was lying wounded and insensible, at Antietam; and I think, auntie, that that—" and she hesitated—"some day we are going to be married."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" the old lady said kindly. "Well, I can't say anything about that until I see him, Lucy. Now tell us the whole story, and then we shall be better able to judge about it. I don't think, my dear, that while you were traveling under his protection he ought to have talked to you about such things."

"He didn't, auntie; not until we were half a mile from the station here. I never thought he cared for me the least bit; he was just like a brother to me—just like what Jack would have been if he had been bringing me here."

"That's right, my dear; I am glad to hear it. Now, let us hear all about it."

Lucy told the whole story of her escape and her adventures, and when she had finished her aunts nodded to each other.

"That's all very satisfactory, Lucy. It was a difficult position to be placed in, though I don't see how it was to be avoided, and the young man really seems to have behaved very well. Don't you think so, Ada?" The younger Miss Kingston agreed, and both were prepared to receive Vincent with cordiality when he appeared.

The hour had been considerably exceeded when Vincent came to the door. He felt it rather an awkward moment when he was ushered into the presence of Lucy's aunts, who could scarcely restrain an exclamation of surprise at his youth, for although Lucy had said nothing about his age, they expected to meet an older man, the impression being gained from the recital of his bravery in attacking singlehanded twelve men, and by the manner in which he had piloted the party through their dangers.

"We are very glad to see you—my sister Ada and myself," Miss Kingston said, shaking hands cordially with their visitor. "Lucy has been telling us all about you; but we certainly expected from what you had gone through that you were older."

"I am two or three years older than she is, Miss Kingston, and I have gone through so much in the last three years that I feel older than I am. She has told you, I hope, that she has been good enough to promise to be my wife some day?"

"Yes, she has told us that, Mr. Wingfield; and although we don't know you personally, we feel sure—my sister Ada and I—from what she has told us of your behavior while you have been together that you are an honorable gentleman, and we hope and believe that you will make her happy."

"I will do my best to do so," Vincent said earnestly. "As to my circumstances, I shall in another year come into possession of estates sufficient to keep her in every comfort."

"I have no doubt that that is all satisfactory, Mr. Wingfield, and that her father will give his hearty approval when he hears all the circumstances of the case. Now, if you will go into the next room, Mr. Wingfield, I will call her down"—for Lucy had run upstairs when she heard Vincent knock.

"I dare say you will like a quiet talk together," she added smiling, "for she tells me you have never been alone together since you started."

Lucy required several calls before she came down. A new shyness such as she had never before felt had seized her, and it was with flushed cheeks and timid steps that she at last came downstairs, and it needed an encouraging—"Go in, you silly child, your lover will not eat you," before she turned the handle and went into the room where Vincent was expecting her.

Vincent had telegraphed from the first station at which he arrived within the limits of the Confederacy to his mother, announcing his safe arrival there, and asking her to send money to him at Antioch. Her letter in reply reached him three days after his arrival. It contained notes for the amount he wrote for; and while expressing her own and his sisters' delight at hearing he had safely reached the limits of the Confederacy, she expressed not a little surprise at the out-of-the-way place to which he had requested the money to be sent.

"We have been examining the maps, my dear boy," she said, "and find that it is seventy or eighty miles out of your direct course, and we have puzzled ourselves in vain as to why you should have made your way there. The girls guess that you have gone there to deliver in person some message from one of your late fellow-prisoners to his family. I am not good at guessing, and am content to wait until you return home. We hope that you will leave as soon as you get the remittance. We shall count the hours until we see you. Of course we learned from a Yankee paper smuggled through the lines that you had escaped from prison, and have been terribly anxious about you ever since. We are longing to hear your adventures."

A few hours after the receipt of this letter Vincent was on his way home. It was a long journey. The distance was considerable, and the train service greatly disordered and unpunctual. When within a few hours of Richmond he telegraphed, giving the approximate time at which he might be expected to arrive. The train, however, did not reach Richmond until some hours later. The carriage was waiting at the station, and the negro coachman shouted with pleasure at the sight of his young master.

"Missis and the young ladies come, sah; but de station-master he say de train no arrive for a long time, so dey wait for you at de town house, sah."

Dan jumped up beside the coachman and Vincent leaped into the carriage, and a few minutes later he was locked in the arms of his mother and sisters.

"You grow bigger and bigger, Vincent," his mother said after the first greeting was over. "I thought you must have done when you went away last, but you are two or three inches taller and ever so much wider."

"I think I have nearly done now, mother—anyhow as to height. I am about six feet one."

"You are a dreadful trouble to us, Vincent," Annie said. "We have awful anxiety whenever we hear of a battle being fought, and it was almost a relief to us when we heard that you were in a Yankee prison. We thought at least you were out of danger for some time; but since the news came of your escape it has been worse than ever, and as week passed after week without our hearing anything of you we began to fear that something terrible had happened to you."

"Nothing terrible has happened at all, Annie. The only mishap I had was getting a pistol bullet in my shoulder which laid me up for about six weeks. There was nothing very dreadful about it," he continued, as exclamations of alarm and pity broke from his mother and sister. "I was well looked after and nursed. And now I will tell you my most important piece of news, and then I will give you a full account of my adventures from the time when Dan got me out of prison, for it is entirely to him that I owe my liberty."

"Well, what is the piece of news?" Annie asked.

"Guess!" Vincent replied smiling.

"You have got promoted?" his mother said. He shook his head.

"Is it about a lady?" Annie asked.

Vincent smiled.

"Oh, Vincent, you are not engaged to be married! That would be too ridiculous!" Vincent laughed and nodded.

"Annie is right, mother; I am engaged to be married." Mrs. Wingfield looked grave, Rosie laughed, and Annie threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.

"You dear, silly old boy:" she said. "I am glad, though it seems so ridiculous. Who is she, and what is she like?"

"We needn't ask where she lives," Rosie said. "Of course it is in Antioch, though how in the world you managed it all in the two or three days you were there I can't make out."

Mrs. Wingfield's brow cleared. "At any rate, in that case, Vincent, she is a Southerner. I was afraid at first it was some Yankee woman who had perhaps sheltered you on your way."

"Is she older than you, Vincent?" Annie asked suddenly. "I shouldn't like her to be older than you are."

"She is between sixteen and seventeen," Vincent replied, "and she is a Southern girl, mother, and I am sure you will love her, for she saved my life at the risk of her own, besides nursing me all the time I was ill."

"I have no doubt I shall love her, Vincent, for I think, my boy, that you would not make a rash choice. I think you are young, much too young, to be engaged; still, that is a secondary matter. Now tell us all about it. We expected your story to be exciting, but did not dream that love-making had any share in it."

Vincent accordingly told them the whole story of his adventures from the time of his first meeting Dan in prison. When he related the episode of Lucy's refusal to say whether he would return, although threatened with instant death unless she did so, his narrative was broken by the exclamations of his hearers.

"You need not say another word in praise of her," his mother said. "She is indeed a noble girl, and I shall be proud of such a daughter."

"She must be a darling!" Annie exclaimed. "Oh, Vincent, how brave she must be! I don't think I ever could have done that, with a pistol pointing straight at you, and all those dreadful men round, and no hope of a rescue; it's awful even to think of."

"It was an awful moment, as you may imagine," Vincent replied. "I shall never forget the scene, or Lucy's steadfast face as she faced that man; and you see at that time I was a perfect stranger to her— only a fugitive Confederate officer whom she shielded from his pursuers."

"Go on, Vincent; please go on," Annie said. "Tell us what happened next."

Vincent continued his narrative to the end, with, however, many interruptions and questions on the part of the girls. His mother said little, but sat holding his hand in hers.

"It has been a wonderful escape, Vincent," she said when he had finished. "Bring your Lucy here when you like, and I shall be ready to receive her as my daughter, and to love her for her own sake as well as yours. She must be not only a brave but a noble girl, and you did perfectly right to lose not a single day after you had taken her safely home in asking her to be your wife. I am glad to think that some day the Orangery will have so worthy a mistress. I will write to her at once. You have not yet told us what she is like, Vincent."

"I am not good at descriptions, but you shall see her photograph when I get it."

"What, haven't you got one now?"

"She had not one to give me. You see, when the troubles began she was little more than a child, and since that time she has scarcely left home, but she promised to have one taken at once and send it me, and then, if it is a good likeness, you will know all about it."

"Mother, when you write to-night," Rosie said, "please send her your photograph and ours, and say we all want one of our new relative that is to be."

"I think, my dear, you can leave that until we have exchanged a letter or two. You will see Vincent's copy, and can then wait patiently for your own."

"And now, mother, I have told you all of my news; let us hear about every one here. How are all the old house hands, and how is Dinah? Tony is at Washington, I know, because I saw in the paper that he had made a sudden attack upon Jackson."

Mrs. Wingfield's face fell.

"That is my one piece of bad news, Vincent. I wish you hadn't asked the question until to-morrow, for I am sorry that anything should disturb the pleasure of this first meeting; still as you have asked the question I must answer it. About ten days ago a negro came, as I afterward heard from Chloe, to the back entrance and asked for Dinah. He said he had a message for her. She went and spoke to him, and then ran back and caught up her child. She said to Chloe, 'I have news of my husband. I think he is here. I will soon be back again.' Then she ran out, and has never returned. We have made every inquiry we could, but we have not liked to advertise for her, for it may be that she has met her husband, and that he persuaded her to make off at once with him to Yorktown or Fortress Monroe."

"This is bad news indeed, mother," Vincent said. "No, I do not think for a moment that she has gone off with Tony. There could be no reason why she should have left so suddenly without telling any one, for she knew well enough that you would let her go if she wished it; and I feel sure that neither she nor Tony would act so ungratefully as to leave us in this manner. No, mother, I feel sure that this has been done by Jackson. You know I told you I felt uneasy about her before I went. No doubt the old rascal has seen in some Northern paper an account of his son having been attacked in the streets of Washington, and recaptured by Tony, and he has had Dinah carried off from a pure spirit of revenge. Well, mother," he went on in answer to an appealing look from her, "I will not put myself out this first evening of my return, and will say no more about it. There will be plenty of time to take the matter up to-morrow. And now about all our friends and acquaintances. How are they getting on? Have you heard of any more of my old chums being killed since I was taken prisoner at Antietam?"

It was late in the evening before Vincent heard all the news. Fortunately, the list of casualties in the army of Virginia had been slight since Antietam; but that battle had made many gaps among the circle of their friends, and of these Vincent now heard for the first time, and he learned too, that although no battle had been fought since Antietam, on the 17th of September, there had been a sharp skirmish near Fredericksburg, and that the Federal army, now under General Burnside, who had succeeded McClellan, was facing that of Lee, near that town, and that it was believed that they would attempt to cross the Rappahannock in a few days.

It was not until he retired for the night that Vincent allowed his thoughts to turn again to the missing woman. Her loss annoyed and vexed him much more than he permitted his mother to see. In the first place, the poor girl's eagerness to show her gratitude to him upon all occasions, and her untiring watchfulness and care during his illness from his wound, had touched him, and the thought that she was now probably in the hands of brutal taskmasters was a real pain to him. In the next place, he had, as it were, given his pledge to Tony that she should be well cared for until she could be sent to join him. And what should he say now when the negro wrote to claim her? Then, too, he felt a personal injury that the woman should be carried off when under his mother's protection, and he was full of indignation and fury at the dastardly revenge taken by Jackson. Upon hearing the news he had at once mentally determined to devote himself for some time to a search for Dinah; but the news that a great battle was expected at the front interfered with his plan. Now that he was back, capable of returning to duty, his place was clearly with his regiment; but he determined that while he would rejoin at once, he would as soon as the battle was over, if he were unhurt, take up the search. His mother and sisters were greatly distressed when at breakfast he told them that he must at once report himself as fit for duty, and ready to join his regiment.

"I was afraid you would think so," Mrs. Wingfield said, while the girls wept silently; "and much as I grieve at losing you again directly you have returned, I can say nothing against it. You have gone through many dangers, Vincent, and have been preserved to us through them all. We will pray that you may be so to the end. Still, whether or not, I as a Virginian woman cannot grudge my son to the service of my country, when all other mothers are making the same sacrifice; but it is hard to give you up when but yesterday you returned to us."

CHAPTER XV. FREDERICKSBURG.

As soon as breakfast was over Vincent mounted Wildfire—which had been sent back after he had been taken prisoner, and rode into Richmond. There he reported himself at headquarters as having returned after escaping from a Federal prison, and making his way through the lines of the enemy.

"I had my shoulder-bone smashed in a fight with some Yankees," he said, "and was laid up in hiding for six weeks; but have now fairly recovered. My shoulder, at times, gives me considerable pain, and although I am desirous of returning to duty and rejoining my regiment until the battle at Fredericksburg has taken place, I must request that three months' leave be granted to me after that to return home and complete my cure, promising of course to rejoin my regiment at once should hostilities break out before the spring."

"We saw the news that you had escaped," the general said, "but feared, as so long a time elapsed without hearing from you, that you had been shot in attempting to cross the lines. Your request for leave is of course granted, and a note will be made of your zeal in thus rejoining on the very day after your return. The vacancy in the regiment has been filled up, but I will appoint you temporarily to General Stuart's staff, and I shall have great pleasure in to-day filling up your commission as captain. Now let me hear how you made your escape. By the accounts published in the Northern papers it seemed that you must have had a confederate outside the walls."

Vincent gave a full account of his escape from prison and a brief sketch of his subsequent proceedings, saying only that he was in the house of some loyal people in Tennessee, when it was attacked by a party of Yankee bushwhackers, that these were beaten off in the fight, but that he himself had a pistol bullet in his shoulder. He then made his way on until compelled by his wound to lay up for six weeks in a lonely farmhouse near Mount Pleasant; that afterward in the disguise of a young farmer he had made a long detour across the Tennessee river and reached Georgia.

"When do you leave for the front, Captain Wingfield?"

"I shall be ready to start to-night, sir."

"In that case I will trouble you to come round here this evening. There will be a fast train going through with ammunition for Lee at ten o'clock, and I shall have a bag of despatches for him, which I will trouble you to deliver. You will find me here up to the last moment. I will give orders that a horse-box be put on to the train."

After expressing his thanks Vincent took his leave. As he left the general's quarters, a young man, just alighting from his horse, gave a shout of greeting.

"Why, Wingfield, it is good to see you! I thought you were pining again in a Yankee dungeon, or had got knocked on the head crossing the lines. Where have you sprung from, and when did you arrive?"

"I only got in yesterday after sundry adventures which I will tell you about presently. When did you arrive from the front?"

"I came down a few days ago on a week's leave on urgent family business," the young man laughed, "and I am going back again this afternoon by the four o'clock train."

"Stay till ten," Vincent said, "and we will go back together. There is a special train going through with ammunition, and as everything will make way for that it will not be long behind the four o'clock, and likely enough may pass it on the way. There is a horse-box attached to it, and as I only take one horse there will be room for yours."

"I haven't brought my horse down," Harry Furniss said; "but I will certainly go with you by the ten o'clock. Then we can have a long talk. I don't think I have seen you since the day you asked me to lend you my boat two years ago."

"Can you spare me two hours now?" Vincent asked. "You will do me a very great favor if you will."

Harry Furniss looked at his watch. "It is eleven o'clock now; we have a lot of people to lunch at half-past one, and I must be back by then."

"You can manage that easy enough," Vincent replied; "in two hours from the time we leave here you can be at home."

"I am your man, then, Vincent. Just wait five minutes. I have to see some one in here."

A few minutes later Harry Furniss came out again and mounted.

"Now which way, Vincent? and what is it you want me for?"

"The way is to Jackson's place at the Cedars, the why I will tell you about as we ride."

Vincent then recounted his feud with the Jacksons, of which, up to the date of the purchase of Dinah Morris, his friend was aware, having been present at the sale. He now heard of the attack upon young Jackson by Tony, and of the disappearance of Dinah Morris.

"I should not be at all surprised, Wingfield, if your surmises are correct, and that old scoundrel has carried off the girl to avenge himself upon Tony. Of course, if you could prove it, it would be a very serious offense; for the stealing a slave, and by force too, is a crime with a very heavy penalty, and has cost men their lives before now. But I don't see that you have anything like a positive proof, however strong a case of suspicion it may be. I don't see what you are going to say when you get there."

"I am going to tell him that if he does not say what he has done with the girl, I will have his son arrested for treachery as soon as he sets foot in the Confederacy again."

"Treachery!" Furniss said in surprise; "what treachery has he been guilty of? I saw that he was one of those who escaped with you, and I rather wondered at the time at you two being mixed up together in anything. I heard that he had been recaptured through some black fellow that had been his slave, but I did not read the account. Have you got proof of what you say?"

"Perhaps no proof that would hold in a court of law," Vincent replied, "but proof enough to make it an absolute certainty to my mind."

Vincent then gave an account of their escape, and of the anonymous denunciation of himself and Dan.

"Now," he said, "no one but Dan knew of the intended escape, no one knew what clothes he had purchased, no one could possibly have known that I was to be disguised as a preacher and Dan as my servant. Therefore the information must have been given by Jackson."

"I have not the least doubt but that the blackguard did give it,

Wingfield; but there is no proof."

"I consider that there is a proof—an absolute and positive proof,"

Vincent asserted, "because no one else could have known it."

"Well, you see that as a matter of fact the other officer did know it, and might possibly have given the information."

"But why should he? The idea is absurd. He had never had a quarrel with me, and he owed his liberty to me."

"Just so, Wingfield. I am as certain that it was Jackson as you are, because I know the circumstances; but you see there is no more absolute proof against one man than against the other. It is true that you had had a quarrel with Jackson some two years before, but you see you had made it up and had become friends in prison—so much so that you selected him from among a score of others in the same room to be the companion of your flight. You and I, who know Jackson, can well believe him guilty of an act of gross ingratitude—of ingratitude and treachery; but people who do not know would hardly credit it as possible—that a man could be such a villain. The defense he would set up would be that in the first place there is no shadow of evidence that he more than the other turned traitor. In the second place he would be sure to say that such an accusation against a Confederate officer is too monstrous and preposterous to be entertained for a moment; and that doubtless your negro, although he denies the fact, really chattered about his doings to the negroes he was lodging with, and that it was through them that some one got to know of the disguise you would wear. We know that it wasn't so, Wingfield; but ninety-nine out of every hundred white men in the South would rather believe that a negro had chattered than that a Confederate officer had been guilty of a gross act of treachery and ingratitude."

Vincent was silent. He felt that what his companion said was the truth; and that a weapon by which he had hoped to force the elder Jackson into saying what he had done with Dinah would probably fail in its purpose. The old man was too astute not to perceive that there was no real proof against his son, and would therefore be unlikely at once to admit that he had committed a serious crime, and to forego his revenge.

"I will try at any rate," he said at last; "and if he refuses I will publish the story in the papers. When the fellow gets back from Yankee-land he may either call me out or demand a court of inquiry. I may not succeed in getting a verdict from twelve white men, but I think I can convince every one of our own class that the fellow did it; and when this battle that is expected is over I have got three months' leave, and I will move heaven and earth to find the woman; and if I do, Jackson will either have to bolt or stand a trial, with the prospect of ten years' imprisonment if he is convicted. In either case we are not likely to have his son about here again; and if he did venture back and brought an action against me, his chance of getting damages would be a small one."

Another half-hour's ride brought them to the Cedars. They dismounted at the house, and fastening their horses to the portico knocked at the door. It was opened by a negro.

"Tell your master," Vincent said, "that Mr. Wingfield wishes to speak to him."

Andrew Jackson himself came to the door.

"To what do I owe the very great pleasure of this visit, Mr.

Wingfield?" he said grimly.

"I have come to ask you what you have done with Dinah Morris, whom, I have every ground for believing, you have caused to be kidnaped from my mother's house."

"This is a serious charge, young gentleman," Andrew Jackson said, "and one that I shall call upon you to justify in the law-courts. Men are not to be charged with criminal actions even by young gentlemen of good Virginian families."

"I shall be quite ready to meet you there, Mr. Jackson, whenever you choose; but my visit here is rather to give you an opportunity of escaping the consequences that will follow your detection as the author of the crime; for I warn you that I will bring the crime home to you, whatever it costs me in time and money. My offer is this: produce the woman and her child, and not only shall no prosecution take place, but I will remain silent concerning a fact which affects the honor of your son."

Andrew Jackson's face had been perfectly unmoved during this conversation until he heard the allusion to his son. Then his face changed visibly.

"I know nothing concerning which you can attack the honor of my son, Mr. Wingfield," he said, with an effort to speak as unconcernedly as before.

"My charge is as follows," Vincent said quietly: "I was imprisoned at Elmira with a number of other officers, among them your son. Thinking that it was time for the unpleasantness that had been existing between us to come to an end, I offered him my hand. This he accepted and we became friends. A short time afterward a mode of escape offered itself to me, and I proved the sincerity of my feelings toward him by offering to him and another officer the means of sharing my escape. This they accepted. Once outside the walls, I furnished them with disguises that had been prepared for them, assuming myself that of a minister. We then separated, going in different directions, I myself being accompanied by my negro servant, to whose fidelity I owed our escape. Two days afterward an anonymous writer communicated to the police the fact that I had escaped in the disguise of a minister, and was accompanied by my black servant. This fact was only known to the negro, myself, and the two officers. My negro, who had released me, was certainly not my betrayer; the other officer could certainly have had no possible motive for betraying me. There remains, therefore, only your son, whose hostility to me was notorious, and who had expressed himself with bitterness against me on many occasions, and among others in the hearing of my friend Mr. Furniss here. Such being the case, it is my intention to charge him before the military authorities with this act of treachery. But, as I have said, I am willing to forego this and to keep silence as to your conduct with reference to my slave Dinah Morris, if you will restore her and her child uninjured to the house from which you caused her to be taken."

The sallow cheeks of the old planter had grown a shade paler as he listened to Vincent's narrative, but he now burst out in angry tones:

"How dare you, sir, bring such an infamous accusation against my son—an accusation, like that against myself, wholly unsupported by a shred of evidence? Doubtless your negro had confided to some of his associates his plans for assisting you to escape from prison, and it is from one of these that the denunciation has come. Go, sir, report where you will what lies and fables you have invented; but be assured that I and my son will seek our compensation for such gross libels in the courts."

