With a smothered expression of rage, Henry Schulte sprang to his feet and with one blow from his right hand, planted firmly in the face of his insulter, he laid him prostrate upon the floor. Quickly recovering himself, the infuriated Nat rushed at his brawny antagonist, only to receive the same treatment, and again he went down beneath the crushing force of that mighty fist. An ox could not have stood up before the force of the blows of the sturdy farmer, much less the half-intoxicated ruffian who now succumbed to its weight.



Foaming with rage and bleeding from the wounds he had received, Nat Toner struggled to his feet the second time, and drawing a long, murderous-looking knife from his bosom, he made a frantic plunge at his assailant.

Quick as a flash, however, the iron grip of Henry Schulte's right hand was upon the wrist of the cowardly Nat, and with a wrench of his left hand the knife was wrested from him and thrown out of the window. Then Henry, unable to further restrain his angry feelings, shook his aggressor until his teeth fairly chattered, and, finally flinging him from him with an expression of loathing, said:

"Lie there, you contemptible little beast, and when next you try to be insulting, count upon your man in advance."

Saying which, and with a quiet good evening to the astonished company, he walked out of the house, and mounting his horse, rode slowly homeward.

The discomfited Nat slowly arose, and gaining his feet, glared around at his wonder-stricken friends, in whose faces, however, he failed to discover the faintest evidence of sympathy or support.

These honest, good-natured Germans were far too sensible and fair-minded to justify such an unwarrantable and unexpected insult as that which had been put upon one of their favorite friends, and consequently not one of the company lifted their voice or expressed any regrets for the punishment which Nat had so justly received. Henry had, in their opinion, acted in a manner which accorded entirely with their own views upon such matters, and much the same as they themselves would have done under similar circumstances.

Raising his clenched hand, and with face deadly pale, Nat Toner faced the silent group, and cried out, in the intensity of his passion:

"Henry Schulte shall pay dearly for this. As truly as we both live, I will have a full revenge, and in a way he little dreams of."

Uttering these words, he strode fiercely from the room, and disappeared in the darkness of the night. His companions, realizing that their pleasure for that evening was ended, silently took their leave, and wended their way to their several homes.

How well Nat Toner kept his oath will hereafter be seen, but many of the old men of Hagen yet recall with a shudder his dreadful words, and their fulfillment.



CHAPTER X.

A Curse.—Plans of Revenge.

As Nat strode onward to his home, after leaving his companions, his mind was in a chaotic state of excitement and rage. He was still smarting from the blows he had received, and the blood was flowing from his nostrils and lips. He paid no heed to this, however, for there was murder in his heart, and already his plans of revenge were being formed—plans which fiends incarnate might well shrink from, and from the execution of which even demoniac natures would have recoiled in horror.

As he walked on, the dark, lowering clouds that had been gathering overhead, broke into a terrific storm of rain; the wind whistled and howled through the valleys, and from the mountain gorges the lightning flashed with a vividness almost appalling; but, undismayed by the storm and the tempest, which seemed at that time to accord with the emotions of his own wicked heart, Nat continued on his way, which lay past the unpretending, but comfortable farm-house, where, in the peace and contentment of a happy home, Henry Schulte dwelt with his parents.

As he reached a point in the road opposite the dwelling of his hated rival, and from the windows of which the lights were gleaming cheerily, Nat stopped, and, unmindful of the drenching rain, he shook his uplifted hand at the inoffensive abode, and, in a voice choking with rage, cried:

"Curse you, Henry Schulte! Be on your guard, for if I live, you will know what it is to suffer for what you have done this night. Enjoy yourself and your victory while you can, but there will come a time when you would rather be dead than the miserable thing I will make you. Curse you! Curse you!"

Having relieved the exuberance of his passion in this manner, he silently resumed his journey, and reaching his home retired at once to his room, and throwing himself upon the bed, he gave himself up to the devilish meditations which filled his mind.

Ah, Nat Toner, far better for you, for that happy village of Hagen, and for the future happiness of two loving hearts, if to-night the lightning's flash had sent its deadly stroke through your murderous heart and laid you lifeless upon the road.

As may be imagined, the news of the encounter between Henry Schulte and Nat Toner was noised about the village, and during the next day the matter became the universal theme of conversation. It was astonishing, however, to remark the unanimity of opinion which prevailed with regard to it. The entire community with one accord united in condemning the insult and applauding its resentment; and when Nat Toner made his appearance the following day, bearing upon his face the marks of the punishment he had received, he was greeted with cold salutations and marked evidence of avoidance by those who heretofore had been disposed to be friendly, and even gracious.

This only intensified his anger at the cause of his humiliation, but he concealed his emotions and shortly afterwards returned to his home.

The anxiety of Emerence for the safety of her lover was most profound, and trembling with fear of the threatened revenge of Nat Toner, for his oath had also been repeated, she besought Henry to be watchful and cautious of his unscrupulous adversary, all of which he laughingly and assuringly promised to do. Not so much for his own security, of which he had no fear, as for the sake of the dear girl who was so solicitous for his welfare, and to whom his safety was a matter of so much importance.

The next few days passed uneventfully away, Nat remaining at home, nursing his wrath and the wounds upon his face, and Henry Schulte attending to his various duties upon the farm. The quarrel finally ceased to be a matter of remark, and the simple-minded villagers, believing that Nat's threats were only the utterances of a man crazed with drink, and smarting under the punishment he had received, quieted their fears and resumed their ordinary peaceful and contented mode of living.

To Nat Toner the days passed all too slowly, but with the slowly-moving hours, in the seclusion of his own home, and his own evil thoughts, his revenge became the one object of his life. His reckless, vagabond existence of the past few years, during which it was hinted by several of the villagers, with many shrugs of their shoulders and wise noddings of their venerable heads, he had been engaged in the service of a bold and successful French smuggler, had not tended to elevate his mind, or to humanize his disposition. His depraved nature and vicious habits were roused into full action by this encounter with Henry Schulte, and the anger of his heart was in no wise lessened, as he reflected that he had brought his injuries upon himself. All the brutal instincts of his degraded disposition were aflame, and he resolved that his revenge for the indignities that had been put upon him, should be full and complete.

With a fiendish malignity he determined to strike at the heart of his antagonist through the person of the object of his love, and by that means to be revenged upon both.



CHAPTER XI.

A Moonlight Walk.—An Unexpected Meeting.—The Murder of Emerence Bauer.—The Oath Fulfilled.

On a beautiful moonlight evening, about a week after the hostile meeting of Henry Schulte and Nat Toner, Emerence, all impatient to meet her lover, whom she had not seen for some days, and whom she fondly expected this evening, left the residence of her parents and walked towards a little stream that ran along the outskirts of the village, where she had been in the habit of meeting Henry upon the occasions of his visits.

The evening was a delightful one, and the scene one of surpassingly romantic beauty. The bright rays of the moon sparkled and danced upon the rippling water; the border of grand old trees that fringed the bank of the stream was reflected with exaggerated beauty far down among the waters; the glittering stars stole in and out among their branches, and shone in the clear crystal mirror. Now a fleecy speck of cloud floated over the face of the Queen of Night, from behind which she would soon emerge, with increased brilliancy, to dart her long arrowy beams away down to the pebbly bottom of the flowing river, kissing the fairies that the old German legends tell us dwelt there in the days of old.

Silently, but with happy heart and beaming eyes, the young girl gazed upon the scene that lay before her; then, walking to the center of the rustic bridge that spanned the stream from shore to shore, she leaned over the low railing and watched, with her mind teeming with pleasant visions of the future, her figure reflected as in a burnished mirror, upon the water beneath her.

Her sweet reverie was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and a blush illumined her face as she thought she would soon greet her coming lover, and feel his strong arms about her. Turning her head a little, she saw another shadow there so distinctly traced that she had no difficulty in recognizing it, and she started in affright as she discovered that instead of Henry Schulte, the new-comer was none other than his enemy and hers, Nat Toner.

She would have yielded to an intuitive sense of danger, and fled from the spot, but Nat stepped quickly in the way and barred her passage, lifting his hat in mock reverence as he addressed her.

"Good evening, pretty Emerence, you look like a beautiful water sprite in the rays of this bright-beaming moon."

Did she imagine it, or was there a cold, hard ring in the voice that uttered these words, which filled her heart with an aching fear, and made her lips tremble as she acknowledged his salutation?

"You are waiting for Henry Schulte, I suppose!" he continued, in the same hard, mocking tone.

Mustering up all the latent courage which she possessed, she looked up unflinchingly, as she replied:

"I do not know that anyone has a right to question me upon my movements, or to assign a reason for my actions."

"Indeed, my pretty little spit-fire! You speak truly, but Nat Toner intends to assume a right which no one else possesses," answered Nat tauntingly, while his black eyes glistened in the moonlight with a baleful light.

