OUTLAW JACK;

                                  OR,

                          THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.

                           BY HARRY HAZARD.

                AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:

                           39.--Heart-Eater.
                        43.--The White Outlaw.
                          54.--Arkansas Jack.
                          66.--Rattling Dick.
                          71.--Delaware Tom.
                        77.--Scarlet Shoulders.

                               NEW YORK:
                     BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
                          98 WILLIAM STREET.

      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
                          FRANK STARR & CO.,
      In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.




                             OUTLAW JACK;

                                  OR,

                          THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.




                              CHAPTER I.

                          A BLOW IN THE DARK.


"Well, Burr, any change to-day?"

"Yes--a great one."

"For better or worse?"

"The road will be open for us to-morrow. She's dying."

"Dying! is it possible? And the poor creature seemed so much better
this morning."

"Listen--there!"

A quavering, pitiful wail came to their ears, proceeding from a small
white tent, half-hidden beneath the low-hanging boughs of the grove.
That cry told the two men, plainer than spoken words, the sad truth.
It told of a household broken and dismembered; of a bereaved husband
and daughter, of a dearly-beloved wife and mother who had journeyed
thus far from the home of her childhood, only to find a lone grave upon
the prairie, or beside the rock-bound rivulet that wound its noisy way
adown the valley.

The two young men stood in silence, gazing toward the tent of mourning.
They did not speak, though not a little agitated. And yet one of the
two caught himself secretly exulting in the thought that now the
greatest difficulty was removed from the path he had laid out to follow.

The little valley was studded here and there with diminutive tents,
while white-tilted wagons stood grouped together in an oblong circle.
These alone would have proclaimed the truth: a company of emigrants
tenanted the valley.

Such sights were far from being uncommon in that year--1850. A year
before, the Californian "gold-fever" broke out. The first rush was made
by men--young and old. But then the fever spread. It infected all--the
result was but natural. Family followed family. Almost from ocean to
ocean an unbroken train of emigrants toiled wearily on--on toward
the glittering phantom that but too often vanished in thin air when
seemingly just within their grasp, leaving naught behind but wrecked
hopes and ruined fortunes.

One link of the mighty human chain lies before our eyes. For nearly a
week this valley has sheltered them. While others pressed on in the
road for the yellow delusion, this party had been lying motionless,
longing for yet dreading the summons to resume their pilgrimage.

A few hasty words will explain.

This party of emigrants, numbering nearly one hundred souls, was under
the command of Caleb Mitchell. He started from Eastern Ohio, in company
with several of his neighbors, heading for the Land of Gold, taking
with him his wife and daughter. Little by little the company grew to
more respectable proportions, as stragglers joined it on the way,
until now, as they entered the Foothills, they felt little fear of the
red-skinned Ishmaelites of whom they had heard so many frightful tales.

Nearly a week before our story opens, a sad accident occurred. A rifle,
suspended by leather strings in Mitchell's wagon, by some means got
discharged, its contents lodging in Mrs. Mitchell's breast.

Since then she had been hovering between life and death. To continue
their journey would be her certain death, and the kind-hearted
emigrants would not abandon their leader in his distress, though each
day of delay increased their danger of being overtaken by winter in the
mountains. Thus for nearly a week they waited and watched. Slowly Mrs.
Mitchell sunk, and now, on this day, her spirit took its departure. The
daughter, Lottie, was the first to notice the presence of death, and it
was her heart-broken wail that saluted the ears of the two young men,
Burr Wythe and Paley Duplin.

"It is all over!" muttered Duplin, drawing a long breath.

"Poor girl--'twill just about kill her; she worshipped her mother,"
added Burr, his blue eyes winking rapidly.

"It _is_ sad--but then, since it must be so, it's well that all is
over. A long road lies before us, and the mountains must be crossed
before the snow falls. The lives of all depend upon it."

"Mitchell knows that. _He_ will not delay us any longer than is
absolutely necessary. But come--there is work to do. We can help them."

"Wait, Burr. I must see you to-night, alone. I have something of great
importance to tell you. Meantime, look at this--but, remember, don't
breathe a word of your suspicions. Keep it hid--at least until I say
you may speak."

The young man, Duplin, seemed strongly excited for one of his usual
phlegm. As he spoke, he thrust a small article into Wythe's hand, and
renewing his caution, glided hastily away.

Wonderingly Burr bent over the stone--for such it seemed. But then
a wild glow filled his eyes, lighting up his entire countenance,
while his muscular form quivered like one under the influence of an
ague-shock.

"Is it--can it be _gold_?" he gasped, huskily.

He too was a victim of the "yellow fever." It had lured him from
his far-away home amidst the northern pines of Maine. It had proved
stronger than the pleadings of his aged father and mother, stronger
than the love of his sister and younger brother. He had left them all
to chase up this glittering phantom; and now, for the first time, his
eyes rested upon the substance of his dreams by day and by night.

Little wonder, then, that his heart beat fast and hard, that his brain
throbbed hotly and his eyes gleamed with a wild light--with the long
smoldering fires of greed that might waken to avarice.

The little pebble lay in his palm, looking innocent enough. Its dull
surface was scratched and cut here and there, as if by a knife-point.
If gold, the nugget must be very pure.

"Hellow, old boy, what ye thinkin' so soberly 'bout, eh?" suddenly
uttered a not disagreeable voice, as a heavy hand was placed upon
Burr's shoulder, and a heavily-bearded face met his startled gaze.

Wythe started, and the nugget fell from his hand. Hastily he snatched
it up, and thrust it into his pocket, but not before the keen black
eyes of the new-comer had fallen upon it. In his agitation Burr did not
notice the quick, suspicious flash that lighted up the man's face, else
he might have used more caution.

"What is it to _you_, Nate Upshur?" and Wythe shook the hand from his
shoulder, with a gesture of dislike. "My thoughts are my own, and none
the more agreeable for you thrusting yourself in upon them."

"You speak sharp words, youngster, but best weigh them better. You're
not in the States, now, where a man's afeard to take up a cross word
for fear o' the courts. Take a fool's advice, an' give a civil answer
to a civil question, or you _may_ chaince to run foul o' a snag, one o'
these long-come-shortlys."

"And I hold myself ready to accommodate _you_, whenever you feel
inclined to try it on, Nate Upshur. I hope that is plain enough for
your comprehension," contemptuously added Burr, turning away.

Upshur bit his lip fiercely, and fingered the brass-bound butt of the
revolver at his waist, but made no attempt to draw it.

"Fer little I'd--but never mind, now. But I _would_ like to know whar
he got that--if it _was_ gold."

As the broad red disk of the full moon rose above the eastern swell
that night, it shone down upon a peculiarly weird and impressive scene
in the little timber-grove beside the creek. It was a burial in the
wilderness.

Beneath a wide-spreading cottonwood tree the grave had been dug. And
now, gathered round the spot, with bowed and uncovered heads, stood or
knelt every member of the wagon-train, listening to the broken, sobbing
words of the bereaved husband, Mr. Mitchell. His daughter, Lottie, was
beside him, pale and care-worn, bearing up against the blow with a
fictitious strength that threatened to give way at any moment.

There was scarcely a dry eye among all these, as the strong man
broke down, and bowing his head, mingled his tears with those of his
daughter. It was a moment of heart-crushing agony.

Lottie, who was completely exhausted, swooned, and was borne to the
nearest tent by sympathizing friends. Mr. Mitchell, nerving himself to
the task, completed the service, then stood by in silence while the
dead was being hidden forever from mortal view. Then, in a low but
steady voice, he spoke:

"I thank you, friends, for your kindness. I will not soon forget it.
But now go and try to sleep. We can afford to lose no more time.
To-morrow day-dawn must see us once more upon the road. Go--leave me
alone here for a minute."

"Come with me, Wythe, and you too, Tyrrel," muttered Paley Duplin.
"There's something I'd like to talk over with you to-night."

"Is it about that piece--"

"Yes--but hist!" and Duplin glanced apprehensively around him. "We
three are enough. I don't care for more in the secret--much less _that_
man," and he nodded to where Nate Upshur stood leaning against a
tree-trunk, close at hand.

"Come, then; the knoll out yonder is the best place. No one could get
within ear-shot of us, even should they try, without being seen."

"What's up, boys?" muttered Jack Tyrrel, a young rattle-brained Ohioan.

"Wait--you'll know soon enough."

Gaining the knoll spoken of, the three friends crouched down amid the
tall, rank grass and lighted their pipes. Duplin was the first to break
the silence.

"You looked at what I showed you, Burr?"

"Yes; it's _gold_. Where did you get it, Paley?"

"Gold--le's see," eagerly interrupted Tyrrel.

"Wait--the moon does not shine clear enough to show it now. Now, then,
I want you to pay particular attention to what I say. Weigh it well in
your minds, for on this night the whole course of our future lives may
depend. That is, on how you decide. You understand?"

"Yes--that is, I would if I _did_; but I _don't_," muttered Jack,
lugubriously. "Well, go on, anyhow."

"You know what we are going to California after?"

"Sure! After gold; the shining dust--the great blazing nuggets, big as
a water-bucket. Those are what we're after of course."

"You'd know it when you found one, I suppose, Jack?" and Duplin smiled
slightly.

"Bah! _any_ fool knows gold."

"Well, I do. But, as I was about to say, I don't think there is any
need of our going clear to California for what we can get closer."

"What--Duplin, what do you mean?" demanded Wythe, gazing keenly into
his comrade's face.

"No, Burr; I'm an honest man, if not a good one. You need not fear any
thing of _that_ sort. But I'll tell you all now, on one condition.
Promise me faithfully that neither one of you will ever breathe a word
of my secret until after one year has passed. This, I mean, provided
you refuse to accept my proposal, for if you _do_ accept it, I know
you'll keep silent. How is it--do you agree?"

"I reckon we can, Burr?"

"Yes; though I have not known you long, Duplin, I believe that you
are an honest man. Then I promise you, on my honor as a man, that I
will never, by word, sign nor hint, reveal what you confide to me as a
secret."

"And I say the same; will swear to it, if you prefer," added Tyrrel.

"No. I can trust you without that. Well, then, listen--hist! I thought
I heard a footstep," muttered Duplin, warningly.

"I guess it comes from the camp," suggested Burr, rising erect and
gazing keenly around. "I can see nothing nearer than there."

"It may be; I suppose I am nervous. I wouldn't like for any one to
overhear what I'm about to say, for though enough for us three, it
would go but a little way divided among the train."

"_It?_"

"By that I mean what I have found--what I stumbled on this afternoon
as I was coming back to camp. Boys--_I've found a placer_!"

"Eh--what?" stammered the two young men, completely amazed, though
their thoughts had already reverted to some such revelation.

"'Tis true--I've found a gold placer--a pocket--a regular _bed of
gold_!" panted Duplin, his eyes fairly blazing.

Wythe gazed keenly into Duplin's face, as though trying to decide
whether or no he had gone crazy. Jack Tyrrel divided his glances
between them, the while dolefully scratching his curly pate.

"Yes, think of that! A regular bed of gold, full of nuggets that are so
pure you can mark them with a pin-point, almost. I could have filled my
pockets in an hour."

"Where is it--where is it? Let's go there now, before some one else
steals it away! Come on; thunder and lightning, man, why don't you
_come_?" muttered Tyrrel, half-angrily.

"Easy, Jack," and Duplin calmed his exultation by a desperate effort.
"Do you want the whole train after us? No, no; we must work more
cunningly than that. I've planned it all; listen, and I'll tell you
what we must do."

"Wait, Paley," quietly interrupted Burr. "Begin at the beginning and
tell it all. First, how came you to find this pocket?"

"You know I went out hunting, early this morning. Well, I had no luck,
and it was past noon before I got a shot. Then I dropped a 'bighorn,'
after an hour's work sneaking over the rocks. It fell down a precipice,
and pretty soon I found a pass by which I could follow after. It was
hard work, though, and I no sooner reached the valley, or basin,
rather, than I began hunting for water.

"Half a mile distant, I saw what looked like the bed of a creek, and
set off toward it. Such it proved, in fact, though the water was
missing. I set off up its bed, hoping to find a water-hole or something
of the kind. Nearly a mile further up, the bed began to spread and grow
more shallow. Then I knew that if I found water, it must be by digging
for it.

"I did dig, in a dozen places, but all was dry. At one spot, I kept
digging until I made a hole nearly shoulder deep, as the sand felt cool
and damp. My knife struck on what seemed to be a pebble, and I pulled
it out with one hand and flung it aside. As I did so, the sunlight
glittered from its side, where my knife had struck. I looked--it was
the lump you have, Wythe--and saw that _it was gold_!" and pausing,
Duplin hurriedly brushed the sweat from his brow, though the night air
was cool and bracing.

"Great Lord! go on--hurry up!" muttered Tyrrel, excitedly.

"One glance told me what it was. It was what I had journeyed over
fifteen hundred miles in search of, and there it lay, in my hand. I
tell you, boys, it nearly _killed me_--and I haven't got over it yet.
I half believe now that I am asleep and only dreaming all this; I do,
honestly.

"I did then, too. I sat there for a full hour, almost afraid to move,
looking first at the hole, then at the nugget. I told myself over and
over again, that I was a fool--that this was only a stray lump that
had been dropped here by some Indians, years ago. And yet, even as I
said so, the top sand seemed to melt away showing to me great masses of
gold, pure and yellow, looking like petrified sunshine. Actually, for a
time I believe that I was _mad--gold crazy_."

"Look here, Paley Duplin," muttered Jack Tyrrel, suspiciously, as the
young man paused in his speech. "Better mind what you're about. If this
is a joke--if you are making this all up just to have a laugh at us,
I'll lick you clean out o' your boots! If I don't, then it's no matter!"

"It's no joke, Jack, my dear fellow, but sober earnest. Sometimes,
though, I feel tempted to wish it _was_ a joke."

"Duplin!"

"A fact. I don't know _why_, but there seems to be a cloud over me--I
feel as though some great calamity was impending. Boys, you may laugh
at me, but while I was thus stupefied, I saw my mother's spirit before
me, beckoning me to leave the spot. She--it was crying, I thought, as
though I was in peril. I saw it as plain as I see you now. I flung
down the nugget and fled. Not far, though. Then I stopped. The bright,
yellow devils seemed to beckon me back. I took a step forward, and
_she_ vanished. Then I went back to the hole," and as he spoke, Duplin
trembled violently.

"And you found it then--the hole, I mean? It hadn't vanished?"
whispered Jack, breathlessly.

"No," smiling faintly. "It was still there. I dug then, like a madman.
I tore up the ground for a dozen feet around. Look--my fingers are worn
to the quick. I found more nuggets--I found a dozen more, all larger
than that, lying close together. I don't know how large the pocket may
be, but I saw enough to feel sure that there is a great fortune there
for each one of us; enough, at any rate, to make us independent for
life."

"You thought of us, then, as sharers in the pocket with you?" queried
Burr Wythe.

"No, not then. I only thought of myself, and of how I could secure the
treasure without being suspected and robbed--for I believe that, in my
madness then, I would have denied my own father a nugget from all that
store. It was horrible--that sensation. I can realize now what a miser
feels. God protect me from another such attack!" shuddered Duplin.

"But your plan--what do you intend doing?"

"I've weighed the matter well, and this is what I've decided upon.
We three are enough. I selected you two, because I knew that I could
depend upon you. Our first move will be to desert the wagon-train."

"Desert?"

"Yes. What is there to hinder us? Nothing. We are passengers, and our
fare is already paid. We owe them nothing. They will be the gainers as
well as we."

"How can we get our tools without exciting suspicion, though?"

"We don't need them. One pick-ax will be enough. We can shape wooden
shovels with our knives. This, our blankets and weapons are all we
need. Remember that what mining we do, will only be in the soft sand.
The gold is in nuggets, not dust or scales, so there will be little or
no washing to be done. As for food, a day's hunt will furnish enough to
last us a week, with care in curing it. You see I've neglected nothing.
True, we may encounter dangers and suffer privations, but no more here
than there where we first started for.

"Two, or perhaps three weeks' work, then we can start for _home_. Two
months, at the furthest--then we will be made men for life. Now you
know all. What is your decision?"

"You say we must desert?" mused Wythe, thoughtfully.

"Yes. What excuse could we give? We must slip off to-night, without a
word to _anybody_. I know what you are thinking of, Wythe. Nay, don't
flush up so. 'Tis nothing to be ashamed of. She's a noble, true-hearted
girl, and one that would be a rich prize for any man. I might have
loved her myself, only that I had a talisman. In Ohio there is one
waiting for me, who, please God, will one day be my wife," and Duplin,
as he spoke, reverently uncovered his head.

"You are right, friend, and I'm not offended. But--I would like to
speak a word to her before we go, just to keep her from thinking hard
of us."

"You could not, Burr, without giving a broad clue to our purpose. She
would not be able to see you to-night, anyhow, after her poor mother's
death. You must have patience. Think how short the time will be, if you
do not fling this chance from you, before you can go to her with a free
heart and full hand."

"He talks good sense, Burr. Some other time will do to say good-by in."

"Well, maybe it is for the best. I'd only make a fool of myself. Then,
here's my hand. I'm with you, Duplin, for better or worse."

"I'm number three!" chimed in Tyrrel.

"Good! Now there only remains to collect our things. I'll see to the
pick. I left mine out, to-day, after _that_. See to your arms and
ammunition, and get a store of coffee. It's paid for, remember. Fill
your pockets with cold grub, for they _may_ make a search for us,
though I hardly think it. Time's too precious for that. Go, now, and
keep close guard over your tongues. 'Twould take but a trifle to direct
suspicion when we are found gone, and then good-by to our fortune."

"Trust us--we'll be wise as the dove, and so forth," muttered Tyrrel.

The three plotters glided away and soon rejoined the camp. Scarcely had
they disappeared from view, when a dark figure cautiously raised itself
above the level of the prairie-grass, where it had been concealed in a
hollow, and peered curiously after them, a low, disagreeable chuckle
breaking from the black-bearded lips.

"Ho! ho! ho! Nate Upshur, you're in luck, my boy! Fust you see the
nugget Wythe drops, then you hear Duplin whisper to him an' Tyrrel,
and now, best of all, you hear the whole story! Thar's luck in odd
numbers--and yet I'm goin' to have a finger in the pie, too."

Then he, too, proceeded stealthily toward the camp, by a circuitous
route, entering unobserved.

That night, the sick-camp was the scene of strange acts. And among them
was one of terror--of cold-blooded, merciless crime.

As the bright moon sailed from behind a dense cloud, a dark figure
silently crept into the shadow cast by a small white tent. From within,
as the shadow paused, came the sound of calm, steady breathing. Then
the door-flap was raised--the black shadow cautiously glided into the
tent, like a venomous serpent in human form. The flap falls behind the
serpent, and all is still.

Then--a horrible sound breaks the stillness of the night--a faint,
gasping, half-stifled groan of death-agony. Then the shadow reappears,
bearing in one hand a blood-stained knife, in the other a small parcel
that chinks metallic-like as it falls from its hand. Then all is still.




                              CHAPTER II.

                          THE TELL-TALE PIPE.


Long before the first beams of breaking day illumined the eastern
horizon, the shrill voice of the little, wrinkled, half-apish-looking
guide, Paul Chicot, roused the sleeping camp, bidding all prepare for
a long, hard day's travel. Eagerly the emigrants flew around, for once
more the golden phantom seemed beckoning them on.

And yet, despite their anxiety, that day was to carry them no nearer
the golden land. A blow fell that for the moment drove away all such
thoughts.

"Whar's Dutchy?" suddenly queried Paul Chicot, running his beadlike
eyes rapidly around the little group.

As customary, the emigrants were regularly divided into "messes."
One of these messes was formed by the guide, Chicot, Nate Upshur, an
Irishman called Tim Dooley, and "Dutchy," as the fourth member was
familiarly known.

This last personage was an enigma to the greater portion of the
emigrants. At times he appeared the polished scholar, then again one
of the most ignorant men imaginable. He had joined the train at St.
Charles, preferring the overland route on account of his poor health,
hoping thus to recuperate. He seemed possessed of plenty of money,
paying his fare in gold, without a demur at the price.

