THE

                             BOY RANGER:

                                 OR,

                   THE HEIRESS OF THE GOLDEN HORN.

                           BY OLL COOMES,

        AUTHOR OF “HAWKEYE HARRY, THE YOUNG TRAPPER RANGER.”

                              NEW YORK:

                    BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

                         98 WILLIAM STREET.




     Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

                          BEADLE AND ADAMS,

     In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

                           (P. N. No. 11.)




                              CONTENTS

                                                                   PAGE
     I.  ROLLO, THE RANGER.                                          9
    II.  THE “HALTER” OF JUSTICE.                                   13
   III.  A PROPOSED MEETING.                                        19
    IV.  THE ATTACK.                                                21
     V.  OLD TUMULT TO THE RESCUE.                                  28
    VI.  OUTWITTED.                                                 35
   VII.  IN THE HORN OF A DILEMMA.                                  40
  VIII.  THE BETROTHAL.                                             44
    IX.  A STARTLING SURPRISE.                                      49
     X.  A DESPERATE CONFLICT.                                      55
    XI.  THE RESULT OF THE FIGHT.                                   59
   XII.  THE PIPE OF PEACE.                                         61
  XIII.  THE TRAGEDY AT THE LAKE.                                   69
   XIV.  A VILLAIN DEFEATED.                                        72
    XV.  A STARTLING DISCOVERY.                                     76
   XVI.  A SURPRISE.                                                80
  XVII.  A REVELATION.                                              83




                           THE BOY RANGER;

                                 OR,

                   THE HEIRESS OF THE GOLDEN HORN.




                             CHAPTER I.

                         ROLLO, THE RANGER.


Over the great plain at a breakneck speed, and down toward the little
settlement of Clontarf’s Post, rode a youthful horseman whose fair
young face was aglow with health, and whose dark, bright eyes roamed
restlessly over the green expanse before him.

From beneath a small plumed cap of scarlet velvet, masses of
dark-brown hair floated on the wind. He was a mere youth in
appearance--of seventeen perhaps, and though he was light of form
and lithe of limb, his physical and muscular development was that of
perfect manhood.

He wore a tunic of dark-blue cloth, ornamented with bright yellow
trimmings, and confined at the slender waist with a handsome belt
with silver fastenings. Buckskin leggings and buckskin moccasins were
upon his tapering limbs and shapely feet.

The boyish face wore a lovely, yet fearless expression. His hands
were as small, smooth and shapely as a maiden’s, yet, like his face,
they had become colored to a dusky brown by exposure to the hot sun
and wind of the prairie.

In addition to the handsome rifle which he carried slung over his
shoulder by means of a strap, and the handsome silver-mounted
revolvers he wore in his belt, he carried a light saber in a polished
scabbard at his side.

He was mounted upon a dark, mettlesome pony--a cross of the Mexican
and mustang breed. A fine Mexican saddle and a bridle made of braided
horse-hair, caparisoned the animal. On one side of the pommel of the
saddle hung a coiled silver horn; on the other side a double-lensed
spy-glass. With the latter, the young ranger ever and anon swept the
great plain before him as though he were not satisfied with the sight
of his own bright, flashing eyes.

Rollo, the Boy Ranger, for as such he was known, pushed rapidly on,
and soon he had gained a bold eminence upon the plain. Here, amid the
tall, luxurious grass that crowned its crest, he drew rein and gazed
away toward the west, where a grand sight was spread out before him.

The Little Sioux river divided the landscape, and with its almost
illimitable forest upon the west, and its undulating ocean verdure
upon the east, it seemed but a silver thread winding through a
field of green cloth. And down in the valley, upon the east side of
the river, nestled a dozen or more log cabins, a block-house, all
surrounded by a strong stockade that had withstood more than one
siege of the savage denizens of the forest and plain.

Outside of this settlement, which was known as Clontarf’s Post, were
a number of small fields of growing wheat and corn; while beyond the
fields a herd of cattle in the care of two boys was grazing upon the
prairie. Every thing, in fact, surrounding the post wore an air of
the thrift, industry and enterprise of its settlers.

Upon Clontarf’s Post, Rollo the ranger fixed his gaze, as though
something of uncommon interest depended upon the sight.

With the exception of a few children at play in front of the cabin
doors, the young ranger could see no life in the settlement.

To obtain a better view of the place, he took his spy-glass and
brought it to bear upon the settlement. A smile of satisfaction
overspread his fair young face as he did so. Within one of the
largest cabins whose door stood open, he saw a number of persons
collected.

“They are all there,” he said, aloud. “The trial is still in session,
and I fear it will go hard with poor Dick Sherwood. The settlers
are very strict, and if they prove the facts under which Dick was
captured, he is bound to hang--Ah! I am not a minute too soon!”

The last remarks were occasioned by seeing a number of men issue
from the cabin into the yard. A general excitement seemed to prevail
in their midst.

Bringing his glass to his eyes, the young ranger soon learned the
cause of the settlers’ commotion.

In their midst stood a man with hands bound behind his back, and a
rope around his neck; and upon him all faces were turned, scowling
dark with vengeance and hate.

After a few moments’ delay in front of the cabin, the ranger saw the
men move away toward the gate of the stockade, leading the bound man
like a haltered beast in their midst.

The brow of the young ranger darkened.

“Yes,” he fairly groaned. “Dick is doomed to die. They are leading
him into the forest. They intend to hang him--hang him! A rope is
already around his neck. There is no mercy in their hearts. Border
justice knows no mercy.”

As he spoke, he kept the spy-glass leveled upon the party of
settlers, who, filing out of the stockade, moved down to the river
bank. Here they embarked in a number of canoes for the opposite
shore, and not until they had landed and plunged into the leafy
depths of the forest did the ranger lower his glass.

The pupils of his dark eyes were expanded with long gazing. His brow
knitted, and a shade of sadness and regret passed over his face.

He spoke to his animal and it bounded away. Just then there was a
quick rustling in the tall grass before him, and a powerful Indian
warrior--a giant in stature--leaped forward, and seizing the reins,
jerked the pony back almost upon its haunches.

Quick of movement, and apparently conscious of the danger that
threatened his young rider, the pony regained its footing, and
rearing upward upon its hind feet until Rollo nearly fell from the
saddle, the sagacious beast struck the savage upon the head with both
of its iron-shod hoofs with such force that the giant was brought to
the earth, his tufted skull completely crushed.

This sudden uprising, and equally sudden downfall, of the red
assailant, occurred so quick that it was all over before the young
ranger could really define the true condition of affairs. But he soon
found that the dead warrior was not alone. Two others, one on each
side of him, both equally as demon-like in appearance as the dead
giant, arose from the tall grass and bounded toward him.

The hand of the ranger dropped to his saber. There was a
lightning-like flash of the polished blade as it leaped from the
scabbard into the sunlight. Then there was a flash upon the right,
and a flash upon the left, and the bold ranger dashed away. But,
there was blood upon his saber, for both strokes had done their
fearful work, and three savage warriors lay dead upon the plain!

The young ranger dashed on over the plain as calmly as though nothing
had happened. Finally, however, he drew rein again, and swept the
prairie with his glass. But not a living object was visible anywhere
upon the face of the great, green expanse.

Even the settlement was hidden from his view by an intervening wave
of the prairie sea, and he seemed alone upon the trackless waste.
However, he took the coiled horn from the pommel of the saddle and
blew a blast upon it so shrill and harsh that it caused his animal to
shake his head.

The young man bent his head in the attitude of listening when he
removed the horn from his lips, and faintly to his ears came the
sound resembling the far-off echo of his own horn.

A smile passed over his face.

“Ah! they have heard it, and have replied. Now my good Dart”--patting
his pony’s neck--“we have a hard ride before us--ah, there they go!”

He raised his head as he spoke, and from behind the crest of a hill
nearly a mile away, he saw a dozen or more mounted Sioux Indians
emerge, riding at a wild, reckless speed down toward Clontarf’s Post.
They were hideous with war-paint, and decked and plumed in all the
paraphernalia of savage warfare.

It was plain to be seen that their mission was one of death and
destruction. And it was still plainer that they had marked Clontarf’s
Post as their point of beginning.

Evidently they had seen the men leaving the post, and had determined
to take advantage of their absence and destroy their stronghold and
slay their women and children.

Rollo, the ranger, put spur and dashed away, keeping to the right of
the Indians and watching them all the while with a curious expression
upon his face. By a circuitous route he reached the river about a
mile above the post.

The banks of the stream were low and unobstructed, and scarcely
checking his speed, the ranger spurred his foam-flecked animal into
the river and swam it across to the opposite side, and then dashed
away in the deep shadows of the great, green woods.




                             CHAPTER II.

                      THE “HALTER” OF JUSTICE.


Clontarf’s Post had first been settled by Lionel Clontarf, a
gentleman of Irish descent. It was among the first settlements of the
then territory of Iowa, and, although in the midst of privations,
and harassed by the red man, it grew and prospered as but few under
similar circumstances would have done.

Family after family, with brave hearts and willing hands, were added
to the settlement, until it numbered some fifty souls.

Stock-raising and agriculture were the chief objects of the settlers,
though in course of time a store and Indian trading-post were opened.
At this point, all the surrounding settlements--which in fact were
few--obtained their supplies, and many dollars’ worth of furs and
peltries were brought here and exchanged by the Indians for flour,
powder, and ammunition of all kinds, and such trinkets as pleased
their savage fancy or wants. The settlers did all within their power
to keep up a friendly intercourse between themselves and the Indians.
This they would have had no trouble in doing, but for the influence
of unprincipled white men, who, driven from the society of their own
race, sought shelter within the red man’s lodges, or the mountain
fastnesses, where they organized themselves into bands to rob and
murder the unoffending settler or emigrant.

Through the instrumentality of these white outlaws, the Indians were
kept in an almost constant state of hostilities, and it behooved the
whites ever to be upon their guard, and use every exertion toward
ridding the country of all those prime roots of border troubles--the
white robber, and the white renegade.

Among the latter class of outlaws, who had become notorious for his
deep cunning and wickedness, was one Dick Sherwood, whose crimes were
multitudinous. And for some cause or other, Clontarf’s Post was the
central point around which this moth of Satan seemed to flutter most
of all. It seemed that he cherished a natural antipathy toward the
place, or some of its people, and tried in vain, by every means that
his cunning brain could concoct, to destroy it.

Finally he had the audacious boldness to disguise himself in the
paint and garb of an Indian, and come to the post on a pretended
mission of peace. He was kindly received by the men of the post, who
had supposed him a genuine Indian sent by his people to make some
terms of peace, as a deadly hostility had existed between them for
the past six months.

A council was called, and a treaty of peace at once entered into, by
and between the settlers and the great chief, Rolling Thunder, as he
called himself.

After the treaty was concluded, the chief remained at the post a day
or two; and, but for his attempting to carry away Miss Clara Bryant,
one of the fairest jewels of the post, on taking his leave of the
settlement, his disguise would never have been penetrated. However,
he was caught at his little game of abduction and taken prisoner.
By a vigorous application of water by means of numerous duckings in
the river, his feathers were caused to droop and his mask of paint
to wash away; and the great messenger of peace--the mighty Rolling
Thunder, was found to be the notorious renegade, Dick Sherwood.

The vengeance of the settlers was at once aroused. The villain was
locked up in the block-house, the remainder of the night upon which
he was captured, and the next day he was led forth for trial.

According to their notion of border justice, the settlers of
Clontarf’s Post found Sherwood guilty of crimes punishable by death,
and so he was condemned to be hanged in the forest on the morrow.

The morrow came. It was the day upon which our story opens.

The prisoner was led forth from his prison, in the midst of a group
of men. It was this group that young Rollo, the ranger, saw from the
crest of the prairie wave.

Dick Sherwood was a young man of not more than five and twenty.
Of figure he was of medium height, and was a perfect model of the
physical man. His head was of the intellectual mold, and but for the
evil light in his black eyes he would have been a handsome man.

As his captors led him from the stockade like a haltered ox, his face
wore no downcast look, and his step was firm and elastic. Even in his
helpless condition, and in face of the death to which he was being
hurried, he was recklessly cheerful, and made many remarks touching
his situation, that produced laughter among the settlers, and even
made a curious impression upon some of their hearts.

The execution was to take place in the woods across the river, and
two of the settlers had been sent on some time in advance to select a
tree for the purpose, and dig a grave.

When the party crossed the river with the prisoner, they were met
by the two men and conducted to the place of execution, which was
beneath the branching boughs of a great oak.

A large limb growing out at right-angles with the body of the tree
had been trimmed of its shrubbery, and near the foot of the tree a
grave was dug.

As the prisoner gazed upon these preparations for his execution, he
smiled grimly, defiantly.

“Why go to this trouble, gentlemen?” he asked, pointing toward
the grave. “Why not let my body hang for the hungry wolf, the
carrion-crow and the vulture to feed upon? Know you not that the
spirit will not complain of your treatment of the body? The wolf
and the vulture will not devour my bones, and so long as the grim
skeleton exists, so long will the spirit remain about it.”

“You are disposed to jest, Dick Sherwood,” said Lionel Clontarf, a
stern, stony-hearted man; “you should think of the great Hereafter,
and then perhaps your heart will move the spirit differently.”

“Yes,” added Geoffry Bryant, “think of the lives you have destroyed,
and the homes you have made sad and desolate, and then, if you have a
conscience, you will feel a pang of remorse. Your heart will shrink
from the terrible punishment awaiting you.”

“I am really conscious of all this, gentlemen,” replied Sherwood,
tauntingly, “but my greatest regrets are that I did not succeed in
escaping with Miss Bryant, for then it would have been heaven instead
of--”

“Hang the villain! hang the wretch!” burst from the lips of some of
the crowd.

“Dick Sherwood,” said old Captain Storms, the leader of the party,
“if you have any thing of reason to say, say it at once; if not--”

“Certainly,” interrupted Sherwood; “I was going to suggest that some
improvements be made upon that grave for _my_ ease and comfort; but
I will not occupy it long, so go your length, gentlemen. Should I
ever address you again it will be under different--quite different
auspices.”

The settlers grew indignant at these taunting, defiant remarks, and
at once proceeded to the execution.

Four men drew the cleared limb as low as possible and held it down.
To this Captain Storms tied the rope which already encircled the
renegade’s neck.

Lionel Clontarf bound a handkerchief over the prisoner’s eyes, and
then, at a signal from Captain Storms, the four men relinquished
their hold upon the limb which arose to its natural position, and
then Dick Sherwood _hung between heaven and earth_!

The wretched man struggled desperately, but his efforts momentarily
grew feebler. The settlers stood in speechless silence and gazed upon
the hanging form until it had ceased to move.

Surely life was extinct.

Finally Captain Storms advanced and placed his fingers upon the
renegade’s pulse, and said in a low tone:

“He’s dead, boys, dead, dead; and may God have mercy upon his soul.”

As he uttered the last word a startled exclamation burst from the
lips of the crowd.

A horseman had burst suddenly from the forest into their midst.

It was Rollo, the ranger! His horse was white with foam, and his own
face streaked with perspiration and flushed with excitement.

“Away, men, away!” the youth shouted, wildly, “away for your homes,
your wives and your children! The Indians are upon the post!”

“My God!” burst from the lips of Lionel Clontarf; “come, men, follow
me! I can already hear the yells of the demons and the clash of arms!”

“But the body of Sherwood,” cried one, “what will be--”

“Let it hang away!” responded old Captain Storms.

Fear seemed to lend the settlers invisible wings as they ran through
the woods toward the post, the boy ranger following close at their
heels upon his almost exhausted animal.

Had the settlers, however, on turning their backs upon the hanging
renegade, given the young ranger a second glance, they would have
seen something that would have aroused some curiosity, if not
suspicions, in their minds. Wild with excitement and fear, however,
they ran on, the safety of their families uppermost in their minds.

When the river was reached, the settlers hastily embarked for the
opposite shore in their canoes, the ranger swimming his animal behind.

When they came in sight of the post the men saw that the place was
being bravely defended by the few men that had remained behind.

The enemy were mounted, and in number did not exceed a dozen. They
had divided their force, and the larger party were directing their
attack upon the eastern gate of the stockade.

Seeing the inferiority in number of the enemy, the settlers gave a
yell as they approached, and the next moment the savages were flying
over the plain at a breakneck speed, leaving one of their number
behind, dead.

This bloodless termination--on the part of the settlers--of what
promised a bloody affray, resulted in Rollo, the Boy Ranger, being
lionized as the real hero of the victory. He was fairly dragged
from his pony and forced to accept the warm, heartfelt thanks and
blessings bestowed upon him, for his timely warning them of danger.

The young ranger seemed ill at ease within the stockade, and contrary
to the wishes of the settlers, he soon took his departure.

“I can not bear the confinement of the settlement,” he said, on
leaving the post. “I feel freer when roaming on the great prairie
ocean, or threading the shadowy aisles of the forest.”

He rode away toward the north when he left the post, on the trail of
the defeated red-skins.

To the surprise of the settlers, on going to inter the body of the
slain enemy, they found that it was the body of a white man in Indian
disguise. This discovery caused no little food for reflection, and
old Captain Storms, well versed in the nature of the Indian, gave it
as his belief that the whole party of mounted enemies were a party of
white men, and robbers at that, in Indian disguise. The old captain’s
reason for this belief was that the enemy had been too bold and
reckless in their attack, which set at variance all he had ever seen
of Indian caution, cunning and cowardice.

During the remainder of that day and the following night, guards
were stationed at all the points surrounding the post, and the stock
secured against a night stampede. But, fortunately, no further
hostile demonstration was made by the enemy.

The following morning, however, a number of Indians were seen in
the edge of the timber along the river on the opposite shore. This
prevented the settlers from crossing over to inter the body of Dick
Sherwood, the renegade, as they had intended to do.