"I cannot stop to listen further to such language, and must bid you good evening," said Emerence, drawing herself up haughtily, and turning to leave the bridge.

"Stop where you are and listen to me," cried Nat sharply, and with his right hand he grasped the wrist of the shrinking girl.

"Nat Toner!" at last said Emerence boldly, "remove your hand from my wrist, or I will call for help, and then perhaps your conduct will meet with its just punishment."

"Utter one word, at your peril. I have something to say to you, and you must listen to me," said Nat, releasing his hold, and glaring fiercely at the brave girl who stood before him.

"I will listen to nothing further from you to-night. Stand aside and let me pass," said Emerence firmly, and again turning to leave the bridge.

"Emerence Bauer, listen to me I say. I have something to tell you that concerns that lover of yours, Henry Schulte, and you shall hear what I have to say."

At the mention of Henry's name Emerence stopped, and thinking that perhaps she might serve her lover by remaining, she said:

"I will hear you, Nat Toner, but be as brief as possible."

"Aha! for the sake of your dear Henry, you will listen to me. I thought so. Do you know that he is my enemy till death; that the insults which he has heaped upon me can only be washed away by blood; and that you, my haughty beauty, alone can satisfy the hate I bear to Henry Schulte and the revenge I have sworn against him?"

"Nat Toner, what do you mean?" tremblingly inquired the affrighted girl, unable to stir.

Ah, well might she tremble now! There was murder in the flashing of those wicked black eyes that glared upon her, and the distorted, pallid face before her showed too plainly the passions of his heart, as he answered:

"What do I mean? I will tell you! I loved you, Emerence Bauer, and I hate Henry Schulte for the insult he has put upon me. You scorn my love, and Henry Schulte must pay the penalty. He shall never possess you, for—I mean to kill you!"

With a wild shriek, that rang through the air as the cry of a frightened bird, Emerence turned to flee from the fiend before her. But, alas, too late! The murderous weapon came down with a dull, heavy crushing sound upon that fair, girlish head, and she fell lifeless at the feet of the madman who had slain her.



Without uttering a word Nat Toner lifted up the body of the unfortunate girl and threw it over the low railing of the bridge into the rippling water beneath. A splash followed that sent the water in brightly burnished crystals high in the air—and then the river flowed on, as though unconscious and uncaring for the burden that had been committed to its keeping.

Raising himself to his full height and shaking his blood-red hand in the direction of the village, Nat Toner cried out with demoniac exultation:

"Now, Henry Schulte, I am revenged!"

Saying which, he plunged into a strip of woods that grew near by, and disappeared from view.

Oh, shimmering moon, did no pitying glance fall from thy cold, bright face as this fair, young life was cruelly beaten out by the hand of her brutal assassin? Oh, glittering stars, did no dark clouds intervene between thy merry twinklings and the dreadful scene below? And ye, oh, rippling river, did no murmur escape thee as the crimson tide of this fair dead girl mingled with thy transparent waves and floated away into the darkness of the night?



CHAPTER XII.

The Search for the Missing Girl.—The Lover's Judgment.—Henry Schulte's Grief.—The Genial Farmer becomes the Grasping Miser.

Half an hour later, Henry Schulte, who had been delayed beyond his wont in the village, came walking briskly along the road that led to the abode of Emerence. His heart was gay, and a blithe, merry song rose to his lips as he journeyed along. All unconscious of the dark deed that had been committed, he stood upon the rustic bridge, where he had expected to meet his betrothed, and gazed at the beauty of the landscape that was spread before him. No sound came from that gurgling stream, to tell the impatient lover of the fate of her he loved, and little did he dream, as he stood there in quiet contemplation of the glorious night, that directly beneath his feet, with her calm, dead face upturned towards him, could be seen, through the transparent waters, the lifeless body of the fair maiden, whose head had nestled on his bosom and whose loving lips had made him happy with their kisses of love.

Ah, nevermore for thee will the bright moon shine in its translucent splendor, and never again will you know the happiness and the peace of this beautiful evening, as you waited on that bridge for her who nevermore would come to your call again.

After waiting a short time, and not hearing the footsteps of his affianced, Henry resumed his journey and soon arrived at the residence of the wealthy brewer, whose hospitable doors flew open at his knock, and the mother of Emerence stood in the low, broad passage-way.

"Where is Emerence?" quickly inquired the mother of the girl, in surprise, at seeing him alone.

"Emerence! Is she not at home?" exclaimed Henry, equally surprised.

"No," replied the mother. "She went out about an hour ago, to meet you on the way."

Henry immediately became alarmed. He had not seen her, and it seemed incredible that she could have gone to visit any friends on the evening when she expected him, and certainly not without informing her parents of the fact.

"I will go at once in search of her," he said, as he turned away from the house, and hurriedly retraced his steps towards the village, with a terrible fear for her safety pressing upon his heart.

He inquired at every house where her friends resided, but everywhere was met with a wondering negative. No one appeared to have seen her, or to know anything of her whereabouts, and at length, wearied with his fruitless inquiries, and rendered almost desperate at his want of success, he went to the village tavern, and requested the aid of his comrades in searching for the missing girl, for whose safety and happiness he would willingly have laid down his life.

In a moment all was bustle and excitement; torches were procured and the party started upon their mission, resolved to discover some clue of the missing lady before the dawning of another day. Henry was in advance, and under his direction every part of the road which led from the residence of the brewer to the village, and the adjacent woods, were carefully examined, but all with no success. No trace could be discovered, and the superstitious villagers began to regard the disappearance as a supernatural mystery.

Utterly fatigued with their bootless investigation, and saddened by the thought that some harm must have come to the innocent maiden, they reluctantly left the house of the brewer and turned their footsteps towards the village, determined to continue their search in the morning. To Henry the suspense was agonizing. He seemed almost crazed at the uncertainty which shrouded the fate of the girl he loved so dearly, and he vainly attempted to discover some solution of the awful mystery.

As the silent party were crossing the bridge, they stopped for a temporary rest before proceeding further on their way, and indulged in subdued conversation upon the mystery which thus far had defied their efforts to solve.

Suddenly they were startled by an exclamation from one of their number, who, on looking casually over the railing into the stream beneath, discovered in the bright reflection of the brilliant moon, the figure of the murdered girl lying in the shallow water. With an agonizing cry Henry sprang into the river, and in a few moments clasped the lifeless body in his strong arms and bore her to the shore.

It was too true—the pale, beautiful features that met their frightened gaze were none other than those of the village beauty—Emerence, and a stillness like that of death fell upon the assembly as they looked upon her.

At first it was supposed that she had been accidentally drowned, but upon the lights being brought, and that cruel blow upon the head being discovered, each one looked at the other, and the words burst almost simultaneously from the lips of all:

"Nat Toner!"

After the first cry which escaped him, Henry Schulte never spoke again during that painful time, but with reverent hands he smoothed the wet drapery about her shapely limbs, and closed the great staring eyes, which, when he last looked upon them, were full of love, and hope, and happiness—and then, as the men gathered up the fair form and bore it to her once happy home, he followed silently, and with faltering steps.

It had needed no words from the villagers to tell him of the author of this crime. Before they had spoken, his own mind had discovered the murderer, and he had resolved upon the course to be pursued, and when, immediately after the sad funeral rites had been performed, and the body of the fair young Emerence had been placed in the ground, Henry disappeared from the village, one and all felt that the mission he had gone upon was a righteous one, and no one disputed his right to go.

At the end of a month he returned, but with a face so changed that he was scarcely recognized. The happy light was gone forever from his eyes, and the hard stern lines about the mouth told the sad story of long suffering, and of a harsh judgment that had been fulfilled.

No one questioned him upon his journey, or its result, and he gave no explanations, but when some weeks later a party of hunters in the forests on the mountains, near Werne, discovered the lifeless body of Nat Toner, with his pistol by his side, and a bullet-hole through the low, white forehead, the villagers felt that Henry's search had not been in vain, or his revenge incomplete.

To this day no one can tell, whether, suffering the pangs of remorse, the miserable man had put an end to his own life, or whether the wound in the low, white forehead was planted there by the man whom he had so dreadfully wronged.

No inquiries were made, however, and as time passed on, the history of Nat Toner passed out of the conversations of the simple village-folk, and, save as it was occasionally recalled by some romantic and unfortunate event abroad, was never mentioned.

To Henry Schulte the record of that sad night was always present, and was never effaced from his memory. The change that was wrought in him was apparent to all. He no longer mingled with the villagers in their merry-makings, but isolated himself entirely from their meetings and their pleasures.

A few years afterwards his parents died, and his elder brother assuming the control of the farm and estates of his father, Henry removed to the farm where we now find him, and to the lowly cottage which he had occupied to the time of which we write. He became a settled misanthropist, whose only aim in life seemed to be the acquirement of wealth, and whose once genial and generous nature had now become warped into the selfishness and avarice of the miser.