"I don't know--I hain't seen him since last night," replied Upshur,
wiping his lips, after a long draught of coffee.

"Go hyste him out, Tim. He takes so durned long to fix up his ha'r an'
teeth afore eatin' thet he won't be ready fer the road none too soon.
Tell 'im we're all ready fer startin'," muttered Chicot.

Dooley arose and glided toward a small tent a little to one side,
and pushing back the hanging door-flap, entered. The next moment he
reappeared, staggering back with starting eyeballs and hair standing
on end, a wild cry bursting from his pallid lips.

The shrill cry startled the entire camp, and all eyes were turned
toward the trembling man. Paul Chicot was the first to speak, in an
angry tone:

"What the devil's the matter wi' ye _now_, I'd like to ax? See'd
another snake, eh?" he asked, sarcastically.

"It's murther, that's what it is! He's kilt--kilt intirely!" gasped
Dooley, his eyes still glaring toward the quiet tent, as if enchanted
by the horrible object lying so still and ghastly within.

"Who's kilt--not Dutchy?" quietly demanded Upshur, stepping forward.

Chicot, giving over all idea of getting any thing satisfactory out of
the stupefied Irishman, sprung forward and flung aside the strip of
canvas that protected the entrance. One glance told him the truth. Tim
was right. Murder had been done!

Lying upon a couple of blankets, was all that remained of their quaint,
pleasant comrade, Carl Hefler, or "Dutchy," the _sobriquet_ suggested
by his broken, stammering speech.

The long, slim figure lay at full length, as though peacefully
slumbering, but the arms were flung wide, the long, bony fingers
clutched as though in agony. An agonized expression had frozen upon the
thin, pallid face.

On the white shirt-bosom was a great stain--a stain of that peculiar,
unmistakable color that seldom requires a second glance to designate.
Directly above the heart the stain was blackest. There the blow had
been dealt.

Chicot, old and thoroughly versed in that art peculiar to his craft
and the detectives--of remarking _everything_--knew that no feeble,
faltering hand had dealt this blow. Either the hand of an unusually
bold and cool-headed man, or else that of one to whom such deeds had
been familiar.

He knew that the murderer had crept fairly into the tent, had glided
close to the victim, as he lay buried in unconscious slumber, and that
he must have even felt out the region of the heart, since all within
had been dark, else the blow could never have been delivered with such
deadly precision.

"What is all this, Chicot?" hurriedly demanded the leader, Mitchell, as
he reached the guide's side.

"It's _murder_--thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot.

"But who could--"

"Thet's jest what I'm goin' to find out, 'f you give me time. Keep
back--don't none o' you step inside here ontil I say ye may. Mebbe
thar's some sign left."

"Wouldn't it be a good plan to call the roll and see if all are
present?" suddenly suggested Upshur, his eyes gleaming furtively.

"'Twon't do no harm. You mought as well, cap'n," muttered Chicot. "This
'll keep us back hafe the day, anyhow, ef not more."

Mitchell promptly sounded his whistle--and taught its meaning, the
members of the wagon-train followed his lead back to the open ground.
Upshur ran his eyes hastily over the group. Then the evil glow
deepened, and his lip curled with triumph.

Chicot, free from the annoying crowd, proceeded with his
investigations, with all the relish of a true-born detective. Yet there
seemed little show of his making any discovery, since the floor of the
little tent was beaten hard and dry by the murdered man's own feet,
during the stay at the sick-camp.

Of course no _trail_ had been left, nor did he seek for one. His eye
had already fallen upon the little leather sachel, lying beside the
dead man's head, where it had been dragged from beneath the blankets.
Its lock was unbroken, but one side had been slit through with a
knife--the same weapon that had dealt the death-blow, for the leather
was stained here and there with blood.

"He stuck 'im fer the money," muttered Paul, as he dropped the valise.

Suddenly he stooped and lifted the right arm of the dead man. A tiny
point of something yellow had caught his keen eye.

Chicot uttered a low grunt, and started back. The clue was before him;
and yet he scarce believed his eyes. Could it be?--

Exposed to view lay a small, curiously-carved meerschaum pipe, with
stem of bright, clear amber. This it was that had caught his eye.

Chicot turned and left the tent, slowly gliding out toward where
Mitchell was calling over the list. The guide's brows contracted as he
listened.

"John Tyrrel."

"Not here," slowly replied a voice, after a brief, painful silence.

"Burr Wythe."

"I reckon he's gone, too, cap'n," quietly uttered Chicot. "Thar ain't
much use o' your goin' any furder. I think I've found the right eend o'
the trail."

"What do you mean, Paul?" cried Mitchell, in surprise. "Surely you
don't suspect--"

"I don't go by 'spicions, myself, but I know a trail when I strike it.
Come an' look fer yourself--one at a time, though. See what I've found,
then say who it b'longs to."

One by one the party filed into the tent and glanced at the tell-tale
pipe. All recognized it. There was not another in any wise resembling
it in the company.

"Whose pipe is it, boys?" demanded Chicot.

"Burr Wythe's!" came the reply, the voice of Nat Upshur above all
others.

"But _he_ may not have dropped it there," suggested Mitchell. "Might
not Hefler have borrowed it?"

"No," declared Upshur, stepping forward. "Hefler went to bed just after
dark, and I saw Wythe smoking that pipe as late as two o'clock, and he
was talking with Jack Tyrrel and Paley Duplin, at the time."

"It's so--I see'd 'em, too," reluctantly added Chicot.

"I admit that it has an awkward look, but after all, though those three
are absent, they may return soon and clear matters up. If he, or they,
are guilty, I will not be one of those who would seek to screen them
from justice; but for all that, they shall not be condemned without
a chance to clear themselves. First we must find them," said the
wagon-master.

"But it is nearly sunrise; we were to take up the march to-day,"
ventured one.

"Justice first: we must not let this brutal murder go unavenged. One
day, more or less, can make but little difference to us, in the end. If
Wythe did kill him, he must pay the penalty."

"But what object could he have in doing it? They were good friends, so
far as I know."

"Look here," uttered Chicot, lifting the cut sachel. "This is what the
Dutchman kept his money in. He was a simple-hearted feller, like, an'
didn't seem to think but that all was as honest as he was hisself,
fer he showed us his money only two nights ago. We laughed at him, I
'member, fer kerryin' gold to Californey, but he wasn't goin' to dig.
He went overland fer his health, and then was goin' to ship fer Chinese
land, or some sech place, I b'lieve."

"Who was with you when he showed the money?"

"_He_ was--Burr Wythe--an' a lot more," reluctantly added Chicot.

Mitchell looked sober. He had formed a high opinion of the young man,
but he could no longer blind himself to the fact that suspicion pointed
strongly toward young Wythe as the murderer. And he saw, too, that
this belief was gradually gaining ground among the emigrants, and deep
whispers ran round, while eyes flashed and brows grew black. The spirit
of Lynch-law was rapidly arising, and woe be unto the victim that
should first feel its power!

"Easy, men," he shouted, waving his hand. "Keep silent for a moment
and listen to me. There must be no mad action here. We must proceed
carefully and justly. First, you must elect a leader, whose word shall
be law; then we must hunt up the missing men and hear their defense.
That one murder has been committed is no reason that another should
follow. I cast my vote for a fair trial."

"So we all do, I reckon," chimed in Paul Chicot. "An' I don't know any
better man for Judge Lynch than you be. What say, boys?"

"Good--good!" came an almost unanimous shout; but Nathan Upshur was
silent.

"Very well; I will act as such, since you demand it. And I am glad,
for one thing. After what I have already spoken, it shows that you
aim at strict and impartial justice. But now to work. If they have
really abandoned the train--as of course they have, if they _did_ kill
Hefler--they must have taken food and other articles that would be
missed. And a close search may give us the clue. You know the messes
they belonged to; go and search closely. Chicot, come with me. I wish a
word with you."

Once fairly set to work, there was little time lost. In ten minutes
the report was given. A small supply of provisions had been taken, and
one pick-ax was missing; but that all believed to have been mislaid
somewhere. No one--save Upshur--dreamed that the deserters had taken it.

Paul Chicot gave his supposition or conjecture concerning the course
most likely to be followed by the deserters. He believed they would
take to the neighboring mountains, there to lie hidden until all search
was given over. They would not be likely to take the back-trail, as
they were afoot, and the country in that direction was mostly open and
level.

"I believe you're right, Chicot," remarked Mitchell, thoughtfully, "and
we will act on that supposition first. We'd best form three or four
parties and each choose a separate trail, for this day is all we can
spare without absolute danger to the whole train."

Little time was lost, now that the duty before them was fairly decided
upon, and all entered upon it with growing eagerness. There is
something strangely exciting in a _manhunt_. Set a warm friend upon the
track of another, and, when once fairly aroused, that friend will be as
inveterate and deadly in pursuit as though a lifelong enemy.

This trait was exemplified now. Before an hour more passed by, even
those who had first declared their belief in the young man's innocence,
were the foremost in searching for his trail, eager to bring him to
justice.

Nathan Upshur kept close to Paul Chicot, the guide, eying him
furtively, seemingly ill at ease. It was plainly evident that he felt
no great desire for Burr Wythe's capture. Indeed, he tried to mislead
Paul, and finally succeeded in doing so.

Upshur had stealthily followed the three deserters for a considerable
distance, on the night before, when they started for the "golden bed,"
as Duplin had called it, the better to satisfy his mind as to the
location of the placer. And now for reasons of his own, he craftily
led Chicot far astray from the right course, though none of the
trail-hunters suspected his purpose.

Satisfied with this, Upshur contentedly followed the guide's lead,
feeling assured there was little or no danger of striking the
deserters' trail, on that day at least. But at a cry from Chicot, his
heart leaped wildly, and the flush left his face pale and ghastly.

"Hold! Stand back, you fellers," cried Chicot, lifting a hand in
warning, as his companions rushed forward, eager to learn the cause of
his sudden exclamation.

"What is it, Chicot?" gasped Upshur.

"A trail, but not the one we're looking fer," was the slow reply, as
Paul closely scrutinized the ground.

Upshur gave a gasp of relief, unnoticed by those near, and then pressed
forward. Pausing beside Chicot, he bent his gaze down upon the narrow
strip of moist sand, upon which was imprinted the strange trail.

There, plainly outlined, was the impress of a large human foot, naked
and bare. That it was not made by an Indian was plain, for though many
white men in-toe, a red-man, unless an habitual drunkard, _never_ toes
out, as this trail plainly did. Then, again, an Indian's foot, from
never having been tightly compressed in boots or shoes, is very flat
and broad; this trail was made by a man with a high instep and arching
sole.

"How do you know it isn't one of them?" asked Upshur.

"Easily enough. Look back along the trail. You see, it crosses that
stretch o' splintered rocks? Now, look at these tracks. The foot ain't
cut none. That shows that it's made by a feller that's _used_ to goin'
bar'foot fer a long time. Ef _you_ was to cross that, you'd cut an'
gouge your hoofs so this 'ere 'd be a trail o' blood. See?"

"But who can it be then?"

"Don't know. It's fresh--ain't bin made over a hour, at furderest.
Whoever it is, must be in the hills yender. _I_ move we foller on, an'
find 'im. Mebbe he kin tell us somethin' 'bout the boys," suggested
Chicot, moving forward, without waiting to learn the wishes of his
followers.

In fact, Chicot was only too glad of a good excuse to delay the search
for Burr Wythe. Though firmly believing him guilty of the murder,
yet he did not wish to be the instrument of justice. In his quiet,
unobtrusive way, he loved Burr, almost as he would have loved a son.

The trail led in a direct line toward the hills, here rising abrupt
and rocky, broken and rugged. Though at times losing all trace, Chicot
found little difficulty in recovering the trail as often.

An abrupt exclamation from Nathan Upshur startled him, and all eyes
turned upon him. His face wore an expression of wonder, as he pointed
with outstretched hand toward the rocks above the party.

"Look there! Is it man, or devil?"

Glancing in the direction indicated, the trail-hunters beheld the
object of his wonder. And they, too, stood as if bewildered. And little
wonder. A truly strange object was before their eyes.

Standing erect upon a large bowlder, half-way up the hill, was a human
form, though strange and wild-looking enough to have been taken for
something supernatural. One long arm was extended, pointing toward
them, the rags that only partially clothed the member fluttering in the
brisk breeze.

The stranger seemed far above the usual height of men, and of great
age, if the long, flowing hair and beard of a snowy whiteness be taken
as evidence. This the wind tossed wildly around his face, in a fleecy
cloud.

Rude, uncouth garments partially covered his body and limbs, patched
here and there with pieces of skin and fur. In one hand he bore a heavy
bow, tightly strung. At his shoulder could be seen the feathered tips
of a number of arrows.

"It's the Mountain Devil!" muttered Chicot, in a low, hushed tone, as
he shrunk back, his bronzed cheek paling, his eyes dilating with a look
of fear.

"Man or devil, I do not fear him!" said Upshur, as his rifle clicked
sharply as the hammer was lifted.

"Don't shoot! Make him mad, an' he'll clean out the whole crowd!"
warningly cried Paul; his eyes still riveted upon the strange form.
"He's a devil--you can't hurt him."

"I'll try it, anyhow," and the man's rifle spoke sharp and clear.

The wild-man started and seemed to stagger, as though the bullet had
found its mark. Then, with a shrill cry, he turned and leaped from the
bowlder, the next moment disappearing far up the hillside.

"There's your devil, Paul," chuckled Upshur, as he dropped his rifle
and began reloading it. "And I had only a leaden bullet in, too."

"You laugh now--but the time 'll come when you won't. Believe it or
not, Nate Upshur, you've signed your death papers. A man never shot
at the Mountain Devil but he died for it. You will, too. Mebbe not
to-day--mebbe not for a year, but the time 'll come, I tell you--the
time 'll come at last. Mark my words."

"Bah! you've listened too much to Indian legends, Chicot. That is no
devil, but a man, like you or I, turned hermit like. To prove it, I'm
going to follow after. Come on, boys! Let's go and see what Paul's
devil is made of, anyhow," recklessly said Upshur, who was no coward,
whatever else he might be.

Pale and disturbed, Chicot followed the boaster, and close behind came
the other emigrants, curious to see the denouement. At the bowlder
Upshur paused, with a harsh laugh.

"See!" and he pointed at the rocks before him. "Your devil bleeds,
Paul, like an ordinary man. I thought I touched the rascal."

Here and there drops of blood sprinkled the rocky surface, and Chicot,
though still skeptical, brightened up. After all, this wild-man was not
proof against mortal weapons.

Laughing scornfully, Upshur led the way along the bloody trail, up the
hillside, until it crossed the ridge, keeping a good look-out to guard
against surprise, for none knew better than he what awkward weapons
flint-headed arrows are, at close quarters, when guided by a strong and
experienced hand. And after his wound, the wild-man would not be likely
to stand on ceremony, should he be overtaken.

But overtaken he was not, at least on that occasion. The hillside
seemed to be unoccupied, save by the trail-hunters, but Upshur
suddenly paused, when half-way down the hill, shrinking back with a cry
of horror.

Passing through the dense bushes, he had found himself upon the very
verge of a steep precipice. Staggering back, he clutched the bushes,
unmanned.

"Look yonder!" cried Chicot, pointing downward. "_Now_ what do you
say--is he a devil, or not?"

Swiftly racing along the narrow valley far below, was the form of the
wild-man. To reach this, he must have descended the precipice, and that
seemed beyond mortal skill to accomplish.

Wonderingly the emigrants watched him until he disappeared upon the
further hill, then they slowly retraced their steps toward camp. The
sun was far down in the west, and they had found no trace of the
deserters.




                             CHAPTER III.

                            THE GOLDEN BED.


The three adventurers, Duplin, Wythe, and Tyrrel, little imagined that
at least one pair of keen eyes observed very closely their movements on
that memorable night, as they noiselessly went about their preparations
for their desertion. Jack and Paley were filled with golden visions
of the enormous wealth that only awaited their coming to gather it up
in handfuls, while Burr thought far more of pretty Lottie Mitchell,
and how she would receive the tidings of the strange desertion, for it
could be called by no other name.

"Never mind--if the deposit is as rich as Paley declares, we can finish
before winter, and then--"

Wythe smiled faintly as a far-away look came into his handsome eyes.
Even to himself he does not finish the thought, for, though he loved
Lottie Mitchell with all his young heart, he had scarce spoken a score
of times with her, during the journey.

Still watched by Nate Upshur, the three adventurers silently left the
camp and set forth upon their mission, all, even the rattle-brained
Jack Tyrrel, feeling serious, for, truly, it was no commonplace step
they were taking, and one that might well result disastrously. Turning,
they cast a last look at the silent camp of the wagon-train that had
for so many days been their only home, and then, led by Duplin, they
disappeared beyond the ridge, still followed by Nate Upshur, who
exhibited the skill and address of a veritable savage.

After a rapid tramp of several miles, Duplin paused and said:

"Now, boys, for a little headwork. First, shall we go on at once to the
pocket?"

"How far is it?"

"Not ten miles, as the crow flies."

"We can reach it before day, then?"

"Yes--if we wish. But, frankly, I don't think we had better go there,
at least not before to-morrow night."

"Why so?"

"Well, there is a risk. To be sure they may not think it worth while to
make any search for us, when our disappearance is found out, yet still
they _may_, especially as the most dangerous portion of the trail is
near at hand. You see three rifles such as ours would count in case of
an attack."

"If I thought there was the slightest danger of that, I would return at
once," suddenly cried Wythe, thinking of Lottie Mitchell.

"I don't think there is. You remember the treaty we heard of at the
fort? The Indians are all peaceable, now. But, as I was saying, they
_may_ try to follow our trail, and if we lay it straight to the pocket,
ten to one that Paul Chicot picks it out with those keen eyes of his.
Then? Instead of a fortune, we'd have only a few ounces apiece, and
perhaps have to fight for that. You know the material many of the
emigrants are composed of. Brave men enough, but rather peculiar in
their ideas of honesty. It would be 'divide or fight!' and as I found
the pocket, I consider our claim is the best."

"You are right there, Paley. But you decide. Whatever you think best,
we will agree to. You agree, Tyrrel?"

"Yes; Duplin is captain."

"Very well, then. We will strike over there toward those hills, and
hide there until certain that all fear of pursuit is over. Then to the
pocket and clean it out, after which--ho! for home!"

With long, swift strides, Duplin, greatly excited no doubt by the
picture his last words had conjured up before his mind's eye, led the
way toward the hill alluded to, that rose abruptly, high into the air,
rocky, broken and wild-looking.

After him trudged Burr and Jack, little dreaming of the strange
adventure that was to meet them there, in the heart of that wild,
desolate spot.

Duplin, who by his superior age and experience, naturally assumed the
position of leader during the adventure, soon selected a spot where the
trio could very comfortably remain concealed during the ensuing day;
should their fear of a pursuit prove correct, and at the same time one
not entirely devoid of comfort.

Entering a narrow, level valley, on one side of which uprose an almost
perpendicular cliff, its face scarred and jagged, studded here and
there with stunted evergreen shrubs or parasitic plants, they soon
found a secure covert upon the opposite side, where the hill was less
abrupt, and more easy of ascent. From here they had a fair view of the
cliff, as well as the open ground beyond the mouth of the valley, in
the direction from whence they had come.

"I move that you two lie down for a nap, while I stand guard," quoth
Duplin, as the trio sunk back upon the soft, mossy earth behind the
vine clad rock.

"I want a smoke, first," said Tyrrel, producing his pipe.

"And so do I, but can't find my pipe," muttered Wythe, vexedly. "I must
have lost it on the way."

"Never mind; that is easily replaced--I mean so far as comfort is
concerned. A bit of bark--a joint of the 'carpenter's weed,' and you
have it."

The three comrades conversed, in low, eager tones, of the fortune that
lay waiting their coming, and magnificent were the air-castles they
each reared, when they should return home, rich men. But one delicious
one Burr Wythe hugged to his own heart. Only one ear must hear that
dream--the ear of sweet Lottie Mitchell.