On the second day, vultures were seen hovering over the forest, and
it was then that every Christian energy of the settlers was aroused,
and they at once crossed the river and proceeded to the scene of
execution.

But to their horror and disgust, they found only a human skeleton
bleaching in the sun, where they had last seen the body of the
renegade hanging.

The gaunt wolf and the carrion-crow had been there. And as the white,
ghastly skeleton swayed to and fro in the breeze--seeming still
possessed of life--the settlers shuddered, for it brought up quite
forcibly in their minds, the words of the renegade, “As long as my
bones exist the spirit will remain about them.”

Was it possible that these words were prophetic?

The remains were taken down and buried, and then the party returned
home, feeling that they were at last free from the persecutions of
the renegade, Dick Sherwood.




CHAPTER III.

A PROPOSED MEETING.


Three months after the execution of the renegade passed by, and the
settlers of Clontarf’s Post, in that time, had experienced a season
of peace and quietude seldom enjoyed by a border settlement. The
Indians had made no hostile demonstration, though many feared that
their quietude foretold a coming storm, and many thought the death
of Dick Sherwood accounted for their peacefulness. Be that as it
may, the settlers never allowed one point admissible of attack from
the enemy, to remain unguarded for a single hour; for, knowing their
treacherous and cunning nature, and since no regular treaty had been
entered into, they thought it more than likely that the Indians were
watching for a chance to strike at the post when its people were off
their guard.

In the midst of their peace and prosperity, the settlers were not
forgetful from whence came all those blessings they were being
permitted to enjoy, and once or twice a week they would meet at one
of the neighbors’ houses and offer up thanks to their Heavenly Father
for his protection and bountiful gifts. Each and every Sabbath,
divine services were held at the residence of the Reverend Paul
Earnshaw, a minister of much ability, and dearly beloved by all his
friends.

During the latter part of the month of August, Mr. Earnshaw began
a spiritual revival at the post, attended with great success.
Encouraged in his good work by his friends, he soon extended his
labors to other settlements--such as were not too remote from the
post.

While laboring at one of those settlements, a new minister made
his appearance in the field. He came from the East, he told Father
Earnshaw, to labor among the Indians. He had not been sent out by a
missionary society, but had come on his own responsibility to preach
to the heathen. He gave his name as Israel Ainesley. He was an aged
man, but possessed of wonderful strength and activity, and a voice
deep, strong and musical.

The good people of Valley Settlement, anxious to procure the services
of so able a minister as Father Ainesley’s first sermon proved him to
be, prevailed on him to take up his residence there.

With some reluctance the reverend father accepted the kind invitation
of the settlers; however, he made a reservation of half of his time
to be devoted to labor among the Indians.

Father Earnshaw now returned to Clontarf’s Post; not, however, before
having exacted a promise from his fellow-laborer in the vineyard of
God, to visit him at an early day.

Father Ainesley went to work with a zeal, both at the settlement and
among the Indians. At least, he was away from Valley Settlement a
good half of the time, and the settlers had no reason to question his
being at work trying to convert the wild red men.

In the course of a week, Father Ainesley sent a letter to Father
Earnshaw, in which he proposed that they hold a union meeting of the
two settlements; and in case that he should accept the proposition,
to name the point of meeting, as well as the day.

Father Earnshaw sent the following reply:

                                      “CLONTARF’S POST, Sept. 2, 18--

  “DEAR BROTHER AINESLEY:

  “Your proposition of a union meeting of the two settlements
  receives my happy approval. It would be likely to establish a
  firmer and more pleasant relationship between the two settlements,
  and lay the foundation of a Christian country and people. Since you
  have left it with me to set the day of meeting, I will name the
  10th of September. And since, in my opinion, there is nothing to
  fear from the Indians, I shall propose that we hold our meeting in
  the woods, God’s first temples, on the shore of Lake Wildwood. It
  is a lovely spot, adorned with all the beauty of nature--the great,
  green woods upon one side, and Wildwood lake upon the other; the
  heavens above and a velvety carpet of green beneath.

  “Hoping that this brief reply will fully meet your approval,

                                      “I remain yours in Christ,
                                                    “PAUL EARNSHAW.”

The reply _did_ meet the Reverend Ainesley’s approval, and every
arrangement was at once made for the meeting of the two settlements
upon the tenth of September.

But little did the great, kind-hearted settlers dream of the deep and
damnable plot that was being laid for their destruction by one of
these men wearing the sacerdotal robes of a minister of God.




                             CHAPTER IV.

                             THE ATTACK.


About four miles north-west of Clontarf’s Post, in a secluded
spot, stood a solitary log-cabin, surrounded on all sides by the
dark, towering forest. It was a rude structure without, but its
interior bore evidence of ease and comfort. But, the location was
one sufficient to inspire the heart with awe, for, from morning till
night, the dark forest shadows hung over the hut. Even if a patch
of sunlight did fall upon it, it came and went like a white-robed
specter.

Here, within this lonely and desolate hut, dwelt, with his daughter
Madge, Talbott Taft, the Indian trader. Why he had selected this
obscure spot for a dwelling was a mystery to settlers thereabouts.
And why he, a man of no little intellectual culture, had left the
refinement of civilization and brought his beautiful and accomplished
daughter into the wilderness of a savage land, was still a greater
mystery.

Talbott Taft was in the prime of manhood, with but little gray in
his hair and whiskers; and the “crows’ feet” about his eyes seemed
rather premature, than the marks of Time. His features, though
extremely delicate, bore no evidence of dissipation, yet his dark
eyes were wonderfully strange in their expression.

His articles of traffic consisted of whisky, tobacco and beads. These
he obtained at a large trading-post on the Missouri river, and traded
to the savages for furs and peltries.

The settlers of Clontarf’s Post often called at the cabin of the
trader, and were kindly received and cared for. But no one had ever
been there but what, on leaving, had declared that there was some
mystery about Talbott Taft.

Madge Taft was a woman of more than ordinary beauty. She was not
more than eighteen, judging from her looks, but from the beautiful
and perfect development of her form, one would suppose her to be one
and twenty. Her eyes were dark, lustrous and brilliant, possessed
of an expression that was indicative of a wild, joyful and fearless
spirit--such as only a true heroine could possess. Her hair was black
and fine as silk, clustering about her head in shapely ringlets. Her
complexion was healthful and white as alabaster, and the hues of
the rose and lily were blended in her cheeks. Her hands were small,
white and shapely, yet no circlets of gold flashed upon her tapering
fingers.

Few young men, and in fact few old men, upon whose hearts there was
no previous claim, ever called at the cabin of Talbot Taft and went
away without realizing the fact that they were in love with the
trader’s lovely daughter.

But of the many whose hearts had been thus captivated but a single
one had ever received a friendly notice from the forest beauty. This
son of fortune was a well-to-do young man of Clontarf’s Post, named
Townsend Farnesworth.

His attentions to Madge were encouraged so far as to be permitted to
call frequently at the cabin.

Early on the morning of the tenth of September, the day set for the
camp-meeting at Wildwood lake, Town. Farnesworth called at the cabin
of Talbott Taft to accompany Madge to the meeting. He found her
awaiting him, and looking more lovely and bewitching than he had ever
seen her before.

They did not tarry at the cabin, but at once set off for the lake,
which was some two miles distant.

Their walk through the cool shaded aisles of the forest was pleasant
and exhilarating; and they seemed unusually happy in each other’s
society, and chatted and laughed as only youthful lovers could have
done. Yet neither knew that the other really did love, for no avowal
had ever passed their lips.

Arrived at the appointed place of meeting, the young people found
that they were the first there, and to pass the time as pleasantly as
possible, they walked down to the lake shore and seated themselves
upon the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree.

Wildwood lake lay before them, calm and placid, resembling a great
mirror set in a rustic frame. No object was visible upon its glassy,
unruffled surface to break the sameness of the glittering sheet.

The lake was perhaps a mile and a half in circumference, and it was
bounded nearly all around with tall, frowning rocks, whose white
faces were plowed and fluted by the wear of time. Here and there the
black mouth of a subterranean vault was visible, partially hidden by
creeping vines and tall aquatic plants.

Town. and Madge gazed out upon the lake, and it would have been an
easy matter for a close observer to have marked the difference in
the expression of each gaze. While Town.’s look showed that his mind
was upon something else besides the beauty of the lake, Madge’s gaze
showed that she was gazing, with no little interest and anxiety,
and a look of half-expectation, carefully over the bosom of the
glimmering sheet.

Town. was too deeply absorbed in the tumultuous fluttering of his
heart, to note the expression of his fair companion’s face. After a
moment’s silence he said:

“Wildwood seems unusually calm this morning.”

“And lonely,” replied Madge; “I wonder where those flocks of
beautiful wild ducks and geese are that are most always seen upon the
lake.”

“It is very probable that they are lying along in the cool shadow of
the shores, or among the reeds and rushes over yonder.”

“The lake looks quite lonely without them,” said Madge. “Many
pleasant moments have I spent here alone watching the feathered
tribes gliding over the water, and--”

“Then you love to be alone--you love solitude, Madge?” questioned
Town., with a perceptible change in his voice.

Madge raised her eyes and gazed into the young man’s face, as if
touched by his question.

“Are there not times, Town.,” she asked, “when you would rather be
alone than in company with your best friend?”

“Yes; but not my _dearest_ friend. When I wish for solitude it is
only to think and dream of you, dear Madge. Since we first met, my
heart has gone out to you in the most passionate love, and I have
longed for this moment, Madge, to ask you to be mine--mine forever!”

Madge was quite indifferent to this declaration of love. She had long
been expecting it, and was prepared. As she lifted her eyes to those
of Town., a smile, in which there was a shadow of sarcasm, passed
over her face.

“You are jesting, Town.,” she said, a little reproachfully. “You do
not know the desire of your own heart. When you have thought more of
the matter, and consulted your own feelings and mind, you may have
reason to feel a pang of regret that you ever asked the wild, wayward
daughter of a poor Indian trader to be your wife.”

“Madge, do not doubt my affection and judgment in this matter. My
heart is immovable, and I love you all the more of your humble life.
It would not be a marriage of a prince and peasant, but two whose
love I trust would be equal, as well as their birth.”

“Town.,” said Madge, and there was a slight tremor in her voice, “are
you sure that Clara Bryant has no claim upon your heart? I know Clara
loves you, Town., and would make you a better wife than I.”

“Until I saw you, Madge, I thought I did love Clara, but since our
first meeting I find it was but pure friendship compared with the
love I hold for you.”

“Then your love for me is of but a momentary growth. Dismiss me from
your mind and you will find that the heart will go back to its first
love.”

“You do not love me, Madge, else you would not trifle with my
feelings thus,” he said, a little vexed.

“No, no, Town.; I will frankly admit that I love you, but can not
promise you now to be your wife.”

Town. Farnesworth felt a thrill of joy pass through his heart, and
his arm stole softly about the slender waist of the maiden. She
gently withdrew from his embrace and continued:

“Do not let my avowal of love for you, Town., build up new hopes
within your breast. I must admit the sin of being ambitious, and I
could never give my consent to wed a man whose name was coupled with
that of--”

“Cowardice!” exclaimed Town.

“Exactly, Town.”

“Madge!” and the young man’s voice grew stronger, and his eyes
flashed indignantly, “then you, too, have given credence to that
false report of a cowardly enemy!”

“I could not well help it, Town., when so many spoke of it. I may be
doing you injustice to put any belief in it, but ambition, as I said
before, is my besetting sin. Did you possess the fame of Rollo, the
Boy Ranger, then I would not hesitate to become your wife.”

“I can not blame you, Madge, for refusing to wed one who bears the
name of a coward, but that I am _not_ a coward, I shall prove to you,
if I have to wade through fire and blood; and not until I have won a
fame equal to that of Red Rollo’s will I press my suit for your hand.
All I ask now is that I may live in hope.”

“You may, Town.--but look yonder,” she said evasively, “what objects
are those on the water just put out from the northern shore?”

Town. viewed the objects in question closely.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, after a while, his eyes having been upon one
thing and his mind another, “it is a flock of ducks--quite three
score of them; and how gracefully they move over the surface, their
green heads erect, on watch for the least sign of danger.”

“How I love to watch them sporting over the smooth surface of the
water!” said Madge. “They are so graceful in their movements--so shy
and quick.”

“I see, Madge, that you are a lover of nature, as well as
ambitious--but had we not better return to the place of meeting? I
see a large number of the settlers are there.”

Madge consented, and together they joined the settlers.

They found that the people from each settlement were already arrived,
and it wanted but few minutes of the hour for the beginning of
service.

Town. and Madge seated themselves upon one of the many fallen logs
that had been arranged for seats, and entered into conversation with
those near them.

For a moment the young couple held the gaze of the assembly. Town.
was the envy of all the marriageable youths there, while each maiden
felt like hiding her own brown, plain face as she gazed upon the
fair, lovely features of Talbott Taft’s daughter.

Madge greeted all their looks with a smile, and for a moment there
was a “buzz” in that particular corner of the congregation. Even
the eyes of the aged, sober, sanctimonious Israel Ainesley, who was
seated alongside of Father Earnshaw on a raised platform, facing the
congregation, became fixed upon the lovely face of the maiden with a
kind of a fascinated gaze, which Madge acknowledged with a pleasant
smile.

After a while the congregation engaged in singing, the sound of
their voices rolling away in sweet, melodious anthems through the
green forest aisles. And, too, the lake seemed to have caught the
inspiration of the music within its own pulseless bosom and carried
the sound back among its hills and caverns.

The spot selected for the meeting was well calculated to inspire the
heart with the infinite power of God.

It was a smooth lawn sloping down to the water’s edge, over which was
thrown the cool shadows of the stately towering oaks. Upon one side,
within full view of the congregation, lay the placid lake, and upon
the other the great silent forest.

With the natural precaution born of backwoods life, the settlers had
brought their side-arms with them, and had even posted guards out in
the woods, some distance from the place of service, to guard against
surprise. Still, no fears whatever had been entertained of danger
from the Indians, as they had long been perfectly peaceful and quiet.

After singing, followed prayer by the Reverend Mr. Earnshaw. Then
Mr. Ainesley arose, and in a clear but tremulous voice announced
his text; and at once began his discourse in a manner of force
and ability that, from the first, enchained the attention of his
hearers. He possessed a power of eloquence and delivery profound
and comprehensive. His comparisons were striking, and his similes
beautiful.

The eyes of all the congregation, Madge’s excepted, became riveted
upon the speaker, and though the trader’s daughter heard every
word that was spoken, she sat in a kind of mental abstraction and
gazed out upon the lake at the flock of wild ducks, which, since,
the beginning of the sermon, had continued to approach nearer and
nearer that end of the lake, as though drawn thither by the magnetic
influence that enabled the eloquent Mr. Ainesley to hold such a power
over his audience.

Once during the discourse, the preacher, in calling the attention of
his listeners to the presence of God in all the surroundings, turned
toward the lake and said:

“In those beautiful fowls yonder, sailing so gracefully over the
glassy surface of the element, behold the power, the wisdom--yea, the
presence of God.”

Of course all eyes followed in the direction of the speaker’s, and
every one within the assembly saw the flock of beautiful wild fowls,
shyly, but slowly and steadily, nearing the beach.

Just then their ears were greeted by the long report of a rifle on
the opposite side of the lake, that came booming over the water
like a sunset gun, and reverberating away back among the hills, and
rolling in a prolonged clang and crash through the forest aisles.

A small jet of water flashing upward in the center of the flock of
ducks showed the settlers where the bullet, sent from the hunter’s
rifle, had struck.

As the report of the rifle, which had so suddenly startled them,
died away, a slight commotion was noticed among the settlers. By the
report of the piece they knew full well who had fired it, for there
was but one rifle of so heavy a caliber upon the border.

That rifle was owned by the celebrated hunter and scout known as Roll
Raynor--nicknamed Old Tumult.

And the presence of Roll Raynor in the neighborhood betokened the
coming of danger! However, the Rev. Mr. Ainesley soon quieted the
fears of his audience and continued his discourse.

Madge Taft still sat, apparently in deep thought, watching the
approaching fowls.

Suddenly, the ears of the audience were again greeted by the
thunderous boom of Old Tumult’s rifle. And before they had fully
caught the full report of the gun, a wild and almost unearthly scream
was heard to issue from the waters of the lake.

Every eye was turned in that direction, and to the awful horror of
the settlers, they beheld the half-naked body of an Indian warrior
leap upward from the water, but a few rods from the shore, HIS HEAD
AND FACE CONCEALED IN A CAP MADE OF THE FEATHERED SKIN OF A WILD DUCK!

The savage had been shot through the head by a bullet from the
rifle of Old Tumult, but no sooner did the death-wail peal from his
lips, than the whole flock, of what the settlers had supposed to be
_living_ wild-ducks, was seen to rise up from the water upon the
heads of as many half-naked savages, whose bloody war-whoops, as
they dashed aside their feathered caps, and sprung ashore with drawn
tomahawks, sent a thrill of terror to the stoutest heart.




                             CHAPTER V.

                      OLD TUMULT TO THE RESCUE.


My pen is inadequate to the task now before me--the task of
describing that savage surprise, and the horrors that followed.

A desperate conflict at once began. Where peace and the enjoyment of
religious exercise prevailed but a few moments previous, now death
and carnage ran riot.

The yells of the demoniac savages, the shouts of the brave settlers
as with knife and pistol they flew to the conflict, the shrieks
of women and children, all mingled in one awful sound, and rolled
through the forest like a voice from Pandemonium.

At the beginning of the conflict, Town. Farnesworth seized Madge
and attempted to carry her beyond danger; but she tore herself from
his arms and bravely dashed into the midst of the combatants. Town.
attempted to follow her, but fell unconscious from a blow upon the
head.