So he had lived, a social hermit, until in 1845 he had become a prematurely old man, with whitened hair and furrowed brow, whose love for gold had become the passion of his life, and whose only companions were a hired man and the old violin with which, in his younger days, he was wont to make merry music at the festivals in the village, but which now was tuned to mournful harmonies "cadenced by his grief."



CHAPTER XIII.

Henry Schulte becomes the Owner of "Alten Hagen."-Surprising Increase in Wealth.—An Imagined Attack upon His Life.—The Miser Determines to Sail for America.

It was at this time that the projected railroad between Dortmund and Dusseldorf began to assume definite proportions, and as the line of the contemplated road lay through the village of Hagen, much excitement was engendered in consequence.

The people of Dortmund were building extravagant castles in the air, and wild and vague were the dreams which filled their sanguine minds as they contemplated the advantages that were to accrue to them upon the completion of this enterprise.

The contagion spread rapidly to Hagen, and the simple-minded villagers, who saw in this movement the rapid growth of their little town; the possible increase in the value of their property and the consequent augmenting of their now limited fortunes, hailed with delight the information that energetic operations would soon be begun, with the view of successfully accomplishing the desired object.

Not so, however, thought the Baron von Lindenthal, whose vast estate lay in close proximity to the village, immediately adjoining the farm owned and occupied by Henry Schulte, and through whose domain the road must necessarily pass.

To him the idea of encroaching upon the ancestral acres of a von Lindenthal, was an act of sacrilege not to be complacently submitted to. The quiet and peaceful seclusion in which he and those who had preceded him had lived, and the repose of his declining years was to be disturbed by the whistling of the locomotive and the rattle of the train. The din, and bustle and activity of trade was to be brought to his very threshold, and the ease and comfort of his aristocratic retirement would soon become a thing of the past. This must not and could not be permitted, and the blood of the patrician boiled within his noble veins as he contemplated the outrage that thus threatened him, and which was to result in laying profane hands upon his possessions. Improvements were all very well in their way, but then they must not be of such a character as to interfere with the pleasure or the luxurious ease of the Baron von Lindenthal. His comfort and happiness were things to be considered far above the material growth of a commercial town, and were not to be subordinated to the welfare of its ambitious inhabitants.

But then, as now, the march of public improvement was not to be retarded, and so, finding it impossible to successfully oppose or to prevent the building of the objectionable railroad, the incensed Baron very reluctantly determined to dispose of his baronial estates and to remove to a more congenial locality, where the encroachments of trade were not to be feared, and where, in undisturbed seclusion and retirement, he might pass the remainder of his days.

With the irascible and impetuous Baron, the formation of an opinion led to immediate action, and no sooner had he resolved to the satisfaction of his own mind to dispose of his broad acres, than he began to look about him for a purchaser.

When Henry Schulte heard of this intention of the Baron, he determined, if possible, to become the owner of this extensive demesne. His mind was sufficiently alive to the importance of this railroad movement to convince him that the real estate in proximity to the line of the road must necessarily increase in value, and he also realized the necessity of seeing the Baron without delay, in order to precede any of the railroad contractors, who would no doubt present themselves ere long.

He consequently waited upon the irate Baron on the morning following, and upon being ushered into the presence of the last of the von Lindenthals, at once broached the subject of his desire to purchase the land.

The gouty old land-owner looked with astonishment as his shabbily-dressed visitor proffered his request. He had never imagined that his unobtrusive neighbor was possessed of any money besides his farm, and the proposition to become the purchaser of "Alten-Hagen" was a complete surprise to him.

The Baron did not know of the hours of patient toil, nor of the habits of miserly economy which had enabled Henry Schulte to accumulate so large a sum of money as to warrant him in entertaining the desire to increase his estate; nor did he know that his economical neighbor could see further into the future, and better appreciate the advantages which would accrue to him from the possession of this additional property, than could their present aristocratic owner.

However, the Baron lost no time in idle speculations as to the means by which his visitor had grown wealthy. His land was for sale, a purchaser stood before him, and in a short time the wealthy miser became the owner of the Baron's land for a price entirely inadequate to the value which he received. When, a few weeks later, the question of appropriating the land and allowing the damage therefor came to be considered, the railroad company were required to treat with the miser of Hagen instead of the Baron von Lindenthal.

The wisdom and foresight displayed by Henry Schulte in becoming the purchaser of this estate was very soon clearly demonstrated, for in a very short time afterwards he received from the railroad company, as damages and for the right of way through his grounds, more than the sum he had originally paid to the impulsive Baron for the fee of the entire estate.

A few years after this several coal mines were opened in the vicinity, iron works were erected, and as Hagen became a thriving, flourishing city it naturally extended its industries. Henry Schulte's newly acquired property then became available for the erection of iron works and coal breakers, and his wealth was considerably increased by these means. A division of a part of his land into building lots, on the main road from Herdecke to Hagen, also swelled the volume of his increasing revenue. It seemed that he had suddenly fallen upon the wave of advancing fortune, for soon after this some parts of the soil being found to be of excellent quality for brick-making, he entered into arrangements with some extensive manufacturers and received a large sum for the use and occupation of his grounds for that purpose.

Thus, in a very few years, the patient, plodding, avaricious farmer found himself one of the wealthiest men in the locality. This fact, however, produced no change in his habits or his dress, nor did his mode of living undergo any improvement consequent upon the changed condition of his circumstances. This vast accumulation of money only seemed to intensify his avarice, to increase his meanness, and the desire for gain became the ruling passion of his heart and mind. He removed to the large and imposing mansion lately occupied by the Baron, but this was done simply because he could find no other occupant for it; while he could readily procure a tenant for the little cottage where he had previously resided.

The effect of his presence there was soon made manifest, and only a short time elapsed before this beautiful residence presented an appearance of negligence sadly at variance with the thrifty neatness that was everywhere apparent during the time of its occupancy by the Baron and his family. The general air of neglect and squalor surrounding it proclaimed that the habits of the miser had been too firmly grounded to be easily disturbed, and that the man remained the same, whether in the castle or the hovel.

Indeed, it seemed that his reserve and isolation became more marked, and he dressed so shabbily that he scarcely ever appeared in other than soiled and ragged garments. His heart became harder and more grasping, and the few people who had known him in his younger days, and were disposed to be friendly, soon dropped away from him, finding it impossible to endure his harshness of manner and his penurious ways.

His household now consisted of a housekeeper and a valet, the former an elderly woman, who had long been an object of charity to the people of Hagen, and whose services were procured by him at a mere nominal price, and the latter was a young, simple-minded fellow, who performed the multifarious duties of a man-of-all-work, for a stipulated sum that barely sufficed for his needs, exclusive of the daily fare which he received from the hands of his economical employer.

His administration of domestic affairs was in entire accord with his narrow-minded and contracted heart, and the servants found but little comfort while in his employ. He took sole charge of his domestic arrangements himself, and to the patient and uncomplaining Mrs. Scheller would daily furnish the meager complement of beans and potatoes which were required for the day's consumption. The balance of the store would then be religiously kept under lock and key to prevent any tendency towards extravagance on the part of those who served him.

In addition to the various other investments possessed by him, he cultivated a large portion of the land acquired from the Baron, and, being a practical farmer, thoroughly understanding the advantage of drainage, he succeeded in redeeming a great amount of land heretofore deemed worthless, and brought it to a high state of cultivation.

His farming land consisted of several hundred acres, which required the employment of many men, and the large forests, with their apparently inexhaustible timber, furnished occupation for a number of woodmen, all of whom were under the supervision of the master. Here, too, his parsimony extended, and, while no efforts were spared to improve the quality of the land, and to increase the crops that were gathered, in every other respect his miserly nature exerted itself.

The horses and cattle were lean and poorly fed, the buildings were out of repair, and a general system of rigorous and pinching economy was observed, all of which tended to the dissatisfaction of those employed by him, but which in no wise affected the firmly-grounded avarice of their employer, who every day appeared to grow more harsh and unfeeling.

He became grinding and pitiless in his dealings with those who were indebted to him, exacting full and prompt payment of all moneys due to him, without regard to the straitened circumstances of his debtors, or the destitution which frequently followed his summary means of enforcing his collections.

The various cares and anxieties attendant upon the management of his affairs were often vexatious and annoying, and as time wore on he became exceedingly captious and irritable. His ebullitions of temper, which now became quite frequent, were vented upon the innocent heads of those who labored in his service, and much dissatisfaction was engendered in consequence. He became suspicious of all who surrounded him, and imagined that every one with whom he was connected were seeking to rob him, and finally an idea took possession of his mind, which completely destroyed his peace and made his existence perfectly miserable. He imagined that his life was in danger, and that there was a conspiracy formed to murder him for his money.