"Hist!" muttered Duplin, after an hour or more had crept by.

The two young men caught the same sound, with him, and needed not the
caution to cease their conversation. From close above them, on the
hillside, there rattled down several pebbles, evidently dislodged by
human aid, for directly afterwards the trio could hear a footstep,
light yet deliberate, evidently descending the slope.

Instinctively each man grasped his weapon, for the same thought
occurred to each. If this footfall betokened the presence of Indians,
as seemed but too probable, there was danger threatening. Right well
they knew that no true woodman could pass by, in such close proximity,
without detecting the scent of tobacco-smoke, and that, once scented,
he would not rest until the matter was thoroughly investigated. And,
though the Indians were nominally at peace, they well knew that if a
superior force was at hand, that fact would be but a feeble restraint.
At best they must expect to be plundered, and as that meant either
starvation or a return to the wagon-train, the three men prepared
silently for a struggle.

The sound of footsteps ceased, and for several minutes all was silent.
Motionless as death, tightly grasping their weapons, the gold-hunters
awaited the result in stern suspense.

But their preparations, in this case, were needless, for the footstep
again met their ears, and then, through the surrounding screen of
bushes, they observed a tall figure glide past their covert, descending
the hill. Even in that brief glimpse, they saw enough to deeply excite
their curiosity.

Peering through the bushes, they saw that the stranger had again
paused, this time standing upon a bowlder, in the full glare of the
bright moonlight. They were gazing upon the same being who, a few hours
later, was pronounced the Mountain Devil by Paul Chicot.

They could distinguish his features; pale, haggard and wearing a
peculiarly mournful expression, that still did not conceal the vacant
stare that proclaimed a shattered mind. This thought occurred to each
of the three men. They were watching a madman.

They noted his ragged dress, rudely patched with skins and bits of
various fur. They saw that he was armed with a bow and arrows, and that
a long-bladed knife was dangling at his side.

This much they noted before he stepped from the rock and resumed his
course toward the valley. Arising, the gold-hunters closely observed
his movements, until hidden in the shade cast by the towering precipice
beyond.

"Wonder what--or who the fellow is, anyhow," muttered Tyrrel,
reflectively.

"I don't know, unless--You've heard Paul Chicot speak of a wild-man
they sometimes call the "Mountain Devil," haven't you?"

"Who hasn't, I wonder?" with a shrug. "I've heard of nothing else since
we've been camped here."

"I believe this is the being he means, then."

"You don't--thunder! I always thought he was lying!"

"Hark!" muttered Burr, touching his comrades.

From out the gloom, in the direction in which the strange being had
disappeared, there came a clear, shrill whistle, long-drawn and
quavering. Eagerly the gold-hunters watched and listened.

"Look there--see that light!" uttered Duplin, after a brief silence.
"What can it mean--up there, too?"

A small but brilliant point of light had suddenly appeared, as though
hanging nearly midway up the cliff, not steady and fixed, but slightly
wavering, or moving slowly from side to side. Evidently, it was
suspended there by some human agency; but who?

"Is there not a human form close beside the light? It seems so to me,"
whispered Wythe.

"Wait. The light is in answer to that whistle. Perhaps Paul's Devil has
his home up there, and that is one of its imps," half-laughed Duplin.

Still closely watching, the three friends a few moments later saw a
tall form uprise beside the light, that, the next instant, vanished
from sight. But not before another discovery was made.

A human being _had_ been holding the light, and as the wild-man took
it, the upper portion of the second person had been distinctly,
though momentarily revealed. Duplin was the first to speak, after the
disappearance.

"Did you see that, boys?"

"I saw something--a shadow, or--"

"I saw the form of a _woman_!" declared Burr, in a peculiar tone of
voice.

"So I thought, but was not sure. I don't know what to think of it.
There's some deep mystery here," added Paley, reflectively.

"I move we expose it, then," impulsively cried Jack. "Who knows--maybe
'tis a princess in disguise--or else carried off and kept in seclusion
by some evil genie! An adventure--le's go!"

"Easy, rattlepate," laughed Duplin. "You forget what frightful tales
Paul told of this creature, and whether they have any foundation in
truth or not, if we attempt to solve this affair, we must use caution.
If nothing more, he is a madman, and were he to discover our approach,
he might do us mischief. One man then--for they must have a cave, or
something of the sort--one man then could keep a thousand at bay who
tried to reach him by scaling the cliff."

"Is it worth the risk?" thoughtfully uttered Wythe. "She answered his
signal so promptly, there can be little doubt but she is there by her
own free will. Then what right have _we_ to molest them?"

"The right of unsatisfied curiosity--and whether you go or not, I'll
not rest until I've had a good peep at the angel--for such she must be
if _he's_ a devil," cried Tyrrel, springing through the bushes as he
spoke.

"Wait, Jack--you'll ruin all by your haste. We'll go--but you must not
lead the way. You'll be sure to alarm them."

"Very well--all I want is to get a good look at them. Lead the way, if
you'd rather."

Duplin knew the futility of reasoning with Jack, else he would not have
been drawn into the foolhardy adventure so easily. He knew there was
danger, Tyrrel did not. But alone, Jack would be sure to precipitate
this, and hoping to avoid discovery by due caution, Duplin led the way
toward the cliff, having determined the exact position where the light
had been shown.

Evidently the cliff-lodgers had disappeared at the same time the light
did, else they must have discovered the three dark figures as they
glided across the open, level valley, plainly outlined by the moon's
rays.

Reaching the foot of the cliff, they began searching for the path by
which the wild-man must have ascended, but for several minutes without
success. Then, however, a low whistle from Burr Wythe called Duplin and
Tyrrel to his side. Even in that gloom, they could see that the path
bore evident traces of having been frequently used, either by bipeds or
quadrupeds.

"I think this is folly, boys," muttered Duplin.

"Folly or not--up I go," determinedly added Jack.

"Then I claim the right to lead the way," and so speaking, Paley Duplin
cautiously began the difficult ascent, having first carefully deposited
his rifle at the base of the hill; an example that was promptly
imitated by his companions.

The trail was comparatively easy of ascent, but the gold-hunters made
slow progress, as Duplin carefully examined each foot of the way, lest
he should be misled by the numerous other clefts and seeming paths that
thickly crossed the trace. Thus he neared the point from whence he felt
sure the light had been shown, and as yet no signs had been given by
those above that their approach had been observed.

Suddenly Duplin paused, and turning his head, upheld his finger in
warning. Then stooping, he whispered to Wythe, who stood just below him:

"Careful, now! I just caught a glimpse of the light. We're close to the
spot. Caution Tyrrel. One rash move now may be fatal."

Though rash and hasty, Tyrrel was by no means a fool, and agreeably
surprised both Wythe and Duplin by his prudence.

Cautiously, silently as so many shadowy phantoms, the gold-hunters
crept on, until, their heads above the level of a broad ledge, they
gazed in upon a peculiarly strange scene. Fairly holding their breath,
their eyes eagerly drank in every detail.

Before them was a small, low-roofed cavern, dimly lighted up by a rude
wooden lamp that sat upon a projecting spur of rock.

There were two occupants; a man and a woman. These first enchained the
eyes of the gold-hunters.

The first was the man they had observed beside their covert on the
opposite hill. The woman was truly a surprise, when viewed in this
strange, wild spot.

That she was young--not more than twenty years of age, if so much--was
plain. That she was possessed of a more than ordinary beauty, needed
but a second glance to tell.

She was small, of a graceful figure that even the rude dress she wore
could not entirely disguise. In complexion she was a perfect blonde,
with a profusion of softly-curling yellow hair, that, unconfined, fell
around her person almost like a mantle.

Her garb, like that worn by the old man, was rough and uncouth,
telling of a long absence from civilization. Her feet were incased in
moccasins, while his feet were bare.

This strange couple were seated near each other, the woman at the
wild-man's feet, feeding him as she would have done an overgrown baby,
mouthful after mouthful. Neither spoke, and then, with a gesture, the
man signified he had sufficient, when the maiden arose and glided away,
disappearing from view of the watchers around a projecting spur of rock.

The old man arose, stretched his limbs and yawned heavily, then sunk
down upon a small pallet of skins, leaving the light still burning. One
hand clutched the strung bow, and the quiver of arrows lay close at
hand.

Paley Duplin turned his head and motioned to his companions. Jack
Tyrrel at first seemed inclined to demur, but then, as though by second
thoughts, he noiselessly began the perilous descent, followed by his
comrades.

This was not accomplished without considerable difficulty, and, indeed,
absolute danger, owing to the deceptive gloom, but, fortunately, the
trio succeeded in gaining the valley in safety. Securing their rifles,
they crossed this, and once more gained their covert, tired out and
sore, yet feeling rewarded by the strange discovery they had made.

Tyrrel alone had little to say. That night's events seemed to have made
a deep impression upon his mind, and while his comrades discussed the
subject, he remained deep buried in thought.

Upon one thing he was determined, though he said nothing to his friends
about it at the time. He must see this strange beauty again, if only to
ask her if this sort of life was her own choice. Further than this he
did not go, even in his own secret thoughts.

It was now nearly daylight, and the comrades agreed to remain where
they were concealed during that day, lest the emigrants should
institute a search for them. As all felt the need of repose, the day
was divided into three watches, of which Wythe took the first, Tyrrel
the second, and Duplin the last.

As may well be believed, by far the greater portion of the time, their
gaze rested upon the face of the cliff, marveling at the secrets its
bosom contained. But little rewarded this scrutiny.

True, during Burr Wythe's watch, the hermit, wild-man, or whatever
else he might be called, descended the cliff, and set off down the
valley. The young woman had accompanied him to the ledge that served as
entrance to the cavern, and kneeling there, watched his progress until
the hill-point concealed him from view. Then, with a long, lingering
glance around, she turned and entered the hill-home.

Wythe questioned whether or no to make known this circumstance to his
comrades, but a fear for Jack Tyrrel's impulsiveness restrained him.
That the young man had been deeply interested in the affair, he could
not doubt, and were he to know that the strange maiden were alone, he
might feel tempted to visit her. By this the reader is not to infer
that he doubted Tyrrel's honor--far from it. But Wythe feared lest his
impulsive nature should get them into trouble with the madman, and thus
interfere with the gold-hunting.

Thus the day passed away, and it was not until the middle of Duplin's
watch, that any thing of moment occurred. Then he quietly awoke the two
men, bidding them be cautious.

Peering through the bushes, they could distinguish a small body of
men, slowly moving across the mouth of the valley, seemingly trailing.
The same thought occurred to each of the three men. Why this long and
persistent search? Why delay the wagon-train an entire day to search
for three deserters, whose passage-money had been paid in advance.
This surprised them, even though they had guarded against the chance.
These precautions, however, had been taken wholly upon account of the
gold-pocket, not from fear of being forced to return, since they were
free agents, and in no wise bound to the train.

"Ha! look yonder!" muttered Wythe. "The wild-man!"

This strange being could now be seen standing upon a huge bowlder, not
far from the edge of the precipice, evidently confronting the party
of emigrants, who had now passed from view beyond the hill-point.
Curiously the three men watched his motions.

They heard the report of Nathan Upshur's rifle, saw the wild-man
stagger and almost fall, then leap to the ground and dash up the hill.
Their next view of him was as he swung lightly across the almost
perpendicular face of the precipice, hanging by the frail vines and
shrubbery, or dropping from ledge to ledge, agile and sure-footed as
the mountain-goat itself. Reaching the base, he darted swiftly across
the valley, passing close by the gold-hunters' covert, uttering a low,
growling sound that seemed more like the anger of a wild beast than the
voice of a human being.

"Did you notice?" muttered Duplin. "The blood was dripping from his
breast. Those men yonder shot him."

"It spatters the rocks out here. If they follow his trail, they must
discover us," added Wythe frowning.

"What difference? We're half white and free-born. They have no control
over our actions," retorted Tyrrel.

"True; yet this pick-ax, coupled with our desertion, would rouse their
suspicions, or rather direct them into the right channel, and I fear we
would soon have more partners than would be pleasant or profitable. I
don't want to meet them, if I can help it," added Duplin.

But their fears proved causeless, for the pursuit of the wild-man's
trail had carried Chicot's party to one side of that left by the
deserters, and that they were so close at hand was unknown to the
emigrants. And after a short time the gold-hunters saw their late
comrades turn and retrace their steps, evidently returning to the wagon
train, without thought of following the wounded man further after the
startling exhibition he had given them of his prowess.

Just before sunset they saw the wild-man return apparently but little
injured, and their doubts thus solved, soon after the trio took up
their march toward the golden valley, where fortune awaited them.

Neither noted the extreme care Jack Tyrrel observed in fixing their
route upon his mind. Each rock, hill or valley was closely and
thoroughly noted, so that he felt assured that he could find his way
back, if needs be, in the darkest night. And find his way back he had
resolved he would, sooner or later.

"There!" at length muttered Duplin, pausing upon a high ridge and
stretching one hand toward the valley below him. "Yonder, boys, lies
our fortune!"

The others did not speak. They stood eagerly gazing downward in the
direction indicated, their eyes glowing, their faces flushed hotly,
their frames quivering in every fiber. The gold-fever was upon them.

And, as if infected by their excitement, Duplin lost his composure.
With one accord they rushed headlong down the steep hillside and out
upon the level ground. Then Duplin abruptly paused.

"Comrades," and the words seemed to issue with difficulty, "_you are
standing over a bed of gold_!"




                              CHAPTER IV.

                            MABEL GUILFORD.


Returning to camp, Chicot's party found that the other bands had
already returned without having discovered any thing. That night the
body of the murdered man was buried, after an earnest discussion as
to whether another day should be devoted to a search for the supposed
criminals. Now that the first fervor had cooled down, the vote was
almost unanimous to continue their journey, all fearing lest they
should be caught by the winter storms in the mountains.

So with the dawn of another day the wagon-train once more took up
its due progress, toiling wearily along over the dreary trail, only
cheered by the thought that each step taken was so much nearer to the
fabulous heaps of pure gold that only awaited the gathering. For such
were the wild visions that haunted even the most sensible, during that
never-to-be-forgotten epidemic--the _gold-fever_.

For two days they toiled on, without any event of moment to break the
killing monotony. But then came a second blow, even more crushing
than the one recorded in the preceding pages, because it left the
wagon-train without a head--in much the same situation as a vessel
would be on losing the only man capable of steering it aright.

In a word, Paul Chicot suddenly disappeared, without leaving any trace
behind him. At dark he had taken his position among the sentinels. At
daybreak the train was discovered to be totally unguarded! Not only had
Chicot vanished during the night, but with him had gone two others.
This was just three mornings after the discovery of the first desertion.

A few words will explain the circumstances leading to this defection.
Nathan Upshur was at the bottom of it all. Since his eavesdropping,
when he learned of the golden pocket discovered by Paley Duplin, he
had been busy shaping a way by which he could gain a share, if not the
whole, of the treasure. And so well had he done his work that no one
suspected his purpose until the blow was dealt.

He knew that he must have companions in the venture, as none of the
deserters would willingly admit him to share in their profits. In fine,
they despised, if not hated him, as he well knew.

Paul Chicot was the man he first selected as a comrade, knowing him to
be brave and not over-scrupulous, as well as thoroughly acquainted with
the country for hundreds of miles around. And, too, he knew that he was
avaricious beyond the common.

The subject was first broached on the night preceding their desertion.
Upshur visited the point where Chicot was standing guard, and together
they smoked their pipes, idly conversing. Then Nate suddenly said:

"Why do you follow this life, Paul?"

"I won't, no longer'n I git to the mines. Then I'll go back to St. Joe,
on the Blacksnake Hills, with gold enough to keep the old woman an'
gals in fine style. No more trampin' fer me _then_--not much."

"But if you had an opportunity of getting rich _before_ you went to
California, would you refuse it?"

Chicot keenly eyed Upshur, as though seeking to read his secret
meaning, for the man's voice had lowered to a confidential tone, and a
peculiar expression rested upon his face.

"That depends--not in such a way as made whoever it was rub out poor
Dutchy," slowly returned Chicot.

"Bah! why bring up such things? Of course, I don't mean any thing of
the sort. But now, for instance, supposing another train would come
along and offer you more--ten times as much as you get for guiding
_this_ train--would you accept it?"

"Be I a fool? Of course I would, onless this 'ne was to raise thar
pile. I work for _money_, an' the biggest pile takes my eye," quietly
added Paul.

"Well then, supposing I could take you to a gold-mine, within a day's
tramp from here, would you desert the train? I say only supposing I
could do this."

"That's all bosh. Don't I _know_ thar's none sech 'round here?"
contemptuously snorted Chicot.

"But _would_ you?"

"Yas--in a hurry, too."

"Swear it on this," and Upshur adroitly twitched a small metal crucifix
from Chicot's bosom, where it hung by a string. "Swear to keep all
secret that I tell you now, and never to betray it until I give you
free permission."

Chicot, deeply impressed by Upshur's earnestness, obeyed, though still
skeptical. And then, after first carefully assuring himself that there
were no eavesdroppers near, Upshur unfolded his secret, telling all.
How he had first struck scent of the secret, of his eavesdropping,
of how he followed the deserters until he had a fair idea of their
destination; of all save his connection with the dastardly blow in the
dark, and the attempt to fix the crime upon Burr Wythe, for reasons
that may hereafter appear.

"Now you know all," he added, "and it is for you to decide whether we
are to slave on like dogs, while those three, not a whit better than
we, are making themselves rich for life. What do you say?"

"They'd never 'gree to share 'th us," muttered Paul, reflectively, yet
with his eyes glowing and his breath quickening.

"They _must_, if we say so. I, for one, am willing to fight for it.
Just think--Duplin said he found nuggets as large as his fist! And
hundreds of them, too! Just think, man--why, there's enough to make us
the richest men in the United States! They must share--_or else we'll
take the whole_!"

"That'll be the best way," hoarsely added Chicot, now fully yielding to
the power of the yellow fiend. "There won't be enough for all--fer we
must take another. They're strong men, and will fight fer their--fer
_our_ gold. It is ours--it _must_ be ours!"

"Good! but the other--who shall we select?"

"Tim Dooley--I know him well. For gold he would pawn his soul to the
devil--and then blarney him out of his pay afterward."

And so it was settled. On the succeeding night the three men, who were
standing guard, deserted and took up the back-trail, forgetful of
the dangers that threatened the wagon-train in being left without a
competent guide. Upshur chuckled with devilish glee as he hoped the
worst would befall them.

He had proposed to Lottie Mitchell, and she had rejected him. Her
father also had forbidden him ever again addressing his child, under
penalty of a thrashing. For this reason, seeing that all hope of
success in that direction was gone, he hoped that the entire train
might be attacked and destroyed by the Indians or mountain outlaws,
that infested the Overland Route, almost from end to end.

Caleb Mitchell was at his wit's end when the truly alarming tidings
were generally made known on the morning following Chicot's
disappearance. And not without good cause for apprehension, for the
train was now fairly in among the mountains, where a deviation from the
right trail--at times wholly undiscernible--might well result in total
destruction.

As wagon-master, head of the train, only second to the regular guide,
he was naturally the one to whom all now looked, when in truth he was
no more capable than any other member, except from his great coolness
and superior judgment. All were equally ignorant of the trail, since
this was the first venture across the plains.

Mitchell's first move was to send in pursuit of the deserters, with
orders to bring them in at all hazards, if found. That last clause was
well put in, for Paul Chicot had an easy task in that wild, broken
region, in blinding his trail, so that all pursuit was useless. And,
with so many long hours the start, it was like sending a horse to run
down the locomotive.

Long after dark, the different bands straggled in, weary and dejected.
Not even a foot-trace had been found to indicate the direction in which
the deserters had gone: and now, that faint hope gone, the greater
portion of the emigrants gave way to despair.

In vain Mitchell strove to cheer them up. He said that it was only a
matter of time and patience; that before long some other train must
come along which they could join. But the answer came, quick and
crushing, because it was the one that was chilling his own heart.

