"Come along, Melville," said the colonel; "you and your friend must join us."

"Please excuse me, colonel," answered Melville. "I would prefer not to drink."

"Oh, nonsense! To oblige me, now."

"Thank you; but I am traveling for my health, and it would not be prudent."

"Just as you say, Melville; but a little whisky would warm you up and do you good, in my opinion."

"Thank you all the same, colonel; but I think you must count me out."

The colonel shrugged his shoulders and beckoned Herbert.

"You can come, anyway; your health won't prevent."

Melville did not interfere, for he knew it would give offense, but he hoped his young clerk would refuse.

"Thank you," said Herbert; "I won't object to a glass of sarsaparilla."

"Sarsaparilla!" repeated the colonel, in amazement. "What's that?"

"We don't keep no medicine," growled the landlord.

"Have you root-beer?" asked Herbert.

"What do you take me for?" said the landlord, contemptuously. "I haven't got no root-beer. Whisky's good enough for any man."

"I hope you'll excuse me, then," said Herbert. "I am not used to any strong drinks."

"How old are you?" asked the colonel, rather contemptuously.

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen years old and don't drink whisky! My young friend, your education has been sadly neglected."

"I dare say it has," answered Herbert, good-naturedly.

"Gentlemen," said Col. Warner, apologetically, "the boy is a stranger, and isn't used to our free Western ways. He's got the makings of a man in him, and it won't be long before he'll get over his squeamishness, and walk up to the bar as quick as any one of us."

Herbert and Melville stood apart, while the rest of the company emptied their glasses, apparently at a gulp. It was clear that their refusal had caused them to be regarded with dislike and suspicion.

The accommodations of the Echo Gulch Hotel were far from luxurious. The chambers were scarcely larger than a small closet, clap-boarded but not plastered, and merely contained a bedstead. Washing accommodations were provided downstairs.

Herbert and George Melville were assigned to a single room, to which they would not have objected had the room been larger. It was of no use to indulge in open complaints, however, since others had to fare in the same way.

"This isn't luxury, Herbert," said Melville.

"No," answered the boy; "but I don't mind it if you don't."

"I am afraid I may keep you awake by my coughing, Herbert."

"Not if I once get to sleep. I sleep as sound as a top."

"I wish I did; but I am one of the wakeful kind. Being an invalid, I am more easily annoyed by small inconveniences. You, with your sturdy health, are more easily suited."

"Mr. Melville, I had just as lief sleep downstairs in a chair, and give you the whole of the bed."

"Not on my account, Herbert. I congratulate myself on having you for a roommate. If I had been traveling alone I might have been packed away with the colonel, who, by this time, would be even less desirable as a bedfellow than usual."

The worthy colonel had not been content with a single glass of whisky, but had followed it up several times, till his utterance had become thick, and his face glowed with a dull, brick-dust color.

Col. Warner had been assigned to the adjoining chamber, or closet, whichever it may be called. He did not retire early, however, while Herbert and George Melville did.

Strangely enough, Herbert, who was usually so good a sleeper, after a short nap woke up. He turned to look at his companion, for it was a moonlight night, and saw that he was sleeping quietly.

"I wonder what's got into me?" he thought; "I thought I should sleep till morning."

He tried to compose himself to sleep, but the more effort he made the broader awake he became. Sometimes it seems as if such unaccountable deviations from our ordinary habits were Heaven-sent. As Herbert lay awake he suddenly became aware of a conversation which was being carried on, in low tones, in the next room. The first voice he heard, he recognized as that of the colonel.

"Yes," he said, "some of the passengers have got money. There's that Stiefel probably carries a big sum in gold and notes. When I was speaking of the chance of the stage being robbed, he was uncommon nervous."

"Who's Stiefel?" was growled in another voice, which Herbert had no difficulty in recognizing as the landlord's.

"Oh, he's the fat, red-faced German. From his talk, I reckon he's come out to buy mines somewhere in Colorado."

"We'll save him the trouble."

"So we will—good joke, John. Oh, about this Stiefel, he carries his money in a belt round his waist. I infer that it is gold."

"Good! What about the others?"

"There's a tall, thin man—his name is Parker," proceeded the colonel; "he's smart, or thinks he is; you'll have to pull his stockings off to get his money. Ha, ha!"

"How did you find out, colonel?" asked the landlord, in admiration.

"Drew it out of him, sir. He didn't know who he was confiding in. He'll wonder how the deuce his hiding place was suspected."

Other passengers were referred to who have not been mentioned, and in each case the colonel was able to tell precisely where their money was kept.

"How about that milksop that wouldn't drink with us?" inquired the landlord, after a while.

"Melville? I couldn't find out where he keeps his cash. Probably he keeps it in his pocket. He doesn't look like a cautious man."

"Who's the boy?"

"Only a clerk or secretary of Melville's. He hasn't any money, and isn't worth attention."

"Very glad to hear it," thought Herbert. "I don't care to receive any attention from such gentry. But who would have thought the colonel was in league with stage robbers? I thought him a gentleman."

Herbert began to understand why it was that Col. Warner, if that was his real name, had drawn the conversation to stage robbers, and artfully managed to discover where each of the passengers kept his supply of money. It was clear that he was in league with the landlord of the Echo Gulch Hotel, who, it was altogether probable, intended to waylay the stage the next day.

This was a serious condition of affairs. The time had been when, in reading stories of adventure, Herbert had wished that he, too, might have some experience of the kind. Now that the opportunity had come, our hero was disposed to regard the matter with different eyes.

"What can be done," he asked himself, anxiously, "to escape the danger which threatens us to-morrow?"



CHAPTER XXIV. A MORNING WALK.



Herbert found it difficult to sleep from anxiety. He felt that the burden was too great for him alone to bear, and he desired to speak on the subject to George Melville. But there was a difficulty about doing this undetected, on account of the thinness of the partitions between the rooms. If he could hear Col. Warner, the latter would also be able to hear him.

The stage was to start at seven o'clock the next morning, and before that time some decision must be made. The first question was, should they, or should they not, take passage, as they had anticipated?

At half-past five, Herbert, turning in bed, found his bedfellow awake.

"Mr. Melville," he whispered, "I have something important to communicate, and cannot do so here on account of the danger of being heard in the next room. Are you willing to dress and take a little walk with me before breakfast?"

George Melville's physical condition did not make him usually favorable to early rising, but he knew Herbert well enough to understand that he had a satisfactory reason for his request.

"Yes, Herbert," he said, "I will get up."

Not a word was exchanged, for Mr. Melville's discretion prevailed over his curiosity. In ten minutes both were fully dressed and descended the stairs.

There was no one stirring except a woman, the landlord's wife, who was lighting the fire in order to prepare breakfast.

She regarded the two with surprise, and perhaps a little distrust.

"You're stirrin' early, strangers," she said.

"Yes," answered Melville, courteously, "we are going to take a little walk before breakfast; it may sharpen our appetites."

"Humph!" said the woman; "that's curious. I wouldn't get up so early if I wasn't obliged. There ain't much to see outdoors."

"It is a new part of the country to us," said Melville, "and we may not have another chance to see it."

"When will breakfast be ready?" asked Herbert.

"Half an hour, more or less," answered the woman, shortly.

"We will be back in time," he said.

The landlady evidently thought their early-rising a singular proceeding, but her suspicions were not aroused. She resumed her work, and Herbert and his friend walked out through the open door.

When they had reached a spot a dozen rods or more distant, Melville turned to his young clerk and asked:

"Well, Herbert, what is it?"

"I have discovered, Mr. Melville, that our stage is to be stopped to-day and the passengers plundered."

"How did you discover this?" asked Melville, startled.

"By a conversation which I overheard in the next chamber to us."

"But that chamber is occupied by Col. Warner."

"And he is one of the conspirators," said Herbert, quietly.

"Is it possible?" ejaculated Melville. "Can we have been so deceived in him? Does he propose to waylay the stage?"

"No, I presume he will be one of the passengers."

"Tell me all you know about this matter, Herbert. Who is engaged with him in this plot?"

"The landlord."

"I am not much surprised at this," said Melville, thoughtfully. "He is an ill-looking man, whose appearance fits the part of highwayman very well. Then you think the colonel is in league with him?"

"I am sure of that. Don't you remember how skillfully Col. Warner drew out of the passengers the hiding places of their money yesterday?"

"Yes."

"He has told all to the landlord, and he will no doubt make use of the knowledge. That is all, Mr. Melville. I could not rest till I had told you, so that you might decide what to do."

"It seems quite providential that you were kept awake last night, Herbert, otherwise this blow would have come upon us unprepared. Even with the knowledge that it impends, I hardly know what it is best for us to do."

"We might decide not to go in the stage," suggested Hebert.

"But we should have to go to-morrow. We cannot stay here, and there is no other way of traveling. As the colonel seems to think I have money, there would be another attack to-morrow. Besides, where could we stay except at this hotel, which is kept, as it appears, by the principal robber."

"That is true," said Herbert, puzzled; "I didn't think of that."

"I would quite as soon stand my chance of being robbed in the stage, as be attacked here. Besides, I cannot make up my mind to desert my fellow passengers. It seems cowardly to send them off to be plundered without giving them a hint of their danger."

"Couldn't we do that?"

"The result would be that they would not go, and there is no knowing how long we should be compelled to remain in this secluded spot."

"Mr. Melville," said Herbert, suddenly, "a thought has just struck me."

"I hope it may show us a way out of our danger."

"No, I am sorry to say that it won't do that."

"What is it, Herbert?"

"You remember that mention was made yesterday in the stage of a certain famous bandit named Jerry Lane?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Do you think it is possible that he and Col. Warner may be one and the same?"