So firmly did this conviction cling to him that he became intensely nervous and restless, and was scarcely able to sleep in his bed at nights. He would bolt and bar himself in his chamber so securely that it was a matter of perfect impossibility to effect an entrance, and then, still doubtful, he would be wakeful and uneasy during the long, weary hours of the night, until from sheer exhaustion he would fall into a troubled sleep, which lasted late into the morning.

Nothing occurred of a character to justify his suspicions or to increase his fears, until one morning he was awakened at a very early hour by the breaking with a loud crash of one of the windows that opened into his room. Instantly he was awake, and, springing from his bed, he rushed frantically to the window, discharged his pistol several times in succession, at the same time calling loudly for help.

His cries alarmed his valet, who slept in a room communicating with that of his master, and who hastened at once to his assistance. It was too dark to discover anything of the cause of the breaking of the glass, and as no further demonstration occurred, he succeeded in quieting the fears of his master, and restoring him to tranquillity. As soon as it was daylight, he made an investigation into the cause of this seeming attack, and an examination of the outside of the premises disclosed the fact that the alarm had been occasioned by the falling of the branch of an old tree that stood near to the house, and on which some of the limbs were withered and dead.

This discovery, however, by no means allayed his fears or dissipated his suspicions, but, on the contrary, he became so fixed in the insane idea that he would be assassinated, that his life in the old home became a burden to him, and he longed for a change of scene that would ensure ease for his mind, and safety for his body.

Henry Schulte was at this time an old man—the sixty years of his life had passed away slowly, but eventfully to him, and his whitened hair and wrinkled face betokened that age had left its indelible mark upon the once stalwart form of the Henry Schulte of days gone by. His head was generally bowed as though in deep thought, whether at home or abroad, and the broad shoulders seemed to have yielded to the weight of trouble which had come upon him in those early days. He was never seen to smile, and the hard, set lines about the mouth never relaxed, however mirthful was the scene before him, or however pleasurable the association in which he might accidentally find himself placed. His violin was his only companion during the long evening hours, and almost every night the harmonious strains of the music which he evoked from that instrument could be heard by those who journeyed upon the lonely road which passed in front of his house.

In the early fall of 1877, an incident occurred, which, in the disordered state of his mind, rendered it impossible for him to remain any longer in fancied peace and security.

One morning about daybreak a party of gunners, who were in search of game, were passing the premises occupied by Henry Schulte, when one of their number, a nephew of the old man, being the son of his elder brother, knowing his weakness in regard to being assassinated, and from a spirit of mischief which prompted him, took careful aim and fired directly through the window of the sleeping apartment of his uncle, and then quickly and laughingly passed on. The old gentleman, suddenly aroused from his slumbers, jumped up in affright, calling loudly in the excess of his terror:



"Help! Help! The villains have attempted to murder me again!"

Frank Bruner, his servant, being thus awakened, ran to the window and saw the party rapidly disappearing around a bend in the road. He recognized Bartolf Schulte as being one of the party, and informed his master of the fact.

"Mein Gott! Mein Gott!" exclaimed the old man. "My own brother's son try to take my life—this is horrible. He wants my money and he tries to kill me."

It was a long time before his violence subsided, but when at length Frank succeeded in calming his excitement and restoring him to reason, one idea seemed to have taken possession of him, and that was that he must leave his home for his own safety, and that the sooner this was accomplished the better it would be for him and for his peace of mind.

No inducement that could be offered was sufficient to disturb his resolution upon this point. No argument that could be suggested, but what was urged against this seemingly insane notion, but all to no avail. His mind was fully made up, and nothing could overcome the settled determination which he had arrived at, to get away at once from the place which threatened so much danger to his person, and in which he was in constant dread and fear.

He therefore immediately began his preparations for departure, and placing his property in the hands of a careful attorney at Hagen, he lost no time in converting his available securities into money and decided to take passage for America—a land of which he had heard so much, and which promised a rest for his over-wrought mind.

He journeyed to Hamburg, and from thence in a few days, accompanied by his servant, he took passage in a steamer, arriving in New York City, "a stranger in a strange land," in the month of August in the same year.



CHAPTER XIV.

The Arrival in New York.—Frank Bruner determines to leave the Service of his Master.—The meeting of Frank Bruner and William Bucholz.

The vagaries of the human mind under all circumstances are frequently inscrutable, but under no other influence, perhaps, is the mind so susceptible of impressions of a governing character from unimportant causes as it is when controlled by the fear of personal safety.

It would readily be imagined that Henry Schulte, whose mind was filled with vague but distressing apprehensions for his life, could have found refuge, safe and unassailable, within the broad domain of his own native land, and that he might have considered himself free from impending danger if he could have placed even a short distance between himself and those whom he believed to be his mortal enemies. This, however, he found it impossible to do and rest contented; so, resisting all the arguments that were urged by his faithful but overtaxed servant and companion, and believing that his only safety lay in his getting away from his native land, he persisted in coming to America, where he felt assured he would be free from persecution, and where, in the quiet and repose of rural retirement, his peace of mind would be undisturbed.

That these fears must have been deeply-grounded there can be no doubt, for this old man, in leaving the home of his childhood and the many scenes which were endeared to him by the close association of early friendship and experience, turned his back upon the spot where he had first seen the light of day, and where he had grown from youth to manhood. Here, too, the joy and sorrow of his life had come to him, and in the little churchyard of the village, beneath the waving trees, reposed all that was mortal of the one great love of his life.

Stolid and seemingly indifferent, so far as outward evidence gave any demonstration, of the many tender associations surrounding him, he left his native village and set off upon the long journey that was to end in his death. Speeding away from the imagined assassin, he journeyed directly to the presence and companionship of the man who was to slay him.

Taking passage upon a steamer bound for America, they were soon riding upon the broad bosom of the Atlantic, and after an uneventful voyage landed safely in New York.

Not one of the many passengers of the vessel, or among the crowd that stood upon the pier and watched their disembarking, would for a moment have supposed that this old man, whose face gave evidence of the years through which he had passed, whose clothing showed too plainly the marks of long and hard usage, and whose general appearance resembled that of a beggar, was the possessor of wealth enough to render any of them independent of the world. Nor would they have thought that the worn and frequently-patched coat he wore concealed a sum of money equalling nearly a hundred thousand dollars. Yet such was the fact; for upon his person he carried fully this amount of money, most of which was in German mark bills, easily convertible into American money; and which, should the fact become known, would have been sufficient to excite the cupidity of many of them, who would not hesitate to attempt the operation of relieving him of his hoarded wealth, and who might, perhaps, scarcely consider an old man's life of sufficient importance to successfully interfere with their possessing themselves of his money.

He had jealously guarded his secret and his treasure, and although his sleep was frequently disturbed by startling visions of robbery and murder, not one of the many who surrounded him suspected for an instant the wealth that he possessed.

To his servant he was generally reticent, but not so excessively secretive, for Frank Bruner was well-informed of the extent of his master's treasures, although he was not fully aware of the amount he had brought with him.

Poor Frank led a miserable existence on that passage to New York, and many times after he had settled himself in his berth for a comfortable night's sleep he would be rudely awakened by his nervous and suspicious master, who was continually imagining that somebody was forcing an entrance into his state-room. He would start up with affright, and nothing would allay his fears but a rigid examination of the premises, which invariably resulted in finding nothing of a suspicious or fear-inspiring nature.

Many times, upon remonstrating with his master about the groundlessness of his fears, he would be made to feel the heaviness of his hand, and chastisements were the reward of his devotion so frequently that his usually submissive spirit began to rebel, and Frank resolved to leave the service of so peculiar and so thankless a master upon the first favorable opportunity that presented itself.

The journey, as we have said, was made in safety, and Henry Schulte, with his wealth intact, arrived in New York, and, seeking a quiet, comfortable hotel, he was directed to "THE CRESCENT," where he soon wended his way, and to which he directed his servant to have his trunks conveyed without delay.

The hotel which he had selected was a German boarding-house, of modest dimensions and of unpretentious appearance. Over its doorway swung the faded sign of the Crescent, and over its destinies presided the portly, good-natured landlord, who dispensed the creature comforts to the limited number of guests who lodged beneath his roof.

Henry Schulte entered the little room of the hotel which was used as a bar-room, and, paying no attention to the other occupants, he seated himself at one of the tables, ordered a bottle of wine, which he proceeded to drink slowly until nearly finished, after which he pushed the bottle and glass towards his thirsty and longing servant and bade him consume the balance.

Seated around the room in various attitudes, but all engaged in the occupation of smoking and drinking, were a number of men, all inmates of the hotel, and all Germans, to whom the old man's appearance naturally gave occasion for considerable curiosity.

Several attempts were made to cultivate his acquaintance and to interrogate him upon the incidents of his passage over, but all of no avail. He maintained a reserve that was impossible to overcome; his answers were given in monosyllables, and, as but little encouragement was given to friendly converse, he was finally left alone to enjoy his musings.