It was late in the season. Their train, drawn wholly by oxen, had been
long upon the road, and the halt at the "sick-camp" had still further
delayed them. They might be the last train on the road--very probably
were, since the mountains of California could not be crossed after
winter set in. A train might not come along until the spring--and that
would be too late. How many of the party could live through a winter in
the mountains? The looked-for train would only find their bones.

Harassed by such arguments and fears as these, Caleb Mitchell resolved
upon a bold course, and yet apparently the only one that was left them.
He would make the attempt to guide the train through the mountains
himself, at least until they could gain a spot more favorable for a
winter's residence than here, if worst came to worst.

Fearing to lose more precious time, long before daybreak the next day,
the wagon-train was slowly following the lead of Caleb Mitchell, who
rode in advance, his heart troubled with fears and doubts, for behind
him was the sole remaining tie that made life dear to him, and its fate
in a great measure depended upon his skill and prudence.

Several hours later, as he saw the crest of a rocky hill, over which
the trail led, he abruptly reined in his horse and gazed keenly across
the valley before him. He had distinguished the slowly-moving form
of human beings, evidently afoot, and the hope that these were the
returning deserters set his heart afire.

But all too soon this delusion was dispelled, for he now could
distinguish the flowing drapery of _a woman_. Anxiously enough he
awaited their approach, but as they paused on discovering his figure
outlined against the clear sky, he impatiently rode forward. He could
now see that there were only two, and the formation of the trail forbid
the supposition of an ambush being possible there.

As he approached them, the man stood before the woman, with drawn and
leveled pistol, a look of stern despair imprinted upon his worn but
handsome features. His voice rung with the desperation of a hunted
fugitive turned at bay, as he spoke:

"Keep your distance--we will not be taken alive."

"What do you mean? Who's trying to take you alive--or dead either, for
that matter?" ejaculated Mitchell, surprised at the man's tone and
action.

"Then you don't--you're not one of those from whom we escaped? You
haven't been chasing us?" doubtfully added the stranger.

"Scarcely--else I would not be coming from this direction," laughed
Mitchell. "You have nothing to fear from me, if it is as I surmise. I
claim to be a gentleman, though in rather rough guise just now--but
that matters little. Yonder comes my train. You are welcome to all it
affords, sir. As for the lady, my daughter will be pleased to supply
her wants as far as she can."

"Thank God!" murmured the woman, springing forward, and, seizing
Mitchell's hardened hand, she moistened it with tears. "You will
protect us from that--from those dreadful men?"

"With my life, lady," warmly returned the wagon-master, deeply
affected, yet feeling not a little curiosity regarding the strangers,
wondering to what he was pledging himself, and who "those dreadful men"
could be.

"You are very kind, sir, but my heart is too full of gratitude to
thank you now as you deserve. When you hear our sad story, you will
not wonder that we are weary and worn out and need rest. Bear up,
daughter--we are safe with good friends, at last!"

"But, father--these men--they must have perceived us?" answered the
woman, tremblingly.

"Perhaps not, but--"

"If there is any danger, sir, tell me what it is, so that I can put
my friends upon their guard. We all know how to handle a rifle, and
it must be a strong force to trouble us while on guard," proudly
interrupted Mitchell.

"There may be danger, but I hardly think it will come near. We were
pursued by a party of mountain outlaws, at least until a short time
since. But they don't number over a dozen, at most. They would never
dare attack here, unless joined by their comrades at the Retreat."

"We will be on the look-out for them. But you must need refreshments.
Such as we can offer is at your command. After that, I should like to
hear your story. Naturally, this strange meeting has greatly excited my
curiosity."

"I do not need much--only a drink of water, or something stronger, if
it is handy. As for my daughter Mabel, here, she is entirely worn out.
If you will be so kind--you spoke of a daughter?"

"I will introduce them. Though Lottie is far from well--her poor
mother's death has nearly killed the child--she will gladly do all that
is in her power to comfort your daughter."

"I too have lost my mother," softly murmured Mabel, her large eyes
filling with tears, as she glanced up into the stalwart emigrant's face.

"Poor child!" muttered Mitchell, yielding to a sudden and
uncontrollable impulse, and bending low in his saddle, he imprinted a
fatherly kiss upon the smooth white forehead of the maiden.

Mabel's face flushed, but she did not appear to take offense at the
abrupt action, though she cast a swift glance toward her father. Then,
with an effort, Mitchell recovered himself, and soon explained the
facts of the strange meeting to the wondering emigrants, the train
having caught up during the delay.

Mabel was kindly greeted by Lottie, and then the white-tilted wagons
hid them from view. The father was furnished with the beverage he
desired, and then, seemingly forgetful of fatigue and weariness in his
anxiety for the welfare of the wagon-train, he rode along ahead of the
train on Mitchell's horse, while the latter walked.

"You say you have no regular guide?"

"He deserted us night before last," moodily replied Mitchell, his brow
lowering.

"Can it be that he is in league with these devils?" mused the other,
half to himself. "It looks black--very black!"

Mitchell glanced impatiently at his companion. These vague hints were
alarming, when coupled with the still unexplained appearance of the
couple in that wild and apparently unsettled region.

"Mr. Mitchell," abruptly uttered the stranger, "I am about to tell
you a very strange story, and you would do well to listen to it very
closely, as, if I mistake not, it concerns you and yours deeply. First,
my name is Guilford; I am a retired officer of the regular army, and
Mabel is my only child. Why we left a comfortable home in the East to
journey overland to California, does not matter just now--suffice that
we did.

"The wagon-train which we joined passed over this spot full two weeks
ago. Thus far, all had worked smoothly and agreeably. The company was a
strong one, formed of intelligent and agreeable people. The guide was
thoroughly capable, and gave perfect satisfaction. And yet--I and my
child alone remain to tell the fate of all that company!"

Mitchell could not repress a cry of horror.

"Wait. You must have heard of the devils in human shape that haunt
portions of the overland trail? Though they do not often attack full
trains, they do much of the mischief that is wrongly attributed to the
Indians, disguising themselves as such, the better to carry out their
nefarious schemes. Well, we fell into the hands of a company of these
demons.

"Our guide betrayed us. As I now know, he belonged to the band of
outlaws, and only joined our train to betray it into the clutches of
his comrades. All that he done, I learned afterward. No one suspected
his fidelity until all was lost.

"He led us from the right trail. None thought of doubting him, and we
walked blindly into the trap. I was mostly in company with Mabel, who
was just recovering from a fit of illness, else I might have detected
the change, for I had once before passed over the route.

"Well, just before dusk, the end came. The foremost wagon was suddenly
checked by a rocky barricade, that completely filled the narrow
passage. The guide had vanished. Then came the shock, as the teamsters
and passengers flocked ahead to see what was wrong.

"From the hillside above us came a deadly storm of rifle and
pistol-bullets. On every side was death. Not a foeman was to be seen,
and yet the withering storm swept man after man to death. And not alone
the men. Women and children, even the toddling babes, were shot down.
None were spared. In ten minutes all was over.

"Taken so by surprise what could we do? Nothing. Scarcely one had a
weapon at hand. Such as had, were too astounded to think of using them.
And even had this been different, what could they have done when not
a foeman was visible? The rocks above seemed to be raining down death
upon us. Not a form could be seen; not a voice mingled with the din of
fire-arms, save from the dying as they fell in heaps. My God! it was
terrible!" and Guilford covered his eyes and groaned aloud as one in
mental agony.

"Pardon my emotion, Mr. Mitchell. Though an old soldier, never before
had I witnessed such a frightful sight. My heart bleeds again at the
mere thought." And Guilford shuddered again.

"But you--how did you escape unhurt?" curiously asked Mitchell.

"I can explain that now, though at the time I believed it a proof
of Providence. But that was part of the plan. I spoke of our guide.
That man was none other than the chief of the outlaws. He had joined
us and acted as guide, the better to entrap us. He was a handsome,
dashing fellow and it seems now that he took a sudden fancy to my
daughter--curse the villain!

"I was with Mabel, in the wagon, and he knew this. He pointed it out
to his men, and cautioned them against injuring its inmates. With
the first shot, I started to give my aid to our friends, but Mabel,
half-crazed, seized me, and I dared not leave her. It would have killed
her, in her weak state.

"When the guide came to the wagon and ordered us to dismount, I
realized the truth, and fired at him. But in my haste, the bullet that
should have bored his treacherous brain, missed its mark, killing a man
standing just beyond him. I was seized and bound, though I struggled
desperately. Only for the guide--Yellow Jack--I would have been killed
on the spot. But he had a purpose for saving me, for that time. Through
her love for me, he hoped to bend my daughter to his will.

"We--Mabel and I--were carried away into the mountains, and so were
spared the horrible scene that must have followed. Yellow Jack told me
of it, afterward. The wounded were put out of their misery, and then
tossed down a deep ravine hard by, where the wolves and vultures would
soon hide them from mortal sight. The wagons were burned, after being
plundered, and the ashes scattered to the winds. All traces of the
horrible massacre were obliterated, leaving the trap ready for other
victims.

"Well, 'tis an unpleasant subject to dwell upon, and I hasten on
as fast as possible, yet telling all that is necessary for you to
understand the matter. We--Mabel and I--were taken to the hill retreat
of this Yellow Jack, and were, for a time at least, treated reasonably
well. Then, however, as Mabel gave no signs of softening her manner
toward him, he began to show his devilish nature by torturing her with
fears for me. Finally, he gave her two days to decide; either to become
his bride or see me murdered before her very eyes.

"But we had a friend that he little suspected, in his wife--a beautiful
woman who appeared to fairly worship the monster. The fear that Mabel
would entirely supplant her in Yellow Jack's love, gave her the courage
to foil his purpose by a daring stroke. In the middle of the night she
set us both free and led us beyond the line of guards, then giving us
the clue to finding the trail, she bade us begone--to suffer death
rather than recapture, for after this her hands would be tied. She gave
me these pistols, and a small package of food. Then she left us.

"We journeyed by night, and lay hid among the rocks by day, well
knowing that we would be pursued, and that the entire country would be
scoured. To-day, for the first time, we ventured forth during daylight.
You know the rest--how we found you, and how warmly we were welcomed by
all," concluded Guilford, evidently deeply affected.

"Then, if this band is so near, this train is in danger!" uttered
Mitchell, in a troubled tone.

"No, I think not. The band is not strong enough to openly attack such
a train, and they would scarcely dare to form an ambush along the
_regular_ trail. We only suffered through our traitorous guide. You are
safe so long as you keep the main trail and see that your sentinels do
not neglect their duty. True, you may chance to lose some stock, and
care must be taken that stragglers do not wander far from the train,
else the outlaws might wreak their spite upon them."

"But our guide is gone--has deserted. How do we know whether we keep
the right trail or not? Indeed, we may be straggling from it this very
moment!"

"You are right so far. The only danger of straying will be during the
next two or three days. After that the route is plain and broad. But do
you mean to say that you are _all_ new hands--that there are none here
who have ever passed over the trail before?"

"That is the fact."

"Well, we must do the best we can. Though I have made one trip before
this, I paid comparatively little attention to the trace, and don't
suppose my judgment is much, if any, better than yours. Still, between
us, I think we can manage to pick out the right course."

Meantime the two maidens, Lottie Mitchell and Mabel Guilford, had
already become fast friends, and picturing great enjoyment in each
other's company during the remainder of the journey.




                              CHAPTER V.

                        WHERE WAS JACK TYRREL?


Over a bed of gold.

The three gold-seekers were indeed in the valley of treasure. A few
hours of earnest work in the "pocket" revealed riches beyond account,
and so infatuated did all become with the results of their labor that
scarcely could the one detailed to the daily service of hunting for
food take the time necessary to procure proper supplies.

Nothing had occurred to disturb their intense labors, although more
than once the hunter for the day had come across strange tracks in
the vicinity of their golden bed, and the soul-sickening dread that
assailed Robinson Crusoe, on his desert isle, now found a resting
place in their hearts. They fancied this was the track of some
malicious-minded enemy who was watching them with the intention of
robbing the golden store that had grown daily more and more dear to
them.

A sad change had come over the trio. Their friends and loved ones would
scarcely have recognized them, even after these few days of success.
Pale, haggard, and hollow-eyed, they toiled on almost unceasingly,
scarce speaking a word through the livelong day, even seeming
suspicious of each other, sleeping fitfully, often awaking with a
start as if from some haunting dream to glare at the spot where their
treasure was hoarded away. A sad, sad change, and one that was daily
growing more and more apparent.

Day by day, hour by hour, the insidious _gold-fever_ was gaining in
power over them, crushing out all generous thoughts, tightening its
grasp upon their heart-strings, until scarce one trace of their former
selves was left.

Nearly a week had elapsed since their arrival at the valley of gold. It
was night, and though the past day had been one of almost breathless
toil, the three adventurers sat awake and sleepless, smoking their
pipes in silence beneath the rude, frail shelter of vine-clad brush.

All without was dark and dismal. The air was charged with electricity,
and the comrades found it impossible to sleep. All nature seemed
feverish and ill at ease.

The moon was obscured; dense sulphurous masses of clouds swirled
athwart the horizon in wild confusion. Low, sullen mutterings filled
the air. A tempest was brewing.

Silently smoking, the gold-hunters watched the play of the clouds. They
seemed to care little for the result. What mattered it though they did
get wet? The rain could not injure their golden treasure, and what else
had they to care for? Nothing.

Suddenly Paley Duplin sprung half erect, outstretching one hand as the
pipe dropped unheeded at his feet. His voice sounded strangely excited,
trembling violently.

"My God! look yonder--that light!"

Far up the bed of the one-time water-course, a light seemed slowly
moving to and fro. This, of itself, in that lone and desolate spot, was
enough to excite wonder. But it was the _shape_ the light gradually
assumed as it drew nearer that caused Duplin agitation.

Speechless the three men glared at the vision as it slowly drew nearer
to where they sat. Neither spoke. They seemed petrified with horror.

And well might this be the case. The past week had sadly weakened their
nerves. This horrible reserve that had come over them since delving
amidst the masses of gold, had rendered them doubly susceptible to
superstitious influence.

They could no longer doubt. The shape, glowing with a ghastly light,
was now vividly outlined.

Before them, at only a few rods' distance, stood a skeleton of fire!

A skeleton, perfect in the most minute detail. It seemed of gigantic
size, as though the relic of some long since extinct race of giants.

The brainless skull, the eyeless sockets, the wide, ghastly-grinning
mouth and blazing teeth, the body, the arms and legs, all were glowing
with a strangely-weird luster, not unlike that produced by the use of
phosphorus. One fleshless arm was slowly lifted until the dangling
finger pointed directly at the spot where crouched the gold-hunters,
awe-stricken and speechless.

And still the flaming skeleton advanced, more and more, the arm
warningly outstretched, the skull wearing that horribly mocking grin.

Suddenly a low, taunting laugh echoed upon the still oppressive air--a
laugh that seemed to issue from the fleshless lips.

Duplin shuddered, and bowing his head, covered his face as if to shut
out the sickening object. Wythe and Tyrrel remained motionless, their
eyes riveted upon the skeleton.

A voice uttering words followed the laugh. Deep yet low, something
strangely impressive when coming from that ghastly spectacle, as it
appeared.

"Blind fools! ye are trespassing here on holy ground. Depart while yet
there is time. You hear--even the spirits of the air warn you. Obey
their voice--flee--flee from the wrath to come! Take heed. 'Tis the
last warning. Depart--or the morrow's sun shall shine down on your
lifeless remains."

A laugh slowly followed this speech, coming from the rude hut of
bushes. It was from Jack Tyrrel, sounding strained, yet scornful.

"This mummery has gone far enough," he said, in a tone that told of
rising anger. "It's my turn now. Whoever you are, _you_ take warning.
In just one minute, unless you drop that mask, I'll try if you are
bullet-proof. Mark _my_ words, now!"

"Don't, Jack--for God's sake don't!" gasped Duplin. "'Tis nothing
earthly--it's a warning from the other world!"

"Bah! I've seen a skeleton doctored with phosphorus before now."

"Lift your arm against the dead, and it will drop withered to your
side," solemnly added the voice.

"It will, eh? Here's to try it. Man or devil--here's greeting to you!"
recklessly cried Tyrrel, as he raised and sighted his revolver.

Again came the laugh, hollow and unearthly. The fleshless face seemed
to grin more horribly than before.

Once--twice the pistol spoke spitefully, the flash momentarily lighting
up the little brush shanty, then leaving it in still deeper darkness
from force of contrast. And yet the skeleton stood there, motionless,
save that the arm appeared to move derisively.

The laugh again echoed forth, as the reverberating reports died away.
Duplin sunk upon his face, groaning in terror. Wythe knelt as though
petrified. Tyrrel turned a shade paler.

"Silly fool! you provoke your fate. When the sun rises you will be
dead--_dead_."

The glowing figure swiftly moved forward, and seemed about to attack
the gold-hunters. Jack hastily lifted his pistol and fired, then sprung
to his feet as though in readiness for the struggle.

When the smoke-cloud lifted, he rubbed his eyes in amazement. All was
black before him. Nothing was to be seen. The apparition had vanished
as though swallowed up by the earth.

Only for a moment did he hesitate. Then, still clutching his pistol, he
darted from the shanty and glanced around him. All was vacancy.

He leaped upon the sand-bank, and swept his eyes around. The result was
the same. No light--nothing save a far-distant flash of lurid lightning.

A disinterested spectator would have laughed outright, could he have
seen Tyrrel's face at that moment, so full of blank amazement was it.
And yet there was nothing in it of superstitious fear.

Only for the first few moments had Jack yielded to this feeling, and
then simply because his comrades had done so. This quickly vanished
and anger took its place. He was startled at the new effect of his
shots, because he had great confidence in his own skill. Then, too,
he marveled greatly at the abrupt disappearance, but that he wisely
attributed to clever skill.

Thoughtfully scratching his curly pate, Jack retraced his steps and
entered the shanty. In silence he lighted his pipe at the still
smoldering embers, and then puffed away vigorously, covertly eying his
comrades the while.

"Well, boys," he at length uttered, between puffs, "what d' you think
of it, anyhow?"

"It is gone, then?" muttered Duplin, in a husky voice.

"Yes--cleverly, too. A smart chap, whoever it may be," quoth Tyrrel.

"You are wrong--it was nothing mortal. It was a warning," gloomily
added Duplin.

"Now don't be a fool, Paley," impatiently. "The days are passed for
such melo-dramatic visions as that. We will live to see a great many
to-morrows. It is nothing but a very stale trick got up to frighten us
from our work. Somebody has got wind of our discovery, and takes this
plan to drive us away. But I, for one, don't scare worth a cent! And as
first move--before it rains--I'm going to see what sort of track that
_ghost_ left behind him. The sand out yonder is soft, and will retain a
footprint. Come--you'll admit that a _spirit_--even though it assumes
the guise of a burning skeleton--can not leave a natural footprint?
Very well. If I do not find the tracks of a _man_ out yonder, I'll
agree to believe in your view, and at once make my will, provided
you promise the same. If the track _is_ there you'll give up those
superstitious ideas?"

"Yes," was the reply given by both Duplin and Wythe.

Jack said no more, but set about arranging a torch in order to settle
the question once for all. Meantime Wythe had directed Duplin's
attention to something not far from the shanty, apparently lying upon
the ground.

This was a small point of flame, flickering vividly, now larger, now
smaller. It was near where the skeleton had stood.

Tyrrel soon emerged, holding the torch before him, but as he advanced,
the point of flame grew dim, and then vanished entirely. Bending low
down, he began closely scanning the ground, while Duplin and Wythe
intently watched his motions.

"You're cornered now, boys," he said aloud, with a laugh, rising erect.
"Come out here and own up that you've been silly fools. Here are the
tracks as plain and clear as mud."

Beginning to feel ashamed of their exhibition, the two soon joined
Tyrrel, and kneeling, slowly scanned the ground. As Jack had said, the
sand was soft, and easily retained the imprint of a human foot.

And such an imprint lay before them, plain and unmistakable. Even
Duplin could no longer doubt that all this had been the work of a
cunning hand, though by no means a spirit.

"And see," laughed Jack, "here's a memento of our ghostly visitor. A
finger-joint that one of my bullets has broken."