"Very well, sir," Vincent said, as he prepared to mount his horse; "if you will take the trouble to look in the papers to-morrow, you will see that your threats of action for libel have no effect whatever upon me."

"The man is as hard as a rock, Wingfield," Furniss said, as they rode off together. "He wilted a little when you were telling your story, but the moment he saw you had no definite proofs he was, as I expected he would be, ready to defy you. What shall you do now?"

"I shall ride back into Richmond again and give a full account of my escape from the jail, and state that I firmly believe that the information as to my disguise was given by Jackson, and that it was the result of a personal hostility which, as many young men in Richmond are well aware, has existed for some time between us."

"Well, you must do as you like, Wingfield, but I think it will be a risky business."

"It may be so," Vincent said; "but I have little doubt that long before Jackson is exchanged I shall have discovered Dinah, and shall prosecute Jackson for theft and kidnaping, in which case the young man will hardly venture to prosecute me or indeed to show his face in this part of the country."

That evening the two young officers started for the front, and the next morning the Richmond papers came out with a sensational heading, "Alleged Gross Act of Treachery and Ingratitude by a Confederate Officer."

It was the 10th of December when Vincent joined the army at Fredericksburg. He reported himself to General Stuart, who received him with great cordiality.

"You are just in time, Wingfield," he said. "I believe that in another twenty-four hours the battle will be fought. They have for the last two days been moving about in front, and apparently want us to believe that they intend to cross somewhere below the town; but all the news we get from our spies is to the effect that these are only feints and that they intend to throw a bridge across here. We know, anyhow, they have got two trains concealed opposite, near the river. Burnside is likely to find it a hard nut to crack. Of course they are superior in number to us, as they always are; but as we have always beat them well on level ground I do not think their chances of getting up these heights are by any means hopeful. Then, too, their change of commanders is against them. McClellan fought a drawn battle against us at Antietam and showed himself a really able general in the operations in front of Richmond. The army have confidence in him, and he is by far the best man they have got so far, but the fools at Washington have now for the second time displaced him because they are jealous of him. Burnside has shown himself a good man in minor commands, but I don't think he is equal to command such a vast army as this; and besides, we know from our friends at Washington that he has protested against this advance across the river, but has been overruled. You will see Fredericksburg will add another to the long list of our victories."

Vincent shared a tent with another officer of the same rank in General Stuart's staff. They sat chatting till late, and it was still dark when they were suddenly aroused by an outbreak of musketry down at the river.

"The general was right," Captain Longmore, Vincent's companion, exclaimed. "They are evidently throwing a bridge across the river, and the fire we hear comes from two regiments of Mississippians who are posted down in the town under Barksdale."

It was but the work of a minute to throw on their clothes and hurry out. The night was dark and a heavy fog hung over the river. A perfect roar of musketry came up from the valley. Drums and bugles were sounding all along the crest. At the same moment they issued out General Stuart came out from his tent, which was close by.

"Is that you, Longmore? Jump on your horse and ride down to the town. Bring back news of what is going on."

A few minutes later an officer rode up. Some wood had been thrown on the fire, and by its light Vincent recognized Stonewall Jackson.

"Have you any news for us?" he asked.

"Not yet, I have sent an officer down to inquire. The enemy have been trying to bridge the river.

"I suppose so," Jackson replied. "I have ordered one of my brigades to come to the head of the bank as soon as they can be formed up, to help Barksdale if need be, but I don't want to take them down into the town. It is commanded by all the hills on the opposite side, and we know they have brought up also all their artillery there."

In a few minutes Captain Longmore returned.

"The enemy have thrown two pontoon bridges across, one above and one below the old railway bridge. The Mississippians have driven them back once, but they are pushing on the work and will soon get it finished; but General Barksdale bids me report that with the force at his command he can repulse any attempt to cross."

The light was now breaking in the east, but the roar of musketry continued under the canopy of fog. General Lee, Longstreet, and others had now arrived upon the spot, and Vincent was surprised that no orders were issued for troops to reinforce those under General Barksdale. Presently the sun rose, and as it gained in power the fog slowly lifted, and it was seen that the two pontoon bridges were complete; but the fire of the Mississippians was so heavy that although the enemy several times attempted to cross they recoiled before it. Suddenly a gun was fired from the opposite height, and at the signal more than a hundred pieces of artillery opened fire upon the town. Many of the inhabitants had left as soon as the musketry fire began, but the slopes behind it soon presented a sad spectacle. Men, women, and children poured out from the town, bewildered with the din and terrified by the storm of shot and shell that crashed into it. Higher and higher the crowd of fugitives made their way until they reached the crest; among them were weeping women and crying children, many of them in the scantiest attire and carrying such articles of dress and valuables as they had caught up when startled by the terrible rain of missiles. In a very few minutes smoke began to rise over the town, followed by tongues of flame, and in half an hour the place was on fire in a score of places.

All day the bombardment went on without cessation and Fredericksburg crumbled into ruins. Still, in spite of this terrible fire the Mississippians clung to the burning town amid crashing walls, falling chimneys, and shells exploding in every direction. As night fell the enemy poured across the bridges, and Barksdale, contesting every foot of ground, fell back through the burning city and took up a position behind a stone wall in its rear.

Throughout the day not a single shot had been fired by the Confederate artillery, which was very inferior in power to that of the enemy. General Lee had no wish finally to hinder the passage of the Federals, the stubborn resistance of Barksdale's force being only intended to give him time to concentrate all his army as soon as he knew for certain the point at which the enemy was going to cross; and he did not wish, therefore, to risk the destruction of any of his batteries by calling down the Federal fire upon them.

During the day the troops were all brought up into position. Longstreet was on the left and Jackson on the right, while the guns, forty-seven in number, were in readiness to take up their post in the morning on the slopes in front of them. On the extreme right General Stuart was posted with his cavalry and horse artillery. The night passed quietly and by daybreak the troops were all drawn up in their positions.

As soon as the sun rose it was seen that during the night the enemy had thrown more bridges across and that the greater portion of the army was already over. They were, indeed, already in movement against the Confederate position, their attack being directed toward the portion of the line held by Jackson's division. General Stuart gave orders to Major Pelham, who commanded his horse artillery, and who immediately brought up the guns and began the battle by opening fire on the flank of the enemy. The guns of the Northern batteries at once replied, and for some hours the artillery duel continued, the Federal guns doing heavy execution. For a time attacks were threatened from various points, but about ten o'clock, when the fog lifted, a mass of some 55,000 troops advanced against Jackson. They were suffered to come within 800 yards before a gun was fired, and then fourteen guns opened upon them with such effect that they fell back in confusion.

At one o'clock another attempt was made, covered by a tremendous fire of artillery. For a time the columns of attack were kept at bay by the fire of the Confederate batteries, but they advanced with great resolution, pushed their way through Jackson's first line, and forced them to fall back. Jackson brought up his second line and drove the enemy back with great slaughter until his advance was checked by the fire of the Northern artillery.

All day the fight went on, the Federals attempting to crush the Confederate artillery by the weight of their fire in order that their infantry columns might again advance. But although outnumbered by more than two to one the Confederate guns were worked with great resolution, and the day passed and darkness begun to fall without their retiring from the positions they had taken up. Just at sunset General Stuart ordered all the batteries on the right to advance. This they did and opened their fire on the Northern infantry with such effect that these fell back to the position near the town that they had occupied in the morning.

On the left an equally terrible battle had raged all day, but here the Northern troops were compelled to cross open ground between the town and the base of the hill, and suffered so terribly from the fire that they never succeeded in reaching the Confederate front. Throughout the day the Confederates held their position with such ease that General Lee considered the affair as nothing more than a demonstration of force to feel his position, and expected an even sterner battle on the following day. Jackson's first and second lines, composed of less than 15,000 men, had repulsed without difficulty the divisions of Franklin and Hooker, 55,000 strong; while Longstreet with about the same force had never been really pressed by the enemy, although on that side they had a force of over 50,000 men.

In the morning the Northern army was seen drawn up in battle array as if to advance for fresh assault, but no movement was made. General Burnside was in favor of a fresh attack, but the generals commanding the various divisions felt that their troops, after the repulse the day before, were not equal to the work, and were unanimously of opinion that a second assault should not be attempted. After remaining for some hours in order of battle they fell back into the town and two days later the whole army recrossed the Rappahannock River. The loss of the Confederates was 1,800 men, who were for the most part killed or wounded by the enemy's artillery, while the Federal loss was no less than 13,771. General Burnside soon afterward resigned his command, and General Hooker, an officer of the same politics as the president and his advisers, was appointed to succeed him.

The cavalry had not been called upon to act during the day, and Vincent's duties were confined to carrying orders to the commanders of the various batteries of artillery posted in that part of the field, as these had all been placed under General Stuart's orders. He had many narrow escapes by shot and fragments of shells, but passed through the day uninjured.

General Lee has been blamed for not taking advantage of his victory and falling upon the Federals on the morning after the battle; but although such an assault might possibly have been successful he was conscious of his immense inferiority in force, and his troops would have been compelled to have advanced to the attack across ground completely swept by the fire of the magnificently served Northern artillery posted upon their commanding heights. He was moreover ignorant of the full extent of the loss he had inflicted upon the enemy, and expected a renewed attack by them. He was therefore, doubtless, unwilling to risk the results of the victory he had gained and of the victory he expected to gain should the enemy renew their attack, by a movement which might not be successful, and which would at any rate have cost him a tremendous loss of men, and men were already becoming scarce in the Confederacy.

As soon as the enemy had gone back across the river and it was certain that there was little chance of another forward movement on their part for a considerable time, Vincent showed to General Stuart the permit he had received to return home until the spring on leave, and at once received the general's permission to retire from the staff for a time.

He had not been accompanied by Dan on his railway journey to the front, having left him behind with instructions to endeavor by every means to find some clew as to the direction in which Dinah had been carried off. He telegraphed on his way home the news of his coming, and found Dan at the station waiting for him.

"Well, Dan, have you obtained any news?" he asked as soon as his horse had been removed from its box, and he had mounted and at a foot-pace left the station, with Dan walking beside him.

"No, sah; I hab done my best, but I cannot find out anyting. The niggers at Jackson's all say dat no strangers hab been there wid de old man for a long time before de day dat Dinah was carried off. I have been over dar, massa, and hab talked wid the hands at de house. Dey all say dat no one been dere for a month. Me sure dat dey no tell a lie about it, because dey all hate Massa Jackson like pison. Den de lawyer, he am put de advertisement you told him in the papers: Five hundred dollars to whoever would give information about de carrying off of a female slave from Missy Wingfield, or dat would lead to de discovery of her hiding-place. But no answer come. Me heard Missy Wingfield say so last night."

"That's bad, Dan; but I hardly expected anything better. I felt sure the old fox would have taken every precaution, knowing what a serious business it would be for him if it were found out. Now I am back I will take the matter up myself, and we will see what we can do. I wish I could have set about it the day after she was carried away. It is more than a fortnight ago now, and that will make it much more difficult than it would have been had it been begun at once."

"Well, Vincent, so you have come back to us undamaged this time," his mother said after the first greeting. "We were very anxious when the news came that a great battle had been fought last Friday; but when we heard the next morning the enemy had been repulsed so easily we were not so anxious, although it was not until this morning that the list of killed and wounded was published, and our minds set at rest."

"No, mother; it was a tremendous artillery battle, but it was a little more than that—at least on our side. But I have never heard anything at all like it from sunrise to sunset. But, after all, an artillery fire is more frightening than dangerous, except at comparatively close quarters. The enemy must have fired at least fifty shots for every man that was hit. I counted several times, and there were fully a hundred shots a minute, and I don't think it lessened much the whole day. I should think they must have fired two or three hundred rounds at least from each gun. The roar was incessant, and what with the din they made, and the replies of our own artillery, and the bursting of shells, and the rattle of musketry, the din at times was almost bewildering. Wildfire was hit with a piece of shell, but fortunately it was not a very large one, and he is not much the worse for it, but the shock knocked him off his legs; of course I went down with him, and thought for a moment I had been hit myself No; it was by far the most hollow affair we have had. The enemy fought obstinately enough, but without the slightest spirit or dash, and only once did they get up anywhere near our line, and then they went back a good deal quicker than they came."

"And now you are going to be with us for three months, Vincent?"

"I hope so, mother; at least if they do not advance again. I shall be here off and on. I mean to find Dinah Morris if it is possible, and if I can obtain the slightest clew I shall follow it up and go wherever it may lead me."

"Well, we will spare you for that, Vincent. As you know, I did not like your mixing yourself up in that business two years ago, but it is altogether different now. The woman was very willing and well conducted, and I had got to be really fond of her. But putting that aside, it is intolerable that such a piece of insolence as the stealing of one of our slaves should go unpunished. Therefore if you do find any clew to the affair we will not grumble at your following it up, even if it does take you away from home for a short time. By the by, we had letters this morning from a certain young lady in Georgia inclosing her photograph, and I rather fancy there is one for you somewhere."

"Where is it, mother?" Vincent asked, jumping from his seat.

"Let me think," Mrs. Wingfield replied. "Did either of you girls put it away, or where can it have been stowed?" The girls both laughed.

"Now, Vincent, what offer do you make for the letter? Well, we won't tease you," Annie went on as Vincent gave an impatient exclamation. "Another time we might do so, but as you have just come safely back to us I don't think it will be fair, especially as this is the very first letter. Here it is"—and she took out of the workbox before her the missive Vincent was so eager to receive.

CHAPTER XVI. THE SEARCH FOR DINAH.

"By the by, Vincent," Mrs. Wingfield remarked next morning at breakfast, "I have parted with Pearson."

"I am glad to hear it, mother. What! did you discover at last that he was a scamp?"

"Several things that occurred shook my confidence in him, Vincent. The accounts were not at all satisfactory, and it happened quite accidentally that when I was talking one day with Mr. Robertson, who, as you know, is a great speculator in tobacco, I said that I should grow no more tobacco, as it really fetched nothing. He replied that it would be a pity to give it up, for so little was now cultivated that the price was rising, and the Orangery tobacco always fetched top prices. 'I think the price I paid for your crop this year must at any rate have paid for the labor that is to say, paid for the keep of the slaves and something over.' He then mentioned the price he had given, which was certainly a good deal higher than I had imagined. I looked to my accounts next morning, and found that Pearson had only credited me with one-third of the amount he must have received, so I at once dismissed him. Indeed, I had been thinking of doing so some little time before, for money is so scarce and the price of produce so low that I felt I could not afford to pay as much as I have been giving him."

"I am afraid I have been drawing rather heavily, mother," Vincent put in.

"I have plenty of money, Vincent. Since your father's death we have had much less company than before, and I have not spent my income. Besides, I have a considerable sum invested in house property and other securities. But I have, of course, since the war began been subscribing toward the expenses of the war—for the support of hospitals and so on. I thought at a time like this I ought to keep my expenses down at the lowest point, and to give the balance of my income to the State."

"How did Jonas take his dismissal, mother?"

"Not very pleasantly," Mrs. Wingfield replied; "especially when I told him that I had discovered he was robbing me. However, he knew better than to say much, for he has not been in good odor about here for some time. After the fighting near here there were reports that he had been in communication with the Yankees. He spoke to me about it at the time, but as it was a mere matter of rumor, originating, no doubt, from the fact that he was a Northern man by birth, I paid no attention to them."

"It is likely enough to be true," Vincent said. "I always distrusted the vehemence with which he took the Confederate side. How long ago did this happen?"

"It is about a month since I dismissed him."

"So lately as that! Then I should not be at all surprised if he had some hand in carrying off Dinah. I know he was in communication with Jackson, for I once saw them together in the street, and I fancied at the time that it was through him that Jackson learned that Dinah was here. It is an additional clew to inquire into, anyhow. Do you know what has become of him since he left you?"

"No; I have heard nothing at all about him, Vincent, from the day I gave him a check for his pay in this room. Farrell, who was under him, is now in charge of the Orangery. He may possibly know something of his movements."

"I think Farrell is an honest fellow," Vincent said "He was always about doing his work quietly never bullying or shouting at the hands, and yet seeing that they did their work properly. I will ride out and see him at once."

As soon as breakfast was over Vincent started, and found Farrell in the fields with the hands.

"I am glad to see you back, sir," the man said heartily.

"Thank you, Farrell. I am glad to be back, and I am glad to find you in Pearson's place. I never liked the fellow, and never trusted him."

"I did not like him myself, sir, though we always got on well enough together. He knew his work, and got as much out of the hands as any one could do; but I did not like his way with them. They hated him."

"Have you any idea where he went when he left here?"

"No, sir; he did not come back after he got his dismissal. He sent a man in a buggy with a note to me, asking me to send all his things over to Richmond. I expect he was afraid the news might get here as soon as he did, and that the hands would give him an unpleasant reception, as indeed I expect they would have done."

"You don't know whether he has any friends anywhere in the

Confederacy to whom he would be likely to go?"

"I don't know about friends, sir; but I know he has told me he was overseer, or partner, or something of that sort, in a small station down in the swamps of South Carolina. I should think, from things he has let drop, that the slaves must have had a bad time of it. I rather fancy he made the place too hot for him, and had to leave; but that was only my impression."

"In that case he may possibly have made his way back there,"

Vincent said. "I have particular reasons for wishing to find out.

You don't know anything about the name of the place?" The man

shook his head.

"He never mentioned the name in my hearing."

"Well, I must try to find out, but I don't quite see how to set about it," Vincent said. "By the way, de you know where his clothes were sent to?"

"Yes; the man said that he was to take them to Harker's Hotel. It's a second-rate hotel not far from the railway station."

"Thank you. That will help me. I know the house. It was formerly used by Northern drummers and people of that sort."

After riding back to Richmond and putting up his horse, Vincent went to the hotel there. Although but a secondary hotel it was well filled, for people from all parts of the Confederacy resorted to Richmond, and however much trade suffered, the hotels of the town did a good business. He first went up to the clerk in a little office at the entrance.

"You had a man named Pearson," he said, "staying here about a month ago. Will you be good enough to tell me on what day he left?"

The clerk turned to the register, and said after a minute 's examination:

"He came on the 14th of November, and he left on the 20th."

This was two days after the date on which Dinah had been carried off.

In American hotels the halls are large and provided with seats, and are generally used as smoking and reading-rooms by the male visitors to the hotel. At Harker's Hotel there was a small bar at the end of the hall, and a black waiter supplied the wants of the guests seated at the various little tables. Vincent seated himself at one of these and ordered something to drink. As the negro placed it on the table he said:

"I will give you a dollar if you will answer a few questions."

"Very good, sah. Dat am a mighty easy way to earn a dollar."

"Do you remember, about a month ago, a man named Pearson being here?"

The negro shook his head.

"Me not know de names of de gentlemen, sah. What was de man like?"

"He was tall and thin, with short hair and a gray goatee—a regular

Yankee."

"Me remember him, sah. Dar used to be plenty ob dat sort here.

Don't see dem much now. Me remember de man, sah, quite well.

Used to pass most of de day here. Didn't seem to have nuffin to

do."

"Was he always alone, or did he have many people here to see him?"

"Once dar war two men here wid him, sah, sitting at dat table ober in de corner. Rough-looking fellows dey war. In old times people like dat wouldn't come to a 'spectable hotel, but now most ebery one got rough clothes, can't get no others, so one don't tink nuffin about it; but dose fellows was rough-looking besides dar clothes. Didn't like dar looks nohow. Dey only came here once. Dey was de only strangers that came to see him. But once Massa Jackson—me know him by sight—he came here and talk wid him for a long time. Earnest sort of talk dat seemed to be. Dey talk in low voice, and I noticed dey stopped talking when any one sat down near dem."

"You don't know where he went to from here, I suppose?"

"No, sah, dat not my compartment. Perhaps de outside porter will know. Like enough he take his tings in hand-truck to station. You like to see him, sah?"

"Yes, I should like to have a minute's talk with him. Here is your dollar."

The waiter rang a bell, and a minute later the outdoor porter presented himself.

"You remember taking some tings to station for a tall man wid gray goatee, Pomp?" the waiter asked. "It was more dan tree weeks ago. I tink he went before it was light in de morning. Me seem to remember dat."

The negro nodded.

"Me remember him bery well, sah. Tree heavy boxes and one bag, and he only give me quarter dollar for taking dem to de station. Mighty mean man dat."

"Do you know what train he went by?"

"Yes, sah, it was de six o'clock train for de souf."

"You can't find out wher his luggage was checked for?"

"I can go down to station, sah, and see if I can find out. Some of de men dar may remember."

"Here is a dollar for yourself," Vincent said, "and another to give to any of the men who can give you the news. When you have found out come and tell me. Here is my card and address."

"Bery well, sah. Next time me go up to station me find about it, for sure, if any one remember dat fellow."

In the evening the negro called at the house and told Vincent that he had ascertained that a man answering to his description and having luggage similar to that of Pearson had had it checked to Florence in South Carolina.

Vincent now called Dan into his counsel and told him what he had discovered. The young negro had already given proof of such intelligence that he felt sure his opinion would be of value.

"Dat all bery plain, sah," Dan said when Vincent finished his story. "Me no doubt dat old rascal Jackson give money to Pearson to carry off de gal. Ob course he did it just to take revenge upon Tony. Pearson he go into de plot, because, in de fust place, it vex Missy Wingfield and you bery much; in de second place, because Jackson gib him money; in de third place, because he get hold of negro slave worf a thousand dollar. Dat all quite clear. He not do it himself, but arrange wid oder fellows, and he stop quiet at de hotel for two days after she gone so dat no one can 'spect his having hand in de affair."

"That is just how I make it out, Dan; and now he has gone off to join them."

Dan thought for some time.

"Perhaps dey join him dar, sah, perhaps not; perhaps him send him baggage on there and get out somewhere on de road and meet them."

