"I'm certain of it. They know our strength now, and they dare not retreat—their tribe would disgrace them if they let two men foil them. No, depend upon it, they'll give us work enough—and hot work at that."
"God grant that we may be able to hold our own! Not for myself," Abel hastily answered the hermit's keen glance, "but forher. She is all I have left on earth now."
"Then you—you are an orphan? Your mother is—"
"Dead. But whether my father lives or no, I can not tell. I can remember nothing of him but what my mother told me. On her death-bed she bade me seek for him, nor rest satisfied until I had found him, either living, or in his grave. If living, to give him her forgiveness for the great wrong he had done her. But why do I tell you this? It can not interest you—a stranger."
"It does—deeply. Perhaps because you are a friend. Tell me more—abouthim. Perhaps I can give you some clue—"
"Hist! Is not that the scratching sound of feet upon the trail?" hastily whispered Abel, bending his ear.
"Yes—the devils are coming. I will take the first one that shows his head—you the second. Remember waste no shot."
Kneeling in the mouth of the cave, the two men silently awaited the appearance of their enemies. The rifle was leveled, the long bow half bent. And the scratching noise sounded more distinct.
Then the black muzzle of a rifle crept noiselessly over the escarpment. The hermit smiled. The guess was a poor one. The bullet would strike two feet to the left.
The rifle cracked. As though believing the smoke-cloud would screen them, the savages uttered their war-cry, and sprung up to gain the ledge.
The hermit laughed aloud. As the foremost figure appeared in view, the strong bow was bent—then the shaft leveled. Striking fairly, the broad, muscular breast, the missile passed entirely through, falling upon the plain far beyond the mound. Clutching, tearing convulsively at the wound, the Indian, with the terrible yell almost universally given by his race, fell heavily backward.
At the same instant Abel Dare fired, the flame from his rifle blackening the face of the second savage whose skull was crushed in. The fall of these two bodies, checked the advance of their comrades, and gave the hermit time to deal the finishing stroke by a daring deed.
Dropping his weapon, he rushed forward, heedless of the yelling fiends upon the ledge above, and seizing upon one of the large bowlders, fairly raised it from the ground, and dashed it down upon the struggling savages. Two arrows struck the rock by his side, one of them tearing through his garments, but he did not hesitate. Stooping, he seized a second rock. An arrow struck him, and he fell to the platform. A yell of devilish triumph rung out from the savage marksmen above. But their exultation was premature.
With an angry cry, almost mad, the hermit struck the bowlder with his hands, rolling it over like a feather-weight, sending it down the hollow trail to complete the work its fellow had so terribly begun. Another arrow splintered its flinty head beside him, but uttering another cry he scrambled back to the mouth of the cave, well knowing that the trail was once more clear of savages.
Anxiously Abel bent over him. A long arrow was sticking deep in his back, buried half its length in the flesh. It seemed impossible for the wound to be other than mortal. But the hermit smiled grimly.
"Don't be alarmed, lad; I've fought down harder blows than this. I don't think it went deep enough to kill—you see it's only through my side. Cut off the feathers, and push it through. I feel the point pricking the skin."
In silent amazement Abel obeyed, and then the blood-stained arrow was cast aside. While thus engaged, the wounded man had torn a bit of cloth from the young settler's shirt, and after chewing it hastily, pressed it into the orifice; another bit closed the second, and then he staggered to his feet, cutting a broad strip from his clothes.
"This will do for a bandage. Tie it hard and tight."
Abel tore the sleeve from his shirt, making two pads, which he placed over the wounds, then drawing the broad strip of buck-skin around the hermit's body as tightly as possible, secured it firmly. By this time the strange being had apparently recovered. As he said, the wound had in a manner paralyzed the muscles of his body, though only momentarily.
Edith had been a pale and trembling witness of all this, crouching just within the cave. Death seemed inevitable when the stern onset was made, but now she breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that they all were yet safe.
The repulse had been bloody in the extreme, and the loss of the Indians had been very severe. Yet it seemed only to increase their resolution to conquer. As the hermit said, they would never be beaten by two men. And now, though in silence, they were again advancing to the spot of death.
A dark line cautiously broke upon the grayish white edge of the rock, rising noiselessly higher, until a pair of eyes glared strangely toward the defenders. A faint cry from Edith called their attention, then following the direction indicated by her trembling finger, they discovered the head of a savage slowly rising above the ledge. Quick as thought, Abel flung forward his rifle and fired, just as the hermit cried:
"Don't shoot—it's a trick—they're shoving up a dead man to draw our fire!" and then he clutched the bow and notched an arrow to the string.
As the rifle-shot rung out, a cry of triumph broke from the lips of the savages, and the corpse that had availed them so well was cast aside, while in quick succession they sprung upon the ledge. They believed the game was in their own hands now, for the marksmen above had telegraphed them the fall of the hermit, and now that the other's rifle was empty, a single rush would end all.
But the first one whose foot touched the ledge bounded backward, yelling convulsively, a feathered shaft quivering deep in his skull. He fell half-way down the hill, but to one side of the trail, that was now densely crowded with yelling warriors, rushing to the ledge above.
Like living shadows, the yelling red-skins leaped upon the narrow ledge, the bright blades of their brandished weapons gleaming in the sunlight. Twice in rapid succession the hermit's bow twanged sharply, the death-note of as many screeching fiends. Again the weapon was bent—but the wielder staggered forward, as, with a sullen sound, the frayed string snapped in twain, the arrow dropping useless to the ground. It seemed as though all was over, for Abel Dare was just ramming home a bullet. Before he could withdraw the rod, the enemy would be upon them bodily.
All this had occurred with the rapidity of thought. The red-skins had not yet recovered from the surprise given them by being confronted with one whom they supposed dead.
Recovering himself, the hermit, still clutching the bow, sprung back and raised Edith in his arms, crying for Abel to follow them quickly, then darted into the darkness of the cave. Hard upon his heels trod the young settler, while, recovering from their momentary confusion, the Osages dashed after the fugitives with blood-curdling yells.
But the nimble-footed savages were too fleet for the fleeing trio, and the hermit, panting from exertion and growing weakness, exclaimed to Dare:
"I'll have to give in. There is but one thing to do. You go on through the passage, leave the girl and me—I'll see that no harm comes to her—and make your way out of the other end of the passage. There you'll be in the open country, and, if you are spry, you can bring the settlers down to help us. It's the only way. Go at once, or we all perish here together."