The armed guards came running in from the woods, and joined their
friends in the conflict; and presently another voice was added to
those of the combatants, but his was a voice resembling the roar
of a maddened bull more than a human voice, and a tall, bony and
muscular-looking man, with long, shaggy eyebrows, from beneath which
two orbs of fire, a shock of grizzly gray hair, and a mouth so
“extensive,” that the upper part of his head seemed set on hinges at
the back--made his appearance in behalf of the settlers.

This man of giant frame and cavernous mouth, was Old Tumult, the
hunter and scout.

He came like a whirlwind among the savages, his rifle grasped in one
hand--a heavy club in the other.

The savages recoiled before him. They had felt the power of the giant
hunter’s iron arm before.

The dull thud, of the hunter’s club, accompanied with a yell, told
how fearful and deadly was his work.

“Away, demons o’ fury, away!” he shouted; “down to the brimstone
pit--the sulphurious region!”

The savages wavered, rallied again and strove hard to beat down Old
Tumult, but in vain. He seemed to bear a charmed life.

Finally the savages gave way, and took to the cover of the forest,
leaving a number of dead and dying comrades behind.

The settlers did not pursue the fleeing enemy. They were glad enough
to get rid of them, and at once turned their attention to their own
dead and dying comrades.

A frightful spectacle was now presented to the gaze of the settlers.
A score of savages lay killed and wounded upon the grassy lawn, and
among them, with their heads cloven, lay several of the settlers
dead, and several wounded. The women and children, with a few
exceptions, had fled into the forest at the commencement of the
attack. Thus, a new fear for their safety now preyed upon the minds
of the settlers.

When the battle was over, Old Tumult, to whom the settlers gave the
credit of defeating the red-skins, leaned his tall, gaunt form upon
his heavy rifle, and gazed silently over the scene before him, with a
sad look upon his hard, stony features.

“Ah, me! ah, me!” he sighed, heavily, “if I’d ’a’ known all, this
’ere would never ’a’ been, friends.”

“Yes, if any of us had dreamed of such an attack being planned, we
might have prevented it,” said the Reverend Paul Earnshaw.

“I knowed thar’ war sumthin’ up this mornin’, but for the life o’
me I couldn’t find out what it war till it war a’most too late. You
see, I war scoutin’ around the Ingin camp this mornin’, when I see’d
’bout fifty o’ the fiends o’ torture leave camp and p’int thar noses
this away. I follered ’em to the lake, and thar’ I see’d ’em strip
o’ every thing but their loincloths, tie a tomahawk to their waist,
and then cover their heads with the skin o’ a duck, with feathers,
head and all on. This done, the cunnin’ pukes waded into the water,
and submerged themselves to the ears, and I couldn’t have told fur
the life o’ me, if I hadn’t knowed it, that thar’ war an Ingin head
in every one o’ what seemed a genuine, livin’ duck. I tell you it
war devilish cunnin’ o’ the red hounds of Satan. Anxious to know
what they war up to, I kept under kiver and watched ’em, and not
until they war a’most onto you did I see their intention. I war
then too fur away to git here afore them, so I told ole Vibrator
here”--patting his heavy rifle--“to speak out the word o’ warnin’.
Vibrator spoke. Then I foddered her ag’in, with the avowed purpose
o’ jerkin’ a red-skin outen the lake. I took a dead set--Vibrator
let fly her venom, and sure enuff, out popped a red-skin with a hole
through his duck’s nest.

“I knowed the ball war opened now, and I detarmined to have a hand
in it; so I set out, and if ever a pile of ole bones flew ’round
Wildwood lake, they war Old Tumult’s.”

“Indeed, to you, Raynor,” said Lionel Clontarf, “it is owing that we
were not all slain; but, where is Father Ainesley?”

True enough. Reverend Israel Ainesley was missing from the crowd, and
no one knew what had become of him, unless he had taken to the forest.

The wounded were now cared for, and litters constructed upon which
the dead and wounded were conveyed to the post.

It was sunset ere the women and children had been gathered in from
the forest, and even then, two of them could not be found.

The two were Madge Taft and Clara Bryant.

As no one had seen them after the beginning of the attack, nor could
give any information of them, all concluded that they must have been
captured and carried off, or were lost in the dark mazes of the
forest.

Night was coming on apace. A gray mist was rising along the river
and over the forest, threatening a dark night. Besides, the air was
hot and sultry, and there were many indications of an early autumnal
storm. Town. Farnesworth shuddered at the thought of Madge and Clara
being gone, and no doubt exposed to many dangers, if they were not
already suffering the tortures of captivity. Every energy of the
young man was aroused, and he became sorely impatient to be off in
search of the missing maidens.

But he could do little alone, and the attention of the rest of the
settlers was required at the post, to attend to the dead and wounded,
and secure the place against a night attack.

Old Tumult, the hunter and trapper, volunteered his services to Town.
Town. gladly accepted, for, of all others, there were none he would
have selected in preference to this daring scout.

Ere night had fully set in, they had crossed the river, and were
threading the trackless aisles of the great woods. They had no hopes
of striking the trail of the enemy that night, owing to the darkness.
Knowing, however, that if the girls really were taken prisoners,
their captors would hurry them away toward the village, and by a
forced march the two hoped to cut them off from their stronghold;
for, once there, there would be little chance for the captives.

Being well acquainted with almost every foot of the country, Old
Tumult had no difficulty in keeping his course, and so they were
thereby enabled to move quite briskly.

At the cabin of Talbott Taft they stopped to inquire about Madge, but
finding no one at home they pushed on.

Leaving Wildwood lake to the left, they pursued a course which would
eventually bring them back to the Sioux river, though many miles
above the post. As they would have to follow the course of the river
after it was reached, they resolved to make part of the journey by
water, as Old Tumult knew where a canoe was concealed along the river
bank.

Fortune, however, lay in waiting for the two pursuers.

In a little valley not far from the river, gleamed the cheerful light
of a camp-fire, and within its radius _sat five human forms_. Two
of these were Madge Taft and Clara Bryant. They sat a little in the
background, with hands bound, and heads bowed in grief. The third
form was the reverential figure and face of the Reverend Israel
Ainesley. He was not bound, but sat before the fire smoking a huge
pipe, and exercising a will of perfect freedom. The other two persons
were painted and plumed Arapaho Indians!

But a single glance was sufficient to convince the keen-eyed scout
and his young companion that Israel Ainesley _was in league with the
Indians_.

Town. Farnesworth shuddered with disgust when he realized what a
mockery of God Ainesley had proven himself to be; while Old Tumult
could scarcely keep down the revengeful wrath that, like an internal
volcano, was surging within his breast.

Patience, discretion and self-control, however, were characteristic
traits of the old scout, born of necessity. In this lay his great
success as an Indian-fighter.

The enemy seemed to have no fears of being pursued, and were quite
boisterous and regardless of danger.

“I don’t understand it,” said Old Tumult, when he and Town. had
crawled within easy earshot of the camp.

“What?” questioned Town., in an undertone.

“The hilarity o’ them ’ere red pups. Inguns ’re generally more
keerful.”

“Ah! _that’s_ the cause!” whispered Town., on seeing the gray-haired
hypocrite, Israel Ainesley, draw from his bosom a flask containing
some kind of spirits, place it to his lips, and drink, then pass it
on to his companions; “the damnable wretch!”

“Smoke o’ torture! wuss then that!” exclaimed the old scout; “the
dubble-distilled essence o’ the brimstone-pit.”

“Well, what’s the programme now?” asked Town., growing impatient, as
he feasted his eyes upon the sweet, fair face of Madge.

“We must git the gals to wunst. It’d be a easy matter, too, to sour
their captors’ red ca’casses by dashin’ in onto ’em full tilt, but,
maybe thar’s several guards skulkin’ ’bout, and sich a drive might
git us inter trubble; but I’ll tell ye what I’ll do.”

“Well?” said Town., growing more impatient.

“I’ll string them ’ere two Ingins on a thread o’ fire-light, and
punch the hole with a chunk o’ lead spit from the black jaws o’ ole
Vibrator, then we’ll dash in and settle dad Ainesley’s hash for ’im.”

As he concluded, the old scout drew the ramrod from his rifle, and
fixing a screw upon one end of it, inserted it into the barrel.

“You see, lad,” he said, twisting the rod around, “I’m goin’ to feed
a little heavier, fur I calculate _one_ bullet to fix both o’ ’em
’ere reds, for ye see they’re settin’ in range.”

In a moment he drew out the bullet from the rifle, and doubled
the usual charge of powder. He then rammed the bullet home again,
replaced the ramrod and said:

“Thar, sir, ole Vibrator is so full her sides toot out, and now hear
her speak.”

Our friends were about a hundred paces from the enemy, who were
plainly visible in the light of their camp-fire. The two savages sat
side and side, and it was this fact that suggested to the old scout
the idea of killing both with the same bullet.

Carefully he raised his long, heavy rifle and fired.

Town. started to his feet. The report of the piece sounded like the
roar of a cannon, and the young man was sure it had exploded.

Close on the crash of the rifle came the death-wail of the two
savages. Then Old Tumult leaped from his covert with a roar that
would have done credit to an African gorilla, and shouting to his
companion to follow, he dashed into the camp.

Israel Ainesley sat half reclining upon the ground when his two
companions fell dead and for an instant he seemed totally paralyzed
by the terrible surprise. But the shout of Old Tumult aroused him,
and springing to his feet he attempted to escape into the black
shadows of the forest.

But Old Tumult had marked the reverend hypocrite’s movements, and in
an instant he was at Ainesley’s heels. A well directed blow in the
back from the scout’s sledge-hammer fist, sent the white-haired man
to grass with such velocity that his heels described a half-circle
through the air.

Town. Farnesworth sprung to the captives. But for the presence of
Clara Bryant, his first love, he would have embraced Madge with a
shower of kisses.

Not knowing whether he was friend or foe at first, Madge shrunk from
his grasp, a vindictive gleam in her dark eyes. She would have fled
into the forest, had not the hand of her lover staid her.

“Fear not--it is me, darling,” said the young man.

The gleam of fear and vengeance in her eyes died out, and she yielded
to the support of her lover.

In the mean time, Israel Ainesley was struggling to escape from the
powerful clutches of Old Tumult, and the confusion they created now
drew the attention of Town. and the maidens.

Ainesley attempted to gain his feet, but each effort was attended
with a blow from the fist of Old Tumult that sent him back to mother
earth again.

“Oh, Mr. Raynor!” cried Madge, “why do you treat Father Ainesley
thus? He was a prisoner like us.”

“Not a bit o’ it gal, ye blind leetle critter. He’s a cussed traitor.
Didn’t ye see that he wer’n’t bound?”

“But, he gave his word upon the honor of a Christian that he would
not escape!” pleaded Clara.

“But he drank from the flask with the Ingins, and that are a sure
sign o’ thar bein’ in ca-hoots,” persisted Old Tumult.

“But the Indians com_pelled_ him to,” said Madge.

At this juncture Ainesley attempted, by a sudden leap, to get clear
of the old scout, but Old Tumult was on the alert, and thrusting out
his long arm and bony hand he clutched the aged hypocrite by the
snowy beard in a vice-like grip.

Ainesley surged backward like a stubborn horse, and losing his
balance, fell heavily to the earth. But Old Tumult stood erect, his
face elongated with surprise, for in his hand he still clutched the
gray whiskers of Ainesley. He held them to the light and saw that
they were _false whiskers_!

Madge turned almost deadly pale, and a smothered cry burst from
her lips. Clara involuntarily shrunk toward Town., with fear upon
her sweet young face, while the young man himself seemed terribly
agitated, as he gazed upon the fallen man.

“Smoke o’ holy torture!” roared Old Tumult, and leaping forward he
seized Ainesley and dragged him before the fire, then, in addition to
the false whiskers already stripped from the villain’s face, he tore
from his head the wig of snowy hair.

The aged face of Israel Ainesley was no longer before them, but there
was the face of one whom the settlers of Clontarf Post had hung in
the forest long weeks before, and whom they supposed dead.

It was the handsome, yet wicked face of the renegade, Dick Sherwood!




                             CHAPTER VI.

                             OUTWITTED.


There was a momentary silence following the discovery of the
existence of Dick Sherwood, in which time the bony fingers of Old
Tumult became almost buried in the flesh of the renegade.

“Easy, Tumult, easy!” cried the supposed defunct villain, with a
nonchalant air. “I’ll give up the ghost since you’ve stripped me of
my reverend face and snowy locks.”

“Essence of sin!” exclaimed the scout; “mocker o’ God--tool of the
devil, I’ve a notion to pulverize ye to dust!”

“There is no doubt that you and your friends all feel like it,
Tumult, since that little hanging affair didn’t shut off my wind,”
said the renegade, with a smile of defiance. “I told the settlers the
day they hung me, that when I addressed them again, it would be under
different circumstances. So it was. The affair at lake Wildwood is
but the beginning of my vengeance upon those who essayed to destroy
my life.”

“The _beginnin’_ o’ yer vengeance!” exclaimed Old Tumult; “ha! ha!
ha! that’s a good ’un. I think it’s the eend, too, fur when ye ’scape
the clutches o’ Old Tumult, jist whistle, will ye?”

The bold, wicked, defiant renegade laughed loud and bitterly, then
replied:

“It’s useless to throw words at one another, Tumult, for my day has
not yet come, unless you shoot me upon this spot.”

“No, no, Satan,” returned Old Tumult; “I will hand you over to the
settlers, and let them bid ye, ‘git ye hence.’”

“Then bind me hand and foot, or _any_ way, so you release your bony
claws from my flesh,” returned Sherwood, with a shrug of pain.

“Ho! ho! ho!” roared Old Tumult, and he shook the renegade as though
he had been a kitten; “why, man, ye’ve only felt the weight of my
hands.”

With the assistance of Town., the renegade was securely bound hand
and foot, with thongs made of the buck-skin leggings of one of the
dead savages.

The renegade glanced toward the two dead Indians with a look of
regret, yet when his eyes met those of the two maidens, his features
wore no downcast nor defeated look. Dick Sherwood had no fears of
death in any form. He was a moral coward as his deeds betokened,
but physically speaking, he was utterly reckless in his cunning and
daring.

Old Tumult and Town. now consulted as to the next steps to be taken.
They knew full well that they were in the midst of danger, and that
it would be unsafe to remain there during the night. They must either
begin their return to the post, or seek some safe retreat. But it
became a question, which of these two courses they should pursue.

Suddenly they were startled by a faint rumbling of thunder along the
western sky. This at once decided their course, as they discovered
that one of those furious autumnal storms was gathering.

“Insomuch as what we can’t reach the post to-night, ’specially afore
the storm, we’d better take refuge on the Two Islands, in the Sioux
river. Thar’s a kind o’ shanty on one o’ ’em, that’ll do to pertect
yerself and the gals from the storm. As to me, I’m storm-proof,
Town.”

“It shall all be as you say, Tumult,” replied Town.; “you know what
is best for us.”

So preparations were at once made for departure to the Two Islands.
Sherwood’s feet were unbound, and to prevent his escape in the dark,
a strong rope was made of hickory-bark, and one end attached to the
renegade’s neck--Old Tumult keeping the other end in his hand.

Town. Farnesworth, following the old scout and his prisoner,
conducted Madge and Clara through the almost impenetrable gloom of
the woods.

An hour’s walking brought them to the Little Sioux river, at a point
opposite the Two Islands. Old Tumult drew from under some reeds and
aquatic plants, a large canoe, that he had concealed there the day
previous, and the party at once embarked for the islands.

The Little Sioux river was not a large stream, but at this point the
Two Islands forced the water outward, making the stream fully one
hundred yards wide on each side of them.

Two Islands were not over a sixth of an acre each in area. They were
divided by a deep, but swift and narrow channel of water, and covered
by a dense growth of vegetation and driftwood. A beautiful archway of
shrubbery was formed by the foliage of each island growing outward,
and interlacing over the channel that separated the islands.

Having landed upon the western island, Old Tumult drew the canoe
partly upon the beach, then led the way carefully toward the interior
of the island.

By this time a bank of ominous black clouds had reared its head high
up against the western sky, while along its purple, jagged edges, the
red lightning ran its old fiery race, making the gloom that followed
each flash pitchy black. The dull rumble of thunder had become
continuous and sullen, and the whole surrounding had an air of awful
solemnity about it.

Clara Bryant covered her eyes to shut out the blinding glare of the
lightning, and shuddered when the hot winds touched her pale cheeks.
Not so with Madge. A smile, that was almost grim in expression,
rested upon her fair face; and her eyes shone with unusual
brilliancy. The coming storm filled her breast, seemingly, with some
wild joy and secret hope.

Dick Sherwood was silent, but the lightning’s glare showed his
handsome face aglow with sinful radiance.

Pushing aside some bushes, Old Tumult pointed to a small, cone-shaped
structure that stood within a little opening in the center of the
island, and said:

“Thar’s a little shanty o’ mine that’ll do to pertect you and the
gals from the storm, Town. Me and this essence o’ Satan here can tuck
ourselves under a bush and grin it through till mornin’.”

“The girls can occupy it,” returned Town., “and I will assist you to
guard the island, since there is no telling what dangers surround us.”

Town. conducted the maidens into the little hut, then went out and
assisted Old Tumult in binding Dick Sherwood to a sapling that stood
within a few feet of the building.

The renegade was so tightly and securely bound, that he fairly
groaned with pain.

This done, Old Tumult said:

“Now I’ll reconnoiter the island and see that no lurkin’ red-skins
are ’bout.”

He took up his rifle and glided away among the shrubbery like a
phantom.