"That was what we saw lying here. Hold it in the dark, Jack--yes, that
is it," muttered Wythe, as the bone again showed the flickering light.

"And there comes the rain--but first, I'm going to have the measure of
this foot. I think I owe the rascal that made it a sound thrashing, and
if we ever meet, he'll get it, or my name's not Jack Tyrrel!"

As the storm burst, the gold-hunters regained their shelter, and
composed themselves as comfortably as circumstances would admit.
Knowing that they were in for a drenching, they only cared to keep
their weapons and ammunition dry.

It was impossible to sleep while the storm raged with such violence,
and Jack continued his good work by lecturing his comrades. He showed
them the point toward which they were drifting, and that ruin must
follow unless they rallied against the spell that seemed falling upon
them.

"Why, in less than a month--if this sort o' thing keeps on--we'll be
ready to cut each other's throats. It is _horrible_! I'd rather turn
my back on the gold altogether and live poor all my life than to pass
another week as this one has been."

"I agree with you, Jack," warmly replied Duplin. "There is gold enough
for us all. Let's clasp hands, and forget the hard work. Hereafter
let's be _men_--not savage dogs."

"Amen!"

Through that livelong night the three, comrades once more, conversed
earnestly. And when day came, they were ready for work.

It was plain now that their secret was no longer _their_ secret--that
they had been watched by some one who knew of their rich discovery. And
it was likely that this watcher also knew of their "bank"--the spot
where their treasure was stowed away.

Before daylight they removed the gold to another spot, the driving rain
obliterating all traces as soon as made. This done, they looked to
their weapons.

The spy, whoever he might be, must be found, though a week was spent
in searching for him. Only for the beating rain, this would have been
a comparatively easy matter, since the ground, clear to the hills, was
very favorable for trailing.

Day broke clear and beautiful, and Duplin experienced a peculiar thrill
of joyous thankfulness as he beheld the brilliant sun roll above the
eastern swells. The sight gave him renewed life, and the last lingering
trace of superstition vanished.

For hours the three friends sought in vain for some trace of their
nocturnal visitor, but it was not until they crossed the first ridge
that such rewarded their search. Then, deeply imprinted in the moist
sandy loam, they came upon a double trail, though both sets of tracks
were evidently made by the same person, probably in going and coming,
as they trod different ways.

"It's our man," cried Jack, as he arose from comparing his tally with
the tracker. "We must run him to ground, now. He can't be far--these
tracks are fresh."

"But which are the latest?"

"That puzzles me. I'm not much on the trail-hunt. Chicot could tell,
no doubt, but I can't. We must follow both. You and Wythe take that
direction, and I'll look to this."

"But there may be danger to you going alone. We don't know who or what
this fellow is. Best keep together."

"And so lose the game, like as not? No. I think I can hold my own,
since there's only one man. Go on--and if _you_ find the game, build a
fire of grass that will send up a black smoke. I'll do the same. Look
out for it."

It was rank folly attempting to reason with Tyrrel, and his comrades,
well knew that. So parting--none of the trio dreamed of the time that
would elapse before their meeting!--they each bent to their work.

The trail ran lengthwise along the valley, only divided from that where
lay the golden bed by a high ridge. Duplin and Wythe were heading
south-east; the trail followed by Tyrrel was in an opposite direction.

"I think I can tell just how this will end," muttered Burr, after
progressing a mile or more. "I think we will find the stopping-place
on yonder point, where we can look down upon our camp. If so, we must
hasten back, and join Jack. The hot-headed fellow may get into trouble."

A few minutes more proved their surmise to be correct. The trail
doubled at the hill, and then ran back for a ways, side by side.

The friends had no difficulty in retracing their steps, and advanced at
a half run. The damp earth had retained deep tracks.

In ten minutes they had regained the point where Tyrrel had left them,
and still hastened after him. Then they paused, simultaneously uttering
a low cry.

"Too late!" gasped Duplin.

Faint and indistinct came to their ears, borne by the favoring breeze,
two quickly succeeding pistol-shots, closely followed by a cry, as of
pain or mortal terror. These sounds came from up the valley.

Clutching their weapons, the friends bounded forward at top speed,
their faces pale, their teeth tightly clenched. They feared the worst.

"My God! look there!" gasped Wythe, extending one trembling hand.

Before them, close to where the rocks that thickly covered the hillside
began, the ground was torn and trampled, as though the scene of a
desperate struggle for life. And upon one side of a whitely bleached
bowlder was a large crimson stain.

A stain that could only be produced by _blood_!

Sick and faint the comrades stood there, wildly glancing around,
listening anxiously for some sound to guide them. But it came not. All
was stilled save their deep, husky breathing.

"Come," cried Duplin, with an effort rousing himself, "this is folly.
We must work. Dead or alive, we must find Jack, and either rescue or
_avenge_ him."

Dreading lest at every step they should come upon the dead and mangled
body of their friend hidden among the rocks, the gold-hunters advanced.
Here and there a blood-splash guided their eyes. Drop by drop it
led them up the hillside. This alone guided them. The flinty ground
retained no trace of footsteps.

A gore-stained rock attracted them. Rushing forward, Duplin uttered a
low cry. Then he sunk upon his knees and bent forward.

Burr Wythe turned sick at heart, and staggering, would have fallen but
for the friendly support of a jagged bowlder. A cry broke from his lips
as he started back and removed his hand. It had entered a tiny pool of
fresh blood!




                              CHAPTER VI.

                        LOST IN THE LABYRINTH.


With a convulsive shudder, Burr Wythe wiped the clotted blood from his
hand. Duplin, startled by the cry of his comrade, quickly turned his
head.

"What is it, Wythe?"

"Nothing--I rested my hand in that blood yonder. But what is this--a
cave?"

"It must be--and see! There are blood-stains on the inside edges of
the rock. Whoever, one or many, have gone in there, taking poor Jack
with them, either dead or alive," muttered Paley, as he drew back and
carefully looked to his weapons.

"Then out of it they must come," determinedly returned Burr, his eyes
glittering.

"But how? If in there, they have the advantage of us in every respect."

"There is only one way. We must enter and do the best we can."

"It looks like suicide, after what we see here; but if you dare risk
it, I will not fail you. We can not desert the lad. He would risk as
much for either of us."

"Here--let me pass in first. I can get some idea of what is before us,
and if they mean mischief, they'll wait to make sure of us both. Do you
keep back from the entrance, but ready to assist me if I call."

Pale but resolute, Wythe crawled into the hole, and then glanced
quickly around him, as though in hopes of being able to penetrate
the dense gloom. That his heart beat quicker than common, is no
disparagement to his courage, for there is nothing so trying as facing
an unknown danger _in the dark_.

Feeling around he found several pebbles, and flung them violently from
him. From their faint echoes, he learned what he desired.

"It's a large cave, Paley," he uttered, as he emerged into the open
air. "We must not enter without material for torches. We might pass
within arm's length of poor Jack, and not know it."

Thoroughly determined to find their missing comrade, and if possible
those who had struck this blow, the two men scarcely gave a thought now
to the danger they might be incurring, nor how completely they would
be at the mercy of any hidden enemy, while they were bearing lighted
torches. So, while Wythe guarded the cave entrance, Duplin hastily
collected material for torches.

A few minutes sufficed for this, and then both men entered the hole.
Thus shielded from the wind, they soon succeeded in kindling a torch,
and then, while one held it aloft, the other kept just without the
circle of light, with cocked and ready revolver. In this manner one at
least would be running less risk. Duplin, as being the best shot, held
the latter position.

The two friends curiously glanced around them. But little was to be
seen, save the jagged roof of rock, as the torch emitted but a feeble
light.

Still, a few moments showed them that the chamber in which they stood
was untenanted save by themselves. It was of considerable size,
irregular in outline, rough and jagged, with a low roof or ceiling.

"Look! here is a sort of tunnel," muttered Wythe, waving the light
before him. "And--yes! here goes the blood-drops. Poor Jack! if it's
_his_ blood, he must be dead."

"Maybe not. A little makes a big show on rock. But let's hasten--I'm
eager for the end. Any thing--even the knowledge of his death, is
better than this suspense."

"If he _is_ dead, somebody must pay for it!" gritted Wythe,
vindictively.

The tunnel was low and narrow, and the explorers had to stoop their
heads to avoid the rocky roof. More than once Wythe fancied he could
distinguish the trace of tools wielded by human hands upon the soft
rock, but other thoughts occupied their minds, though at another time
this fact would have excited the deepest curiosity.

The tunnel was winding, now sheering abruptly to the right, then
again to the left, and several times Wythe paused in doubt, as _two_
passages met his gaze. But a close and cautious scrutiny would show a
drop of blood upon the floor of one or the other, and thus guided, the
adventurers pressed on, further into the labyrinth, without a thought
of their own peril--thinking only of their lost comrade. From first to
last, of that day, they exhibited a strange lack of prudence.

Their progress, owing to these causes, was slow--far more so than, in
their impatience to learn the fate of Jack Tyrrel, they believed--and
the winding passage frequently caused them to almost retrace their
footsteps.

Suddenly Wythe came to the end of the tunnel, and stepped into what
seemed a spacious chamber, though he could only judge from the
difference in the atmosphere. The torch was of little service, save
within a radius of several yards.

A few minutes' scouting proved this also to be unoccupied by those they
sought. At irregular intervals, around the sides, were several tunnels
similar to that from which the men had recently emerged.

Exchanging glances, the friends saw that each had begun to despair.
After this long and really arduous search, they seemed no nearer the
end than at first.

"Come," whispered Duplin, rousing himself, "this is only wasting time,
when we should be at work. Cheer up--we must find him soon. I know we
will--I feel it!"

"I hope you are a true prophet," sighed Wythe, brushing the cold damp
from his forehead. "But I fear the worst."

"Give me the light for awhile, and you take my place. We must search
each tunnel until we find the right one."

"I fear that will be difficult. I've not noticed any blood-drops for
some time. What if we should be wrong? What will become of poor Jack?
And--_how are we to find our way back again_?"

Duplin started. For the first time he realized the full peril of their
situation. Were they not even then lost? Lost in the labyrinth--in the
bowels of the earth! And nothing to sustain life--no food, no water!
The thought was soul-sickening!

"We must not think of that _now_. We've enough to trouble our minds
without that. It may all turn out right. But mark the passage we came
through. With that to start from, we can find our way back by the
blood-stains. Drop my hat there--or a bit of rag, anything will do."

Wythe advanced a step, then paused and glanced around him. His face
shone ghastly pale in the feeble light of the tiny torch. It seemed
that of a dead, rather than a living man.

"I--I _think_ this is the one," he faltered, pointing to a passage.

"My God! don't you _know_? Then we are indeed lost!" groaned Duplin,
the cold sweat dripping from his brow.

"We have walked in every direction--I am bewildered. We can do nothing,
only trust in Providence."

"And so we will! I don't believe we are to perish in this manner. Cheer
up--'twill all turn out for the best," cried Duplin, rallying his
courage.

"I'm willing enough to hope for the best, but these events follow close
after that man's warning of last night. There may have been more in it
than we cared to admit."

"Come--no more o' that, Wythe. You only unnerve us both. Mark this
tunnel. We will first explore the one next upon its right--remember
that. In time we must strike the right one."

Entering the low-arched passage, Duplin led the way, holding the torch
so low that it fell full upon the floor. Leaving all other matters to
Wythe, he closely and thoroughly scrutinized the passage in search of
the blood-drops that had already guided their course so far.

"I'm afraid we're wrong, Burr," muttered Paley, after several minutes.
"I can find no traces."

He had just rounded an acute corner in the passage, and thus cast Wythe
in the gloom. Stepping forward, Burr abruptly paused.

"My God! look yonder!" he gasped rather than spoke, one hand extended
over Duplin's shoulder.

The latter raised his eyes and then started back. Truly a horrible
sight was before them.

A dull, ghastly light seemed to fill the space before them. A light
that danced and flickered fitfully--now brilliant, now dull.

There, apparently almost within arm's length of the two adventurers,
were half a dozen flaming skeletons, not lying prone upon the floor,
but seemingly just starting up from their recumbent position to
chastise the unhallowed disturbers of their last repose.

Fiery jets of flame seemed to dart forth from the eyeless sockets, from
the grinning jaws, from every bone that helped form the skeletons,
and all with that peculiar effect produced by the plentiful use of
phosphorus.

As if turned to stone, the two friends stood at the turning, glaring
wildly upon the weird tableau.

Then there echoed forth a startling sound, that seemed to proceed
from the glowing jaws of the blazing skeletons. A laugh, shrill and
unearthly, that echoed thrillingly through the long, narrow passage.

"My God! they move--they come!" yelled Duplin, as he dropped the torch
and dashed madly back the way he had come, by some rare chance escaping
a shattered skull, from collision with the numerous jagged points of
rock.

With that horrible laugh still ringing in their ears, Wythe followed
after, half-dead with terror. Gasping, nearly suffocated by the wild
throbbings of his heart, Duplin gained the chamber, and then sunk down
weak and trembling. Though life depended upon the exertion, he could go
no further.

"Burr--where are you?" he gasped, agitatedly.

"Here--thank God we are together!" came the low reply, as Wythe crept
to his side. "But the light--where is it?"

"I dropped it--I was so astonished. But we can kindle another. I have
matches and you have wood."

"I?--no, I must have lost it as I ran. I had two sticks when we
entered, but they are gone now," slowly returned Wythe.

Both remained silent. Each realized the full force of this new
calamity. Without a light how could they ever hope to find their
way out of this labyrinth? With a light, the task would be hard
enough--without one, it become simply impossible.

"We must regain them, even though we have to face that horrible sight
once more," muttered Duplin, with a resolution that was simply
sublime, when his superstitious nature is remembered.

"Did _you_ hear it, too?"

"The laughter--yes. It was no delusion. Pray God that I may never hear
it again!"

"Hark!"

A low, indistinct sound met their ears. It seemed to proceed from the
passage they had just left. Its precise nature they could not define,
but--perhaps the thought was excited by what had just occurred--they
fancied it was the faint echo of that horrible peal of laughter.

"It's coming nearer--what shall we do?" gasped Duplin, tremblingly.

"Remember what Jack showed us. There is some trickery here, I feel
sure. If we flee blindly through these passages, we are indeed lost.
We must meet what is coming. If really supernatural, we can not run
away from it. If human, we can solve the mystery with a pistol-bullet,"
hurriedly muttered Burr, as his revolver clicked sharply.

His resolution seemed to restore Duplin, and then, in silence they
awaited the result, though in painful suspense, for neither was free
from a sickening dread. Few men are equally brave in the dark and light.

The suspense was not of long duration. Another shrill, unearthly peal
of laughter rung through the rocky chamber, and then, as if by magic, a
glowing skeleton with every bone plainly outlined, stood before the two
gold-hunters.

Duplin hastily cocked his revolver. It seemed that the sharp metallic
_click_ was not unheard, for another laugh, low and taunting, came
from where the ghastly object stood. Then a voice--the same that had
addressed them at their camp, the preceding night--uttered the words:

"Poor silly fools! Do ye think to alarm the dead by such actions?
What care I for mortal weapons? You but precipitate your fate by such
rashness. You scorned my first warning--and now you see the results.
One of your number is dead--you two are doomed! Doomed to wander on
through the bowels of the earth unceasingly, until death takes pity
upon your sufferings and touches your hearts with his finger of ice.
You were warned--why did you throw the chance behind you? You sealed
your own fate. You are doomed--doomed! Ha! ha!" and again the chilling
peal rung forth.

And yet, strange as it may seem, these words gave Burr Wythe renewed
courage. Though a partial believer in spiritualism, he did not believe
that disembodied spirits could speak.

The owner of this same voice had, at the camp, left a substantial proof
behind it that scarcely befitted a ghost. And now _this_ voice admitted
the identity.

"'Tis some trick, Paley," he whispered in Duplin's ear.

"Fire when I do, and we will have the clue in our hands. For poor
Jack's sake, courage."

"I will--touch me when you are ready," came the low, cautious response.

"_Now!_"

As he shouted aloud this word Wythe fired, and almost simultaneously
Duplin's pistol spoke. And the effect exceeded their most sanguine
expectations.

High above the twin reports, there rose a human voice in a wild yell of
pain, then came a rattling crash--then the sound of heavy, repressed
footsteps.

Instantly, on firing, Duplin and Wythe sprung aside, and recocked their
pistols. But there was no need of a second shot. The victory was theirs.

The glowing skeleton lay upon the ground, shattered to pieces. The
skull, like a great ball of fire, was slowly rolling toward Wythe, who
eyed it with a shudder of loathing. But all else was motionless and
still. The fleeing footsteps that had momentarily caught their ear, was
now gone.

"Our spirit was Jack's trickster, after all," at length uttered Wythe.

"We were fools, Burr," laughed Duplin, his natural courage returning.
"It's a lesson that will never be forgotten by us; and it was one that
I needed, too. I'm becoming a slave to my superstitions. But did you
notice which way he went?"

"No. Still, with lights, we can find out, I guess. That cry was one of
pain. He must have been wounded."

"He was; perhaps mortally, though I hope not, for that might lose
us our hopes of finding Jack. But, come; we must find our torches.
There is no time to lose unless we wish to make good that rascal's
prediction, and die in here of thirst and starvation. This is the
passage--just behind these bones."

Carefully feeling along the passage, they soon succeeded in finding
the dried fagots, dropped when they took a hasty flight. One--the
torch--was still smoldering, and required but little coaxing before it
again blazed up.

By its light, the two friends exchanged glances. They were both
thinking of the same thing.

"Yes, we will examine them," exclaimed Duplin, resolutely advancing.
"Who knows--we may find some trace of _him_ there."

With far different sensations than those felt when first the weird
sight burst upon their vision, the gold-hunters now examined the row of
skeletons. They lay side by side, upon a sloping ledge, which, in the
first affright, gave them the appearance of raising to their feet. The
friends saw that at least two of the skeletons had been removed from
the ghastly row.

"They have been placed here with care," muttered Wythe. "See--here are
fragments of what was once cloth. The bones look as though covered with
skin--as though the flesh had gradually dried away, and the sinews
still hold together. That accounts for the perfect skeletons we saw
arranged by that rascal--whoever he is."

"This dry, rare air may account for that. But we must not forget the
duty we owe poor Jack. He is not here."

"Come, then. We can follow our mummer, if I mistake not. I think he'll
leave a plain trail behind him, if there's any virtue in half-ounce
bullets."

In a few moments the adventurers were once more in the chamber, and
examining the ground round about where the skeleton had fallen. True to
their hopes, they found several drops of blood that told plainly their
enemy was wounded.

"This is the passage," uttered Duplin. "But it seems to lead back the
same way we came."

"We are all turned round. It _may_, of course, but more likely it
continues in the direction we first started in. It is our only chance,
at any rate."

For half an hour more they crept on, slowly and carefully, knowing that
to go astray might result in their destruction. Several branch passages
were observed, but close scouting showed them the faint blood-traces,
that directed them aright.

But then a circumstance occurred that threatened them with disaster.
The second torch had burned nearly down to Wythe's fingers, and he
paused to light another. Unfortunately he dropped the splinter, and
falling, it became extinguished. Blow as he might the sparks refused to
blaze up.

Impatiently he asked Duplin for a match. To his horror, Paley answered
that he had none! Whether he had lost them during the flight or not,
it was certain that they were then in the labyrinth, without means to
kindle a light. Search as they might, not a match was found.

As the significant truth burst upon them in its full force, they seemed
like madmen. They raved and cursed until out of breath. Then reason
returned. They were only wasting precious strength that might yet be
needed to save them from a horrible death.

"Come, Duplin," hoarsely muttered Wythe, "we must be men. We need our
senses now, if ever. We _must_ find some way out of this. Come--creep
forward with me. Try to keep this passage. Perhaps we may succeed--it
is our only hope."

"A slim one," and Duplin smothered back a curse. "I begin to believe
that that prediction will come true--that this hole is our _grave_!"

"Don't give way to such thoughts. Hope while we may. The worst, if it
_must_ come, will come soon enough."