Abel hesitated. What, leave Edith? She guessed the thought.
"Go, Abel. I feel that it is the only way to save me. Do as our friend suggests. Get the settlers or Lightfoot on the trail, and all will yet be well."
"I will go! God forgive me if any ill happens to you!" and he disappeared in the darkness.
The savages, led by the renegade, were soon up with the old man and his charge, and came down on them with the fierceness of tigers. Their leader, however, interposed to save the fugitives from slaughter; he had other designs upon them than to permit the old hermit an easy death.
The captives were led backward to the outer world again, and then on toward the Indians' late camp, around whose still burning fire the party gathered.
It was strange, but true, that Abel had, in pursuing his tortuous course through the cave, come out near this very spot, and when the party emerged in view from above, he beheld all from his hiding-place. With the eyes of a basilisk Abel watched. Edith was placed upon a couch of leaves to one side of the fire. The hermit, held by two stout braves, was brought into the full firelight. The White Wolf hurriedly addressed his braves, his words being received with evident gratification. Then he turned to the captive.
"Wal, old man, I don't s'pose you onderstand what I said to these braves, so I'll repeat. You've did us a heap o' mischief—killed a durnation lot o' critters as you wasn't fit to hold a torch to, an', o' course, you've got to take the consequence. 'Tain't much—only a little fun, ye see, an' you kin go free a'ter it's over, 'f ye want to. You see the point o' rock up thar? We'll jist throw a rope over it, then hitch a slip-knot over your thumbs an' haul ye up a little ways. Unfort'nately feryou, the boys hes built a fire under it, but thet'll soon burn down. Understand?" and the White Wolf laughed diabolically as he peered into the hermit's face, while the savages appeared delighted.
"Do your devil's work," coldly replied the hermit, apparently unmoved by the horrible threat. "I am a man—words alone can not frighten me."
"We'll try more'n words, then," angrily snarled Grable, as he made a sign to the savages, then seized the captive.
A rude though stout rope was now produced. It had been manufactured from strips cut from the skins found in the cavern. This was, with considerable difficulty, cast over the point of rock alluded to by the renegade, both ends reaching the floor. Upon one of these a neat slip-knot was made.
"Now tell me whar the young feller hid—Abel Dare," suddenly uttered Grable, stooping forward to peer into the captive's face, a venomous glitter in his eyes.
"I am not a white Indian—a traitor and renegade, to betray my kind. Go seek—mayhap you will find him."
"Better tell—it'll make it easier fer ye, 'f ye do."
"A lie—foolish and bare-faced. You have resolved to kill me, and even ifyouwere inclined to be merciful, these men around would take the job out of your hands. Go on—you will gain nothing from me," coldly replied the hermit.
In his rage Grable struck the captive a brutal blow in the face, the blood trickling from where his heavy fist alighted; but the hermit did not flinch an atom. Half-frantic, Grable cut the bonds that held the captive's arms, and raised both hands above his head, to slip the noose over them. Quick as thought, the hermit wrenched loose from the savages who were holding him, and struck the renegade to the ground. But then he was seized again and held fast, despite his desperate struggles.
Howling with rage, Grable sprung up and plunged a knife in the captive's breast. With a wild cry, Edith sprung forward to arrest the blow. Cursing her, Grable struck her a fierce blow in the face. With a moaning cry, she sunk to the ground.
A wild cry—horrible in its intensity of rage—rung through the cavern, and then a dark form shot through the air, alighting beside Grable, whose throat was clutched with a giant's grip, as he staggered backward, borne to the ground beneath the shock. It was Abel Dare, wrought to madness by seeing his loved one so brutally stricken down.
The savages started back in affright and amazement. At first they believed themselves attacked by something more than mortal man. Thus released, the hermit staggered upon his feet. Then, with a hollow cry, he turned, and rushing forward to the edge of the encampment, he leaped and was gone!
CHAPTER VIII.
A FIERY ORDEAL.
The Wood King did not notice the pause of Abel Dare, nor did he make the discovery that he was alone, until fully a mile had been traversed. Then, as he repeated an unanswered query, he turned around.
The young man was not in sight. Believing him to be close at hand, Boone uttered a low whistle, to hurry him up. But there came no answer. Again and again, with increased volume, the signal rung out; but the result was the same. No answer came to the impatiently listening ears.
Wonderingly Boone began retracing his steps. What could have happened? Surely no serious accident, or he must have been alarmed.
His soliloquy abruptly terminated. A faint sound met his ear that, at first, he thought might be the strayed, but then he knew better. Instead of one pair of feet, there were a full score. The Osages were once more closing upon him.
For a moment the Wood King listened as though undecided what course to pursue. By pressing forward in that one originally pursued, he might possibly escape detection, but it would almost certainly be fatal to Abel Dare, who, ignorant of the crooks and turns of the trails, would easily become bewildered and thus fall an easy prey to the savages. Reasoning thus, Boone struck into a trail that bore abruptly to the right, gliding rapidly along.
For a while he believed he would escape without being sighted by the Osages, but then this hope died out. As he turned an abrupt curve in the trail, he caught sight of a dark figure gliding toward him. There could be no mistaking it; the moonlight was still too clear for that. The figure was that of an Osage warrior.
A collision was inevitable. At nearly the same moment, the savage caught sight of the pale-face, and drawing his tomahawk, flung back his arm for a cast, uttering the shrill yell of discovery. Quick as were his motions, the Wood King anticipated them, and with a spiteful report the long rifle sent its leaden pellet crashing through the Indian's brain, turning the cry of triumph into a shriek of horrible agony. Then a corpse lay quivering upon the rocks.
For a moment Boone almost despaired. In answer to the yell of the now dead savage, cries were echoing from every point of the compass. The wood-ranger was surrounded. Since entering the rocky tract, the Osages had scattered, some entering each one of the numerous trails that branched off from the main one, so that, by Boone's backward movement in quest of Abel Dare, he had glided into their very midst. Death or capture seemed inevitable.
Still the Wood King was not one to tamely submit while a chance remained him. Knowing that the yell and rifle-shot would draw the savages directly to that spot, he darted forward past the dead body, on the faintest chance that this trail was now unoccupied by other than himself.
