After all, I did not reckon it as nothing. The condolence of a friend or fellow-sufferer may soothe, though it cannot cure; and for such a solace the heart intuitively seeks. Confidence and sympathy are consolatory virtues—even penance has its purpose. I longed, therefore, for a friend—one to whom I could confide my secret, and unbosom my sorrow; and I sought that friend in the young backwoodsman. I had a claim upon him: he had made me the confidant of his care—the recipient of his heart confessed. Little dreamed I at the time, I should so soon be calling upon him for a reciprocity of the kindness.

Fortune so far favoured me—I found him at home. My arrival scarcely roused him from a dejection that, I could perceive, was habitual to him. I knew its cause; and could see that he was struggling against it—lest it should hinder him from the fulfilment of his duties as a host. It did not. There was something truly noble in this conquest of courtesy over the heart heavily laden—charged and engrossed with selfish care. Not without admiration, did I observe the conflict. I hesitated not to confide my secret to such a man: I felt convinced that under the buckskin coat beat the heart of a gentleman. I told him the whole story of my love—beginning with the hour in which I had left him.

The tale aroused him from his apathy—more especially the episode, which related to my first meeting with Lilian, and the encounter that followed. As a hunter, this last would have secured his attention; but it was not altogether that.

The scene touched a chord in unison with his own memories; for by some such incident had he first won the favour of Marian. As I approached the finale of the duel scene—that point where the stranger had appeared upon the stage—I could perceive the interest of my listener culminating to a pitch of excitement; and, before I had pronounced ten words in description of the clerical visitor, the young hunter sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so—"Josh Stebbins!"

"Yes; it was he—I know it myself."

I continued the narrative; but I saw I was no longer listened to with attention. Wingrove was on his feet, and pacing the floor with nervous irregular strides. Every now and then, I saw him glance towards his rifle—that rested above the fireplace; while the angry flash of his eyes betokened that he was meditating some serious design. As soon as I had described the winding up of the duel, and what followed—including my departure from Swampville—I was again interrupted by the young hunter—this time not by his speech but by an action equally significant. Hastily approaching the fireplace, he lifted his rifle from the cleets; and, dropping the piece upon its butt, commenced loading it!

It was not the movement itself, so much as the time and manner, that arrested my attention; and these declared the object of the act. Neither for squirrel nor coon—deer, bear, nor panther—was that rifle being loaded!

"Where are you going?" I inquired, seeing that he had taken down his coon-skin cap, and slung on his pouch and powder-horn. "Only a bit down the crik. You'll excuse me, stranger, for leavin' o' ye; but I'll be back in the twinklin' o' an eye. Thar's a bit o' dinner for ye, if you can eat cold deer-meat; an' you'll find somethin' in the old bottle thar. I won't be gone more'n a hour. I reckon I won't."

The emphasis expressed a certain indecision, which I observed without being able to interpret. I had my conjectures however.

"Can I not go with you?" I asked in hopes of drawing him to declare his design. "The weather has cleared up; and I should prefer riding out, to staying here alone. If it is not some business of a private nature—"

"Thar's nothin' particularly private about it, stranger; but it's a bizness I don't want you to be mixed up in. I guess ye've got yur own troubles now; 'ithout takin' share o' myen."

"If it is not rude, may I ask the business on which you're going?"

"Welcome to know it, stranger. I'm a-goin' to kill Josh Stebbins!"

"Kill Josh Stebbins?"

"Eyther that, or he shall kill me."

"Oh! nonsense!" I exclaimed, surprised less at the intention—which I had already half divined—than at the cool determined tone in which it was declared.

"I've said it, stranger! I've sworn it over an' over, an' it shell be done. 'Taint no new notion I've tuk. I'd detarmined on makin' him fight long ago: for I'd an old score to settle wi' him, afore that 'un you know o'; but I niver ked got the skunk to stan' up. He allers tuk care to keep out o' my way. Now I've made up my mind he don't dodge me any longer; an', by the Etarnal! if that black-hearted snake's to be foun' in the settlement—"

"He is not to be found in the settlement."

"Not to be foun' in the settlement!" echoed the hunter, in a tone that betrayed both surprise and vexation—"not to be foun' in the settlement? Surely you ain't in earnest, stranger? You seed him the day afore yesterday!"

"True—but I have reason to think he is gone."

"God forbid! But you ain't sure o' it? What makes you think he air gone?"

"Too sure of it—it was that knowledge that brought me in such haste to your cabin."

I detailed the events of the morning, which Wingrove had not yet heard; my brief interview with the Indian maiden—her figurative prophecy that had proved but two truthful. I described the deserted dwelling; and at last read to him the letter of Lilian—read it from beginning to end.

He listened with attention, though chafing at the delay. Once or twice only did he interrupt me, with the simple expression—"Poor little Lil!"

"Poor little Lil!" repeated he when I had finished. "She too gone wi' him!—just as Marian went six months ago!

"No—no!" he exclaimed correcting himself, in a voice that proclaimed the agony of his thoughts. "No! it war different—altogether different: Marian went willin'ly."

"How know you that?" I said, with a half-conceived hope of consoling him.

"Know it? O stranger! I'm sure o' it; Su-wa-nee sayed so."

"That signifies nothing. It is not the truer of her having said so. A jealous and spiteful rival. Perhaps the very contrary is the truth? Perhaps Marian was forced to marry this, man? Her father may have influenced her: and it is not at all unlikely, since he appears to be himself under some singular influence—as if in dread of his saintly son-in-law. I noticed some circumstances that would lead one to this conclusion."

"Thank ye, stranger, for them words!" cried the young hunter, rushing forward; and grasping me eagerly by the hand. "It's the first bit o' comfort I've had since Marian war tuk away! I've heerd myself that Holt war afeerd o' Stebbins; an' maybe that snake in the grass had a coil about him somehow. I confess ye, it often puzzled me, Marian's takin' it so to heart, an' all about a bit o' a kiss—which I wudn't a tuk, if the Indian hadn't poked her lips clost up to myen. Lord o' mercy! I'd gie all I've got in the world, to think it war true as you've sayed."

"I have very little doubt of its being true. I have now seen your rival; and I think it altogether improbable she would, of her own free will, have preferred him to you."

"Thank ye, stranger! it's kind in you to say so. She's now married an' gone: but if I thort thar had been force used, I'd 'a done long ago what I mean to do now."

"What is that?" I asked, struck by the emphatic energy with which the last words were spoken. "Foller him, if it be to the furrest eend o' the world! Yes, stranger! I mean it. I'll go arter him, an' track him out. I'll find him in the bottom o' a Californey gold mine, or wherever he may try to hide hisself; an', by the etarnal! I'll wipe out the score—both the old un and the new un—in the skunk's blood, or I'll never set fut agin in the state o' Tennessee. I've made up my mind to it."

"You are determined to follow him?"

"Firmly detarmined!"

"Enough! Our roads lie together!"



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

A DEPARTURE IN A "DUG-OUT."

We were in perfect accord as to our course of action, as in our thoughts. If our motives were not similar, our enemy was the same. Only was there a difference in our prospective designs. Love was the lure that beckoned me on; Wingrove was led by revenge. To follow him, and punish guilt, was the metier of my companion; to follow her, and rescue innocence, was the role cast for me. Though guided by two such different passions, both were of the strongest of our nature—either sufficient to stimulate to the most earnest action; and without loss of time, we entered upon it in full determination to succeed. I had already formed the design of pursuit; and perhaps it was with the hope of obtaining an associate and companion, that I had sought an interview with the hunter. At all events, this had been my leading idea. His expressed determination, therefore, was but the echo of my wish. It only remained for us to mould our design into a proper and practicable form.

Though not much older than my new comrade, there were some things in which I had the advantage of him. I was his superior in experience. He acknowledged it with all deference, and permitted my counsels to take the lead. The exercise of partisan warfare—especially that practised on the Mexican and Indian frontiers—is a school scarcely equalled for training the mind to coolness and self-reliance. An experience thus obtained, had given mine such a cast; and taught me, by many a well-remembered lesson, the truthfulness of that wise saw; "The more haste the less speed." Instead, therefore of rushing at once in medias res, and starting forth, without knowing whither to go, my counsel was that we should act with caution; and adopt some definite plan of pursuit. It was not the suggestion of my heart, but rather of my head. Had I obeyed the promptings of the former, I should have been in the saddle, hours before, and galloping somewhere in a westerly direction— perhaps to find, at the end of a long journey only disappointment, and the infallibility of the adage.