Town. stood alone by the renegade. Neither spoke. Town. was too
absorbed in his own reflections to think of aught but the sweet, fair
face of Madge Taft. Dick Sherwood began humming a low, wild song,
fixing his eyes upon the hut as he did so.

In a moment all was still again but the wind and thunder. Town.
noticed that Sherwood still kept his eyes upon the little cone-shaped
hut, and so Town. himself glanced that way. He started. A gleam of
lightning showed to him a human hand protruding from a small opening
in the side of the hut. In that mysterious hand was clutched a small,
glittering dagger.

“Heavens! what can that mean?” thought Town., “it was _not_ the hand
of either of the girls; it was too large. What if an enemy--Ah, what
now?”

It was a hasty movement upon the upper side of the island that
interrupted him--a movement that produced a sound resembling the
threshing of a heavy body through the undergrowth. This sound
was followed by a dull thud, then upon the wings of the gathering
storm came a wild yell from the lips of Old Tumult, again followed
by a triumphant, mocking laugh. Then all became still again, and
while Town. stood trying to gain some solution to the mysterious
proceedings, the old scout approached him unseen and touched him upon
the shoulder.

Town. started.

“This way, lad,” said the scout.

Town. followed him to the upper margin of the island, when he drew
from the forks of a bush and held up before him a _human scalp_.

“Where did you get that?” asked Town., with a shudder of disgust.

“Thar,” replied Old Tumult, pointing to the ground.

Town. looked and saw the lifeless body of an Indian lying at his feet.

“I found the red hound skulking on this very island,” said Old Tumult.

“And did you slay him?”

“Ya-as. It war a neat job, too; the demon didn’t git a chance to
screech afore I closed his weazen, and slid his hair off. It looks
bloody and wicked to you, lad, but sich is the game. It don’t take
long to git used to it, either.”

At this juncture drops of rain began to fall.

“Go to the shanty, lad, or ye’ll git wet,” said Old Tumult.

“I am no better than you, Tumult; if it will not hurt you, it will
not hurt me.”

“Yer plucky, lad; but let us not tarry here too long. We must keep an
eye on Sherwood. I brought you here to show you that danger lurked
about.”

This remark of the old scout reminded Town. of the hand he had seen
thrust from a crack in the hut, and he at once narrated it to him.

“Smoke o’ torture!” exclaimed the scout, turning toward the hut;
“come, lad, come.”

They hastily retraced their steps toward the cabin; as they neared
it, a long, vivid flash of lightning showed them that _Dick Sherwood
was gone_!

Old Tumult fairly roared with rage and anger.

Town. rushed into the hut, excitedly calling on Madge and Clara. But
there was no response. He groped about the room and found that it was
empty!

Wild with excitement he rushed out into the pelting storm.

“The girls--they, too, are gone, Tumult!” he exclaimed.

“Smoke o’ torture! that essence o’ Satan has outwitted us after all
our precaution--Hark!”

They bent their heads and listened, and from far out upon the water
came the imploring cry:

“Save me, Town., save me! help! help!”

It was the voice of Madge Taft.




                            CHAPTER VII.

                      IN THE HORN OF A DILEMMA.


The rain was now coming down in a perfect torrent. The heavens were
one broad sheet of red flame. The thunder rolled incessantly along
the storm-girded sky. The winds rumbled wildly and ghostlike through
the dark avenues of the forest, and lashed the waters of the river to
a foam.

Town. Farnesworth stood aghast.

Old Tumult, gazing out upon the river, saw by the lightning’s flash,
a canoe containing three or four persons making rapidly for the shore.

“Come, Town.,” he yelled, darting across the island, “and by the gods
we will catch that essence o’ Satan again.”

Town. followed him to the shore, where both met with another surprise.

Their canoe was gone!

“The gals are lost, Town.; Satan and his imps have beaten us. We’re
bound to stay here now till the storm abates, or Providence sends us
a canoe.”

“Merciful Heaven!” cried Town., “can we not swim ashore, or construct
a raft of driftwood?”

“Not while the river is tossin’ so, Town. We could not man a raft
now. Even if we could, we might run right into a nest of red-skins
that are no doubt watchin’ for us this minnit. Be patient, Town.; I
know it goes hard with yer heart affairs, but patience is the key to
success in Injun scoutin’.”

The two returned to the hut and went in out of the storm. Town. grew
almost sick at heart as he sat and listened to the driving rain and
howling winds, and realized that the two maidens were exposed to its
fury, and he unable to assist them.

Old Tumult became quite calm in consequence of his defeat by Sherwood
and his Indians, for he was sure he saw, at least, two Indians with
him and his captives in the fleeing canoe.

No rest nor sleep came to the weary bodies and heavy eyes of Old
Tumult and Town. that night.

The storm seemed to increase in fury each moment, and in order to
dispel some of the damp, dismal gloom that seemed pervaded with an
atmosphere and foreboding of danger, a fire was lighted within the
hut.

The light showed an expression of bitter anxiety and suspense upon
the face of young Farnesworth, while the hard, stony features of Old
Tumult wore a grim smile denoting doubt and perplexity.

Every few minutes the old scout would go out and reconnoiter the
island to make sure that no lurking red-skins were around. It was far
past midnight, when on returning from one of these scouts, that Town.
noticed his voice and actions were somewhat agitated, and asked:

“What is the matter, Tumult?”

“Why?”

“Your voice seems agitated.”

“Wal, I’ve diskivered sumthin’.”

“What?” and Town. started up.

“The river is risin’ rapidly.”

“What of that?”

“In an hour more this ’ere island will be overflown!”

“My God, Tumult! is it possible?”

“Ya-as. Thar’s never been sich a rain in these parts sense the rainy
season seven years ago. A half a day’s rainin’ raised the river then
till the Two Islands were completely kivered, sumthin’ that has never
been done sense.”

“What are we to do, if the island is overflown?” asked Town.

“That’s easier axed than answered, lad. The wind is tossin’ the
seethin’ waters up into little mountains--ah! hear ’em dash upon the
island! We could never stick to a raft--the waves ’d wash us away
like lumps o’ dirt.”

“God in heaven, are we to perish thus?” cried Town., gazing out upon
the roaring river.

“Never say die, lad,” returned the scout, “there’s hope as long as
thar’s life. We may escape yit.”

“How?”

“By climbin’ into one o’ the large saplin’s outside.”

“True, true; I had never thought of that. But will not the floating
debris lodge against the bushes and bear them down?”

“Thar’ll be danger, but it’s our only resort, Town.”

“Then let us hasten to climb the saplings, for already I can hear the
water creeping among the undergrowth, like a serpent--there--Heavens!”

It was a huge wave that dashed upon the island and rolled half a knee
deep over--crept into the cabin and drowned out the fire.

For the next half-minute the two men stood wrapped in total darkness,
with the wild, seething waters rolling around them. Then a prolonged
flare of the red lightning revealed the swollen river and the dark
wood-land beyond.

Wave after wave dashing against the island warned the old scout and
Town. of their danger.

Procuring their weapons, they climbed into the largest sapling
upon the island, and seated themselves securely among the topmost
branches. They now found themselves some ten feet above the surface
of the island. The tree was of sufficient size and strength to
withstand the pressure of the flood in case no heavy weight of
floating debris lodged against it.

The wind blew so fierce that it required every effort of our two
friends to keep their seats in the tree. It was but a few minutes
until they were drenched to the skin, though the green foliage around
them protected them, in a great measure, from the driving force of
the rain.

Half an hour after they had sought their new retreat, a huge wave
rolled over the island and swept the hut away. In a few minutes more
the Two Islands were entirely submerged, and the wild waves booming
over them.

Not until the approach of day did the storm break away.

As the sun arose the rain ceased to fall, the wind went down, the
clouds became broken, and in a few minutes the blue vault was
sparkling clear and bright.

Our friends breathed an air of relief, but their heads grew dizzy
when they gazed on the roaring flood beneath them.

Out upon either side the water had overflown the river banks and
spread out a hundred yards into the bottom. Its turbulent current was
black with floating logs and debris.

The tree in which our friends sat quivered under the agitated motion
of the water, and ever and anon a floating log would strike it with a
force that threatened to bear it down.

Wild birds wheeled and circled over their heads with a startled
shriek, as though trying to add new terror to their already trying
situation.

Old Tumult ran his eyes along the eastern shore in hopes of seeing
some one that he could call to their assistance. But only wave after
wave of the great prairie could be seen, rolling away in the distant
haze of that autumnal morning. He turned his head and gazed toward
the wooded shore. He saw a bird soar upward with a startled shriek
from that point in the woods where the water had overflown the bank.

A novice in woodcraft would have paid no particular attention to so
trivial a fact, but Old Tumult saw at once, that the bird had been
frightened by something unusual.

In this the old scout was right. The next moment a large canoe,
containing half a dozen Arapaho Indians, glided swiftly out from
among the timber on the inundated shore, and bore down directly
toward our friends.

Among the savages, our friends recognized the presence of Dick
Sherwood, who, as the canoe glided from among the timber into the
main channel of the river, arose to his feet and shouted:

“Surrender, Old Tumult and Town. Farnesworth, or by the heavens above
you, and the water beneath, you will be riddled with bullets!”




                            CHAPTER VIII.

                           THE BETROTHAL.


Although the whites were the common enemy of the Sioux and Arapaho
Indians at the time of which I write, a deadly feud existed between
the two tribes, growing out of a dispute as to the rightful ownership
of a section of territory--abounding with game--since named the
Neutral Grounds. The Sioux hunted the Arapaho and the Arapaho hunted
the Sioux with the same deadly intent that each hunted the white man.

Being equal in point of number, neither tribe would yield its claim,
and it is thus that the opening of our story finds them arrayed
against each other.

It is on the morning following the night of storm that we would lead
the reader into a temporary encampment of the Arapaho Indians.

The encampment was well located upon a hillside, and surrounded on
all sides by the forest. The lodges were arranged in rows or streets
facing a small square. In the center of the square stood the council
lodge, and that of the prophet. On each side of the prophet’s lodge
stood a small one which bore evidence of having been lately placed
there.

The storm had cleared away and there were few traces of it remaining
in the Indian encampment. The sun was shining brightly, and a cool,
pleasant breeze was drifting through the forest.

The Indians were astir quite early. Something of unusual occurrence
prevailed in the encampment. The two small tents by the prophet’s
lodge seemed to be the point of attraction.

Presently the door of the prophet’s lodge was thrust aside, and the
great prophet made his appearance. He was a _white man_, and no other
than Dick Sherwood, the handsome, villainous renegade.

From his lodge the prophet turned to the one at the right, which he
entered without ceremony.

The interior of the little lodge was furnished with all the comfort
and taste of savage wealth and ingenuity. The floor was covered
with soft skins, the walls were hung with tapestry of ornamented
buck-skin, while strands of wampum, strands of beads and shells,
and curious figures carved from bone and wood adorned the walls and
ceiling.

At one side, on a couch of furs, sat a beautiful white woman, from
all appearances a captive, though her face wore no look of sadness
nor grief. This woman was Madge, the daughter of Talbott Taft, the
Indian trader.

“My pretty captive looks none the worse of her night’s exposure in
the storm,” said Sherwood, as he entered her tent, with an air of
mock politeness.

Madge looked up at the renegade and smiled scornfully.

“I am feeling quite well, and none the worse of my exposure,” she
replied, in a defiant tone.

“I am glad to hear it, Miss Taft,” the villain replied; “perhaps we
can come to some definite terms, as to the future. I think I will
have no trouble in bringing that modest little violet, Clara Bryant,
to a _pleasant_ reconciliation.”

“Just so,” mockingly returned Madge.

The villain continued:

“However, Miss Taft, it is likely that you have great influence with
Miss Bryant, and if you will go to her, and induce her--make her
_believe_ that her only salvation lies in her becoming my lawful
wife, you will be set at liberty. If she will consent to marry me
to-morrow, I will send for the missionary, Father Jules, and have him
perform the ceremony. Then, with his certificate of our marriage in
my pocket, my mission will be ended, and I will bid farewell to this
heathen country and return to the East, the heir to a vast fortune.
What say you?”

Madge smiled scornfully, yet strangely, as she replied:

“I will do any thing to get rid of your odious presence. I will lay
your proposition before Clara, and then she can do as she sees fit.
But were it me, I’d see you burning before I would submit to wed you.”

The renegade laughed long and loudly, then said:

“Remember, _Miss_ Taft,”--laying a marked emphasis upon the
“Miss”--“as I told you last night, as soon as Clara is my wife, and
I have Father Jules’ certificate of our marriage in my pocket, she
shall be set at liberty. As her husband, I will press no further
claims upon her. All I want is something to show my right to--well,
you know what--the Golden Horn estate.”

Madge arose to leave the lodge.

“I will go at once and see Clara,” she said.

“Then I will wait your return,” said Sherwood.

Madge went out into the little tent where Clara Bryant was a
prisoner. She found the maiden weeping, with face pale and sorrowful.

“Oh, Clara!” cried Madge, “I have come to you with what I hope will
be good news.”

Clara looked quickly up, a light of hope in her tearful eyes.

“Has he decided to set us free--to allow us to return home?” she
asked.

“On certain conditions, dear Clara.”

“What are they?”

“That you, sweet Clara, become his wife.”

“Sherwood’s wife!” gasped Clara.

“Yes.”

“Never, _never_, Madge!” and there was a momentary flash of defiance
in her eyes, but it soon died away.

“Listen, Clara,” said Madge, “the moment that you are wed to
Sherwood, we will both be set at liberty. He has promised to force no
claims upon you as your husband.”

“Then why does he wish to marry me?”

“Out of pure revenge. You know he is a desperate character, Clara.”

“Revenge upon me?”

“No; but upon Town. Farnesworth, whom he hates above all else upon
earth, and whom he believes loves you.”

Madge looked closely into the face of her companion as she spoke, and
saw a crimson flush mount to her cheeks.

“But, _you_ know, Madge, that Town. does not love me.”

“Why should I know, Clara.”

“Because Town. loves _you_.”

“You surprise me, Clara; however, Sherwood believes that Town. loves
you, and he has set his wicked heart on marrying you for revenge.”

“Oh, Madge! I wish I was as brave and fearless as you are, then I
would know how to decide. You must advise me, Madge. Your judgment
will dictate the proper course for me to pursue.”

Madge’s eyes shone brightly.

“Clara,” she said, softly, “although Dick Sherwood is a desperate
character, I believe there is some honor about him; and I further
believe that if you marry him, he will set us free. Of course, when
we are free, we will declare your marriage a forced one, and that
will make it null and void, though the wretch does not know it; so he
will have no claim upon you after all, and it will be such a clever
joke on him.”

Clara smiled sadly, and her lips quivered as, half in doubt, she
asked:

“Then you advise me to marry him?”

“It is our only hope, Clara.”

“Then I must consent.”

“Then I will see him and tell him. If you agreed to his propositions,
he said he would have the wedding take place to-morrow.”

Madge left the tent and returned to her own, where Sherwood was
awaiting her.

“Well,” said the renegade, as she entered.

“It is all right,” returned Madge, and the shadow of a wicked smile
hovered around her mouth.

Sherwood laughed one of his cold, devilish laughs.

Then he clapped his hands and cried:

“Vengeance! vengeance! my sweet Cecil, and a long life at the Golden
Horn!”

And strange though it was, Madge clapped her hands and laughed too.

In a moment Sherwood continued:

“Yes, sweet Annette, my mission--my secret mission in the west will
now be ended, and then for the Golden Horn! But, I must have one
man’s life before I go, the life of Old Tumult, the hunter. I could
never rest easy--not even in the grave--without revenge upon that
giant. I know he is shut up on one of the Two Islands, if he and his
young friend, Farnesworth, have not been washed away by the flood.
Ha! ha! ha! that escape from the island last night with the two
maidens was nicely made, fair Annette!”

The villain went on with his talk, like one speaking to himself,
or an imaginary person. He seemed totally unconscious of Madge’s
presence.

“You are surely out of your wits, great prophet of the Arapahoes,”
said the trader’s daughter, sneeringly.

“No, no; only indulging in a bit of self-communion, Miss Taft,” he
replied; “but, by the gods, I will have the life of Old Tumult!
To-morrow Clara shall be my wife, and then for the Golden Horn and
long life, my sweet Cecil!”

As the handsome villain concluded his wild soliloquy, he turned and
went out of the lodge.

When she found herself alone, Madge threw herself upon the couch of
skins, and burst into a fit of hysterical laughter which ended in an
outburst of tears.

Dick Sherwood, burning with a desire for revenge upon Old Tumult, and
conscious of his inability to cope with him in physical strength,
selected five of the best warriors in the tribe and set off for Two
Islands, determined to capture the old scout at all hazards, dead or
alive. Besides, the warriors that accompanied him were stimulated by
a handsome reward, offered by their chief, for the scalp of their
most terrible enemy, Old Tumult, the hunter and scout.




                             CHAPTER IX.

                        A STARTLING SURPRISE.


As the voice of Sherwood rolled across the water in his demand for
the surrender of Old Tumult and Town., the old scout burst into a
roar of laughter that fairly shook the tree in which he was perched;
then, in a tone peculiar to his powerful lungs, he requested the
renegade to go to--that very warm region prepared for the wicked.

The enemy were above them, where they could avail themselves of the
force of the current, and no sooner did they hear the old scout’s
reply, than they began bearing down toward them at a rapid speed.

Our friends could see that the enemy were armed with rifles, but, as
they did not fire upon them, they knew the distance was too great
for the range of a common firearm, they--the enemy--being over two
hundred yards above them.

“Death is a dead certainty with us now, Tumult,” said Town.

“Things look kinder scaly, lad, but I’m thinkin’ that ’ere essence o’
Satan has miscalculated our situation; or else they don’t know as how
old Vibrator here can flip lead--that _we_’ve got rifles, too.”