"That is certainly a startling suggestion, Herbert. What reason have you for thinking so?"

"It was only a guess on my part; but you remember that the colonel said he was a man about his size."

"That might be."

"And he did not confine himself to the Western country, but might be met with in New York, or St. Louis. We met the colonel in Chicago."

"It may be as you surmise, Herbert," said George Melville, after a pause. "It did occur to me that our worthy landlord might be the famous outlaw in question, but the description to which you refer seems to fit the colonel better. There is one thing, however, that makes me a little incredulous."

"What is that, Mr. Melville?"

"This Jerry Lane I take to be cool and courageous, while the colonel appears to be more of a boaster. He looks like one who can talk better than he can act. If I had ever seen a description of his appearance, I could judge better."

The two had been walking slowly and thoughtfully, when they were startled by a rough voice.

"You're out early, strangers?"

Turning swiftly, they saw the dark, forbidding face of the landlord, who had approached them unobserved.

"Did he hear anything?" thought Herbert, anxiously.

"Yes, we are taking a little walk," said Melville, pleasantly.

"Breakfast will be ready soon. You'd better be back soon, if you're goin' by the stage this morning. You are goin', I reckon?" said the landlord, eyeing them sharply.

"We intend to do so," said Melville. "We will walk a little farther, and then return to the house."

The landlord turned and retraced his steps to the Echo Gulch Hotel.

"Do you think he heard anything that we were saying?" asked Herbert.

"I think not."

"I wonder what brought him out here?"

"Probably he wanted to make sure that we were going in the stage. He is laudably anxious to have as many victims and as much plunder as possible."

"You told him you were going in the stage?"

"Yes, I have decided to do so."

"Have you decided upon anything else, Mr. Melville?"

"Not positively; but there will be time to think of that. Did you hear where we were to be attacked?"

"At a point about five miles from here," said Herbert.

This he had gathered from the conversation he had overheard.

When the two friends reached the hotel, they found Col. Warner already downstairs.

"Good-morning, gentlemen!" he said. "So you have taken a walk? I never walk before breakfast, for my part."

"Nor do I often," said Melville. "In this case I was persuaded by my young friend. I am repaid by a good appetite."

"Can't I persuade you to try a glass of bitters, Mr. Melville?" asked the colonel.

"Thank you, colonel. You will have to excuse me."

"Breakfast's ready!" announced the landlady, and the stage passengers sat down at a long, unpainted, wooden table, where the food was of the plainest. In spite of the impending peril of which they, only, had knowledge, Herbert ate heartily, but Melville seemed preoccupied.



CHAPTER XXV. MELVILLE MAKES A SENSATION.



Col. Warner seemed in very good spirits. He ate and drank with violent enjoyment, and was as affable as usual. George Melville regarded him with curiosity.

"The man does not appear like a desperado or outlaw," he thought. "There is nothing to distinguish him from the majority of men one meets in ordinary intercourse. He is a problem to me, I should like to study him."

Col. Warner did not fail to observe the unconscious intentness with which Melville regarded him, and, for some reason, it did not please him.

"You have lost your appetite, Mr. Melville," he said, lightly. "You have been looking at me until—egad!—if I were a vain man, I should conclude there was something striking about my appearance."

"I won't gainsay that, Colonel," answered Melville, adroitly. "I confess I am not very hungry, and I will further confess that I have something on my mind."

"Indeed! Better make me your father confessor," said the colonel, whose suspicion or annoyance was removed by this ready reply.

"So I may, after a while," said Melville.

He took the hint, and ceased to regard the colonel.

The latter made himself generally social, and generally popular.

The stage drove round to the door after breakfast, and there was the usual bustle, as the passengers bestowed themselves inside.

George Melville had intended to watch narrowly the landlord and Col. Warner, to detect, if possible, the secret understanding which must exist between them. But he was deprived of an opportunity, for the very good reason that the landlord had disappeared, and was not again seen before their departure.

The driver gathered up his reins, cracked his whip, and the stage started. Herbert looked at George Melville a little anxiously, not knowing what course he had decided to take. They two, it will be remembered, were the only ones who knew of the intended attack.

Before the stage started, Melville quietly took the opportunity to hand his pocketbook to Herbert, saying, briefly: "It will be safer with you in case of an attack."

"But won't it be considered suspicious that you have no money about you?" suggested Herbert.

"I have a roll of bills in my pocket-fifty dollars," answered Melville.

They had no further opportunity of speaking, as one of the passengers came up where they were standing.

Herbert had already taken his seat in the coach, when his employer said: "Herbert, wouldn't you like to ride outside with the driver?"

"Yes, sir," answered Herbert, promptly, for he understood, that this was Mr. Melville's wish.

"It will give us more room, and you will have a better view."

"Yes, sir; I shall like it."

In a quick manner Herbert made the change, taking care not to look significantly at Melville, as some boys might have done, and thus excited suspicion.

For the first mile there was very little conversation.

Then Col. Warner spoke.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, "we are fairly on our way. Let us hope nothing will mar our pleasure."

"Do you anticipate anything?" asked George Melville.

"I! Why should I? We have a skillful driver, and I guarantee he won't tip us over."

"Mr. Melville was, perhaps, referring to the chance of the stage being stopped by some enterprising road agent," suggested Parker.

"Oho! Sits the wind in that quarter?" said the Colonel, laughing lightly. "Not the least chance of that—that is, the chance is very slight."

"You spoke differently yesterday," said the German capitalist.

"Did I? I didn't mean it, I assure you. We are as safe here as if we were riding in the interior of New York. I suppose I was only whiling away a few idle minutes."

"I am glad to hear it," said the German. "I shouldn't like to meet any of these gentlemen."

"Nor I," answered Melville; "but I am prepared to give him or them a warm reception."

As he spoke he drew a revolver from his pocket. He sat next to the door, and in an exposed situation.

"Put up your shooting iron, Mr. Melville," said Col. Warner, exhibiting a slight shade of annoyance. "Let me exchange places with you. I should prefer the post of danger, if' there is any."

"You are very kind, Colonel," said Melville, quietly, "but I don't care to change. I am quite satisfied with my seat."

"But, my dear sir, I insist—" said the Colonel, making a motion to rise.

"Keep your seat, Colonel! I insist upon staying where I am," answered Melville.

He was physically far from formidable, this young man, but there was a resolute ring in his voice that showed he was in earnest.

"Really, my dear sir," said the Colonel, trying to conceal his annoyance, "you have been quite misled by my foolish talk. I did not suppose you were so nervous."

"Possibly I may have a special reason for being so," returned George Melville.

"What do you mean?" demanded the Colonel, quickly. "If you have, we are all interested, and ought to know it."

"The Colonel is right," said the German. "If you know of any danger, it is only fair to inform us all."

"I am disposed to agree with you, gentlemen," said Melville. "Briefly, then, I have good reason to think that this company of passengers has been marked for plunder."

Col. Warner started, but, quickly recovering himself, he laughed uneasily.

"Tush!" he said, "I put no faith in it. Some one has been deceiving you, my friend."

But the other passengers took it more seriously.

"You evidently know something that we do not," said Parker.

"I do," answered Melville.

Col. Warner looked at him searchingly, but did not speak.

Now was the time to test George Melville's nerve. He was about to take a bold step.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I regret to say that I have every reason to believe there is a man in this stage who is in league with the road agents."

This statement naturally made a sensation.

There were seven passengers, and each regarded the rest with new-born suspicion. There seemed, on the whole, about as much reason to suspect one man as another, and each, with the exception of Melville, found himself looked upon with distrust.

"Pooh, Melville! You must have had bad dreams!" said Col. Warner, who was the first to recover his self-possession. "Really, I give you credit for a first-class sensation. As for you, gentlemen, you may take stock in this cock-and-bull story, if you like; I shall not. I, for one, have no fear of my fellow passengers. I regard them all as gentlemen, and shall not allow myself to be disturbed by any silly fears."

The air of calm composure with which the Colonel spoke served to tranquilize the rest of the passengers, who wished to put credit in his assurance.

"The Colonel speaks sensibly," said Mr. Parker, "and unless Mr. Melville assigns a reason for his remarkable belief, I am disposed to think we have taken alarm too quick."

"Of course, of course; all sensible men will think so," said the Colonel. "My friend, we shall be tempted to laugh at you if you insist on entertaining us with such hobgoblin fancies. My advice is, to put up that weapon of yours, and turn your attention to the scenery, which I can assure you, gentlemen, is well worthy of your admiration. Just observe the walls of yonder canyon, and the trees growing on the points."

"Gentlemen," said Melville, "I should be glad to take the view of the last speaker, if I had not positive proof that he is the man who has agreed to deliver us into the hands of a road agent within the space of half an I hour!"

"Sir, you shall answer for this!" exclaimed the Colonel, furiously, as he struggled to secure the weapon, his face livid with passion.

But two passengers, one the German, who, though short, was very powerful, forcibly prevented him.



CHAPTER XXVI. A COUNCIL OF WAR.



"Are you sure of what you say?" asked a passenger, turning with a puzzled look from George Melville, who, in the midst of the general excitement produced by his revelation, sat, not unmoved indeed, but comparatively calm. Courage and physical strength are by no means inseparable, and this frail young man, whose strength probably was not equal to Herbert's, was fearless in the face of peril which would daunt many a stalwart six-footer.

In reply to this very natural question, George Melville repeated the essential parts of the conversation which had taken place between Col. Warner and the landlord.

Col. Warner's countenance changed, and he inwardly execrated the imprudence that had made his secret plan known to one of the intended victims.