Taking counsel from my reason, I advised a different course of action; and my comrade—whose head for his age was a cool one—agreed to follow my advice. Indeed, he had far less motive for haste than I. Revenge would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a quiet heart was out of the question. She whom I loved was not only in danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the victim of a dastard coquin—diabolic as dastard! Suffering under the sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the self-restraining power of which I was possessed. Had I but known where to go, I should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant. Not knowing, I was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to restrain myself from the idle attempt.

That Holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the Mormon, we knew: the letter told that. That they had left the cabin was equally known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be accomplished. If still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance of overtaking them. But what after that? Ah! beyond that I did not trust myself to speculate. I dared not discuss the future. I refrained from casting even a glance into its horoscope—so dark did it appear. I had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach. That phrase of fatal prophecy, "You will be too late—too late!" still rang in my ears. It had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty interpretation of it. Had not it also a figurative application? and did it not signify I should be too late in every sense?

————————————————————————————————————

At what time had they taken their departure? By what route? and upon what road? These were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure itself—the deserted dwelling. Thither we hied in all haste—prepared, if need be, for a more distant expedition. On entering the enclosure, we dismounted, and at once set about examining the "sign." My companion passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge. I had hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind. Even the hoof-prints of my own horse—made but an hour before—were washed full of mud, and scarcely traceable.

Had they gone upon horseback? It was not probable: the house-utensils could hardly have been transported that way? Nor yet could they have removed them in a wagon? No road for wheels ran within miles of the clearing—that to Swampville, as already stated, being no more than a bridle-path; while the other "traces," leading up and down the creek, were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle.

There was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe. It was clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it. Wingrove well knew the craft. It was known as Holt's "dug-out;" and was occasionally used as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as passed that way. It was sufficiently large to carry several at once— large enough for the purpose of a removal. The mode of their departure was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already suspecting it, we had still some doubts. Had they gone off in any other way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them. But a conge in a canoe was a very different affair: man's presence leaves no token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element—an emblem of his own vain nothingness!



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

A DANGEROUS SWEETHEART.

Our conjectures as to the mode of their departure were at an end. On this point, we had arrived at a definite knowledge. It was clear they had gone off in the canoe; and with the current, of course: since that would carry them in the direction they intended to travel. The settling of this question, produced a climax—a momentary pause in our action. We stood upon the bank of the stream, bending our eyes upon its course, and for a time giving way to the most gloomy reflections. Like our thoughts were the waters troubled. Swollen by the recent rain-storm, the stream no longer preserved its crystal purity; but in the hue of its waters justified the name it bore. Brown and turbid, they rolled past— no longer a stream, but a rushing torrent—that spumed against the banks, as it surged impetuously onward. Trees torn up by the roots were carried on by the current—their huge trunks and half-riven branches twisting and wriggling in the stream, like drowning giants in their death-struggle. In the "sough" of the torrent, we heard their sighs—in its roar, the groans of their departing spirits!

The scene was in unison with our thoughts; and equally so with the laughter that at that moment sounded in our ears—for it was laughter wild and maniac. It was heard in the forest behind us; ringing among the trees, and mingling its shrill unearthly echo with the roaring of the torrent. Both of us were startled at the sound. Though the voice was a woman's, I could see that it had produced on Wingrove a certain impression of fear. On hearing it, he trembled and turned pale. I needed no explanation. A glance towards the forest revealed the cause. A female form moving among the trees told me whence had come that unexpected and ill-timed cachinnation.

"Lord o' mercy!" exclaimed my companion, "that Injun again! She's been arter me since that night, an' threatens to have a fresh try at takin' my life. Look out stranger! I know she's got pistols."

"Oh! I fancy there's not much danger. She appears to be in the laughing mood."

"It's jest that ere larf I don't like: she's allers wust when she's in that way."

By this time the Indian had reached the edge of the clearing very near the rear of the cabin. Without pausing she sprang up on the fence—as if to enter the enclosure. This, however, proved not to be her intention; for, on climbing to the topmost rail, she stood erect upon it, with one hand clutching the limb of a tree, to keep her in position. As soon as she had attained the upright attitude, another peal of laughter came ringing from her lips, as wild as that with which she had announced her approach; but there was also in its tones a certain modulation that betokened scorn! Neither of us uttered a syllable; but, observing a profound silence, stood waiting to hear what she had to say. Another scornful laugh, and her words broke forth:

"White Eagle! and proud slayer of red panthers! your hearts are troubled as the stream on which your eyes are gazing! Su-wa-nee knows your sorrows. She comes to you with words of comfort."

"Ah! speak them then!" said I, suddenly conceiving a hope. "Hear you that sound in the forest?"

We heard no sound, save that of the water grumbling and surging at our feet. We answered in the negative. "You hear it not? Ha, ha, ha! where are your ears? It is ringing in mine. All day I have heard it. Listen! there it is again!"

"She's a mockin' us," muttered my companion; "thar ain't no soun' in partickler."

"No? we cannot hear it; you are mocking us," I rejoined, addressing myself to the brown-skinned, sibyl. "Ha! ha! ha! It is it that is mocking you. It mocks you, and yet it is not the mocking-bird. It is not the dove cooing gently to his mate, nor the screaming of the owl. It is the cuckoo that mocks you! ha! ha! the cuckoo! Now, do you hear it, White Eagle? Do you hear it, proud slayer of red panthers? Ha! it mocks you both!"

"Oh! bother, girl!" exclaimed. Wingrove in a vexed tone; "ye're a talkin' nonsense."

"Truth, White Eagle—truth! the black snake has been in your nest; and yours too, slayer of panthers! He has wound himself around your pretty birds, and borne them away in his coils—away over the great desert plains—away to the Big Lake! Ha, ha, ha! In the desert, he will defile them. In the waters of the lake, he will drown them—ha, ha, ha!"

"Them's yur words o' comfort, air they?" cried Wingrove, exasperated to a pitch of fury. "Durned if I'll bar sech talk! I won't stan' it any longer. Clar out now! We want no croakin' raven hyar. Clar out! or—"

He was not permitted to finish the threat. I saw the girl suddenly drop down from her position on the fence, and glide behind the trunk of a tree. Almost at the same instant a light gleamed along the bank—which might have been mistaken for a flash of lightning, had it not been followed instantaneously by a quick crack—easily recognisable as the report of a pistol! I waited not to witness the effect; but rushed towards the tree—with the design of intercepting the Indian. The blue smoke lingering in the damp air, hindered me from seeing the movements of the girl; but, hurrying onward, I clambered over the fence. Once on the other side, I was beyond the cloud, and could command a view for a score of yards or so around me; but, in that circuit, no human form was to be seen! Beyond it, however, I heard the vengeful, scornful, laugh, pealing its unearthly echoes through the columned aisles of the forest!



CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE HOROLOGE OF THE DEAD HORSE.

With inquiring eye and anxious heart, I turned towards the spot where I had left my companion. To my joy, he was still upon his feet, and coming towards me. I could see blood dripping from his fingers, and a crimson-stained rent in the sleeve of his buckskin shirt; but the careless air with which he was regarding it, at once set my mind at rest. He was smiling: there could not be much danger in the wound? It proved so in effect. The bullet had passed through the muscular part of the left forearm—only tearing the flesh. The wound did not even require a surgeon. The haemorrhage once checked, the dressing which my experience enabled me to give it was sufficient; and kept slung a few days it would be certain to heal.

Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. The allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. It affected me equally with my comrade—perhaps more. The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand.—California, of course. There was no allusion to the Salt Lake—not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the Mormons. Su-wa-nee's speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter's journey! How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. The mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. For this reason gave I weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl—though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service.

The incident altered our design—only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. The first point to be ascertained was the time of their departure.

"If it wan't for the rain," said the hunter, "I ked a told it by thar tracks. They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin' thar things to the dug-out. The durned rain's washed 'em out—every footmark o' 'em."

"But the horses? what of them? They could not have gone off in the canoe?"

"I war just thinkin' o' them. The one you seed with Stebbins must a been hired, I reck'n; an' from Kipp's stables. Belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin 'ithout him; or Kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?"

"But Holt's own horse—the old 'critter,' as you call him?"

