Front matter

AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS: 39.—Heart-Eater. 43.—The White Outlaw. 54.—Arkansas Jack. 66.—Rattling Dick. 71.—Delaware Tom. 77.—Scarlet Shoulders.

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

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

OUTLAW JACK; OR, THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.

CHAPTER I.

A BLOW IN THE DARK.

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

"Yes—a great one."

"For better or worse?"

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

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

"Listen—there!"

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

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

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

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

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

A few hasty words will explain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it—can it be gold?" he gasped, huskily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fer little I'd—but never mind, now. But I would like to know whar he got that—if it was gold."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it about that piece—"

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

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

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

"Wait—you'll know soon enough."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes—that is, I would if I did; but I don't," muttered Jack, lugubriously. "Well, go on, anyhow."

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

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

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

"Bah! any fool knows gold."

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

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

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

"I reckon we can, Burr?"

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

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

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

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

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

"It?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Duplin!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Desert?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

THE TELL-TALE PIPE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's murder—thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot.

"But who could—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"John Tyrrel."

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

"Burr Wythe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He was—Burr Wythe—an' a lot more," reluctantly added Chicot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it, Chicot?" gasped Upshur.

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

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

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

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

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

"But who can it be then?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

THE GOLDEN BED.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How far is it?"

"Not ten miles, as the crow flies."

"We can reach it before day, then?"

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

"Why so?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes; Duplin is captain."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hark!" muttered Burr, touching his comrades.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did you see that, boys?"

"I saw something—a shadow, or—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

MABEL GUILFORD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why do you follow this life, Paul?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But would you?"

"Yas—in a hurry, too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps not, but—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You say you have no regular guide?"

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

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

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

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

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

Mitchell could not repress a cry of horror.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That is the fact."

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

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

CHAPTER V.

WHERE WAS JACK TYRREL?

Over a bed of gold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My God! look yonder—that light!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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