In less than half an hour the tall, rocky crest of "Bald Hill" reared its gray head before the men, and Poynter gave vent to a sigh of relief as he saw that the tiresome ride was nearly at an end. Having traveled the distance four times, twice upon foot, and once on a dead run, he was greatly exhausted, and so sleepy that he could scarcely keep his eyes open.
The outlaws were upon the alert, as the quick, sharp challenge testified when the outer lines were reached. Dismounting with a half-groan, Poynter relieved Fyffe of his "backload," and after securely binding the man, dropped him upon the ground, asking the sentry to keep an eye upon him. Then Poynter threw himself beneath a tree, and almost ere his limbs were still, a fast-increasing rumbling, as of very distant thunder, told how sound was his slumber.
The sun was an hour above the horizon when Poynter again opened his eyes, although he declared he hadn't five winks of sleep. But after a cool bath at the creek close at hand, he felt greatly refreshed, and joined White Crees, who was sitting near one of the fires, smoking a pipe.
"Up for all day, Poynter?"
"Well, I hardly know, to tell the truth," laughed Clay. "I can tell you better after I have some grub."
"There's part of a cold turkey, or here's venison; take your choice."
"Hot meat for me, even if I do have to turn cook to get it," said Poynter, cutting several generous slices from the prime saddle that hung suspended from a tree near at hand. "But, hello, I forgot! What has been done with my prisoner that I brought in last night, or, rather, this morning?"
"I put him in a safe place," returned the outlaw. "The poor devil was nearly dead this morning. You put him with his head down hill, and I really believe that another hour would have finished him."
"'Twouldn't be a very great pity," muttered Poynter, his mouth full of meat, "after I have got out of him what I want to know. And that makes me think—where's Jack?"
"Off on a hunt, I believe; a gang of turkeys passed down the creek this morning, and he's after them. But why?"
"Nothing; only from a hint that he dropped last night about one Meagreson—"
"What!Meagreson, did you say?" excitedly exclaimed the outlaw, bending forward, clutching Poynter with his long, bony fingers by the arm, until the young man winced with pain.
"Thunder! yes, but I ain't made of wood, nor steel either. Do you want to take off my arm?"
"Pardon, Poynter; but that name made me forget myself. Where didyouhear ofhim?"
"From Sprowl; he told Polk Redlaw a long yarn yesterday that I overheard, and enough in it to show me that my secret foe was this Meagreson, or John Dement, as he called himself here."
"Tell me all, just as he said it. I have good reasons for wanting to hear it," added the outlaw, impressively.
Poynter gave a hasty outline, and to his great surprise Crees bowed his head to the earth, his strong form working and writhing as if in mortal agony. But when he would have stopped, a hoarsely-whispered "Go on" from the old man was his only answer.
"And now you know as much as I do," added Clay, arising. "But come, show me where you put Sprowl, and I will see if he can tell me any thing more."
Crees arose without a word, and passed a short distance up the hillside, pressing through some bushes until he stood at the foot of a good-sized tree, in a tiny glade. To the trunk of this, and in an upright position, was bound the form of the wretched Sprowl.
Poynter started back in half-alarm at the fearful change a few hours had made in the man's appearance. Dreadfully haggard and sickly looking, with his eyes protruding, his tongue lolling from his parched jaws, the drops of cold sweat rolling over his face, Sprowl looked as if about to give up the ghost in earnest.
"My God! he's dying," cried Poynter, as he sprung forward and severed the cords that bound the poor devil, laying him down upon the ground.
"Give me your flask; mine's empty," as he turned to Crees, who silently handed it to him, while his eyes were fixed intently upon the wretch's face.
A few swallows were poured down Sprowl's throat, and thus bathing his face and neck with the pungent liquor, Poynter soon uttered a glad cry. In truth, the patient appeared to be recovering, and in a few minutes the light of reason once more shone in his eyes.
"I know that man," slowly ejaculated Crees, not once removing his gaze, that appeared to attract the other's attention much the same as the fascination exercised by the rattlesnake.
"My God! who are you?" almost yelled the wretch, as he suddenly sat up, staring at Crees, wildly.
"Who should know better than you, Wesley Sprowl?" sternly said the outlaw.
"I know you now. You are—"
"Hold!" commanded Crees, "that name is dead now. If you as much as whisper it before I tell you, by all that's holy I'll treat you as I would a snake! Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," faltered Sprowl, once more sinking back.
"Here," interrupted Poynter, checking this by-play, that not a little excited his curiosity. "Here, Sprowl, take another sup of brandy. I want you to answer me some questions, and you'll need your strength before we're through."
"Yes—yes—the brandy!" eagerly muttered the prisoner, clutching at the bottle, and not drawing breath until it was emptied. "There! now I can talk; only I am hungry," he added, wistfully.
"Well, I will get you something, for I am going to treat you a deuced sight better than you deserve, after your lies about me."
"Theywerelies, all of them; but I will confess—yes, I will confess!"
"Just stick to that, old fellow, and my word for it, you'll never have cause to repent doing so," cheerily replied Poynter. "Now, Mr. Crees, if you'll just stay here to keep our friend company, like, I'll go get something for him to eat."
"Gladly; for I, too, have something to ask Mr. Sprowl," returned the outlaw. "And, if you will, please give a whistle when you come back; won't you?"
"Certainly, if you wish it."
"I do. But don't be offended," he added, appealingly. "I will explain it all to you soon. And any thing else that may appear strange, that you wish to know. Will that do?"
"Finely," cordially replied Poynter, pressing his strange friend's hand, and then dashing down the hillside to the encampment-fires.
He cut some venison steaks, and soon had them broiling merrily, after which he prepared hot water for coffee, and stirred up a "hoe-cake," standing it upon a strip of elm-bark to bake before the glowing embers. Evidently he meant to keep his word to Sprowl, of treating that worthy better than he deserved.
When his cookery was completed, Poynter gave the desired signal, and when he reached the tree found that the outlaw was sitting in the same spot, while Sprowl had bowed his head between his hands, evidently deeply moved by some emotion, either of fear or remorse. But the young man quelled the curiosity he felt, for he knew that Crees' word might be trusted, and that ere long all would be explained.
"Well, old fellow, here you are," cheerily cried Poynter, as he placed the food and drink before Sprowl, with not a trace of rancor in his tones. "And do you see how fast you can demolish them, while I do a little talking. But mind you, don't answer before you've weighed well what you say, as you may have to swear to it. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I do hear, and so help me God, I'll tell the honest truth if it hangs me!" solemnly exclaimed the prisoner. "You treat me and talk to me like a gentleman, while I have treated you and yours worse than a dog. I shall say nothing but the truth, and if it must be, will swear to it before any court."
"Now I begin to know you again," cried Clay, gladly; "and I tell you that, guilty as you have been, unless you have helped commit one deed—"
"Your father, you mean?" interrupted Sprowl.
"Yes."