"That diz need explainin'. He must a left him ahind. He culdn't a tuk him in the dug-out; besides, he wan't worth takin' along. The old thing war clean wore out, an' wuldn't a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. Now, what ked they a done wi' him?"

The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. "Heigh!" he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. "Yonder we'll find him! See the buzzarts! The old hoss's past prayin' for, I'll be boun'."

It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal's throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!

"He's killed the crittur!" musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; "jest like what he'd do! He might a left the old thing to some o' his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn't a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan't partickler friendly wi' any o' us, an' least o' all wi' myself—tho' I niver knew the adzact reezun o't, 'ceptin' that I beat him once shootin', at a barbecue. He war mighty proud a' his shootin', an' that riled him, I reck'n: he's been ugly wi' me iver since."

I scarcely heeded what the young hunter was saying—my attention being occupied with a process of analytical reasoning. In the dead horse, I had found a key to the time of Holt's departure. The ground for some distance around where the carcass lay was quite dry: the rain having been screened off by a large spreading branch of the sycamore, that extended its leafy protection over the spot. Thus sheltered, the body lay just as it had fallen; and the crimson rivulet, with its terminating "pool," had only been slightly disturbed by the feet of the buzzards— the marks of whose claws were traceable in the red mud, as was that of their beaks upon the eyeballs of the animal. All these were signs, which the experience of a prairie campaign had taught me how to interpret; and which the forest lore of my backwoods comrade also enabled him to read. At the first question put to him, he comprehended my meaning.

"How long think you since he was killed?" I asked, pointing to the dead horse. "Ha! ye're right, stranger!" said he, perceiving the object of the interrogatory. "I war slack not to think o' that. We kin easy find out, I reck'n."

The hunter bent down over the carcass, so as to bring his eyes close to the red gash in the neck. In this he placed the tips of his fingers, and kept them there. He uttered not a word, but held his head slantwise and steadfast, as if listening. Only for a few seconds did he remain in this attitude; and then, as if suddenly satisfied with the examination, he rose from his stooping posture, exclaiming as he stood erect:

"Good, by thunder! The old horse hain't been dead 'bove a kupple o' hours. Look thar, stranger! the blood ain't froze? I kin a'most fancy thar's heat in his old karkiss yet!"

"You are sure he has been killed this morning?"

"Quite sure o't; an' at most three, or may be four hour agone. See thar!" he continued, raising one of the limbs, and letting it drop again; "limber as a eel! Ef he'd a been dead last night, the leg'd been stiff long afore this."

"Quite true," replied I, convinced, as was my companion, that the horse had been slaughtered that morning.

This bit of knowledge was an important contribution towards fixing the time of the departure. It told the day. The hour was of less importance to our plans; though to that, by a further process of reasoning, we were enabled to make a very near approximation. Holt must have killed the horse before going off; and the act, as both of us believed, could not have been accomplished at a very early hour. As far as the sign enabled us to tell, not more than four hours ago; and perhaps about two, before the time of my first arrival in the clearing. Whether the squatter had left the ground immediately after the performance of this rude sacrifice, it was impossible to tell. There was no sign by which to determine the point; but the probability was, that the deed was done just upon the eve of departure; and that the slaughter of the old horse was the closing act of Holt's career in his clearing upon Mud Creek. Only one doubt remained. Was it he who had killed the animal? I had conceived a suspicion pointing to Su-wa-nee— but without being able to attribute to the Indian any motive for the act.

"No, no!" replied my comrade, in answer to my interrogatory on this head: "'twar Holt hisself, sartin. He culdn't take the old hoss along wi' him, an' he didn't want anybody else to git him. Besides, the girl hedn't no reezun to a did it. She'd a been more likely to a tuk the old critter to thar camp—seein' he war left behind wi' nobody to own him. Tho' he wan't worth more'n what the skin 'ud fetch, he'd adone for them ar Injuns well enuf, for carryin' thar traps an' things. No, 'twan't her, nor anybody else 'ceptin' Holt hisself—he did it?"

"If that be so, comrade, there is still hope for us. They cannot have more than four hours the start. You say the creek has a winding course?"

"Crooked as a coon's hind leg."

"And the Obion?"

"Most part the same. It curls through the bottom like the tail o' a cur-dog; an' nigher the Massissippy, it don't move faster than a snail 'ud crawl. I reck'n the run o' the river 'll not help 'em much. The'll hev a good spell o' paddlin' afore they git down to Massissippy; an' I hope that durned Mormon 'll blister his ugly claws at it!"

"With all my heart!" I rejoined; and both of us at the same instant recognising the necessity of taking time by the forelock, we hurried back to our horses, sprang into our saddles and started along the trace conducting to the mouth of the Obion.



CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

A LOOKOUT FROM ALOFT.

It cost us a fatiguing ride of nearly twelve hours' duration—most of it along by-roads and bridle-paths—at intervals passing through tracts of swampy soil, where our horses sank to the saddle-girths in mud. We rode continuously: stopping only once to recruit our horses at one of the "stands," or isolated log hostelries—which are found upon the old "traces" connecting the sparse settlements of the backwoods. It was the only one we saw upon our route; and at it we remained no longer than was absolutely necessary to rest our wearied steeds, and put them in a condition for the completion of the journey. We knew the necessity of haste. Our only hope lay in being able to reach the mouth of the Obion before the canoe could pass out of it. Otherwise, our journey would be in vain; and we should not only have our long ride for nothing, but would be under the necessity of doubling the distance by riding back again.

Along the route we found time to discuss the circumstances—both those in our favour and against us. The water-way taken by the canoe was far from being direct. Both the creek and the larger stream curved repeatedly in their courses; and in ordinary times were of sluggish current. The freshet, however, produced by the late rain-storm, had rendered it swifter than common; and we knew that the canoe would be carried down with considerable rapidity—faster than we were travelling on horseback. On such roads, for so great a distance, fast travelling was impossible; and could only have been accomplished at the risk of killing our horses. Mounted as I was, I might have made more of the time; but I was under the necessity of slackening pace for my companion—whose sorry steed constantly required waiting for. Our sole chance lay in our route being shorter, and in the circumstance that the fugitives had not a very long start of us; but for all this the issue was exceedingly doubtful; and by the nicest calculations, we were satisfied we should have but little margin to spare.

I need hardly point out the importance of our arriving in time. Should the canoe get beyond the mouth of the Obion—without our seeing it—we should be left undetermined as to whether they had gone up the Mississippi or down; and therefore altogether without a guide as to our future movements. In fact, we should be unable to proceed further in the pursuit. So far as the mouth of the Obion, their route was fixed; and of course ours was also determined. But beyond, it would be on our part mere blind guessing; and, should evil chance conduct us in the wrong direction, the result would be ruin to our prospects. On the other hand, could we but arrive in time—if only to see the canoe entering the great river—and note which turning it took—our purpose would be accomplished. That is, our present purpose; for beyond that of ascertaining their route of travel across the plains, and their point of destination, I had formed no plans. To follow them wherever they might go—even to the distant shores of the Pacific—to seek them wherever they might settle—to settle beside them—beside her—these were the ideas I had as yet but vaguely conceived. All ulterior designs were contingent on the carrying out of these, and still shrouded under the clouded drapery of the ambiguous future.

The purposes of my travelling companion differed slightly from mine, and were, perhaps, a little more definite. His leading idea was a settlement of old scores with Stebbins, for wrongs done to him—which he now more particularly detailed to me. They were sufficiently provocative of revenge; and, from the manner of my comrade, and the vows he occasionally uttered, I could perceive that he would be as eager in the pursuit as myself. In all probability, an encounter with the migrating party would bring about an important change in their programme: since the young hunter was determined, as he expressed himself, "to force the durned skunk into a fight."

Inspired by such motives, we pressed on to the end of our journey; and reached the mouth of the Obion, after a long and wearisome ride. It was midnight when we arrived upon the shore of the Mississippi—at its point of confluence with the Tennessean stream. The land upon which we stood was scarcely elevated above the surface of the water; and covered, every foot of it, with a forest of the cotton-wood poplar, and other water-loving trees. These extending along the marshy borders of both streams, hindered us from having a view of their channels. To obtain this, it was necessary to climb one of the trees; and my comrade being disabled, the task devolved upon me. Dismounting, I chose one that appeared easiest of ascent; and, clambering up it as high as I could get, I fixed myself in a fork, and commenced duty as a vidette.