"That is likely enough, Dan. No doubt Dinah was taken away in a cart or buggy. As she left two days before he did, they may have gone from forty to sixty miles along the road, to some place where he may have joined them. The men who carried her off may either have come back or gone on with him. If they wanted to go south they would go on; if they did not, he would probably have only hired them to carry her off and hand her over to him when he overtook them. I will look at the timetable and see where that train stops. It is a fast train, I see," he said, after consulting it; it stops at Petersburg, fifteen miles on, and at Hicks Ford, which is about fifty miles. I should think the second place was most likely, as the cart could easily have got there in two days. Now, Dan, you had better start to-morrow morning, and spend two days there if necessary; find out if you can if on the twentieth of last month any one noticed a vehicle of any kind, with two rough men in it, and with, perhaps, a negro woman. She might not have been noticed, for she may have been lying tied up in the bottom of the cart, although it is more likely they frightened her by threats into sitting up quiet with them. They are sure not to have stopped at any decent hotel, but will have gone to some small place, probably just outside the town.

"I will go with you to Mr. Renfrew the first thing in the morning and get him to draw up a paper testifying that you are engaged in lawful business, and are making inquiries with a view to discovering a crime which has been committed, and recommending you to the assistance of the police in any town you may go to. Then if you go with that to the head constable at Hicks Ford he will tell you which are the places at which such fellows as these would have been likely to put up for the night, and perhaps send a policeman with you to make inquiries. If you get any news telegraph to me at once. I will start by the six o'clock train on the following morning. Do you be on the platform to meet me, and we can then either go straight on to Florence, or, should there be any occasion, I will get out there; but I don't think that is likely. Pearson himself will, to a certainty, sooner or later, go to Florence to get his luggage, and the only real advantage we shall get if your inquiries are successful will be to find out for certain whether he is concerned in the affair. We shall then only have to follow his traces from Florence."

Two days later Mr. Renfrew received a telegram from the head constable at Hicks Ford: "The two men with cart spent day here, 20th ult. Were joined that morning by another man—negro says Pearson. One man returned afternoon, Richmond. Pearson and the other drove off in buggy. A young negress and child were with them. Is there anything I can do?"

Mr. Renfrew telegraphed back to request that the men, who were kidnaping the female slave, should if possible be traced and the direction they took ascertained. He then sent the message across to Vincent, who at once went to his office.

"Now," the lawyer said, "you must do nothing rashly in this business, Vincent. They are at the best of time a pretty rough lot at the edge of these Carolina swamps, and at present things are likely to be worse than usual. If you were to go alone on such an errand you would almost certainly be shot. In the first place, these fellows would not give up a valuable slave without a struggle; and in the next place, they have committed a very serious crime. Therefore it is absolutely necessary that you should go armed with legal powers and backed by the force of the law. In the first place, I will draw up an affidavit and sign it myself, to the effect that a female slave, the property of Vincent Wingfield, has, with her male child, been kidnaped and stolen by Jonas Pearson and others acting in association with him, and that we have reason to know that she has been conveyed into South Carolina. This I will get witnessed by a justice of the peace, and will then take it up to Government House. There I will get the usual official request to the governor of South Carolina to issue orders that the aid of the law shall be given to you in recovering the said Dinah Morris and her child and arresting her abductors. You will obtain an order to this effect from the governor, and armed with it you will, as soon as you have discovered where the woman is, call upon the sheriff of the county to aid you in recovering her, and in arresting Pearson and his associates."

"Thank you, sir. That will certainly be the best way. I run plenty of risk in doing my duty as an officer of the state, and I have no desire whatever to throw my life away at the hands of ruffians such as Pearson and his allies."

Two hours later Vincent received from Mr. Renfrew the official letter to the governor of South Carolina, and at six o'clock next morning started for Florence. On the platform of the station at Hicks Ford Dan was waiting for him.

"Jump into the car at the end, Dan; I will come to you there, and you can tell me all the news. We are going straight on to Columbia. Now, Dan," Vincent went on when he joined him—for in no part of the United States were negroes allowed to travel in any but the cars set apart for them—"what is your news? The chief constable telegraphed that they had, as we expected, been joined by Pearson here."

"Yes, sah, dey war here for sure. When I get here I go straight to de constable and tell him dat I was in search of two men who had kidnaped Captain Wingfield's slave. De head constable he Richmond man, and ob course knew all about de family; so he take de matter up at once and send constable wid me to seberal places where it likely dat the fellows had put up, but we couldn't find nuffin about dem. Den next morning we go out again to village four mile out of de town on de north road, and dere we found sure 'nough dat two men, wid negro wench and chile, had stopped dere. She seem bery unhappy and cry all de time. De men say dey bought her at Richmond, and show de constable of de village de paper dat dey had bought a female slave Sally Moore and her chile. De constable speak to woman, but she seem frightened out of her life and no say anything. Dey drive off wid her early in de morning. Den we make inquiries again at de town and at de station. We find dat a man like Pearson get out. He had only little hand-bag with him. He ask one of de men at de station which was de way to de norf road. Den we find dat one of de constables hab seen a horse and cart wid two men in it, with negro woman and child. One of de men look like Yankee—dat what make him take notice of it. We s'pose dat oder man went back to Richmond again."

"That is all right, Dan, and you have done capitally. Now at Florence we will take up the hunt. It is a long way down there; and if they drive all the way, as I hope they will, it will take them a fortnight, so that we shall have gained a good deal of time on them. The people at the station are sure to remember the three boxes that lay there for so long without being claimed. Of course they may have driven only till they got fairly out of reach. Then they may either have sold the horse and trap, or the fellow Pearson has with him may have driven it back. But I should think they would most likely sell it. In that case they would not be more than a week from the time they left Richmond to the time they took train again for the south. However, whether they have got a fortnight or three weeks' start of us will not make much difference. With the description we can give of Pearson, and the fact that there was a negress and child, and those three boxes, we ought to be able to trace him."

It was twelve at night when the train arrived at Florence. As nothing could be done until next morning Vincent went to an hotel. As soon as the railway officials were likely to be at their offices he was at the station again. The tip of a dollar secured the attention of the man in the baggage-room.

"Three boxes and a black bag came on here a month ago, you say, and lay here certainly four or five days—perhaps a good deal longer. Of course I remember them. Stood up in that corner there. They had been checked right through. I will look at the books and see what day they went. I don't remember what sort of men fetched them away. Maybe I was busy at the time, and my mate gave them out. However, I will look first and see when they went. What day do you say they got here?"

"They came by the train that left Richmond at six o'clock on the morning of the 20th."

"Then they got in late that night or early next morning. Ah, the train was on time that day, and got in at half-past nine at night. Here they are—three boxes and a bag, numbers 15020, went out on the 28th. Yes, that's right enough. Now I will just ask my mate if he remembers about their going out."

The other man was called. Oh, yes, he remembered quite well the three boxes standing in the corner. They went out some time in the afternoon. It was just after the train came in from Richmond. He noticed the man that asked for them. He got him to help carry out the boxes and put them into a cart. Yes, he remembered there was another man with him, and a negress with a child. He wondered at the time what they were up to, but supposed it was all right. Yes, he didn't mind trying to find out who had hired out a cart for the job. Dessay he could find out by to-morrow—at any rate he would try. Five dollars are worth earning anyway.

Having put this matter in train, Vincent, leaving Dan at Florence, went down at once to Charleston. Here, after twenty-four hours' delay, he obtained a warrant for the arrest of Jonas Pearson and others on the charge of kidnaping, and then returned to Florence. He found that the railway man had failed in obtaining any information as to the cart, and concluded it must have come in from the country on purpose to meet the train.

"At any rate," Vincent said, "it must be within a pretty limited range of country. The railway makes a bend from Wilmington to this place and then down to Charleston, so this is really the nearest station to only a small extent of country."

"That's so," the railway man said. He had heard from Dan a good deal about the case, and had got thoroughly interested in it. "Either Marion or Kingstree would be nearer, one way or the other, to most of the swamp country. So it can't be as far as Conwayborough on the north or Georgetown on the south, and it must lie somewhere between Jeffries' Creek and Lynch's Creek; anyhow it would be in Marion County—that's pretty nigh sure. So if I were you I would take rail back to Marion Court house, and see the sheriff there and have a talk over the matter with him. You haven't got much to go upon, because this man you are after has been away from here a good many years and won't be known; besides, likely enough he went by some other name down here. Anyhow, the sheriff can put you up to the roads, and the best way of going about the job."

"I think that would be the best way," Vincent said. "We shall be able to see the county map too and to learn all the geography of the place."

"You have got your six-shooters with you, I suppose, because you are as likely as not to have to use them?"

"Yes, we have each got a Colt; and as I have had a good deal of practice, it would be awkward for Pearson if he gives me occasion to use it."

"After what I hear of the matter," the man said, "I should say your best plan is just to shoot him at sight. It's what would serve him right. You bet there will be no fuss over it. It will save you a lot of trouble anyway."

Vincent laughed.

"My advice is good," the man went on earnestly. "They are a rough lot down there, and hang together. You will have to do it sudden, whatever you do, or you will get the hull neighborhood up agin you."

On reaching Marion Courthouse they sought out the sheriff, produced the warrant signed by the States' authority, and explained the whole circumstances.

"I am ready to aid you in any way I can," the sheriff said when he concluded; "but the question is, where has the fellow got to? You see he may be anywhere in this tract;" and he pointed out a circle on the map of the county that hung against the wall. "That is about fifty mile across, and a pretty nasty spot, I can tell you. There are wide swamps on both sides of the creek, and rice grounds and all sorts. There ain't above three or four villages altogether, but there may be two or three hundred little plantations scattered about, some big and some little. We haven't got anything to guide us in the slightest, not a thing, as I can see."

"The man who was working under Pearson, when he was with us, told me he had got the notion that he had had to leave on account of some trouble here. Possibly that might afford a clew."

"It might do so," the sheriff said. "When did he come to you?"

"I think it was when I was six or seven years old. That would be about twelve or thirteen years ago; but, of course, he may not have come direct to us after leaving here."

"We can look anyway," the sheriff said, and, opening a chest, he took out a number of volumes containing the records of his predecessors. "Twelve years ago! Well, this is the volume. Now, Captain Wingfield, I have got some other business in hand that will take me a couple of hours. I will leave you out this volume and the one before it and the one after it, and if you like to go through them you may come across the description of some man wanted that agrees with that of the man you are in search of."

It took Vincent two hours and a half to go through the volume, but he met with no description answering to that of Pearson.

"I will go through the first six months of the next year," he said to himself, taking up that volume, "and the last six months of the year before."

The second volume yielded no better result, and he then turned back to the first of the three books. Beginning in July, he read steadily on until he came to December. Scarcely had he begun the record of that month than he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

"December 2nd.—Information laid against gang at Porter's Station, near Lynch's Creek. Charged with several robberies and murders in different parts of the county. Long been suspected of having stills in the swamps. Gang consists of four besides Porter himself. Names of gang, Jack Haverley, Jim Corben, and John and James Porter. Ordered out posse to start to-morrow.

"December 5th.—Returned from Porter's Station. Surprised the gang. They resisted. Haverley, Corben, and James Porter shot. John Porter escaped, and took to swamp. Four of posse wounded; one, William Hannay, killed. Circulated description of John Porter through the county. Tall and lean; when fifteen years old shot a man in a brawl, and went north. Has been absent thirteen years. Assumed the appearance of a northern man and speaks with Yankee twang. Father was absent at the time of attack. Captured three hours after. Declares he knows nothing about doings of the gang. Haverley and Corben were friends of his sons. Came and went when they liked. Will be tried on the 15th."

On the 16th there was another entry:

"William Porter sentenced to three years' imprisonment for giving shelter to gang of robbers. Evidence wanting to show he took any actual part in their crimes."

The sheriff had been in and out several times during the five hours that Vincent's search had taken up. When he returned again Vincent pointed out the entry he had found.

"I should not be at all surprised if that's our man," the sheriff said. "I know old Porter well, for he is still alive and bears a pretty bad reputation still, though we have never been able to bring him to book. I remember all the circumstances of that affair, for I served upon the posse. While Porter was in prison his house was kept for him by a married daughter and her husband. There was a strong suspicion that the man was one of the gang too, but we couldn't prove it. They have lived there ever since. They have got five or six field hands, and are said to be well off. We have no doubt they have got a still somewhere in the swamps, but we have never been able to find it. I will send a man off to-morrow to make inquiries whether any stranger has arrived there lately. Of course, Pearson will not have kept that name, and he will not have appeared as John Porter, for he would be arrested on a fresh warrant at once for his share in that former business. I think, Captain Wingfield, you had better register at the hotel here under some other name. I don't suppose that he has any fear of being tracked here; still it is just possible his father may have got somebody here and at Florence to keep their eyes open and let him know if there are any inquiries being made by strangers about a missing negress. One cannot be too careful. If he got the least hint, his son and the woman would be hidden away in the swamps before we could get there, and there would be no saying when we could find him."

Vincent took the sheriff's advice, and entered his name in the hotel book as Mr. Vincent. Late in the evening the sheriff came round to him.

"I have just sent summonses to six men. I would rather have had two or three more, but young men are very scarce around here now; and as with you and myself that brings it up to eight that ought to be sufficient, as these fellows will have no time to summon any of their friends to their assistance. Have you a rifle, Captain Wingfield?"

"No; I have a brace of revolvers."

"They are useful enough for close work," the sheriff said, "but if they see us coming, and barricade their house and open fire upon us, you will want something that carries further than a revolver. I can lend you a rifle as well as a horse if you will accept them."

Vincent accepted the offer with thanks. The next morning at daylight he went round to the sheriff's house, where six determined-looking men, belonging to the town or neighboring farms, were assembled. Slinging the rifle that the sheriff handed him across his back, Vincent at once mounted, and the party set off at a brisk trot.

"My man came back half an hour ago," the sheriff said to Vincent as they rode along. "He found out that a man answering to your description arrived with another at Porter's about a fortnight ago, and is staying there still. Whether they brought a negress with them or not no one seems to have noticed. However, there is not a shadow of doubt that it is our man, and I shall be heartily glad to lay hold of him; for a brother of mine was badly wounded in that last affair, and though he lived some years afterward he was never the same man again. So I have a personal interest in it, you see."

"How far is it to Porter's?"

"About thirty-five miles. We shall get there about two o'clock, I reckon. We are all pretty well mounted and can keep at this pace, with a break or two, till we get there. I propose that we dismount when we get within half a mile of the place. We will try and get hold of some one who knows the country well, and get him to lead three of us round through the edge of the swamp to the back of the house. It stands within fifty yards of the swamp. I have no doubt they put it there so that they might escape if pressed, and also to prevent their being observed going backward and forward to that still of theirs."

This plan was followed out. A negro lad was found who, on the promise of a couple of dollars, agreed to act as guide. Three of the party were then told off to follow him, and the rest, after waiting for half an hour to allow them to make the detour, mounted their horses and rode down at a gallop to the house. When they were within a short distance of it they heard a shout, and a man who was lounging near the door ran inside. Almost instantly they saw the shutters swing back across the windows, and when they drew up fifty yards from the door the barrels of four rifles were pushed out through slits in the shutters.

The sheriff held up his hand. "William Porter, I want a word with you."

A shutter in an upper room opened, and an elderly man appeared with a rifle in his hand.

"William Porter," the sheriff said, "I have a warrant for the arrest of two men now in your house on the charge of kidnaping a female slave, the property of Captain Wingfield here. I have no proof that you had any share in the matter, or that you are aware that the slave was not honestly obtained. In the second place, I have a warrant for the arrest of your son John Porter, now in your house and passing recently under the name of Jonas Pearson, on the charge of resisting and killing the officers of the law on the 5th of December, 1851. I counsel you to hand over these men to me without resistance. You know what happened when your sons defied the law before, and what will happen now if you refuse compliance."

"Yah!" the old man shouted. "Do you suppose we are going to give in to five men? Not if we know it. Now, I warn you, move yourself off while I let you, else you will get a bullet in you before I count three."

"Very well, then. You must take the consequences," the sheriff replied, and at once called the party to fall back.

"We must dismount," he said in answer to Vincent's look of surprise; "they would riddle us here on horseback in the open. Besides we must dismount to break in the door."

They rode back a quarter of a mile, and then dismounted. The sheriff took two heavy axes that hung from his saddle, and handed them to two of the men.

"I reckoned we should have trouble," he said. "However, I hope we sha'n't have to use these. My idea is to crawl up through the corn-field until we are within shooting distance, and then to open fire at the loopholes. They have never taken the trouble to grub up the stumps, and each man must look out for shelter. I want to make it so hot for them that they will try to bolt to the swamp, and in that case they will be covered by the men there. I told them not to fire until they got quite close; so they ought to dispose of three of them, and as they have got pistols they will be able to master the others; besides, directly we hear firing behind, we shall jump up and make a rush round. Do you, sir, and James Wilkins here, stop in front. Two of them might make a rush out behind, and the others, when they have drawn us off, bolt in front."

Several shots were fired at the party as they made their way across to the end of the field, where the tall stalks of maize were still standing, though the corn had been gathered weeks before. As soon as they reached the shelter they separated, each crawling through the maize until they arrived within fifty yards of the house. There were, as the sheriff had said, many stumps still standing, and each ensconced himself behind one of those, and began to reply to the fire that the defenders had kept up whenever they saw a movement among the corn stalks.

At such a distance the shutters were but of slight advantage to the defenders of the house; for the assailants were all good shots, and the loopholes afforded excellent targets at such a distance. After a few shots had been fired from the house the fire of the defenders ceased, the men within not daring to protrude the rifles through the loopholes, as every such appearance was instantly followed by a couple of shots from the corn patch.

"Give me one of those axes," the sheriff said. "Now, Withers, do you make a rush with me to the door. Get your rifle loaded before you start, and have your revolver handy in your belt. Now, Captain Wingfield, do you and the other two keep a sharp lookout at the loopholes, and see that they don't get a shot at us as we run. Now, Withers," and the sheriff ran forward. Two rifles were protruded through the loopholes. Vincent and his companions fired at once. One of the rifles gave a sharp jerk and disappeared, the other was fired, and Withers dropped his axe, but still ran forward. The sheriff began an onslaught at the door, his companion's right arm being useless. A minute later the sharp crack of rifles was heard in the rear, and the sheriff and two men rushed in that direction, while Vincent and the other lay watching the door. Scarcely had the sheriff's party disappeared round the house than the door was thrown open, and Pearson ran out at full speed. Vincent leaped to his feet.

"Surrender," he said, "or you are a dead man."

Jonas paused for a moment with a loud imprecation, and then leveling a revolver, fired. Vincent felt a moment's pain in the cheek, but before he could level his rifle his companion fired, and Pearson fell forward dead. A minute later the sheriff and his party ran round.

"Have you got him?" he asked.

"He will give no more trouble, sheriff," the young man who fired said. "I fancy I had him plum between the eyes. How about the others?"

"Dick Matheson is killed; he got two bullets in his body. The other man is badly wounded. There are no signs of old Porter."

They now advanced to the door, which stood open. As the sheriff entered there was a sharp report, and he fell back shot through the heart. The rest made a rush forward. Another shot was fired, but this missed them, and before it could be repeated they had wrested the pistol from the hand of Matheson's wife. She was firmly secured, and they then entered the kitchen, where, crouched upon the floor, lay some seven or eight negro men and women in an agony of terror. Vincent's question, "Dinah, where are you?" was answered by a scream of delight; and Dinah, who had been covering her child with her body, leaped to her feet.

"It's all right, Dinah," Vincent said; "but stay here, we haven't finished this business yet."

"I fancy the old man's upstairs," one of the men said. "It was his rifle, I reckon, that disappeared when we fired."

It was as he expected. Porter was found dead behind the loophole, a bullet having passed through his brain. The deputy-sheriff, who was with the party, now took the command. A cart and horse were found in an out-building; in these the wounded man, who was one of those who had taken part in the abduction of Dinah, was placed, together with the female prisoner and the dead body of the sheriff. The negroes were told to follow; and the horses having been fetched the party mounted and rode off to the next village, five miles on their way back. Here they halted for the night, and the next day went on to Marion Courthouse, Vincent hiring a cart for the conveyance of Dinah and the other women. It was settled that Vincent's attendance at the trial of the two prisoners would not be necessary, as the man would be tried for armed resistance to the law, and the woman for murdering the sheriff. The facts could be proved by other witnesses, and as there could be no doubt about obtaining convictions, it would be unnecessary to try the charge against the man for kidnaping. Next day, accordingly, Vincent started with Dinah and Dan for Richmond. Two months afterward he saw in the paper that Jane Matheson had been sentenced to imprisonment for life, the man to fourteen years.

CHAPTER XVII. CHANCELLORSVILLE.

The news of the fight between the sheriff's posse and the band at Lynch's Creek was telegraphed to the Richmond papers by their local agent upon the day after it occurred. The report said that Captain Wingfield, a young officer who had frequently distinguished himself, had followed the traces of a gang, one of whom was a notorious criminal who had evaded the pursuit of the law and escaped from that section fifteen years ago, and had, under an assumed name, been acting as overseer at Mrs. Wingfield's estate of the Orangery. These men had carried off a negress belonging to Mrs. Wingfield, and had taken her down South. Captain Wingfield, having obtained the assistance of the sheriff with a posse of determined men, rode to the place which served as headquarters for the gang. Upon being summoned to surrender the men opened a fire upon the sheriff and his posse. A sharp fight ensued, in which the sheriff was killed and one of his men wounded; while the four members of the gang were either killed or taken prisoners. It was reported that a person occupying a position as a planter in the neighborhood of Richmond is connected with this gang.

The reporter had obtained his news from Vincent, who had purposely refrained from mentioning the names of those who had fallen. He had already had a conversation with the wounded prisoner. The latter had declared that he had simply acted in the affair as he had been paid to do by the man he knew in Richmond as Pearson, who told him that he wanted him to aid in carrying off a slave woman, who was really his property, but had been fraudulently taken from him. He had heard him say that there was another interested in the affair, who had his own reasons for getting the woman out of the way, and had paid handsomely for the job. Who that other was Pearson had never mentioned.

Vincent saw that he had no absolute evidence against Jackson, and therefore purposely suppressed the fact that Pearson was among the killed in hopes that the paragraph would so alarm Jackson that he would at once decamp. His anticipations were entirely justified; for upon the day of his return to Richmond he saw a notice in the paper that the Cedars, with its field hands, houses, and all belonging to it, was for sale. He proceeded at once to the estate agent, and learned from him that Jackson had come in two days before and had informed him that sudden and important business had called him away, and that he was starting at once for New York, where his presence was urgently required, and that he should attempt to get through the lines immediately. He had asked him what he thought the property and slaves would fetch. Being acquainted with the estate, he had given him a rough estimate, and had, upon Jackson's giving him full power to sell, advanced him two-thirds of the sum. Jackson had apparently started at once; indeed, he had told him that he should take the next train as far North as he could get.