"Is this true, Col. Warner?" asked Parker.

"No, it's a lie!" returned the colonel, with an oath.

"Gentlemen!" said George Melville, calmly, "you can choose which you will believe. I will only suggest that this man managed very adroitly to find out where each one of us kept his money. You can also consider whether I have any cause to invent this story."

It was clear that the passengers were inclined to put faith in Melville's story.

"Gentlemen!" said the Colonel, angrily, "I never was so insulted in my life. I am a man of wealth, traveling on business; I am worth a quarter of a million at least. To associate me with road agents, whom I have as much reason to fear as you, is most ridiculous. This young man may be well-meaning, but he is under a most extraordinary hallucination. It is my belief that he dreamed the nonsense he has been retailing to you."

"Ask the driver to stop the stage," said Mr. Benson, a gentleman from Philadelphia. "If Mr. Melville's story is trustworthy, we may at any time reach the spot where the highwayman is lurking. We must have a general consultation, and decide what is to be done."

This proposal was approved, and the driver drew up the stage.

"I don't propose to remain in the company of men who so grossly misjudge me," said the Colonel, with dignity, as he made a motion to leave his fellow passengers.

"Stay here, sir!" said Mr. Benson, in a tone of authority. "We cannot spare you yet."

"Do you dare to detain me, sir?" exclaimed Warner, menacingly.

"Yes, we do," said the German. "Just stay where you are, Mr. Colonel, till we decide what to do."

As each one of the company had produced his revolver, the Colonel thought it prudent to obey.

"I am disgusted with this fooling," he said, "You're all a pack of cowards."

"Driver," said George Melville, "has this stage ever been robbed?"

"Several times," the driver admitted.

"When was the last time?"

"Two months since."

"Where did it happen?"

"About a mile further on."

"Did you ever see this gentleman before?" he asked, pointing to the colonel.

"Yes," answered the driver, reluctantly.

"When did he last ride with you?"

"On the day the stage was robbed," answered the driver.

The passengers exchanged glances, and then, as by a common impulse, all turned to Col. Warner, to see how he would take this damaging revelation. Disguise it as he might, he was clearly disconcerted.

"Is this true, colonel?" asked Benson.

"Yes, it is," answered Col. Warner, with some hesitation. "I was robbed, with the rest. I had four hundred dollars in my wallet, and the road agent made off with it."

"And yet you just now pooh-poohed the idea of a robbery, and said such things were gone by."

"I say so now," returned the colonel, sullenly. "I have a good deal of money with me, but I am willing to take my chances."

"Doubtless. Your money would be returned to you, in all probability, if, as we have reason to believe, you have a secret understanding with the thieves who infest this part of the country."

"Your words are insulting. Let go my arm, sir, or it will be the worse for you."

"Softly, softly, my good friend," said the German. "Have you any proposal to make, Mr. Melville?"

"Only this. Let us proceed on our journey, but let each man draw his revolver, and be ready to use it, if need be."

"What about the colonel?"

"He must go along with us. We cannot have him communicating with our enemies outside."

"Suppose I refuse, sir?"

"Then, my very good friend, I think we shall use a little force," said the German, carelessly pointing his weapon at the captive.

"I will go upon compulsion," said the colonel, "but I protest against this outrage. I am a wealthy capitalist from Chicago, who knows no more about road agents than you do. You have been deceived by this unsophisticated young man, who knows about as much of the world as a four-year-old child. It's a fine mare's nest he has found."

This sneer did not disturb the equanimity of George Melville.

"I should be glad to believe the colonel were as innocent as he claims," he said, "but his own words, overheard last night, contradict what he is now saying. When we have passed the spot indicated for the attack, we will release him, and give him the opportunity he seeks of leaving our company."

The passengers resumed their places in the stage, with the exception of Herbert, who again took his seat beside the driver. George Melville had not mentioned that it was Herbert, not himself, who had overheard the conversation between the colonel and the land lord, fearing to expose the boy to future risk.

Col. Warner sat sullenly between the German and Benson. He was evidently ill at ease and his restless glances showed that he was intent upon some plan of escape. Of this, however, such was the vigilance of his guards, there did not seem much chance.

The stage kept on its way till it entered a narrow roadway, lined on one side by a thick growth of trees.

Melville, watching the colonel narrowly, saw that, in spite of his attempt at calmness, his excitement was at fever heat.

The cause was very evident, for at this point a tall figure bounded from the underbrush, disguised by a black half mask, through which a pair of black eyes blazed fiercely.

"Stop the stage!" he thundered to the driver, "or I will put a bullet through your head."

The driver, as had been directed, instantly obeyed.



CHAPTER XXVII. COL. WARNER CHANGES FRONT.



It may seem a daring thing for one man to stop a stage full of passengers, and require them to surrender their money and valuables, but this has been done time and again in unsettled portions of the West. For the most part the stage passengers are taken by surprise, and the road agent is known to be a desperado, ready to murder in cold blood anyone who dares oppose him.

In the present instance, however, the passengers had been warned of their danger and were ready to meet it.

Brown—for, of course, the masked man was the landlord—saw four revolvers leveled at him from inside the stage.

"Let go that horse, my friend, or you are a dead man!" said Conrad Stiefel, calmly. "Two can play at your game."

Brown was taken by surprise, but he was destined to be still more astonished.

Col. Warner protruded his head from the window, saying:

"Yes, my friend, you had better give up your little plan. It won't work."

Such language from his confederate, on whom he fully relied, wholly disconcerted the masked robber.

"Well, I'll be blowed!" he muttered, staring, in ludicrous perplexity, at his fellow conspirator.

"Yes, my friend," said the colonel, "I shall really be under the necessity of shooting you myself if you don't leave us alone. We are all armed and resolute. I think you had better defer your little scheme."

Brown was not quick-witted. He did not see that his confederate was trying cunningly to avert suspicion from himself, and taking the only course that remained to him. Of course, he thought he was betrayed, and was, as a natural consequence, exasperated.

He released his hold on the horses, but, fixing his eyes on the colonel fiercely, muttered:

"Wait till I get a chance at you! I'll pay you for this."

"What an idiot!" thought Warner, shrugging his shoulders. "Why can't he see that I am forced to do as I am doing? I must make things plain to him."

He spoke a few words rapidly in Spanish, which Brown evidently understood. His face showed a dawning comprehension of the state of affairs, and he stood aside while the stage drove on.

"What did you say?" asked Conrad Stiefel, suspiciously.

"You heard me, sir," said the colonel, loftily. "You owe your rescue from this ruffian to me. Now, you can understand how much you have misjudged me."

Conrad Stiefel was not so easily satisfied of this.

"I heard what you said in Mexican, or whatever lingo it is, but I didn't understand it."

"Nor I," said Benson.

"Very well, gentlemen; I am ready to explain. I told this man that if he ever attempted to molest me I should shoot him in his track."

"Why didn't you speak to him in English?" asked Stiefel.

"Because I had a suspicion that the fellow was the same I met once in Mexico, and I spoke to him in Spanish to make sure. As he understood, I am convinced I was right."

"Who is it, then?" asked Benson.

"His name, sir, is Manuel de Cordova, a well-known Mexican bandit, who seems to have found his way to this neighborhood. He is a reckless desperado, and, though I addressed him boldly, I should be very sorry to meet him in a dark night."

This explanation was very fluently spoken, but probably no one present believed what the colonel said, or exonerated him from the charge which George Melville had made against him.

Five miles further on Col. Warner left the stage.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am sorry to leave this pleasant company, but I have a mining claim in this neighborhood, and must bid you farewell. I trust that when you think of me hereafter, you will acquit me of the injurious charges which have been made against me. I take no credit to myself for driving away the ruffian who stopped us, but hope you won't forget it."

"No one interfered with the colonel when he proposed to leave the stage. Indeed, the passengers were unanimous in accepting his departure as a relief. In spite of his plausible representations, he was regarded with general suspicion.

"I wish I knew the meaning of that Spanish lingo," said the German, Conrad Stiefel.

"I can interpret it for you, Mr. Stiefel," said George Melville, quietly. "I have some knowledge of Spanish."

"What did he say?" asked more than one, eagerly.

"He said: 'You fool! Don't you see the plot has been discovered? It wasn't my fault. I will soon join you and explain.'"

This revelation made a sensation.

"Then he was in league with the road agent, after all?" said Parker.

"Certainly he was. Did you for a moment doubt it?" said Melville.

"I was staggered when I saw him order the rascal away."

"He is a shrewd villain!" said Benson. "I hope we shan't encounter him again."



CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CONSPIRATORS IN COUNCIL.



It is needless to say that Col. Warner's intention in leaving the stage was to join his fellow conspirator. There was no advantage in remaining longer with his fellow travelers, since the opportunity of plundering them had passed, and for the present was not likely to return. He had been a little apprehensive that they would try to detain him on suspicion, which would have been awkward, since they had numbers on their side, and all were armed. But in that unsettled country he would have been an elephant on their hands, and if the idea entered the minds of any one of the stage passengers, it was instantly dismissed.

When the stage was fairly on the way, Col. Warner went to a house where he was known, and asked for a horse.

"Any news, colonel?" asked the farmer, as he called himself. Really he was in league with the band of which Warner was the chief.

"No," answered the Colonel, gloomily. "No, worse luck! There might have been, but for an unfortunate circumstance."

"What's that?"

"There's plenty of good money in that stage coach and Brown and I meant to have it, but some sharp-eared rascal heard us arranging the details of the plan, and that spoiled it."

"Is it too late now?" asked the farmer, eagerly. "We can follow them, and overtake them yet, if you say so."