"As God hears me, I never raised a hand or a finger against his life. I falsely swore against his honor, I do not deny, but of any thing further, I am innocent."
"Well, go on and eat. I will tell you my terms, although I frankly tell you that were it not for your wife and helpless family, I woulddemand, notrequest. Now, however, we will let that pass.
"First, I wish you to tell me the plot against my father; who concocted it, and who were the prominent actors in it. Also their reasons for so doing, so far as you are aware of them.
"Then what you know of myself; who it was that has hunted me from 'pillar to post,' to use your own language? Also what you know about one Meagreson,aliasJohn Dement, his character, crimes, and, in short, every thing.
"I warn you, however, that I am not to be deceived; that I know far more than you have any idea of, so that any attempt of that kind will only injure yourself. Do you fully comprehend me?" queried Poynter.
Sprowl answered by a double nod; his mouth being crammed so full of the juicy deer-steak, that speech was impossible.
"Very well. Now, I will tell you further. If you make a clean breast of it, however guilty you may have been, with that one exception, I will let you go free, and in addition give you such a start that, if you endeavor to do so, you can live an honest, comfortable life.
"I will pay for your farm, will build you a house and stock them both, so that you can have no further excuse for going to the bad. But mark me—this is not onyouraccount; it is for your patient, long-suffering wife, and the deeds will be given in her name. Now, what do you say to the bargain?"
"Well, sir, whatcanI say," muttered Sprowl, brokenly, "but that while I have acted like a dog, you treat me as a white man? Perhaps 'twould be a better job if you put me beyond the way of doing any more harm; Idothink so. I have always been a cursed, cowardly fool, and if at times I would try—and God knows that Ihavetried for Mary's sake and the children's—to break off, here would come a temptation, and down I'd go, worse than ever," gloomily replied the prisoner.
"Well," heartily responded Poynter, "better times are coming now, and if you will only help yourself, others will lend a hand. Cheer up, old fellow, and hold your head up like an honest man; there's a heap of good left in you yet, or you'd never talk as you do now."
"If I everdoget on my feet again, it is to you andhimthat I must give thanks, after God," solemnly uttered Sprowl. "But where shall I begin?"
"Tell me first about my father; why and how it was that you acted against him as you did."
And then Wesley Sprowl repeated the tale he had briefly outlined to Polk Redlaw, giving every detail in full; but enough has been said to enlighten the reader. It was a terrible tale of revenge and injustice, in which an innocent man was made the victim of a villain's plottings, aided by such unscrupulous coadjutors as Sprowl and Jonathan Green.
As the sad incidents of his parent's sorrow and ruin were detailed, Clay Poynter (as we must still call him) bowed his head and wept bitter tears of grief and anguish. Had he glanced toward his companion, he would have seen that "White Crees," the outlaw leader, had bowed his stalwart form, and it shook as if with mortal agony.
"About your being driven from Arkansas," said Sprowl, "I know nothing save that this same man followed you in his hatred for your father; that he had sworn you, too, should die a felon's death. But you fled from him, and it was years before he found you here.
"He saw me, also, and knowing that I was poor, tempted me to aid him, as I had done once before. For weeks before he made his appearance openly, he was undermining your reputation, by covert hints and innuendoes, that only too easily found holding-ground in the troubled state of the country; and this was increased by your reticence regarding your affairs and previous life.
"I helped him in this, as did Green, Wigan, Redlaw, Dalton and Gibson. Then you were arrested. Sam Gibson and Frank Dalton were bribed to conceal the dies and counterfeit coin in your house, then to swear to the finding it.
"Jonathan Green was bought over, as I was, to swear as we did. For fear one charge should fail, he arranged that of the murder of John Dement, by which name he had made the acquaintance of Neil McGuire, as they both were fellow Masons.
"He made himself popular in the neighborhood by his friendly manner and the freedom with which he spent his money. He wished the excitement to be great and deadly when you were charged with his death.
"He gave me the diamond cluster-pin that was so well known and told me what to swear. I was poor; he threatened to denounce me as one of the gang unless I performed his bidding, and I consented. It was hard, though, although you may not believe me.
"You had acted the generous friend to me and mine; had furnished food, clothing and medicine, when I was sick and unable to work; all this you did, and yet I would have sworn away your life!" and for a few moments he remained silent.
"Had it not been for the firmness of Neil McGuire our plans would have been fully carried out, and that next morning's sun would have shone upon your corpse, as we fully expected. But then you escaped; how, I never learned.
"Meagreson was in Leavenworth awaiting the message that I had promised to send or bring him, of your death, but instead it was that you were once more a free man. Still he thought and hoped that you would be taken, and had set the police of the city on the alert for you in case you should go there; but it was useless.
"He was fully disguised, as he had been while here, for as he is now over fifty years of age, his hair is naturally almost snow-white. But he wore his years well, and he was not suspected for other than he seemed.
"You know how I attempted to fire your house—it was that mongrel cur, Polk Redlaw, that tempted me; and that I was captured in the endeavor, I now sincerely thank God! It is one crime the less upon my soul; and He knows that there are enough there already," concluded Sprowl, in a broken tone, as he bowed his head, while the hot, scalding tears trickled freely adown his wrinkled cheeks.
There was no affectation about this, as his hearers were fully convinced. He was really moved at the kind and honorable manner in which he had been treated by those whom he had wronged so deeply and terribly.
They knew that it was sincere repentance, and that from then, henceforth, if his life was spared, he would be a different man. The truer depths of his nature were touched; the crust of wickedness was broken, never again to heal over.
"And this Meagreson—do you know nothing of his future plans?" at length asked Poynter, looking up.
"Unless he should hear from me, he was to meet me at the 'Twin Points' Friday night."
"Then you think he will come?"
"I have no doubt of it," was the assured reply. "He will be too anxious to learn the latest news not to come."
"Good! he will probably meet visitors he does not expect," cried Crees.
"That he will! Unless he fails, we will have him at our own terms, and then—"
"And then!" echoed the outlaw.
"Hark!"
It was Poynter who made the exclamation, abruptly checking the outlaw's words. The three men slightly bowed their heads, as if listening intently, while their eyes sought each other's faces. The sound came again.
It was the loud exclamation of a man—such as one would make in driving a refractory yoke of oxen. And yet it could scarcely be that, for the ground surrounding, whence the alarm proceeded, was rough and broken, difficult even for a man to traverse upon foot.
"What is it?" whispered Crees.
"'S-sh! Listen."
"Dod-rot y'ur ongainly copperossyty, kain't you walk chalk? Gee, that—gee, you 'tarnal critter! Dod burn ef I don't rouse you up wi' a saplin'. G'long, now, you creepin' snake!"
A tirade of such adjurations, followed by what sounded like the crack of a whip, and then a strange sort of muffled howl. Such were the noises that aroused the curiosity of the trio, in the little glade.