Scarcely had a hundred yards been traversed ere a shrill whoop rung out from the right, telling that his flight was discovered. Clenching his teeth, Boone darted ahead with all the speed he could bring into play over such a rough trail. Bounding over bowlders with the activity of one in his prime, scrambling up or climbing down an abrupt ascent or descent, the Wood King fled from his enemies, who were now fairly upon his track. A thrill of renewed hope pervaded his being as he became convinced that his enemies were all behind him; that the slain savage had been the only living obstacle in the way of his flight.
Having more than once explored this strange tract of ground, Boone improved every little advantage, losing no time in making useless turns, heading direct for a place of refuge not far distant, where he hoped to elude his persistent pursuers. Evidently the Osages divined his purpose, for they pressed on at reckless speed, more than one coming to grief upon the jagged rocks in their mad haste. Their yells rung out loud and piercing. Boone's brows contracted as he thought of the result should their cries arouse some of the wandering band of foes ahead, and enable them to cut off his flight. Then he smiled grimly at the wild, improbable idea.
The rock-bed was cleared, and the hunted scout darted forward with accelerated speed. A narrow, gravelly tract was passed; then came one of sand, thickly covered with coarse grass. Beyond this the grass grew more rankly, with straggling oak and thorn bushes. Through this Boone darted, heading straight as the crow flies, with the nearest savage two hundred yards behind, now running in stern silence, straining every muscle to the utmost in the endeavor to overtake the fugitive before he could reach the covert for which he was heading.
On through the stiff, stubborn bushes Boone dashed; then another belt of grass lay before him. The end was now near at hand, and he felt invigorated. Again the savages yelled, this time partaking more of chagrin than anticipated triumph. Boone smiled grimly, his head bent forward, his steps carefully calculated.
The nature of the ground changed again. It would give beneath his feet, springy, elastic. Occasionally a few drops of water would be dashed aside. It resembled the edge of a swamp; the mud, though growing soft, was not sticky. The grass began to grow in irregular patches, with black spaces between. Here and there the moonlight was reflected back from water. Still beyond grew a dense wall of something grayish brown. This was the hiding-place toward which Boone had been tending.
In fact it was a large shallow pond, covered with a dense growth of wild-oats, reeds and bushes. The water was nowhere deeper than a man's hight. Amidst this thick-laced growth a fugitive might lie hidden within arm's-length of an enemy, without being seen.
Suddenly Boone raised his head. The yells of his pursuers were echoed back from the opposite side of the pond. Faintly glimmering through the undergrowth he could distinguish a camp-fire. Evidently a party of savages had been resting there until aroused by the shouts of their kindred, and were now spreading out to intercept the game that was afoot.
Even had he not resolved upon it, there was now no other course open to the Wood King but to seek refuge in the pond, and he hastened on, bounding from one tussock to another like a deer in full flight. Suddenly he disappeared from view of the savages who had paused at the edge of the pond. He had sunk down in the water, crawling forward until the dense grass was reached. These he carefully replaced behind him, and then listened intently.
All was still save the rustling of the fresh breeze swaying the grass and reeds. What devil's plot were the savages hatching? Why did they not search for their prey? This course Boone had counted upon their following, feeling sure that while they were thus engaged he could manage to steal away unseen. While wondering, he cautiously loaded his rifle, and then, noiselessly as possible, pushed on toward the middle of the pond.
For half an hour he stood waist deep in the water, anxiously listening for some sound by which he might judge of the enemy's movements, but in vain. But then his face was upturned, and he sniffed quickly at the air. A faint trace of smoke was perceptible—and yet the wind was blowing away from the camp-fire he had seen. Could it be? An involuntary exclamation of horror broke from his lips. Only too plainly he read the truth.
The Indians were setting fire to the reeds and grass!
But would it burn? Eagerly Boone felt of that growing so thickly around him. It cracked and crumbled beneath his hand. It was dry as tinder to within a foot of the water. And now the smoke was thicker and more dense.
Hastily he plunged on, seeking for a spot where was open water, but in vain. The reeds grew everywhere. Then he paused. A warning sound came to his ears. It was the roaring, rushing voice of the devouring element, crying aloud for its victim.
Crushing a handful of the stuff, he placed it upon the pan, then discharged his rifle. A spark caught. Tenderly he blew his breath upon it. It flickered—grew larger—then died out. And the roaring of flames grew louder and nearer, and the smoke was almost unbearable.
Slinging the rifle on his back, Boone cut and slashed at the stout-stemmed grass and reeds, flinging them from him in handfuls, clearing a space around. The sweat rolled from his face—not alone from the violence of his exertions, for the air was now hot and parching—like that of an oven. Already he found it difficult to breathe.
Sinking beneath the surface, he tore at the muddy bottom, scooping up great handfuls, and then daubing it over his head and face. Then he tore off the woolen hunting-shirt and wound it round his head and neck. He could breathe more freely now, since the smoke was excluded. And, too, it shut out the horrible glow that now lighted up the scene, and deadened the sickening roar.
Again and again he dipped beneath the surface to cool his aching temples; then as he felt the intense heat, the falling particles of the reeds and rushes, Boone knew that the fire-fiend was upon him, and inhaling a long breath, he sunk beneath the surface, his head touching the cool, muddy bottom. Clinging to the slimy roots, he lay there until it seemed as though his lungs would burst. Then the long-pent-up breath came forth. For a few moments longer he resisted, then rose to the surface. Though the breath he inhaled seemed blistering his throat, Boone gasped with delight. It was renewed life. But then the heat seemed melting his very brain, scorching the woolen garment that now steamed like a furnace, and again the hunter sunk to the bottom.
Twice was this repeated, then as a cooler current of air struck the shrouded head, he tore the bandage free and glared around. A broad wall of flame was gradually receding. The surface of the pond seemed one living coal. A second glance showed him this was the water-soaked part of the growth, too green to blaze up.
The fiendish yells of the savages came indistinctly to his ears above the crackling roar. He started and bent his ear keenly. Then his face lighted up. From one side there came no yells. It seemed as though the savages had deemed it impossible for the pale-face to live through the fiery ordeal, and had all flocked to cut off his retreat to the opposite side to that on which the fire had been started.
Without reflecting that, notwithstanding the silence, some might have been left to guard this point too, Boone plunged forward, thrusting the glowing stalks down into the water as he proceeded, feeling that this was his only chance of escape. To wait until the fire was out and the smoke-cloud raised from the surface, he knew would be fatal. Then the keen-eyed savages would espy him, when captivity or death must follow; for he was too greatly exhausted to flee for life now.