At an early hour of the evening he signified his intention of retiring, and, accompanied by his servant, he left the room and shortly afterwards went to bed.

After attending to the requirements of the old gentleman, Frank Bruner returned to the bar-room and joined the group sitting around the table. His mind was fixed upon leaving a service that was distasteful to him, and in which he was made to feel the hand of the master too frequently and too heavily to be borne longer with submission or silence. He was anxious, therefore, to make some inquiries in regard to a change of position from those whom he supposed would be acquainted with the facts he was desirous of learning.

While they were thus conversing, a young man entered, and after saluting those present in a careless, off-hand manner, he seated himself among them. He was a tall, broad-shouldered young German, with blonde hair and smoothly-shaven face; his eyes were large and of a light blue color. His cheek-bones were rather prominent, and when he laughed he displayed his teeth, which, being somewhat decayed, gave a rather unpleasant expression to the countenance, otherwise he was what might have ordinarily been considered a good-looking fellow.

Upon seating himself, he was jocularly questioned by one of the number, in reference to some young lady, who was evidently known to them all.

"Ah, William, how did you find the lovely Clara this evening?" inquired his friend, in German.

William Bucholz, for that was the name of the new-comer, shrugged his shoulders, and with an amused expression upon his face, answered:

"Oh, as well as usual, and quite as charming."

And then, perceiving the presence of Frank, he looked inquiringly at his friends, and added: "Whom have we here?"

"A young man who has just arrived from Germany," was the reply.

Bucholz immediately arose, cordially shook hands with the stranger, and engaged him in conversation.



CHAPTER XV.

The History of William Bucholz.—An Abused Aunt who Disappoints His Hopes.—A Change of Fortune.—The Soldier becomes a Farmer.—The Voyage to New York.

William Bucholz had been an inmate of the hotel for several weeks prior to this time, having arrived from Germany in the latter part of July. He was somewhat of a favorite with the people with whom he associated, and being of a free and jovial disposition had made many friends during his limited residence in the city. As he is to bear an interesting part in the sequence of this narrative a few words may not be out of place in regard to his antecedents.

The father of Bucholz, who was a veterinary surgeon of some prominence in Schweigert, had reared his children in comparative comfort, and had provided them with a liberal education.

The early years of young Bucholz had been spent with an uncle, who was very fond of him, and delighted to have him near his person. This uncle was a brother of his father, and very late in life had married a lady of large fortune, but whose appearance was not at all prepossessing. As William grew into manhood he entered the army and became connected with the "Brunswick Hussars."

Here he distinguished himself principally by leading a life of dissipation and extravagance, which made him an object of remark in his regiment. There were many wild spirits among his comrades, but none who displayed such an irrepressible and reckless disposition as William Bucholz. His uncle, loving him as a son, and whose union had been blessed with no children, forgave his follies and liquidated his debts without a murmur, but shook his head frequently in a doubtful manner, as rumors reached him of some new exploit in which William had been a leading spirit, or some fresh scandal in which he was a prominent participant.

The family of Bucholz, with that weakness which sometimes characterizes the relative of the wealthy, soon began to display a coolness and dislike toward the wife of the uncle, and as no children were born to them, they looked forward with certainty to inheriting the vast wealth of their childless relative, without seeming to regard the rights or interests of the wife, who, in Germany as well as in America, frequently exercises a potent influence in the disposition of her husband's affairs.

That this conduct was displeasing to the woman who had brought so much wealth into the family may readily be imagined, and being possessed of sufficient spirit to resent the affronts put upon her, she did not tamely submit to be thus ignored by the supercilious relatives of her husband, but determined to be revenged upon them in a manner which she knew would be complete and satisfactory to herself.

Among her numerous friends was the widow of a captain of hussars, who had been in the same regiment with Bucholz, but who had died a short time before, leaving his sorrow-stricken wife without sufficient income for her support, and with the care of an only son who had been born to them in their brief married life. To this lady William's aunt immediately offered her house as a home, and promised to take care of her child's education and provide for its future. This offer was gratefully accepted by the bereaved and impecunious widow, who, with her child, soon became domiciled beneath the roof of the uncle and the socially abused aunt.

As the boy grew into years he displayed so many traits of a noble, manly character and of a fond and loving disposition, that the hearts of the aged couple instinctively warmed towards him with an abiding affection, and the mother dying soon after, he was formally adopted by them.

The uncle continued, however, to supply the wants of his prodigal and degenerate nephew, but they increased so enormously that he was forced to remonstrate with the young man upon the recklessness of his conduct. His remonstrances were met with a spirit of impertinence and defiance that angered the old gentleman to such an extent that he declined at once to pay any further debts of his nephew's contracting, and limited his allowance to a sum which, while sufficiently large to provide for his actual needs, afforded no opportunities for lavish outlays or indiscreet dissipations.

This action excited the ire of William and his family, who did not hesitate to ascribe it to the promptings of the wife, whom they had so consistently ignored, and whose feelings they had so frequently outraged.

The relations between the brothers ceased to be friendly, and an estrangement took place which was increased by the family of Bucholz, who spoke every where in the most disrespectful terms of the wife of the brother.

While matters were in this position the uncle was suddenly attacked with a malady which resulted in his death. After the funeral the will was opened, and it was found, to the mortification and disappointment of his relatives, that instead of leaving to them the bulk of his large fortune, he had bequeathed the major portion to his adopted son, and had only left the sum of twenty thousand dollars to be divided equally among the six children of his brother.

If the widow had desired to be revenged, she had succeeded admirably in her wishes, and the solemn countenances of the disappointed Bucholzes, as they wended their way homeward after the reading of the will, from which they had hoped so much, would have been full satisfaction for the years of insult she had been compelled to endure from them during the life of her husband.

This disposition of the estate of the uncle was a severe blow to those who had so confidently expected to have been enriched by his death, and produced a marked change in their manner of living. The bright, airy castles which they had builded, faded away—their hopes of prospective wealth were rudely dissipated, and the necessity for facing the actual position of affairs stared them in the face. William could no longer be permitted to lead the idle life of a soldier, and one and all would be compelled to labor for themselves. It was a bitter awakening from a bright dream, but the man of their hopes was dead, and their regrets were unavailing.

Bucholz, therefore, obtained an extended leave of absence, and in a short time entered into an engagement with an extensive farmer to learn the science of agriculture, and became domiciled beneath the roof of his employer and instructor. The dull routine of a farmer's life was, however, illy suited to his impulsive disposition, and although he had no manual labor to perform, he soon grew tired of the monotony of his existence and longed for a change.

He had read of the wonderful success which attended the efforts of some of his countrymen who had emigrated to Australia, that arcadia of the agriculturist, and burning with a desire to seek his fortune in the new land of promise, he began to make inquiries of the place, its products, and of the possibilities of successful operations while there.

All the information which he gleaned was of such a character as to fill his mind with ambitious projects, and a desire to make his fortune in that far-off country, and he resolved to undertake the journey.

His preparations were soon made, and ere many days he was afloat upon the heaving ocean, bound for New York, where he was informed he could procure a sailing vessel direct to Australia, at a cost much less than he could by any other process of travel.

Arriving without accident in New York, he had taken up his quarters at "The Crescent Hotel," and proceeded to make inquiries concerning the continuance of his journey.

To his disappointment, however, he discovered that no vessels were likely to sail from New York directly to Australia, and the limited means he had brought with him were insufficient for the expense necessary to travel overland to a point of embarkation. He was therefore compelled to delay his journey until he could receive sufficient funds to enable him to continue farther. He immediately wrote to his family for the money he required, and it was while awaiting their reply that he met Frank Bruner, the servant of Henry Schulte, whose acquaintance was destined to produce such a marked and dramatic effect upon his future life.



CHAPTER XVI.

Frank leaves the Service of his Master.—A Bowery Concert Saloon.—The departure of Henry Schulte.—William Bucholz enters the employ of the old gentleman.

We left William Bucholz and Frank Bruner in conversation at "The Crescent Hotel." The young Hussar who had been reared in luxury, whose life until this time had been a round of pleasure and gayety, and who had come to America to seek his fortune—and the servant of the strange and silent old man who had crossed the sea to escape the imagined dangers which threatened him and to find peace and comfort in his declining years.

"You have just come over from Germany, I understand," said Bucholz, addressing his companion in German.

"Just arrived to-day," replied Bruner.

"Did you come alone?"

"Oh, no; I came with the old gentleman who has just gone to bed."

"Have you been long with him?"

"Long enough to want to get away from him," was the reply.

"What is the reason?" inquired Bucholz, with some indication of surprise and curiosity.

"Well, he does not use me properly, and I have grown tired of his abuse," answered Frank, sullenly.

After further questioning him, Bucholz learned the story of the old man's eccentricities, the fact of his large possessions, and the probability of his extending his travels as far West as California.