“But the rain has made my rifle perfectly useless, Tumult, and my
ammunition is soaking wet,” said Town., regretfully.

“Vibrator is all right. I didn’t furgit to keep her muzzle down, and
her nipple dry. My powder is in a water-proof horn, and now I’ll see
if I can’t check the speed o’ them ’ere critters afore they git in
range for their bird-pickers.”

As he concluded, the old scout thrust his rifle through the foliage,
took a deliberate aim, and fired. Had a torpedo exploded under the
advancing canoe, it could not have caused greater consternation than
did the shot fired by Old Tumult. It was wholly unexpected by the
enemy. Sherwood had convinced the savages that there was nothing to
fear from the whites--that their firearms were rendered useless by
the rain. But, when one of their number fell dead--shot through the
head with a half-ounce ball--all their savage anticipations of a pair
of scalps fled, and turning their canoe shoreward, they fled equally
as fast.

Old Tumult, with all the lion force of his lungs, gave vent to a
triumphant, defiant yell, and a derisive, mocking laugh, that made
the very blood of Dick Sherwood’s veins leap hot with rage, and burn
with resentment.

“That’ll be apt to set the hounds o’ Satan red-hot,” said the old
scout, as the enemy disappeared in the flooded timber; “and we’ve
got to keep a close look-out, fur they’ll try every way that their
cunnin’ brain kin invent to git our skulps.”

The new danger stimulated, rather than depressed, the spirit of our
friends, and they began to view their situation in a rather novel
light; but how long this would last was a question of doubt. True,
the water was falling fast, still it would be several hours before
they could set foot upon the island; and, without great precaution,
in that time the enemy might bring to bear upon them some means that
would dislodge them. The only difficulty that they experienced in
their elevated retreat was the numbness of their limbs, occasioned by
inactivity and the cramped position they were compelled to retain.

Town. drew the wet charge from his rifle, and reloaded with powder
from Old Tumult’s horn, and thus in a few minutes he had his piece
ready for use.

Something like an hour had passed after the defeat of Sherwood, when
the attention of our flood-bound friends was attracted by a huge raft
of driftwood coming down the river. It was some four hundred yards
away when first discovered, and although a number of such rafts of
flood-collected debris had passed down the river since daylight, this
was the first one that attracted unusual attention from the keen eyes
of Old Tumult.

“Thar’s deviltry up, boy,” said the old scout; “that ’ere raft o’
wood and sich, looks a leetle suspicious.”

“What do you judge from?” asked Town.

“Wal, thar’s too many logs piled on top o’ one anuther; and when you
see thar’s some brush and such, piled onto the logs, in a kind o’ a
careless way, it’s true; but I would not be afraid to bet there war
Ingins among that ’ere driftwood.”

“If there is, we will give them a chunk or two of cold lead,” said
Town., fixing his eyes upon the raft.

“Ah--they’re too sharp fur that, lad. They’re layin’ ahind the
logs--mebbe half buried in the water--and jist as soon as they git
close enough, we’ll hear, if we don’t feel, cold lead rattlin’ ’round
us. Things begin to look scaly, boy, fur us, or I’m no judge.”

The two men felt no little uneasiness for the next ten minutes as to
the real character of the raft. If there were Indians about it, as
Old Tumult had no doubt but there were, they were so hidden among the
logs and bushes as to defy all efforts of discovery, while at the
same time the whites would be exposed to the rifles of the hidden
enemy.

They could do nothing but watch and wait, while the raft continued to
drift slowly toward them. It was about a hundred yards away when Old
Tumult was sure he saw the head of a savage peering over a log, and,
to convince himself as to whether such really was the case, he raised
his rifle and fired at the object.

But, the scout never knew whether or not it was an Indian’s head,
nor what had been the effect of his shot, for, simultaneous with
the report of the rifle, the raft dropped into a strong, surging
eddy--swung swiftly around a number of times, and then, as if a
magazine had exploded in its midst, it flew apart--every log became
separated from each other by the circling force of the water; and
there, in the midst of the whirling, rolling logs and debris, were a
half a dozen Indians, struggling desperately with the waves.

Old Tumult burst into a roar of laughter when he discovered this
providential misfortune to the savages.

As the scout had mistrusted, the red-skins had secreted themselves
among the logs and debris; and, but for the parting of the raft in
the eddy, and the sudden precipitation of the cunning foe into the
seething waters, it is very probable that our friends would have been
shot down in another moment.

As fast as Old Tumult could load and fire upon the struggling,
panic-stricken enemy, he did so with telling effect. And those of
the savages that escaped his deadly aim, were overpowered by the
waves and swept away.

Again our friends had nothing, for the moment, to fear from the
Arapahoes.

A silence ensued.

Town. was thinking of Madge and Clara, while Old Tumult was silently
wondering what course the enemy would next resort to, to dislodge
them from their retreat.

Suddenly they were startled by the sharp twang of a horn.

The sound came from the eastern shore. They glanced in that direction
and discovered a horseman moving along the shore toward the north.

They recognized him at the first glance.

It was Rollo, the Boy Ranger.

Old Tumult placed his hat upon the muzzle of his gun and waved it
above his head, shouting at the top of his lungs.

The young ranger drew rein and answered the scout’s shout by a blast
from his horn and a waving of his scarlet cap.

“Ay, Rollo, my lad,” called the scout, “it’s rather a cramped
condition we’re in, and all fur want o’ help.”

The young ranger was not over two hundred yards away, and had no
difficulty in catching the scout’s words.

“Then you shall want no longer, old friend,” replied the ranger; “I
will assist you at once.”

“But how kin ye, my lad?” asked the scout.

“I will hasten up the river to King’s Ford and get the old ferryman’s
boat,” returned the youth.

“That’ll do, my gallant boy; jist run the boat under this ’ere tree
and we’ll be ready to drop down into it.”

With a wave of his scarlet cap, the ranger dashed away on his
mission. It was about three miles to what was known as King’s Ford,
where an old half-breed by the name of King had built a ferry-boat,
for the purpose of transferring the loaded teams of settlers from one
side to the other during high waters.

Our friends did not expect the return of the ranger with the boat
under two hours, but scarcely an hour had elapsed when, to their
surprise, they saw the youth with the boat put around the bend in the
stream above, not over three hundred yards distant.

It is necessary that we should here give a brief description of the
ferry-boat, for reasons which will be made known hereafter.

It was about twenty feet in length, by half that length in width, and
constructed on the principle of a large canoe; then, in order to make
it more convenient for loaded teams, a slab floor, or deck, was laid
across the top from side to side, thus forming a hold about two feet
deep beneath the slab deck. A pair of sweeps and a tiller constituted
the propelling and guiding apparatuses of the craft. At the prow of
the boat was an opening or hatchway, about two feet square, leading
into the hold. This opening was covered with a stout slab in which
was fixed a ring and staple for raising.

Old Tumult hailed the approach of the ranger with a wild shout, and
then they began to prepare to leave their elevated retreat.

Rollo had no need of the sweeps. The force of the current carried the
boat along quite rapidly, and he had only to stand at the tiller and
keep the boat in the proper course to pass over the inundated island.

When the boat was within fifty yards of our friends, Old Tumult
shouted:

“Ye made a purty quick trip up to the Ford, lad.”

“It would have been, had I went to the ferry, but the fact of it is,
I found the boat stranded about a mile above here.”

“Possible!” exclaimed the scout, while Town. peered through the
foliage at the ranger with a puzzled expression upon his face.

“Yes,” returned the youth, bending slightly upon the tiller; “the
flood had washed it from its mooring and drifted it down stream about
two miles, where it lodged, and where I found it.”

“Wal, it’s all luck--bear to the left, lad, bear to the left--let the
prow strike the tree midways--bear hard--there--smoke of tortures!”

The exclamation was caused by the ferry-boat striking the tree, or
sapling, with such sudden force that our two friends were nearly
shaken from its branches. However, the boat came to a stand, and the
next moment our friends stood upon its deck.

Old Tumult fairly danced with joy, while Town. was compelled to rub
his limbs vigorously in order to restore the circulation.

Old Tumult pushed the boat clear of the tree, and the next moment it
was slowly veering off toward the western shore.

The scout and the young ranger entered into a conversation, and in a
moment the latter was in possession of all the facts that placed our
two heroes in the predicament in which he found them.

Rollo then gave the scout and Town. some joyful news of the
whereabouts of the two captives, Madge Taft and Clara Bryant. He
had seen them taken to the village of the prophet, while scouting
thereabouts, and but for the superiority in number of the savages
he would have attempted their rescue. This was joyful news to the
scout and Town., not because the maidens were captives in the Indian
village, but to know they had survived the peril of the night’s storm.

“Did the captives seem much depressed in spirit?” asked Town.

“Miss Taft,” returned the ranger, glancing toward the shore as if to
conceal the smile that passed over his dark, handsome face, “seemed
very sad and downcast, when she was conducted by where I was lying
concealed in the undergrowth.”

A sigh, that deepened almost into a groan, escaped Town.’s lips.

“I tell ye what, Town.,” said Old Tumult, “I know it goes plaguy tuff
with a feller when he’s mixed up in a heart-affair with a purty gal,
and that gal’s a prisoner in the hands o’ a pack o’ red-skins. I know
it goes tuff, fur I’ve been thar, Town.”

Rollo, the Boy Ranger, smiled again, as he carefully noted his course
and moved the tiller accordingly.

A silence, broken only by the swash of the water around the boat,
ensued.

Old Tumult was thinking of the past; Town. of Madge, while the
ranger, apparently plunged in mental oblivion, began whistling
softly.

Suddenly, as if moved by a single and intuitive impulse, the old
scout and Town. glanced at Rollo. The eyes of the ranger were fixed
upon the forward part of the boat with a strange expression shining
from their dark depths.

Again, as if moved by some unknown impulse, the eyes of Old Tumult
and Town. sought the object of the ranger’s attention, and to their
horror and surprise they beheld the slab over the hatchway pushed
aside, and a giant savage leap from the hold of the boat onto the
deck, followed by another until four of the painted demons stood
before them, their faces aglow with diabolical triumph!




                             CHAPTER X.

                        A DESPERATE CONFLICT.


Old Tumult and Town. recoiled before the visionary blow that the
sudden and undreamed-of appearance of the four savages produced upon
them. But, it was only for a moment that their presence of mind
seemed to desert them.

Each of the savages clutched a tomahawk in his hand, and our friends
at once saw the advantage of the foe in weapons as well as number.

Rollo did not relinquish his post at the tiller, but, for some
reason, headed the boat, at once, directly down the stream.

Town., as he mechanically glanced from one to the other of his
friends, noticed the saber dangling at the ranger’s side, and
foreseeing its superiority in a hand-to-hand conflict, reached
forward and snatched it from the scabbard.

Then he made a quick spring toward a savage, and, with a desperate
lunge, drove the slender blade to the heart of the foe.

Up to this instant the savages stood facing the whites, without
making a single demonstration. It was quite evident that the
cunning demons had expected their sudden and unexpected presence to
completely terrify the whites to a bloodless submission. In this,
however, they were sorely surprised, for, at the same instant that
Town. ran one of them through with Rollo’s saber, Old Tumult dropped
his rifle and dealt the second one a blow with his huge fist, that
sent him whirling overboard into the river. Then, with a roar equal
to that of a maddened lion, he leaped at the third savage, while
Town. engaged the fourth.

The savage with whom Old Tumult grappled hand to hand, was the
scout’s equal in every respect. If there was any difference in
weight, it was in favor of the deep, wide-chested Arapaho. In so
close a grapple, the savage was compelled to drop his tomahawk, and
then, in endeavoring to draw his knife, it slipped from his fingers
and fell to the deck.

Thus deprived of all the weapons save those that nature gave them,
the two giant enemies “clinched.”

The contest at once became desperate. It was a battle of life and
death.

Town. Farnesworth, brave as a lion and quick as a flash, soon gained
the advantage over his foe and ran him through with the saber. As
he rolled dead at his feet, the young man turned to assist the old
scout, but at that instant the two giant combatants, locked in each
other’s embrace, staggered backward and rolled through the hatchway
into the boat’s hold.

“My God!” exclaimed Town., rushing to the opening and looking down.
But he saw nothing of the combatants. Back in the hold, two feet
from the hatchway, it was dark as midnight. Besides, to render the
situation more critical, there was several inches of water in the
hold.

Town. started up--his brain burning with wild excitement. The death
of his friend seemed inevitable.

He turned inquiringly toward Rollo, who, as yet, had never left the
tiller. What must have been his surprise and consternation to see
the ranger stoop and assist on board the savage that Old Tumult had
knocked overboard at the beginning of the conflict.

“Rollo! Rollo!” cried Town., “what means this?” and, springing
forward, he severed the head of the savage almost from the body, with
a single sweep of the ranger’s saber.

“Heavens, Farnesworth! I must be crazy--helping the red demon on the
boat to slay me,” he cried; “’tis well you came; I was so excited
that I did not know what I was doing.”

There was a strange light in the ranger’s eyes, and a strange
intonation in his voice.

Town. regarded him for a moment with suspicion, and he had it in his
mind to accuse him of being a traitor, when his thoughts were drawn
away by the desperate struggling going on in the hold below.

Town. would have rushed down to assist his old friend, had he
not been afraid of assisting the wrong one, in the darkness that
prevailed therein. He could do nothing but wait and listen, and hope
for the best. He could hear them rolling and struggling in the water;
he could hear their heavy, labored breathing, and the dull thud and
crash of their fists--even feel the vibratory shock of each blow, and
the dull thumping of their bodies against the under side of the deck.

Now and then all would become quiet and still, as though no life was
there below.

Town. felt a chill of terror creep over him, as he thought that the
savage may have slain his friend, and was then creeping with the
silence of a shadow toward the hatchway, to leap out and murder
him. He was relieved of these fears, however, when the struggling,
pounding and groaning would begin again with renewed vigor.

The dipping of the canoe showed that the combatants were first upon
one side and then the other. A hollow moan now and then came from the
dark pit, followed by a gurgling shriek or strangling cry.

To Town. it sounded like the struggling of two demons away down in
the bowels of the earth.

For fully half an hour the struggling continued, then all became
hushed in a death-like silence--the conflict had ended.

Town. and Rollo held their breath in anxious suspense, and listened.

But all was silent as the grave below.

“My God, Town.! I fear our friend is dead!” cried Rollo.

“If one is dead, both are,” replied Town.

“Perhaps it would be well for us to look, Town.”

Town. went to the opening and gazed down into the hold. But he saw
nothing. At the further end of the boat, where the combatants were
last heard, it was black as night. He listened again, but heard
nothing, he then called the name of his friend--repeated the call,
but still there was no response.

He started up with an expression of deep sadness upon his face.

“They have slain each other, Rollo,” he cried.

Rollo uttered an exclamation of sorrow, as he bent upon the tiller.

“What will we do with the scout’s body?” he finally asked.

“We must remove it from the hold and give it a Christian burial. The
savage’s carcass we will bury in the river.”

“Hist!--ha-rk!”

It was Rollo who uttered the injunction of silence, in a tone
scarcely above a whisper.

“What is it?” queried Town.

“Didn’t you hear a movement below?”

“In the hold?”

“Yes.”

“Ah--_then_ I did--_one of them is not dead_!”

The young settler took up one of the fallen savages’ tomahawks, and
advanced softly toward the hatchway, saying to Rollo in a whisper:

“It is the savage that lives, else Old Tumult would have answered me.
The red demon is waiting for a chance to spring out and murder me. I
will watch for him here.”

“It may not be,” said Rollo.

“Time will soon tell.”

The two became silent, and listened and watched. An awful anxiety
came upon them. One of the combatants _was_ alive. They could hear
him dragging himself through the water toward the opening.

My readers can better imagine the awful suspense of the two young men
than I can describe it. A moment seemed an hour. They were sure they
could hear their own hearts beating and feel the hot blood leaping
through their veins. Their eyes, almost starting from their sockets,
became fixed upon the opening.

Suddenly a shadow appeared within it. Something arose in the young
men’s throats that seemed to choke them.

Slowly, quite slowly, the shadow was followed by a tuft of dark hair,
the shaven skull, the low, dark brow, the glaring eyes, the painted,
lacerated face of _the savage giant_!




                             CHAPTER XI.

                      THE RESULT OF THE FIGHT.


A chill of horror crept over the frame of Town. Farnesworth as he saw
the bloody face and lacerated shoulders of the savage appear slowly
from the hatchway. He shrunk back from the hideous form as from an
apparition.

The face of the savage wore a ghastly expression--the eyeballs
protruded from their sockets till they rested upon the cheeks--the
jaws stood apart and the tongue protruded from the mouth, which was
filled with blood and foam.

Clutching the tomahawk in a firmer grasp, Town. advanced toward the
savage; but, at the same instant, the form of the giant warrior shot
out of the hold and fell limp and motionless in death upon the deck.

Then, up through the hatchway, popped the head and shoulders of Old
Tumult, the picture of dolefulness and woe, his face convulsed and
his sides shaking in a roar of triumphant laughter.

After all he had proved the victor, and had pushed the body of his
fallen enemy through the hatchway in order to work a surprise upon
his two friends, who, he learned from their conversation, had come
out victors with the savages above. But, the old scout bore many a
mark of the conflict. His face and neck were fearfully lacerated, and
the few locks of yellow hair that were permitted to remain on his
head, clung about his face and neck wet and sadly. His clothes were
nearly all torn from his body, and his back bore many a red furrow
where the sharp nails of the giant had plowed.

Town. stood speechless with happy disappointment.

Something like a scowl passed over Rollo’s face.

Old Tumult was the first to speak:

“Ay, lads!” he cried, “had thar’ been a leetle smell o’ brimstone
down thar’ in that dark hold, I could have convinced myself that I
was tusslin’ with the devil away down in the black pit.”