Hurriedly he pressed forward, too hardly bestead for time to think of using much caution, for he must gain the undergrowth beyond before the flames died out, or be discovered. Gaining the shallow water, he crept forward, crouching low down, with drawn knife, ready to sell his life dearly. But no alarm was raised as he gained the edge of the pond. That side seemed deserted.
With a muttered prayer of thanksgiving, the Wood King pressed on with as much speed as he could extract from his weary, sorely-tasked limbs. At length he sunk down behind the first line of bushes, and glanced back.
The flames had swept the pond clear to the further shore, and were now rapidly dying out. Flitting here and there, he could just discern several human forms. They were the Indian, and he knew, by their actions, that his flight had not been discovered. Still, knowing that his trail would eventually be found and followed, Boone dared not give way to the drowsiness that was stealing over him, and so arose, pressing steadily on until the rock-bed was gained. Here his trail would be lost. Knowing this, he felt that he was saved, and kneeling, rendered thanks to the One who had so wonderfully preserved him.
Yet he dare not halt here for the rest he so greatly needed. He knew that his trail would be followed to the rock-bed, and that thoroughly searched by the savages before they would allow such an enemy to escape. So he wearily pressed on, through the gray light of coming dawn, shaping his course by the knowledge that Lightfoot must be impatiently awaiting his coming at the cave by the Osage.
Clearing the rock-bed, he struck a direct course for the rendezvous. The cool morning breeze greatly revived him, and partially dispelled the drowsiness. Once he paused. There came to his ears the faint sound of yelling, from the far right. Though he knew it not, it was the discovery of Abel Dare by the Osages under Seth Grable.
Half an hour later Boone discovered two smokes: the nearest light and fleecy, the other dark and heavy, arising, as he calculated with a peculiar thrill, from the vicinity of the cave. Was it a signal kindled by Lightfoot to hasten his coming? This interpretation did not satisfy him, though he could think of none other.
Both smokes were before him, almost in a direct line. Hastily advancing to the opposite swell, he crept along until he could look down into the valley. From a small grove of trees beside a tiny creek, arose the smoke. Even as he looked, a body of horsemen filed out into the open ground. A wild cheer broke from his lips, and leaping up, Boone ran forward, waving his hand as a signal.
The party instantly halted and seemed about to turn back into the grove, but then appeared to recognize the comer as a white man. Breathlessly Boone gained their side, but not until he spoke did they recognize him. Black mud had dried upon his face and hair. His skin, what little was visible, was burned to a blister, blackened with smoke. A more deplorable looking object could scarcely be imagined.
Amid their hasty questions, the eyes of Boone were anxiously fixed upon the smoke-column beyond the prairie. Reason told him that Lightfoot was too good a scout to kindle such a beacon when so many enemies roamed through the country. Abel Dare might have done it, but was he there? Boone doubted it.
"Boys," he said, speaking hurriedly, "I believe that smoke means danger to a friend of ours—one true as steel, though his skinisred. I mean Lightfoot, the Kickapoo chief. Will you lend a hand, or must I go alone?"
"Nary 'lone—not much!" cried Jim Fosdick. "You think the reds is at the devil's work over thar—wal, we jest kum out skelp-huntin', an' these 'll do as well 's any others, 'specially as we kin save a fri'nd by wipin' 'em out. What say, boys—be I right?"
Every voice was raised in assent, and then Boone leaped up behind the lightest weight, and gave the word for hard riding. From the next valley they heard rifle-shots coming from the direction of the smoke. Upon the next ridge human voices were borne to his ear; the yelling of exultant savages. And the smoke grew blacker and blacker, rising in a tall, sloping pillar.
The party grew more excited. Knife-points were used as spurs. Snorting with pain and excitement, the horses thundered on at break-neck speed. The prairie was passed, the timber began, the ground grew more broken; but the smoke-column now floated above their heads.
"'Light and tie," cried Boone, leaping to the ground. "We kin go faster now afoot, an' the horses' hoofs would tell the heathen we was comin'."
Rapidly the settlers obeyed, and then hastened across a densely-wooded ridge. From its summit Boone saw that his fear was well-founded. From the hill that crowned the cave, the smoke arose. The red flames were bursting from the hollow tree.And seemingly standing amidst the roaring fire, was a human figure!
Down the hill they glided, across the valley, then up to the last belt of bushes, unheard, unseen by the yelling demons above. As their rifles cracked, a wild cry broke from their lips. The human form leaped out from the tree, its garments ablaze, holding a flaming bow in one hand. Down—down, until it reached the ground, with a dull, sullenthud!
Unheeding the cry in their excitement, the savages broke cover and rushed in a body toward the figure. At that moment the settlers poured in a deadly volley, then charged up the hill, uttering their terrible war-cry.
Over a dozen braves fell—the others seemed petrified with horror. But as the settlers came closer, the survivors turned and fled with all the speed left in their bodies.
In hot pursuit the settlers followed—all but the Wood King. He rushed to the spot where the man had fallen, and tore the still smoking garments away. A groan broke from his lips as he recognized the body. It was that of Lightfoot.
Boone knelt beside the body of his comrade. Then he started abruptly back. A hand moved—glided swiftly to the charred belt, clutching the hot handle of a knife. The chief's eyes opened, a mad fire burning in their depths. He struck viciously at the kneeling form. Boone caught the hand and held it fast.
"Chief—don't you know me—your friend?"
Slowly a change came over the blistered face, the fire softened in his eyes, and the weapon fell to the ground. The mouth opened—a husky gurgle followed. He could not speak. He had breathed the scorching flames too long.
Great tears rolled down the Wood King's face, for he knew now that his friend—tried and true, though with a red skin—was dying. But he dashed them aside, as Lightfoot made a peculiar gesture. One hand traced a circle in the air then touched his own bare and blistered head, afterward motioning toward a dead Osage that lay near.
Boone read the pantomime aright, and shuddered, but he could not refuse the last request of a dying friend. He dragged the Osage near, then averted his face. Lightfoot partially raised his body, and tore the scalp from the gory skull. Then he shook it aloft, a horrible sound parting his lips.
Boone turned quickly. The outcast fell back. He had died while attempting to sound his exultant war-cry.
CHAPTER IX.
BOUND TO THE STAKE.