"I would not leave him," said Bucholz, after Frank had finished his narrative; "he may not live very long, and he will no doubt do something handsome for you."

"I don't care for that," replied Frank Bruner; "I would not continue many days longer in his service even if I knew that he would leave me all his money."

At that moment the sound of a cane struck angrily upon the floor above them admonished Frank that his master desired his services, and also that he was in no pleasant humor.

"There he goes!" cried Frank, "and I must go to him or I shall feel the weight of his stick. Good-night."

"Good-night!" said Bucholz, extending his hand, "I will see you again in the morning."

The young man turned and left the room, and Bucholz seated himself apart from the rest of the company, apparently lost in profound meditation. Shortly after, he roused himself, as with an effort, and bidding his comrades good-night he went up stairs to his room.

He did not immediately retire, however, but sat up until a late hour, revolving in his mind the information which he had just received and debating with himself as to his future course of action.

The result of this mental consultation appeared satisfactory to him, and he undressed himself and went to bed. He would encourage Frank to leave his distasteful employment, and he would offer himself as an applicant for the vacant position. He had no fears of the result, and felt no anxiety about the probabilities of his being made the subject of the old man's castigations. If the old gentleman designed going to California he would be so much nearer to the coveted place of his ambitious dreams, and he could very easily submit to temporary discomforts in order to secure the practical benefits which he so much desired. With this comforting reflection he closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep.

In the morning he again met Frank Bruner, and the conversation of the night before was continued. Bucholz, without seeming to be anxious upon the subject, adroitly led the unsuspecting servant on in his dislike for his occupation, and he succeeded so well that before the day was passed, Frank had firmly resolved to inform Henry Schulte of his plans and of his intention to leave his service.

In the evening, immediately after supper, he communicated his intention to his master, who received it with violent manifestations of disappointment and anger, and almost instantly retired to his room, locked his door, thereby denying admission to Frank, who was prepared to serve his irate master until he could provide himself with another servant.

Finding himself left to his own resources, Frank cordially accepted an invitation to take a stroll with his newly-found associate, and putting on his hat he linked his arm in that of Bucholz, and they left the hotel together.

Walking slowly on they soon came to the brilliantly-lighted thoroughfare in the Bowery, known as Chatham Street, and here their ears were saluted with the sounds of music, which emanated from the illuminated saloons, which lined the sidewalks at frequent intervals.

Frank gazed with curious eyes at this phase of New York life, so new and startling to one whose early years had been passed in the rural simplicity of a German peasant, and as Bucholz stopped before one of these places and asked him if he would like to go inside, he made not the slightest objection. Quietly following his guide they found themselves within the walls of one of those gilded palaces of sin, that have so often proved the avenues through which many unsuspecting young men have entered upon a life of shame and dishonor.

To Frank, however, the scene was novel and exciting, the music was exhilarating, and the "pretty waiter girls" were objects of curiosity and unfeigned admiration. Pushing their way through the crowded assembly, where men and women were engaged in drinking and indulging in loud and boisterous laughter, they reached a position in front of a stage that had been erected in the rear end of the hall, and before which hung a gaudily-painted curtain, which hid from the spectators the mysteries and perhaps the miseries that lay beyond.

Bucholz appeared to be perfectly at home among this mixed assemblage, and nodded familiarly to right and left in recognition of numerous friends and acquaintances. Presently a buxom-looking German girl, whose rosy cheeks and rotund figure gave evidence that her life in this place had been of short duration, advanced towards them, and, seating herself beside Bucholz, bade him good evening, in a tone of familiarity which betokened a long, or, at least, a well-understood acquaintance.



To the young man who accompanied Bucholz there seemed to be a fascination in the glitter of his present surroundings, and he instinctively began to feel envious of his more fortunate companion, who appeared so much at his ease, and whose intimacy with the Teutonic siren was so much to be admired.

During the progress of the mixed entertainment that followed, in which dancing and singing, banjo playing, and a liberal display of the anatomy of the female "artists" formed the principal features, they sipped their beer and applauded loudly the efforts of those who ministered to their enjoyment.

Upon the conclusion of the performance, they returned to their hotel, and Frank Bruner's mind was more firmly settled in his determination to leave the service of Henry Schulte, and to find employment in the city, where such pleasures would be open to him at all times.

On their walk homeward to the hotel Frank again mentioned his resolve to Bucholz.

"I think you are very foolish," was the reply. "The old man has lots of money, and if I was in your place I would do very different."

Frank was immovable, however, and the words of his companion produced no effect upon his mind.

The next morning Mr. Schulte endeavored in vain to induce Frank to change his determination, and at last, finding it impossible to do so, he paid him the amount that was due to him and dispensed, rather reluctantly, with his further services.

A few days after this, having completed the business which detained him in New York, the old gentleman announced his intention of departing, and, having his baggage transferred to the coach, he started for the depot, leaving Frank behind him, who now half regretted having so suddenly sundered his relations with his eccentric employer.

Bucholz's opportunity had now arrived, and jumping into the coach, he took his seat beside the old gentleman, whose acquaintance he had cultivated during his brief sojourn at the hotel.

"You are going away, Mr. Schulte?" said Bucholz.

The old man nodded his head affirmatively, but made no audible reply.

"Which way are you going?" asked Bucholz, unabashed by the manner of the other.

"I am going down to South Norwalk, in Connecticut, to buy a farm which was advertised for sale there," answered Mr. Schulte.

"Where is Frank?" asked Bucholz, as though in ignorance of their separation. "Is he not going with you?"

"Frank is no longer in my employ. I have discharged him, and he must now look out for himself."

"Don't you want somebody to take his place?" said Bucholz, eagerly.

"Yes, but I will get some one down there, I guess," replied the old man, as though he did not desire to talk any further about his affairs.

"Don't you think I would suit you, Mr. Schulte? I have nothing to do, and would be very glad to take the place," urged Bucholz. The old gentleman looked up in surprise at this question, and said:

"You would not come for such wages as I would pay."

He named a sum ridiculously small, but Bucholz announced his perfect willingness to accept the position at the remuneration offered.

The old gentleman revolved the question in his mind for a few moments, gazing somewhat suspiciously at the young man the while, and at length said to Bucholz, who was anxiously awaiting his decision:

"Well, you may come along and see how you will like it. If it does not suit you, you can return, and we can make our arrangements afterward."

The matter was thus disposed of, and William Bucholz journeyed to South Norwalk with his employer. The gay soldier had become the humble servant, the prospective farmer had been transformed into the obsequious valet.

These two men had journeyed across the seas, for a far-off land, and thus had strangely met. The web of fate had woven itself around their two lives, and the compact this day made was only to be severed by the death, sudden and mysterious, of the eldest party to the agreement.

Who could have told that before many months had rolled away, that old man would have been brutally beaten to death, and that the bright-faced young man who sued for his favor would be sitting in a lonely cell under the dreadful charge of committing the foul deed!

Perhaps could either have glanced with prophetic vision into the future, their paths, by mutual consent, would have widely diverged, and their intimacy have ceased forever on that August afternoon.



THE DETECTION.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Detective.—His Experience and His Practice.—A Plan of Detection Perfected.—The Work is Begun.

The detective occupies a peculiar position in society, and is a prominent actor in many scenes of which the general public can have no knowledge. In his breast may be locked the secrets of many men who stand in proud pre-eminence before the public, and who are admired and respected for the possession of virtues that are but the cloak with which they hide the baser elements of their dispositions.

The canting hypocrite, whose voice may be loudest in chapel or meeting-house, and whose sanctimonious air and solemn visage will cover the sins of his heart to the general observer, is well known to the detective, who has seen that same face pale with apprehension, and has heard that same voice trembling with the fear of exposure.

That dapper young gentleman, who twirls his moustache and swings his cane so jauntily upon the promenade, is an object of admiration to many; but to the man who knows the secrets of his inner life another scene is opened, and he remembers when this same exquisite walked the cell of a prison—a convict guilty of a crime.

Through all the various grades of society the detective has wended his way, and he has looked into men's hearts when infamy stared them in the face and dishonor impended over them.

His experience has rendered him almost incapable of surprise, or mobility of feeling. He is ever watchful for the deceptiveness of appearances, ever prepared to admit everything, to explain everything, and to believe nothing—but what he sees.

The judicial officer, with the nicety and legal acumen of a thorough jurist, applies the technicalities of the law to the testimony submitted to him, but the detective observes with caution, and watches with suspicion all the odious combinations and circumstances which the law with all the power at its command cannot successfully reach.

He is made the unwilling, but necessary recipient of disgraceful details; of domestic crimes, and even of tolerated vices with which the law cannot deal.

If, when he entered upon his office, his mind teemed with illusions in regard to humanity, the experience of a year has dissipated them to the winds.

