Front matter (continued 2)

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 somethin'! 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]

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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.