Snarling with the intense ferocity of some wild beast, Abel Dare fell upon the renegade, burying his fingers deep in the flesh of his throat, shaking, worrying him much as a terrier handles a rat. Had he a weapon, however small, the career of the White Wolf would have ended then and there, for, though a strong man, the maddened lover handled him like a child. Already his tongue protruded, his face blackened.
But then an Osage warrior recovered from the surprise sufficiently to administer a sharp tap upon the back of Abel Dare's head that felled him senseless upon Grable.
Grable staggered to his feet, gasping, rubbing his livid throat, his tongue and eyes gradually assuming their usual position and appearance. Speechless, he made signs that Abel should be firmly pinioned. Edith crept to the side of her lover, as though to shield him from injury with her own person. Cursing bitterly, Seth Grable tore her away.
Grable, having regained his voice, was frightfully enraged. He showered curses the most horrible upon the helpless settler, spitting in his face, buffeting, kicking him unmercifully. A whitish froth tinged his lips—he seemed a madman.
At length he turned and uttered a few hasty words to his followers, and a yell of fiendish delight greeted the speech, as the warriors glided away to execute the order. Grable again crouched down beside the captive, a devilish grin upon his face, as the words parted his lips:
"You heerd me tell the Injuns? But mebbe you don't understand the lingo. Wal, I told 'em to git a lot o' wood an' pile it up down thar at the foot o' the path. Goin' to hev a barbecue—d' y' know what thet means?" and the brute laughed diabolically.
Abel made no reply. He did understand the renegade's meaning, perfectly. He knew that he was doomed to perish horribly at the fire-stake. Though a sickening chill crept over his frame at the thought, he gave no outward sign that the words had made any impression upon him.
Grable eyed him steadily for a moment, then turned hastily away, as though afraid to trust his passions. He hated this man so intensely that a single blow, though it carried death with it, would not satisfy his revenge. Afraid to tempt himself, he strode hastily to the cave opening.
"Abel—Abel Dare," faintly uttered a low, quavering voice.
"Edith—thank God! I feared you were dead!"
"No—better that I was, perhaps. But you, oh! Abel, why did you act so rashly, when you were once safely beyond the reach of these demons?" and Edith groaned.
"I saw him raise his coward hand and strike you—I saw you fall as though dead, and it made a madman of me. I thought only of avenging your murder, and—"
"So got caught yourself—'zactly so, my children," added the harsh voice of Grable, as he advanced and seized Abel by the collar. "But you've talked a-plenty fer now. Don't be impatient, little 'un; I'll come fer you in a minnit."
He dragged the captive over the ground toward the outer rim of the camp, which was in the rocky hollow from which the passage started. Near this outer boundary of the spot was a deep rift or pit in which to fall was to go to doom. Gaining the ledge, Grable lifted Dare upon his feet, pointing one hand down to the plain below. The Indians were hastily gathering fuel from among the rocks to the left, where it had fallen down the cliff from the trees above. A considerable pile was already collected.
"More'n enough to roastyouto a turn, anyhow," chuckled Grable. "I put it down thar so the smell won't bother my new squaw in thar. We'll set here, looking at ye. So screw up your courage—'member a woman 'll be lookin' on."
Abel bit his lips hard, and threw all the strength of his frame into one effort to burst his bonds; but in vain. The stout skin did not betray its trust.
"No use, man—not a bit. You're booked fer—"
Why did Seth Grable pause so suddenly and turn his eyes down upon the plain? Why did the savages drop their loads of wood and dash toward the trail leading upward to the cavern? Why did Abel Dare utter such an exultant cry?
Because the quick, heavy thud of horses' hoofs beating the turf in full gallop, came to their ears. Because a body of horsemen, nearly one score strong, burst into view around the spur of the mound, charging with a hoarse cheer—their rifles and pistols playing rapidly upon the fleeing forms of the surprised savages, who had left their weapons within the cavern, laying out a full dozen of the dusky warriors, writhing in death-agony, or lying motionless as they fell, their blood staining the white shingle.
At their head rode one—tall, muscular, his face and long gray hair stained with black swamp mud; yet through this disguise Abel Dare recognized the Wood King, Daniel Boone! Loud and clear, above the tumult, he cried:
"Help! for the love o' God! Edith Mordaunt is held captive up in this—" But then his speech was abruptly checked as Grable hurled him heavily to the rocky ledge, at the same moment sinking out of sight himself.
But the words were heard and understood. The captive settler had been seen and recognized. And with a simultaneous yell, the borderers sprung forward, abandoning their horses, treading hard upon the heels of the fleeing red-skins as they scrambled up the narrow trail.
Cursing horribly, Grable dragged Dare into the passage along with Edith; then seizing an armful of weapons, both muskets and bows and arrows, he darted back to the ledge, just as the foremost Osage gained it. A few hasty words—then the White Wolf leveled a musket, and fired at the leading pale-face. A deep groan—then the slain man fell back upon his comrades, momentarily checking their advance. Thus encouraged, the Indians followed the example set them, and rained arrows and bullets down upon the foe. Without means to return the compliment, the settlers consulted prudence and hastily retreated, seizing their rifles and seeking cover behind the bowlders, while the savages yelled loudly in triumph. And above all rung the taunting laugh of the renegade.
The Osages seemed intoxicated with their victory. At that moment one word from the White Wolf would have sent them headlong down the hill, charging upon the pale-faces. But Grable did not utter the word—nor did he even think of it. Besides being a rascal, he was a coward. However, their dance was abruptly terminated, as a single report came from below, and a savage dropped to the ledge, shot through the brain. The next moment not a living soul was to be seen.
Five minutes later a strong voice from the plain called out:
"Hellow, you fellers up thar! kin any o' you talk white man's lingo? 'F so, step out an' show yourself."
"Thet you may hev the fun o' takin' a crack at me, eh, Jim Fosdick?" returned Grable from the ledge.
"No—honest Injun. We want to see 'f we can't come to some sort o' tarms. Show up—we won't tetch ye."
"Wait a minit, an' I will."
Grable hastened to where the two captives lay bound, and stooping raised Edith in his arms. An angry cry broke from Abel's lips, and he strove desperately to break free, but in vain. The next moment Seth Grable stood upon the ledge, holding the maiden before him in such a manner as to perfectly shield his body; and laughing, he demanded:
"Now what ye want? Here I be—talk quick, though."
"What'll ye give for us to let ye go free?" asked Fosdick.
"Youletusgo free? Why, ye pesky fool, we're two to one now. You cain't keep us here one minnit, 'f so be we want to git away," sneered Grable.