Vincent received the news with great satisfaction. He had little doubt that Jackson had really made down to the South, and that he would try to cross the lines there, his statement that he intended to go direct North being merely intended to throw his pursuers off his track should a warrant be issued against him. However, it mattered little which way Jackson had gone, so that he had left the State.

There was little chance of his ever returning; for even when he learned that his confederate in the business had been killed in the fight, he could not be certain that the prisoner who had been taken was not aware of the share he had in the business.

A fortnight later Vincent went down into Georgia and brought back Lucy Kingston for a visit to his mother. She had already received a letter from her father in reply to one she had written after reaching her aunt's protection, saying how delighted he was to hear that she had crossed the lines, for that he had suffered the greatest anxiety concerning her, and had continually reproached himself for not sending her away sooner. He said that he was much pleased with her engagement to Captain Wingfield, whom he did not know personally, but of whom he heard the most favorable reports from various Virginian gentlemen to whom he had spoken since the receipt of her letter.

Lucy remained at Richmond until the beginning of March, when Vincent took her home to Georgia again, and a week after his return rejoined the army on the Rappahannock. Every effort had been made by the Confederate authorities to raise the army of General Lee to a point that would enable him to cope with the tremendous force the enemy were collecting for the ensuing campaign. The drain of men was now telling terribly, and Lee had at the utmost 40,000 to oppose the 160,000 collected under General Hooker.

The first fight of the campaign had already taken place when Vincent rejoined the army. A body of 3,000 Federal cavalry had crossed the river on the 17th of March at Kelley's Ford, but had been met by General Fitz Lee with about 800 cavalry, and after a long and stubborn conflict had been driven back with heavy loss across the river. It was not until the middle of April that the enemy began to move in earnest. Every ford was watched by Stuart's cavalry, and the frequent attempts made by the Federal horse to push across to obtain information were always defeated.

On the 27th of April General Hooker's preparations were complete. His plan of action was that 20,000 men should cross the river near the old battlefield of Fredericksburg, and thus lead the Confederates to believe that this was the point of attack. The main body were, however, to cross at Kelley's Ford, many miles higher up the river, and to march down toward Fredericksburg. The other force was then to recross, march up the river, cross at Kelley's Ford, and follow and join the main army. At the same time the Federal cavalry, which was very numerous and well-organized, was, under General Stoneman, to strike down through the country toward Richmond, and thus cut the Confederate communication with their capital, and so prevent Longstreet's division, which was lying near Richmond, from rejoining Lee.

The passage of the river was effected at the two fords without resistance on the 29th of April, and upon the same day the cavalry column marched south. General Lee directed a portion of his cavalry under General Fitz Lee to harass and delay this column as much as possible. Although he had with him but a few hundred men, he succeeded in doing good service in cutting off detached bodies of the enemy, capturing many officers and men, and so demoralizing the invaders that, after pushing on as far as the James River, Stoneman had to retreat in great haste across the Rapidan River.

Hooker having crossed the river, marched on to Chancellorsville, where he set to to entrench himself, having sent word to General Sedgwick, who commanded the force that had crossed near Fredericksburg, to recross, push round, and join as soon as possible. Chancellorsville was a large brick mansion standing in the midst of fields surrounded by extensive forests. The country was known as the Wilderness. Within a range of many miles there were only a few scattered houses, and dense thickets and pine-woods covered the whole country. Two narrow roads passed through the woods, crossing each other at Chancellorsville; two other roads led to the fords known as Ely's Ford and the United States Ford. As soon as he reached Chancellorsville Hooker set his troops to work cutting down trees and throwing up earthworks for infantry and redoubts for artillery, erecting a double line of defenses. On these he mounted upward of a hundred pieces of artillery, commanding the narrow roads by which an enemy must approach, for the thickets were in many places so dense as to render it impossible for troops to force their way through them.

When Sedgwick crossed the river, Lee drew up his army to oppose him; but finding that no more troops crossed, and that Sedgwick did not advance, he soon came to the conclusion that this was not the point at which the enemy intended to attack, and in twenty-four hours one of Stuart's horsemen brought the news that Hooker had crossed the Rappahannock at Kelley's Ford and the Rapidan at Ely's Ford. Lee at once left one division to face General Sedgwick, and ordered the three others to join General Anderson, who with 8,000 men had fallen back before Hooker's advance, and taken his post at Tabernacle Church, about halfway between Fredericksburg and Tabernacle. Lee himself rode forward at once and joined Anderson.

Jackson led the force from Fredericksburg, and pressed the enemy back toward Chancellorsville until he approached the tremendous lines of fortifications, and then fell back to communicate with Lee. That night a council of war was held, and it was agreed that an attack upon the front of the enemy's position was absolutely impossible. Hooker himself was so positive that his position was impregnable that he issued a general order of congratulation to his troops, saying that "the enemy must now ingloriously fly or give us battle on our own ground, where certain destruction awaits him."

Jackson then suggested that he should work right round the Wilderness in front of the enemy's position, march down until well on its flank, and attack it there, where they would be unprepared for an assault. The movement was one of extraordinary peril. Lee would be left with but one division in face of an immensely superior force; Jackson would have to perform an arduous march exposed to an attack by the whole force of the enemy; and both might be destroyed separately without being able to render the slightest assistance to each other. At daybreak on the 2d of May Jackson mustered his troops for the advance. He had in the course of the night caught a severe cold. In the hasty march he had left his blankets behind him. One of his staff threw a heavy cape over him as he lay on the wet ground. During the night Jackson woke, and thinking that the young officer might himself be suffering from the want of his cape, rose quietly, spread the cape over him, and lay down without it. The consequence was a severe cold, which terminated in an attack of pneumonia that, occurring at a time when he was enfeebled by his wounds, resulted in his death. If he had not thrown that cape over the officer it is probable that he would have survived his wounds.

At daybreak the column commenced its march. It had to traverse a narrow and unfrequented road through dense thickets, occasionally crossing ground in sight of the enemy, and at the end to attack a tremendous position held by immensely superior forces. Stuart with his cavalry moved on the flank of the column whenever the ground was open, so as to conceal the march of the infantry from the enemy. As the rear of the column passed a spot called the Furnace, the enemy suddenly advanced and cut off the 23d Georgia, who were in the rear of the column, and captured the whole regiment with the exception of a score of men. At this point the road turned almost directly away from Chancellorsville, and the enemy believed that the column was in full retreat, and had not the least idea of its real object.

So hour after hour the troops pressed on until they reached the turnpike road passing east and west through Chancellorsville, which now lay exactly between them and the point that they had left in the morning. Jackson's design was to advance upon this line of road, to extend his troops to the left and then to swing round, cut the enemy's retreat to the fords, and capture them all. Hooker had already been joined by two of Sedgwick's army corps, and had now six army corps at Chancellorsville, while Jackson's force consisted of 22,000 men. Lee remained with 13,000 at Tabernacle. The latter general had not been attacked, but had continued to make demonstrations against the Federal left, occupying their attention and preventing them from discovering how large a portion of his force had left him.

It was at five o'clock in the evening that Jackson's troops, having gained their position, advanced to the attack. In front of them lay Howard's division of the Federals, intrenched in strong earthworks covered by felled trees; but the enemy were altogether unsuspicious of danger, and it was not until with tumultuous cheers the Confederates dashed through the trees and attacked the entrenchment that they had any suspicion of their presence. They ran to their arms, but it was too late. The Confederates rushed through the obstacles, climbed the earthworks, and carried those in front of them, capturing 700 prisoners and five guns. The rest of the Federal troops here, throwing away muskets and guns, fled in wild confusion. Steadily the Confederates pressed on, driving the enemy before them, and capturing position after position, until the whole right wing of the Federal army was routed and disorganized. For three hours the Confederates continued their march without a check; but owing to the denseness of the wood, and the necessity of keeping the troops in line, the advance was slow, and night fell before the movement could be completed. One more hour of daylight and the whole Federal army would have been cut off and captured, but by eight o'clock the darkness in the forest was so complete that all movement had to be stopped.

Half an hour later one of the saddest incidents of the war took place. General Jackson with a few of his staff went forward to reconnoiter. As he returned toward his lines, his troops in the dark mistook them for a reconnoitering party of the enemy and fired, killing or wounding the whole of them, General Jackson receiving three balls. The enemy, who were but a hundred yards distant, at once opened a tremendous fire with grape toward the spot, and it was some time before Jackson could be carried off the field. The news that their beloved general was wounded was for some time kept from the troops; but a whisper gradually spread, and the grief of his soldiers was unbounded, for rather would they have suffered a disastrous defeat than that Stonewall Jackson should have fallen.

General Stuart assumed the command, General Hill, who was second in command, having, with many other officers, been wounded by the tremendous storm of grape and canister that the Federals poured through the wood when they anticipated an attack. At daybreak the troops again moved forward in three lines, Stuart placing his thirty guns on a slight ridge, where they could sweep the lines of the Federal defenses. Three times the position was won and lost; but the Confederates fought with such fury and resolution, shouting each time they charged the Federal ranks "Remember Jackson," that the enemy gradually gave way, and by ten o'clock Chancellorsville itself was taken, the Federals being driven back into the forest between the houses and the river.

Lee had early in the morning begun to advance from his side to the attack, but just as he was moving forward the news came that Sedgwick had recrossed at Fredericksburg, captured a portion of the Confederate force there, and was advancing to join Hooker. He at once sent two of his three little divisions to join the Confederates who were opposing Sedgwick's advance, while with the three or four thousand men remaining to him, he all day made feigned attacks upon the enemy's position, occupying their attention there, and preventing them from sending reinforcements to the troops engaged with Stuart. At night he himself hurried away, took the command of the troops opposed to Sedgwick, attacked him vigorously at daybreak, and drove him with heavy loss back across the river. The next day he marched back with his force to join in the final attack upon the Federals; but when the troops of Stuart and Lee moved forward they encountered no opposition. Hooker had begun to carry his troops across the river on the night he was hurled back out of Chancellorsville, and the rest of his troops had crossed on the two following nights.

General Hooker issued a pompous order to his troop after getting across the river, to the effect that the movement had met with the complete success he had anticipated from it; but the truth soon leaked out. General Sedgwick's force had lost 6,000 men, Hooker's own command fully 20,000 more; but splendid as the success was, it was dearly purchased by the Confederates at the price of the life of Stonewall Jackson. His arm was amputated the day after the battle; he lived for a week, and died not so much from the effect of his wounds as from the pneumonia, the result of his exposure to the heavy dew on the night preceding his march through the Wilderness.

During the two days' fighting Vincent Wingfield had discharged his duties upon General Stuart's staff. On the first day the work had been slight, for General Stuart, with the cannon, remained in the rear, while Jackson's infantry attacked and carried the Federal retrenchments. Upon the second day, however, when Stuart assumed the command, Vincent's duties had been onerous and dangerous in the extreme. He was constantly carrying orders from one part of the field to the other, amid such a shower of shot and shell that it seemed marvelous that any one could exist within it. To his great grief Wildfire was killed under him, but he himself escaped without a scratch. When he came afterward to try to describe the battle to those at home he could give no account of it.

"To me," he said, "it was simply a chaos of noise and confusion. Of what was going on I knew nothing. The din was appalling. The roar of the shells, the hum of grape and canister, the whistle of bullets, the shouts of the men, formed a mighty roar that seemed to render thinking impossible. Showers of leaves fell incessantly, great boughs of trees were shorn away, and trees themselves sometimes came crashing down as a trunk was struck full by a shell. The undergrowth had caught fire, and the thick smoke, mingled with that of the battle, rendered it difficult to see or to breathe. I had but one thought, that of making my way through the trees, of finding the corps to which I was sent, of delivering my message, and finding the general again. No, I don't think I had much thought of danger, the whole thing was somehow so tremendous that one had no thought whatever for one's self. It was a sort of terrible dream, in which one was possessed of the single idea to get to a certain place. It was not till at last we swept across the open ground down to the house, that I seemed to take any distinct notice of what was going on around me. Then, for the first time, the exulting shouts of the men, and the long lines advancing at the double, woke me up to the fact that we had gained one of the most wonderful victories in history, and had driven an army of four or five times our own strength from a position that they believed they had made impregnable."

The defeat of Hooker for a time put a stop to any further advance against Richmond from the North. The Federal troops, whose term of service was up, returned home, and it was months before all the efforts of the authorities of Washington could place the army in a condition to make a renewed advance. But the Confederates had also suffered heavily. A third of the force with which Jackson had attacked had fallen, and their loss could not be replaced, as the Confederates were forced to send every one they could raise to the assistance of the armies in the West, where Generals Banks and Grant were carrying on operations with great success against them. The important town of Vicksburg, which commanded the navigation of the Mississippi, was besieged, and after a resistance lasting for some months, surrendered, with its garrison of 25,000 men, on the 3d of July, and the Federal gunboats were thus able to penetrate by the Mississippi and its confluents into the heart of the Confederacy.

Shortly after the battle of Chancellorsville, Vincent was appointed to the command of a squadron of cavalry that was detached from Stuart's force and sent down to Richmond to guard the capital from any raids by bodies of Federal cavalry. It had been two or three times menaced by flying bodies of horsemen, and during the cavalry advance before the battle of Chancellorsville small parties had penetrated to within three miles of the city, cutting all the telegraph wires, pulling up rails, and causing the greatest terror. Vincent was not sorry for the change. It took him away from the great theater of the war, but after Chancellorsville he felt no eager desire to take part in future battles. His duties would keep him near his home, and would give ample scope for the display of watchfulness, dash, and energy. Consequently he took no part in the campaign that commenced in the first week in June.

Tired of standing always on the defensive, the Confederate authorities determined to carry out the stop that had been so warmly advocated by Jackson earlier in the war, and which might at that time have brought it to a successful termination. They decided to carry the war into the enemy's country. By the most strenuous efforts Lee's army was raised to 75,000 men, divided into three great army corps, commanded by Longstreet, Ewell, and Hill. Striking first into Western Virginia, they drove the Federals from Winchester, and chased them from the State with the loss of nearly 4,000 prisoners and 30 guns. Then they entered Maryland and Pennsylvania, and concentrating at Gettysburg they met the Northern army under Meade, who had succeeded Hooker. Although great numbers of the Confederates had seen their homes wasted and their property wantonly destroyed, they preserved the most perfect order in their march through the North, and the Federals themselves testify to the admirable behavior of the troops, and to the manner in which they abstained from plundering or inflicting annoyance upon the inhabitants.

At Gettysburg there was three days' fighting. In the first a portion only of the forces were engaged, the Federals being defeated and 5,000 of their men taken prisoners. Upon the second the Confederates attacked the Northerners, who were posted in an extremely strong position, but were repulsed with heavy loss. The following day they renewed the attack, but after tremendous fighting again failed to carry the height. Both parties were utterly exhausted. Lee drew up his troops the next day, and invited an attack from the Federals; but contented with the success they had gained they maintained their position, and the Confederates then fell back, Stuart's cavalry protecting the immense trains of wagons loaded with the stores and ammunition captured in Pennsylvania.

But little attempt was made by the Northerners to interfere with their retreat. On reaching the Potomac they found that a sudden rise had rendered the fords impassable. Intrenchments and batteries were thrown up, and for a week the Confederate army held the lines, expecting an attack from the enemy, who had approached within two miles; but the Federal generals were too well satisfied with having gained a success when acting on the defensive in a strong position to risk a defeat in attacking the position of the Confederates, and their forces remained impassive until pontoon bridges were thrown across the river, and the Confederate army, with their vast baggage train, had again crossed into Virginia. The campaign had cost the Northern army 23,000 men in killed, wounded, and prisoners, besides a considerable number of guns. The Confederates lost only two guns, left behind in the mud, and 1,500 prisoners, but their loss in killed and wounded at Gettysburg exceeded 10,000 men. Even the most sanguine among the ranks of the Confederacy were now conscious that the position was a desperate one. The Federal armies seemed to spring from the ground. Strict discipline had taken the place of the disorder and insubordination that had first prevailed in their ranks. The armies were splendidly equipped. They were able to obtain any amount of the finest guns, rifles, and ammunition of war from the workshops of Europe; while the Confederates, cut off from the world, had to rely solely upon the makeshift factories they had set up, and upon the guns and stores they captured from the enemy.

The Northerners had now, as a blow to the power of the South, abolished slavery, and were raising regiments of negroes from among the free blacks of the North, and from the slaves they took from their owners wherever their armies penetrated the Southern States. Most of the Confederate ports had been either captured or were so strictly blockaded that it was next to impossible for the blockade-runner to get in or out, while the capture of the forts on the Mississippi enabled them to use the Federal flotillas of gunboats to the greatest advantage, and to carry their armies into the center of the Confederacy.

Still, there was no talk whatever of surrender on the part of the South, and, indeed, the decree abolishing slavery, and still more the action of the North in raising black regiments, excited the bitterest feeling of animosity and hatred. The determination to fight to the last, whatever came of it, animated every white man in the Southern States, and, although deeply disappointed with the failure of Lee's invasion of the North, the only result was to incite them to greater exertions and sacrifices. In the North an act authorizing conscription was passed in 1863, but the attempt to carry it into force caused a serious riot in New York, which was only suppressed after many lives had been lost and the city placed under martial law.

While the guns of Gettysburg were still thundering, a Federal army of 18,000 men under General Gillmore, assisted by the fleet, had laid siege to Charleston. It was obstinately attacked and defended. The siege continued until the 5th of September, when Fort Wagner was captured; but all attempts to take Fort Sumter and the town of Charleston itself failed, although the city suffered greatly from the bombardment. In Tennessee there was severe fighting in the autumn, and two desperate battles were fought at Chickamauga on the 19th and 20th of September, General Bragg, who commanded the Confederate army there, being reinforced by Longstreet's veterans from the army of Virginia. After desperate fighting the Federals were defeated, and thirty-six guns and vast quantities of arms captured by the Confederates. The fruits of the victory, however, were very slight, as General Bragg refused to allow Longstreet to pursue, and so to convert the Federal retreat into a rout, and the consequence was that this victory was more than balanced by a heavy defeat inflicted upon them in November at Chattanooga by Sherman and Grant. At this battle General Longstreet's division was not present.

The army of Virginia had a long rest after their return from Gettysburg, and it was not until November that the campaign was renewed. Meade advanced, a few minor skirmishes took place, and then, when he reached the Wilderness, the scene of Hooker's defeat, where Lee was prepared to give battle, he fell back again across the Rappahannock.

The year had been an unfortunate one for the Confederates. They had lost Vicksburg, and the defeat at Chattanooga had led to the whole State of Tennessee falling into the hands of the Federals, while against these losses there was no counterbalancing success to be reckoned.

In the spring of 1864 both parties prepared to the utmost for the struggle. General Grant, an officer who had shown in the campaign in the West that he possessed considerable military ability, united with immense firmness and determination of purpose, was chosen as the new commander-in-chief of the whole military force of the North. It was a mighty army, vast in numbers, lavishly provided with all materials of war. The official documents show that on the 1st of May the total military forces of the North amounted to 662,000 men. Of these the force available for the advance against Richmond numbered 284,630 men. This included the army of the Potomac, that of the James River, and the army in the Shenandoah Valley—the whole of whom were in readiness to move forward against Richmond at the orders of Grant.

To oppose these General Lee had less than 53,000 men, including the garrison of Richmond and the troops in North Carolina. Those stationed in the seaport towns numbered in all another 20,000, so that if every available soldier had been brought up Lee could have opposed a total of but 83,000 men against the 284,000 invaders.

In the West the numbers were more equally balanced. General Sherman, who commanded the army of invasion there, had under his orders 230,000 men, but as more than half this force was required to protect the long lines of communication and to keep down the conquered States, he was able to bring into the field for offensive operations 99,000 men, who were faced by the Confederate army under Johnston of 58,000 men. Grant's scheme was, that while the armies of the North were, under his own command, to march against Richmond, the army of the West was to invade Georgia and march upon Atlanta.

His plan of action was simple, and was afterward stated by himself to be as follows: "I determined first to use the greatest number of troops practicable against the main force of the enemy, preventing him from using the same force at different seasons against first one and then another of our armies, and the possibility of repose for refitting and producing necessary supplies for carrying on resistance. Second, to hammer continuously against the armed force of the enemy and his resources until, by mere attrition if in no other way, there should be nothing left to him but submission."

This was a terrible programme, and involved an expenditure of life far beyond anything that had taken place. Grant's plan, in fact, was to fight and to keep on fighting, regardless of his own losses, until at last the Confederate army, whose losses could not be replaced, melted away. It was a strategy that few generals have dared to practice, fewer still to acknowledge.

On the 4th of May the great army of the Potomac crossed the Rapidan and advanced toward Chancellorsville. Lee moved two divisions of his army to oppose them. Next morning the battle began at daybreak on the old ground where Lee had defeated Hooker the year before. All day long the division of Ewell supported the attack of the army corps of Sedgwick and Hancock. Along a front of six miles, in the midst of the thick forest, the battle raged the whole of the day. The Confederates, in spite of the utmost efforts of the Northerners, although reinforced in the afternoon by the army corps of General Burnside, held their position, and when night put an end to the conflict the invaders had not gained a foot of ground.

As soon as the first gleam of light appeared in the morning the battle recommenced. The Federal generals, Sedgwick, Warren, and Hancock, with Burnside in reserve, fell upon Hill and Ewell. Both sides had thrown up earthworks and felled trees as a protection during the night. At first the Confederates gained the advantage; but a portion of Burnside's corps was brought up and restored the battle, while on the left flank of the Federals Hancock had attacked with such vigor that the Confederates opposed to him were driven back.

At the crisis of the battle, Longstreet, who had marched all night, appeared upon the ground, drove back Hancock's men, and was on the point of aiding the Confederates in a decisive attack upon the enemy, when, riding rapidly forward into the wood to reconnoiter, he was, like Jackson, struck down by the fire of his own men. He was carried to the rear desperately, and it was feared for a time mortally wounded, and his loss paralyzed the movement which he had prepared. Nevertheless during the whole day the fight went on with varying success, sometimes one side obtaining a slight advantage, the other then regaining the ground they had lost.