"And be shot for our pains. No, thank you. They are all on the alert, and all have their six-shooters in readiness. No, we must postpone our plan. There's one of the fellows that I mean to be revenged upon yet—the one that ferreted out our secret plan. I must bide my time, but I shall keep track of him."

Soon the Colonel, well-mounted, was on his way back to the rude inn where he had slept the night before.

Dismounting he entered without ceremony, and his eyes fell upon the landlord's wife, engaged in some household employment.

"Where's Brown?" he asked, abruptly.

"Somewheres round," was the reply.

"How long has he been home?"

"A matter of two hours. He came home awfully riled, but he wouldn't tell me what it was about. What's happened?"

"We've met with a disappointment—that's what's the matter."

"Did the passengers get the better of you?" asked the woman, for she was in her husband's guilty secrets, and knew quite well what manner of man she had married.

"They found out our little game," answered Warner, shortly, for he did not see any advantage in wasting words on his confederate's wife. "Which way did Brown go?"

"Yonder," answered Mrs. Brown, pointing in a particular direction.

Col. Warner tied his horse to a small sapling, and walked in the direction indicated.

He found the landlord sullenly reclining beneath a large tree.

"So you're back?" he said, surveying Warner with a lowering brow.

"Yes."

"And a pretty mess you've made of the job!" said the landlord, bitterly.

"It's as much your fault—nay, more!" said his superior, coolly.

"What do you mean?" demanded Brown, not over cordially.

"You would persist in discussing our plan last night in my room, though I warned you we might be overheard."

"Well?"

"We were overheard."

"What spy listened to our talk?"

"The young man, Melville—the one traveling with a boy. He kept it to himself till the stage was well on its way, and then he blabbed the whole thing to all in the stage."

"Did he mention you?"

"Yes, and you."

"Why didn't you tell him he lied, and shoot him on the spot?"

"Because I shouldn't have survived him five minutes," answered the colonel, coolly, "or, if I had, his companions would have lynched me."

Brown didn't look as if he would have been inconsolable had this occurred. In fact, he was ambitious to succeed to the place held by the colonel, as chief of a desperate gang of outlaws.

"I might have been dangling from a branch of a tree at this moment, had I followed your plan, my good friend Brown, and that would have been particularly uncomfortable."

"They might have shot me," said Brown, sullenly.

"I prevented that, and gave you timely warning. Of course it's a disappointment, but we shall have better luck next time."

"They've got away."

"Yes, but I propose to keep track of Melville and the boy, and have my revenge upon them in time. I don't care so much about the money, but they have foiled me, and they must suffer for it. Meanwhile, I want your help in another plan."

The two conferred together, and mutual confidence was re-established.



CHAPTER XXIX. A NEW HOME IN THE WOODS.



George Melville had no definite destination. He was traveling, not for pleasure, but for health, and his purpose was to select a residence in some high location, where the dry air would be favorable for his pulmonary difficulties.

A week later he had found a temporary home. One afternoon Herbert and he, each on horseback, for at that time public lines of travel were fewer than at present, came suddenly upon a neat, one-story cottage in the edge of the forest. It stood alone, but it was evidently the home of one who aimed to add something of the graces of civilization to the rudeness of frontier life.

They reined up simultaneously, and Melville, turning to Herbert, said: "There, Herbert, is my ideal of a residence. I should not be satisfied with a rude cabin. There I should find something of the comfort which we enjoy in New England."

"The situation is fine, too," said Herbert, looking about him admiringly.

The cottage stood on a knoll. On either side were tall and stately trees. A purling brook at the left rolled its silvery current down a gentle declivity, and in front, for half a mile, was open country.

"I have a great mind to call and inquire who lives here." said Melville. "Perhaps we can arrange to stay here all night."

"That is a good plan, Mr. Melville."

George Melville dismounted from his horse, and, approaching, tapped with the handle of his whip on the door.

"Who's there?" inquired a smothered voice, as of one rousing himself from sleep.

"A stranger, but a friend," answered Melville.

There was a sound as of some one moving, and a tall man, clad in a rough suit, came to the door, and looked inquiringly at Melville and his boy companion.

Though his attire was rude, his face was refined, and had the indefinable air of one who would be more at home in the city than in the country.

"Delighted to see you both," he said, cordially, offering his hand. "I don't live in a palace, and my servants are all absent, but if you will deign to become my guests I will do what I can for your comfort."

"You have anticipated my request," said Melville. "Let me introduce myself as George Melville, an invalid by profession, just come from New England in search of health. My young friend here is Herbert Carr, my private secretary and faithful companion, who has not yet found out what it is to be in poor-health. Without him I should hardly have dared to come so far alone."

"You are very welcome, Herbert," said the host, with pleasant familiarity. "Come in, both of you, and make yourselves at home."

The cottage contained two rooms. One was used as a bedchamber, the other as a sitting room. On the walls were a few pictures, and on a small bookcase against one side of the room were some twenty-five books. There was an easel and an unfinished picture in one corner, and a small collection of ordinary furniture.

"You are probably an artist," suggested Melville.

"Yes, you have hit it. I use both pen and pencil," and he mentioned a name known to Melville as that of a popular magazine writer.

I do not propose to give his real name, but we will know him as Robert Falkland.

"I am familiar with your name, Mr. Falkland," said Melville, "but I did not expect to find you here."

"Probably not," answered Falkland. "I left the haunts of civilization unexpectedly, some months ago, and even my publishers don't know where I am."

"In search of health?" queried Melville.

"Not exactly. I did, however, feel in need of a change. I had been running in a rut, and wanted to get out of it, so I left my lodgings in New York and bought a ticket to St. Louis; arrived there, I determined to come farther. So here I have been, living in communion with nature, seeing scarcely anybody, enjoying myself, on the whole, but sometimes longing to see a new face."

"And you have built this cottage?"

"No; I bought it of its former occupant, but have done something towards furnishing it; so that it has become characteristic of me and my tastes."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Three months; but my stay is drawing to a close."

"How is that?"

"Business that will not be put off calls me back to New York. In fact, I had appointed to-morrow for my departure."

Melville and Herbert exchanged a glance. It was evident that the same thought was in the mind of each.

"Mr. Falkland," said George Melville, "I have a proposal to make to you."

The artist eyed him in some surprise.

"Go on," he said.

"I will buy this cottage of you, if you are willing."

Falkland smiled.

"This seems providential," he said. "We artists and men of letters are apt to be short of money, and I confess I was pondering whether my credit was good with anybody for a hundred dollars to pay my expenses East. Once arrived there, there are plenty of publishers who will make me advances on future work."

"Then we can probably make a bargain," said Mr. Melville. "Please name your price."

Now, I do not propose to show my ignorance of real estate values in Colorado by naming the price which George Melville paid for his home in the wilderness. In fact, I do not know. I can only say that he gave Falkland a check for the amount on a Boston bank, and a hundred in cash besides.

"You are liberal, Mr. Melville," said Falkland, gratified. "I am afraid you are not a business man. I have not found that business men overpay."

"You are right, I am not a business man," answered Melville, "though I wish my health would admit of my being so. As to the extra hundred dollars, I think it worth that much to come upon so comfortable a home ready to my hand. It will really be a home, such as the log cabin I looked forward to could not be."

"Thank you," said Falkland; "I won't pretend that I am indifferent to money, for I can't afford to be. I earn considerable sums, but, unfortunately, I never could keep money, or provide for the future."

"I don't know how it would be with me," said Melville, "for I am one of those, fortunate or otherwise, who are born to a fortune. I have sometimes been sorry that I had not the incentive of poverty to induce me to work."

"Then, suppose we exchange lots," said the artist, lightly. "I shouldn't object to being wealthy."

"With all my heart," answered Melville. "Give me your health, your literary and artistic talent, and it is a bargain."

"I am afraid they are not transferable," said the artist, "but we won't prolong the discussion now. I am neglecting the rites of hospitality; I must prepare supper for my guests. You must know that here in the wilderness I am my own cook and dishwasher."

"Let me help you?" said Melville.

"No, Mr. Melville," said Herbert, "it is more in my line. I have often helped mother at home, and I don't believe you have had any experience."

"I confess I am a green hand," said Melville, laughing, "but, as Irish girls just imported say, 'I am very willing.'"

"On the whole, I think the boy can assist me better," said Falkland. "So, Mr. Melville, consider yourself an aristocratic visitor, while Herbert and myself, sons of toil, will minister to your necessities."

"By the way, where do you get your supplies?" asked Melville.

"Eight miles away there is a mining camp and store. I ride over there once a week or oftener, and bring home what I need."

"What is the name of the camp?"

"Deer Creek. I will point out to Herbert, before I leave you, the bridle path leading to it."

"Thank you. It will be a great advantage to us to know just how to live."

With Herbert's help an appetizing repast was prepared, of which all three partook with keen zest.

The next day Falkland took leave of them, and Melville and his boy companion were left to settle down in their new home.



CHAPTER XXX. A TERRIBLE MOMENT.



Melville's purchase comprised not only the cottage, but its contents, pictures and books included. This was fortunate, for though Herbert, who was strong, and fond of outdoor sports, such as hunting and fishing, could have contented himself, Melville was easily fatigued, and spent at least half of the day in the cabin. The books, most of which were new to him, were a great and unfailing resource.

Among the articles which Falkland left behind him were two guns, of which Herbert and Melville made frequent use. Herbert had a natural taste for hunting, though, at home, having no gun of his own, he had not been able to gratify his taste as much as he desired. Often after breakfast the two sallied forth, and wandered about in the neighboring woods, gun in hand. Generally Melville returned first, leaving Herbert, not yet fatigued, to continue the sport. In this way our hero acquired a skill and precision of aim which enabled him to make a very respectable figure even among old and practiced hunters.