"Lyin's cheap, or you'd starved to death long ago. But never mind thet now. The matter's jist this. You're up thar, we're down here. Yon cain't come down unless we say so. We've got nineteen rifles—sixteen men to han'le 'em, sence you rubbed out three. We kin pick ye off one by one as fast as ye putt fut over the edge. An' it's either that or starvin'. They ain't much game up thar, I don't reckon. Then you'll sca'cely drown'd yourself, 'ca'se water's too sca'ce. Thar it is in a bullet-mold. How d' y' like it?"
"Even s'posin' it was all true—which it ain't by a durned sight, mind ye—it'll be nice fun to think thet while you was starvin'us, you was doin' the same to your fri'nds; to this gal an' Abel Dare."
"It wouldn't be very scrumtious, I know," coolly returned Fosdick, "but then, sich is life. 'F you fellers hold out, bein' durned contrairy fools, why then they's got to suffer, thet's all. But I said tarms, a bit ago. We want to give ye a chaince. Send down the boy an' gal, safe an' sound, an' we'll 'low ye till mornin' to git to a safe spot. Mind ye, 'tain't 'ca'se we love ye any, but we don't want to hurt the boy an' gal, if so be we kin help it."
"S'pose I say I won't do it?" sullenly replied Grable.
"Then we'll do one of two things," abruptly cried the Wood King. "We'll either take you by storm, or lie here until we starve you out. Now decide, quick!"
"I must talk 'th my braves fust," and Grable stepped beyond view of those below, his face corrugated.
The consultation was long and animated. Edith listened to their words, though not comprehending the harsh dialect, and closely watched the expression of each speaker. Her heart sunk deeply as the braves followed each other. A new hope, faint though it was, had sprung up in her bosom at the settlers' demand, but now it was destroyed. She knew that the savages had refused to accept the terms offered them.
"Ye see, pet, ye're mine, beyond all hope," laughed the White Wolf, as he again raised Edith before him.
"I'd rather die then—"
"It's like youwill; but then you've got to be minefust. You cain't overjumpthetnohow." Then adding, in a raised voice: "Hellow, you fellers! down thar!—our answer is, jest do your level durnedest. But, mark my words. The very fust lick you strike at us, 'll be the death o' these captives. We've got a big fire a-burnin' in thar. We'll jest rake it out here, tie the boy an' gal together an' pitch 'em on the coals an' let 'em sizzle right afore your eyes. Mind ye, now, I'm talkin' right from the book—it's swore to."
"This is your last answer, then?" sternly demanded Boone.
"With a few words more, yas. You jist take your critters an' ride straight away east until you git to the fur-hill whar the two trees grows side by side. You 'light thar. A'ter thet you kin do jist as you please. Come back a'ter us, if so be you think best. We'll be out thar in the open, then."
"And if we refuse?"
"Jest what I told ye afore. Strike one lick, and you kill your fri'nds. We've got the deadwood on ye thar!"
"Giveusten minutes to think it over," added Boone.
Grable granted the request, and then returned with Edith to where Abel Dare lay. Here he began taunting the young man with all the ingenuity of a foul-mouthed rascal, until called hastily away by a shout from the savages without. Rushing to the entrance, he found his braves greatly excited. In a moment he learned the truth. The settlers were about to attack them, despite his sanguinary threats.
Spreading out, holding their rifles primed and cocked, in readiness for an instantaneous shot, the settlers were approaching the sloping trail. A few yards from its base six of them halted, their weapons covering the ledge. Two men glided up to each of the six, laying their rifles at their feet, then making a rush for the mound. These last had their knives and all the pistols belonging to the party. The other six were to protect them while clambering up.
Several Indians rushed to where a good-sized bowlder lay, rolling it to the edge. Two rifles cracked—two Osages dropped, shot through the brain, having carelessly exposed their persons. The scaling party shouted exultantly. Those who had fired dropped the empty weapons and seized fresh ones, once more covering the ledge.
A savage drops flat upon his face, then pushes the bowlder forward by main strength. It rests upon the edge—another effort, and it topples over. A cry comes from the foremost man, now nearly at the top of the trail.
It is Boone. The next behind him is Jim Fosdick. The latter bows his head to the rock, clutching the sides of the hollow path. The feet of Boone rests upon his broad shoulders. His open hands are flung up and meet the bowlder. A moment of horrible suspense. If his muscles were unequal to the task, their fate was sealed.
A desperate effort that causes the whole human line to quiver and shake—then the bowlder is turned aside and goes thundering down the mound, dashing far out upon plain, its jagged points stained only with blood from the palms of the Wood King. Loud yell those below—the Osages howl with baffled fury.
The White Wolf shouts a few words, then rushes into the cavern. The Osages clutch their weapons and spring forward. The rifles of the marksmen below speak rapidly, each bullet sounding a death-knell. A savage kneels down and aims a vicious blow at the Wood King with a hatchet. His arm raises—a pistol flashes—the Indian falls forward, his skull shattered to atoms, his hot blood besprinkling Boone's face.
A yell, horrible and unearthly, comes echoing from the passage into the hills behind them. Then a wild, maniacal laugh. Instinctively the combatants pause, wondering, awe-stricken.
Two Osages dart into the darkness; they are sworn friends to the White Wolf. They fear he has met harm. That thought conquers their superstition, redoubles their courage.
Passing the fire, they pause. Where the captives laid, there is only one body now—that of a man. They reach its side, stoop over it—start back in horror. It is the gory form of the White Wolf!
And from out the gloom beyond comes the horrible laughter.
CHAPTER XI.
THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH.
Edith Mordaunt and Abel Dare lay side by side upon the rocky floor of the passage into which they had been borne for safe-keeping. They discovered that their prison was indeed a rocky chamber out of which the passage led, both into the outer air and into the hill. In that chamber Seth Grable had left them just as he was startled by the cries of his comrades, as the settlers began their desperate attack. And with beating hearts, whose throbs were almost suffocating, the captives listened, hoping, praying that the pale-faces might overcome the Indians, and rescue them from what, otherwise, was almost certain death.
Believing themselves alone, they gave free expression to their hopes and fears, little dreaming that human ears drank in their every word, that human eyes were even then upon them, as they lay just within the firelight. Then, with a step that made no sound, a tall figure glided from out the darkness and stood over the wondering captives. And well they might feel surprise, for the hermit stood before them in the flesh, apparently unhurt!