"Scratch dirt, now, you'd better. 'Tain't much furder, or durned ef I b'lieve we'd git thar to-day, the way youdoescreep. Wuss'n any jackass Ieversee'd! Git up an' git, now, lessI'llgo ahead an' snipe you 'long arter me. How'd thet suit, eh, ole stick-in-the-mud? Shoot at an honest feller ag'in, w'u'd ye? Guess ye won't, no more. Hoop-la!" and then came several more cracks, accompanied by groans and half-choked howls.
"It's Jack," whispered Crees. "Wonder what he's up to?"
"Look!"
As Poynter uttered this exclamation, the bushes parted, and a miserable-looking object broke out into full view. It was a man, but so tattered and begrimed that little else could be guessed. Whether white, black or red, a stranger or an acquaintance, could only be surmised.
His arms were tightly drawn back and secured at the elbows, while a slack withe ran from ankle to ankle. His draggled and matted hair overhung his face, but was not long enough to entirely conceal the existence of a strange freak upon his captor's part.He was bitted!
A good-sized stick was secured between his jaws, about two feet in length. To either end of this a supple vine of grape was attached, so that a jerk, right or left, by the driver, would effectually turn the prisoner, if not quite throw him down.
Holding fast to the opposite ends was the grinning Jack Fyffe, who bore a long, supple hickory rod, with which he occasionally "touched up" the captive. Upon his back were two rifles.
"Good Lord, Jack!" cried Poynter, in amazement, at this truly unique "turnout," "what under the sun do you mean treating the poor devil that way? Who is he, anyhow?"
"Hellow, square, you thar?" returned the rough borderer, appearing not a whit abashed, giving his captive the twitch necessary to turn his head up the hill, and then adroitly applying the whip, that made him spring nimbly forward. "How air you, anyhow, this mornin'? Kinder fotched along a fri'nd to call on you, sorter permiscuous, like. Git up, thar,youcritter; step lively, now, an' show the gen'lemen y'ur paces. Hy—ah!"
"For mercy's sake, Jack, let the poor devil loose!"
"Not ef I knows it," retorted Fyffe, coolly; "I hed too much trouble a-gearin' him up, fer thet. An' marcy—the skunk don't know what thet means.Hedidn't hev no marcy onto you nor the ole man, nor likewise on me, when he tried to shoot me, a little back yon'."
"Who is it?" queried Crees.
"Why, don't you know? It's Jim Meagreson, John Dement, or Snakey, asIcall him," declared Fyffe, exultantly.
Poynter stared in amazement, but not so the outlaw leader. With a half-stifled howl of rage and vindictive joy, he drew his knife and leaped forward. Jack Fyffe thought he meant murder, and caught him by the arm.
"Dang it, boss, he's bad enough; but don't butcher him in thet way!"
"Stand off!" yelled Crees, throwing the other violently from him. "Stand off, I say. I am not mad. He is of more use to me living than dead, you fool!"
"All right, then," returned Fyffe, rubbing his shoulder dolefully. "I know thet, but was kinder afeard thet you'd fergit when y'ur mad was up. Thar he is; I turn him over to you fellers, an' dog-goned glad to git shet on him,Iam, the onmannerly cuss!"
"'Tishim, Poynter; look!" and Crees held back the captive's head so as to more fully expose the wretch's features.
"It is, indeed," gladly exclaimed Clay, as he beheld the man whom he had been falsely accused of murdering. "And an hour since I would have given ten years of my life if this could have been assured me."
"Wal, square, thar he is, 'thout any o' thet. You're welcome to my shar'."
"But how'd you chance upon him, Jack?"
"Thet's a long yarn—too long fer a feller to spin what hain't had no breakfast," added Fyffe.
"True; I forgot. Go get something and then come up. We may need you;" and then, as the borderer hastened down the hill, the young man turned to the captive.
He was in a truly pitiable condition; but those who beheld him had been far too deeply injured by him to indulge in any such feeling. True, they gave him brandy and bathed his head, but it was only to restore him so that they could gain his confession.
He soon revived and stared around at the two men, Sprowl having taken a position out of sight behind the tree, where he had not yet been seen by Meagreson. The men eyed him in silence, but he only vouchsafed them a look of angry defiance.
"Well, James Meagreson," at length said the outlaw leader, "we meet once again!"
"My name isnotMeagreson, and I don't know you—never set eyes on you before," sullenly responded the captive.
"Do you knowme, then?" put in Poynter.
"Know you? Yes; for a vile horse-thief and counterfeiter!"
"Do you mean to say—" began Crees, when he was interrupted by the other.
"I mean to say that I am plain John Dement, an honest trader, and that you shall dearly rue this outrage."
"Bah! that's played out. You may as well own up now, for your accomplice and tool has betrayed you; has exposed all your plots and crimes. If you are obstinate, we will just hand you over to the vigilance committee, whose aid you are so fond of invoking, and let them deal with you."
"Am I a fool?" sneered Meagreson. "Don't I know that you dare no more show your face to one of them than to kiss a rattlesnake? The only answer you'd get would be a hempen cord and swinging bough!"
"Now that's nonsense, old man," put in Sprowl. "You'rethe fool. They've got you in a corner, and you may as well come down. Green and the rest of the boys have owned up, and unless you make terms as we did, it'll be all night with you."
"Who's that?" faltered the prisoner, a gray shade settling upon his florid features.
"Sprowl," replied that worthy. "I've told all I know and am going to swear to it, if you are obstinate; and, as you very well know, it's enough to hang you a dozen times over."
"The others—"
"I tell you they've 'peached, and you're a spotted man, if these gentlemen are only a mind to press the matter," glibly said Sprowl.
A deep groan was his only answer, as Meagreson fell forward, his form trembling like a leaf.
"Let him be, Poynter," said Crees, "and when he thinks it all over, he'll see that it's of no use holding out further. Here comes Fyffe."
"Hellow, what you fellers bin a-doin' to my hoss?" cried that worthy, as he leisurely strolled up the hill, wiping his greasy mouth upon his shirt-sleeve, and smacking his lips. "Make a bully quarter-hoss, he would, ef he was a leetle better trained. Stumbles an' kicks over the traces now, kinder; but he'll do."
"Never mind now, Jack," interrupted Poynter. "He's thinking."
"Yas; needs it, I reckon. While y'ur hand's in, jest think a leetle how all-fired nigh you come to killin' a feller-critter-man. Sp'ilt my ha'r, anyhow," at the same time tugging at the shaggy lock that grew beside his ear, trying to bring it before his eyes. "See thar."
It did indeed look as though a bullet had cut a jagged passage through it, as he had hinted. Then Poynter seated himself beneath the tree, motioning Jack to do the same, saying:
"There's nothing else just now, Fyffe; sit down and tell us how you chanced upon this fellow, and all about it."
"Don't care 'f I do, square," quoth Jack, gnawing off a huge mouthful of "niggerhead," and then passing the plug to Sprowl. "Don't chaw, b'lieve?"