If he does not eventually become skeptical of the whole human race, it is because his experience has shown him that honor and vice may walk side by side without contamination; that virtue and crime may be closely connected, and yet no stain be left upon the white robe of purity, and that while upon the one hand he sees abominations indulged in with impunity, upon the other, he witnesses a sublime generosity which cannot be weakened or crushed. The modest violet may exhale its fragrance through an overgrowth of noxious weeds—and humanity bears out the simile.

He sees with contempt the proud bearing of the impudent scoundrels who are unjustly receiving public respect, but he sees also with pleasure many heroes in the modest and obscure walks of life, who deserve the rich rewards which they never receive.

He has so often pierced beneath the shining mask of virtue and discovered the distorted visage of vice, that he has almost reached a state of general doubtfulness until results shall demonstrate the correctness of his theories. He believes in nothing until it is proven—not in absolute evil more than in absolute good, and the results of his teachings have brought him to the conclusion that not men but events alone are worthy of consideration.

A knowledge of human nature is as necessary to him as that he shall have eyes and ears, and this knowledge experience alone can give.

In my eventful career as a detective, extending over a period of thirty years of active practice, my experience has been of such a character as to lead me to pay no attention to the outward appearance of men or things. The burglar does not commit his depredations in the open light of day, nor in the full view of the spectator. Nor does the murderer usually select the brilliantly-lighted highway to strike the fatal blow. Quietly and secretly, and with every imagined precaution against detection, the criminal acts, and it is only by equally secretive ways that he can be reached.

Weeks and months may elapse before he is finally brought to bay, but I have never known it to fail, at least in my experience, that detection will follow crime as surely as the shadow will follow a moving body in the glare of sunlight.

From the facts collected by my operatives, and from every other available source, I was now put into possession of every point in the case of the murder of Henry Schulte, that could be arrived at, and we were prepared to define a plan of operation, which, if strictly adhered to, bore the impress of promised success.

An old man had been foully murdered, and his body had been robbed of a large sum of money. Money, therefore, was the cause of the murder, and the recovery and identification of this would undoubtedly lead to the discovery of the criminal.

The matter, with all its attendant facts, was placed in the hands of Mr. Bangs, my general superintendent, and of my son, Robert A. Pinkerton, who resolved to succeed in the undertaking if success were possible.

The details of our proposed line of action were submitted to the German Consul-General and to the State's attorney, Mr. Olmstead. The former, while expressing doubts of the expediency of the plan proposed, determined finally to allow us to pursue such course as in our judgment was advisable, while the latter gentleman signified his hearty approval, as it accorded in many respects with a plan which he had previously thought feasible in this very matter.

Our relations with these gentlemen were of a nature somewhat peculiar. The German Consul was acting in a double capacity, and had two interests to serve. He represented the heirs of the murdered man, and in that relation he was desirous of recovering the money that had been stolen, as well as discovering who the murderer was and bringing him to justice. At the same time, he was expected to render whatever assistance that was in his power to the unfortunate man who stood accused of the crime, and who was also a native of Germany, requiring his protection. The German Consul also entertained a well-grounded faith in the innocence of Bucholz, and desired that every fact that would substantiate this opinion should be discovered and used for his benefit.

The State's attorney, on the contrary, was firmly established in his belief that the murder had been committed by Bucholz, and none other, and his desire was that this theory should be proved beyond the possibility of doubt, in order that he, as the prosecuting officer of the State, should be enabled to uphold the dignity of outraged law, and to bring the guilty man to the justice which he believed was so richly merited.

It was determined, therefore, after a conference with these gentlemen, that my agents should pursue the investigation in such a manner as seemed best, and which gave greatest promise of eventual success.

Armed with this double authority, our arrangements were soon made, and active operations were instituted. Whether our efforts resulted in victory or defeat, the sequel will prove.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A Detective Reminiscence.—An Operation in Bridgeport in 1866.—The Adams Express Robbery.—A Half Million of Dollars Stolen.—Capture of the Thieves.—One of the Principals Turns State's Evidence.—Conviction and Punishment.

When a great crime has been committed the public mind experiences a sensation of horror. Imaginative persons are busy in the formation of all sorts of fancies with regard to the perpetrators. His probable appearance, gigantic proportions and horrible aspect are duly commented upon, and exaggeration invariably takes the place of fact in such estimations. In the majority of cases that have come under my notice the personal appearance of the criminal belied the possibility of his guilt.

The verdant spectator is frequently amazed to find the apparent gentleman, attired with the precision of the tailor's art, with immaculate linen, and of delicate, and sometimes refined appearance arraigned for the crime of robbery or murder.

Many times I have seen the eager spectator in a court-room, looking vainly among the group of lawyers before the bar, for the monster they have conjured up in their imaginations, and finally settling upon some sharp-featured, but unimpeachable attorney as the malefactor, indulge in wise reflections as to the impossibility of mistaking a rogue from his appearance.

I have seen their start of surprise as the real criminal, genteel, cool and gentlemanly, would rise from his seat and plead to the indictment that would be read to him, and their solemn shake of the head as their wise reflections were scattered to the winds.

My first experience with the town of Bridgeport was particularly suggestive of these reflections. I was engaged in a detective operation in which the Adams Express Company were the sufferers, having been robbed of a large amount of money, and, as the robbery took place in the vicinity of that city, the thieves, whom I succeeded in capturing, were confined in the jail there.

The affair occurred during the first week of January, 1866, and the facts were as follows:

On the night of the sixth of January, in the year just mentioned, the public mind was startled by the announcement that the Adams Express Company had been robbed of over a half million of dollars, by the thieves breaking into the car in which their valuables were placed, prying open the safes, and abstracting over six hundred thousand dollars, in notes, bonds and other valuable securities.

The train to which the car was attached had left New York for Boston at eight o' clock in the evening, and it was not until arriving at New Haven that the depredation was discovered.

The dismay of the company's officials may be imagined when, on entering the car at the latter place, the fractured safes met their astonished gaze. A marlin spike, three dark lanterns and a sledge hammer which lay beside them, told too plainly how the work had been accomplished, but it furnished no clue as to how, or when, or by whom.

The car was of the ordinary size of a box freight car, built with an iron frame, sheathed over with thick sheet iron plates, rivetted strongly together, and so closely made that a light placed inside could not be seen when the doors were closed. A messenger always accompanied this car, but he usually sat in the baggage car of the train, and as the train did not make any stoppages between New York and New Haven, it was only at this time that the theft was discovered by the entrance of the messenger.

It further appeared that the company's safes were taken from the depot in New York and placed in the iron car, which was waiting upon a side-track, and which was immediately afterwards attached to the train.

The safes having been placed in the car, the door was securely locked, and, as the train was then ready to start, the agent of the company gave the word "All right!" The train started and sped upon its journey, and nothing further was known until its arrival at New Haven and the discovery of the theft.

I was immediately notified of the matter, and after a careful observation of the safes and an investigation into the facts of the case, I thought I detected the handiwork of a party of young thieves whom I had accidentally encountered in another operation in which I had been engaged some months previously.

Operatives were immediately despatched in various directions, and the movements of the suspected parties were carefully but unobservedly watched. Very soon after, I succeeded in running down two of the parties, named John Tristram and Thomas Clark, and upon arresting them each one had in his possession a gold watch, both of which were identified as stolen property. They were accordingly conveyed to Bridgeport and held to await their trial.

Mr. Wells, the genial and efficient keeper of the prison, whose acquaintance I had previously made, received the prisoners and securely fastened them up.

A few days following this, an old resident of Norwalk, who was also an uncle of one of the men arrested, was observed by one of my men, carrying a package of unusual weight from his residence to the house of a sister of Tristram in New York City, and an examination of the house resulted in finding nearly eighty seven thousand dollars of the stolen treasure. The old man was arrested, but developments proved too plainly that he was only acting as a mere blind messenger for the other parties, and he was accordingly discharged.

The trial of the two men, which subsequently took place at Bridgeport, was attended by a large array of New York burglars, shoplifters and pick-pockets—all friends of the criminals. They were closely watched, as it was feared that they intended making some attempt to rescue the prisoners. This precaution proved not to have been in vain, for during the sitting of the court an attempt was made to purloin an iron box in which most of the testimony intended for use in the case, was kept. This was fortunately discovered in time, and many of the individuals concerned in it left town immediately.

On the trial Tristram pleaded guilty and was sentenced to a term of imprisonment of three years and six months.

From the evidence upon the part of the company, it appeared that the money in the safes was in four separate pouches, and consisted mainly of currency belonging to banking institutions, and all of which lacked the signatures of the bank officers to give it full character as money.

The amounts taken were as follows:

From the Washington Pouch, $278,000.00 From the Baltimore Pouch, 150,000.00 From the Philadelphia Pouch, 100,000.00 From the New York Pouch, 150,000.00 ————— $678,000.00

The two watches that were found upon the prisoners and identified as stolen from the safes, were designed as gifts, and were being carried by the company for delivery to the friends of the givers in Boston.