Town. and Rollo laughed at the scout’s coolness of speech rendered
slightly ludicrous by his doleful appearance.

“If you could come out victor in a life-struggle with Satan, as with
this savage, you’d be equal to Christian, the Pilgrim,” said Town.

“’Zactly,” returned the old scout, and having picked up his rifle
from the deck, he related his adventures below. When he had succeeded
in slaying his foe, he listened and learned from their talk that
Town. and Rollo’s fears had been aroused as to the result of the
conflict. A practical joke was thereby suggested to his mind, and he
proceeded to carry it into execution by thrusting the body of the
savage through the hatchway.

Washing the blood from his hands and face, and bathing his many,
but not very serious, wounds and bruises, the scout declared his
readiness for further business. Thereupon, Rollo headed the boat
shoreward again, and in a few minutes the bank was reached.

Old Tumult and Town. went ashore, but Rollo remained on board.

“Why, ain’t you a-goin’ with us?” asked Old Tumult.

“I can not. I must return for my horse on the other side of the
river,” replied the ranger.

“Oh--’zactly,” responded the scout; “I’d forgotten thet you hed a
hoss.”

“And I am very sorry that we are to lose so valuable a friend,” said
Town.; “I hope we will be able to repay you some time for to-day’s
invaluable service.”

“I want nothing,” replied the ranger, “and if you will appoint a
place of meeting, I will join you in your efforts to rescue the
maidens when I get my horse and cross the river.”

“That’s a fair offer,” said Town., “and we’ll be glad to have your
services, which are worth half a dozen men on an Indian trail.”

“Ya-as, that’s what the red-skin thought t’other day when I spread
his nose all over his face with my fist,” returned the scout, with a
humorous chuckle; “but how’ll the head o’ the Devil’s Staircase do
fur a meetin’-p’int?”

“The place, exactly,” returned the young ranger; “but as it is past
noon now, it may be far into the night before I get there.”

“Wal, we’ll wait thar till ye come,” said the scout.

“Till then, good-by,” said the young ranger.

They separated. The scout and Town. turned their faces westward and
set off through the forest. Had they, however, crept back and kept a
watch upon the movements of the young ranger, they would have seen
sufficient of his proceedings to have justified them in sending a
bullet through his heart. But, “where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly
to be wise.”




                            CHAPTER XII.

                         THE PIPE OF PEACE.


Old Tumult felt none the better of his ferry-boat adventure. In fact,
he felt quite sore, but the consciousness of having defeated the
enemy, proved a radical mental relief, and repaid him, in one sense
of the word, for the bruises he had received.

Hunger was the next enemy with which they had to contend, for the
want of fire. Game was around them in abundance, but they had no
way of cooking it. Continuing on, however, they were so fortunate
as to come across the remnants of a deserted camp-fire. This was at
once replenished with fuel, and soon a savory slice of venison was
roasting before it.

After a hearty meal, they continued on toward the Indian village.
They proceeded quite leisurely, for their late adventures had nearly
exhausted them; besides there was no need of haste, as they had
plenty of time to reach the Devil’s Staircase before night.

As they moved along, Town. became silent and thoughtful, and Old
Tumult wary and cautious. The latter finally noted a curious
expression upon his companion’s face, and asked:

“What is it, Town.?”

“What is _what_?’ queried Town., apparently perplexed.

“That makes yer face twitch so.”

Town. laughed, as the color came to his face. The fact of it was, he
was thinking of the pretty Madge Taft, but to evade a direct answer,
he said:

“Well, I was just thinking--thinking whether I had better reveal the
suspicion that has arisen in my mind lately.”

“Certainly; tell it, by all means,” exclaimed Tumult.

Town. stepped nearer the scout and said:

“I solemnly believe that Rollo is a traitor--that he knew of the
savages being concealed in the ferry-boat.”

The old scout at once grew restless; he looked at Town.--shifted his
rifle to the other shoulder, and said:

“What makes ye think so, Town.?”

“His actions during the fight on the boat--he never lifted a hand to
help us, but directly I caught him assisting on board the boat, the
savage that you knocked overboard.”

“Didn’t he ’pologize when ye ketched him?”

“He plead excitement.”

“Ugh--humph!” ejaculated Old Tumult; “wal, Town., as to that lad
bein’ a traitor, we think alike; and thar’s sumthin’ else that I’ve
diskivered ’bout him, and what s’prises me is that you haven’t see’d
it yerself.”

“What is it?” asked Town.; “all questions are fair.”

“You’d shoot me, Town., if I’d tell you.”

Town. was surprised by this blunt remark.

“I will give my word as security for your life,” he said.

“Then I’ll tell it. Rollo, the Ranger--” he began, but broke abruptly
off in consequence of the angry crack of a rifle, and the “whizz” of
a bullet in close proximity to his head.

“’Tarnal furies!” he exclaimed, as his keen eyes swept the
surrounding forest for the enemy that had fired the shot; “what a bad
shot that war. Come, lad, tramp quick--tramp lively!”

The old scout quickened his steps and lengthened his strides, until
Town. was scarcely able to keep pace with him.

The young settler wondered why he beat so hasty a retreat in the face
of a single foe as the shot proved. To him it looked as though the
indomitable courage of the old scout was deserting him. However, Old
Tumult seemed to have read his thoughts, and said:

“_I_ don’t fight Ingins like every ole hunter generally does, Town.--”

“No, I see you run from them sometimes.”

“Thar’s logic in it, too, lad; now you see if we’d ’a’ stopped and
went to huntin’ fur the red that fired the shot, he’d ’a’ shot us
down. By runnin’ he’ll think we’re scart, and out he’ll dive from his
nest and take arter us. _Then_ ’s the time to turn and let him have
it; I think the ijee ’s not to be sneezed at.”

And so thought Town., as the scout whirled suddenly around, threw his
rifle to his face, and fired. Simultaneous with the crack of the gun,
a savage death-cry rung out through the forest aisles--thus proving
how effectual was the old scout’s plan of drawing an enemy from
ambush.

The two now continued their course without further molestation.

Cautiously skirting the Indian village, they reached the Devil’s
Staircase two miles beyond, where they had agreed to meet the ranger.

The Devil’s Staircase was an almost perpendicular declivity, leading
down a narrow defile into a low plain or valley. The forest around it
was of dense growth, and in broad daylight its shadows lay thick as
the gloom of summer twilight.

When this point was reached, it lacked two hours of night, and as
the scout and Town. could do nothing until then, they concluded to
conceal themselves, and await its cover before making any further
move.

A retreat, flanked upon three sides by jutting rocks, was selected by
the two men, who at once threw themselves in an attitude of repose.
As an enemy could approach them only in front, it required no extra
vigilance to guard their position, and they made themselves quite at
ease.

After discussing the incidental topics of their situation and future
prospects, Town. said:

“Then you believe the Boy Ranger is in league with the Indians, eh,
Tumult?”

“Ya-as, with the Arapahoes. They’re mean enuff to league with Satan.
I tell ye, lad, arter all there ’s more honor in the Sioux tribe,
than enny other on this terrestial ball.”

“None of them are to be trusted far,” said Town.

“That depends upon circumstances. The Sioux won’t consort with every
_white_ cut-throat that seeks their protection from the laws of the
States.”

“I will frankly admit that there is more honor and manhood in a
Sioux Indian than a white renegade like Dick Sherwood. But I can not
imagine why one so young, handsome and intellectual as Rollo is,
should be a traitor to his own people--and such a secret traitor,
too.”

“Ay, lad,” cried the scout, “thar’s many a deep, dark mystery that
the world ’ll never know enny thing ’bout.”

“Then, hereafter we can keep an eye upon Rollo’s movements, and see
if our suspicions of him are correct.”

“That’s true, boy; but unless he comes afore night it’ll be too late,
or I’m no judge.”

“What do you mean, Tumult?”

“This: if the ranger comes here arter dark, it will be with a troop
o’ Arapahoes at his heels, to capture us.”

“I can not understand your reason for thinking so.”

“I’ll tell ye, lad, thar’s some devilish plot coming to a crisis, and
Dick Sherwood and Rollo are at the bottom of it all.”

“Well, where’s your proof?”

“That fust attempt to kidnap Miss Bryant; the meetin’ affair at
Wildwood lake; the kapter of the two gals; the affair at Two Islands,
and the ferry-boat surprise, are all the proof that I want,” said Old
Tumult; “and, furthermore, our carcasses is mixed up in it some way
’r other; and now mind, unless we look sharp, that ’ere boy ’ll play
the deuce with us to-night.”

“You really surprise me, Tumult.”

“And I could surprise ye more if I’d tell o’ the diskivery that I’ve
made.”

“Why not tell it?”

The scout was silent. Town. repeated the question.

“You’d feel more like shootin’ me than thankin’ me fur the
infurmation,” returned Old Tumult.

Town. laughed, though his mind was perplexed.

“Howsumever,” continued the old scout, “I might as well tell it, fur
you’re bound to know it sooner or later. The fact is, this mornin’ I
diskivered that Rollo, the ranger, and--”

Here he broke abruptly off, for a shadow fell across his vision. He
seized his rifle and sprung to his feet, and found himself confronted
by a tall, powerful Sioux Indian, whom he at once recognized as
Mahaska, chief of the Sioux tribe!

Tumult at once placed himself in an attitude of defense, but a sign
from the chief put at rest all fears of an encounter. He showed that
his presence there was fraught with peace and friendship, although
Old Tumult had always known him as an enemy.

Our friends recognized the chief’s token of friendship by dropping
their rifles and folding their arms over their breasts.

“Good!” ejaculated the chief; “the great Tumult and his friend know
that Mahaska comes with friendship in his breast.”

“You bet, chief,” returned the scout, extending his large, bony hand;
“it’s hard to mistake that jolly twinkle in yer eye--it means, no
skulps wanted.”

“The great Tumult is wise. His tongue is straight. His arm is strong.
His eyes are keen. His aim is deadly, but Mahaska knows he will not
strike a friend.”

“You’re right there, great chief,” returned the scout, determined
to pay an equal amount of compliments; “I know yer a brave chief, a
splendid feller, a brillunt scholar, a good jedge of whisky, and a
brick o’ a boy in general.”

The chief reared himself proudly. Although he did not fully
understand the English of the scout’s complimentary remarks, he took
it all as something very fine.

“The great Tumult and Mahaska,” the chief began, “are friends now.
Mahaska was concealed in the brush there, when the white men come
here to talk. He heard them speak well of the Sioux, and bad of the
Arapaho and his white ally. The words of the great scout were words
of wisdom and truth, and they have sunk deep into the breast of
Mahaska. He will never forget them, and here offers to smoke the pipe
of peace with the great Tumult and his friend.”

“That’s business, chief,” replied Tumult, with a sly wink at Town.;
“bring on your pipe o’ peace, and a ‘bottle o’ friendship,’ if ye’ve
got it. I promise that my people will never harm the Sioux, if the
Sioux will keep on his side o’ the creek, and furever bury the
hatchet o’ discord and enmity.”

“Mahaska pledges the friendship of his people.”

“Then my people will not harm the Sioux. They seek the good will o’
all. But they are brave and will give blow fur blow. When the Sioux
attacks, the white will defend.”

As the scout concluded, Mahaska gave utterance to a low, peculiar
chirrup, when there was heard a dull fluttering like many wings, and
the next instant fully three score Indian warriors burst from the
forest shadows and gathered around our friends and their chief.

A chill of distrust passed over our friends at sight of the painted
and plumed warriors, but they allowed no look to betray their inward
emotion to the red-skins.

Mahaska made a brief speech to his warriors and informed them that
they were about to smoke the pipe of peace with the whites.

This bit of news was received with a savage yell that jarred very
discordantly upon the tympanum of our friends.

Old Tumult nudged Town. and grinned “broadly.”

A circle was now formed. Mahaska drew from a greasy tobacco-pouch
a large, dirty calumet which he loaded and lit. He then took a few
whiffs, and handed it to Old Tumult, who, in a turn, “drew” very
lightly on the obnoxious “seal of peace.”

In a few minutes the pipe had “swung around the circle,” and was
lodged in its greasy receptacle, and peace between the whites and
Sioux was declared.

However, Old Tumult knew the Indian’s nature too well to put implicit
confidence in him, and he would not have been surprised had they
broken their promise of peace ere the obnoxious taste of the “pipe of
peace,” was out of his mouth.

The warriors now gathered around Old Tumult and gazed upon him with
no little curiosity, for in days past, he had been a constant terror
to them, and had ornamented his girdle with the scalps of many of
their friends.

After having discussed various topics incidental to the treaty,
Mahaska asked:

“Mahaska”--he always spoke of himself in the third person--“heard
the great Tumult say that the young white ranger was in league with
the Arapaho. He spoke the truth. The ranger is the friend of the
Arapaho--the enemy of the Sioux and the pale-face.”

“How does Mahaska know?” questioned the scout.

“His scouts have been in the heart of the Arapaho village. They saw
the ranger there, and heard him talking with the white prophet. When
the Boy Ranger comes here to meet the great Tumult and his friend,
when the sun goes down, let them beware, for he will bring many
warriors with him whose hearts burn for their blood.”

His own ideas of Rollo’s treachery at once convinced Tumult that
there was more truth than fiction in the chief’s warning.

“We’ll be on the watch for the young rascal,” said the scout, “when
he comes to-night.”

“Can the great scout be on the watch for the many warriors that will
follow him like shadows?”

“Not if more’n six comes at a time,” replied Tumult.

“Then Mahaska and his warriors will hide in the forest, and if the
Arapahoes come with the ranger, the Sioux will slay them, for many
of my young warriors have promised to go back to their village with
Arapaho scalps.”

The old scout saw at once what the chief was driving at, and he could
do no better than to accept his proffered aid, or protection against
the treachery of Rollo.

The Sioux seemed highly elated by his acceptance of their proffered
friendship, and as night drew on, they began to secrete themselves in
the woods surrounding the point of rendezvous.

Old Tumult and Town., for the first time, had the opportunity of
seeing a party of savages ambushing themselves for an unsuspecting
enemy.

Half crouching, they glided here and there like so many shadows,
their eyes flashing with an evil, cunning light. They burrowed
themselves beneath the old leaves and grass like moles; they pressed
themselves into holes and crevices where it seemed a serpent could
not hide. In five minutes’ time, Old Tumult and Town. stood alone in
the solitude of the great forest. It seemed almost impossible that
they stood within a circle of three score blood-thirsty savages.

Night came on apace. There was a moon, but it would not be up till
two hours after dark.

Our friends seated themselves in the path leading to the head of the
Devil’s Staircase. They started when the sound of horse’s hoofs told
them that some one was approaching from the east.

It was the ranger beyond a doubt.

Suddenly the tramp of the hoofs ceased, and a voice called out:

“Hallo, Tumult!”

“Ay, Rollo; so you’ve come,” responded the old scout.

They arose from their seat and approached the ranger, of whom they
could catch a faint outline in the darkness.

The clear, frank voice of the ranger at once produced in the minds
of the friends conflicting ideas. It seemed utterly impossible for
one so young, and apparently kind-hearted, to be a traitor to his own
race. He had done many kind acts for the settlers in warning them
of coming danger of late. Yet, despite all this, Tumult and Town.
had seen sufficient of his actions in the ferry-boat affair to raise
grave doubts, at least; however, they tried to believe that it all
came of the impulse and indiscretion of youth.

“Any news from the captives, Rollo?” asked Town., as he neared the
ranger.

“Nothing,” the ranger responded; “of course they are in the Indian
village, and the question is, how are we to get at them.”

“The only course I see is to fight our way in and release them, then
fight our way out again, if we kin git ’em no other way,” said Old
Tumult.

“Ten to one we would all be killed,” said Town.

“Well, we can try it,” said Rollo; “faint heart ne’er won fair lady,
Town.”

Town. was a little touched by this remark, which was slightly tainted
with sarcasm; however, he forced back the retort that came to his
lips, and made no reply.

There was a momentary silence, during which the ranger toyed with the
coiled horn at the pommel of his saddle.

Suddenly they were aroused by the sharp bark of a wolf that echoed
through the valley below them.

“How human-like is that cry,” said Rollo, “and how it echoes through
the valley.”

“Yes, I’m thinking there is more human than wolf about the cry,” said
Town.

At this juncture, the jingle of the ranger’s horn drew our friends’
attention toward him. There was just light enough to see him place
the instrument to his lips.

“Don’t you,” cried Old Tumult, but the sound of his voice was drowned
in the blast of the horn.

“Ho, you young, traitorous villain!” roared the old scout, and he
leaped toward the ranger, but the latter whirled his horse’s head and
dashed away.

Then there was hurrying of many feet, the flitting of many dark
forms--followed by the blood-chilling war-whoop of two score and ten
Arapaho warriors, as they closed in upon our friends.

Where was Mahaska and his warriors, now? Ah! where indeed?




                            CHAPTER XIII.

                      THE TRAGEDY AT THE LAKE.


The dark line of Arapaho warriors stopped ere they had got within
reach of our two friends, for scarcely had their own war-cry pealed
from their own lips, when there arose another yell that seemed to
issue from the earth, the sky and the air, so loud and fierce that
the earth seemed to tremble beneath them.

Mahaska had been true to his word, and, with his warriors, had come
to the rescue; and, after all, the Arapahoes were the surprised
party, and like sheep they scattered and fled in every direction.
Half of their number, however, fell under the blows of the Sioux.

Tumult and Town. escaped without a scratch.

The following morning search was made among the dead for the body of
Rollo, but it was not there.

In consequence of the defeat of the Arapahoes, Old Tumult and Mahaska
became fast friends, and took another “pipe of peace” over the
victory.