Just as evening was closing in a Georgia brigade, with two other regiments, made a detour, and fell furiously upon two brigades of the enemy, and drove them back in headlong rout for a mile and a half, capturing their two generals and many prisoners. The artillery, as on the previous day, had been little used on either side, the work being done at short range with the rifle, the loss being much heavier among the thick masses of the Northerners than in the thinner lines of the Confederates. Grant had failed in his efforts to turn Lee's right and to accomplish his direct advance; he therefore changed his base and moved his army round toward Spotsylvania.

Lee soon perceived his object, and succeeded in carrying his army to Spotsylvania before the Federals reached it.

On the afternoon of Monday, the 9th, there was heavy fighting and on the 10th another pitched battle took place. This time the ground was more open, and the artillery was employed with terrible effect on both sides. It ended, however, as the previous battles had done, by the Confederates holding their ground.

Upon the next day there was but little fighting. In the night the Federals moved quietly through the wood, and at daybreak four divisions fell upon Johnston's division of Ewell's corps, took them completely by surprise, and captured the greater part of them.

But Lee's veterans soon recovered from their surprise and maintained their position until noon. Then the whole Federal army advanced, and the battle raged till nightfall terminated the struggle, leaving Lee in possession of the whole line he had held, with the exception of the ground lost in the morning.

For the next six days the armies faced each other, worn out by incessant fighting, and prevented from moving by the heavy rain which fell incessantly. They were now able to reckon up the losses. The Federals found that they had lost, in killed, wounded, or missing, nearly 30,000 men; while Lee's army was diminished by about 12,000.

While these mighty battles had been raging the Federal cavalry under Sheridan had advanced rapidly forward, and, after several skirmishes with Stuart's cavalry, penetrated within the outer intrenchments round Richmond. Here Stuart with two regiments of cavalry charged them and drove them back, but the gallant Confederate officer received a wound that before night proved fatal. His loss was a terrible blow to the Confederacy, although his successor in the command of the cavalry, General Wade Hampton, was also an officer of the highest merit.

In the meantime General Butler, who had at Fort Monroe under his command two corps of infantry, 4,000 cavalry, and a fleet of gunboats and transports, was threatening Richmond from the east. Shipping his men on board the transports he steamed up the James River, under convoy of the fleet, and landed on a neck of land known as Bermuda Hundred. To oppose him all the troops from North Carolina had been brought up, the whole force amounting to 19,000 men, under the command of General Beauregard. Butler, after various futile movements, was driven back again to his intrenched camp at Bermuda Hundred, where he was virtually besieged by Beauregard with 10,000 men, the rest of that general's force being sent up to reinforce Lee.

In western Virginia, Breckenridge, with 3,500 men, was called upon to hold in check Sigel, with 15,000 men. Advancing to Staunton, Breckenridge was joined by the pupils of the military college at Lexington, 250 in number, lads of from 14 to 17 years of age. He came upon Sigel on the line of march, and attacked him at once. The Federal general placed a battery in a wood and opened fire with grape. The commander of the Lexington boys ordered them to charge, and, gallantly rushing in through the heavy fire, they charged in among the guns, killed the artillerymen, drove back the infantry supports, and bayoneted their colonel. The Federals now retired down the valley to Strasburg, and Breckenridge was able to send a portion of his force to aid Lee in his great struggle.

After his six days' pause in front of Lee's position at Spotsylvania, Grant abandoned his plan of forcing his way through Lee's army to Richmond, and endeavored to outflank it; but Lee again divined his object, and moved round and still faced him. After various movements the armies again stood face to face upon the old battle-grounds on the Chickahominy. On the 3d of June the battle commenced at half-past four in the morning. Hancock at first gained an advantage, but Hill's division dashed down upon him and drove him back with great slaughter; while no advantage was gained by them in other parts of the field. The Federal loss on this day was 13,000, and the troops were so dispirited that they refused to renew the battle in the afternoon.

Grant then determined to alter his plan altogether, and sending imperative orders to Butler to obtain possession of Petersburg, embarked Smith's corps in transports, and moved with the rest of his army to join that general there. Smith's corps entered the James River, landed, and marched against Petersburg. Beauregard had at Petersburg only two infantry and two cavalry regiments under General Wise, while a single brigade fronted Butler at Bermuda Hundred. With this handful of men he was called upon to defend Petersburg and to keep Butler bottled up in Bermuda Hundred until help could reach him from Lee. He telegraphed to Richmond for all the assistance that could be sent to him, and was reinforced by a brigade, which arrived just in time, for Smith had already captured a portion of the intrenchments, but was now driven out.

The next day Beauregard was attacked both by Smith's and Hancock's corps, which had now arrived. With 8,000 men he kept at bay the assaults of two whole army corps, having in the meantime sent orders to Gracie, the officer in command of the brigade before Butler, to leave a few sentries there to deceive that general, and to march with the rest of his force to his aid. It arrived at a critical moment. Overwhelmed by vastly superior numbers, many of the Confederates had left their posts, and Breckenridge was in vain trying to rally them when Gracie's brigade came up. The position was reoccupied and the battle continued.

At noon Burnside with his corps arrived and joined the assailants; while Butler, discovering at last that the troops in front of him were withdrawn, moved out and barred the road against reinforcements from Richmond. Nevertheless the Confederates held their ground all the afternoon and until eleven o'clock at night, when the assault ceased.

At midnight Beauregard withdrew his troops from the defenses that they were too few to hold, and set them to work to throw up fresh intrenchments on a shorter line behind. All night the men worked with their bayonets, canteens, and any tools that came to hand.

It was well for them that the enemy were so exhausted that it was noon before they were ready to advance again, for by this time help was at hand. Anderson, who had succeeded to the command of Longstreet's corps, and was leading the van of Lee's army, forced his way through Butler's troops and drove him back into the Bermuda Hundred, and leaving one brigade to watch him marched with another into Petersburg just as the attack was recommenced. Thus reinforced Beauregard successfully defeated all the assaults of the enemy until night fell. Another Federal army corps came up before morning, and the assault was again renewed, but the defenders, who had strengthened their defenses during the night, drove their assailants back with terrible loss. The whole of Lee's army now arrived, and the rest of Grant's army also came up, and that general found that after all his movements his way to Richmond was barred as before. He was indeed in a far worse position than when he had crossed the Rapidan, for the morale of his army was much injured by the repeated repulses and terrible losses it had sustained. The new recruits that had been sent to fill up the gaps were far inferior troops to those with which he had commenced the campaign. To send forward such men against the fortifications of Petersburg manned by Lee's veteran troops was to court defeat, and he therefore began to throw up works for a regular siege.

Fighting went on incessantly between the outposts, but only one great attempt was made during the early months of the siege to capture the Confederate position. The miners drove a gallery under the works, and then drove other galleries right and left under them. These were charged with eight thousand pounds of powder. When all was ready, masses of troops were brought up to take advantage of the confusion which would be caused by the explosion, and a division of black troops were to lead the assault. At a quarter to five in the morning of the 30th of July the great mine was exploded, blowing two guns, a battery, and its defenders into the air, and forming a huge pit two hundred feet long and sixty feet wide. Lee and Beauregard hurried to the scene, checked the panic that prevailed, brought up troops, and before the great Federal columns approached the breach the Confederates were ready to receive them. The assault was made with little vigor, the approaches to the breach were obstructed by abattis, and instead of rushing forward in a solid mass they occupied the great pit, and contented themselves with firing over the edge of the crater, where regiments and divisions were huddled together. But the Confederate batteries were now manned, and from the works on either side of the breach, and from behind, they swept the approaches, and threw shell among the crowded mass. The black division was now brought up, and entered the crater, but only added to the confusion. There was no officer of sufficient authority among the crowded mass there to assume the supreme command. No assistance could be sent to them, for the arrival of fresh troops would but have added to the confusion. All day the conflict went on, the Federals lining the edge of the crater, and exchanging a heavy musketry fire with the Confederate infantry, while the mass below suffered terribly from the artillery fire. When night closed the survivors of the great column that had marched forward in the morning, confident that victory was assured to them, and that the explosion would lay Petersburg open to capture, made their retreat, the Confederates, however, taking a considerable number of prisoners. The Federal loss in killed, wounded and captured was admitted by them to be 4,000; the Confederate accounts put it down at 6,000.

After this terrible repulse it was a long time before Grant again renewed active operations, but during the months that ensued his troops suffered very heavily from the effects of fever, heightened by the discouragement they felt at their want of success, and at the tremendous losses they had suffered since they entered Virginia on their forward march to Richmond.

CHAPTER XVIII. A PERILOUS UNDERTAKING.

Vincent Wingfield had had an arduous time of it with his squadron of cavalry. He had taken part in the desperate charge that checked the advance of Sheridan's great column of cavalry which approached within three miles of Richmond, the charge that had cost the gallant Stuart his life; and the death of his beloved general had been a heavy blow for him. Jackson and Stuart, two of the bravest and noblest spirits of the Confederate army, were gone. Both had been personally dear to Vincent, and he felt how grievous was their loss to the cause for which he was fighting; but he had little time for grief. The enemy, after the tremendous battles of the Wilderness, swung their army round to Cold Harbor, and Vincent's squadron was called up to aid Lee in his struggle there. Then they were engaged night and day in harassing the enemy as they marched down to take up their new base at Petersburg, and finally received orders to ride round at full speed to aid in the defense of that place.

They had arrived in the middle of the second day's fighting, and dismounting his men Vincent had aided the hard-pressed Confederates in holding their lines till Longstreet's division arrived to their assistance. A short time before the terrible disaster that befell the Federals in the mine they exploded under the Confederate works, he was with General Wade Hampton, who had succeeded General Stuart in the command of the cavalry, when General Lee rode up.

"They are erecting siege works in earnest," General Lee said. "I do not think that we shall have any more attacks for the present. I wish I knew exactly where they are intending to place their heavy batteries. If I did we should know where to strengthen our defenses, and plant our counter batteries. It is very important to find this out; but now that their whole army has settled down in front of us, and Sheridan's cavalry are scouring the woods, we shall get no news, for the farmers will no longer be able to get through to tell us what is going on.

"I will try and ride round, if you like, general," Vincent said. "By making a long detour one could get into the rear of their lines and pass as a farmer going into camp to sell his goods."

"It would be a very dangerous service, sir," General Lee said.

"You know what the consequence would be if you were caught?"

"I know the consequence," Vincent said; "but I do not think, sir, that the risk is greater than one runs every time one goes into battle."

"Perhaps not," General Lee replied; "but in one case one dies fighting for one's country by an honorable death, in the other—" and he stopped.

"In the other one is shot in cold blood," Vincent said quietly. "One dies for one's country in either case, sir; and it does not much matter, so far as I can see, whether one is killed in battle or shot in cold blood. As long as one is doing one's duty, one death is surely as honorable as the other."

"That is true enough," General Lee said, "although it is not the way men generally view the matter. Still, sir, if you volunteer for the work, I do not feel justified in refusing the opportunity of acquiring information that may be of vital consequence to us. When will you start?"

"In half an hour, sir. I shall ride back to Richmond, obtain a disguise there, and then go round by train to Burksville Junction and then ride again until I get round behind their lines. Will you give me an order for my horse and myself to be taken?"

"Very well, sir," General Lee said. "So be it. May God be with you on your way and bring you safely back."

Vincent rode off to his quarters.

"Dan," he said, "I am going away on special duty for at least three days. I have got a couple of letters to write, and shall be ready to start in half an hour. Give the horse a good feed and have him at the door again by that time."

"Am I to go with you, sah?"

"No, Dan; I must go by myself this time."

Dan felt anxious as he went out, for it was seldom that his master ever went away without telling him where he was going, and he felt sure that the service was one of unusual danger; nor was his anxiety lessened when at the appointed time Vincent came out and handed him two letters.

"You are to keep these letters, Dan, until I return, or till you hear that something has happened to me. If you hear that, you are to take one of these letters to my mother, and take the other yourself to Miss Kingston. Tell her before you give it her what has happened as gently as you can. As for yourself, Dan, you had your letters of freedom long ago, and I have left you five hundred dollars; so that you can get a cabin and patch of your own, and settle down when these troubles are over."

"Let me go with you, master," Dan said, with the tears streaming down his cheeks. "I would rather be killed with you a hundred times than get on without you."

"I would take you if I could, Dan; but this is a service that I must do alone. Good-by, my boy; let us hope that in three or four days at the outside I shall be back here again safe and sound."

He wrung Dan's hand, and then started at a canter and kept on at that pace until he reached Richmond. A train with stores was starting for the south in a few minutes; General Lee's order enabled Vincent to have a horse-box attached at once, and he was soon speeding on his way. He alighted at Burksville Junction, and there purchased some rough clothes for himself and some country-fashioned saddlery for his horse. Then, after changing his clothes at an inn and putting the fresh saddlery on his horse, he started.

It was getting late in the afternoon, but he rode on by unfrequented roads, stopping occasionally to inquire if any of the Federal cavalry had been seen in the neighborhood, and at last stopped for the night at a little village inn. As soon as it was daybreak he resumed his journey. He had purchased at Burksville some colored calico and articles of female clothing, and fastened the parcel to the back of his saddle. As he rode forward now he heard constant tales of the passing of parties of the enemy's cavalry, but he was fortunate enough to get well round to the rear of the Federal lines before he encountered any of them. Then he came suddenly upon a troop.

"Where are you going to, and where have you come from?"

"Our farm is a mile away from Union Grove," he said, "and I have been over to Sussex Courthouse to buy some things for my mother."

"Let me see what you have got there," the officer said. "You are rebels to a man here, and there's no trusting any of you."

Vincent unfastened the parcel and opened it. The officer laughed.

"Well, we won't confiscate them as contraband of war."

So saying he set spurs to his horse and galloped on with his troop. Vincent rode on to Union Grove, and then taking a road at random kept on till he reached a small farmhouse. He knocked at the door, and a woman came out.

"Mother," he said, "can you put me up for a couple of days? I am a stranger here, and all the villages are full of soldiers."

The woman looked at him doubtfully.

"What are you doing here?" she asked at last. "This ain't a time for strangers; besides a young fellow like you ought to be ashamed to show yourself when you ought to be over there with Lee. My boys are both there and my husband. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, a strong-looking young fellow like you, to be riding about instead of fighting the Yankees. Go along! you will get no shelter here. I would scorn to have such as you inside my doors."

"Perhaps I have been fighting there," Vincent said significantly. "But one can't be always fighting, and there are other things to do sometimes. For instance, to find out what the Yankees are doing and what are their plans."

"Is that so?" the woman asked doubtfully.

"That is so," he answered earnestly. "I am an officer in Wade

Hampton's cavalry, and, now Sheridan's troopers have cut off all

communication, I have come out to find for General Lee where the

Yankees are building their batteries before Petersburg."

"In that case you are welcome," the woman said. "Come straight in. I will lead your horse out and fasten him up in the bush, and give him a feed there. It will never do to put him in the stable; the Yankees come in and out and they'd take him off sharp enough if their eyes fell on him. I think you will be safe enough even if they do come. They will take you for a son of mine, and if they ask any questions I will answer them sharp enough."

"I wonder they have left you a feed of corn," Vincent said, when the woman returned after taking away his horse.

"It's no thanks to them," she answered; "they have cleared out everything that they could lay their hands on. But I have been expecting it for months, and, as I have had nothing to do since my man and boys went away, I have been digging a great pit in the wood over there, and have buried most all my corn, and have salted my pigs down and buried them in barrels; so they didn't find much. They took the old horse and two cows; but I hope the old horse will fall down the first time they uses him, and the cow meat will choke them as eats it. Now, is there anything as I can do to help you?"

"I want a basket with some eggs and chickens or vegetables to take into their camp to sell, but I am afraid I have not much chance of getting them."

"I can help you there too," the woman said. "I turned all my chickens into the wood the day I heard the Yankees had landed. They have got rather wild like; but I go out and give them some corn every evening. I expect if we look about we shall find some nests; indeed I know there are one or two of them sitting. So if you will come out with me we can soon knock down five or six of the creatures, and maybe get a score or two of eggs. As for vegetables, a horde of locusts couldn't have stripped the country cleaner than they have done."

They went out into the wood. Six hens were soon killed, and hunting about they discovered several nests and gathered about three dozen eggs. Vincent aided in plucking the chickens and they then returned to the house.

"You had best take a bite before you go," she said. "It's noon now, and you said you started at daybreak. Always get a meal when you can, say I."

She produced a loaf and some bacon from a little cupboard hidden by her bed, and Vincent, who, now he thought of it, was feeling hungry, made a hearty meal.

"I will pay you for these chickens and eggs at once," he said.

"There is no saying whether I shall come back again."

"I will not say no to your paying for the chickens and eggs," she said, "because money is scarce enough, and I may have long to wait before my man and the boys come back; but as to lodging and food I would not touch a cent. You are welcome to all I have when it's for the good cause." Vincent started with the basket on his arm, and after walking three miles came upon the Federal camps.

Some of the regiments were already under canvas, others were still bivouacked in the open air, as the store-ships carrying the heavy baggage had not yet arrived. The generals and their staffs had taken up their quarters in the villages. Vincent had received accurate instructions from his hostess as to the position of the various villages, and avoided them carefully, for he did not want to sell out his stock immediately. He had indeed stowed two of the fowls away in his pocket so that in case any one insisted upon buying up all his stock he could place these in his basket and still push on.

He avoided the camps as much as he could. He could see the smoke rising in front of him, and the roar of guns was now close at hand. He saw on his right an elevated piece of ground, from which a good view could be obtained of the fortifications upon which the Federals were working. A camp had been pitched there, and a large tent near the summit showed that some officer of superior rank had his quarters there. He made a detour so as to come up at the back of the hill and when he reached the top he stood looking down upon the line of works.

They were nearly half a mile distant. The intervening ground had already been stripped of its hedges, and the trees cut down to form gabions, fascines, and platforms for the cannon. Thousands of men were at work; but in some parts they were clustered much more thickly than in others, and Vincent had no difficulty in determining where the principal batteries were in course of construction along this portion of the position. He was still gazing intently when two horsemen rode up from behind.

"Hallo you, sir! What are you looking at?" one of them asked sharply. "What are you spying about here?"

Vincent turned slowly round with a silly smile on his lips.

"I am spying all them chaps at work," he said. "It reminds me for all the world of an ant-hill. Never did see so many chaps before. What be they a-doing? Digging a big drain or making a roadway, I guess."

"Who are you, sir?" the officer asked angrily.

"Seth Jones I be, and mother's sent me to sell some fowls and eggs.

Do you want to buy any? Fine birds they be."

"Why, Sheridan," laughed the other officer, "this is a feather out of your cap. I thought your fellows had cleared out every hen-roost within twenty miles of Petersburg already."

"I fancy they have emptied most of them," the general said grimly.

"Where do you come from, lad?"

"I comes from over there," Vincent said, jerking his thumb back. "I lives there with mother. Father and the other boys they have gone fighting Yanks; but they wouldn't take me with them 'cause I ain't sharp in my wits, though I tells them I could shoot a Yank as well as they could if they showed me."

"And who do you suppose all those men are?" General Sheridan asked, pointing toward the trenches.

"I dunno," Vincent replied. "I guess they be niggers. There be too many of them for whites; besides whites ain't such fools to work like that. Doesn't ye want any fowl?" and he drew back the cloth and showed the contents of the basket.

"Take them as a matter of curiosity, general," the other officer laughed. "It will be downright novelty to you to buy chickens."

"What do you want for them, boy?"

"Mother said as I wasn't to take less nor a dollar apiece."

"Greenbacks, I suppose?" the officer asked.

"I suppose so. She didn't say nothing about it; but I has not seen aught but greenbacks for a long time since."

"Come along, then," the officer said; "we will take them."

They rode up to the large tent, and the officers alighted, and gave their horses to two of the soldiers.

"Give your basket to this soldier."

"I want the basket back again. Mother would whop me if I came back without the basket again."

"All right," the officer said; "you shall have it back in a minute."

Vincent stood looking anxiously after the orderly.

"Do you think that boy is as foolish as he seems?" General Sheridan asked his companion. "He admits that he comes of a rebel family."

"I don't think he would have admitted that if he hadn't been a fool. I fancy he is a half-witted chap. They never would have left a fellow of his age behind."

"No, I think it's safe," Sheridan said; "but one can't be too particular just at present. See, the trees in front hide our work altogether from the rebels, and it would be a serious thing if they were to find out what we are doing."

"That boy could not tell them much even if he got there," the other said; "and from this distance it would need a sharp eye and some military knowledge to make out anything of what is going on. Where does your mother live, boy?"

"I ain't going to tell you," Vincent said doggedly "Mother said I wasn't to tell no one where I lived, else the Yankee thieves would be a-coming down and stealing the rest of our chickens."

The officers laughed.

"Well, go along, boy; and I should advise you not to say anything about Yankee thieves another time, for likely enough you will get a broken head for your pains."

Vincent went off grumbling, and with a slow and stumbling step made his way over the brow of the hill and down through the camps behind. Here he sold his last two fowls and his eggs, and then walked briskly on until he reached the cottage from which he had started.

"I am glad to see you back," the woman said as he entered. "How have you got on?"

"Capitally," he said. "I pretended to be half an idiot, and so got safely out, though I fell into Sheridan's hands. He suspected me at first, but at last he thought I was what I looked—a fool. He wanted to know where you lived, but I wouldn't tell him. I told him you told me not to tell any one, 'cause if I did the Yankee thieves would be clearing out the rest of the chickens."

"Did you tell him that, now?" the woman said in delight; "he must have thought you was a fool. Well, it's a good thing the Yanks should hear the truth sometimes. Well, have you done now?"

"No, I have only seen one side of their works yet; I must try round the other flank to-morrow. I wish I could get something to sell that wouldn't get bought up by the first people I came to, something I could peddle among the soldiers."

"What sort of thing?"

"Something in the way of drinks, I should say," Vincent said. "I saw a woman going among the camps. She had two tin cans and a little mug. I think she had lemonade or something of that sort."

"It wouldn't be lemonade," the woman said "I haven't seen a lemon for the last two years; but they do get some oranges from Florida. Maybe it was that, or perhaps it was spirits and water."