A loud cry came to their ears from without, followed by the rapid tramp of feet. Some one was approaching from the outer air. Stooping, the hermit severed the cords that bound the lovers, at the same time warning them to lie still. Then he sprung back into the shadow.
The White Wolf, a moment later, bounded into the fire-lighted circle, his features horribly distorted, the devil painted in each bloodshot eye. His intentions are easy told. He intended dragging the captives to the ledge, and there expose them to view of the marksmen below, while some of his braves knelt close behind them to pick off the attackers. He knew that the settlers would not wantonly sacrifice their friends, and depended upon that to free him from this new peril.
"Come—them cussed hounds out yender hev spoken yer doom. Better lose a squaw than a life, though I hate to see ye rubbed out, gal," muttered Grable, bending down.
"We'll live to seeyoudie!" gritted Abel, his hands clutching the renegade by the throat, then hurling him with violence to the ground.
A yell of terror broke from his lips, echoed back by a cry so horrible that he glared around in amazement. Then a shadow sprung forward. The hermit stood over him. The firelight without flickered up—there could be no mistake. Grable shuddered with a nameless awe. There seemed something supernatural in these abrupt vanishings and reappearances.
"Mercy—don't kill me!" he gasped, as the bright glimmer of steel filled his eyes. "I didn't mean you no harm when—"
"A dog you've lived—a dog you die!" gritted the hermit.
Then the long knife-blade descended twice, burying its length in the heaving breast of the craven wretch. A horrible yell of agony—a shrill laugh of diabolical glee—then the hermit sprung to his feet.
From without came other sounds—the savages would soon be there to investigate the alarm. Unarmed save with a knife, the pale-faces could expect to do little. Knowing this, Abel seized Edith and clasped her firmly to his breast, saying:
"You know the crooks and turns of this place—lead on, then, before those devils are upon our backs. Quick!"
"True,shemust be saved; for you and I, it matters little. Follow me—tread carefully, and keep in my tracks. You have seen a specimen of what the cavern contains, but there is more. Let the heathen follow us if they dare; there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth in the lodges of their people!" and again the wild, almost maniacal laugh of the hermit rung out, reaching the ears of the savages, causing them to glare hurriedly around, with a vague expectation of beholding some supernatural horror.
Into the bowels of the hills—across a chasm spanned by a bridge, taking a passage that led sharply to the right, the hermit led the way, on through the darkness, never once faltering, though at more than one point a single misstep would have ended in hurling the trio down to inevitable destruction.
On he led, Abel following, Edith close clasped to his breast. Still on, winding deviously, now in one direction, now in nearly its opposite, until Abel felt his brain grow unsteady and commence to whirl.
"Now you can wait here until I return. Do not attempt to leave—the ground is full of pitfalls made by nature."
"But should—if you should not return as you expect?"
"True—I forgot. Give me your hand. There—that is clay. By loosening that you will find a passage that will lead you out upon the hill. Dig twenty feet and you will come to a rock. Press hard against it, with your shoulder, and you will roll it out. Here is a knife with which you can dig. But don't attempt that for at least half an hour. There is no danger of the heathen reaching you here, for, even if they attempt it, I shall be in the way—and one man, with a knowledge of this trail, is equal to a thousand in open ground. Remember—wait half an hour."
The hermit rapidly retraced his steps. He was now totally unarmed, but felt little concern on that score. He possessed a knowledge that was equal to an armory.
Pausing upon the bridge of rock, the hermit glared out upon the swooning renegade, over whom stooped two braves, seeking to check the flow of blood that saturated his garments. A devilish light deepened in the hermit's eyes. He saw that the renegade still lived—possibly might recover, and a bitter curse hissed through his grating teeth as he groped around the edge of the rock with his hand.
Then again he stood erect, a rugged fragment in either hand. True as the bullet from a hunter's rifle the rock sped through the air. Full upon the bended head of the nearest savage it fell, crushing in the skull bone. The second brave sprung hastily to his feet. The other rock struck him upon the breast, felling him like a shot. Laughing horribly, the hermit sprung forward, bending over the terror-stricken renegade.
The wounded savage utters a faint cry, and partially rising, flings his knife at the hermit. The sharp blade sinks deep in the fleshy part of the shoulder, but is unheeded by the seeming madman. The moaning White Wolf is raised bodily from the blood-stained rock, and borne to the edge of the muttering, rumbling abyss. A moment—then a horrible shriek rings through the hollow hill as his body descends like a shot; a sullen splash—then all is silence save the grumbling tones of the water fiend.
And now the hermit stood possessed of a knife, a hatchet, a stout bow, and tolerably well-filled quiver.
With ready bow he glided silently along, choosing the deepest shadow, where the glow of the fire could not penetrate. He seemed to have only thought for vengeance. He knew that he was death-stricken—in his madness he resolved to exact a heavy compensation. His death would be a dear one to the Osages.
He paused, the phosphorescent glitter deepening in his eyes as he caught sight of several human forms, crouching close to the rugged walls, their attention turned toward the cave entrance, their weapons in readiness for instant use. They were Indians. He could distinguish them quite plainly by the light of day beyond, though from the ledge they would be invisible.
After escaping the death threatened by the bowlder, Boone had led his men upon the ledge, winning it by a fierce though momentary struggle. The Indians retreated into the cave darkness. To follow them there would be little short of madness, and the Wood King called a halt to consult upon the best plan of procedure. Lying close to either side of the entrance they waited. Inside were the savages; beyond them the hermit, all unsuspected, the fires of insanity blazing in his eyes, as he bent the stout bow.
The bow relaxed—the arrow sped—an Osage sunk forward, transfixed by the feathered shaft, his death-cry carrying consternation to the hearts of the warriors, for they knew not whence the death-shot came. Anothertwangwas followed with a like result, and then the madman's shrill laughter rung out clear and devilish. In terror the Osages leaped to their feet and darted to the entrance. From bad to worse. Half a dozen rifles cracked, so close that their flashes scorched the flesh; and then the rangers rushed on to a hand-to-hand struggle. But the terror-stricken savages turned and fled.
Still before them sounded that horrible peal, and at the fire they faltered in terror. Following each other in rapid succession the feathered shafts carried death into their midst, each shot accompanied by a devilish laugh. Paralyzed with horror, the savages flung themselves upon the blood-running floor, hiding their heads. Upon them poured the rangers, mad, raging, striking and slaying without mercy in their blind rage, until not one was left alive.