The chief now sent scouts in all directions to keep a watch upon
the movements of the enemy, while Old Tumult and Town., accompanied
by Mahaska, set off toward the Arapaho village to reconnoiter the
situation.

Arriving in the vicinity of the village, they gained an eminence from
whence they could command a view of the encampment. They saw that
great commotion prevailed within the village, and that the leading
warriors were constantly going to and from the lodge of the prophet.

Mahaska smiled grimly as he watched these movements, for well he read
their import.

A squad of some fifteen warriors leaving the village and moving
in the direction of our friends, induced the latter to seek more
secluded quarters.

In case that the rescue of the maidens could not be effected during
the day, Mahaska had decided to make a night attack upon the village,
and for that purpose had dispatched a messenger to his village for a
reinforcement of warriors.

About two miles south of the Arapaho village was a small lake, which
the chief had selected as the point of rendezvous for his warriors
soon after nightfall; and as they saw there was not the shadow of a
chance to rescue the maidens during the day, the chief, Old Tumult
and Town. set off for the lake.

Arrived at the lake, the trio proceeded to procure some food, of
which they were feeling greatly in need. Some venison was soon
obtained and roasted, and a hearty meal made thereon. Then the party
retired to a secluded spot near the edge of the lake to await the
coming of night.

The day passed slowly away. To Town. it seemed as though night would
never come, and the more he thought of the trader’s lovely daughter
the more impatient he became.

At last the shades of evening began to gather over the silent forest.

The tree-frogs began their doleful piping and the crickets their
mournful chirps; and as the shadows continued to thicken, the deep
and solemn breathing of nature, peculiar to the wilderness after
nightfall, was heard in all around.

One by one the stars looked out through the blue vault of heaven as
the darkness increased.

The trio still remained within their covert, silent as the grave
itself.

Suddenly their ears caught the sound of voices, and the tramp of feet
coming up the stony path that wound along the shore of the little
lakelet.

Old Tumult and his companions bent their heads and listened closely.

They heard the voices again. They were the voices of white persons,
judging from the sound, a man and woman’s.

With eyes and ears strained to their utmost, the trio watched and
listened.

The footsteps came nearer and nearer, but the voices ceased.

A bare rock, over which ran the trail that the man and woman were
following, and which jutted out over the waters of the lake, lay
between our friends and the two unknown pedestrians.

Presently the latter emerged from the shadows of the woods into the
opening on the rock. Here they halted. Our friends saw that it was a
man and woman, sure enough. But who were they?

Neither spoke, and it was too dark to distinguish their features.

For several moments they stood upon the rock.

Al last the woman asked:

“Why do you stop here?”

Town. started. He recognized the voice, and its soft musical tone
seemed to echo through the chambers of his wildly-throbbing heart.

The man made no reply to her question, but turning, he seized
her, dragged her to the edge of the rock, and hurled her over the
precipice into the lake, twenty feet below.

There was a wild, despairing shriek--a loud plash in the water, then
all was over.

“Save her, for God’s sake, Mahaska!” whispered Town. to the chief,
who, like a shadow, glided from the young man’s side as he spoke.

Old Tumult cocked his rifle, and leveled it at the breast of the
unknown murderer, but he did not fire. The figure of another woman
was seen to glide from the shadow of the woods, and throw herself
into the open arms of the man.

“Thank God it is over with!” said the man.

“And we are rich--the Golden Horn is ours!” replied the woman.

Scarcely had the last word fallen from her lips, when two rifles on
the opposite side of the opening rung out--a cry of mortal agony
pealed from the lips of the man and woman--they staggered, reeled,
and sunk heavily to the earth.

Two Sioux Indians rushed from cover of the woods, and stooping, were
in the act of scalping the fallen man and woman, when Old Tumult and
Town. rushed from their covert and prevented the bloody act.




                            CHAPTER XIV.

                         A VILLAIN DEFEATED.


Defeated in his repeated attempts to capture or kill Old Tumult and
Town. upon Two Islands, Dick Sherwood returned to the Indian village,
his feelings wrought up to the highest pitch of rage. And fuel was
added to the consuming fire of his wrath, when the news of the
slaughter of his warriors at the Devil’s Staircase reached his ears.

The fates seemed against him. Every one of his daring and deep-laid
plots of vengeance had failed, excepting the surprise at Wildwood
lake.

The handsome devil cared nothing for the lives of the savages,
only as far as his selfish wickedness was concerned. And to have
accomplished the purpose of his will, he would have sacrificed every
warrior in the tribe. However, when one plot failed, his wicked,
fertile brain soon conceived another.

On the morning of the day that Clara Bryant had promised to marry him
for her liberty, he came rushing into her lodge inquiring for Madge
Taft. But, Madge was not there, and in a tone of ungovernable rage
he declared she had escaped; and should he recapture her, he would
inflict all sorts of punishment upon her.

Although Clara was glad that Madge had escaped, it made her feel more
lonely and desolate, when she thought that she was entirely alone, so
far as friends were concerned, in the midst of enemies.

She thought it very strange, too, that Madge would, or _did_ leave,
without hinting her intentions to her.

As the day wore away, Clara felt in hopes that Sherwood had given
up his desire to marry her out of revenge, and that she would be
set at liberty. However, in this she was bitterly disappointed. It
wanted about an hour of sunset, when the renegade entered her lodge
accompanied by a white man, whom he introduced as Father Jules, the
missionary.

“I have come, Miss Bryant,” the villain said, “to claim a fulfillment
of your promise to wed me.”

A low sob escaped poor Clara’s lips, and she turned ghastly pale.

“Are you not sick, my dear child?” asked Father Jules.

“No, sir,” faintly articulated the maiden, whose senses seemed
deserting her, and whose heart grew sick and faint.

“And you are willing to become the wife of Richard Sherwood, are
you?” questioned the missionary.

Clara answered in the affirmative, though she was almost totally
unconscious of what was passing about her, and but for the support of
the renegade she would have fallen.

In this state of semi-consciousness the maiden stood by the side of
Sherwood, and the marriage ceremony was performed.

When the missionary pronounced them man and wife, Clara had wholly
fainted. Restoratives, however, were immediately applied, and she was
brought back to consciousness.

As soon as the ceremony was performed, Father Jules seated himself,
and taking from his pocket a strip of paper, wrote thereon the
following:

                                                “September 20th, 18--

  “I, Victor Jules, a regularly ordained minister of the church of
  the Holy Evangelist, hereby certify that on this day, I joined in
  the holy bonds of wedlock, Richard Sherwood and Clara Holmes.

                                                  VICTOR JULES.”

This certificate the missionary gave to Sherwood, who read it,
smiled, folded it up and put it carefully away in an inner pocket.

Victor Jules soon took his departure from the lodge, and when they
were alone, Sherwood turned to Clara, and said:

“My dear little wife, you have been honest in fulfilling your
agreement, now I shall fulfill mine and set you at liberty.”

Clara’s eyes brightened, and her heart beat more hopeful to think
that she was going to be released. She felt certain that when she
was beyond Sherwood’s power, he would have no claim upon her as a
husband; for, in her inmost heart she knew the ceremony was all a
farce, and she had very grave doubts as to Victor Jules being a
missionary. But, why it was that Sherwood had taken this course for
revenge upon Town. Farnesworth, was a mystery to her. He surely had
sense enough to know that the marriage was not binding upon them.
But, alas! Clara did not--could not read the secret intentions of the
villain’s heart.

“And am I to return to the post alone?” she asked.

“No; I will escort you as far as Talbott Taft’s cabin,” he returned;
“that is as close to the post as will be safe for my neck.”

“And when are we to start?” Clara asked.

“At once.”

The news was joyful to the maiden. She could scarcely refrain from
clapping her hands and shouting with joy and thanks.

By this time it was nearly sunset, and ere the renegade and maiden
had taken their departure from the village, the shadows of evening
had begun to gather over the woodland, and lurk assassin-like in the
valleys.

They set off on foot, following a plain-beaten path through the
forest, southward.

The journey before her was a long one, but Clara was so overpowered
with joy, that she had never taken one thought of her inability to
ever reach the post on foot.

The two moved on in silence for about a mile or more, when Sherwood
spoke.

“Clara,” he said, “have you any recollections of your early
childhood?--that is, do you recollect any thing of your early home in
Ohio?”

The maiden was not a little surprised by this strange question, and
it was quite a while before she could gain composure to reply:

“Why should I not, when it has been but a few years since I left
there?”

“Then you know that you are not the child of Geoffry Bryant,” the
renegade said.

Clara started at the question. Never had it been breathed to her
before that she was _not_ the child of those whom she had loved as
father and mother since her childhood recollections. And why should
the renegade know more of her than she did herself?

“I know no such a thing,” she replied, a little indignantly.

“Well, I know that you are _not_ the child of Geoffry Bryant,”
Sherwood replied.

“_How_ do you know it?” she asked.

The villain made no reply, for at this juncture they emerged into
a small opening at the edge of a little lake, where the renegade
stopped.

“Why do you stop here?” Clara asked.

Still the villain made no reply, but, turning, he seized the maiden,
dragged her to the edge of the opening, and hurled her over the cliff
into the lake below.

What followed this murderous deed the reader already knows.




                             CHAPTER XV.

                       A STARTLING DISCOVERY.


“What in the name of the holy tortures does this all mean?” yelled
Old Tumult, as he knelt by the prostrate form of the man, while Town.
Farnesworth knelt by the woman.

The scout bent low and gazed into the face of the man.

A shout, that rolled through the forest aisles like a peal of
thunder, burst from his lips. He recognized the face of the man.

It was that of Dick Sherwood!

The old scout communicated his discovery to Town., and then asked:

“Who’ve you got thar, Town.?”

A groan burst from the young man’s lips and he started up.

“What’s up, what’s up?” questioned the scout.

“Oh, God! my eyes deceive me, Tumult!” he cried, “or else that is the
face of Madge Taft.”

“Holy smoke o’ torture!” burst from Tumult’s lips, as he knelt by the
motionless form of the woman, and gazed into her face. “Yes, yes; it
is the trader’s gal, but she is not dead.”

A moan of pain from the woman’s lips verified his assertion.

“Water, Tumult, water!” cried Town.; “let us save her, if we can.”

“It is no use, Town.; nothing can save me.”

It was the woman who spoke, in a feeble, smothered tone, as she
nervously clutched at her throbbing brow.

“My God, Madge! is this reality, or some horrible vision?” cried
Town., dropping on his knees beside her, and raising her head from
the hard stone and pillowing it upon his breast.

“Yes, Town.--but save her--save Clara! It was she that he threw over
the cliff!--save her, for she loves you!”

“The chief will save her; rest easy--”

“The _chief_!” she interrupted, with almost a shriek.

“Yes; Mahaska, the Sioux chief,” replied Town.

“Ah!” she sighed, painfully, “that accounts for our defeat.”

“Your defeat? what do you mean, dear Madge?”

“Oh, Town., I have been such a wicked woman--I have plotted deeply
and darkly against you and Clara. I won your affections from her, and
yet I was a married woman--the lawful wife of--”

The name was lost in a moan of pain, and Town. felt a repulsive flush
mount to his face.

He would have shrunk away from her as from an adder, had he not
remembered that she was dying--dying so young, so beautiful, so
wicked, so false-hearted.

There was a momentary silence which was broken by the dying woman’s
voice:

“Town.,” she said, “although I have been your worst enemy, I want to
ask one request of you.”

“Name it,” said Town., “and it shall be granted.”

“Then after I am dead, I want you to convey my body and the body of
Dick Sherwood to the cabin of Talbott Taft.”

“It shall be done, I promise you,” said Town.; “but, what is Dick
Sherwood to you, Madge?”

“Town., I am dying fast. I have but few minutes to live. I would tell
you all about my life and the deep, dark game of sin and treachery
in which I have been engaged, could I live long enough. But when you
convey my lifeless body and that of Dick Sherwood to the cabin of the
Indian trader, he will tell you--tell you all. Oh, if I only knew
that Clara escaped.”

At this juncture the quick, heavy tread of moccasined feet was heard
approaching, and the next moment Mahaska drew near with the dripping
form of Clara Bryant in his arms.

“Is she dead, chief?” asked Old Tumult.

“No,” responded the chief, “but she is unconscious.”

“Thank God!” cried Town.; then bending low to the dying woman, he
said:

“She lives, Madge.”

The woman made no reply, but there was a rattling in her throat--a
convulsive stiffening of the limbs and body. Then there was a
relaxing of the muscles, that told of the separation of the soul and
body--that Madge Taft was dead.

Town. laid the lifeless body gently down, and then went and assisted
Old Tumult and Mahaska in restoring Clara to life.

The fall and the effects of the water together had proven a terrible
shock to the maiden, and for awhile her life was despaired of. But,
at last, she began to recover.

By this time all of Mahaska’s warriors had gathered at the lake ready
for work, but in consequence of the escape of the captives, the
attack was postponed.

As Clara would be unable to travel before morning, dispositions were
made for passing the night by the lake, Mahaska and his warriors
taking the safety of the party into their own hands.

The night passed miserably enough to the whites, and it was a great
relief to their minds when morning dawned bright and pleasant.

Breakfasting on roasted venison, the party was soon ready for
departure.

Mahaska and some of his warriors were to accompany the whites to
Clontarf’s Post, and to them were given the two bodies for conveyance
to the trader’s cabin.

Town. gave his attention to Clara Bryant, who, after all, he
discovered he loved, though he was almost ashamed to admit it, even
to himself, since he had acted so unfaithful toward her in his
fancied love for the fascinating and wicked Madge Taft.

When all were ready for starting, Town. drew the maiden’s arm within
his own and set off in advance. He did not tell her of the fate of
Sherwood and Madge, as she had been kept beyond sight of the bodies
while at the lake; but, while moving along through the woods, she
happened to glance back and saw the savages in the rear of the
procession bearing something upon litters. This aroused her curiosity
and she inquired of Town. what it meant.

Town. gently broke to her the news of the death of Sherwood and Madge.

“Thank God, I am free then!”

The words burst involuntarily from Clara’s lips, and they were no
sooner spoken than she seemed to have regretted their utterance.

“Why, yes, Clara,” laughed Town., “you are free. Did you think I was
Sherwood?”

Clara smiled as she raised her eyes and gazed into Town.’s face.

“No, Town.,” she replied, “I had reference to something else. I will
tell you what it is another time.”

Town. was a little mystified, still he was too thoughtful of her
wishes to insist on an explanation, and so he said nothing more on
the subject.

It was past noon when the cabin of Talbott Taft was reached. They
found the old trader at home in a state of great excitement,
occasioned, he said, by the absence of his daughter.

Town. told him that he had bad news for him, and proceeded to break
it to him as gently as possible.

A wail burst from the old man’s lips, and staggering he sunk heavily
into a chair.

In a few moments the savages bearing the litters filed into the cabin
and placed the bodies before the old man, who fell upon his knees and
wept bitterly over the body of Madge.

Our friends and the savages went out into the yard and left the
mourner alone with his dead, and when his lamentations had ceased,
Old Tumult went back to the door and asked:

“Is thar enny thing, Mr. Taft, that we kin do fur you?”

A wail of sorrow burst anew from the trader’s lips and it was several
moments before he gained calmness to reply.

“Nothing, Tumult, nothing, unless you help me to bury my dead.”

“That we’ll do,” returned the scout; “you have only to command us.”

“A grave will have to be dug, and--”

Here his voice broke down, and he sobbed bitterly.

Old Tumult went out, and with the assistance of Town. and Mahaska,
hollowed out two graves in the shadow of an oak that stood in front
of the cabin.

The bodies were then wrapped in blankets and carried out and laid in
the graves, and covered from the view of the world forever.

The old trader wept and moaned as though his heart would break, and
when our friends had announced their intention of departing for the
post, he called Old Tumult and Town. aside and said:

“Tumult, I want you and Town. to come here to-morrow morning. Will
you promise me that you will?”

“We will,” responded the two, in a breath.

“Do not fail. I have something to reveal to you--something that may
be of interest to you both. I wish to show you the reward of the
wicked and the wages of sin.”

“We will come without fail,” said Old Tumult.

And so the whites and the Sioux took their departure from the cabin,
and Talbott Taft was left alone to weep and mourn.




                            CHAPTER XVI.

                             A SURPRISE.


“The Indians are coming! the Indians are coming! to arms! to arms!”

This was the startling cry that ran from lip to lip throughout
Clontarf’s Post, as the hardy yeomanry of the settlement flew to
their cabins for their arms, and hurried their wives and little ones
away to the block-house. Those living just outside of the stockade
were soon within the inclosure, whose gates were then securely barred
and bolted against the party of Indians that had been discovered
crossing the river a short distance above the post.

Old Captain Storms, the military head and center of the post, was
the first to discover the enemy, and he gave it as his firm belief
that a hot time might be expected, for he said the enemy numbered
two hundred strong--that they were a war-party bent upon death and
destruction.

In a few minutes the settlers were prepared for defense, although
they were not, by any means, prepared for a lengthy siege.

Father Earnshaw and Captain Storms now ascended to the top of the
block-house to watch the movements of the enemy, while the settlers
stood, rifle in hand, ready for the conflict.

The two sentinels on the block-house were not a little surprised to
see the enemy marching boldly down the river toward the stockade.

“Ah! here they come, boys, three hundred strong!” the old captain
shouted to the men below; “stand by your arms, for a bloody time is
coming!”

Father Earnshaw looked at the enemy until his eyes grew misty--he
then took off his spectacles, wiped them--put them on again--glanced
at the enemy, then turned to the old man-of-war at his side, and said:

“Surely, captain, your eyesight is failing you, for according to my
estimate of the enemy’s force, you have exaggerated their number in
the ratio of about ten to one.”