My position could not have been better chosen. It afforded me a full view, not only of the Obion's mouth, but also of the broad channel into which it emptied—at their confluence, forming an expanse of water that, but for its rolling current; might have been likened to a vast lake. There was moonlight over the whole surface; and the erratic ripples were reflected in sparkling coruscations—scarcely to be distinguished from the gleaming of the "lightning bugs," that hovered in myriads along the hedges of the marsh. Both banks of the lesser stream were draped to the water's edge with an unbroken forest of cotton-woods—the tops of which exhibiting their characteristic softness of outline, were unstirred by the slightest breeze. Between rolled the brown waters of the Obion, in ruder, grander flow, and with channel extended by the freshet. Every inch of it, from side to side, was under my observation—so completely, that I could distinguish the smallest object that might have appeared upon its surface. Not even the tiniest waif could have escaped me—much less a canoe freighted with human beings; and containing that fairer form, that would be certain to secure the keenest and most eager glances of my eye.

I congratulated myself on reaching this perch. I perceived that a better post of observation could not have been chosen. It was complete for the purpose; and, if I could only have felt sure that we had arrived in time, all would have been satisfactory. Time alone would determine the point; and, turning my eyes up stream, I entered upon my earnest vigil.



CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

THE WHITE FOG.

Vain vigil it proved. I shall not tire the reader with details. Suffice it to say, that we kept watch till morning's dawn; and then, profiting by the daylight, sought out a more convenient post of observation, where we continued our surveillance—watching and sleeping in turn. Throughout the following day, and into the second, was our vigil extended: until no longer able to hope against hope, we agreed finally to abandon it. But for one circumstance, we might have felt surprise at the result. We were both convinced that we had reached the river's mouth in good time: since, by our calculations, the canoe could not possibly have "headed" us. But for the same circumstance, we might have believed, that they had not yet come down the Obion; and perhaps would have remained at our post a day longer.

The explanation is this: On the first night of our watch, a few hours after having taken my station in the tree, a fog had suddenly arisen upon the rivers, shrouding the channels of both. It was the white fog—a well-known phenomenon of the Mississippi—that often extends its dangerous drapery over the bosom of the "Father of Waters:" a thing of dread, even to the skilled pilots who navigate this mighty stream. On that particular night, the fog lay low upon the water: so that in my position near the top of the tree I was entirely clear of its vapoury disc; and could look down upon its soft filmy cumuli floating gently over the surface—white and luminous under the silvery moonlight. The moon was still shining brightly; and both sky and forest could be seen as clearly as ever. The water-surface alone was hidden from my sight— the very thing I was most anxious to observe. As if by some envious demon of the flood, this curtain seemed to have been drawn: for, just as the fog had fairly unfurled itself, I fancied I could hear the dipping of a paddle at no great distance off in the channel of the stream. Moreover, gazing intently into the mist—as yet thin and filmy—I fancied I saw a long dark object upon the surface, with the silhouettes of human forms outlined above it—just as of a canoe en profile with passengers in it. I even noted the number of the upright forms: three of them—which exactly corresponded to that of the party we were expecting. So certain was I at the moment, of seeing all this, that I need not have shouted to assure myself. Excited with over-eagerness, I did so; and hailed the canoe in hopes of obtaining an answer. My summons produced not the desired effect. On the contrary, it seemed to still the slight plashing I had heard; and, before the echoes of my voice died upon the air, the dark objects had glided out of sight— having passed under thick masses of the floating vapour. Over and over, I repeated my summons—each time changing the form of speech, and each time with like fruitless effect! The only answer I received was from the blue heron, that, startled by my shouts, rose screaming out of the fog, and flapped her broad wings close to my perch upon the tree. Whether the forms I had seen were real—or only apparitions conjured up by my excited brain—they vouchsafed no reply; and, in truth, in the very next moment, I inclined to the belief that my senses had been deceiving me!

From that time, my comrade and I were uncertain; and this, uncertainty will explain the absence of our surprise at not seeing the canoe, and why we waited no longer for its coming. The most probable conjectures were that it had passed us in the fog; that the apparition was real; and they that occupied the canoe were now far-away on the Mississippi—no longer trusting to such a frail craft, but passengers on one of the numerous steam-boats, that by night as by day, and in opposite directions, we had seen passing the mouth of the Obion.

In all likelihood, then, the fugitives were now beyond the limits of Tennessee; and we felt sufficiently assured of this. But the more important point remained undetermined—whether they had gone northward or southward—whether by the routes of the Missouri or those of the Arkansas? Upon this question we were as undecided as ever. At that season of the year, the probabilities were in favour of the southern route; but it depended on whether the emigrants intended to proceed at once across the plains, or wait for the return of spring. I knew, moreover, that the Mormons had their own "trains," and ways of travelling; and that several new routes or "trails" had been discovered during the preceding year, by military explorers, emigrants for Oregon and California, and by the Mormons themselves. This knowledge only complicated the question, leaving us in hopeless doubt and indecision. Thus unresolved, it would have been absurd to proceed further. Our only hope lay in returning to Swampville. And whence this hope? What was to be expected in Swampville? Who was there in that village of golden dreams to guide me upon the track of my lost love? No one—no human being. The index of my expectation was not a living thing, but a letter! Assuredly, I had not forgotten that promise, so simply yet sweetly expressed: "If I thought you would like to know where we are gone, I would write to you;" and again: "If you will allow me, I will send a letter to Swampville, from the first place we come to, to tell you where we are going." Oh! that I could have told her how much I "would like to know," and how freely she had my permission to write! Alas! that was impossible. But the contingencies troubled me not much; I was full of hope that she would waive them. Communicating this hope to my companion, we rode back to Swampville: with the design of laying siege to the post-office, until it should surrender up to us the promised epistle.



CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE PROMISED EPISTLE.

Under any circumstances, a return to Swampville would have been necessary: certain pecuniary requirements called me back to that interesting village. A journey, even across the desert, cannot be made without money; and the hundred dollars I had paid to Holt, with hotel and other incidental outlays, had left me with a very light purse. It would have taken three times as much as I was master of, to provide us with the scantiest equipment required for a prairie journey; and toward this the young hunter, willing to give his all, was able to contribute nothing. He would cheerfully have parted with his patrimony—as I with my purchase—for a very slender consideration; but, at that crisis, the Californian speculation demanded all the specie in circulation; and neither his clearing nor mine would have sold for a single dollar, had the payment been required in cash. A credit sale could not have served us in any way; and we were forced to hold on to our depreciated property—upon which not a single cent could be borrowed.

Never stood I in more need of my Nashville friend; and my appeal, already made, was promptly responded to—as I expected it would be. On the third day after my despatch, the answer arrived—with a handsome enclosure; enough to carry us across the continent, and back again if need be. We were now ready for the road. We waited only for that other letter, that was to be the index to our destination.

How we passed our time during that interval of expectation is not worth describing. We enjoyed the hospitality of the Jackson hotel; and contrived to escape the espieglerie of its husband-hunting denizens, by hunting the deer of the surrounding forest. During the whole time, we went not near our respective "plantations" on Mud Creek. Wingrove had good reason for being shy of that quarter; and I had no inclination to trust myself to its souvenirs. Moreover, the hours of the mail-rider were neither fixed nor regular; and on this account I avoided a prolonged absence from the post-office.