"No."
"I do. Wal, I allus war fond o' tellin' stories. Mam, she used to dress my trowsers with her ol' slipper purty nigh the hull time, 'cause of this habit o' mine; but, Lord, thet didn't do no good. Only driv' it back ag'in, like. But dad, hewasa yarner, now I tell you! I kain't hold a kendle to him when he'd got a good streak on. Jest about half-cocked, an' then stan' from under! He'd allus got a bigger one back, too, ef anybody'd top his'n, fer a cap-sheaf. I tuck arter him, I consait, though the ol' coon 'd offen say 'at he's 'shamed of me, 'cause I couldn't lie better; but thet's nyther hyar nor thar.
"When I 'gun winkin' this daylight airly, I got up an' begun sorter swoopin' 'round fer grub. But blamed the bit could I find, 'cept some wenzun, an' I swore I'd hev none o' thet. Fact is, my appertite is sorter delacut, like, an' won't b'ar plain grub, like you bigger fellers.
"So, as I went down to the crick fer a drink, I see'd lots o' gre't big turkey-tracks in the mud, toes a-p'intin' downarts; an' so I jest shoulders shooter an' shakes moccasin sorter lively, 'cause I'd made up my mind to hev a gobbler fer breakfust,an'nothin' shorter. Ef I says a thing, even ef it be jest to myself, sorter, it's gwine to be did, ef so be it kin.
"But I trailed them dratted birds so fur thet I'd e'ena'most gi'n up all hups o' drappin' one, an' hed 'bout made up my mind thet wenzun was a heap better, enyhow, when I sot blinkers on as fine a strutter as ever gobbled to a hen. Up goes my gun, slip goes my fut, an' down I rolls inter the crick, while the dratted bird flops off through the bushes, tail on eend, like a quarter-hoss wi' a jimson burr fer a crupper.
"Didn'tI cuss some, sorter, as I got out? Mebbe not; 'tany rate, off I put ag'in arter thet turkey, fer I swore I'd hev it ef it tuck all day. No 'tarnal two-legged bird sh'u'd fool me like thet, not by no manner o' means, ef I knowed myself, an' I rayther thunk I did. So on I splurges, lickety-split.
"But I stopped ag'in, mighty sudden, though 'twa'n't a turkey I see'd. It was a man kinder strollin' along, fer his health, I reckon, an' he pulled up too. Thar we stud, a-gawpin' at each other like looneys, when he spluttered out sunkthin' thet kinder smelled o' brimstone, and then took to his heels like the devil was arter him.
"An' efhewasn't, I was, 'cause I never yet see'd a feller thet run 'thout takin' arter 'im jest like blazes. It's a kinder 'farmity like, I reckon; anyhow it's a fact. Wal, he put an I put, jest a-scratchin' dirt an' a-kickin' up the leaves the beatinest kind you ever did hyar tell on.
"I'm purty hefty on the run, as ye know, but blamed ef he wasn't mighty nigh my master. But I'd never say die tell the bellers clean bu'sted, an' at last he jumped for kiver, a-swingin' his shooter mighty keerless like. I did ditto, an' thar we war. I sorter grinned, 'cause it 'minded me of ol' times when ha'r went wild.
"But then I peeked out, mighty keerful like, 'cause I didn't want another hole in my brush-patch overly much, when I hope I may never see the back o' my neck, ef thar he wasn't a-streakin' it through the woods, his coat tails a-streamin' out wuss'n the tag eend to a comet. Lord, wasn't I gritty then? Mebbe not!
"I jest set my grinders like a clamp, pulled the slouch furder on my head an' then set ol' toad-smashers to work. The ground jest fa'rly smoked about me, I run so fast, and I overhauled ol' smarty like fun. He pecked 'round an' see'd it, then whirled 'round to'rds me, yellin' out he'd shoot fer shore.
"But my Ebenezer was up like a mice, an' I kept on, wild fer bitin' an' gougin'. The dratted imp did shoot shore enough, but it jest clipped my ha'r a leetle, an' then I downed him. I was mad at the feller's impedence in burnin' powder when I was jest in fun, all the time, an' drawed my knife to finish up the job.
"I had her raised all ready, when I caught his eye, an' helt my han'. I knowed him in a minute, though he'd changed a heap sence we met last. I knowed how tickled the ol' man 'uld be, ef he see'd him, 'cause he kinder 'lowed he kicked the bucket long ago.
"But thar he was, an' I 'tarmined to fotch him inter camp. So I started, but the bugger tried to run onc't or twic't, an' so I thought I'd see how he'd work in a single gear. He cut up rusty a leetle, an' n'arly nipped off my thumb, the onmannerly brute; but when I once got him fa'rly bitted he done purty well, barrin' the kickin' an' stumblin'," concluded Fyffe, with a long-drawn yawn.
"It'll turn out the best day's work you ever done, Fyffe," said Crees, extending his hand.
"And I will not forget it very soon, either, old fellow," warmly added Poynter.
"Wal, ef so be you fellers is satisfied, I'm shore I be," grunted Jack, lying back upon the grass.
"But what do you think I'd best do next, Mr. Crees?" asked Poynter, after a slight pause, a little anxiously. "I think, with Sprowl's evidence, here, I need not hesitate about showing myself openly once more."
"You have a good deal to work against down there, yet, and I think you'd best wait a little, and see what we can get out of our friend, yonder," responded Crees, thoughtfully.
"Well, I suppose I must, though it's hard to be lying idle when such charges are hanging over me," sighed Poynter.
It was in the afternoon of the same day which Fyffe had so signalized by his turkey-hunt. The prisoner, James Meagreson, was occupying the same position in which Sprowl had done penance some hours before. He had been left here by his captors to ponder upon his situation and reflect as to which should be his future course, whether to persist in his denials or acknowledge defeat and submit to his triumphant enemies with such grace as he could muster.
That his meditations were far from being the most pleasant imaginable, one glance at his sullen, stern features would evidence, and there was a fiery, vindictive glow in his small black eyes that boded ill for Poynter's hopes—a look that had proclaimed a determination to "die game," and to hold them in defiance while breath lasted. Only at intervals a softening tinge would appear, as if his heart failed him, or a desire to remedy the wrongs that he had committed, so far as lay in his power, had assailed his mind.
But these moments were few and far-between, and then, as if the tightly-drawn cords began to pain him yet more intensely, the scowl deepened, and he gritted his teeth in the excess of his fury. The moment had passed, and the deadly hate now raged without alloy.
In the mean time the three friends were gathered together, smoking or conversing idly, or buried deep in thought. Presently Jack Fyffe lay back, dropped his pipe, and then his stertorous breathing announced that he was in a deep, sound slumber.
The remainder of the band had either long since done the same, or went off upon business of their own; the scouts sent out having reported that all was quiet among thevigilantes, those worthies having disbanded and returned to their daily occupations, no doubt highly edified by their midnight wild-goose chase.