"Perhaps it was," Vincent agreed; "though I don't think they would let any one sell spirits in the camp."

"I can't get you any lemons or oranges neither," the woman said; "but I might make you a drink out of molasses and herbs, with some spirits in it. I have got a keg of old rye buried away ever since my man went off, six months ago; I am out of molasses, but I dare say I can borrow some from a neighbor, and as for herbs they are about the only thing the Yankees haven't stole. I think I could fix you up something that would do. As long as it has got spirits in it, it don't much matter what you put in besides, only it wouldn't do to take spirits up alone. You can call it plantation drink, and I don't suppose any one would ask too closely what it's made of."

"Thank you, that will do capitally."

The next morning Vincent again set out, turning his steps this time toward the right flank of the Federal position. He had in the course of the evening made a sketch of the ground he had seen, marking in all the principal batteries, with notes as to the number of guns for which they seemed to be intended.

"Look here," he said to the woman before leaving. "I may not be as lucky to-day as I was yesterday. If I do not come back to-night, can you find any one you can trust to take this piece of paper round to Richmond? Of course he would have to make his way first up to Burksville junction, and then take train to Richmond. When he gets there he must go down to Petersburg, and ask for General Lee. I have written a line to go with it, saying what I have done this for, and asking the general to give the bearer a hundred dollars."

"I will take it myself," the woman said; "not for the sake of the hundred dollars, though I ain't saying as it wouldn't please the old man when he comes back to find I had a hundred dollars stored away; but for the cause. My men are all doing their duty, and I will do mine. So trust me, and if you don't come back by daybreak to-morrow morning, I will start right away with these letters. I will go out at once and hide them somewhere in case the Yanks should come and make a search. If you are caught they might, like enough, trace you here, and then they would search the place all over and maybe set it alight. If you ain't here by nightfall I shall sleep out in the wood, so if they come they won't find me here. If anything detains you, and you ain't back till after dark, you will find me somewhere near the tree where your horse is tied up."

Provided with a large can full of a liquor that the woman compounded, and which Vincent, on tasting, found to be by no means bad, he started from the cottage. Again he made his way safely through the camps, and without hindrance lounged up to a spot where a large number of men belonging to one of the negro regiments were at work.

"Plantation liquor?" he said, again assuming a stupid air, to a black sergeant who was with them. "First-rate stuff; and only fifteen cents a glass."

"What plantation liquor like?" the negro asked. "Me not know him."

"First-rate stuff," Vincent repeated. "Mother makes it of spirit and molasses and all sorts. Fifteen cents a glass."

"Well, I will take a glass," the sergeant said. "Mighty hot work dis in de sun; but don't you say nuffin about the spirit. Ef dey ask you, just you say molasses and all sorts, dat's quite enough. De white officer won't let spirits be sold in de camp.

"Dat bery good stuff," he said, smacking his lips as he handed back the little tin measure. "You sell him all in no time." Several of the negroes now came round, and Vincent disposed of a considerable quantity of his plantation liquor. Then he turned to go away, for he did not want to empty his can at one place. He had not gone many paces when a party of three or four officers came along.

"Hallo, you sir, what the deuce are you doing here?" one asked angrily. "Don't you know nobody is allowed to pass through the lines?"

"I didn't see no lines. What sort of lines are they? No one told me nothing about lines. My mother sent me out to sell plantation liquor, fifteen cents a glass."

"What's it like?" one of the officers said laughing. "Spirits, I will bet a dollar, in some shape or other. Pour me out a glass. I will try it, anyhow."

Vincent filled the little tin mug, and handed it to the officer. As he lifted his face to do so there was a sudden exclamation.

"Vincent Wingfield!" and another officer drawing his sword attacked him furiously, shouting, "A spy! Seize him! A Confederate spy!"

Vincent recognized with astonishment in the Federal officer rushing at him with uplifted sword his old antagonist, Jackson. Almost instinctively he whirled the can, which was still half full of liquor, round his head and dashed it full in the face of his antagonist, who was knocked off his feet by the blow. With a yell of rage he started up again and rushed at Vincent. The latter snatched up a shovel that was lying close by and stood his ground. The officers were so surprised at the suddenness of the incident and the overthrow of their companion, and for the moment so amused at the latter's appearance, covered as he was from head to foot with the sticky liquor and bleeding from a cut inflicted by the edge of the can, that they were incapable of interference.

Blinded with rage, and with the liquid streaming into his eyes, Jackson rushed at Vincent. The latter caught the blow aimed at him on the edge of the shovel, and then swinging his weapon round smote his antagonist with all his strength, the edge of the shovel falling fairly upon his head. Without a cry the traitor fell dead in his tracks. The other officers now drew their swords and rushed forward. Vincent, seeing the futility of resistance, threw down his shovel. He was instantly seized.

"Halloo there!" the senior officer called to the men, who had stopped in their work and were gazing at the sudden fray that had arisen, "a sergeant and four men." Four of the negro soldiers and a sergeant at once stepped forward. "Take this man and conduct him to the village. Put him in a room, and stay there with him. Do you, sergeant, station yourself at the door, so that I shall know where to find you. Put on your uniforms and take your guns." The men put on their coats, which they had removed while at work, shouldered their muskets, and took their places, two on each side of the prisoner. The officers then turned to examine their prostrate comrade.

"It's all over with him," one said, stooping down; "the shovel has cut his skull nearly in half. Well, I fancy he was a bad lot. I don't believe in Southerners who come over to fight in our ranks; besides he was at one time in the rebel army."

"Yes, he was taken prisoner," another said. "Then his father, who had to bolt from the South, because, he said, of his Northern sympathies, but likely enough for something else, came round, made interest somehow and got his son released, and then some one else got him a commission with us. He always said he had been obliged to fight on the other side, but that he had always been heart and soul for the North; anyhow, he was always blackguarding his old friends. I always doubted the fellow. Well, there's an end of him; and anyhow he has done useful service at last by recognizing this spy. Fine-looking young fellow that. He called him Vincent Wingfield. I seem to remember the name; perhaps I have read it in some of the rebel newspapers we got hold of; likely enough some one will know it. Well, I suppose we had better have Jackson carried into camp."

Four more of the negroes were called out, and these carried the body into the camp of his regiment. An officer was also sent from the working party to report the capture of a spy to his colonel.

"I will report it to the general," the latter said; "he rode along here about a quarter of an hour ago, and may not be back again for some hours. As we have got the spy fast it cannot make any difference."

As he was marched back to the village Vincent felt that there was no hope for him whatever. He had been denounced as a spy, and although the lips that had denounced him had been silenced forever, the mischief had been done. He could give no satisfactory account of himself. He thought for a moment of declaring that a mistake had been made, but he felt that no denial would counterbalance the effect of Jackson's words. The fury, too, with which the latter had attacked him would show plainly enough that his assailant was absolutely certain as to his identity, and even that there had been a personal feud between them. Then he thought that if he said that he was the son of the woman in the line she would hear him out in the assertion. But it was not likely that this would be accepted as against Jackson's testimony; besides, inquiry among her neighbors would certainly lead to the discovery that she was speaking an untruth, and might even involve her in his fate as his abettor. But most of all he decided against this course because it would involve the telling of a lie.

Vincent considered that while in disguise, and doing important service for his country, he was justified in using deceit; but merely for the purpose of saving his own life, and that perhaps uselessly, he would not lie. His fate, of course, was certain. He was a spy, and would be shot for it. Vincent had so often been in the battlefield, so often under a fire from which it seemed that no one could come alive, that the thought that death was at hand had not for him the terrors that possess those differently circumstanced. He was going to die for the Confederacy as tens of thousands of brave men had died before, and he rejoiced over the precaution he had taken as to the transmission of his discoveries on the previous day, and felt sure that General Lee would do full justice to his memory, and announce that he had died in doing noble service to the country.

He sighed as he thought of his mother and sisters; but Rose had

been married in the spring, and Annie was engaged to an officer in

General Beauregard's staff. Then he thought of Lucy away in

Georgia and for the first time his lip quivered and his cheek paled.

The negro guards, who had been enlisted but a few weeks, were wholly ignorant of their duties, and having once conveyed their prisoner into the room, evidently considered that all further necessity for military strictness was at an end. They had been ordered to stay in the room with the prisoner, but no instructions had been given as to their conduct there. They accordingly placed their muskets in one corner of the room, and proceeded to chatter and laugh without further regarding him.

Under other circumstances this carelessness would have inspired Vincent with the thought of escape, but he knew that it was out of the question here. There were Federal camps all round and a shout from the negroes would send a hundred men in instant pursuit of him. There was nothing for him to do but to wait for the end, and that end would assuredly come in the morning. From time to time the door opened, and the negro sergeant looked in. Apparently his ideas on the subject of discipline were no stricter than those of his men, for he made no remark as to their carelessness. Presently, when he looked in, the four soldiers were standing at the window watching a regiment passing by on its way to take its share of the work in the trenches. Vincent, who was sitting at a table, happened to look up, and was astonished at seeing the sergeant first put his finger on his lips, then take off his cap, put one hand on his heart, and gesticulate with the other.

Vincent gazed at him in blank surprise, then he started and almost sprang to his feet, for in the Yankee sergeant he recognized Tony Morris; but the uplifted hand of the negro warned him of the necessity of silence. The negro nodded several times, again put his hand on his heart, and then disappeared. A thrill of hope stirred every vein in Vincent's body. He felt his cheeks flush and had difficulty in maintaining his passive attitude. He was not, then, utterly deserted; he had a friend who would, he was sure, do all in his power to aid him.

It was extraordinary indeed that it should be Tony who was now his jailer; and yet, when he thought it over, it was not difficult to understand. It was natural enough that he should have enlisted when the black regiments were raised. He had doubtless heard his name shouted out by Jackson, and had, as Vincent now remembered, stepped forward as a sort of volunteer when the officer called for a sergeant and four men.

Yes, Tony would doubtless do all in his power to save him. Whether it would be possible that he could do so was doubtful; but at least there was a hope, and with it the feeling of quiet resignation with which Vincent had faced what appeared to be inevitable at once disappeared, and was succeeded by a restless longing for action. His brain was busy at once in calculating the chances of his being ordered for instant execution or of the sentence being postponed till the following morning, and, in the latter case, with the question of what guard would be probably placed over him, and how Tony would set about the attempt to aid him to escape.

Had the general been in camp when he was brought in he would probably have been shot at sunset, but if he did not return until the afternoon he would most likely order the sentence to be carried out at daybreak. In any case, as he was an officer, some time might be granted to him to prepare for death. Then there was the question whether he would be handed over to a white regiment for safekeeping or left in the hands of the black regiment that had captured him. No doubt after the sentence was passed the white officers of that regiment would see that a much stricter watch than that now put over him was set.

It was not probable that he would still be in charge of Tony, for as the latter would be on duty all day he would doubtless be relieved. In that case how would he manage to approach him, and what means would he use to direct the attention of the sentries in another direction? He thought over the plans that he himself would adopt were he in Tony's place. The first thing would be, of course, to make the sentries drunk if possible. This should not be a difficult task with men whose notions of discipline were so lax as those of the negroes; but it would be no easy matter for Tony to obtain spirits, for these were strictly prohibited in the Federal camp. Perhaps he might help Tony in this way. He fortunately had a small notebook with a pencil in his pocket, and as his guards were still at the window he wrote as follows:

"I am captured by the Yankees. So far as I can see, my only chance of escape is to make the sentries drunk. The bearer is absolutely to be trusted. Give him his canteen full of spirits, and tell him what I have written here."

He tore this page out, folded it up, and directed it to Mrs. Grossmith, Worley Farm, near Union. Presently Tony looked in again and Vincent held up the note. The sergeant stepped quickly forward and took it, and then said sharply to the men:

"Now den, dis not keeping guard. Suppose door open and dis fellow run away. What dey say to you? Two of you keep your eye on dis man. Suppose Captain Pearce come in and find you all staring out window. He kick up nice bobbery."

Thus admonished as to their duty, two of the negroes took up their muskets and stood with their backs to the door, with their eyes fixed on the prisoner with such earnestness that Vincent could not suppress a smile. The negroes grinned responsively.

"Dis bad affair, young sah," one said; "bery bad affair. Ob course we soldiers ob de Union, and got to fight if dey tell us; but no like dis job ob keeping guard like dis."

"It can't be helped," Vincent said; "and of course you must do your duty. I am not going to jump up the chimney or fly through the window, and as there are four of you, to say nothing of the sergeant outside, you needn't be afraid of my trying to escape."

"No sah, dat not possible nohow; we know dat bery well. Dat's why we no trouble to look after you. But as de sargent say watch, ob course we must watch. We bery pleased to see you kill dat white officer. Dat officer bery hard man and all de men hate him, and when you knock him down we should like to hab given cheer. We all sorry for you; still you see, sah, we must keep watch. If you were to get away, dar no saying what dey do to us."

"That's all right," Vincent said; "I don't blame you at all. As you say, that was a very bad fellow. I had quarreled with him before, because he treated his slaves so badly."

CHAPTER XIX. FREE.

It was not until late in the afternoon that a white officer entered, and ordered the soldiers to conduct the prisoner to the general's tent.

"What is your name, sir, and who are you?" the general asked as he

was brought in. "I hear that you were denounced by Lieutenant

Jackson as being a spy, and that he addressed you as Vincent

Wingfield. What have you got to say to the charge?"

"My name is Vincent Wingfield, sir," Vincent replied quietly. "I am upon the staff of General Wade Hampton, and in pursuance of my duty I came here to learn what I could of your movements and intentions."

The general was silent for a moment.

"Then, sir, as you are an officer, you must be well aware of the consequence of being discovered in disguise here. I regret that there is no course open to me but to order you to be shot as a spy to-morrow morning."

One of the officers who was standing by the general here whispered to him.

"Ah, yes, I remember," he said. "Are you the same officer, sir, who escaped from Elmira?"

"I am, sir," Vincent replied; "and at the same time aided in the escape of the man who denounced me to-day, and who then did his best to have me arrested by sending an anonymous letter stating the disguise in which I was making my way through the country. I was not surprised to find that he had carried his treachery further, and was now fighting against the men with whom he had formerly served."

"He deserved the fate that has befallen him," the general said. "Still this does not alter your position. I regret that I must order my sentence to be carried out."

"I do not blame you, sir. I knew the risks I ran when I accepted the mission. My only regret is that I failed in supplying my general with the information they required."

The general then turned to the officer who had brought Vincent up.

"This officer will remain in charge of your men for to-night, Captain Pearce. You will see that the sentence is carried into effect at daybreak. I need not tell you that a vigilant guard must be placed over him."

Vincent was again marched back to the village, but the officer halted the party when he arrived there.

"Stop here a few minutes, sergeant," he said. "That room is required for an officer's quarters. I will look round and find another place."

In a few minutes he returned, and Vincent was conducted to a shed standing in the garden of one of the houses.

"Place one man on guard at the door and another behind," he said to the sergeant. "Let the other two relieve them, and change the watch once an hour."

The sergeant saluted.

"De men hab been on duty since daylight, sah, and none of us hab had anything to eat."

"Oh, I forgot that," the officer replied. "Very well, I will send another party to relieve you at once."

In ten minutes another sergeant and four men arrived at the spot, and Tony and his companions returned to the camp.

As soon as Tony had devoured a piece of bread he left the camp, walked with careless gait through the camps behind, and went on until he reached a village in which were comparatively few soldiers. He went up to a woman who was standing at a door.

"Missus," he said, "I hab got a letter to take, and I ain't bery sure as to de name. Will you kindly tell me what is de address writ on dis paper?"

The woman looked at it.

"Mrs. Grossmith, Worley Farm, near Union. That's about two miles along the road. If you go on any one will tell you which is Mrs. Grossmith's."

Tony hurried on, for he wanted to get back to the camp before it was dark. He had no difficulty in finding Worley Farm.

"Now, then, what do you want?" its owner said sharply, as she opened the door in reply to his knock. "There's nothing for you here. You can look round if you like. It's been all stripped clean days ago, so I tell you."

"Me no want anything, ma'am. Me hab a letter for you." The woman in surprise took the note and opened it. She read it through and looked earnestly at Tony.

"He says you are to be trusted," she said. "Is that so?"

"I would gib my life for him twenty times over," Tony replied. "He got me away from a brutal master and bought my wife out ob slavery for me. What does he say, ma'am? For de Lord sake tell me. Perhaps he tell me how to get him clar."

The woman read out the contents of the note.

"Dat's it, missus, sure enough; dat's the way," he exclaimed in delight. "Me tink and tink all day, and no manage to tink of anything except to shoot de sentry and fight wid de oders and get him out; but den all de oder sojers come running down, and no chance to escape. If me can get de spirits dat's easy enough. Me make dem all drunk as hogs."

"I can give you that," the woman said. "Is there anything else you will want? What are you going to do with him if you get him free? They will hunt you down like vermin."

"I tought we might get down to de river and get ober somehow. Dere will be no getting trou der cavalry. Dey will hab dem on every road."

"Well, you want some clothes, anyhow; you can't go about in these soldier clothes. The first Yank you came across would shoot you for a deserter, and the first of our men as a traitor. Well, by the time you get back to-night, that is if you do come back, I will get up a chest I've get buried with my men's clothes in it. They didn't want to take them away to the war with them, so I hid them up."

She had by this time dug up the keg from its hiding-place, and now filled Tony's canteen.

"Tank you, missus; de Lord bress you for what you've done, wheder I get Massa Wingfield off or wheder we bofe get killed ober de job. But I must get back as fast as I can. Ef it was dark before I got to camp dey would wonder whar I had been."

"Oh, you have plenty of time," the woman said; "it won't be dark till eight o'clock, and it's not seven yet. I will set to and boil a good chunk of pork and bake some cakes. It's no use getting out of the hands of the Yanks and then going and getting starved in the swamps."

Directly Tony got back to his regiment he strolled over to the shed where Vincent was confined. Two sentinels were on duty, the sergeant and the two other men were lying at full length en the ground some twenty yards away. Their muskets were beside them, and it was evident to Tony by the vigilant watch that they kept upon the shed that their responsibility weighed heavily upon them and that Captain Pearce had impressed upon them that if the prisoner escaped they would certainly be shot.

"Well, Sergeant John Newson," Tony began, "I hab just walked ober to see how you getting on. It am a mighty 'sponsible business dis. I had six hours of him, and it make de perspiration run down my back to tink what a job it would be for me if dat fellow was to run away."

"Dat's just what dis chile feel, Sergeant Tony Morris; I am zactly like dat, and dat's what dese men feel too. We am all on guard. De captain say, put two on guard at de shed and let de oders relieb dem ebery hour. So dey shall; but dose off duty must watch just the same. When it gets dark we get close up, so as to be ready to jump in directly we hear a stir. Dis fellow no fool us."

"Dat's the way, Sergeant Newson, dat am de way. Neber close your eye, but keep a sharp look on dem. It's a pity dat you not in camp to-night."

"How am dat, how am dat?" the sergeant asked.

"To tell you de truf, sergeant, tree or four ob us hab smuggled in some spirits, and you are one of dose who would hab come in for a share of it if you had been dere."

"Golly!" the sergeant exclaimed; "but dat is bery unfortunate.

Can't you manage to bring me a little here?"

"Well, you know, it's difficult to get out ob camp."

"Oh, you could get through. Dere is no fear about you being caught."

"I don't know," Tony replied with an air of reluctance. "Well, I will see about it. Ef I can crawl troo de sentries, and bring some for you and de oders, I will. It will help keep you awake and keep out de damp.

"Dat's right down good ob you," the other said cordially. "You good man, Tony Morris; and if I can do as much for you anoder time, I do it."

Having settled this, Tony went round to the hospital tent in rear of the regiment, having tied up his face with a handkerchief.

"Well, what is it, sergeant?" the negro, who acted as an orderly and sometimes helped the surgeon mix his drugs, asked. "De doctor am gone away, and I don't 'spect he come back again to-night."

"Dat am bery bad ting," Tony said dolefully. "Can't you do something for me, Sam Smith? I tink you know quite as much about de medicines as de doctor himself."

"Not quite so much, sergeant, not quite so much; but I'se no fool, and my old mother she 'used to make medicine for de plantation and knew a heap about herbs, so it am natural dat I should take to it. What can I gib you?"

"Well, Sam, you see sometimes I'se 'flicted dre'fful wid de faceache him just go jump, jump, jump, as ef he bust right up. Mose times I find de best ting am to put a little laudabun in my mouf, and a little on bit of rag and put him outside. De best ting would be for you to gib me little bottle of him; den when de pain come on I could jess take him, and not be troubling you ebery day. And Sam, jus you whisper—I got hold of a little good stuff. You gib me tin mug; me share what I hab got wid you."

The negro grinned with delight, and going into the tent brought out a tin mug.

"Dat's all right, Sam; but you hab no brought de bottle of laudabun too. You just fetch dat, and I gib you de spirit."

The negro went in again, and in two minutes returned with a small bottle of laudanum.

"Dat's a fair exchange," Tony said, taking it, and handing to the man his mug half full of spirit.

"Dat am someting like," the black said, looking with delight at the liberal allowance. "Me drink him de last ting at night, den me go to sleep and no one 'spect nuffin'. Whereber you get dat spirit?"

"Never you mind, Sam," Tony said with a grin. "Dar's more where dat comes from, and maybe you will get anoder taste ob it."

Then after leaving the hospital tent he poured half the spirits away, for he had not now to depend upon the effect of that alone; and it were better not to give it too strong, for that might arouse the suspicion of the guard. Then he uncorked the bottle of laudanum.

"I don't know how much to gib," he said to himself. "No good to kill dem. Me don't 'spect de stuff bery strong. Dese rogues sell all sorts of stuff to de government. Anyting good enough for de soldier. Dey gib him rotten boots, and rotten cloth, and bad powder, and all sorts of tings. I spect dey gib him bad drugs too. However, me must risk it. Dis bottle not bery big, anyhow—won't hold more dan two or three teaspoon. Must risk him."

So saying he poured the contents of the vial into the canteen, and then going to a water-cart filled it up. He waited until the camp was quiet, and then, taking off his boots and fastening in his belt his own bayonet and that of one of the men sleeping near, he quietly and cautiously made his way out of camp. There were no sentries placed here, for there was no fear whatever of an attack, and he had little difficulty in making his way round to the back of the village to the spot where Vincent was confined. He moved so quietly that he was not perceived until he was within a few yards of the shed.