Six days of this expectancy I endured—six days of alternate hope and doubt—the latter at times so distressing, that even in the excitement of the chase I could not procure distraction for my thoughts! More than once my comrade and I had almost ceased to hope; and half resolved to launch ourselves on the great prairie ocean—trusting to chance to guide us to the haven of our hopes. On the sixth day we had determined upon it; and only awaited the mail, that should arrive on the morning of the seventh. The seventh proved the day of joy. Our doubts were dispelled. The cloud that hung over our course was cleared away, by the arrival of the expected epistle! My fingers trembled as I took the precious billet from the hands of the postmaster. He must have observed my emotion— though I did not open the letter in his presence. The superscription was enough to tell me from whom it came. I had studied the fac-simile of that pretty cipher, till it was well impressed upon my memory; and could therefore recognise it at a glance. I did not even break open the envelope till we were upon the road. The post-mark, "Van Buren, Arkansas," sufficiently indicated the direction we were to take; and not, till we had cleared the skirts of Swampville, and were en route for Memphis, did I enter on the pleasure of perusal. The address was simply as before: "To Edward Warfield;" and so to the apostrophic commencement: "Stranger!" I could have wished for some less distant word—some familiar phrase of endearment, but I was contented—for I knew that Lilian's too recent love had lacked the opportunity of learning its language. Before it had time to achieve the employment of those sweet forms of speech, its course had been rudely interrupted. Thus ran the letter:

"Stranger!—I hope you got my other letter, and that you were able to read it, for I had no paper, nor pens, nor ink to write it better—only a little bit of a pencil, that was my mother's, and a leaf which father said you tore out of a book. But I think I could have wrote it better, only I was so afraid that they would see me, and scold me for it, and I wrote it in a great hurry, when they were from home, and then left it on the table after both of them had gone down to the creek to get into the canoe. I thought no one would come to the house before you, and I hoped all the morning you might come before we were gone. I would have given a great deal to have been able to see you again; and I think father would have waited till you came, only his friend would not let him stay longer, but hurried us away. But I hope you got the letter, and that you will not be offended at me for writing this one I send you, without your leave. I promised that if you would allow me, I would write from some place, and tell you the name of the country where we are going; but I forgot that it would be impossible for you to give me leave, as you could not see me, nor yet know where to write it to me. I now know what country it is, for everybody we have seen is talking about it, and saying that it is full of gold, that lies on the ground in pieces as big as hickory nuts; and I hear the name a many a time, over and over again. Father calls it 'Californey,' and some 'California,' and this, I suppose, is the right way of spelling it. It is near a great sea, or ocean as they call it, which is not the same that comes in at Philadelphia and New York, but far greater and bigger than the Mississippi and the Obion, and all the rivers put together. It must be a very large sea to be bigger than the Mississippi! But I am sure you must know all about it, for I have heard them say you have travelled in these far-away countries, and that you were an officer in the army, and had been fighting there with the Mexicans. I am glad you were not killed, and got safe home again to Tennessee; for if you had been killed, I should never have seen you; but now it is just as bad, if I am never to see you again. O sir! I would write to you from that country when we are settled there; but I fear you will forget me before then, and will not care to hear anything more about us.

"I shall never forget our dear Tennessee. I am very sorry at leaving it, and I am sure I can never be happy in California with all its gold— for what good can gold be to me? I should so like to hear sometimes from our old home, but father had no friends who could write to us; the only one we knew is gone away like ourselves.

"Maybe, sir, you would not mind writing to us—only a very short letter, to tell us how you get on with the clearing, and whether you have made it much bigger, and built a great house upon it, as I have heard father say you intended to do. I shall always like to hear that you are in good health, and that you are happy.

"I have to tell you of a very strange thing that happened to us. At the mouth of the Obion river, when we were in the canoe at night-time—for we travelled all that night—we heard some one shouting to us, and O Sir! it was so like your voice that I trembled when I heard it, for it appeared as if it came down out of the clouds. It was a thick mist, and we could see no one; but for all that, I would have cried out, but father would not let me speak. It appeared to be right above our heads; and father said it was some wood-cutters who had climbed into a tree. I suppose that must have been it; but it was as like your voice as if it had been you that shouted, and as I knew you could not be there, it made me wonder all the more.

"We arrived at this place yesterday. It is a large town on the Arkansas river: and we came to it in a steam-boat. From here we are to travel in a waggon with a great many other people in what they call a 'caravan,' and they say we shall be many months in getting to the end of the journey. It is a long time to wait before I can write again, for there are no towns beyond Van Buren, and no post to carry a letter. But though I cannot write to you, I will not forget to think of the words you said to me, as I am now thinking of them every minute. In one of my mother's books which I brought with me, I have read a pretty piece. It is in poetry; and it is so like what I have been thinking of you, that I have learnt it off by heart. It is so true-like and so pretty a piece that I thought you might like to read it, and hoping it may please you, I write it at the end of my letter, which I fear I have already made too long; but I hope you will have patience to read it all, and then read the poetry:—

"I think of thee when Morning springs From sleep with plumage bathed in dew; And like a young bird lifts her wings Of gladness on the welkin blue. And when at noon the breath of love O'er flower and stream is wandering free, And sent in music from the grove— I think of thee—I think of thee!

"I think of thee, when soft and wide The Evening spreads her robe of light, And like a young and timid bride, Sits blushing in the arms of Night. And when the moon's sweet crescent springs In light or heaven's deep, waveless sea, And stars are forth like blessed things— I think of thee—I think of thee!

"O sir! it is very, very true! I do think of you, and I am sure I shall do so as long as I live.

"Lilian Holt."

Ah, Lilian! I too think of thee, and thy sweet song! Simple, but suggestive words. Knew I but where to address thee, you should know how responsive to them are the echoes of my heart!



CHAPTER FORTY.

THE CARAVAN.

We rode on to Memphis as rapidly as our horses could travel—far too slow for our desires. Thence a steam-boat carried us to Little Rock, and another to Van Buren. Many days had been consumed while waiting for each boat—so many that on arriving at Van Buren, we found that the caravan had the start of us by full two weeks! Its probable route we ascertained without any difficulty—up along the Arkansas to the Rocky Mountains, through the valley of the Huerfano, and the passes Robideau and Coochetopa—thence across the head waters of the Colorado, and by the old Spanish trail to California. It was principally a caravan of gold-seekers: adventurers of all nations. Even Indians had gone with it—of the half-civilised tribes of the frontier—red and white equally tempted by the yellow attractions spread out for them in California. Though large, it was what is termed a "light train"—having more pack-animals than waggons. On this account, it would make way all the faster; and unless delayed by some accident, we might be a long time in coming up with it. It was not without a large measure of vexation that we learnt how far it had got the start of us.

I should have submitted with less resignation to the necessary delays, but that my mind had been to some extent tranquillised by the contents of Lilian's letter. They had inclined me to the belief that the emigrants were simply en route for California—as was all the world just then—and that the Mormon was, after all, not so strong in his new faith as to resist the universal golden lure. His design in taking the squatter with him might be merely of a secular character—having for its object the securing of a partner, in whose brawny arms the wash-pan and rocker might be handled to advantage. That they whom we sought were gone with the caravan, we were soon satisfied. Holt was too marked a man to have escaped observation, even in a crowd of rough squatters like himself; but more than one eye had rested upon his fair daughter that longed to look upon her again. Her traces were easily told—as testified by the answers to my shy inquiries. Like some bright meteor, whose tract across the heavens remains marked by its line of luminous phosphorescence, her radiant beauty was remembered. I needed not to inquire of her. Scarcely a coterie of which she was not the subject of conversation—to my infinite jealousy and chagrin. Not that aught was said of her, that should have given rise to such feelings: they were but the offspring of love's selfishness.

Not long had I to submit to such torture. Our stay in Van Buren was of the shortest. In less than twenty hours after our arrival in the village, we took our departure from it—turning our faces towards the almost limitless wilderness of the west. I had endeavoured to add to our company but without success. The caravan had cleared Van Buren of its unemployed population; and not an idler remained—at least not one who felt inclined to adventure with us. Even the needy "loafer" could not be induced to try the trip—deeming ours too dangerous an expedition. To say the least, it was reckless enough; but impelled by motives far more powerful than the thirst of gold, my comrade and I entered upon our journey with scarce a thought about its perils. The only addition to our company was a brace of stout pack-mules, that carried our provisions and other impedimenta; while the old horse of the hunter had been replaced by a more promising roadster.

It would be idle to detail the incidents of a journey across the prairies. Ours differed in no way from hundreds of others that have been made, and described—except, perhaps, that after reaching the buffalo range, we travelled more by night than by day. We adopted this precaution simply to save our scalps—and along with them our lives— since the buffalo range—especially upon the Arkansas—is peculiarly the "stamping" ground of the hostile savage. Here may be encountered the Pawnee and Comanche, the Kiowa and Cheyenne, the Waco and fierce Arapaho. Though continually engaged in internecine strife among themselves, all six tribes are equally enemies to the pale-faced intruders on their domain. At this time they were said to be especially hostile—having been irritated by some late encounters with parties, of ill-behaved emigrants. It was not without great peril, therefore, that we were passing through their territory; and what we had heard, before leaving Van Buren, had made us fully conscious of the risk we were running.