Save the regular sentinels, none appeared to be upon the alert excepting Poynter and Crees. The latter was covertly but intently regarding his younger companion with a strange, far-away look in his deep black eyes, while an unconscious sigh would now and then heave up from his massive chest, as if engendered by some painful memory of bygone days.
Poynter suddenly aroused himself, and glancing hastily around, uttered:
"Why, where's Sprowl?"
"Yonder," returned Crees, pointing to the ragged form of the man inquired after, lying under a bush, sleeping. "Poor devil, his last night was a hard one."
"True, but he had no one to thank for it save himself. However, I have some hopes of him yet. He is notallbad, and for the sake of his family I am willing to lend him a helping hand. His wife, poor thing, has seen hard times of late years. The entire support of the family, and of this shiftless, lazy brute into the bargain, has fallen upon her. And she is a perfect lady, too, for all she's uneducated. It's strange what choices women will make sometimes!" exclaimed Poynter.
The outlaw leader only grunted, "Just so."
"But that isn't what I wanted to talk to you about just now. You have several times promised to tell me your story, and why not fulfill it now? 'Tis as well as to wait longer."
"You are right, and I will do so; although I had intended to wait until after Meagreson had acknowledged his guilt. But what Sprowl has said is enough," slowly replied Crees, passing a hand across his brow, as if to chase away some painful reflection.
"But I have not heard him mention your name!" cried Poynter, in surprise.
"Yes, you have heard him tell my whole story, or nearly so. Henry Duaber,my son, have you no greeting foryour father?"
"Son—father!" faltered the young man, gazing in bewilderment upon the outlaw leader, at this strange appeal.
"Your father, Henry," continued the elder man, in a choked tone; "can you not believe me?"
"But my father was—is dead!"
"No, not dead—only in name; he escaped with life. I am your father. By your dead mother—by my sainted wife, boy, I swear it!" solemnly said Crees.
"Is it—can it be true? I will believe it—father!" brokenly exclaimed the young man, bending forward to meet the proffered embrace.
It was a holy scene, this strange meeting of long-parted kindred; and their tears were mingled together, tears such as strong men need not be ashamed to shed. They were deeply affected, as well they might be, and when the first gush of emotion had passed, they sat beside each other, hand clasped in hand, gazing kindly and affectionately at each other.
"It is strange—passing strange!" at length uttered Henry, (as we must now call him, Clay Poynter no longer). "More like a romance than any thing in real everyday life. I have mourned you as dead since my childhood, and now find you my kindest friend, while I still thought you a stranger. How long since you first recognized me?"
"Not until to-day, although your story awoke strange fancies, it was so like mine; but I, too, thought you were dead. I had heard so, and saw what purported to be your grave."
"My grave!"
"Yes. They told me you had died at nearly the same time with your mother. Why, I know not. It could not have been from malice, for they knew me not. I was a stranger in my native home."
"But you—how were we deceived, and why did you not tell us of your escape, and our dear one might still have been alive?"
"Listen, and I will tell you all," replied James Duaber, in broken tones. "It is a sad, sad story of cruel wrong and sorrow; but I was the victim—I and mine! You know the first, or sufficiently well as to render arésuméunnecessary. But it was James Meagreson—the wretch yonder—who caused it all for revenge, because your mother chose me in preference to him.
"A man named Frank Soutar was confined in the same apartment with me, upon a charge identical with the one for which I was to suffer; but as he acknowledged to me, deeming me of the same gang, he was guilty. The mob knew nothing of his having been changed to my cell, as it had only been done that same day; and when they broke open the doors in the dead of night, he was seized for me in the confusion and darkness, while I hid beneath the pallet.
"And the error was never discovered by the mob; they hung him, thinking they were doing as they had been bribed by Meagreson, who took that way to insure my death, fearing lest I should eventually escape his revenge, if he left the law to decide. He was hung, but I took advantage of the open door to flee, and during the excitement, managed to effect my escape unmolested.
"A staunch friend of mine, Jack Fyffe, yonder—who was also under the ban, and in hiding, managed to secure his two horses, and upon them we rapidly fled the country. He had joined the mob with the hope of assisting me to escape, and he alone discovered the error, in time to return and assist me.
"We rode hard all that night, and lay hid at day, for we feared that the error would be discovered in the morning, at least, and then the hounds would be hot upon our trail. We traveled in this way until out of the State, and far into the wilds of Arkansas. But even then we did not feel secure, and thought it best to lie concealed until the storm had blown over.
"Still, I wrote, and managed to post two letters to my wife, telling of my safety, and that I would soon return to remove her and you to our new refuge. Besides this, I counted upon her knowing of my escape, else I would have dared all to have seen her.
"So, I waited for six months, and then was upon my way back, when I met a man who had just come through there. He did not know us, and I questioned him closely. Then it was that I learned of her death, and that you, too, had died. I did not doubt its entire truth, and in my wretchedness, I plunged into crimes and dissipation to drown reflection.
"For years this went, on, until a time came when I felt driven to return to the graves of my dead. No one knew me; I was a stranger in my native home, I had changed so, and saw where my wife lay, and what they said was your last resting-place. Then I went back again to the old life and lived it until I met with you.
"Although I knew you not—you had changed your name, and I did not recognize the little boy in the stalwart, handsome man—I felt drawn toward you. And now that you know how sinful I have been, will you still take me by the hand, and say, father? It is blackened, but there is no blood upon it."
"Father!" cried Henry, once more embracing the outlaw leader. "What matters it now? You leave this life, and we will be all in all to each other, from now henceforth!"
"Thunder 'n' lightnin'! jest look at Snakey!" yelled out Jack Fyffe, as he sprung to his feet before them, and wildly pointed up the hill.
And there was good cause for his excitement.
During the respite afforded by his captors, Meagreson had not been idle, after the first few minutes. His was not a mind to despair for any length of time, and although greatly astounded at the unexpected meeting, with a man whom he had thought long since numbered with the dead, his mind speedily resumed its wonted activity, and he thought but of escape.
Minute after minute he toiled and twisted at the thongs that secured him to the tree, until they rolled up into hours. The skin and flesh were terribly abraded, yet he did not heed the pain. Every instant he expected the return of his enemies, to receive the decision he might have arrived at, when in all probability the progress he had already made would be discovered.
Little by little he worked the cords loose, until one of his hands slipped from the noose. It was with the greatest difficulty that he restrained the shout of exultation that arose to his lips; but he did so, and then his other hand was free.
Owing to the size of the tree, his arms had been secured only at the wrist, after being extended at full length. Another cord was passed around his waist, while his feet were likewise secured, forming toils that his captors deemed it impossible to effect an escape from.
With his hands once free, it was but the work of a minute for the captive to release the rest of his body; and he stepped from the tree, a free man once more. His keen eyes glanced hurriedly around, and in the one look, took in every chance, both for and against his escape.