"Sergeant Newson, am you dere?"

"Bress me, what a start you hab given me, for suah!" the sergeant said. "I did not hear you coming.

"You didn't s'pose I was coming along shouting and whistling, Sergeant Newson? Don't you talk so loud. Dar am no saying who's about."

"Hab you brought de stuff?"

"You don't suppose I should hab come all dis way to tell you I hab not got it. How am de prisoner?"

"Oh, he's dere all right. My orders was to look in at dat little winder ebery five minutes, and dat when it began to get dark me was to tie him quite tight, and me hab done so. And one of de sentries goes in every five minutes and feels to see if de ropes are tight. He am dar, sure enough."

"Dat's quite right, Sergeant Newson. I knew when you came to have me as de captain knew what he was doing when he choose you for dis job. He just pick out de man he considers de very best in de regiment. Now, here is de spirit; and fuss-rate stuff it am, too."

"Golly, but it am strong!" the sergeant said, taking a long gulp at the canteen. "Dat warm de cockles ob de heart in no time. Yes, it am good stuff—just de ting for dis damp air. I hear as a lot of de white soldiers are down wid de fever already, and dere will be lots and lots more if we stop here long. Here, you two men, take a drink of dis; but mind, you mustn't tell no one 'bout it. Dis a secret affair."

The two negroes each took a long drink, and returned the canteen with warm expressions of approval.

"De oder men are on duty," the sergeant said with the air of a man who knew his business; "dey mustn't hab none of it, not until dey comes off. As we are de relief, it am proper and right dat we drink a drop out of a canteen ef we want it."

"Quite so, Sergeant Newson," Tony said in a tone of admiration. "Dat's de way to manage dese tings—duty first and pleasure afterward."

"It am nearly time to relieve guard," the other said; "and den dey can have a drink."

In five minutes the two soldiers relieved those on guard, and they also took a long drink at the canteen, to which the sergeant also again applied his lips.

"Now I must be going," Tony said. "I will leave the canteen with you, sergeant. I have got some more of the stuff over there, and I dare say you will like another drink before morning."

So saying he stole away, but halted and lay down twenty yards distant. In ten minutes he heard the sergeant say:

"I feel as if I could do just five minutes' sleep. You keep your eyes on de shed, and ef you hear any officer coming his rounds you wake me up."

Tony waited another half-hour and then crawled up. The sergeant was lying on his back sound asleep; the two men with him were on their faces, with their rifles pointing toward the shed, as if they had dropped off to sleep while they were staring at it. Then he crawled on to the shed. The soldier on sentry at the back had grounded his musket and was leaning against the shed fast asleep, while the one at the door had apparently slid down in a sitting position and was snoring.

"I hope I haben't given it to dem too strong," Tony said to himself; "but it can't be helped anyhow."

He opened the door and entered the shed.

"Are you awake, Marse Wingfield?"

"Yes, I am awake, Tony. Thank God you have come! How did you manage it?"

"I hab managed it, sah, and dey are all fast asleep," Tony said, as he cut the ropes which bound Vincent.

"Now, sah, let's be going quick. Dar am no saying when dey may come round to look after de guards. Dat's what I hab been worrying about de last quarter ob an hour."

Vincent sprang to his feet as the ropes fell from him, and grasped

Tony's hand.

"Here am a bayonet, sah. I hope we sha'n't want to use dem, but dar am no saying."

They made their way cautiously across the fields till they approached another camp. A few sentries were walking up and down in front of it, but they crawled round these and passed through the space between the regiment and that next to it. Several other camps were passed; and then, when Vincent knew that they were well in rear of the whole of them, they rose to their feet and started forward at a run. Suddenly Tony touched Vincent, and they both stood still. A distant shout came through the air, followed by another and another.

"I 'spect dey hab found out we have gone, sah. Dey go round two or tree times in de night to see dat de sentries are awake. Now, sah, come along."

They were on the road now, and ran at full speed until they approached Union. They left the track as they neared the village, and as they did so they heard the sound of a horse at full gallop behind them.

"That's an orderly taking the news of our escape. Sheridan's cavalry are scattered all over the country, and there are two squadrons at Union Grove. The whole country will be alive at daybreak."

Making their way through the fields they soon struck the track leading to Worley Farm, and in a few minutes were at the door. The woman opened it at once.

"I have been watching for you," she said, "and I am real glad you have got safe away. Wait a minute and I will strike a light."

"You had better not do that," Vincent said. "They have got the alarm at Union Grove already, and if any one caught sight of a light appearing in your window, it would bring them down here at once."

"They can't see the house from Union," the woman said. "Still, perhaps it will be best. Now, sir, I can't do anything for you, because my men's clothes are the same sort of cut as yours; but here's a suit for this man."

Thanking her warmly Vincent handed the things to Tony.

"Make haste and slip them on. Tony; and make your other things up into a bundle and bring them with you for a bit. We must leave nothing here, for they will search the whole country to-morrow. We will take the horse away too; not that we want it, but it would never do for it to be found here."

"Will you take your letter again?" the woman asked.

"No, I will leave it with you. It will be no use now if I get through, but if you hear to-morrow or next day that I am caught, please carry it as we arranged. What is this?" he asked as the woman handed him a bundle.

"Here are eight or ten pounds of pork," she said, "and some corn-cakes. If you are hiding away you will want something, and I reckon anyhow you won't be able to make your way to our people for a bit. Now, if you are ready I will start with you."

"You will start with us!" Vincent repeated in surprise.

"Certainly I will start with you," the woman said. "How do you think you would be able to find your way a dark night like this? No, sir; I will put you on your way till morning. But, in the first place, which line do you mean to take?"

"I do not think there is much chance of getting back the way we came," Vincent said. "By morning Sheridan's cavalry will have got a description of me, and they will be scouring the whole country. The only chance will be to go north and cross the river somewhere near Norfolk."

"I think, sah, you better go on wid your horse at once. No use wait for me. I come along on foot, find my own way."

"No, Tony, I shall certainly not do that. We will either get off or be taken together. Well, I think the best plan will be to go straight down to the river. How far is it away?"

"About fifteen miles," the woman said.

"If we got there we can get hold of a boat somehow, and either cross and then make straight for Richmond on foot, or go up the river in the boat and land in the rear of our lines. That we can settle about afterward. The first thing is to get to the river bank. We are not likely to meet with any interruption in that direction. Of course the cavalry are all on the other flank, and it will be supposed that I shall try either to work round that way or to make straight through the lines. They would hardly suspect that I shall take to the river, which is covered with their transports and store-ships."

"I think that is the best plan," the woman said. "There are scarce any villages between this and the river. It's only just when you cross the road between Petersburg and Williamsburg that you would be likely to meet a soul, even in the daytime. There is scarce even a farmhouse across this section. I know the country pretty well. Just stop a minute and I will run up to the wood and fetch down the horse. There's a big wood about a mile away, and you can turn him in there."

A few minutes later they started, Vincent leading the horse and Tony carrying the bundle of food and his castoff uniform. The woman led them by farm roads, sometimes turning off to the right or left, but keeping her way with a certainty which showed how well she was acquainted with the country. Several times they could hear the dull sound of bodies of cavalry galloping along the roads; but this died away as they got further into the country. The horse had been turned loose a mile from their starting place. Vincent removed the bridle and saddle, saying: "He will pick up enough to feed on here for some time. When he gets tired of the wood he can work his way out into a clearing."

Here Tony hid away his uniform among some thick bushes, and the three walked steadily along until the first tinge of daylight appeared on the sky. Then the woman stopped.

"The river is not more than half a mile in front of you," she said; "so I will say good-by."

"What will you do?" Vincent asked. "You might be questioned as you get near home."

"I am going to put up at the last house we passed," she said, "about three miles back. I know the people there, and they will take me in. I will stop there for a day or two, maybe, then walk back, so I shall have a true story to tell. That's all right."

Vincent said good-by to her, with many hearty thanks for the services she had rendered him, and had almost to force her to take notes for two hundred dollars from the bundle he had sewn up in the lining of his coat.

"You have saved my life," he said, "and some day I hope to be able to do more to show my gratitude; but you must take this anyhow to tide you over the hard times, and find food for your husband and sons when they come back from the war."

As soon as the woman had turned back Vincent and Tony continued on their way. The former had, as soon as they were fairly out from the Federal camp, told Tony in a few words that his wife was safe at home and their boy flourishing, and he now gave him further details of them.

"And how came you to enter the army, Tony?"

"Well, sah, dere wasn't much choice about it. De Northern people, dey talk mighty high about der love for de negro, but I don't see much of it in der ways. Why, sah, dey is twice as scornful ob a black man as de gentleman is in de Souf. I list in de army, sah, because dey say dey go to Richmond, and den I find Dinah and de boy."

"Well, Tony, I little thought when I did you a service that it would be the means of you being able to save my life some day."

"Not much in dat, sah. You sabe my life, because dey would, for suah, hab caught me and killed me. Den you save my wife for me, den you pay out dat Jackson, and now you hab killed him. I could hab shouted for joy, sah, when I saw you hit him ober de head wid de shovel, and I saw dat dis time he gib no more trouble to no one. I should hab done for him bery soon, sah. I had my eye upon him, and the fust time we go into battle he get a ball in his back. Lucky he didn't see me. He not officer ob my company, and me look quite different in de uniform to what me was when I work on de plantation; but I know him, and wheneber I see him pass I hung down my head and I say to myself, 'My time come soon, Massa Jackson; my time come bery soon, and den we get quits.'"

"It is wrong to nourish revenge, Tony; but I really can't blame you very much as to that fellow. Still, I should have blamed you if you had killed him—blamed you very much. He was a bad man, and he treated you brutally, but you see he has been already punished a good deal."

"Yes, you knock him down, sah. Dat bery good, but not enough for Tony."

"But that wasn't all, Tony. You see, the affair set all my friends against him, and his position became a very unpleasant one. Then, you see, if it hadn't been for you he would probably have got through to our lines again after he had escaped with me. Then, you see, his father, out of revenge, stole Dinah away."

"Stole Dinah!" Tony exclaimed, stopping in his work. "Why, sah, you hab been telling me dat she is safe and well wid Mrs. Wingfield."

"So she is, Tony. But he stole her for all that, and had her carried down into Carolina; but I managed to bring her back. It's a long story, but I will tell you about it presently. Then the knowledge that I had found Dinah, and the fear of punishment for his share of taking her away, caused old Jackson to fly from the country, getting less than a quarter of the sum his estate would have fetched two or three years ago. That was what made him and his son turn Unionists. So, you see, Jackson was heavily punished for his conduct to you, and it did not need for you to revenge yourself."

"So he was, sah, so he was," Tony said thoughtfully. "Yes, it does seem as if all dese tings came on kinder one after de oder just out ob dat flogging he gabe me; and now he has got killed for just de same cause, for if he hadn't been obliged to turn Unionist he wouldn't have been in dat dar battery at de time you came dere. Yes, I sees dat is so, sah; and I'se glad now I didn't hab a chance ob shooting him down, for I should have done so for suah ef I had."

They had now reached the river. The sun was just showing above the horizon, and the broad sheet of water was already astir. Steamers were making their way up from the mouth of the river laden with stores for the army. Little tugs were hurrying to and fro. Vessels that had discharged their cargo were dropping down with the tide, while many sailing-vessels lay at anchor waiting for the turn of tide to make their way higher up. Norfolk was, however, the base from which the Federal army drew the larger portion of its stores; as there were great conveniences for landing here, and a railway thence ran up to the rear of their lines. But temporary wharfs and stages had been erected at the point of the river nearest to their camps in front of Petersburg, and here the cattle and much of the stores required for the army were landed. At the point at which Vincent and Tony had struck the river the banks were somewhat low. Here and there were snug farms, with the ground cultivated down to the river. The whole country was open and free from trees, except where small patches had been left. It was in front of one of these that Vincent and Tony were now standing.

"I do not think there is any risk of pursuit now, Tony. This is not the line on which they will be hunting us. The question is—how are we to get across?"

"It's too far to swim, sah."

"I should think it was," Vincent said with a laugh. "It's three or four miles, I should say, if it's a foot. The first question is—where are we to get a boat? I should think that some of these farmhouses are sure to have boats, but the chances are they have been seized by the Yankees long ago. Still they may have some laid up. The Yanks would not have made much search for those, though they would no doubt take all the larger boats for the use of the troops or for getting stores ashore. Anyhow, I will go to the next farmhouse and ask."

"Shall I go, sah?"

"No, Tony, they would probably take you for a runaway. No, I will go. There can be no danger. The men are all away, and the women are sure to be loyal. I fancy the few who were the other way before will have changed their minds since the Yanks landed."

They followed the bank of the river for a quarter of a mile, and then Vincent walked on to a small farmhouse standing on the slope fifty yards from the water. Two or three children who were playing about outside at once ran in upon seeing a stranger, and a moment later two women came out. They were somewhat reassured when they saw Vincent approaching alone.

"What is it, stranger?" one of them asked. "Do you want a meal? We have got little enough to offer you, but what there is you are welcome to; the Yanks have driven off our cows and pigs and the two horses, and have emptied the barns, and pulled up all the garden stuff, and stole the fowls, and carried off the bacon from the beams, so we have got but an empty larder. But as far as bread and molasses go, you are welcome."

"Thank you," Vincent said; "I am not in want of food. What I am in want of is a boat."

"Boat!" the women repeated in surprise.

"Yes, I want to got across to the other side, or else to get up the river and land between Petersburg and Bermuda."

"Sakes alive!" the woman exclaimed; "what do you want to do that for?"

"I will tell you," Vincent replied. "I know I can trust my life to any woman in the Confederacy. I am one of General Wade Hampton's officers, and I have come through their lines to find out what they are doing. I have been caught once, but managed to slip through their hands, but there is no possibility of making my way back across the country, for the Yankee cavalry are patrolling every road, and the only chance I have is of getting away by boat."

"Step right in, sir," the woman said. "It's a real pleasure to us to have one of our officers under our roof."

"I have a friend with me," Vincent said; "a faithful negro, who has helped me to escape, and who would be hung like a dog if they could lay hands on him."

"Bring him in, sir," the woman said hospitably. "I had four or five niggers till the Yanks came, but they all ran away 'cause they knew they would either be set to work or made to fight; so they went. They said they would come back again when the trouble is over; maybe they will and maybe they won't. At first the niggers about here used to look for the Yanks coming, but as the news got about of what happened to those they took from their masters, they concluded they were better off where they were. Call your boy in, sir; call him in."

Vincent gave a shout, and Tony at once came up.

"Thank you, we don't want anything to eat," Vincent went on as the woman began to put some plates on the table. "We have just had a hearty meal, and have got enough food for three or four days in that bundle. But we want a boat, or, if we can't find that, some sailors' clothes. If I had them I would keep along the river down to Norfolk. The place will be full of sailors. We should not be likely to be noticed there."

"I can't help you in that," the woman said; "but there are certainly some boats laid up along the shore. Now, Maria, who has got boats that haven't been taken?"

"I expect the Johnsons have got one," the other woman replied. "They had a small boat the boys and girls used to go out fishing in. I don't think the Yanks have got that. I expect they hid it away somewhere; but I don't know as they would let you have it. She is a close-fisted woman is Sarah Johnson."

"I could pay her for its value," Vincent said.

"Oh, well, if you could pay her she would let you have it. I don't say she wouldn't, anyhow, seeing as you are an officer, and the Yanks are after you. Still, she is close is Sarah Johnson, and I don't know as she is so set on the Confederacy as most people. I tell you what I will do, sir. I will go down and say as a stranger wants to buy her boat, and no questions asked. She is just to show where the boat is hidden, and you are to pay for it and take it away when you want it."

"That would be a very good plan," Vincent said, "if you wouldn't mind the trouble."

"The trouble is nothing," she said. "Johnson's place ain't above a mile along the shore."

"I will go with you until you get close to the house," Vincent said; "then, when you hear what she wants for the boat, I will give you the money for it, and you can show me where it is hidden."

This was accordingly done. Mrs. Johnson, after a considerable amount of bargaining with Vincent's guide, agreed to take twenty dollars for the boat, and upon receiving the money sent down one of her boys with her to show her where it was hidden. It was in a hole that had been scooped out in the steep bank some ten foot above the water's edge, and was completely hidden from the sight of any one rowing past by a small clump of bushes. When the boys had returned to the farmhouse the woman took Vincent to the spot, and they then went back together.

Here he and Tony had a long talk as to whether it would be better to put out at once or to wait till nightfall. It was finally determined that it was best to make an immediate start. A boat rowed by two men would attract little attention. It might belong to any of the ships at anchor in the river, and might be supposed to have gone on shore to fetch eggs or chickens, or with a letter or a message.

"You see, both shores are in the hands of the Yankees," Vincent said, "and there will not be any suspicion of a boat in the daytime. At night we might be hailed, and if we gave no answer fired upon, and that night bring a gunboat along to see what was the matter. No, I think it will be far best to go on boldly. There are not likely to be any bodies of Federal troops on the opposite shore except at Fortress Monroe, and perhaps opposite the point where they have got their landing below Petersburg. Once ashore we shall be safe. The peninsula opposite is covered with forest and swamp, and we shall have no difficulty in getting through however many troops they may have across it. You know the place pretty well, don't you, Tony?"

Tony nodded. "Once across, sah, all de Yank army wouldn't catch us. Me know ob lots ob hiding-places."

"Them broad hats will never do," the woman said; "but I have got some blue nightcaps I knitted for my husband. They are something like the caps I have seen some sailors wear; anyhow, they will pass at a distance, and when you take your coats and vests off, them colored flannel shirts will be just the right thing."

"That will do capitally, and the sooner we are off the better," Vincent said, and after heartily thanking the two women, and bestowing a present upon each of the children, they started along the shore.

The boat was soon got into the water, the oars put out, and they started. The tide was just low now, and they agreed to pull along at a short distance from the shore until it turned. As soon as it did so the vessels at anchor would be getting up sail to make up to the landing-place, and even had any one on board noticed the boat put out, and had been watching it, they would have other things to think about.

"It is some time since we last rowed in a boat together, Tony."

"About three years, sah; dat time when you got me safe away. I had a bad fright dat day you left me, sah. It came on to blow bery hard, and some ob de men told me dat dey did not tink you would ever get back to shore. Dat made me awful bad, sah; and me wish ober and ober again dat me hab died in de forest instead ob your taking me off in a boat and trowing away your life. I neber felt happy again, sah, till I got your letter up in Canady, and knew you had got back safe dat day."

"We had a narrow squeak of it, Tony, and were blown some distance up. We were nearly swamped a score of times, and Dan quite made up his mind that it was all up with us. However, we got through safe, and I don't think a soul, except perhaps Jackson and that rascally overseer of ours, who afterward had a hand in carrying off your wife, and lost his life in consequence, ever had a suspicion we had been doing more than a long fishing expedition. I will tell you all about it when we are going through the woods. Now I think it's pretty nearly dead water, and we will begin to edge across."

CHAPTER XX. THE END OF THE STRUGGLE.

Vincent directed his course so that while the boat's head was still pointing up the stream, and she was apparently moving in the same direction as the ships, she was gradually getting out to the middle of the river. Had he tried to row straight across suspicion might at once have been excited. In half an hour they were in the middle of the stream. A vessel passing under full sail swept along at a distance of a hundred yards, and they were hailed. Vincent merely waved his hand and continued his course.

"I dare say those fellows wonder what we are up to, Tony; but they are not likely to stop to inquire. In another quarter of an hour we shall be pretty safe. Ah! there's a fellow who might interfere with us," he added looking round. "Do you see that little black thing two miles ahead of us? that's a steam launch. If she sees us making over she's likely enough to come and ask us some questions. We had better head a little more toward the shore now. If it comes to a race every foot is of importance."

Up to now they had been rowing in an easy and leisurely manner, avoiding all appearance of haste. They now bent to their oars, and the boat began to travel a good deal faster through the water. Vincent glanced over his shoulder frequently at the steam launch.

"She is keeping straight on in the middle of the channel, Tony; evidently she hasn't noticed us yet."

Ten minutes after passing the ship he exclaimed sharply:

"Row, Tony, as hard as you can; the launch has just passed that ship, and has changed her course. I expect the captain has called their attention to us. It's a race now."

The boat, at the moment the launch changed her course, was rather more than halfway between the center of the channel and the shore. The launch was in the center of the channel, and three-quarters of a mile higher up. She had evidently put on steam as she started to cut off the boat, for there was now a white wave at her bow.

"I think we shall do it, Tony," Vincent said. "I don't suppose she can go above eight miles an hour and we are certainly going four, and she has more than twice as far to travel as we have."

Those on board the launch were evidently conscious that they were likely to lose the race, for in a few minutes they began to open fire with their rifles.

"Fire away," Vincent said. "You ain't likely to hit us a thousand yards off, and we haven't another three hundred to row."

The bullets whistled overhead, but none of them struck the water within many yards of the boat, and the launch was still four or five hundred yards away when the bow of the boat touched the shore. Several muskets were discharged as Vincent and Tony leaped out and plunged into the bushes that came down to the water's edge. The launch sent up a sharp series of whistles, and random shots were for some time fired into the bushes.

"It is lucky she didn't carry a small gun in her bow," Vincent said; "for though seven or eight hundred yards is a long range for a rifle, they might likely enough have hit us if they had had a gun. Now, Tony, we shall have to be careful, for those whistles are no doubt meant as an alarm; and although she cannot tell who we are, she will probably steam up, and if they have any force opposite Bermuda will give them news that two suspicious characters have landed, and they will have parties out to look for us."

"Dey can look as long as dey like, sah. Ef dose slave-hunters can't find people in de swamps what chance you tink dose soldiers have? None at all. Dey haven't got no reward before dere eyes, and dey won't want to be going in ober dere shoes into de mud and dirtying dere uniforms. No fear ob dem, sah. Dey make as much noise when dey march in de wood as a drove ob pigs. You can hear dem a quarter ob a mile away."

They tramped on through the woods through which McClellan's force had so painfully made their way during their first advance against Richmond. From time to time they could hear noises in the forest—shouts, and once or twice the discharge of firearms.