To meet with one of the hunting or war-parties of these Indians, might not be certain death; but certain they would be to disarm and dismount us; and that, in the midst of the great prairie ocean, is a danger that often conducts to the same denouement. It was not preference, then, but precaution, that led us to adopt the "secret system" of travelling by night. Our usual plan was to lie by during the day or for the greater part of it, concealed in some selected cover—either among rocks or copsewood. By stealing to a conspicuous eminence, we were enabled to view the route ahead of us, and map out our journey for the night. Upon this we would enter an hour or two before sundown: for then the Indian hunter has returned to his encampment, which can be easily avoided, by seeing its smoke from afar. We often saw their smokes, and more than once the Indians themselves; but were never seen by them—so cautiously did we carry out our measures.

In this fashion we "groped" our way with considerable rapidity. Guided by the waggon tracks—especially when there was a moon—we could travel almost as fast as by daylight. Only upon dark nights was our progress retarded; but, notwithstanding every impediment, we were enabled to travel faster than the caravan, and we knew that we were rapidly gaining upon it. We could tell this by the constantly freshening trail; but we had a more accurate criterion in the count of the camps. By the number of these, we knew to a certainty that we were approaching the caravan. We were in high hopes of being able to come up with it, before it should enter the mountain-passes—more dangerous to the traveller than even the plains themselves: because at that season more beset by bands of marauding savages. Under the influence of these hopes, we were pressing forward, with all the haste it was in our power to make; when our journey was varied by an incident of a somewhat unexpected character.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

AN UN-PRAIRIE-LIKE APPARITION.

The incident referred to occurred high up the Arkansas, at the celebrated grove known as the "Big Timbers." We had started about two hours before sundown, and were riding in a due westerly direction, over a "rolling" prairie—the ridges of which, as ill-luck would have it, ran transversely to our course: causing the path to be constantly going upward or downward. It was not this that troubled us; but the fact that, as we crested each swell, we were freshly exposed to observation from a distance; and this recurring so often, kept us continuously on the alert.

Once or twice, we thought of halting again till after the sun had gone down: for we knew that we were treading upon dangerous ground; but, failing to perceive any fresh Indian sign, we gave way to our irresolution, and continued on. We proceeded with caution, however: always ascending in stealthy silence, and peeping carefully over the ridges before crossing them. After reconnoitring the intervening valleys, we would ride rapidly across, to make up the time we had lost in our reconnoissance. In this way we had travelled some eight or ten miles—until the sun was so far down, that his lower limb rested on the horizon. We were ascending a ridge, and had got our eyes on a level with its crest, when upon the face of another ridge—about half a mile further on—we beheld two forms outlined against the declivity. We saw that they were human forms; and that they were Indians was our first thought; but a moment's observation convinced us we were in error. They were afoot—Indians would have been on horseback. There was no floating drapery about their bodies—Indians would have had something of this sort; besides there were other circumstances observable in their figures and movements, that negatived the supposition of their being red-skins. They were singularly disproportioned in size: one appearing at least a foot the taller, while the shorter man had twice this advantage in girth!

"What, in Old Nick's name, kin they be?" inquired my companion—though only in soliloquy, for he saw that I was as much puzzled as himself. "Kin ye make 'em out wi' your glass, capt'n?" I chanced to have a small pocket-telescope. Adopting the suggestion, I drew it forth, and levelled it. In another instant, I had within its field of vision a tableau that astonished me.

The figures composing it were but two—a very tall man, and a very short one. Both were dressed in round-about jackets and trousers. One, the shorter, had a little dark cap upon his head; while the height of the taller man was increased full ten inches, by what appeared to be a black silk or beaver hat. The cut of their respective costumes was nearly the same; but the colour was entirely different—the tall personage being all over of a bottle-green tint, while his shorter companion shone more conspicuously in sky-blue. Notwithstanding their vivid colours, neither costume had anything Indian about it: nor was it like any other sort of "rig" that one might expect to encounter upon the prairies. What fashion it was, did not occur to me at the moment; for the sun, glancing upon the object-glass of the telescope, hindered me from having a fair view. Moreover, my attention was less directed to the dress of the men, than to their movements. The backs of both were towards us; and they were going forward in the same direction as ourselves. The tall man was in the lead, carrying what appeared to be two guns—one over his left shoulder, and another in his right hand. He was advancing in slow irregular strides, his thin body slightly stooped forward, and his long neck craned out in front of him as if trying to look over the ridge, whose crest he was just approaching. The short man was some half-dozen paces in the rear; and moving in a fashion altogether different. His body was bent against the hill at an angle of less than forty-five degrees with the horizon; and his short stout legs were playing in rapid steps, as if keeping time to a treadmill! He appeared to be pushing something before him; but what it was, I could not guess: since it was completely covered by the disc of his body spread broadly against the hill. It was not till he had reached the summit, and made a slight turn along the ridge, that I saw what this object was. The exclamation of ludicrous surprise, that escaped my companion, told me that he had also made it out. "Good gosh, capt'n!" cried he, "look yander! Consarn my skin! ef 't ain't a wheelberra!" A wheelbarrow it certainly was: for the two men were now traversing along the top of the ridge, and their bodies from head to foot, were conspicuously outlined against the sky. There was no mistaking the character of the object in the hands of the shorter individual—a barrow beyond the shadow of a doubt—trundle and trams, box, body, and spoke-wheel complete!

The sight of this homely object, in the midst of the savage prairies, was as ludicrous as unexpected; and we might have hailed it with roars of laughter, had prudence permitted such an indecorous exhibition. As it was, my companion chuckled so loudly, that I was compelled to caution him. Whether my caution came too late, and that the laughter was heard, we could not tell; but at that moment the tall pedestrian looked back, and we saw that he had discovered us. Making a rapid sign to his companion, he bounded off like a startled deer; and, after a plunge or two, disappeared behind the ridge—followed in full run by the man with the wheelbarrow! One might have supposed that the fright would have led to the abandonment of the barrow. But no: it was taken along— hurried out of our sight in an instant—and in the next, both man and machine disappeared as suddenly as if some trap had admitted them into the bowels of the earth! The singular fashion of their flight—the long strides taken by the gander-like leader, and the scrambling attempt at escape made by the barrow-man—produced a most comic effect. I was no longer able to restrain myself, but joined my companion in loud and repeated peals of laughter.

In this merry mood, and without any apprehension of danger, we advanced towards the spot where the odd figures had been seen. Some broken ground delayed us; and as half a mile of it had to be passed over, we were a considerable time in reaching the summit of the hill. On arriving there, and looking over the swell, behind which they had disappeared, neither tall nor short man was to be seen. A timbered valley lay beyond: into this they had evidently escaped. The track of the wheelbarrow, where it had pressed down the grass, alone indicated their recent presence upon the spot—as it did also the direction they had taken. Their retreating from us was easily accounted for: they could have seen only the tops of our heads, and had no doubt taken us for Indians!



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

A FOOT OF THIRTEEN INCHES.

The presence of the wheelbarrow explained a point that had been puzzling us for some days. We had fallen upon its track more than once, and supposed it to have been made by the wheel of a cart; but in no instance being able to find the corresponding one, had given it up as a hopeless enigma. The only explanation we had succeeded in offering ourselves was: that some light cart had accompanied the caravan—the load of which, being badly balanced, had thrown the weight upon one wheel, allowing the other to pass over the ground without making an impression. As it was only on dry grass we had traced it, this explanation had sufficed—though far from being satisfactory. Neither my companion nor myself ever thought of a wheelbarrow. Who would, in such a place?

"In the name o' Old Nick, who kin they be?" asked Wingrove, as we halted on the ridge, where the fugitives had been last seen. "I'm not without my suspicions," I replied, just then thinking of a peculiarity that had but slightly occupied my attention—the cut and colour of their dresses. "If I am not mistaken, the two shy birds that have fled from us are a brace of uncle Sam's eagles."

"Sojers?"

"In all probability, and 'old sojers' at that."

"But what 'ud sojers be a doin' out hyar?"

"Travelling to California, like ourselves."

"Desarters, may be?"

"Just what I suspect. No doubt the pair have slipped off from some of the frontier posts; and having no opportunity to provide themselves with a better means of transport, have brought the wheelbarrow with them. It is ludicrous enough, but by no means improbable. There are some queer customers in the service of Uncle Sam."

"I think there be—ha, ha, ha! What shed we do, capt'n? Hedn't we better catch up to 'em?"

"That, comrade, may be easier said than done. If they're deserters—and they must be, if they're soldiers at all—they'll take precious good care not to let any one come near them, if they can help it. The escort that accompanies the train will account for their not being along with it. If they've caught a glimpse of my buttons, they'll be cached by this time."