If he started to flee upon foot, he would, to an almost dead certainty, be discovered and overtaken, as his frame was stiff and weary. Besides, under cover of the one little clump in which he now stood, the entire hillside was fully exposed to the view of the three men below.
But his eye glittered, and the old cold gray look settled upon his face, as his gaze fell upon the form of a horse, all ready equipped for the road, standing carelessly hitched to a pendent bough. If he could once reach that, he felt that escape was assured. But could it be done?
To do so, he must either make a considerabledetour, most of the time in full view of the trio of his enemies, or else, making a bold dash, pass within a score yards of them, trusting to the surprise to succeed in his hair brained project. And this latter course he decided upon.
Gathering all his faculties and straining every nerve, Meagreson made a wild bound from his covert and dashed swiftly down the hillside toward the horse. And had it not been for the watchful eyes of Jack Fyffe, no doubt he would have succeeded, perfectly. But the borderer's shout brought both father and son to their feet, pistol in hand.
"After him, Jack—Henry!" yelled the outlaw leader, "don't shoot—take him alive," but as he spoke, the revolvers of his companions were discharged.
Discharged, but the only perceptible result was a quicker and longer bound upon the fugitive's part.
"Take him, boys; for God's sake don't let him get free! You men on guard—stop that horse!" screamed the chief, as the trio bounded forward with headlong speed.
The fugitive gained the rearing horse in safety, tearing the bridle-reins loose, leaped into the saddle, and with a wild yell, darted away, waving his hand in defiance. And to the great chagrin of his enemies, he disappeared in triumph among the trees.
But their speed was suddenly checked, and for a moment they paused, glancing at each other. Their ears had caught a clear challenge to halt, closely followed by a single whip-like crack; then a wild shriek as of a human being in mortal agony, the quick trampling of hoofs, and then all was still.
As they once more pressed forward in painful suspense, a hollow, unearthly groan sounded from the spot whence the shot had come. Bursting through the bushes, the quartette—for Sprowl had also joined them—beheld a terrible sight.
A man—one of the outlaw guards—was coolly recharging his rifle, with his gaze bent upon a bleeding form before him. There, pale and ghastly, lay the form of James Meagreson; not dead, but apparently dying. The lower portion of his body lay still and motionless, but his head and shoulders writhed to and fro, while his arms were tossed wildly about, in the intensity of his agony.
Wild cries and bitter blasphemy poured from his lips, and he bitterly cursed those surrounding him. The fatal missile had entered his stomach, and passing through, had broken his back.
The men did not attempt to remove him or to bandage his wound; they saw that such a course would only be inflicting useless torment upon him, that his time had come; his life slowly ebbing away with the fast-fleeting moments. Two of them knelt beside his head, and kept him from hastening his end by the useless struggles.
James Duaber spoke to him kindly, imploring him to confess before he died, but his only answer was bitter revilings and curses; the fearful words, coming as they did from lips fast chilling in the embrace of death, caused even those strong men to turn aside with a shudder.
And thus he died, still reckless and defiant; a fitting end for his long and sinful life. There were grave faces that surrounded him, as breath went out, but no tears, no grief at his tragic end. Their injuries had been far too deep.
By this time the majority of the troop had collected, alarmed by the disturbance, and a number of them were detailed by their chief, to prepare a grave for the dead man. It was soon completed, and the corpse was quietly lowered into the bark-lined pit; then the damp mold covered him forever from mortal ken. There was no whispered prayer, no murmured blessing over the unhallowed grave; and nothing but the long narrow mound remained to show where the unfortunate being had been laid, for his last long sleeping-place.
Unloved he had lived, and unloved he had died. Poor James Meagreson!
When we raise the curtain once more upon our characters, it is after the lapse of three months. A quarter of a year, that has not been uneventful to those in whom we are interested; but we can not linger upon them. A brief glance at the leading episodes is all.
The unfortunate death of James Meagreson changed the entire plans of the outlawed couple—father and son. But first of all James Duaber announced to his followers his intention of leaving them, and for the future leading an honest life.
Some of them murmured, but their chief was too highly esteemed and respected, for them to raise any serious opposition. Some few of their number joined him in his resolve, but the majority determined to continue on; the wild free life having charms they could not resist. But it was agreed to leave the neighborhood, and ply their calling elsewhere.
So their attention was only turned to the vindication of Henry Duaber's honor, as the father was totally unknown to the settlers, and the charges brought against him had long since passed into oblivion. Their first move was to secretly abduct Frank Dalton, and when he was confronted with Wesley Sprowl, and found that his perjury had been discovered, he promised to make restitution as far as lay in his power, at any time he was called upon.
Thus prepared, Henry Duaber boldly returned to the settlement, where he was once more arrested by the excited vigilance committee. His trial came off in good time, and thanks to the candor of his witnesses, he was triumphantly acquitted.
None were more cordial and sincere in their congratulations, than Neil McGuire and "Honest Jim" Henderson, who declared his bar was free to everybody, upon the joyous occasion; and never before, in the memory of "the oldest inhabitants," had there been so many "exhilarated" men to be seen, at one time, as upon that afternoon.
There was some talk about giving the perjured witnesses a taste of "birch law," but thanks to the firm opposition of Henry and others, it was not carried into effect. There was one familiar face missing among the crowd, but none regretted this fact. Polk Redlaw was not in the best of odor among hisquondamassociates, and did not make his appearance.
The "big house" was reopened, and old aunt Eunice in her glory once more, never tiring of dwelling upon the prominent partshehad played in the late events. Henry met with no further opposition from the father of Nora, and matters progressed finely between the young couple, and at the same time no less rapidly.
Henry was an ardent suitor, and pleaded his case so well that the "fatal day" was set; and when we reopen our chronicle it had arrived. Great preparations had been made, and although the weather was somewhat cool, it was decided to have a grand barbecue and dance by moonlight in the open air.
Upon the summit of a little knoll was a sort of pavilion, erected for the dancing. The floor was composed of puncheons, the flat side uppermost, rudely dressed with an ax. Seats of the same were ranged around the sides, each end resting upon a block of wood. At one extremity, projecting beyond the platform, a stand was erected for the musicians, of whom there were three, already present.
Busy preparations were going on a little distance from the pavilion, for the "barbecue"; in full view, but far enough away to avoid inconvenience from the smoke, deer and hogs were being prepared for the spit—cattle were by far too valuable for that purpose—while turkey, ducks, prairie-chickens and smaller game were being roasted at the house. These minor items were to be furnished by the guests, who were each expected to "bring something."
It was early yet, but "out West" that is the fashion, and several parties had already arrived, although too few to begin dancing. Then the guests began to drop in more frequently, singly, in couples, or small parties of several; the ladies hastening to the cabin to make any little arrangement of their finery, while their cavaliers unsaddled the horses, securing them to the surrounding trees, placing fodder before them, and then joining the company already gathered at the pavilion.