One morning, after Melville had returned home, Herbert was led, by the ardor of the chase, to wander farther than usual. He was aware of this, but did not fear being lost, having a compass and knowing his bearings. All at once, as he was making his way along a wooded path, he was startled by hearing voices. He hurried forward, and the scene upon which he intruded was dramatic enough.

With arms folded, a white man, a hunter, apparently, stood erect, and facing him, at a distance of seventy-five or eighty feet, was an Indian, with gun raised, and leveled at the former.

"Why don't you shoot, you red rascal!" said the white man. "You've got the drop on me, I allow, and I am in your power."

The Indian laughed in his guttural way; but though he held the gun poised, he did not shoot. He was playing with his victim as a cat plays with a mouse before she kills it.

"Is white man afraid?" said the Indian, not tauntingly, but with real curiosity, for among Indians it is considered a great triumph if a warrior can inspire fear in his foe, and make him show the white feather.

"Afraid!" retorted the hunter. "Who should I be afraid of?"

"Of Indian."

"Don't flatter yourself, you pesky savage," returned the white man, coolly, ejecting a flood of tobacco juice from his mouth, for though he was a brave man, he had some drawbacks. "You needn't think I am afraid of you."

"Indian shoot!" suggested his enemy, watching the effect of this announcement.

"Well, shoot, then, and be done with it."

"White man no want to live?"

"Of course I want to live. Never saw a healthy white man that didn't. If I was goin' to die at all, I wouldn't like to die by the hands of a red rascal like you."

"Indian great warrior," said the dusky denizen of the woods, straightening up, and speaking complacently.

"Indian may be great warrior, but he is a horse thief, all the same," said the hunter, coolly.

"White man soon die, and Indian wear his scalp," remarked the Indian, in a manner likely to disturb the composure of even the bravest listener.

The hunter's face changed. It was impossible to reflect upon such a fate without a pang. Death was nothing to that final brutality.

"Ha! White man afraid now!" said the Indian, triumphantly—quick to observe the change of expression in his victim.

"No, I am not afraid," said the hunter, quickly recovering himself; "but it's enough to disgust any decent man to think that his scalp will soon be dangling from the belt of a filthy heathen like you. However, I suppose I won't know it after I'm dead. You have skulked and dogged my steps, you red hound, ever since I punished you for trying to steal my horse. I made one great mistake. Instead of beating you, I should have shot you, and rid the earth of you once for all."

"Indian no forget white man's blows. White man die, and Indian be revenged."

"Yes, I s'pose that's what it's coming to," said the hunter, in a tone of resignation. "I was a 'tarnal fool to come out this mornin' without my gun. If I had it you would sing a different song."

Again the Indian laughed, a low, guttural, unpleasant laugh, which Herbert listened to with a secret shudder. It was so full of malignity, and cunning triumph, and so suggestive of the fate which he reserved for his white foe, that it aggravated the latter, and made him impatient to have the blow fall, since it seemed to be inevitable.

"Why don't you shoot, you red savage?" he cried. "What are you waiting for?"

The Indian wished to gloat over the mental distress of his foe. He liked to prolong his own feeling of power—to enjoy the consciousness that, at any moment, he could put an end to the life of the man whom he hated for the blows which he felt had degraded him, and which he was resolved never to forget or forgive. It was the same feeling that has often led those of his race to torture their hapless victims, that they may, as long as possible, enjoy the spectacle of their agonies. For this reason he was in no hurry to speed on its way the fatal bullet.

Again the Indian laughed, and, taking aim, made a feint of firing, but withheld his shot. Pale and resolute his intended victim continued to face him. He thought that the fatal moment had come, and braced himself to meet his fate; but he was destined to be disappointed.

"How long is this goin' to last, you red hound?" he demanded. "If I've got to die, I am ready."

"Indian can wait!" said the savage, with a smile of enjoyment.

"You wouldn't find it prudent to wait if I were beside you," said the hunter. "It's easy enough to threaten an unarmed man. If some friend would happen along to foil you in your cowardly purpose—-"

"White man send for friend!" suggested the Indian, tauntingly.

Herbert had listened to this colloquy with varying emotions, and his anger and indignation were stirred by the cold-blooded cruelty of the savage. He stood motionless, seen by neither party, but he held his weapon leveled at the Indian, ready to shoot at an instant's warning. Brought up, as he had been, with a horror for scenes of violence, and a feeling that human life was sacred, he had a great repugnance to use his weapon, even where it seemed his urgent duty to do so. He felt that on him, young as he was, rested a weighty responsibility. He could save the life of a man of his own color, but only by killing or disabling a red man. Indian though he was, his life, too, was sacred; but when he threatened the life of another he forfeited his claim to consideration.

Herbert hesitated till he saw it was no longer safe to do so—till he saw that it was the unalterable determination of the Indian to kill the hunter, and then, his face pale and fixed, he pulled the trigger.

His bullet passed through the shoulder of the savage. The latter uttered a shrill cry of surprise and dismay, and his weapon fell at his feet, while he pressed his left hand to his wounded shoulder.

The hunter, amazed at the interruption, which had been of such essential service to him, lost not a moment in availing himself of it. He bounded forward, and before the savage well knew what he purposed, he had picked up his fallen weapon, and, leveling it at his wounded foe, fired.

His bullet was not meant to disable, but to kill. It penetrated the heart of the savage, and, staggering back, he fell, his face distorted with rage and disappointment.

"The tables are turned, my red friend!" said the hunter, coolly. "It's your life, not mine, this time!"

At that moment Herbert, pale and shocked, but relieved as well, pressed forward, and the hunter saw him for the first time.

"Was it you, boy, who fired the shot?" asked the hunter, in surprise.

"Yes," answered Herbert.

"Then I owe you my life, and that's a debt Jack Holden isn't likely to forget!"



CHAPTER XXXI. JACK HOLDEN ON THE INDIAN QUESTION.



It is a terrible thing to see a man stretched out in death who but a minute before stood full of life and strength. Herbert gazed at the dead Indian with a strange sensation of pity and relief, and could hardly realize that, but for his interposition, it would have been the hunter, not the Indian, who would have lost his life.

The hunter was more used to such scenes, and his calmness was unruffled.

"That's the end of the dog!" he said, touching with his foot the dead body.

"What made him want to kill you?" asked Herbert.

"Revenge," answered Holden.

"For what? Had you injured him?"

"That's the way he looked at it. One day I caught the varmint stealin' my best hoss. He'd have got away with him, too, if I hadn't come home just as I did. I might have shot him—most men would—but I hate to take a man's life for stealin'; and I took another way. My whip was lyin' handy, and I took it and lashed the rascal over his bare back a dozen times, and then told him to dust, or I'd serve him worse. He left, but there was an ugly look in his eyes, and I knew well enough he'd try to get even."

"How long ago was this?"

"Most a year. It's a long time, but an Indian never forgets an injury or an insult, and I knew that he was only bidin' his time. So I always went armed, and kept a good lookout. It was only this mornin' that he caught me at a disadvantage. I'd been taking a walk, and left my gun at home. He was prowlin' round, and soon saw how things stood. He'd have killed me sure, if you hadn't come in the nick of time."

"I am glad I was near," said Herbert, "but it seems to me a terrible thing to shoot a man. I'm glad it wasn't I that killed him."

"Mebbe it was better for me, as he was my enemy," said Jack Holden. "It won't trouble my conscience a mite. I don't look upon an Indian as a man."

"Why not?"

"He's a snake in the grass—a poisonous serpent, that's what I call him," said Jack Holden.

Herbert shook his head. He couldn't assent to this.

"You feel different, no doubt. You're a tenderfoot. You ain't used to the ways of these reptiles. You haven't seen what I have," answered Holden.

"What have you seen?" asked Herbert, judging correctly that Holden referred to some special experience.

"I'll tell you. You see, I'm an old settler in this Western country. I've traveled pretty much all over the region beyond the Rockies, and I've seen a good deal of the red men. I know their ways as well as any man. Well, I was trampin' once in Montany, when, one afternoon, I and my pard—he was prospectin'—came to a clearin', and there we saw a sight that made us all feel sick. It was the smokin' ruins of a log cabin, which them devils had set on fire. But that wasn't what I referred to. Alongside there lay six dead bodies—the man, his wife, two boys, somewhere near your age, a little girl, of maybe ten, and a baby—all butchered by them savages, layin'—in the hunter's vernacular—in their gore. It was easy to see how they'd killed the baby, by his broken skull. They had seized the poor thing by the feet, and swung him against the side of the house, dashin' out his brains."

Herbert shuddered, and felt sick, as the picture of the ruined home and the wretched family rose before his imagination.

"It was Indians that did it, of course," proceeded Holden. "They're born savage, and such things come natural to them."

"Are there no good Indians?" asked the boy.

"There may be," answered Jack Holden, doubtfully, "though I haven't seen many. They're as scarce as plums in a boardin' house puddin', I reckon."

I present this as Jack Holden's view, not mine. He had the prejudices of the frontier, and frontiersmen are severe judges of their Indian neighbors. They usually look at but one side of the picture, and are not apt to take into consideration the wrongs which the Indians have undeniably received. There is another extreme, however, and the sentimentalists who deplore Indian wrongs, and represent them as a brave, suffering and oppressed people, are quite as far away from a just view of the Indian question.

"What's your name, youngster?" asked Holden, with the curiosity natural under the circumstances.

"Herbert Carr."

"Do you live nigh here?"