Clark stood trial alone and was found guilty of only one count of the information against him, and his counsel obtained a stay of proceedings.

I was now determined to capture the other members of the gang, and my arrangements were made accordingly. I suspected an individual named James Wells as being a participant in the robbery, and therefore made him the principal object of attack.

Wells was living at home with his mother at that time, and I succeeded in introducing one of my operatives into the house as a boarder. This operative cultivated the acquaintance of James, and proved a very agreeable companion indeed, while by the female members of the family he was regarded as one of the most pleasant boarders imaginable. The work was admirably accomplished, and he obtained all the information that was necessary to enable me to act intelligently and actively in the matter.

Prompt arrests followed, and Martin Allen, James Wells, Gilly McGloyn, Eddy Watson and John Grady were pounced upon and conveyed to prison.

Thus far the evidence obtained had been of a character sufficient to warrant an arrest, but hardly of convincing force to justify a conviction upon a trial by jury.

Most of the stolen property had been recovered, and I finally decided to make an onslaught upon the weak points of Clark, the man previously arrested, and now awaiting the new trial which had been granted in his case.

Accordingly I visited the jail and had an interview with this individual, who did not, at first, appear at all delighted with the visit. In a short time, however, I had gained entire control of the man, and he became like wax in my hands. He made a full confession of the robbery, and declared his readiness to become a witness for the prosecution. Having accomplished my purpose, I announced to the officers of the State my readiness to proceed to trial, and my sanguine hopes of a full conviction of the parties implicated.

The trial took place shortly afterwards in Danbury, and I do not remember ever to have seen a more gentlemanly-looking array of prisoners before a bar of justice.

They were all dressed in the most exquisite style, and deported themselves in a manner far from what would ordinarily be expected from men engaged in professional criminal pursuits.

During the trial the Court House was thronged by the fair sex of Danbury, whose sympathetic hearts were profoundly touched at the sight of these gentlemanly-appearing rascals. The attendance was further augmented by the appearance of many of their friends, both male and female, who came from New York to witness the proceedings and offer their loving consolations to the unfortunates.

The alarm of these sympathetic friends reached a culminating point when the prosecuting attorney arose in his place and announced that he would place upon the stand one of the principals in the robbery, who would unfold the plot and its successful execution. Each prisoner looked at the other, and angry, suspicious glances flashed from the eyes of them all. Threats were whispered audibly among their friends, but no demonstration took place, and the silence in the court-room became painfully oppressive as the State's attorney, after finishing his address to the jury, called the name of Thomas Clark.

The prisoner took the stand, and, unabashed by the angry glances that were directed towards him, he told the story of the robbery in a plain, straightforward manner, that carried conviction to the minds of both judge and jury.

The testimony which he gave was as follows:

"My connection with this robbery commenced on or about the 20th of December last (1865), at which time I met Martin Allen at a saloon in New York City. It was on that occasion that he told me that his brother-in-law, James Wells, who resided in Brooklyn, had an acquaintance named Gilly McGloyn, and that Gilly had a brother-in-law named Grady, who was a brakeman on the express train of the New York and New Haven Railroad, which left New York at 8 o'clock in the evening. He also said that Grady wanted McGloyn to get somebody to help throw the safes out of that train. McGloyn went to Wells on purpose to inform him, and Wells told him of it, and Allen told me.

"The next day Allen, Wells, McGloyn and Grady met me at Lafayette Hall, on Broadway, about the 21st of December. At that time Grady exhibited a piece of soap which contained an impression of a key-hole in the lock of the Adams Express car. In the course of the conversation which ensued at that time, Grady said that there were two messengers who looked after the Adams Express cars alternately, one on each alternate night. He said that the most careless of the two messengers was named Moore, and that his evenings from New York were Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. Grady said he thought any one of those evenings would be the best to select for the purpose of committing the robbery.

"Some time afterward, on a night when Moore had charge of the express car, I got on the train at Forty-second street, and went into the smoking car. There was a man there busy making a fire in the stove, and in a few moments Grady came into the car, and in order to signalize to me who Moore was, slapped the man on the back, saying, 'Billy Moore, you don't know how to make a fire.'

"The place which I selected as the proper point for throwing off the safes was between Coscob Bridge and Stamford. I hit upon that spot for the purpose, because at that point the distance between stoppages was short, being only three miles from Coscob Bridge to Stamford. I left the train at Bridgeport, where I stopped at the Atlantic Hotel, near the depot, all night. I returned to New York by the 10 o'clock train next morning. I think it was the same day that the parties I have named had another meeting at Lafayette Hall.

"It was at that time we arranged a plan for getting the safes out at Forty-second street, where we got the size of the lock of the express car. Next day Allen and myself visited nearly every hardware store in New York for the purpose of purchasing a lock similar to that on the car. The nearest to it in appearance was found in a store on Howard street, between Crosby street and Broadway. We wanted this lock to put on the door of the car after breaking the other off. That same day Allen and Wells went to the same store and bought a sledge hammer. On the evening of the same day Allen went to Crowe's livery stable and hired a horse and a heavy express wagon.

"Some time before this Allen and I went to a blacksmith shop and had a piece of steel made into shape for the purpose of prying the lock off the car. No less than five efforts were made to take the safes off the car at Forty-second street, on nights when Moore was messenger. Next day after our last attempt Allen, McGloyn, Grady and myself met at Lafayette Hall and arranged to abandon the Forty-second street plan. Tristram, Hudson and McGuire were never present at our conferences at Lafayette Hall. I used to meet McGuire and tell him what had transpired, and he used to convey the intelligence to Tristram and Hudson.

"The new plan was that three of us were to secrete ourselves in the express car during its brief stay at Forty-second street, and the other five were to go in the passenger cars. We three were to throw off the safes after the train got over the Harlem Bridge. The five were to get out at the bridge. After the three had thrown off the safes they were to ring the bell, stop the train, get off and walk back till they met the others. They were then to take the safes to some convenient place, break them open, and pack the money and valuables in two valises which they had with them, and leave the safes there.

"On the night of the 6th of January last, the eight of us, Allen, Tristram, McGuire, Hudson, Wells, McGloyn, Grady and myself met by previous agreement, about seven o'clock, near the depot and Forty-second street. McGuire brought with him two carpet-bags, a marlin spike and a common mortising chisel. The others of us had a piece of steel, a lock, a sledge hammer and a dark lantern. Hudson, Grady, McGuire and myself got in between the express car and the freight train, and managed to break the lock with the marlin spike. We then drew back the door and three of us, Grady, McGuire and myself, got in. Hudson then placed the lock in the staple outside, but not in the hasp, and then closed the door. This was to save appearances.

"We sat quietly until the train got in the tunnel, between New York and Harlem. We found three safes in the car. We got one of them over and tried to break in the bottom with the sledge hammer, but we found this would not work. We then took the marlin spike, drove it into the door of the safe and pried it open. McGuire held the spike and Grady and I knocked it in. Having packed the contents of this in a carpet-bag, we broke open another safe, the contents of which we also packed away. The reason we did not get out after passing Harlem Bridge was because we discovered, after getting into the car, that the rope was in an iron tube, and that prevented our stopping the car.



"At Coscob Station we got out and hid one of the bags in a pile of lumber. We then walked up the track a mile toward Stamford, where we hid in a stone wall the large carpet-bag. The three of us then, unincumbered, walked to Stamford. Here Grady lived, and he wished us to go to a barn, and said he would bring us something to eat; but McGuire and I thought it best to go back to New York as soon as possible; so we got aboard a freight train for Norwalk and took the Owl, a midnight train, from there. Going to New York we sat in different parts of the car and did not speak. The train stopped for some reason or other at One Hundred and Twentieth street, and there McGuire and I got out.

"We were then on our way to Tristram's house, and there we met Allen, Hudson and Tristram. They told us they had got on the car as agreed upon, and had got off at Harlem Bridge, and walked up the track about six miles, but, failing to find us, had become disgusted and returned home. That evening Tristram, McGuire and I started for Norwalk in the five o'clock train. We all got off at Stamford, and I went to a livery stable, for the purpose of hiring a horse and wagon in order to remove the stolen property. I told the stable keeper I was going to Norwalk, but it was so cold he would not hire his horses. We could not get a horse at Stamford, so we arranged to take the next train to Norwalk. We reached Norwalk the next day, and stopped at the house of old Josiah Tristram till Tuesday evening. On Monday evening we were joined by Hudson. He came to the house with Tristram in a Rockaway carriage. We then went to Coscob Bridge, got the hidden bags, and returned to Tristram's house. We here unpacked and repacked the bags, tying a couple of skate straps about them, so as to be handy for Josiah Tristram to carry them to New York next day, January 9. We remained here Tuesday evening, when Tristram and I were arrested."