"Dey call dat hunting, I s'pose," Tony said scornfully.

They kept steadily on until it began to grow dark in the forest. They were now in the White Oak Swamp and not eight miles from Richmond, and they thought it better to pause until it became quite dark, for they might be picked up by any raiding party of cavalry. Vincent was in high spirits. Now, that he had succeeded in his enterprise, and had escaped almost by a miracle, he was eager to get back to Richmond and carry his news down to General Lee. Tony was even more anxious to push on. At last, after three years' absence, he was to see his wife and child again, and he reluctantly agreed to Vincent's proposal for a halt.

"We sha'n't stop very long, Tony; and I own I am waiting quite as much because I am hungry and want to eat, and because I am desperately tired, as from any fear of the enemy. We walked twenty miles last night from Union Grove to the river, then I walked to the boat, back to the farm and then back to the boat again—that's three more miles—and we have gone another twenty now. I am pretty nearly dead beat, I can tell you."

"I'se tired too, sah; but I feel I could go on walking all night if I was to see Dinah in de morning."

"Well, I couldn't, Tony; not to see any one. I might be willing enough, but my legs wouldn't take me."

They ate a hearty meal, and almost as soon as they had finished

Vincent stood up again.

"Well, Tony, I can feel for your impatience, and so we will struggle on. I have just been thinking that when I last left my mother a week since she said she was thinking of going out to the Orangery for a month before the leaves fell, so it is probable that she may be there now. It is only about the same distance as it is to Richmond, so we will go straight there. I shall lose a little time, of course; but I can be driven over to Richmond, so it won't be too much. Besides, I can put on a pair of slippers. That will be a comfort, for my feet feel as if they were in vises. A cup of tea won't be a bad thing, too."

During their walk through the wood Vincent had related the circumstances of the carrying away of Dinah and of her rescue. When he had finished Tony had said:

"Well, Massa Wingfield, I don't know what to say to you. I tought I owed you enuff before, but it war nothing to dis. Just to tink dat you should take all dat pains to fetch Dinah back for me. I dunno how it came to you to do it. It seems to me like as if you been sent special from heben to do dis poor nigger good. Words ain't no good, sah; but of I could give my life away a hundred times for you I would do it."

It took them nearly three hours' walking before they came in sight of the Orangery.

"There are lights in the windows," Vincent said. "Thank goodness they are there."

Vincent limped slowly along until he reached the house.

"You stay out here, Tony. I will send Dinah out to you directly. It will be better for her to meet you here alone."

Vincent walked straight into the drawing-room, where his mother and Annie were sitting.

"Why, Vincent!" Mrs. Wingfield exclaimed, starting up, "what has happened to you? What are you dressed up like that for? Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter, mother, except that I am as tired as a dog. Yes, my dress is not quite fit for a drawing-room," he laughed, looking down at the rough trousers splashed with mud to the waist, and his flannel shirt, for they had not waited to pick up their coats as they left the boat; "but nothing is the matter, I can assure you. I will tell you about it directly, but first please send for Dinah here."

Mrs. Wingfield rang the bell on the table beside her.

"Tell Dinah I want to speak to her at once," she said to the girl that answered it. Dinah appeared in a minute.

"Dinah," Vincent said, "has your boy gone to bed?"

"Yes, sah; been gone an hour ago."

"Well, just go to him, and put a shawl round him, and go out through the front door. There is some one standing there you will be glad to see."

Dinah stood with open eyes, then her hands began to tremble.

"Is it Tony, sah; for de Lord's sake, is it Tony?"

Vincent nodded, and with a little scream of joy she turned and ran straight to the front door. She could not wait now even to fetch her boy, and in another moment she was clasped in her husband's arms.

"Now, Vincent, tell us all about it," his mother said. "Don't you see we are dying of curiosity?"

"And I am dying of fatigue," Vincent said; "which is a much more painful sort of death, and I can think of nothing else until I have got these boots off. Annie, do run and tell them to bring me a pair of slippers and a cup of tea, and I shall want the buggy at the door in half an hour."

"You are not going away again to-night, Vincent, surely?" his mother said anxiously. "You do look completely exhausted."

"I am exhausted, mother. I have walked seven or eight-and-forty miles, and this cavalry work spoils one for walking altogether."

"Walked forty-eight miles, Vincent! What on earth have you done that for?"

"Not from choice, I can assure you, mother; but you know the old saying, 'Needs must when the devil drives,' and in the present case you must read 'Yankee' instead of 'the gentleman in black.'

"But has Petersburg fallen?" Mrs. Wingfield asked in alarm.

"No; Petersburg is safe, and is likely to continue so. But you must really be patient, mother, until I have had some tea, then you can hear the story in full."

When the servant came in with the tea Vincent told her that she was to tell Dinah, whom she would find on the veranda, to bring her husband into the kitchen, and to give him everything he wanted. Then, as soon as he had finished tea, he told his mother and sister the adventures he had gone through. Both were crying when he had finished.

"I am proud of you, Vincent," his mother said. "It is hard on us that you should run such risks; still I do not blame you, my boy, for if I had ten sons I would give them all for my country."

Vincent had but just finished his story when the servant came in and said that the buggy was at the door.

"I will go in my slippers, mother, but I will run up and change my other things. It's lucky I have got a spare suit here. Any of our fellows who happened to be going down to-night in the train would think that I was mad were I to go like this."

It was one o'clock in the morning when Vincent reached Petersburg. He went straight to his quarters, as it would be no use waking General Lee at that hour. A light was burning in his room, and Dan was asleep at the table with his head on his arms. He leaped up with a cry of joy as his master entered.

"Well, Dan, here I am safe again," Vincent said cheerily. "I hope you had not begun to give me up."

"I began to be terribly frightened, sir—terribly frightened. I went dis afternoon and asked Captain Burley if he had any news ob you. He said 'No;' and asked me ef I knew where you were. I said 'No, sah;' that I knew nuffin about it except that you had gone on some dangerous job. He said he hoped that you would be back soon; and certainly, as far as dey had heard, nuffin had happened to you. Still I was bery anxious, and tought I would sit up till de last train came in from Richmond. Den I tink I dropped off to sleep."

"I think you did, Dan. Well, I am too tired to tell you anything about it now, but I have one piece of news for you; Tony has come back to his wife."

"Dat's good news, sah; bery good news. I had begun to be afraid dat Tony had been shot or hung or someting. I know Dinah hab been fretting about him though she never said much, but when I am at home she allus asks me all sorts of questions 'bout him. She bery glad woman now."

The next morning Vincent went to General Lee's quarters.

"I am heartily glad to see you back," the general said warmly as he entered. "I have blamed myself for letting you go. Well, what success have you had?"

"Here is a rough plan of the works, general. I have not had time to do it out fairly, but it shows the positions of all their principal batteries, with a rough estimate as to the number of guns that each is intended to carry."

"Excellent!" the general said, glancing over the plan. "This will give us exactly the information we want. We must set to with our counter-works at once. The country is indeed indebted to you, sir. So you managed to cheat the Yankees altogether?"

"I should have cheated them, sir; but unfortunately I came across an old acquaintance who denounced me, and I had a narrow escape of being shot."

"Well, Captain Wingfield, I must see about this business, and give orders at once. Will you come and breakfast with me at half-past eight? Then you can give me an account of your adventures."

Vincent returned to his quarters, and spent the next two hours in making a detailed drawing of the enemy's positions and batteries, and then at half-past eight walked over to General Lee's quarters. The general returned in a few minutes with General Wade Hampton and several other officers, and they at once sat down to breakfast. As the meal was proceeding an orderly entered with a telegram for the general. General Lee glanced through it.

"This, gentlemen, is from the minister of war. I acquainted him by telegraph this morning that Captain Wingfield, who had volunteered for the dangerous service, had just returned from the Federal lines with a plan of the positions and strength of all the works that they are erecting. I said that I trusted that such distinguished service as he had rendered would be at once rewarded with promotion, and the minister telegraphs to me now that he has this morning signed this young officer's commission as major. I heartily congratulate you, sir, on your well-earned step. And now, as I see you have finished your breakfast, perhaps, you will give us an account of your proceedings."

Vincent gave a detailed account of his adventures, which were heard with surprise and interest.

"That was a narrow escape, indeed," the general said, as he finished. "It was a marvelous thing your lighting upon this negro, whom you say you had once had an opportunity of serving, just at that moment; and although you do not tell us what was the nature of the service you had rendered him, it must have been a very considerable service or he would never have risked his life in that way to save yours. When these negroes do feel attachment for their masters there are no more faithful and devoted fellows. Well, in your case certainly a good action has met with its reward; if it had not been for him there could be no question that your doom was sealed. It is a strange thing too your meeting that traitor. I remember reading about that escape of yours from the Yankee prison. He must have been an ungrateful villain, after your taking him with you."

"He was a bad fellow altogether, I am afraid," Vincent said; "and the quarrel between us was a long-standing one."

"Whatever your quarrel was," the general said hotly, "a man who would betray even an enemy to death in that way is a villain. However, he has gone to his account, and the country can forgive his treachery to her, as I have no doubt you have already done his conduct toward yourself."

A short time afterward Vincent had leave for a week, as things were quiet at Petersburg.

"Mother," he said on the morning after he got home, "I fear that there is no doubt whatever now how this struggle will end. I think we might keep Grant at bay here, but Sherman is too strong for us down in Georgia. We are already cut off from most of the Southern States, and in time Sherman will sweep round here, and then it will be all over. You see it yourself, don't you, mother?"

"Yes, I am afraid it cannot continue much longer, Vincent. Well, of course, we shall fight to the end."

"I am not talking of giving up, mother; I am looking forward to the future. The first step will be that all the slaves will be freed. Now, it seems to me that however attached they may be to their masters and mistresses they will lose their heads over this, flock into the towns, and nearly starve there; or else take up little patches of land and cultivate them, and live from hand to mouth, which will be ruin to the present owners as well as to them. Anyhow for a time all will be confusion and disorder. Now, my idea is this, if you give all your slaves their freedom at once, offer them patches of land for their own cultivation and employ them at wages, you will find that a great many of them will stop with you. There is nowhere for them to go at present and nothing to excite them, so before the general crash comes they will have settled down quietly to work here in their new positions, and will not be likely to go away."

"It is a serious step to take, Vincent," Mrs. Wingfield said, after thinking the matter over in silence for some time. "You do not think there is any probability of the ultimate success of our cause?"

"None, mother; I do not think there is even a possibility. One by one the Southern States have been wrested from the Confederacy. Sherman's march will completely isolate us. We have put our last available man in the field, and tremendous as are the losses of the enemy they are able to fill up the gaps as fast as they are made. No, mother, do not let us deceive ourselves on that head. The end must come, and that before long. The slaves will unquestionably be freed, and the only question for us is how to soften the blow. There is no doubt that our slaves, both at the Orangery and at the other plantations, are contented and happy; but you know how fickle and easily led the negroes are, and in the excitement of finding them selves free and able to go where they please, you may be sure that the greater number will wander away. My proposal is, that we should at once mark out a plot of land for each family and tell them that as long as they stay here it is theirs rent-free; they will be paid for their work upon the estate, three, four, or five days a week, as they can spare time from their own plots. In this way they will be settled down, and have crops upon their plots of land, before the whole black population is upset by the sudden abolition of slavery."

"But supposing they won't work at all, even for wages, Vincent?"

"I should not give them the option, mother; it will be a condition of their having their plots of land free that they shall work at least three days a week for wages."

"I will think over what you say, Vincent, and tell you my decision in the morning. I certainly think your plan is a good one."

The next morning Mrs. Wingfield told Vincent that she had decided to adopt his plan. He at once held a long consultation with the overseer, and decided which fields should be set aside for the allotments, choosing land close to the negroes' quarters and suitable for the raising of vegetables for sale in the town.

In the afternoon Mrs. Wingfield went down with him. The bell was rung and the whole of the slaves assembled. Vincent then made them a speech. He began by reminding them of the kind treatment they had always received, and of the good feeling that had existed between the owners of the Orangery and their slaves. He praised them for their good conduct since the beginning of the troubles, and said that his mother and himself had agreed that they would now take steps to reward them, and to strengthen the tie between them. They would all be granted their freedom at once, and a large plot of land would be given to each man, as much as he and his family could cultivate with an average of two days a week steady labor.

Those who liked would, of course, be at liberty to leave; but he hoped that none of them would avail themselves of this freedom, for nowhere would they do so well as by accepting the offer he made them. All who accepted the offer of a plot of land rent-free must understand that it was granted them upon the condition that they would labor upon the estate for at least three days a week, receiving a rate of pay similar to that earned by other freed negroes. Of course they would be at liberty to work four or five days a week if they chose; but at least they must work three days and any one failing to do this would forfeit his plot of land. "Three days' work," he said, "will be sufficient to provide all necessaries for yourselves and families and the produce of your land you can sell, and will so be able to lay by an ample sum to keep yourselves in old age. I have already plotted out the land and you shall cast lots for choice of the plots. There will be a little delay before all your papers of freedom can be made out, but the arrangement will begin from to-day, and henceforth you will be paid for all labor done on the estate."

Scarcely a word was spoken when Vincent concluded. The news was too surprising to the negroes for them to be able to understand it all at once. Dan and Tony, to whom Vincent had already explained the matter, went among them, and they gradually took in the whole of Vincent's meaning. A few received the news with great joy, but many others were depressed rather than rejoiced at the responsibilities of their new positions. Hitherto they had been clothed and fed, the doctor attended them in sickness, their master would care for them in old age. They had been literally without a care for the morrow, and the thought that in future they would have to think of all these things for themselves almost frightened them. Several of the older men went up to Mrs. Wingfield and positively declined to accept their freedom. They were quite contented and happy, and wanted nothing more. They had worked on the plantation since they had been children, and freedom offered them no temptations whatever.

"What had we better do, Vincent?" Mrs. Wingfield asked.

"I think, mother, it will be best to tell them that all who wish can remain upon the old footing, but that their papers will be made out and if at any time they wish to have their freedom they will only have to say so. No doubt they will soon become accustomed to the idea, and seeing how comfortable the others are with their pay and the produce of their gardens they will soon fall in with the rest. Of course it will decrease the income from the estate, but not so much as you would think. They will be paid for their labor, but we shall have neither to feed nor clothe them; and I think we shall get better labor than we do now, for the knowledge that those who do not work steadily will lose their plots of land, and have to go out in the world to work, their places being filled by others, will keep them steady."

"It's an experiment, Vincent, and we shall see how it works."

"It's an experiment I have often thought I should like to make, mother, and now you see it is almost forced upon us. To-morrow I will ride over to the other plantations and make the same arrangements."

During the month of August many battles took place round Petersburg. On the 12th the Federals attacked, but were repulsed with heavy loss, and 2,500 prisoners were taken. On the 21st the Confederates attacked, and obtained a certain amount of success, killing, wounding, and capturing 2,400 men. Petersburg was shelled day and night, and almost continuous fighting went on. Nevertheless, up to the middle of October the positions of the armies remained unaltered. On the 27th of that month the Federals made another general attack, but were repulsed with a loss of 1,500 men. During the next three months there was little fighting, the Confederates having now so strengthened their lines by incessant toil that even General Grant, reckless of the lives of his troops as he was, hesitated to renew the assault.

But in the South General Sherman was carrying all before him. Generals Hood and Johnston, who commanded the Confederate armies there, had fought several desperate battles, but the forces opposed to them were too strong to be driven back. They had marched through Georgia to Atlanta and captured that important town on the 1st of September, and obtained command of the network of railways, and thus cut off a large portion of the Confederacy from Richmond. Then Sherman marched south, wasting the country through which he marched, and capturing Savannah on the 21st of September.

While he was so doing, General Hood had marched into Tennessee, and after various petty successes was defeated, after two days' hard fighting, near Nashville. In the third week in January, 1865, Sherman set out with 60,000 infantry and 10,000 cavalry from Savannah, laying waste the whole country—burning, pillaging, and destroying. The town of Columbia was occupied, sacked, and burned, the white men and women and even the negroes being horribly ill-treated.

The Confederates evacuated Charleston at the approach of the enemy, setting it in flames rather than allow it to fall into Sherman's hands. The Federal army then continued its devastating route through South Carolina, and at the end of March had established itself at Goldsboro, in North Carolina, and was in readiness to aid Grant in his final attack on Richmond.

Lee, seeing the imminence of the danger, made an attack upon the enemy in front of Petersburg, but was repulsed. He had now but 37,000 men with which to oppose an enemy of nearly four times that strength in front of him, while Sheridan's cavalry, 10,000 strong, threatened his flank, and Sherman with his army was but a few days' march distant. There was fierce fighting on the 29th, 30th, and 31st of March, and on the 2d of April the whole Federal army assaulted the positions at Petersburg, and after desperate fighting succeeded in carrying them. The Confederate troops, outnumbered and exhausted as they were by the previous week's marching and fighting, yet retained their discipline, and Lee drew off with 20,000 men and marched to endeavor to effect a junction with Johnston, who was still facing Sherman. But his men had but one day's provision with them. The stores that he had ordered to await them at the point to which he directed his march had not arrived there when they reached it, and, harassed at every foot of their march by Sheridan's cavalry and Ord's infantry, the force fought its way on. The horses and mules were so weak from want of food that they were unable to drag the guns, and the men dropped in numbers from fatigue and famine. Sheridan and Ord cut off two corps, but General Lee, with but 8,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry, still pressed forward toward Lynchburg. But Sheridan threw himself in the way, and, finding that no more could be done, General Lee and the infantry surrendered, and a few days later Generals Lee and Grant met and signed terms of peace. General Johnston's army surrendered to General Sherman, and the long and desperate struggle was at an end.

It was a dreadful day in Richmond when the news came that the lines of Petersburg were forced, and that General Lee no longer stood between the city and the invaders. The president and ministers left at once, and were followed by all the better class of inhabitants who could find means of conveyance. The negroes, Irish, and some of the lower classes at once set to work to pillage and burn, and the whole city would have been destroyed had not a Federal force arrived and at once suppressed the rioting.

Whatever had been the conduct of the Federal troops during the last year of the war, however great the suffering they had inflicted upon the unarmed and innocent population of the country through which they marched, the terms of peace that General Grant agreed upon, and which were, although with some reluctance, ratified by the government, were in the highest degree liberal and generous. No one was to be injured or molested for the share he had taken in the war. A general amnesty was granted to all, and the States were simply to return to the position in the Union that they occupied previous to the commencement of the struggle.

More liberal terms were never granted by a conqueror to the vanquished.

Vincent was with the cavalry who escaped prior to Lee's surrender, but as soon as the terms of peace were ratified the force was disbanded and he returned home. He was received with the deepest joy by his mother and sister.

"Thank God, my dear boy, that all is over, and you have been preserved to us. We are beaten, but no one can say that we have been disgraced. Had every State done its duty as Virginia has we should never have been overpowered. It has been a terrible four years, and there are few families indeed that have no losses to mourn."

"It was well you were not in Richmond, mother, the day of the riots."

"Yes; but we had our trouble here too, Vincent. A number of the slaves from some of the plantations came along this way, and wanted our hands to join them to burn down their quarters and the house, and to march to Richmond. Tony and Dan, hearing of their approach, armed themselves with your double-barreled guns, went down and called out the hands and armed them with hoes and other implements. When the negroes came up there was a desperate quarrel, but our hands stood firm, and Tony and Dan declared that they would shoot the first four men that advanced, and at last they drew off and made their way to Richmond.

"Your plan has succeeded admirably. One or two of the hands went to Richmond next day, but returned a day or two afterward and begged so hard to be taken on again that I forgave them. Since then everything has been going on as quietly and regularly as usual, while there is scarcely a man left on any of the estates near."

"And now, mother, that I find things are quiet and settled here, I shall go down to Georgia and fetch Lucy home. I shall be of age in a few months, and the house on the estate that comes to me then can be enlarged a bit, and will do very well."

"Not at all, Vincent. Annie will be married next month. Herbert Rowsell was here two days ago, and it's all settled. So I shall be alone here. It will be very lonely and dull for me, Vincent, and I would rather give up the reins of government to Lucy and live here with you, if you like the plan."

"Certainly, I should like it, mother, and so, I am sure, would Lucy."

"Well, at any rate, Vincent, we will try the experiment, and if it does not work well I will take possession of the other house."

"There is no fear of that, mother, none whatever."

"And when are you thinking of getting married, Vincent?"

"At once, mother. I wrote to her the day we were disbanded saying that I should come in a week, and would allow another week and no longer for her to get ready."

"Then, in that case, Vincent, Annie and I will go down with you. Annie will not have much to do to get ready for her own wedding. It must, of course, be a very quiet one, and there will be no array of dresses to get; for I suppose it will be some time yet before the railways are open again and things begin to come down from the North."

Happily Antioch had escaped the ravages of war, and there was nothing to mar the happiness of the wedding. Lucy's father had returned, having lost a leg in one of the battles of the Wilderness a year before, and her brother had also escaped. After the wedding they returned to their farm in Tennessee, and Mrs. Wingfield, Annie, Vincent, and Lucy went back to the Orangery.

For the next three or four years times were very hard in Virginia, and Mrs. Wingfield had to draw upon her savings to keep up the house in its former state; while the great majority of the planters were utterly ruined.

The negroes, however, for the most part remained steadily working on the estate. A few wandered away, but their places were easily filled; for the majority of the freed slaves very soon discovered that their lot was a far harder one than it had been before, and that freedom so suddenly given was a curse rather than a blessing to them.

Thus, while so many went down, the Wingfields weathered the storm, and the step that had been taken in preparing their hands for the general abolition of slavery was a complete success.

With the gradual return of prosperity to the South the prices of produce improved, and ten years after the conclusion of the rebellion the income of the Orangery was nearly as large as it had been previous to its outbreak. Vincent, two years after the conclusion of the struggle, took his wife over to visit his relations in England, and, since the death of his mother in 1879, has every year spent three or four months at home, and will not improbably ere long sell his estates in Virginia and settle in England altogether.

Table of Contents

With Wolfe in Canada

True to the Old Flag

Redskin and Cow-Boy

In the Heart of the Rockies

Captain Bayley's Heir

With Lee in Virginia