Herbert indicated, as well as he could, the location of his home.

"I know—you live with Mr. Falkland. Are you his son?"

"No; Mr. Falkland has gone away."

"You're not living there alone, be you?"

"No; I came out here with a young man—Mr. Melville. He bought the cottage of Mr. Falkland, who was obliged to go East."

"You don't say so. Why, we're neighbors. I live three miles from here."

"Did you know Mr. Falkland?"

"Yes; we used to see each other now and then. He was a good fellow, but mighty queer. What's the use of settin' down and paintin' pictures? What's the good of it all?"

"Don't you admire pictures, Mr. Holden?" asked Herbert.

"That's that you called me? I didn't quite catch on to it."

"Mr. Holden. Isn't that your name?"

"Don't call me mister. I'm plain Jack Holden. Call me Jack."

"I will if you prefer it," said Herbert, dubiously.

"Of course I do. We don't go much on style in the woods. Won't you come home with me, and take a look at my cabin? I ain't used to company, but we can sit down and have a social smoke together, and then I'll manage to find something to eat."

"Thank you, Mr. Holden—I mean, Jack—but I must be getting home; Mr. Melville will be feeling anxious, for, as it is, I shall be late."

"Is Mr. Melville, as you call him, any way kin to you?"

"No; he is my friend and employer."

"Young man?"

"Yes; he is about twenty-five."

"How long have you two been out here?"

"Not much over a week."

"Why isn't Melville with you this morning?"

"He is in delicate health—consumption—and he gets tired sooner than I do."

"I must come over and see you, I reckon."

"I hope you will. We get lonely sometimes. If you would like to borrow something to read, Mr. Melville has plenty of books."

"Read!" repeated Jack. "No, thank you. I don't care much for books. A newspaper, now, is different. A man likes to know what's going on in the world; but I leave books to ministers, schoolmasters, and the like."

"If you don't read, how do you fill up your time, Jack?"

"My pipe's better than any book, lad. I'm goin' to set down and have a smoke now. Wish I had an extra pipe for you."

"Thank you," said Herbert, politely, "but I don't smoke."

"Don't smoke! How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen years old, and don't smoke! Why, where was you raised?"

"In the East," answered Herbert, smiling.

"Why, I smoked before I was three foot high, I was goin' to say. I couldn't get along without smokin'."

"Nor I without reading."

"Well, folks will have their different tastes, I allow. I reckon I'll be goin' back."

"Shan't you bury him?" asked Herbert, with a glance at the dead Indian.

"No; he wouldn't have buried me."

"But you won't leave him here? If you'll bury him, I'll help you."

"Not now, boy. Since you make a point of it, I'll come round to-morrow, and dig a hole to put him in. I'll take the liberty of carryin' home his shootin' iron. He won't need it where he's gone."

The two parted in a friendly manner, and Herbert turned his face homeward, grave and thoughtful.



CHAPTER XXXII. THE BLAZING STAR MINE.



Toward noon the next day George Melville and Herbert were resting from a country trip, sitting on a rude wooden settee which our hero had made of some superfluous boards, and placed directly in front of the house, when a figure was seen approaching with long strides from the shadow of the neighboring woods. It was not until he was close at hand that Herbert espied him.

"Why, it's Mr. Holden!" he exclaimed.

"Jack Holden, my lad," said the hunter, correcting him. "Is this the man you're living with?"

Jack Holden was unconventional, and had been brought up in a rude school so far as manners were concerned. It did not occur to him that his question might have been better framed.

"I am Mr. Melville," answered that gentleman, seeing that Herbert looked embarrassed. "Herbert is my constant and valued companion."

"He's a trump, that boy!" continued Holden. "Why, if it hadn't been for him, there'd been an end of Jack Holden yesterday."

"Herbert told me about it. It was indeed a tragic affair. The sacrifice of life is deplorable, but seemed to have been necessary, unless, indeed, you could have disabled him."

"Disabled him!" echoed the hunter. "That wouldn't have answered by a long shot. As soon as the reptile got well he'd have been on my trail ag'in. No, sir; it was my life or his, and I don't complain of the way things turned out."

"Have you buried him?" asked Herbert.

"Yes, I've shoved him under, and it's better than he deserved, the sneakin' rascal. I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Melville. Didn't know I had changed neighbors till the boy there told me yesterday. I've tramped over this mornin' to give you a call."

"You are very kind, Mr. Holden. Sit down here beside us."

"I'm more at home here," answered Holden, stretching himself on the ground, and laying his gun beside him. "How do you like Colorado?"

"Very much, as far as I have seen it," said Melville. "Herbert probably told you my object, in coming here?"

"He said you were ailin' some way."

"Yes, my lungs are weak. Since I have been here, I am feeling better and stronger, however."

"There don't seem to be anything the matter with the boy."

"Nothing but a healthy appetite," answered Herbert, smiling.

"That won't hurt anybody. Mr. Melville, do you smoke?"

"No, thank you."

"Queer! Don't see how you can do without it? Why, sir, I'd been homesick without my pipe. It's company, I tell you, when a chap's alone and got no one to speak to."

"I take it, Mr. Holden, you are not here for your health?"

"No, I should say not; I'm tough as a hickory nut. When I drop off it's more likely to be an Indian bullet than any disease. I'm forty-seven years old, and I don't know what it is to be sick."

"You are fortunate, Mr. Holden."

"I expect I am. But I haven't answered your question. I'm interested in mines, Mr. Melville. Have you ever been to Deer Creek?"

"Yes, I went over with Herbert to visit the store there one day last week."

"Did you ever hear of the Blazing Star Mine?"

"No, I believe not."

"I own it," said Holden. "It's a good mine, and would make me rich if I had a little more money to work it."

"Are the indications favorable, then?" asked Melville.

"It looks well, if that's what you mean. Yes, sir; the Star is a first-class property."

"Then it's a pity you don't work it."

"That's what I say myself. Mr. Melville, I've a proposal to make to you."

"What is it, Mr. Holden?"

"If you could manage to call me Jack, it would seem more social like."

"By all means, then, Jack!" said Melville smiling.

"You give me money enough to develop the mine, and I'll make half of it over to you."

"How much is needed?" asked Melville.

"Not over five hundred dollars. It's a bargain, I tell you."

"I do not myself wish to assume any business cares," said Melville.

Jack Holden looked disappointed.

"Just as you say," he responded.

"But Herbert may feel differently," continued Melville.

"I'd like the lad for a partner," said Holden, briskly.

"But I have no money!" said Herbert, in surprise.

George Melville smiled.

"If the mine is a good one," he said, "I will advance you the money necessary for the purchase of a half interest. If it pays you, you may become rich. Then you can repay the money."

"But suppose it doesn't, Mr. Melville," objected Herbert, "how can I ever repay you so large a sum?"

"On the whole, Herbert, I will take the risk."

"You are very kind, Mr. Melville," said Herbert, his face glowing with anticipation. To be half owner of a mine, with the chance of making a large sum of money, naturally elated him.

"Why shouldn't I be, Herbert? But I want to see the mine first."

"Can't you go over this afternoon?" asked Holden, eager to settle the matter as soon as possible.

"It is a long journey," said Melville, hesitating.

"You can stay overnight," said Jack Holden, "and come back in the morning."

"Very well; let us go then—that is, after dinner. Herbert, if you will set the table, we will see if we can't offer our friend here some refreshment. He is hungry, I am sure, after his long walk."

"You've hit it, Mr. Melville," said Holden. "I allow I'm as hungry as a wolf. But you don't set down to table, do you?"

"Oh, yes," answered Mr. Melville, smiling pleasantly.

"I ain't used to it," said Holden; "but I was once. Anyhow, it won't make no difference in the victuals."

When dinner was ready the three sat down, and did ample justice to it; but Jack Holden made such furious onslaughts that the other two could hardly keep pace with him. Fortunately, there was plenty of food, for Melville did not believe in economical housekeeping.

After dinner they set out for Deer Creek. As has been already explained, it was the name of a mining settlement. Now, by the way, it is a prosperous town, though the name has been changed. Then, however, everything was rude and primitive.

Jack Holden led the way to the Blazing Star Mine, and pointed out its capabilities and promise. He waited with some anxiety for Melville's decision.

"I don't understand matters very well," said Melville, "but I am willing to take a good deal on trust. If you desire it, I will buy half the mine, paying you five hundred dollars for that interest. That is, I buy it for Herbert."

"Hooray!" shouted Holden. "Give us your hand, pard. You are my partner now, you know."

As he spoke he gripped Herbert's hand in a pressure which was so strong as to be painful, and the necessary business was gone through.

So Herbert found himself a half owner of the Blazing Star Mine, of Deer Creek, Colorado.

"I hope your mine will turn out well, Herbert," said Melville, smiling.

"I wish it might for mother's sake!" said Herbert, seriously.

"It won't be my fault if it don't," said his partner. "I shall stay here now, and get to work."

"Ought I not to help you?" asked Herbert.

"No; Mr. Melville will want you. I will hire a man here to help me, and charge it to your share of the expenses."

So the matter was arranged; but Herbert rode over two or three times a week to look after his property.



CHAPTER XXXIII. GOOD NEWS FROM THE MINE.



"Well, Herbert, what news from the mine?" asked Melville, two weeks later, on Herbert's return from Deer Creek, whither he had gone alone.

"There are some rich developments, so Jack says. Do you know, Mr. Melville, he says the mine is richly worth five thousand dollars."

"Bravo, Herbert! That would make your half worth twenty-five hundred."

"Yes," said the boy complacently; "if we could sell at that figure, I could pay you back and have two thousand dollars of my own. Think of that, Mr. Melville," continued Herbert, his eyes glowing with pride and pleasure. "Shouldn't I be a rich boy?"