It was really amusing to watch the actions of some gawky overgrown youth as he fidgeted about uneasily in his oppressive "bestermost" suit, now and then stealing a furtive glance at the opposite end of the stand, to learn if the eyes of his "bright, particular star" were upon him. If so, to note the studied attitude of would-be grace andnonchalantease that he would assume, which was flatly contradicted by his fiery blushes.
To note the envious looks of the more backward, as they watched with longing eyes the free and easy demeanor of some more courageous swain, as he mingled with the blushing and whispering damsels, who appeared little more at ease than the former. There were many beautiful forms and faces to be seen among them, that would fill the breasts of many of our city belles with envy, despite theiroutrédress.
Presently the scraping and tuning of violins broke the spell, and seemed to dissipate the restraint that surrounded all parties. The groups began to mingle and converse more freely; the tap of some dainty foot to be heard as it kept unconscious time to the music; the confused request and murmured consent to dance; then the order, "Choose your pardners, boys!"; the sets were formed, and Henry, with Nora, led off.
The fun waxed fast and furious, the din increased, and the sets appeared mixed in inextricable confusion, the clatter of heavy-soled, horse-hide boots, the lighter fall of a more dainty foot, the rustle of dresses and shuffle of moccasins, with now and then a gay burst of laughter at some unlucky wight who makes a ludicrous blunder; or a stentorian shout from some half-wild borderer as he grows excited; mixed and intermingled with the music, more loud than melodious, while above all soars the clear voice of the "caller-off."
The picture is homely, we grant you, but it is pleasant, nevertheless, and it would be hard indeed to find a fashionable gathering that contains so little alloy of envy, pain and hypocrisy as this little congregation of rude, unpolished, but kind and open-hearted people. Rough and unlettered they may be, but their hospitality shames that of many a more pretentious class; while it would indeed be hard to find a truer or a more generous heart than those that beat under a deer-skin hunting-shirt, or homespun dress of linsey-woolsey.
Occasionally during the figure "promenade all," the toe of some clumsy swain, or perchance that of his rosy lassie, would catch fast in some crevice or protuberance between the rudely-joined puncheons, that cast them with violence to the floor. The next couple being too close and under great headway, would follow suit, and a mass of writhing, struggling humanity form a prostrate heap upon the floor.
Oh, what a burst of laughter would then ascend from hearty lungs, echoing through the woods from grove to grove, arousing the feathered songsters from their nests, causing them to chirp and twitter, no doubt wondering what possessed the people at that unseasonable hour.
Then Jack Fyffe—who did not dance—caused a renewed burst of merriment by seating himself upon one end of an unusually refractory slab, to hold it in its proper place, as he said. And there he sat, as solemn as a judge, smoking his pipe complacently, as though a crowd of the gay dancers were not whirling all about him, until the gathering broke up for supper.
And such a supper! More fit to be likened to a bounteous dinner, served up for a regiment of half-famished, war-worn soldiers. The long tables, manufactured from slabs of rudely-hewn wood, and supported by stakes probably furnished from the limbs of the same tree, were piled almost to overflowing with game and pastry.
Such saddles and haunches of venison; delicious buffalo-humps and pickled tongues—the proceeds of an extended hunt, for this especial occasion—the wild turkey, lusciously brown and tempting, almost bursting with the rich dressing; the prairie-chicken and pheasant, quail and snipe; even down to the huge "black-bird pot-pie."
Then the appetizing pastry and preserves, the results of that same season's "berry-hunting"; the honey, from that as clear and limpid as amber, to the dark and strong-flavored "bee-bread"—the vari-colored comb piled in great stacks.
And the strong, fragrant coffee, sweetened with honey and tempered with the thick, golden cream; the highly-prized tiny cups of "real boughten tea," mingled with stronger draughts for those so inclined, of "corn-whisky" and crab-apple cider.
All this, to say nothing of the barbecued game, which is in great demand from the very novelty of its cooking—I could not tell you one tithe of the good things that were there; the very sight of such abundance seeming enough to banish one's appetite for a fortnight to come.
Henry and Nora were the gayest of the gay, even among that happy crowd, and kept those surrounding them in the highest glee with their witticisms and repartee. But they left the table among the first, and strolled back toward the pavilion.
Jack Fyffe fidgeted around for a few moments, and then hastily followed after, announcing his approach with a sonorous cough, that startled the young couple into turning around.
"Beg pardin, square," apologetically began the borderer, "but p'r'aps you'd better be on y'ur guard, like."
"Why so, Josh?—what do you mean?" asked Henry.
"Jest take a squint over yander, an' mebbe you'll see."
Duaber glanced in the direction indicated, and a hot flush passed over his face as he noticed the tall, dark form of Polk Redlaw leaning against a tree, apparently deeply absorbed in thought. But had they been a little closer, a snakelike look would have been seen from beneath the slouched hat, fixed vindictively upon them, while one of the hands that rested across his bosom fiercely gripped the haft of a long, keen knife, hidden within his shirt. "He here!"
"Never mind, Henry, let him go," nervously whispered Nora, "he can't hurt you now."
"If he keeps his distance I will not molest him," answered Henry. "Besides, I do not believe he is armed. Do you see any, Jack?"
"No, but that don't signify," grunted that worthy. "A snake don't show its teeth tell it goes to strike, an'he'sa copperhead,heis."
"Well, I'll watch him," and the young couple turned away, while Jack, his mind relieved by delivering the warning, repaired to the table to indulge in another meal.
But in five minutes more Henry had totally forgotten the warning, and had thoughts only for Nora. Fortunately, she was not so oblivious, and hearing a slight noise behind them turned suddenly, just in time to behold the crouching form of the mongrel, as he uplifted his heavy knife.
Her shriek startled Duaber, and he quickly turned, in the nick of time, to nimbly avoid his enemy's rush, adroitly tripping him with one foot, while he delivered a lightning-like blow with his right fist, full upon the dastard's neck, that hurled him headlong to the ground as if he had been shot. Before the affray could go any further, the combatants were surrounded and Redlaw disarmed, being rather roughly handled by Jack Fyffe, who finally ended by kicking him from the grounds.
In a short time the incident was forgotten by the majority, and the dancing once more resumed. But Jack did not occupy his old position, and when he again appeared he was fully armed, a rifle in hand and revolver at his waist.
Neither did he enter the pavilion, but stationed himself at a little distance, beside a tree, where his form was so blended with the shadows that at a score yards distant it was not visible. So another hour passed away, and he obstinately retained his post, heedless of fatigue.
Suddenly he uttered a low grunt, and crouched forward, half-raising his rifle, while the faint click told of its being cocked. A dim, shadow-like form had caught his roving glance, and upon it his every attention was now centered. Twice the long barrel rose to his cheek, and as often was it lowered, while his head craned forward as if in doubt.