"They only seed our heads. I reck'n they tuk us for Injuns?"

"In that case, they'll hide from us all the same—only a little more cunningly."

"Consarn their sojer skins! Ef they war as cunnin' as a kupple o' possums, they can't a hide the track o' the berra; an' so long's they keep in the timber, I kalklate I kin lift thar trail. I reck'n I ain't quite forgot how: though I am bamfoozled a bit by these hyar parairies— consarn them! Ah! them woods, capt'n! it diz one good to look at 'em!"

The eyes of the young hunter sparkled with enthusiasm as he spoke. It was a real forest that was before us—a large tract covered with gigantic cotton-wood trees, and the only thing deserving the name of forest we had seen for many days. As my companion stood gazing upon it, I could trace upon his countenance a joyous expression, that rarely appeared there. The sight of the "Big Timbers" recalled to him the forests of his own Tennessee—with happy memories of other times. They were not unmingled with shadows of regret: as I could tell by the change that came stealing over his features.

"We must try to overtake them," said I, without answering to the ebullition. "It is important for us to come up with them. Even if they be deserters, they are white men; and all whites are friends here. They muster two guns; and if these fellows are what I take them to be, they know how to handle them. We must follow them: there's no time to be lost."

"Ye're right thar, capt'n! The night's a comin' down fast. It's a'ready gettin' dark; an' I'm afeerd it'll be tough trackin' under the timber. If we're to catch up wi' them the night, we hain't a minnit to spare."

"Let us forward then!"

Crossing the ridge, we descended rapidly on the other side—the track of the wheel guiding us in a direct line to the nearest point of the woods. We could tell that the barrow had been trundled down the hill at top speed—by the manner in which the iron tire had abraded the surface of the slope. We had no difficulty in following the trace as far as the edge of the timber, and for some distance into it: but there, to our great surprise, the wheel-track abruptly ended! It was not that we had lost it by its having passed over dry or rocky ground. On the contrary, around the spot where it so suddenly disappeared, the surface was comparatively soft; and even an empty barrow would have made an impression sufficiently traceable, either by my companion or myself.

After beating about for some time, and extending our circle to the distance of a hundred yards or so, we failed to recover the sign. Certainly the barrow had not gone farther—at all events, not upon its trundle. Instinctively, we turned our eyes upward—not with any superstitious belief that the fugitives had made a sudden ascent into the air. But the idea had occurred to us, that they might have hidden themselves in a tree, and drawn the barrow up into it. A single glance was sufficient to satisfy us that this conjecture was erroneous. The thin foliage of the cotton-woods offered no cover. A squirrel could hardly have concealed itself among their branches.

"I've got it!" exclaimed the hunter, once more seeking along the surface. "Hyar's thar tracks; tho' thar ain't no signs of the berra. I see how they've blinded us. By gosh! thar a kupple o' cunnin' old coons, whosomever they be."

"How have they managed it?"

"Tuk up the machine on thar shoulders, an' toted it thataway! See! thar's thar own tracks! They've gone out hyar—atween these two trees."

"Right, comrade—that appears to be the way they've done it. Sure enough there is the direction they have taken."

"Well! ef I wan't bothered wi' these hyar animals, I ked follow them tracks easy enough. We'd soon kum upon the wheel agin, I reck'n: they ain't a-goin' to travel fur, wi' a hump like thet on thar shoulders."

"No; it's not likely."

"Wal, then, capt'n, s'pose we leave our critters hyar, an' take arter 'em afut? We kin quarter the groun' a good bit ahead; an I guess we'll eyther kum on them or thar berra afore long."

I agreed to this proposal; and, after securing our four quadrupeds to trees, we started off into the depth of the woods. Only for a short distance were we able to make out the footsteps of the men: for they had chosen the dry sward to walk upon. In one place, where the path was bare of grass, their tracks were distinctly outlined; and a minute examination of them assured me of the correctness of my conjecture—that we were trailing a brace of runaways from a military post. There was no mistaking the print of the "regulation" shoe. Its shape was impressed upon my memory as plainly as in the earth before my eyes; and it required no quartermaster to recognise the low, ill-rounded heel and flat pegged soles. I identified them at a glance; and saw, moreover, that the feet of both the fugitives were encased in the same cheap chaussure. Only in size did the tracks differ; and in this so widely, that the smaller was little more than two-thirds the length of the larger one! The latter was remarkable for size—not so much in its breadth as length, which last was not less than thirteen standard inches!

On noting this peculiarity, my companion uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "Thar's a fut, an' no mistake!" cried he. "I reck'n 'twar Long-legs as made them tracks. Well! ef I hedn't seed the man hisself, I'd a swore thar war giants in these parts!"

I made no reply, though far more astonished than he. My astonishment sprang from a different source; and was mixed up in my mind with some old memories. I remembered the foot!



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

TRACKING THE TRUNDLE.

Yes, I had seen that foot before; or one so very like it, that the resemblance was cheating me. This could hardly be. With the exception of its fellow, the foot of which I was thinking could have no counterpart on the prairies: it must be the same? At first, my recollections of it were but vague. I remembered the foot associated with some ludicrous incidents; but what they were, or when and where they had occurred, I could not say. Certainly I had seen it somewhere; but where? No matter: the foot recalled no unpleasant associations. I felt satisfied it was a friendly one; and was now more anxious than ever of overtaking its sesquipedalian owner.

After proceeding a short distance, the shoe-tracks again became too indistinct to be followed farther. By quartering, however, we came upon them once more—at a place where the impressions were deep and clearly defined. Once more the immense foot rose upon the retina of my memory—this time more vividly—this time enabling me to place it: for I now remembered many an odd incident that had secured it a corner on the page of my recollections. Sticking through a stirrup with an enormous Mexican Spur on its heel—its owner mounted on a horse thin and rawboned as himself—I remembered the foot, as well as the limbs and body to which it was attached. Beyond a doubt, the tall fugitive we were following was an old fellow campaigner—a veteran of the "Rifle Rangers!"

The figure, as seen through the telescope, confirmed me in the belief. The long limbs, arms, and neck—the thin, angular body—all were characteristics of the bodily architecture of Jephthah Bigelow. I no longer doubted that the taller of the two men was my old follower "Jeph Bigelow," or "Sure-shot," as his Ranger comrades had christened him; and appropriate was the designation—for a surer shot than Jeph never looked through the hind-sights of a rifle. Who the little man might turn out to be, I could not guess—though I was not without some recollections of a figure resembling his. I remembered a certain Patrick, who was also a "mimber of the corpse," and whose build bore a close resemblance to that of him seen between the trams of the barrow. My conjecture as to who the men were, increased my desire to overtake them. If the tall man should turn out to be Sure-shot, a rifle would be added to our strength worth a dozen ordinary guns; and, considering the risk we were running— in danger of losing our scalps every hour in the day—it was of no small importance that we should join company with the deserters.

We made every exertion, therefore, to come up with them—my comrade employing all the lore of the backwoods, in his effort to recover their traces. The new footmarks we had discovered, though lost the instant after, had served one good purpose. They indicated the general direction which the two men had followed; and this was an important point to be ascertained. We found another index in the trees. These in most places stood thickly together; and it was only here and there that an object of such breadth as a wheelbarrow could pass conveniently between their trunks. Carried upon the shoulders, it would be an awkward load with which to squeeze through any tight place; and it was reasonable to conclude that only the more open aisles of the forest would be followed. This enabled us to make pretty sure of the route taken; and, after trusting to such guidance for several hundred yards, we had the satisfaction to light once more upon the shoe-tracks. Again only a short distance were we able to follow them; but they confirmed our belief that we were still on the right trail. My comrade had suggested that the man who carried the barrow "wud soon tire o' totin' it:" and this proved to be the case. On striking into an old buffalo-path, our eyes were once more gladdened by the sight of the wheel-track—plainly imprinted in the mud.

"Our prospecting" was for the time at an end. The barrow-track continued along the buffalo-path; and we were able to follow it, almost as fast as our legs could carry us. Even after it had grown too dark for us to see the track of the wheel, we were not disconcerted. We could follow it by the feel—stooping only at intervals to make sure that it was still among our feet. In this way we had travelled, to the full distance of a mile from the place where our horses had been left, when all at once the barrow-track gave out. The buffalo-path continued on; but no barrow had passed over it, unless carried as before. This was improbable, however; and we were forced to the conclusion, that the two men had turned off, by some side-path we had not observed.