For an hour--a long, weary hour full of agonizing fears and doubts--the
comrades crept slowly on, upon their hands and knees, not knowing
whether they were nearing or distancing safety. But then Burr Wythe,
who was in advance, gave way to a gasping cry--a cry of joyful
thanksgiving.

"Thank God! we are saved! This is the first chamber--I can tell it!"

"But--" hesitated Duplin, "then we should see the light. _Where is the
hole we crept in at?_"

All before them was dark and black. They could see nothing. And now
Wythe remembered that as they first entered the tunnel, he had glanced
back. The hole then shone clear and distinct. It was gone now!

With a cry of apprehension he arose and sprung forward. In a moment he
discovered the truth.

This was indeed the outer chamber. And he felt where the entrance had
been. _It was now blocked up!_

_They were buried alive!_

Both sunk to the ground, heart-sick and despairing.




                             CHAPTER VII.

                          NATE UPSHUR'S WORK.


On the night of the storm, Nathan Upshur sat apart from his two
comrades, noiselessly smoking his pipe. That he was not in the best of
humor was plainly evident.

It was only several hours since they had come on the whereabouts of
Wythe and his companions, after an arduous search of several days'
duration. But yet, short as was the time, Upshur had proposed a
bloody plan to Chicot and Dooley--nothing less than murdering the
gold-hunters, and then taking their treasure.

His ill-humor now was caused by their flat refusal to enter into
any thing of the sort. They had counted the cost, and were willing
to enforce their rights to a portion of the placer, if need be,
by an appeal to arms, but it must be in open fight, not midnight
assassination. But Upshur objected to this. It savored too much of
personal danger, and that he did not greatly fancy. So he sat brooding
over the matter, sour and sullen.

"It's jest this," quoth Chicot, settling the ashes in his pipe. "They
_must_ let us in on shar's. I'll tell 'em that I knew of it fust--last
year, an' that I on'y j'ined the train so's to git to the place. They
cain't deny it--or, ef they do, they cain't prove that I lie. _Then_ ef
they cut up rusty, let 'em. We kin make 'em sick o' the job, I reckon.
But I won't hev no onderhand work--no rubbin' out in the dark--mind
_that_, Nate Upshur."

They were encamped upon the hillside, in a deep crevice in the rocks
that overhung their heads, where the tiny camp-fire was hidden from any
one unless within a half-score yards of the spot. And, as he stated his
position, Paul Chicot lay down to sleep, unmindful of the coming storm.

But that night was not to pass without disturbance, even with them.
Suddenly the clear report of fire-arms broke upon the air, coming, as
all knew, from the gold-hunters' camp.

Peering over the rocks, they saw a strange, luminous light moving above
the valley, but before they could guess its meaning, the light suddenly
vanished. While still gazing down, they heard a rapid footfall just
above them, and then a strangely-shaped, dark figure bounded past them,
up the rocks. It seemed the form of a man, bearing an unwieldy bundle
upon his shoulder, dark, and dimly-outlined.

Little slumber visited their eyes that night, and his curiosity
excited, Chicot plunged through the storm on a reconnoitering
expedition. He soon returned, saying that the three gold-hunters were
still in their shanty.

Then who or what was the dark figure? Were there still other parties in
the valley? Others after the golden hoard that lay beneath the sands?

Awaiting other developments, Chicot and his companions, early in the
morning, saw the three friends start forth as if with some definite
purpose in view. They hastily passed over the rocky ridge, unconscious
of the eyes that so closely watched them.

"Now's our time," eagerly muttered Upshur. "We can go and dig up their
gold and be off before they get back."

"Not yet," firmly replied Chicot, who seemed to possess a little more
conscience than his comrades. "We don't know how soon they may be back,
and I don't want to be caught stealin', jest yet. Le's watch and see
what they're about, fust."

Grumblingly Upshur submitted, and the trio crept up to the ridge, and
peered over it, keeping well screened. From there they saw the others
discover the double trail and closely examine it. Then separating,
Duplin and Wythe took one course, Jack Tyrrel the other.

"They're trailin' the critter we see'd, most likely," muttered Chicot.
"Le's watch until they git out o' sight, then we'll go fer the gold."

Impatiently they watched the tardy progress of the adventurers, for now
that a chance seemed open for them to effect their object, they were
one and all eager to handle the gold. From their position the valley
below them was visible for nearly a mile in either direction, bare and
treeless, desolate and dreary-looking.

"My eyes hain't as good as they war once, but, onless I'm mightily
mistook, they's trouble waitin' fer Jack, over yon'. I'm 'most sure
I sighted a human on them rocks. But it's gone, now. This's gittin'
interestin'--seems like we're goin' to hev two separate gangs to deal
with."

With curiosity fully aroused, the trio watched Tyrrel's progress, and
as he passed round the point of rocks indicated by Chicot, the watchers
fairly held their breath with suspense.

Then came the sounds that had so deeply alarmed Duplin and Wythe--two
quickly-succeeding pistol-shots, then a cry for help.

"I told ye so," muttered Chicot, excitedly. "Tyrrel's in trouble 'th
_some_thin'! Down--quick! See, thar comes t'other fellers. Ef they
sight us, it's fight, then, shore. They'd think _we_ was at the bottom
o' the deviltry. Hunker down, I say!"

"Now's our chance to get hold o' the gold," muttered Nate Upshur,
eagerly. "We'll have time."

"No--I'm goin' to see this a'fa'r out fust. It's best that we know jest
what an' who we've got to work ag'in', an' we'll never hev a better
chaince to find out. Come--keep along behind the ridge. We kin git up
opposite the spot where Jack was, afore t'others. Keerful--don't show
your head 'bove the ridge."

Though having the longest and by far the roughest road, Chicot and his
companions gained the desired point ahead of Duplin and Wythe, owing to
the latter having to follow Tyrrel's trail. But, though they closely
scrutinized the opposite ridge, nothing in human form was to be seen.

"The boy's gone, an' so's whoever he run ag'inst. Mebbe he's rubbed
out, an' the fellers is layin' fer t'others."

"We'll soon see, for there comes Duplin and Wythe," added Upshur.

In silence the trio watched and waited. Every movement of the two
comrades was noted. What they were the reader already knows.

For a time the watchers were puzzled, but then as the two men began
gathering dried sticks from under the sheltered rocks, the truth
gradually became plain. Paul Chicot gave vent to a long, low whistle.

"They've holed the game!"

"Surely the fools ain't going to venture in?"

"It _is_ foolish, but they show plenty o' grit. You see now what you
wanted to buck ag'inst."

"If they go in there, the game's in our hands!" exultantly muttered
Upshur, his eyes glowing wickedly.

"What d'y' mean by that?"

"Can't we _block them in_? Then they'll have a good chance to fight it
out with those they are hunting, while we can take our time about the
gold. In that way we get rid ef them without killing them, and just as
effectually too."

"I don't see much difference, if ye l'ave them there to starve," slowly
commented Tim Dooley, for the first time for hours giving his opinion,
in this respect being very different from the popular idea of an
Irishman.

"If you're so cursed tender-hearted, why don't you go an offer to help
_them_? Had I known what a milksop you were I'd never have lifted a
finger to help you to a fortune."

"Nor would ye, only ye wanted help. But best kape a bridle on yer
tongue, my fri'nd. I don't take black words from anybody," quietly
added Dooley.

"Dry up--quit yer quarrelin'. Whar's the use? It don't do no good, an'
only makes bad blood. We're workin' in harness now, an' each must keep
up his eend. Fust work--then pleasure. Fight then as much as ye please.
But I think that's a good idea o' your'n, Upshur. We kin block 'em in,
s'posin' they give us a chaince, an' then, when we're ready to travel,
we kin set 'em free. But mind ye, this we've got to do. I won't take a
step in the matter onless this is all onderstood."

"Nayther will I."

"Just as you like about that," impatiently added Upshur. "But we're
losing valuable time. That may be but a small den, and we be too late.
Then if they see us, it _must_ come to blows."

"Ef they begin, why we'll give 'em the best we've got, in course. Come,
then, le's travel."

Descending the ridge, the three men ran hastily across the level
valley, and soon gained the second hill. As the reader knows, this
danger was not suspected by either Duplin or Wythe.

"You and Tim see if you can roll over that big rock above there,"
muttered Upshur, kneeling down beside a bowlder. "I'll agree that they
shall not disturb your work, if they hear you too soon. I can keep them
back, I guess."

At that moment, as he covered the entrance to the cave with a revolver
in either hand, cocked and ready, Nathan Upshur ardently hoped that
the two men he hated with such venomous animosity would appear. A good
shot, he felt that the path before him would soon be cleared, and the
stain of the midnight murder fairly fixed upon the innocent Burr Wythe.

Exerting their strength to the utmost, the two men at length succeeded
in toppling over the bowlder, that must have weighed many tons. Had it
not been so nicely poised, their efforts would have been in vain.

As the huge mass settled fairly over the hole, Nate Upshur laughed
aloud in diabolical glee. He knew that mortal hands could not remove
the rock, without the aid of strong tools. In the excitement of the
moment, neither Chicot nor Dooley had thought of this, and they now
felt a pang of regret. It seemed as though they had been committing a
cowardly murder.

"That's one job done--and well done, too, I call it," and Upshur
chuckled. "Now for the other. We alone are the owners of this famous
golden bed that Duplin raved about. Come--I am in haste to know the
extent of our fortune. Don't look so grum--you should laugh instead,
man."

"I feel like a dog that's caught sheep-killin', or aig-suckin',"
muttered Chicot. "We've mebbe rubbed out two settlers as is a durned
sight better men than either o' us, in a cowardly way, too."

"Bah! I suppose you'll be too conscientious to touch any of the gold
they've dug, won't you?" sneered Upshur.

"I don't know--if they _be_ gone, why I s'pose I might as well hev some
o' what they left, as for _you_ to git it all."

"I thought so! But come--the sooner we finish this job, the better.
There _may_ be another outlet to the cave, and these fools may stumble
upon it, and come back in time to make us trouble. But once let us get
clutches on their pile, and I think we can hold it."

With hasty steps, the three men recrossed the little valley, and
from the other ridge, carefully reconnoitered the deserted camp. No
one appeared to be near it, and their hearts thrilled wildly as they
realized that they were now sole masters of the golden secret. Even
Chicot forgot his scruples, in the dream of fabulous wealth that filled
his mind.

"It's ours--all ours, now!" muttered Upshur, as he darted down the
rough hillside at reckless speed, slowly followed by his comrades.

In a few minutes more they stood within the rude brush shanty. Eagerly
they gazed around, as though expecting to discover great heaps of the
precious metal. Then Upshur laughed--harshly and discordantly.

"Bah! what fools! Of course they've hid it. But what one hides, another
can find. They've changed the gold to another place--for there's where
it has been."

All could see as much, but the gold was not there. Still, it must be
hidden near at hand.




                             CHAPTER VIII.

                          THE WILD-MAN AGAIN.


Meanwhile, where was Jack Tyrrel?

We left him at the moment when he turned round the point of rocks,
following on the strange trail. A few rods beyond this, and he suddenly
paused as a peculiar cry met his ear.

Hastily glancing up, a strange light met his gaze. A flash of
recognition lit up his face. He had seen that form once before.

It was, indeed, none other than the occupant of the hill-cave, whom he
had beheld fed like a child by the beautiful maiden; the one whom he
had, a few hours later, seen shot at by Nate Upshur. The being called
by Paul Chicot, the "Mountain Devil."

He stood at the base of a large bowlder, one hand outstretched,
clutching his long bow already spoken of. His attitude, his face, his
eyes, all told that he was angered.

"Back! rash fool!" he uttered in a deep, stern tone. "I warned you
once--this is sacred ground. Back, I say, or you die!"

"Don't be so headstrong, old man," coolly returned Jack, seating
himself upon a bowlder. "You have nothing to fear from us. When we
finish our work, we intend leaving--and allow me to add that you nor
any one else can make us stir one step before we get ready."

The wild-man--or madman, whichever he was, and both titles well suited
him--uttered another hoarse, inarticulate cry, and, with lightning-like
quickness, fitted an arrow to the string. Jack sprung to his feet, but
was too late to avoid the shaft.

It struck him fairly, pinioning his right arm to his side, the flinty
head plunging deep into the muscles of his side and back. Stung with
pain, and scarcely realizing the extent of his injuries, Jack drew a
revolver with his left hand, and fired twice, in succession, at the
same time uttering a half-unconscious cry for help.

Then the madman was upon him. With a giant's strength he dashed
the young man backward to the ground, and wresting the pistol from
his grasp, he dealt Tyrrel a stunning blow upon the head with its
brass-bound butt.

With a low moan, Jack lost all consciousness. The events of the next
few hours were a blank to him.

Probably urged on by some strange whim, the madman flung the senseless
body across his shoulder and then darted back to the cave entrance,
through which he plunged. As though gifted with cat-like eyes, he ran
swiftly on through the winding passages, never once seemingly at fault,
the only trace left being the drops of blood that fell from Tyrrel's
wounds.

When, at length, Tyrrel regained his senses, he first became conscious
of a gentle hand softly bathing his feverish and painfully throbbing
temples. With an effort he opened his eyes and gazed wildly around him,
bewildered, confused.

But then, as a pale, sweet face bent over him, anxiety written in every
feature, a wondering sigh broke from his lips. He recognized that
face--it had more than once come up before him since that first night
passed in the mountains after the desertion.

The same glance recalled the place he was in; the hole in the wall
where he had first looked upon the face of the madman. But how came he
here? Could it be that the madman had relented, bringing him here to be
nursed back to life and health by his own daughter?

These thoughts racked his mind, and must have left their imprint upon
his face, for the woman--or girl, rather, for she was not more, in
years, at least--gently pressed back his head, uttering in a low, soft
voice:

"You must not trouble your brain now, sir. All will be explained in
good time. Until then, rest easy. You are safe here, while I am near."

"But where am I?--and you--"

"Listen. You are still in danger, unless you are prudent. Drink this,
and then go to sleep. When you waken, I will tell you all that I know
of this affair," and she uttered a weary sigh, as she spoke.

"I will mind--you look like an angel," muttered Jack, his heavy lids
drooping as he sunk back after quaffing the drink. "I've thought so
ever since--that night. And I--I love--you!" The last word being
scarcely distinguishable, as he dropped asleep.

The maiden looked astonished, as well she might, since until a few
hours before, she had never once suspected the existence of such a
personage as Jack Tyrrel.

It was hours before Jack awoke, but then he felt much better, though
still very weak and faint from much loss of blood. His brain, though
light, did not throb, his flesh was cool and moist.

He was not long in reminding his fair nurse of her promise, and in a
few clear sentences she told him all she knew concerning the matter.

Her father--the madman, for such indeed he was--had returned from
one of his frequent excursions, bearing the senseless body upon his
shoulder, both covered with blood. She could gather nothing from his
incoherent ravings, save that he intended offering up his victim as
a sacrifice to some imaginary deity. Great as was her influence over
him, even in his wildest moods it was with absolute danger to herself
that she rescued Jack from his hands. Then, however, he soon calmed
down, and watched her dress Tyrrel's wounds with vacant curiosity. This
done, she discovered that her father also was wounded; a deep hurt,
evidently from a bullet, passing entirely through the left shoulder.
Scarcely waiting for this to be dressed, he left the cave, muttering
wild threats against some person or persons. That was in the early part
of the night; it was now broad day, and she was very uneasy concerning
him.

Such, in substance, was her explanation. In return, Jack briefly
sketched the events of the past few days.

"And now, lady--"

"Lucy is my name," she simply added.

"Thank you--and mine is Jack Tyrrel. But I was wondering--naturally,
too, as you must admit--how it happens that you are here, living in
such a place."

"I will tell you; it will help pass away the time, and any thing is
better than silence. Such terrible fears come over me at times, that I
often wonder if I am not going mad--but I must not think of that. Do
you know, sir, that until now, for over a year, I have not looked upon
a human face, excepting father's?"

Jack squeezed her hand sympathetically. Lucy shrunk back as if alarmed,
but then, blushing deeply, she hastily added:

"Well, I will tell you my story. It is a strange one, and often I
half-wonder if I am not dreaming--if all the black, horrible past is
not a dream, from which I shall awake some bright day.

"As I said, my name is Lucy--Lucy Bradford, and the man who brought you
here is my father. He was not always thus--his madness dates back to a
year or more ago.

"Father was ever peculiar, and after mother's death--which occurred
when I was quite a child--he became still more so, and I can now
understand the covert hints and strange bits of talk that used to
puzzle me, passing between the neighbors. They believed he was
gradually losing his mind.

"It was a queer but very pleasant life that I led, as I began to
understand things that I saw around me. Father was an actor--as I
believed then, the prince of actors--but the plain, almost miserable
style in which we were forced to exist, should have showed me better.
It was one constant, unceasing struggle for bread, and yet we were very
happy.

"Father loved his art, and was only fully happy when 'treading the
boards.' And he was sure of an appreciative house, behind the scenes,
for I would applaud until my poor hands were nearly blistered. I
half-fear that it was this that made father love me so dearly.

"I attended each rehearsal with him, and was never absent from my post
in the flies when he was on the stage. This became such a matter of
course that no attention was paid me by the other actors.

"Well, times changed. Father became so 'queer'--that is what the
stage-manager called it--that he could not be depended upon. More than
once I remember his marring the effect of a play by forgetting himself,
and delivering the 'mad speech' of King Lear. He was discharged, and
could not get another situation.

"One day, I remember, he came home greatly excited, hastily packed up
all his stage effects and then left the house without answering my
questions. He returned with money, having sold all. Then he told me of
the dazzling plan that he had in view. He was going to California, to
pick up a fortune from the countless heaps of golden treasure that lay
there.

"Well, I could not desert him. That was in '49--over a year ago. Father
had money enough to pay for our passage out, and leaving St. Louis, we
turned our faces toward the Land of Gold. Alas! not one of all that
train--men, women, children--not one of them all ever reached the land
of their hopes.

"I do not know whether the story of our disaster ever reached
civilization or not. If so, it must have been by accident, for
we--father and I--alone, of all that company, are now alive!

"One wild, stormy night the blow fell. The day past had been one of
unusually severe toil, and most probably the guards set to watch over
the safety of their friends and kindred, completely exhausted, yielded
to slumber. For the cunning, treacherous enemy crept, unheard and
unsuspected, into the very heart of our camp. And then--"

Shuddering, Lucy paused, bowing her head upon her hands. The scene
recalled by her story overpowered her.

"Don't say any more, Lucy, if it is so hard," whispered Jack, his hand
gently touching the bowed head.

"Perhaps I am foolishly sensitive," Lucy added, with a wan smile, as
she raised her head. "But at times that horrible scene comes before my
eyes until it seems that my brain must burst. It is a relief to speak
of it, though, to one who can understand.

"I can remember but little of that horrible night. The Indians attacked
us--Blackfeet, as I afterward learned. They conquered almost without a
blow being struck by the white men, so complete was the surprise. And
then--it was a merciless massacre.

"I remember wondering how long it would be before my time would come.
I had been awakened, but was still in our own tent. Father lay at my
feet, as I believed, still sleeping, though I wondered greatly that
the horrible din did not waken him. I know now that he was senseless,
stricken down by a brutal blow from the hand of the one who guarded me.

"This man was the one who had acted as our guide, a middle aged, rough,
hunter-like person. He had joined the train with the sole purpose of
luring it to destruction. How well he succeeded, you now know.

"It was a long time before I fairly regained my senses. For nearly a
month I had been like a maniac, and the Indians had protected me from
the malice of the renegade. This superstition alone saved my father. We
were regarded as sacred beings.

"But then, when my reason returned, I was again subject to the
persecution of the renegade--Creeping Snake, as the Indians called him.
I appealed to the chief, who could both speak and understand English,
though but imperfectly, for protection against the wretch. I believe
that he pitied me, but he dared not interfere. By the laws of the
tribe, I belonged wholly to the renegade.

"The end came sooner than I expected. One day the renegade came to the
lodge that had been given father and I, and one glance at his flushed
face and bloodshot eyes told me my peril. He was intoxicated, and his
worst passions were fully aroused.