"You may do even better, Herbert. Don't be in a hurry to sell. That is my advice. If the present favorable indications continue, you may realize a considerably larger sum."

"So Jack says. He says he is bound to hold on, and hopes I will."

"You are in luck, Herbert."

"Yes, Mr. Melville, and I don't forget that it is to you I am indebted for this good fortune," said the boy, earnestly. "If you hadn't bought the property for me, I could not. I don't know but you ought to get some share ef the profits."

George Melville shook his head.

"My dear boy," he said, "I have more than my share of money already. Sometimes I feel ashamed when I compare my lot with others, and consider that for the money I have, I have done no work. The least I can do is to consider myself the Lord's trustee, and do good to others, when it falls in my way."

"I wish all rich men thought as you do, Mr. Melville; the world would be happier," said Herbert.

"True, Herbert. I hope and believe there is a considerable number who, like myself, feel under obligations to do good."

"I shall be very glad, on mother's account, if I can go home with money enough to make her independent of work. By the way, Mr. Melville, I found a letter from mother in the Deer Creek post office. Shall I read it to you?"

"If there is nothing private in it, Herbert."

"There is nothing private from you, Mr. Melville."

It may be explained that Deer Creek had already obtained such prominence that the post-office department had established an office there, and learning this, Herbert had requested his mother to address him at that place.

He drew the letter from his pocket and read it aloud.

We quote the essential portions.

"'I am very glad to hear that you have made the long journey in safety, and are now in health.'"

Herbert had not mentioned in his home letter the stage-coach adventure, for he knew that it would disturb his mother to think that he had been exposed to such a risk.

"It will do no good, you know," he said to Mr. Melville, and his friend had agreed with him.

"'It is very satisfactory to me,' continued Herbert, reading from the letter, 'that you are under the charge of Mr. Melville, who seems to me an excellent, conscientious young man, from whom you can learn only good.'"

"Your mother thinks very kindly of me," said Melville, evidently pleased.

"She is right, too, Mr. Melville," said Herbert, with emphasis.

"'It will no doubt be improving to you, my dear Herbert, to travel under such pleasant auspices, for a boy can learn from observation as well as from books. I miss you very much, but since the separation is for your advantage, I can submit to it cheerfully.

"'You ask me about my relations with Mr. Graham. I am still in the post office, and thus far nearly the whole work devolves upon me. Except in one respect, I am well treated. Mr. G-. is, as you know, very penurious, and grudges every cent that he has to pay out. When he paid me last Saturday night the small sum for which I agreed to assist him, he had much to say about his large expenses, fuel, lights, etc., and asked me if I wouldn't agree to work for two dollars a week, instead of three. I confess, I was almost struck dumb by such an exhibition of meanness, and told him that it would be quite impossible. Since then he has spent some of the time himself in the office, and asked me various questions about the proper way of preparing the mail, etc., and I think it is his intention, if possible, to get along without me. I don't know, if he absolutely insists upon it, but it would be better to accept the reduction than to give up altogether. Two dollars a week will count in my small household.'

"Did you ever hear of such meanness, Mr. Melville?" demanded Herbert, indignantly. "Here is Mr. Graham making, I am sure, two thousand dollars a year clear profit, and yet anxious to reduce mother from three to two dollars a week."

"It is certainly a very small business, Herbert. I think some men become meaner by indulgence of their defect."

"I shall write mother to give up the place sooner than submit to such a reduction. Three dollars a week is small enough in all conscience."

"I approve the advice, Herbert. If Mr. Graham were really cramped for money, and doing a poor business, it would be different. As it is, it seems to me he has no excuse for his extreme penuriousness."

"How pleasant it would be to pay a flying visit to Wayneboro," said Herbert, thoughtfully. "One never appreciates home until he has left it."

"That pleasure must be left for the future. It will keep."

"Very true, and when I do go home I want to go well fixed."

Herbert had already caught the popular Western phrase for a man well to do.

"We must depend on the Blazing Star Mine for that," said Melville, smiling. My young readers may like to know that, while Herbert was prospering financially, he did not neglect the cultivation of his mind. Among the books left by Mr. Falkland were a number of standard histories, some elementary books in French, including a dictionary, a treatise on natural philosophy, and a German grammar and reader.

"Do you know anything of French or German, Mr. Melville?" inquired our hero, when they made their first examination of the library.

"Yes, Herbert, I am a tolerable scholar in each."

"I wish I were."

"Would you like to study them?"

"Yes, very much."

"Then I will make you a proposal. You are likely to have considerable time at your disposal. If you will study either, or both, I will be your teacher."

"I should like nothing better," said Herbert, eagerly.

"Moreover, if you wish to study philosophy, I will aid you, though we are not in a position to illustrate the subject by experiments."

Herbert was a sensible boy. Moreover, he was fond of study, and he saw at once how advantageous this proposal was. He secured a private tutor for nothing, and, as he soon found, an excellent one. Though Mr. Melville had never been a teacher, he had an unusual aptitude for teaching, and it is hard to decide whether he or Herbert enjoyed more the hours which they now regularly passed in the relation of teacher and pupil.

It must be said, also, that while George Melville evinced an aptitude for teaching, Herbert showed an equal aptitude for learning. The tasks which he voluntarily undertook most boys would have found irksome, but he only found them a source of pleasure, and had the satisfaction, after a very short time, to find himself able to read ordinary French and German prose with comparative ease.

"I never had a better pupil," said George Melville.

"I believe I am the first you ever had," said Herbert, laughing.

"That is true. I spoke as if I were a veteran teacher."

"Then I won't be too much elated by the compliment."



CHAPTER XXXIV. TWO OLD ACQUAINTANCES REAPPEAR.



In the rude hotel kept by the outlaw, whom we have introduced under the name of Brown, there sat two men, to neither of whom will my readers need an introduction. They have already appeared in our story.

One was Brown himself, the other Col. Warner, or, as we may as well confess, Jerry Lane, known throughout the West as an unscrupulous robber and chief of a band of road agents, whose depredations had been characterized by audacity and success.

Brown was ostensibly an innkeeper, but this business, honest enough in itself, only veiled the man's real trade, in which he defied alike the laws of honesty and of his country. The other was by turns a gentleman of property, a merchant, a cattle owner, or a speculator, in all of which characters he acted excellently, and succeeded in making the acquaintance of men whom he designed to rob.

The two men wore a sober look. In their business, as in those more legitimate, there are good times and dull times, and of late they had not succeeded.

"I want some money, captain," said Brown, sullenly, laying down a black pipe, which he had been smoking.

"So do I, Brown," answered Warner, as we will continue to call him. "It's a dry time with me."

"You don't understand me, captain," continued Brown. "I want you to give me some money."

"First you must tell me where I am to get it," answered Warner, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Do you mean to say you have no money?" asked Brown, frowning.

"How should I have?"

"Because in all our enterprises you have taken the lion's share, though you haven't always done the chief part. You can't have spent the whole."

"No, not quite; but I have nothing to spare. I need to travel about, and—"

"You've got a soft thing," grumbled Brown. "You go round and have a good time while I am tied down to this fourth-rate tavern in the woods."

"Well, it isn't much more than that," said Warner, musingly.

"Do you expect me to keep a first-class hotel?" demanded Brown, defiantly.

"No, of course not. Brown," continued Warner, soothingly, "don't let us quarrel; we can't afford it. Let us talk together reasonably."

"What have you to say?"

"This, that it isn't my fault if things have gone wrong. Was it my fault that we found so little cash in that last store we broke open?"

"Nineteen dollars!" muttered Brown, contemptuously.

"Nineteen dollars, as you say. It didn't pay us for our trouble. Well, I was as sorry as you. I fail to see how it was my fault. Better luck next time."

"When is the next time to be?" asked Brown, somewhat placated.

"As soon as you please."

"What is it?"

"I will tell you. You remember that stagecoach full of passengers that fooled us some time since?"

"I ought to."

"I always meant to get on the track of that Melville, who spoiled our plot by overhearing us and giving us away to the passengers. He is very rich, so the boy who was with him told me, and I have every reason to rely upon his statement. Well, I want to be revenged upon him, and, at the same time, to relieve him of the doubtless large sum of money which he keeps with him."

"I'm with you. Where is he?"

"I have only recently ascertained—no matter how. He lives in a small cabin, far from any other, about eight miles from the mining town of Deer Creek."

"I know the place."

"Precisely. No one lives there with him except the boy, and it would be easy enough to rob him. I saw a man from Deer Creek yesterday. He tells me that Melville has bought for the boy a half share in a rich mine, and is thought to have at least five thousand dollars in gold and bills in his cabin."

Brown's eyes glistened with cupidity.

"That would be a big haul," he said.

"Of course, it would. Now, Brown, while you have been grumbling at me I have been saving this little affair for our benefit—yours and mine. We won't let any of the rest of them into it, but whatever we find we will divide, and share alike."

"Do you mean this, captain?"

"Yes, I mean it, friend Brown. You shan't charge me with taking the lion's share in this case. If there are five thousand dollars, as my informant seems to think, your share shall be half."

"Twenty-five hundred dollars!"

"Exactly; twenty-five hundred dollars."

"That will pay for my hard luck lately," said Brown, his face clearing.

"Very handsomely, too."

"When shall we start?"

"To-morrow morning. We will set out early in the morning; and, by the way, Brown, it's just as well not to let your wife or anyone else know where we are going."

"All right," answered Brown, cheerfully.