When the excitement was over, the over-wrought strength of the hermit gave way, and he staggered out into the firelight, and sunk to the floor like one dead. Boone, recognizing him, rushed to his assistance.
"Where are our friends?" he asked.
"Over there—take torches and bring them here, quick! I must not die without telling him—haste, I am dying!" gasped the hermit, blood tinging his long beard.
A party of rangers started in search of our friends, and soon found them.
The meeting was a joyous one, and much hand-shaking was indulged in before the last words of the hermit were remembered. Then the party hastily retraced their steps, Abel still supporting Edith, whose nerves had been sadly shattered by the terrible, heart-crushing events of the past few days.
They found the hermit lying in a pool of his own blood, his head upon the Wood King's lap, his eyes closed as though in death. But at the sound of footsteps he roused up and muttered a request for more liquor. Reluctantly Boone complied, holding the flask of corn-juice to his bloodless lips. The fiery liquor seemed to infuse new life into the wounded man's veins, and his voice was strong and distinct as he spoke.
"Abel Dare—come nearer to me. You must hear every word, for a dead man speaks to you. Not long since you told me that you knew not whether your father lived or was dead. I am the only being living that can clear that mystery."
"Tell me, then. Can it be that you are—"
"Patience—I will tell you, but it must be in my own way. You told me your mother forgave him upon her death-bed; she had nothing to forgivehim, for he never did her wrong in thought or deed! Two men loved your mother—one was Reuben Dare, the other was James Hazelwood. The last took her marriage so greatly to heart that he lost his mind. His friends placed him in an asylum. One night it burned to the ground. James Hazelwood was among the missing. All thought him dead—buried in the ruins; but he was not.Hishand kindled the fire; then he escaped.
"A short time afterward, your mother began to receive anonymous notes, leading her to suspect the fidelity of her husband. At first she treated them with silent scorn, but the cunning of a madman—for the hand of Hazelwood was in this—made black seem white—the innocent seem guilty. Then she sorrowed, still in silence. Reuben Dare, at any other time, would have noticed this, and soon learned its cause, but he was battling hard with adversity—trying to save himself from ruin. A series of misfortunes had swallowed his fortune; he was a bankrupt.
"Hazelwood saw all this, and timed his actions well. The night before the truth must be known, he watched your father at his office—it was nearly midnight when he started to go home. As he passed an alley, a heavy blow felled him to the ground. The next he knew he was in a close carriage, securely bound, rolling swiftly along. The carriage paused, Hazelwood dragged forth his victim, and then told him all—of the diabolical plot he had formed to ruin him even after death. Then there was a cruel blow. When daylight came the corpse of your father was floating far out upon the Delaware bay. Wait, I am nearly done. More whisky—I am growing weak," muttered the hermit, faintly.
"That day your father's name was coupled with dishonor. They said he had robbed his creditors, and had fled with another man's wife.Thatwas Hazelwood's revenge. But it was withhimthat the woman fled. But he was crazy—crazy."
"And who areyou, that you know of all this?" hoarsely demanded Abel Dare, his eyes glowing, his breast heaving.
"I am—I was—James—Hazelwood, the mad—"
A grating cry broke from the young man's lips, and he darted forward, but, with uplifted hand, the Wood King said:
"Stay—he is beyond your power now—he is dead!"
The words were true. The hermit was no more—had died with the horrible confession upon his lips. There was much left unexplained, that would now be forever buried in oblivion. Of his life since the crime—how he came to be a wanderer in these wilds, a hermit, no one would ever know.
Yet Abel felt a feeling of relief far down in his heart, for now he knew that he had not been the son of a double criminal; though his father had been unfortunate, he had not been guilty of the crime that had rested upon his name.
The day was far spent, and as much yet remained to be done, the rangers decided not to return to the settlement that night. A soft couch of leaves was made for Edith under shelter of a rock, where she almost immediately sunk into a deep and dreamless slumber, the first she had enjoyed since the night before the massacre.
The Indian bodies were cast into the pitfall, but a grave was dug outside for those of the settlers who had fallen.
The rangers watched closely that night, but nothing was seen or heard of any enemies. With early dawn they took up their return march, reaching the settlement in safety. Within one week the insurrection was put down—the savages sued for peace, and the country was once more safe.
That winter Abel Dare and Edith were married, and the girl who had been mistaken by Lightfoot for Yellow-hair, stood bridesmaid, having been released by the Osages at the new treaty.
And so we leave the couple, safely through the storm, basking in the sunshine of each other's love.
THE END
DIME POCKET NOVELS.
PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.
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. Edward S. Ellis.7—The Outlaw's Wife. 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 Robbins.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. Edward S. Ellis.24—The One-Eyed Trapper. Capt. Comstock25—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. 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 Iliff.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. Wm. R. Eyster.63—The Florida Scout. Jos. E. Badger, Jr.64—The Island Trapper. 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. Maj. L. W. Carson.74—Little Rifle. By Capt. "Bruin" Adams.75—The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.76—Old Ruff, the Trapper. "Bruin" Adams.77—The Scarlet Shoulders. Harry Hazard.78—The Border Rifleman. L. W. Carson.79—Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.80—Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. R. Ringwood.81—Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.82—Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.83—The Specter Horseman. Frank Dewey.84—The Three Trappers. Seelin Robbins.85—Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.86—The Hunter Hercules. 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.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. J. Stanley Henderson.134—The Cannibal Chief. 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.139—The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.140—The Border Renegade. By Badger.141—The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.142—Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.143—Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.144—The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.145—The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.146—The Silver Bugle. Lieut. Col. Hazleton.147—Chinga, the Cheyenne. By E. S. Ellis.148—The Tangled Trail. By Major Martine.149—The Unseen Hand. By J. S. Henderson.150—The Lone Indian. By Capt. C. Howard.151—The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs.152—Billy Bowlegs, The Seminole Chief.153—The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robbins.154—Red Jacket. By Paul Bibbs.155—The Jungle Scout. Ready156—Cherokee Chief. Ready157—The Bandit Hermit. Ready158—The Patriot Scouts. Ready159—The Wood Rangers.160—The Red Foe. Ready161—The Beautiful Unknown.162—Canebrake Mose. Ready163—Hank, the Guide. Ready164—The Border Scout. Ready Oct. 5th.
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
[Transcriber's Note: No Chapter X. heading in original text.]