"I shrunk behind father in fear and trembling. The renegade advanced,
with a horrible curse, and struck father, ordering him to stand aside.
You have seen him--you know how very strong he is; and then he was
insane.

"It was all over in a breath, almost. A brief, horrible struggle--then
the renegade lay upon the lodge floor, quivering, dead! The blood was
streaming from his mouth and nostrils. His neck was broken.

"The chief had witnessed it all, but had not time to interfere, before
all was over. He seemed frightfully angered and had I not clung to his
knees, pleading piteously, I believe he would have killed father. As it
was, he had time to reflect that a madman was not accountable for his
acts.

"A council was held, and father tried for the deed. But the fact of his
madness saved him. And yet he seemed to realize that he was in danger,
though he hid his feelings from all save me.

"That night--a dark and stormy one--we left the village, passing
through it undiscovered. By daylight we were far away, lost amidst the
wild mountains. The beating rain had obliterated our tracks, and if the
Indians sought for us it was without success.

"For days we lay hid during the day, traveling at night, trying to find
some way to civilization, but in vain. We nearly starved to death. But
by a chance--or rather providence--father killed a wounded antelope
that we found in a deep valley. On this we lived for several days.

"Father seemed to have forgotten his desire to reach his fellow-men,
and appeared contented with this wild life. We were living in a little
den or cave in the rocks; not this one--but another miles away.

"One night we were awakened by a muttering at the cave entrance.
Outlined against the clear sky, we could distinguish the plumed crest
of a savage. Probably he had observed us before night, and now had come
to kill us.

"I was petrified with fear, but not so father. I did not know he was
awake, until I heard him move suddenly. Then came a dull, heavy thud,
and the Indian's head disappeared, while a shrill yell of what seemed
mortal agony followed.

"I soon learned the truth. Father, with unerring aim, had flung a
heavy, jagged rock at the intruder. As I saw when day came, the blow
had shattered his skull to atoms. That was a long, dreary night of
terror, but the savage must have been alone, for no further disturbance
occurred.

"In this manner father became armed as you have seen him, with bow and
arrows, a knife and tomahawk. By long practice, he has become very
skillful with the bow, and we never want for food. As for clothing,
as you see, their skins furnish that. Though rude, they are very
comfortable.

"With that one exception, we have never been molested by the savages.
During one of his wild rambles father found this cave, and ever since
we have lived here."

"A strange story, Lucy, and a sad one," commented Jack, feelingly. "But
do you never long to return to civilization?"

"Often--very often. But what can I do? Even though the road was open
to me--and I am lost here as completely as though out of the world--I
could not desert father. You have seen him--do you think I would ever
return to life? He is mad--incurably so, I fear," gloomily responded
the maiden.

"But if I can induce him to go with us, will you object? You will like
my friends, Duplin and Burr. Think of what your fate would be were--in
case any thing should happen to your father."

"I would die--perhaps starve to death. I try not to think of that. I
only know that I can never desert _him_. I am all that he seems to care
for on earth, now. While he lives, my place is with him."

"But if he agrees to go with us?"

"Where he goes, I will go. But don't think too much of that. I fear he
will refuse."

"Hist! is that not the sound of some one climbing up the rocks?"
hastily muttered Tyrrel, not a little excited, half-hoping that his
friends had discovered his retreat.

"I will go see. Perhaps 'tis father returning," and Lucy hastened to
the entrance.

In a moment she returned, pale and agitated. Tyrrel felt a strange
fluttering at his heart, for he was unarmed. If an enemy, they were
indeed lost!




                              CHAPTER IX.

                          THE OUTLAW'S HOME.


But what of the train wending its weary way among the hills, trying,
under the guidance of Major Guilford, to follow the blind trail?

Ah, it is a query pregnant with sad events--with tears and sighs--with
acts that make human nature seem like demon-nature.

For here, in the outlaw's lair, away up among the hills--in his secret
grotto--we find--who?

Why, Lottie Mitchell!

And consoling her in her terrible grief is Mabel, the professed
daughter of Major Guilford, but now the acknowledged wife and emissary
of Yellow Jack!

And outside we hear the voice of Major Guilford, and learn from
his conversation, first, the fact that he is Yellow Jack's
first-lieutenant; and second, the particulars of the slaughter of that
entire train, which, following his guidance, was led into an ambuscade,
and every soul in it ruthlessly slain by the outlaws, as they had
destroyed and slain other trains. The diabolical glee which the affair
excited in the outlaw camp revealed the nature of the ruffians with
whom Guilford consorted.

But he had other matters also to discuss with some of the men. He had
rescued Lottie Mitchell and brought her safely into the outlaw camp
only to see Yellow Jack take her under his immediate protection. Was he
to be deprived of his property? Was not Lottie his own by the laws of
the band? And if so, by what right did the captain take her under his
protection?

This the "Major" demanded in a manner that showed how bitterly he felt
over the event, and his openly announced purpose to have his prize
yet, gave little promise of peace or safety to the now distressed and
heart-broken captive, whose hours passed in weeping over the awful
tragedy which her eyes had witnessed, and whose fears for her own
future were even more harrowing than her grief.

For a time Lottie Mitchell was treated more as a guest than a prisoner
by Yellow Jack and his household. Even Mabel, though herself scarcely
so beautiful, strove to cheer up the sorrowing girl, even while a dull
pain knocked at her own heart as she recognized the gradually changing
expression with which the outlaw chief began to regard the fair captive.

None knew better than she that Yellow Jack was even more to be dreaded
than Charles Guilford--that Lottie, in fleeing from the hawk, had
sought protection of the eagle.

With heart crushed and bowed down, Lottie would sit through the
long hours in mute despair. She knew now that she was alone upon
earth--that not one drop of blood akin to her flowed in human veins.
Her loving father had been the last, and now he was no more. He was
dead--murdered! And she--oh! why had she been spared? To live on and
suffer--to endure worse than death--a shameful captivity in the hands
of demons who had love for naught other than sin and crime.

And yet, though knowing all this, Lottie believed that she was safe
from harm while Yellow Jack extended his protection. She knew that
Mabel was his wife--that a fierce, passionate love seemed to exist
between them. Then--what had she to fear from him?

Thus she reasoned, but the mask was soon to fall from his face--the
scales from her eyes. The trial, though slow in coming, would lose none
of its force on that account.

A brief "scene" had followed the unceremonious despoiling of Guilford.
His fiery, untamed nature was not one to submit without a word;
besides, he was backed up by the laws of the league, that distinctly
said a man possessed the sole power of life or death over any captive
he might chance to take unaided.

Guilford waited until the entire band had returned. Then he called them
around him in the little square of unoccupied ground near the center
of the village. His undaunted bravery and boldness had made him very
popular among the outlaws.

In hot, angry words he told them how he had been treated and how the
laws of the league had been trampled upon without cause or provocation.
He demanded their vote--whether the captive rightly belonged to him, or
to Yellow Jack.

The outlaws seemed about to reply--to give the words utterance that
would please the orator--when a clear, metallic voice silenced them.
The outlaws, bold and desperate men though they were, seemed awed and
shrunk silently back, parting before the approach of that one slender,
frail-looking man, who so negligently puffed at a tiny cigarette.

"Pardon, gentlemen," he uttered, the words dropping with cat-like
softness from his red lips, that curled in a smile at once sweet
and cruel. "Hearing my name mentioned, I come to plead my own case.
Guilford, what is your grievance?"

"That you took by force from me a captive. By the laws of the league
you had no right to do this. She is mine alone--I demand her return."

The words were spoken boldly and without hesitation. Yet the manner in
which the flushed face suddenly turned white, told that Guilford by
no means underrated his danger. It was like playing with a half-tamed
tiger. At first its talons might be sheathed--but who could say how
long this would last?

"So you consider yourself an abused man, do you?" slowly drawled Yellow
Jack.

"I deem my rights as a member of the band, abridged. By the laws laid
down by yourself, you are wronging me in taking away my property."

"And if I return her--this property of yours--you will overlook my
mistake?"

"Gladly!" cried Guilford, too excited by the pleasing thought thus
presented to read aright the sneering tone and the yellowish glitter of
the black eyes.

"You are very kind. But I fear both my wife and your property would
object. Besides, I've taken a notion to her myself. And captain before
lieutenant, you know."

"Then you refuse to--"

"Bah! why so much to-do about a trifle? you grow tiresome, Guilford.
We will have to select another officer from the ranks."

At this sentence--the last--Yellow Jack gave an evidence of his
marvelous quickness. A sudden glitter of steel--a flash--a report, and
then a death-groan.

Charles Guilford lay upon his face, the blood slowly oozing from a
tiny, discolored hole in the center of his forehead.

A low cry rose round the group. A simultaneous movement--and full
two-score hands fell upon as many weapons.

The tall, lithe form drew more erect, with head flung back and eyes
that seemed like glowing coals. _Click--click_, went the notchlike
springs of his pistols.

The sullen roar of two-score voices ceased. The weapons, though still
clutched, were not drawn. And the foremost slowly shrunk back. Fear was
written upon their faces.

And all this because one man seemed awakened. But that man was Yellow
Jack.

"Gentlemen," began the outlaw chieftain, and his voice was as even and
gentle as when first he spoke, "I have a few words of explanation to
give you why I shot that carrion. It was because he was a traitor at
heart--to me, if not to you. I saved him from the hangman's rope, and
brought him here. He served admirably as a man; but raising him to be
an officer spoiled him. You elected him; I could not refuse, though
I knew that this day must come in time. Well, he's dead. There is no
use in producing proof of his treachery, unless some of you demand it.
Then I will comply, of course. Is any one dissatisfied? If so, let him
advance and give in his plea."

No one advanced. Perhaps they deemed it scarcely prudent to do so, with
that body still lying before them.

Yellow Jack smiled. He had conquered now, even as he had scores of
times before, by sheer audacity. And _now_ Lottie Mitchell was his;
no one could dispute his choice, unless--He scowled as he thought of
Mabel, his wife.

"Good! I am glad to see you so sensible. Of course, we must have
another election. To-morrow will do. Talk the matter over between
yourselves. The choice lies with you." And then Yellow Jack walked
away, without so much as a glance at his victim.

Meantime, Lottie Mitchell had been aroused from her torpidity--as it
might almost be called. And this by one of whom we have had only a
fleeting glimpse--the being called by Yellow Jack, "Crazy Joe."

He had glided into the little cell-like apartment adjoining "the
grotto," where Lottie was sitting in apathetic despair. She glanced up
at his entrance, but recognizing him, again drooped her eyes.

"Lady," whispered Crazy Joe, after a keen glance around the chamber,
"cheer up. You have a friend near who will do his best to free you. Be
cautious--do not cry out. If they suspect who and what I really am,
both you and I are lost," he added hastily as Lottie gave vent to an
exclamation of surprise.

This was the first time she had heard him utter an intelligible
sentence. To her, as to others, he had been the harmless idiot. For
what had he been playing such a part?--for now there was no trace of
idiocy, only the sharp, acute decision of a bold and determined man.

"I don't wonder at your surprise," he added, with a kindly smile, as
he drew nearer, "I have played my part well, and, indeed, I had need
to, since my life depended upon its success. But never mind that now. I
fear interruption before I can explain. Listen, now. I am telling you
the truth, and placing my life in your hands.

"As you see, I am no idiot. That is my mask, put on the better to
enable me to gain my purpose. Instead, I am a spy--a spy of the
Government. My purpose now is to learn all the secrets of the place, so
that, when the time comes for another attack, they can't baffle us as
they did the last time.

"I assumed this disguise, and wandered for days amongst these hills,
before I was picked up, almost starving, too. I was brought here, and
closely questioned. I was only an idiot--so I made them believe. Only
an iron will carried me through, for they tried me in every manner,
even waking me from a sound sleep with a quick question. But I had
studied my part closely, and foiled them.

"Now it is time for act second. I have learned all I care to know, and
must disappear. They will think nothing of that--for I am an idiot,"
and he laughed silently, but gleefully. "They'll think I've wandered
away, or been killed by wild beasts. And then--well, they'll see me
again, and with me will be a host of 'boys in blue.'

"Why do I tell you this? Because you are in great peril--not of
_death_, but even worse than that--and will need all the courage you
can muster. I would take you with me, but that would ruin all. Pursuit
would be made--for _you_--and I killed. Then would your last hope die.

"You must wait patiently, and, if possible, gain time. I will be back
in two weeks, at furthest. If you can evade the peril until then, we
will save you. If not--then we will remember you while dealing our
blows. Do you understand me?"

"Partly. But what is this great peril--_he_ is dead, and Mabel is my
friend. Surely, she will not let them murder me!" And Lottie paused in
genuine surprise.

"I will tell you, then, though 'tis a delicate subject. But this is no
time for false delicacy. Then--I allude to Yellow Jack--to his passion
for you," hurriedly added the man.

"But he--Mabel is his wife!"

"True--or passes for such. But that matters little to him. Why did
he kill Guilford--his best and bravest man? Because that man claimed
_you_--whom he wanted for himself. _Now_ do you understand me?"

"I--think I do," faltered Lottie, turning ghastly pale.

"Then--listen. The trial will come--sooner or later. It may come
to-day--or it may not come until we return. For _your_ sake I hope not.
But you must be prepared for it. You must play a part. You must hide
your real feelings, and dissemble. Though keen as steel, you can blind
him in his passion with your mother wit. Affect to think of the matter.
Tell him you are too heart-sick--that all around is so new and strange
that you must have time to reconcile yourself to the change. Tell him
any thing--only gain time. Gain two weeks, and I pledge my word--my
life, that you shall be saved. I give you the word of a man who never
lied unless to an enemy, such as those with whom I am now dealing. Only
two weeks, at the most. I may return before, but if I am not here then,
you can know that I am dead."

"You frighten me, but--"

"Hist! there is some one coming! Be cautious--hide your feelings, or
all is lost!" whispered the man, again becoming "Crazy Joe," as he
crouched down upon the floor and began tracing meaningless figures in
the dry sand with his fingers, crooning a low, monotonous strain as
unmeaning as his blank and expressionless features.

Yellow Jack entered. He gave a start as the dark figure seated upon the
floor caught his eyes, but then, with recognition, came reassurance. He
cared little whether the idiot heard his words or not.

"Come, dear lady, this will never do," the outlaw chief uttered in a
soft, musical tone, as he sunk upon the little pallet beside which
Lottie sat. "You are fading your beauty and dimming your eyes by this
unceasing grief. The past is past--let it sink into oblivion. Live for
the present, for the future--life can be gay and pleasant, if you only
will it should. All around will be your servants--and I, the chief
of this band of brave men--will be the humblest one of all at your
command. You make no answer," he added, his keen eyes seeking to read
the inner thoughts of the maiden. "You are not offended at my plain
words?"

"No--not offended," hesitated Lottie, at a warning glance from the
seeming idiot.

"Thanks. Now I will give you a few words to think over for a time.
And think over them carefully you must, for a great deal depends upon
your answer. You, among others, are deeply concerned. In fact, upon
your decision rests the whole of your future. Thus much, by way of
introduction.

"You may not know that by the rules of the band, Charley Guilford
really became your master, by his capturing you himself. Well--though
he was a good enough man, in the way of duty, he was a devil at heart.
He would have killed you with his cruelty in a month. For that reason
I took you from him; for that reason, and because your face awoke a
memory in my heart that I thought forever dead. Your face then, pale
and care-worn, reminded me of my mother, as I last saw her, just before
she died. I know now that she killed herself, because--but never mind.
I did not come here to speak of the past.

"Well, Guilford objected to my course, and--I shot him to-day. He
would have served me so to-morrow, but I was ahead of him.

"Now what I mean is this. You cannot lead this life always. You would
die, shut up so close. And were you to walk about the village, you
would always be in danger, from what, you can guess. For this reason,
more than any thing else, I am here now, to tell you that you must
choose between me and one of the men. In other words, you must become
my wife."

"You--but Mabel is your wife!"

"Well--she passes for such, and so did the one before her. Never
trouble about that--you must decide upon what I have told you. I must
go now. You can give your answer to-morrow."

Yellow Jack left the room, and, after a warning glance and whisper, the
spy did the same.

That night Crazy Joe disappeared. As he had predicted, this caused
little or no comment. It was only an idiot gone.

On the morrow Yellow Jack again visited Lottie. It is useless to repeat
his arguments. They were the same in substance as those just recorded,
save that they were more vehement and full of passion.

Lottie, frightened and heart-sick, still did not forget the warning of
Crazy Joe--or Joe Burleson, as he had told her his real name was--and
begged for time. This he granted, though with evident reluctance.

Scarcely had he disappeared than Mabel rushed into the room with
a maniacal fury, clutching a long, keen-pointed stiletto. With a
half-stifled scream, she strove to plunge it into Lottie's breast. The
peril lent the captive strength, and after a desperate struggle, she
succeeded in disarming the madwoman.

Then, in hysterical sobbings the truth came out, and Lottie learned
what had caused the sudden change in one who had, until that hour,
treated her so kindly. She had overheard all that passed between Lottie
and Yellow Jack in the second interview.

Fortunate it was that Lottie remembered Burleson's caution never to
speak without weighing every word that she said, while in her dangerous
position. Only for that she would have told Mabel all: have told her
how she loathed the very sight of the monster, Yellow Jack, and that
she was only playing her cards to gain time that she might be saved.

Instead, she only disclaimed all thought of winning Yellow Jack from
her; that she would far rather matters remained as they were.

Mabel, on the other hand, saw only one hope left her, and that was in
the escape of Lottie. While she remained, the outlaw would only stray
the further from his rightful allegiance, and with that hope, she
declared to Lottie that she would assist her to escape.

Rendered suspicious by this sudden change, Lottie was reserved, though
the very thought caused her heart to leap for joy. Thus she calmly
listened, without saying yea or nay.

At length Mabel turned and left the chamber. In the passage just
without, a dark figure met her and clutched her wrist with a grasp of
steel. It was Yellow Jack, and in that moment she knew that he had
overheard all, and that her doom was sealed. For a moment she trembled;
then her true Spanish courage came to her rescue, and she followed his
lead without a word.

Entering their own chamber, Yellow Jack, with a terrible courtesy, led
Mabel to a softly-cushioned chair, and waited until she was seated.
Then he drew another chair forward, and seated himself before her. Pale
and calm, she met his steady gaze with one as unflinching.

"Du you know what is in my mind now, Mabel?" he at length uttered.

"Yes--if, as I suppose, you were listening to what I said to--to _her_
in there."

"I did hear--that you intended to prove traitor to me."

"Not to you--to the man who was about putting his wife from him in
favor of a stranger."

"Well--we will not quarrel about trifles. You have known me long enough
to guess what such attempts cost. Now I ask you a plain question: would
you rather leave me and return to your people, or die here beside me?"

"This is the only choice left me?" Mabel asked, and for the first time
her voice trembled.

"Is it not enough?" coldly came the reply.

"Since _you_ say so, yes. For ten years I have been with you, through
all, day and night. I will not leave you now, of my own will, because I
love you. I will die here, but not by _your_ hand!"

"I am glad that you object to that, because I hate such trouble. Well,
to business. First, write a line saying that this is your own deed. The
men reverence you so that they might make trouble were they to think I
had killed you."

Without a word, Mabel did as directed. Then again turned toward the
ice-hearted monster. He knew not what mercy meant, else he would have
relented at that look of ineffable love.

"Well--you are waiting for--?"

Mabel moved round and knelt beside him. He frowned, thinking she meant
to plead for her life. Instead, she wound her arms around him, and
pressed her lips to his, in a long, lingering, farewell kiss.

Then she rose erect. The bright poniard flashed in the lamp-light. It
sunk to the hilt in her warm bosom.

Slowly she sunk to her knees, her eyes riveted upon his, and with that
look of love, died!




                              CHAPTER XI.

                        THROUGH GLOOM TO LIGHT.


The discovery made by Burr Wythe was a heart-crushing one coming just
as it did, when they believed that freedom was now within their grasp.
And for a time the two friends sunk helpless beneath the blow.