The next morning the two worthies set out their far from meritorious errand. Brown told his wife vaguely, in reply to her questioning, that he was called away for a few days on business.

If he expected to evade further question by this answer, he was mistaken. Mrs. Brown was naturally of a jealous and suspicious temperament, and doubt was excited in her breast.

"Where shall I say you have gone if I am asked?" she said.

"You may say that you don't know," answered Brown, brusquely.

"I don't think much of a man who keeps secrets from his wife," said Mrs. Brown, coldly.

"And I don't think much of a man who tells everything to his wife," retorted Brown. "It's all right, Kitty, You needn't concern yourself. But the captain and I are on an expedition, which, to be successful, needs to be kept secret."

Mrs. Brown was not more than half convinced, but she was compelled to accept this statement, for her husband would vouchsafe no other.

That part of the State into which they journeyed was not new ground to either. They were familiar with all the settled portion of Colorado, and had no difficulty in finding the cabin occupied by George Melville.

Now it happened that they reached the modest dwelling in the woods about three o'clock in the afternoon. Herbert had ridden over to Deer Creek to look after his mining property, and it was not yet time to expect him back. George Melville was therefore left alone.

Knowing, as my young readers do, his literary tastes, they will understand that, though left alone, he was not lonely. The stock of books which he had bought from his predecessor was to him an unfailing resource. Moreover, he had taken up Italian, of which he knew a little, and was reading in the original the "Divina Comedia" of Dante, a work which consumed many hours, and was not likely soon to be over. To-day, however, for some reason Melville found it more difficult than usual to fix his mind upon his pleasant study. Was it a presentiment of coming evil that made him so unusually restless? At all events, the hours, which were wont to be fleet-footed, passed with unusual slowness, and he found himself longing for the return of his young friend.

"I don't know what has got into me to-day," said Melville to himself. "It's only three o'clock, yet the day seems very long. I wish Herbert would return. I feel uneasy. I don't know why. I hope it is not a presage of misfortune. I shall not be sure that something has not happened to Herbert till I see him again."

As he spoke George Melville rose from his chair, and was about to put on his hat and take a short walk in the neighboring woods, when he heard the tramp of approaching horses. Looking out from the window, he saw two horsemen close at hand.

He started in dismay, for in the two men he was at no loss in recognizing his stagecoach companion, Col. Warner, and the landlord who had essayed the part of a road agent.



CHAPTER XXXV. MELVILLE IN PERIL.



Col. Warner and his companion enjoyed the effect of their presence upon their intended victim, and smiled in a manner that boded little good to Melville, as they dismounted from their steeds and advanced to the door of the cabin.

"How are you, Melville?" said Warner, ironically. "I see you have not forgotten me."

"No, I have not forgotten you," answered Melville, regarding his visitor uneasily.

"This is my friend, Mr. Brown. Perhaps you remember him?"

"I do remember him, and the circumstances under which I last saw him," replied Melville, rather imprudently.

Brown frowned, but he did not speak. He generally left his companion to do the talking.

"Being in the neighborhood, we thought we'd call upon you," continued Col. Warner.

"Walk in, gentlemen, if you see fit," said Melville. "I suppose it would be only polite to say that I am glad to see you, but I have some regard for truth, and cannot say it."

"I admire your candor, Mr. Melville. Walk in, Brown. Ha! upon my word, you have a nice home here. Didn't expect to see anything of the kind in this wilderness. Books and pictures! Really, now, Brown, I am quite tempted to ask our friend, Melville, to entertain us for a few days."

"I don't think it would suit you," said Melville, dryly. "You are probably more fond of exciting adventure than of books."

"Does the boy live with you?" asked Warner, dropping his bantering tone, and looking about his searchingly.

"Yes, he is still with me."

"I don't see him."

"Because he has gone to Deer Creek on business."

When Melville saw the rapid glance of satisfaction interchanged by the two visitors he realized that he had made an imprudent admission. He suspected that their design was to rob him, and he had voluntarily assured them that he was alone, and that they could proceed without interruption.

"Sorry not to see him," said Warner. "I'd like to renew our pleasant acquaintance."

Melville was about to reply that Herbert would be back directly, when it occurred to him that this would be a fresh piece of imprudence. It would doubtless lead them to proceed at once to the object of their visit, while if he could only keep them till his boy companion did actually return, they would at least be two to two. Even then they would be by no means equally matched, but something might occur to help them.

"I suppose Herbert will return by evening," he replied. "You can see him if you remain till then."

Another expression of satisfaction appeared upon the faces of his two visitors, but for this he was prepared.

"Sorry we can't stay till then," said Warner, "but business of importance will limit our stay. Eh, Brown?"

"I don't see the use of delaying at all!" growled Brown, who was not as partial as his companion to the feline amusement of playing with his intended victim. With him, on the contrary, it was a word, and a blow, and sometimes the blow came first.

"Come to business!" continued Brown, impatiently, addressing his associate.

"That is my purpose, friend Brown."

"Mr. Melville, it is not solely the pleasure of seeing you that has led my friend and myself to call this afternoon."

Melville nodded.

"So I supposed," he said.

"There is a little unfinished business between us, as you will remember. I owe you a return for the manner in which you saw fit to throw suspicion upon me some time since, when we were traveling together."

"I shall be very glad to have you convince me that I did you an injustice," said Melville. "I was led to believe that you and your friend now present were leagued together to rob us of our money and valuables. If it was not so—"

"You were not very far from right, Mr. Melville. Still it was not polite to express your suspicions so rudely. Besides, you were instrumental in defeating our plan."

"I can't express any regret for that, Col. Warner, or Jerry Lane, as I suppose that is your real name."

"I am Jerry Lane!" said Warner, proudly. "I may as well confess it, since it is well that you should know with whom you have to deal. When I say that I am Jerry Lane, you will understand that I mean business."

"I do," answered Melville, quietly.

"You know me by reputation?" said the outlaw, with a curious pride in his unenviable notoriety.

"I do."

"What do men say of me?"

"That you are at the head of a gang of reckless assassins and outlaws, and that you have been implicated in scores of robberies and atrocities."

This was not so satisfactory.

"Young man," said Lane—to drop his false name—"I advise you to be careful how you talk. It may be the worse for you. Now, to come to business, how much money have you in the house?"

"Why do you ask, and by what right?"

"We propose to take it. Now answer my question."

"Gentlemen, you will be very poorly paid for the trouble you have taken in visiting me. I have very little money."

"Of course, you say so. We want an answer."

"As well as I can remember I have between forty and fifty dollars in my pocketbook."

Brown uttered an oath under his breath, and Lane looked uneasy.

"That's a lie!" said Brown, speaking first. "We were told you had five thousand dollars here."

"Your informant was badly mistaken, then. I am not very wise, perhaps, in worldly matters, but I certainly am not such a fool as to keep so large a sum of money in a lonely cabin like this."

"Perhaps not so much as that," returned Lane. "I don't pretend to say how much you have. That is for you to tell us."

George Melville drew from his pocket a wallet, and passed it to the outlaw.

"Count the money for yourself, if you wish," he said. "You can verify my statement."

Lane opened the wallet with avidity, and drew out the contents. It was apparent at the first glance that the sum it contained was small. It was counted, however, and proved to amount to forty-seven dollars and a few silver coins.

The two robbers looked at each other in dismay. Was it possible that this was all? If so, they would certainly be very poorly paid for their trouble.

"Do you expect us to believe, Mr. Melville," said Jerry Lane, sternly, "that this is all the money you have?"

"In this cabin—yes."

"We are not so easily fooled. It is probably all you carry about with you; but you have more concealed somewhere about the premises. It will be best for you to produce at once, unless you are ready to pass in your checks."

"That means," said Melville, growing pale in spite of himself, for he knew from report the desperate character of his guests, "that means, I suppose, that you will kill me unless I satisfy your rapacity."

"It does," said Lane, curtly. "Now for your answer!"

"Gentlemen, I cannot accomplish impossibilities. It is as I say. The money in your hands is all that I have by me."

"Do you mean to deny that you are rich?" asked Lane.

"No, I do not deny it. That is not the point in question. You ask me to produce all the money I have with me. I have done so."

"Do you believe this, Brown?" asked the captain, turning to his subordinate.

"No, I don't."

"It is strictly true."

"Then," said Brown, "you deserve to die for having no more money for us."

"True," chimed in Lane. "Once more, will you produce your secret hoard?"

"I have none."

"Then you must be dealt with in the usual way. Brown, have you a rope?"

"Yes."

"Is there a convenient tree near by."

"We'll find one."

The two seized Melville, and, despite his resistance, dragged him violently from the cabin, and adjusted a rope about his neck. The young man was pale, and gave himself up for lost.



CHAPTER XXXVI. THE MINE IS SOLD.



While his friend was in peril, where was Herbert?

For him, too, it had been an exciting day—Deer Creek had been excited by the arrival of a capitalist from New York, whose avowed errand it was to buy a mine. Reports from Deer Creek had turned his steps thither, and all the mine owners were on the qui vive to attract the attention of the monied man. It was understood that he intended to capitalize the mine, when purchased, start a company, and work it by the new and improved methods, which had replaced the older and ruder appliances at first employed.

Mr. Compton, though not a mining expert, was a shrewd man, who weighed carefully the representations that were made to him, and reserved his opinion. It was clear that he was not a man who would readily be taken in, though there were not wanting men at Deer Creek who were ready to palm off upon him poor or worthless mines. About the only mine owners who did not seek him were the owners of the Blazing Star, both of whom were on the ground. The mine was looking up. The most recent developments were the most favorable, and the prospects were excellent. They might, indeed, "peter out" as the expression is, but it did not seem likely.