Just then the music ceased, at the words, "promenade all—to your seats!" and the dancers separated. Jack Fyffe gave vent to a startling yell, and quickly raising his rifle, discharged it with an instantaneous aim.
The wild cry that followed told how true had been his aim; but it was duplicated. Quick as had been his motion, another flash had streamed out upon the darkness, from the spot at which he had aimed, andtwocries were mingled with the reverberating echoes, and then came a dull, heavy fall upon the floor of the pavilion.
Jack did not glance toward the latter, but with an angry howl, more like that of a famished wild beast than a man, leaped forward toward the spot from whence had come the secret shot. A dark form lay there, motionless and silent, but he heeded not that. One by one the chambers of his revolver were emptied, and then he spurned from him with his foot the dead and mangled form of the mongrel assassin, Polk Redlaw.
In the pavilion a pale and horrified group were gathered, some bending over the bleeding, senseless form of Henry Duaber, while others attended to the fainting girl who was so soon to have become his bride. Heads were gravely shaken in answer to inquiring looks; their decision was that the young man would never speak again.
He breathed faintly, but each respiration seemed as if it would be his last. The blood slowly oozed from a ghastly wound upon his head, and they said that his brain had been pierced.
But we are happy to be enabled to state that they were greatly mistaken; had it been true, it would have made too sorrowful an ending to our story—one that the reader might well grumble at; for there had been no marriage as yet, and what is a novel without that?
In fact, he recovered his senses long before Nora did, and when his wound was washed, it was found that the bullet had only cut a deep gash upon his head, merely stunning him for the time being. When he had once convinced Nora that he was really unharmed, he declared he only had a slight headache, and made the assertion good by carrying out the original programme, and heroically passing the trying ordeal of changing the young lady into Mrs. Nora Duaber, that same night.
The dance was broken up by this catastrophe, and while no one expressed pity for the dead man, he was reverently buried, before another sun shone. Nora knew nothing of this at the time, and her joy was unclouded, for more reasons than one.
And now we must leave them, with only a few parting words.
The young couple duly entered the "big house," where, with aunt Eunice for a housekeeper, they led a peaceful, happy life. A few years since, James Duaber died, loved and respected by all who knew him; the fact of his old reckless life having never transpired, the secret being safe between the three.
Wesley Sprowl still lives, and is in moderately comfortable circumstances, thanks to the generosity with which Henry Duaber fulfilled his promise. He is not rich, and never will be; his disposition prevents that. But his sad and long-suffering wife has greatly changed for the better, we are glad to state.
And worthy Jack Fyffe, although now well along in years, is still hale and hearty; can handle his heavy rifle with sufficient precision to keep the larder well supplied with small game, and takes great delight in teaching the little Duabers how to shoot, swim and ride. He and "Honest Jim" Henderson are great cronies, often sitting for hours over their glasses and pipes, vying with each other in their stories of "when I was young." To listen for a while, one would be strongly tempted to believe that "Sinbad the Sailor," Robinson Crusoe, or the worthy Baron Munchausen had returned to life, and inhabited the shapes of "the venerable story-tellers."
THE END.
DIME POCKET NOVELS.
PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY.
1—Hawkeye Harry. By Oll Coomes.2—Dead Shot. By Albert W. Aiken.3—The Boy Miners. By Edward S. Ellis.4—Blue Dick. By Capt. Mayne Reid.5—Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.6—The White Tracker. By Edward S. Ellis.7—The Outlaw's Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.8—The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.9—Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.10—The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.11—The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.12—Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.13—The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.14—Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.15—The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.16—Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.17—Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.18—Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.19—The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robins.20—The B'ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.21—Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.22—Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.23—Old Kent, the Ranger. By Edward S. Ellis.24—The One-Eyed Trapper. By Capt. Comstock.25—Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.26—The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.27—Single Eye. By Warren St. John.28—Indian Jim. By Edward S. Ellis.29—The Scout. By Warren St. John.30—Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.31—The Mystic Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.32—The Golden Harpoon. By R. Starbuck.33—The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.34—Old Lute. By E. W. Archer.35—Rainbolt, Ranger. By Oll Coomes.36—The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.37—Carson, the Guide. By J. H. Randolph.38—The Heart Eater. By Harry Hazard.39—Wetzel, the Scout. By Boynton Belknap.40—The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.41—Wild Nat, the Trapper. By Paul Prescott.42—Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.43—The White Outlaw. By Harry Hazard.44—The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.45—The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.46—Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. P. Ingraham.47—The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.48—The Phantom Tracker. By F. Dewey.49—Moccasin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.50—The Wolf Queen. By Charles Howard.51—Tom Hawk, the Trailer.52—The Mad Chief. By Chas. Howard.53—The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.54—Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.55—Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.56—The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.57—Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Hill.58—Cloudwood. By J. M. Merrill.59—The Texas Hawks. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.60—Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard.61—Mad Anthony's Scouts. By E. Rodman.62—The Luckless Trapper. By Wm. R. Eyster.63—The Florida Scout. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.64—The Island Trapper. By Chas. Howard.65—Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.66—Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.67—Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.68—Iron-Hand. By Frederick Forest.69—The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.70—The Phantom Rider. By Maro O. Rolfe.71—Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.72—Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.73—The Skeleton Scout. By Maj. L. W. Carson.74—Little Rifle. By Capt. "Bruin" Adams.75—The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.76—Old Ruff, the Trapper. By "Bruin" Adams.77—The Scarlet Shoulders. Harry Hazard.78—The Border Rifleman. By L. W. Carson.79—Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.80—Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. By R. Ringwood.81—Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.82—Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.83—The Specter Horseman. By Frank Dewey.84—The Three Trappers. By Seelin Robins.85—Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.86—The Hunter Hercules. By Harry St. George.87—Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.88—The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.89—The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.90—The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.91—Star-Face, the Slayer.92—The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.93—The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.94—Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.95—The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.96—The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.97—The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.98—Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.99—Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.100—Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.101—Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.102—Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.103—The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.104—Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.105—Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.106—The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.107—Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.108—The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.109—The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.110—Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.111—The Texas Tiger. By Edward Willett.112—The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.113—Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.114—The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.115—The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.116—Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.117—Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.118—Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.119—Two-Handed Mat. By Jos E. Badger, Jr.120—Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.121—Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.122—Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.123—The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.124—Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.125—The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger.126—Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.127—Silverspur. By Edward Willett.128—Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger.129—The Child Spy. By George Gleason.130—Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger.131—Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.132—Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.133—The Lost Cache. By J. Stanley Henderson.134—The Cannibal Chief. By Paul J. Prescott.135—Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.136—Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.137—Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.138—Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
The following will be issued in the order and on the dates indicated.
139—The Scioto Scouts. By Edward Willett. Ready140—The Border Renegade. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.141—The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark. Ready142—Boone, the Hunter. By Frederick Whittaker. Ready December 2d.143—Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. Ready December 16th.144—The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton. Ready December 30th.145—The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr. Ready January 13th.146—The Silver Bugle. By Lieut. Col. Hazleton. Ready January 27th.
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Address, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.