“Your eyes deceive you, Mr. Earnshaw,” returned the stern old
warrior; “long experience in just such matters has enabled me to tell
the number of the enemy, or a body of men, at sight.”

“Excitement sometimes, captain, multiplies the amount of danger in
the mind’s eye, as I think it has in your case; for, come down to the
fact of the matter, I don’t believe that it is a war-party at all.”

“Man! man!” exclaimed Storms, “do not let the thoughts of a
battle--of danger, destroy thy throne of reason. Better go down into
the block-house.”

Father Earnshaw could not help laughing at the old captain’s wild
excitement.

“Look there, captain!” he finally exclaimed; “as I live Old Tumult
and Town. Farnesworth and Clara Bryant are at the head of _your_
war-party of three hundred.”

The captain looked long and closely at the approaching party, rubbed
his eyes, chafed his bald crown--glanced at Earnshaw, then at the
party again, moved uneasily, and at last, burst into a roar of
laughter, which, of itself, was sufficient to show his perplexity and
embarrassment.

“I thought, Mr. Earnshaw--”

But Mr. Earnshaw was gone. He had slipped away from the captain, who
was a little hard of hearing as well as defective in seeing, and
descending from the block-house, he approached the men and told them
of the captain’s scare, and the real nature of the approaching party
of savages.

The gate of the stockade was at once thrown open, and Old Tumult,
Town. and Clara, and the Indian escort of about a score in number,
admitted amid ringing shouts of joy and welcome.

Town. conducted Clara to the cabin of her father, while Old Tumult
explained to the settlers why Mahaska and his warriors were there.

The joy of Mr. and Mrs. Bryant was exceedingly great, when their only
child was once more restored to their hearts. And the settlers all
partook of their joy.

After the excitement of the happy meeting was over, and Clara and her
mother found themselves alone, the former drew near the latter and
said:

“Mother, am I your child?”

Mrs. Bryant started.

“Why, Clara, you surprise me!” she exclaimed.

“I see I do, mother,” replied Clara, “but Dick Sherwood told me that
I was _not_ your child.”

Mrs. Bryant turned very pale, and Clara saw at once that she was
greatly agitated.

“Is it true, mother?” she asked, her arms stealing softly around the
matron’s neck.

“It is, it is, Clara! alas, it is too true; but how could that
villain, Dick Sherwood, ever have gained the truth? What did he say
about it, Clara?”

Clara told her all that Sherwood had said, and even of her marriage
with him, and the reason why she had married him, and of the
subsequent death of Sherwood and Madge Taft.

Mrs. Bryant was completely overwhelmed by this revelation of matters,
and after trying to unburden her perplexed mind, she said:

“No, Clara, you are not my child. I took you to raise when you were
but two years old.”

“Are either of my parents living?” Clara asked.

“Your father may be, but your mother is dead, and it is by her dying
request that I have never told you before of your being an orphan.”

“And have I no relations living?”

“Your mother said she had a brother living, but she had not heard of
him for ten years, up to the hour of her death.”

“And you said my father _might_ be living, did you not?”

“Yes; since the worst is known, I may as well tell all. Domestic
trouble separated your parents. Your father enlisted as a soldier in
the Mexican war, and as he never came back, it was supposed that he
fell at the battle of Chapultepec. Your mother died shortly after the
separation. Your father I never saw.”

“And so none of the settlers here know but what I am your child?”

“No. We came from the State of Maine here, while most of the other
settlers are from Ohio, that is, we went from Maine to Ohio, and from
there came here.”

Clara bowed her head and wept sadly, bitterly.




                            CHAPTER XVII.

                            A REVELATION.


True to their promise, Old Tumult and Town. returned to the cabin of
Talbott Taft the following morning.

As they approached the lonely hut, they saw no sign of life about it,
but pushing on they reached the door, upon which Town. gently rapped.
But no one bade them enter, and it was then that a strange suspicion
rushed across our two friends’ minds, and pushing the door open they
entered.

True enough, their suspicions were verified by seeing Talbott Taft
sitting bolt-upright in a chair near a rude table, stone _dead_!

“Self-destruction,” muttered Town., as he pointed to a glass upon the
table, in which there was some liquid of a greenish color; and then
as his eyes fell upon a folded paper near the glass, he continued:
“and here is no doubt a written confession, and a lengthy one too,
for there are a number of pages.”

He unfolded the papers and glanced at the head of the writing, which
was well executed, though it showed some nervousness of the writer.


              “ROMANTIC IMAGINATION--TRAGICAL REALITY.”

These were the words heading the MS., and Town. at once perceived
that the writer thereof had been fostering some romantic hopes that
had ended in a tragical death.

The first thing our friends did was to bury the body of the trader by
the side of his daughter. This last sad duty performed, the scout and
Town. returned to the cabin and seated themselves. Town. now took up
the manuscript and began reading it aloud.

It ran thus:

“In one of the loveliest rural districts of Virginia is a grand
estate, with a great stone mansion and lovely surroundings--all that
heart could wish, art devise, and wealth procure--known as The Golden
Horn. Four years ago the owner of The Golden Horn lay dying. He was a
bachelor, and no wife nor child was there to mourn his coming death.
Only Mrs. Martha Hohn, his house-keeper, sat by his dying bed.

“Mrs. Hohn was herself a widow, with an only child, Cecil, who at
this time was away at Richmond attending a boarding-school at the
expense of the owner of The Golden Horn. Mrs. Hohn, for years, had
secretly aspired to be mistress of The Golden Horn, but all her
charms and suavity of manners failed to make an impression on the
hard heart of the stern old bachelor. And now he lay dying, and Mrs.
Hohn’s aspirations and hopes were dying too.

“‘Martha Hohn,’ he said, as she seated herself by his bed, ‘I’m
dying, that’s certain. The death-dews are upon my brow now. And
now, Martha, promise me upon my death bed that you will do me a
favor after I’m dead and gone. You’ve been kind to me, Martha, and
straightforward, and of all others, I would trust none sooner than
you with so important a care. Promise me, Martha Hohn.’

“Martha Hohn promised by all that was sacred.

“‘Then,’ continued the dying man, ‘away up in Maine, on the Penobscot
river, years ago dwelt an only sister, but she is dead now. She
married there, and had a child--a daughter whom she called Clara.
Domestic trouble finally parted sister and her husband. He went to
the war, and sister died. But her baby lived and was adopted by a
Mr. and Mrs. Geoffry Bryant. Where the Bryants are, I do not know,
but I want you to find them, Martha, and give to their adopted child,
Clara, this will (here he drew from under his pillow a folded paper)
which gives to her The Golden Horn. She is the last of my relations
now living. For all I know she may be dead. If she is dead, she may
have married, and may have a husband or child living; if so, give the
will to them.’

“Mrs. Hohn renewed her promise to the dying man, though the devil
took possession of her heart the moment she got the will in her
fingers.

“The owner of The Golden Horn died, and Mrs. Hohn became more
determined than ever to possess the estate.

“She hastened to Richmond and found that her daughter Cecil had just
been married to a handsome, but penniless man whose morals were any
thing but good. Mrs. Hohn made known her resolve to her son-in-law
and daughter. Both were as wicked as she, and so they volunteered
their assistance to aid her in her dark scheme.

“The trio went up to Maine and found that Geoffry Bryant had moved
several years ago to Ohio. So they followed on to Ohio, and were
there disappointed by learning that Mr. Bryant and family had gone
with a colony to the then territory of Iowa.

“The trio rigged themselves out with a conveyance and set off for
the far West. It was more than two years before they found out the
exact whereabouts of Bryant, and during this time they took up their
residence with the Arapaho Indians. Cecil’s husband, by dint of
much deceit and trickery, worked himself into the confidence of the
Indians so thoroughly, that they conferred upon him the honor of
prophet. But much to their disadvantage in playing for The Golden
Horn, the prophet’s name and fame went abroad among the Arapaho’s
enemies, the white settlers, and so it became dangerous for him to
venture within a white settlement.

“When Mrs. Hohn found that Bryant resided at Clontarf’s Post, she
began laying her plans. She found that Clara, the heir to The Golden
Horn, had grown to a beautiful womanhood, and was on the eve of
marriage with Town. Farnesworth. All this they learned through Rollo,
the Boy Ranger.”

“Smoke o’ torture!” exclaimed Old Tumult, “I told ye that ’ere boy
war a young devil.”

Town. made no reply, but read on:

“The first thing to be done was to prevent the marriage of Town. and
Clara. And Mrs. Hohn at once proposed that her daughter Cecil win
Town.’s affections from Clara, until Clara could be disposed of as
they desired.

“About this time Mrs. Hohn very suddenly and mysteriously disappeared
from the stage of action. But her son and daughter continued the work
of crime.

“Cecil now assumed the name of Madge Taft, and went to reside with
Talbott Taft, the Indian trader, as his daughter.

“Here she met Town. Farnesworth, and true enough, succeeded in
winning him from Clara.

“The next work to be done was to secure Clara’s right to The Golden
Horn. This was the most difficult portion of the whole plot. However,
Cecil’s husband, who was none other than Dick Sherwood, resolved
to kidnap Clara--carry her to the Indian village, and there force
her into a mock marriage with him--obtain a certificate of the
marriage--put Clara out of the way, and then return to Virginia, and
by presenting the will and certificate both in probate, establish
his right to The Golden Horn. Then as it was not known that he was
already Cecil’s husband in the vicinity of The Golden Horn, he could
enter into another marriage with her, and thereby cover up all
suspicions of their previous relationship, should any such suspicions
arise.

“The first attempt, however, to carry Clara away resulted in the
capture of Sherwood, and but for the timely arrival of Rollo, the
ranger, it would have ended in his death by hanging in the forest.
The young ranger cut the rope with his saber, the instant that the
settlers turned their faces toward the post, and a friend to the
unfortunate man came from his concealment in the woods near the scene
of the execution, and restored him to consciousness. In order to
mislead the settlers, the body of a Sioux Indian, slain by Rollo,
was hung to the limb where Sherwood had been left. The wolves and
vultures stripped the bones of its flesh, thereby the detection of
the cheat was never found out until after the attack at Wildwood
lake. This latter affair was all owing to the wicked cunning of
Sherwood, _alias_ Father Ainesley. He had hoped, that by drawing
the settlers out to the meeting beyond reach of their stronghold,
he would not only capture Clara, but wreak vengeance upon them for
the ‘hanging affair’ in the forest. In this he partially succeeded
through the coöperation of the duck-disguised Arapahoes. Clara was
captured by Ainesley during the conflict, and along with Madge, who
assumed the _rôle_ of prisoner also, for purposes that are plainly
significant, carried away; but she and Madge were recaptured, as was
also Sherwood, by Old Tumult and Town. A storm coming up, they sought
shelter upon Two Islands. While there, _Madge succeeded in releasing
Sherwood_. And together they escaped, carrying Clara away with them,
though Clara knew not the part that Madge was playing.

“Madge shouting for _help_, when away from the islands, was all a
cover to conceal suspicion.

“I will here mention, that Rollo _did know_ of the four savages being
in the hold of the ferry-boat. It was an arrangement for the capture
of the scout and Town.”

“Ho! ho! ho!” roared Old Tumult; “it war a galorious failure, too,
I’m dreamin’, eh boy?”

“Indeed it was,” returned Town., then he read on:

“Rollo and Sherwood laid another trap at the Devil’s Staircase, for
the capture of Tumult and his friend, but this failed, also; so Rollo
informed me the morning following the defeat.

“The ranger also informed me that through the instrumentality of
Madge Taft, Clara had been induced to marry Sherwood. The renegade
promised her that he would liberate her and Madge just as soon as
the wedding was over, and a certificate of the missionary--who was
gotten up on purpose for the occasion, he being a white renegade
called Tom Jules--securely in his pocket. Sherwood’s intention was
to drown Clara in the lake when pretending to escort her home. Madge
was to meet him there at the lake, when they would at once take their
departure for the East--he to prove his claim to The Golden Horn
as the husband of the deceased heiress. What more would really be
necessary to establish his claim, according to the will? Nothing.
But, alas! in the very hour, yea, the very _minute_ of their
triumph, death seized them both!

“Thus you have a full confession of the sins of Martha Hohn and her
son-in-law and daughter. And perhaps you would ask, where was Martha
Hohn during the latter part of this wicked drama? I would answer:
Martha Hohn writes this confession, for Martha Hohn and Talbott Taft
_are one and the same_! I donned my disguise to aid Dick and Cecil in
their work of wickedness that was hatched in my own brain.

“And what has become of Rollo, the ranger, will be asked as time goes
by, for Rollo will never again appear on the stage of action. It has
often been a source of great wonder to me, that Town. Farnesworth,
in his attentions to Madge, and his conferences with Rollo, did not
detect that Madge and Rollo _were one and the same person_!

“Poor Cecil! she was brave, daring and strong, and played her part
with all the skill of an accomplished actress. She deserved a better
fate, and but for the influence around her, might have won it.

“On the table by my side, in the little tin box, is the will that I
promised by all that was sacred to deliver to Clara Holmes. Will the
reader of this deliver it to her? It is my last request.

                                                        MARTHA HOHN.”

And thus ended the manuscript, leaving Town. wrapt in wonder and
surprise, while Old Tumult seemed terribly agitated.

“Of all the complicated cases of sin and sinners in disguise, this
beats me,” exclaimed Town.

Old Tumult made no reply. His agitation seemed to be increasing.

“What’s the matter, Tumult?” asked Town.

“Holmes! Holmes!” muttered the scout, as though he was unconscious of
so doing, “as God’s in heaven, it must be so!” and then springing to
his feet he cried, excitedly:

“Come, lad, let’s rack out for the post! I believe I’ve struck a
bee-line! Fetch the will, lad.”

Town. made no reply, for the scout darted out of the cabin and away
toward the post, at such a rapid speed, that he could scarcely keep
in sight of him.

“I declare, the old chap is terribly excited,” muttered Town., as he
proceeded onward through the forest.

When he reached the post, the old scout bent his footsteps toward
Geoffry Bryant’s cabin.

At the door he was met by Clara.

“Why Tumult--Mr. Raynor!” the maiden exclaimed, “you are
excited--what is wrong?”

Tumult laid his hand upon the maiden’s head, and gazed into her eyes
as though he were going to read her heart through.

“And are you Clara Holmes?” he cried.

“Yes; so mother--Mrs. Bryant--just told me, but--”

“Have you no remembrance of your parents?” interrupted the scout.

“I have none,” returned Clara, sadly.

At this juncture, Mrs. Bryant made her appearance, and having
overheard their conversation, said:

“Clara was but two years old when her mother died, Mr. Raynor,
consequently she could not be expected to remember much of her.”

“But the father?” exclaimed the scout.

“He parted from her mother a year before she died.”

“Did you know him, Mrs. Bryant?”

“I did not. I never saw him. He went to the Mexican war and never
came back.”

“What was his full name?”

“Clement Holmes, so his wife told me.”

“Clement Holmes!” burst from the scout’s lips; “then thank God!
Clara, you are _my_ child! _I_ am Clement Holmes!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Yes, Old Tumult, or Roll Raynor, proved himself to be the father of
Clara--Clement Holmes! I will not attempt to describe the scenes of
joy and happiness that followed this revelation, for they defy the
power of this pen. The reader can imagine what they must have been.

Following the reunion of father and daughter, came the news of Clara
being the heiress to a vast fortune in Virginia, by what means is
already known.

I will not undertake to narrate the scenes and adventures through
which Old Tumult passed after his separation from his wife, up to his
meeting with his child; suffice it to say that they were many--wild
and dangerous.

Clara, as the wife of Townsend Farnesworth, returned with her husband
to Virginia and proved her claim to The Golden Horn.

She forgave him his love affair with Madge Taft, though he can not
forgive himself for being made the dupe of the wicked enchantress.

After much persuasion, Old Tumult was induced to leave the West
with its wild adventure, and take up his home with his children in
Virginia, among the quietudes of civilization. Still, there was
scarcely a day during the remainder of his eventful life but what the
voice of his heavy rifle, Vibrator, might have been heard rolling
in prolonged reverberations through the mountains that formed the
southern boundary of The Golden Horn. And after the day’s hunt was
over, and the strong old hunter returned to the mansion, with his
game-bag well filled, he was always met at the gate by a group of
urchins, who welcomed him with their childish shouts of joy, and who
called him “Grandpa.”

And here, dear reader, I let drop the curtain over my imperfect--yet
I hope interesting--drama, and lay down my pen.


                              THE END.




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                         Transcriber’s Notes

  The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by
  the transcriber.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation such as “wood-land”/“woodland” have
  been maintained.

  Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
  and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
  text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
  have been retained.

  Page 11: “scowling dark with vengance” changed to “scowling dark
  with vengeance”.

  Page 13: “midst of privations, and harrassed” changed to “midst of
  privations, and harassed”.

  Page 15: “Of figure he was of medium hight” changed to “Of figure
  he was of medium height”.

  Page 26: “was the envy of all the marriageble” changed to “was the
  envy of all the marriageable”.

  Page 31: “the women and children had been gatherd” changed to “the
  women and children had been gathered”.

  Page 38: “mysterious hand was clutched a small, glittertering”
  changed to “mysterious hand was clutched a small, glittering”.

  Page 43: “no particular attention to so trival” changed to “no
  particular attention to so trivial”.

  Page 44: “would lead the reader into a temporary encampent” changed
  to “would lead the reader into a temporary encampment”.

  Page 49: “CHAPTER XI” changed to “CHAPTER IX”.

  Page 54: “that deepened almost into a grown” changed to “that
  deepened almost into a groan”.

  Page 65: “once placed himself in an atitude” changed to “once
  placed himself in an attitude”.

  Page 67: “After having discussed varrious” changed to “After having
  discussed various”.