But the reaction came soon. It was foreign to their natures to submit
without a struggle, at any time much less now, when to yield meant
_death_--death the most horrible; by starvation.

They carefully worked with their fingers around the edge of what had
once been the entrance. Only hard rock was there; not a particle of
earth to give them renewed hope of cutting their way to the outer world
by persistent use of their strong-bladed knives.

"'Tis of no use, Duplin," at length muttered Wythe, brushing the great
drops from his brow. "We are blocked in--we must die here like dogs!"

"It seems so. All around the mouth seems solid rock. But who can have
blocked it up? Not that one we fired at? Surely what one man could
place there, two could roll away."

"It must be the big rock that stood just above the hole. It could be
rolled over, I think. If so, fifty men couldn't raise it now."

"Well, one thing is settled. Whoever closed this entrance wished for
our death. Thus it's not likely we have any thing to hope from them. So
we must depend upon ourselves, if we hope to ever see daylight again,"
thoughtfully added Duplin.

"Yes--but what can we do? We have no light, no food, no drink. We might
as well sit down here and die, at once, as to wander blindly on through
these winding passages that seem to end nowhere."

"Come--this is pure folly, Burr. Though I admit that the case looks
hard, very hard, I will not knock under so easy. We may as well _try_
for life, even though we fail, as to sit here idly bemoaning our fate.
Time will pass easier and quicker while we are busy. I am going to
fight for it as long as I can. Then--when I can stand it no longer--the
thirst and hunger, I mean--why, I have a revolver, well loaded, here.
You understand?"

"Yes, and I am with you, Duplin. I was a fool. We will make another
attempt. It can be no worse than now, and may be better," energetically
cried Wythe, springing to his feet, and then the hands of the comrades
met in a hearty clasp.

They turned and blindly reëntered the tunnel. It was slow, weary work,
but they persisted, and for hours crept on, for the greater part of
the time upon hands and knees now and then cheering each other with an
encouraging word of hope.

Even was there time, it would be wearisome to follow them step by step
through all these winding passages, more than once retracing their
steps to begin anew, as they came to the abrupt termination of some
tunnel. Enough has already been said, to give the reader an idea of
their experience, in a preceding chapter.

Enough to say that kind Providence guided them aright, after almost
incredible sufferings, and finally a dim light, far in the distance,
broke upon their strained vision.

For a moment they paused, fearing to move, to breathe, lest the glad
vision should vanish. And in that moment they read the truth.

With inarticulate cries they arose and rushed forward. It was no
delusion--the light was that of heaven; and then they stood in the open
air, beneath the welcome sun!

They sunk upon the ground, faint and speechless. They were not what
is called _Christians_, and they did not raise their voices in loud
thanksgiving for the great mercy that had been shown them. And yet they
were grateful--they recognized the goodness of the Omnipotent in their
rescue, and their thanksgiving, if mute, was no less sincere and devout
than if it had been couched in the most eloquent of terms.

Their hands met and were lightly clasped. For a time they seemed
drinking in the fresh, balmy air, the clear, glorious sunlight, with
a rapture that until now had been a stranger to their hearts. All
this was what they had mentally bidden farewell to, as they believed,
forever.

"We are free at last, Burr!" murmured Duplin.

"Yes--but I'm awful thirsty!" was the prosaic reply.

That word recalled them to a sense of their sufferings. As they now
knew, by the position occupied by the sun, they had been beneath the
surface for over a day and night; and during all these hours they had
ate no food, tasted no water whatever.

Duplin gazed keenly around. Then he gave a low, husky cry. He
recognized the spot where they were. In their wanderings they had
passed entirely through the great hill!

"Yonder is the creek--now for water!" he cried, and then sprung forward
like a startled deer.

Flat upon their stomachs they lay, and quaffed the cool, sparkling
water with ecstatic delight. It was almost worth enduring such a trial
for the pleasure imbibed with that draught.

"Ha!" suddenly exclaimed Wythe, as he started up. "Look at this,
Duplin," and he pointed to a damp, blood-stained rag that lay half upon
a rock, half in the water.

The same thought struck them both. They had passed through the
labyrinth--might not Jack and his captor or captors have done the same?

"It's so," muttered Duplin, pointing to a broad track close beside
their own. "There is the same track that Jack measured. Hurrah! we may
find him yet!"

"True--but how? Alive, or--_dead_?"

In silence the two friends scrutinized the sandy ground around. Finally
they were rewarded by finding where the trail led away from the further
side of the creek.

In silence they glanced at each other, as they noted the point toward
which the trail now tended. It seemingly led direct to the valley
whence they had made that strange discovery--to the cliff in which
lived the strange couple.

Then the truth struck them, and they wondered that they had not
thought of this solution before. The madman was their strangely-acting
adversary. And in this fact they saw a solution of his wild antics with
the glowing skeletons. Surely no sane man would have acted as he had
done--have braved such danger.

"Dead or alive, we will find Jack there," at length uttered Duplin.

"Find him we must, but it requires caution. One man like that could
keep a thousand at bay from the cave. And if he is mad, it would be a
crime to kill him, even in self-defense."

"Come. We will do the best we can."

Though feeling morally certain as to where the trail would lead them,
the gold-hunters did not neglect any precaution, and slowly traced out
the footprints. True to their suspicions, they led directly to the foot
of the cliff, where they were lost upon the flinty rocks.

Concealing themselves, they patiently watched the cliff for hours, in
vain hoping to learn whether the madman was still in the cave. But
then, urged on by anxiety for their comrade, they cautiously began
scaling the cliff.

When half-way to the ledge that served as entrance to the cave, Duplin,
who was in advance, abruptly paused. A slight noise from above caught
his ear.

For a brief instant a face met his startled gaze, then it vanished.
But, brief though the glance was, he recognized it as the face of the
maiden he had seen once before.

"They've discovered us, Burr," he muttered. "Now for it! Up, or we are
lost!"

But, contrary to their expectations, they reached the cliff-ledge
unmolested, and then sprung forward to the cave entrance. They paused;
all was still. Only for that brief vision, they would have believed it
was unoccupied.

All within was dark, impenetrable to their gaze, dazzled by the bright
sunlight. But then there came a cry--a voice well known to their ears.

The voice of Jack Tyrrel, for whom they had dared and endured so much!

"Boys--thank God! you are here!"

These were the words. Then Duplin and Wythe sprung forward. It was a
happy meeting, and for a time none noticed the maiden, who had shrunk
back against the wall. But then Jack glanced around and said:

"Lucy, come here; these are my friends. And, boys, if you are glad to
see me, thank her. She saved my life."

This introduction put all upon the best of terms, and for a time that
was a joyous group. But then Lucy's thoughts reverted to her father.
Where was he? Why had he not returned? Never before had he remained so
long absent.

Jack, with eyes wonderfully sharpened by the last few hours, read
aright her thoughts, and closely questioned his comrades, who were
now eating the food set before them by Lucy, in immense haste, as
to whether they had seen the madman--or, as he said, Mr. Bradford.
Warned by their suspicions, they said little of what had occurred, but
volunteered to go in quest of him.

"Thank you, boys. I'd go, but this confounded hurt won't let me. Take a
look at the camp, while out. He may be there."

Their hunger appeased, the two men descended the cliff, and set off
at a rapid rate toward their camp. After an hour's hard walking they
reached the crest of the hill from which they had first gazed down upon
the valley that contained the bed of gold nuggets.

Both paused, with a simultaneous cry. Human forms met their gaze. Their
camp was occupied!

Over a mile distant, they could not recognize sex or color. Of course,
none but _men_ were there, but were they white or red--enemies or
friends? Scarcely the latter, though.

The two friends exchanged glances. A hard, determined expression rested
upon each face, and their eyes told their resolve.

A fortune, hard-earned, lay there, belonging to them. Should they
abandon it now, after all that they had endured? No!

Neither spoke a word, but looked to their pistols, renewed each cap,
after seeing that the nipples were well primed. A miss-fire might be
fatal, now.

Then they glided forward, not seeking to hide their movements. That,
after the valley was reached, would be impossible. Nearly a mile of
level sand, without a rock or shrub, must be passed over.

And yet they reached the water-course unmolested, unchallenged, unless
the one feeble shout that came to their ears was such. They stood
amazed. A terrible spectacle lay before their eyes.

Four men lay stretched upon the ground, only one of whom gave signs of
life. He had dragged himself to the brush camp, and was now lying in
its shelter.

The others were dead. Two of them lay upon their faces, the flint-head
of an arrow protruding from each back. The other, close by, still
clutched a bow; in the other hand was an arrow, that could not be
fitted to the string before death overtook him.

"It is the madman--Bradford!" muttered Duplin.

"And that man is Paul Chicot!" added Wythe.

"Help, friends--for the love of God! help!" gasped the wounded man--the
sole survivor of this tragedy.

It was hours before Chicot could explain this scene. First he told
all--how Upshur had tempted him and Dooley, and of all that had
occurred since then. Of how the madman had warned them away, when
Upshur incautiously shot him. Even as he fell, Bradford had his
revenge. Like lightning-bolts three arrows sped, and two men died.
The third, with sure aim but failing power, pierced Chicot's breast,
inflicting a severe but not necessarily fatal wound, now that he could
have care. The robbers had searched in vain for the buried store of
gold, and Wythe found it intact.

And then, while Wythe nursed Chicot, Duplin hastened to carry the
mournful tidings to Lucy. For a time she sunk beneath the shock, but
then revived. It had in a measure been expected. She had known that his
life could end only in that way.

Thus it chanced that a week later we find her cooking for the
busily-laboring gold hunters, and nursing Paul Chicot.




                             CHAPTER XII.

                           EXIT YELLOW JACK.


Late one night Duplin came into camp in a state of considerable
excitement. It being his day to act as forager, he had remained so long
absent that his companions were very uneasy lest harm had befallen him.
Great was their agitation when he made known his discovery.

Wandering further to the south than customary, he had just before dusk,
come upon a large encampment; after a brief scouting he recognized the
body as being United States soldiers. He did not venture nearer them,
but at once hastened back to lay the matter before his friends.

Here was a safe escort at hand, by accepting which they might be spared
all the toil and danger they otherwise might expect to meet on their
return journey to the States. But, on the other hand, there was their
gold. It could not be concealed, so that the eyes of the soldiers would
not recognize it. Among so many, there might be some evil-hearted men,
only too glad to win independence by an act of treachery.

The matter was thoroughly discussed, and then decided. They would trust
to their former plan. At this Paul Chicot gave a sigh of relief. He was
yet too ill to be moved with safety.

This body of cavalry, as the reader guesses, was indeed that to which
Joe Burleson had alluded in his conversation with Lottie Mitchell.
He had succeeded in reaching it, and was now on his way back to the
retreat of Yellow Jack and his outlaws.

Though Duplin did not know it, they had been resting their animals for
several hours, preparing for a hard and forced march. That night the
blow was to be dealt, and under cover of the darkness they hoped to
gain the Retreat before being discovered, guided as they were by one so
thoroughly familiar with the surroundings as was Burleson.

Joe had confided all to the officer leading the troops, and had gained
his consent to a daring move. He had not forgotten his promise to
Lottie; he would save her if possible. But would he be in time? The
bold spy shuddered as this fear assailed his heart. Though knowing her
for so brief a time, he had given his entire heart to the pale-faced
maiden. And the love of such a man, rude and unlettered though he was,
was not to be despised.

With this view, Joe glided on in advance, while the soldiers dismounted
and stood their horses at a safe distance, then removed all articles
that, by jingling, could possibly alarm the foe too soon.

Dressed as he had been when first appearing at the village, Burleson
entered without fear, knowing that Crazy Joe was a privileged person.
But the village was quiet. The outlaws seemed all asleep.

Not all--from the hillside, shining through the tiny windows that he
knew looked out from the grotto, Joe caught the faint ray of a light.
And more!

A half-stifled scream came from that direction. His teeth grated
together, his eyes flashed with a deadly glow as he glided into the
little hut that sheltered the entrance.

He recognized the voice of Lottie Mitchell!

He paused at the entrance of the grotto. All was still. But a sight met
his eyes that fairly maddened him.

Near the center of the room a man was bending over the form of a woman;
the latter seemed insensible.

The man was Yellow Jack. The woman was Lottie Mitchell.

Thank God! he was yet in time! Such was the thought that flashed across
his mind like intuition. Why, he could not have explained himself.

He did not speak--made no sound. But he bounded forward like a panther
that thirsted for blood.

One hand clutched the neck of Yellow Jack. The other, uplifted,
clutched a long-bladed knife.

The weapon descended with a dull, thrilling _thud_. The steel guard
dented deep into the outlaw's back. The blood-stained point protruded
through the gayly embroidered shirt-front.

Without a groan, Yellow Jack sunk forward upon the insensible form of
his intended victim, a dead man. The blade had cloven his heart in
twain.

Tenderly Burleson lifted the maiden from the floor and bore her to
the soft couch of skins beyond. Her eyes opened, and a murmur of
thanksgiving told that she recognized him as a true friend.

In hurried words he told her all, and cautioned her to remain silent.
Then, with a lingering glance at her, he turned and glided away to give
the signal of death.

Silently, like the shadows of death, the soldiers glided up and gained
foothold in the outlaws' village. And then--but why give details?
Surely enough bloodshed has already stained these pages.

That the surprise was complete--that, as the roaring flames of their
blazing huts roused the slumbering outlaws, the wild yell of assault
was given, is enough.

The struggle, though brief, was desperate and bloody. The outlaws never
thought of begging mercy. They knew that it would be denied them, and
so, fighting, they died. An hour--then the band was annihilated.

The next day a strange cavalcade left the Retreat. Horses and cattle
were heavily loaded down with plunder. In a comfortable litter rode
Lottie Mitchell. Beside her was Joe Burleson. Poor fellow, he was happy
then. But his awakening came soon enough, though his love deserved
better reward.

In safety they reached Fort Laramie. And then Lottie was taken ill, and
only awoke to life again when winter had snow-bound all within the fort.

And, oh! the joy that awaited her then! The form that first met her
conscious gaze, worn and pale with long and constant watching, was that
of Burr Wythe!

This fact is easily explained.

The "pocket" of gold eventually gave out, or afforded so little reward
that it was not deemed worth while wintering there. So Paul Chicot--now
fully recovered--and Duplin contrived to capture a sufficient number of
horses and mules from those that had escaped to the hills during the
attack on the outlaws' retreat, to mount the party and convey their
precious gold. Chicot guided them aright to Fort Laramie, though the
most of their gold wad securely _cached_ among the hills where it would
be safe. Then they entered the fort. There they first heard the fate
of the train they had abandoned, and found Lottie Mitchell, the sole
survivor, besides themselves.

Burr was prepared to meet Lottie's words concerning the murder of
poor Hefler. Upshur had confessed to the deed, and Chicot could bear
witness to it. And then, though there was little need of the words, he
confessed his love. And Lottie?

Well, she gained in health and spirits so amazingly, that long before
the snow began to disappear before the warm breath of spring, there was
a double wedding at the old fort, that occasioned more pure, heartfelt
joy, as well as boisterous fun and jollity, than ever before marked its
annals.

And then, when the green grass began to appear, a small cavalcade took
its departure from Laramie, heading toward the rising sun. At nightfall
Duplin and Chicot rode back and opened their _cache_, bringing with
them its precious contents.

Never was a more delightful trip than that, but our space forbids a
detailed description. They reached "the States" in safety. Paul Chicot
settled at St. Joseph, Mo., and entered into the fur trade. He still
lives.

Duplin returned to the loyal maiden who had so long waited for him.
They, too, were happy.

And thus we leave them.


                               THE END.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note: The is no CHAPTER X. heading in original text]

       *       *       *       *       *




                          DIME POCKET NOVELS.

              PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.


     1--Hawkeye Harry. By Oll Coomes.
     2--Dead Shot. By Albert W. Aiken.
     3--The Boy Miners. By Edward S. Ellis.
     4--Blue Dick. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
     5--Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
     6--The White Tracker. By Edward S. Ellis.
     7--The Outlaw's Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
     8--The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.
     9--Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.
    10--The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
    11--The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
    12--Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.
    13--The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.
    14--Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.
    15--The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.
    16--Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.
    17--Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.
    18--Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.
    19--The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robins.
    20--The B'ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.
    21--Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.
    22--Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.
    23--Old Kent, the Ranger. By Edward S. Ellis.
    24--The One-Eyed Trapper. By Capt. Comstock.
    25--Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.
    26--The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.
    27--Single Eye. By Warren St. John.
    28--Indian Jim. By Edward S. Ellis.
    29--The Scout. By Warren St. John.
    30--Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
    31--The Mystic Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.
    32--The Golden Harpoon. By R. Starbuck.
    33--The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
    34--Old Lute. By E. W. Archer.
    35--Rainbolt, Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
    36--The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
    37--Carson, the Guide. By J. H. Randolph.
    38--The Heart-Eater. By Harry Hazard.
    39--Wetzel, the Scout. By Boynton Belknap.
    40--The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.
    41--Wild Nat, the Trapper. By Paul Prescott.
    42--Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.
    43--The White Outlaw. By Harry Hazard.
    44--The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
    45--The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    46--Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. P. Ingraham.
    47--The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    48--The Phantom Tracker. By F. Dewey.
    49--Moccasin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.
    50--The Wolf Queen. By Charles Howard.
    51--Tom Hawk, the Trailer.
    52--The Mad Chief. By Chas. Howard.
    53--The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.
    54--Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.
    55--Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.
    56--The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.
    57--Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Iliff.
    58--Cloudwood. By J. M. Merrill.
    59--The Texas Hawks. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    60--Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    61--Mad Anthony's Scouts. By E. Rodman.
    62--The Luckless Trapper. By Wm. R. Eyster.
    63--The Florida Scout. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    64--The Island Trapper. By Chas. Howard.
    65--Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    66--Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.
    67--Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.
    68--Iron-Hand. By Frederick Forest.
    69--The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.
    70--The Phantom Rider. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    71--Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.
    72--Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    73--The Skeleton Scout. By Maj. L. W. Carson.
    74--Little Rifle. By Capt. "Bruin" Adams.
    75--The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.
    76--Old Ruff, the Trapper. By "Bruin" Adams.
    77--The Scarlet Shoulders. By Harry Hazard.
    78--The Border Rifleman. By L. W. Carson.
    79--Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.
    80--Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. By R. Ringwood.
    81--Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.
    82--Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.
    83--The Specter Horseman. By Frank Dewey.
    84--The Three Trappers. By Seelin Robins.
    85--Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.
    86--The Hunter Hercules. By Harry St. George.
    87--Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    88--The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
    89--The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
    90--The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
    91--Star-Face, the Slayer.
    92--The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
    93--The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
    94--Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
    95--The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
    96--The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
    97--The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
    98--Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    99--Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
    100--Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
    101--Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    102--Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
    103--The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
    104--Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
    105--Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
    106--The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    107--Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
    108--The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    109--The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
    110--Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
    111--The Texas Tiger. By Edward Willett.
    112--The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.
    113--Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.
    114--The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.
    115--The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.
    116--Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    117--Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
    118--Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.
    119--Two-Handed Mat. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    120--Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
    121--Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.
    122--Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.
    123--The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.
    124--Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.
    125--The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    126--Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.
    127--Silverspur. By Edward Willett.
    128--Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    129--The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
    130--Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    131--Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    132--Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.
    133--The Lost Cache. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    134--The Cannibal Chief. By Paul J. Prescott.
    135--Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    136--Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.
    137--Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.
    138--Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
    139--The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.
    140--The Border Renegade. By Badger.
    141--The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.
    142--Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.
    143--Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    144--The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.
    145--The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
    146--The Silver Bugle. By Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
    147--Chinga, the Cheyenne. By Edward S. Ellis. Ready Feb. 10th.
    148--The Tangled Trail. By Major Max Martine. Ready Feb. 24th.
    149--The Unseen Hand. By J. Stanley Henderson. Ready March 9th.
    150--The Lone Indian. By Capt. Chas. Howard. Ready March 23d.
    151--The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs. Ready April 6th.
    152--Billy Bowlegs, the Seminole Chief. Ready April 20th.
    153--The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robins. Ready May 4.
    154--Red Jacket, the Huron. By Paul Bibbs. Ready May 18th.


      BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.