While looking for this, a sound reached our ears, that resembled the murmur of a distant waterfall; but, listening more attentively, we could distinguish in it a different intonation. We at once moved in the direction whence the noise came; and before we had advanced a hundred yards through the thickly standing trees, we were aware that what we heard was the sound of human voices. Another hundred yards brought us within hearing of words—at the same time that a luminous reflection cast upwards upon the trees, indicated that there was a fire at no great distance off. The underwood hindered us from seeing the fire; but guided by its gleam, we continued to advance. After making another long reach through the leafy cover, we got the fire well under our eyes, as well as those who had kindled it. We had no conjecture as to whether we had been following the true track, or whether it was the two runaway travellers we had treed. The point was determined by an object seen standing close to the fire, in the full glare of its ruddy light. Need I say it was the wheelbarrow?



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

A BRACE OF "OLD SOJERS."

Yes, it was the wheelbarrow; and the "U.S. Ordnance" branded upon its side, and visible under the light of the blazing pile, told whence it had come. Either Fort Gibson or Fort Smith was minus a barrow, drawn from their stores by no very formal requisition. There were the takers of it—one on each side of the fire—presenting as great a contrast as could well be found in two human beings. Although of the same species, the two individuals were as unlike each other as a tall greyhound to a turnspit. Both were seated, though in different attitudes. The little man was "squatted"—that is, with legs crossed under him, after the fashion of tailors. The long legs of his vis-a-vis would scarcely admit of being thus disposed of; and his weight was resting altogether upon his hips and heels. In this posture, the caps of his knees stood up to the level of his shoulders—so that his body, viewed en profile, presented a pretty accurate imitation of the letter N—that sort termed by engravers the "rustic letter." The huge black hat capped one extremity; and the long pedal-like feet that rested horizontally on the ground terminated the other, completing the alphabetical resemblance.

A face, with a certain mocking monkeyish expression, but without any trait of fierceness or ill-nature—a nose slightly snub—quick scintillating eyes—a chin, tipped with a little tuft of clay-coloured beard—some half-dozen queue-like tangles, of bright-yellowish hair, hanging down behind the hat—the hat itself a black "silk," badly battered—such were the salient points of the portrait appearing above the knee-caps of the taller man. With the exception of the "tile," his costume was altogether military—to me well-known. It was the ordinary undress of the mounted rifles: a dark-green round-about of coarse cloth—with a row of small brass buttons from throat to waist—and overalls of the same material. In the particular sample before us, overalls was rather an inappropriate name. The garment so designated scarcely covered the calves of the wearer's legs—though of these there was not much to cover. The jacket appeared equally scant; and between its bottom border and the waistband of the trousers, there was an interval of at least six inches. In this interval was seen a shirt of true Isabella colour, which also appeared over the breast—the jacket being worn unbuttoned. The frouzy cotton was visible at other places— peeping through various rents both in jacket and trousers. A black leather stock concealed the collar of the shirt—if there was any—and though the stock itself was several inches in depth, there were other several inches of naked neck rising above its rim. Coarse woollen socks, and the cheap contract shoe completed the costume of Sure-shot—for it was he.

His contrasting comrade was equally in military garb—even more so, by the additional article of a cloth forage-cap. His was also an undress uniform; but, though of very similar cut to the other, and resembling it in the quality of the material, the colour was different. It was sky-blue, turned whitey with wear—the buttons of the jacket being of lead, and the facings of white worsted tape. It was a better fit than the green uniform; and its wearer had evidently some conceit in the style of it—as was evidenced by the jacket being carefully buttoned from waist to throat, and the forage-cap set jauntily on "three hairs." The little man was an "infantry." His horizontal diameter was twice that of his tall companion of the rifles; and in the rounded contour of his body, not an angle was apparent. His garments were quite filled by his body, arms and legs—so that there was not a wrinkle to be seen anywhere. It was a form usually styled "dapper." His face was also of the rotund shape—the features all tolerably regular, with the exception of the nose—that, like the nasal organ of his comrade, was nez retrousse—the turn-up being infinitely more pronounced. The expression was equally indicative of good-nature and good-fellowship—as the apple-like bloom of his cheeks, and the ochreous tinge upon the tip of the nose, sufficiently testified. Cheeks, lips, and chin were beardless—with the exception of a thick stubble that had lately sprung up; but some well-greased rings of a darkish colour ruffing out under the rim of the forage-cap, showed that the "infantry" was not insensible to the pride of hair. Neither in regard to him had I made a mistaken conjecture. Another old acquaintance and comrade-in-arms—the redoubtable Patrick O'Tigg—a true son of the "Sad."

The two worthies, when first seen, were seated as described—both engaged in a very similar occupation—cooking. It was—by the most simple process—that of the roti. Each held in his hand a long sapling, upon the end of which a piece of red meat was impaled; and this, projected over the fire, was fast blackening in the blaze. More of the same meat—buffalo-beef, it appeared—was seen in the wheelbarrow; its other freight being one or two greasy bags, a brace of knapsacks, a cartouche box and belt, two ordnance spades, with the guns—a "regulation" rifle and musket—lying across the top of the load.

It was evident from this collection that the men were deserters; that they had armed and equipped themselves at the expense of the quartermaster. Perhaps the paymaster had been in arrears with them; and they had adopted this ready and effectual method of wiping out the score? My only wonder was at not seeing a brace of branded horses along with them; but in all probability, on the day—or night—of their departure, the stable sentry had been doing his duty.

On becoming assured of the identity of the two individuals, my first impulse was to step forward to the fire, and make myself known to them. So eagerly were both engaged in attending to their spits, that they had neither seen nor heard us—although they themselves were now silent, and we were within less than twenty feet of them. The intervening bushes, however would have sheltered us from their sight, even if they had been a little more vigilant—as I should have expected Sure-shot to have been. They were trusting all to the thicket in which they had pitched their camp; and, being hungry and wearied no doubt, were for the moment off their guard. Some fantasy decided me not to disturb them for a moment—a sort of curiosity to hear what they would say, and, if possible, discover their whence and whither. We were perfectly within earshot; and could have heard even a whisper passing from their lips—as we could also note the expression upon their faces. A sign to my companion was sufficient; and, crouching behind the leafy screen, we awaited the continuation of the suspended dialogue.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

THE BARROW IN DEBATE.

Our patience was not put to a severe test. O'Tigg was not the man to keep his tongue in tranquillity for any extended time. Neither was Sure-shot an admirer of the silent system. Both were talkers. On this occasion, the "infantry" was the first to make himself heard.

"Be japers! comrayde, I'm afther thinkin' fwhat purty fools us hiv bin, to tak it afut this way, loike two thramps, whin wez moight ivery bit as wil hav been stroidin' a pair ov good pownies. We cowld a fitched a pair from the Fort wid all the aize in the wurld."

"Yees, Petrick, certing ye ain't fer 'stray 'bout thet pertickler; we've been raither ungumptious."

"Besoides, wez rooight as wil hav been hung for a shape as a lamb. We'll be flogg'd all as wan, iv the iskhort foinds us, fur taykin' the guns, an' the knapsacks, an' the whaleborra—bad luck to the borra!"

"No, Petrick, don't cuss the berra—it hes served us for certing. We kedn't a got along 'thout the machine—how ked we? We ked niver hev toted our doin's es we've did; an' but for the piece o' bacon an' thet eer bag o' meal, we'd a sterved long afore this, I recking. Don't cuss the berra."

"Och! it's made my showlders ache, as if some skhoundrel had been batin' them wid a sprig ov shillaylah!"

"Ne'er a mind 'bout thet! yer shoulders 'll be all right arter ye've got a wink o' sleep. Spank my skin! ef thet ere wan't a cute dodge—it's throwd the Indyens off o' the scent for certain; or we'd a heerd some'ut o' them verming afore this."

"Faith, I think we've sucksaided in bamboozling thim, shure enough."

The meat by this time showed sufficiently done; and the two men applied themselves to eating, with an earnestness that allowed no time for talking. The conversation had revealed enough of their past actions, and future designs, to confirm the conjectures I had already formed about them.

As stated, they had both belonged to the "Rangers" of immortal memory. After the disbandment of the corps, they had entered upon a fresh lease of soldier-life, by enlisting into the regular army. O'Tigg had given preference to the sky-blue of the "line;" while the Yankee had taken to the mounted rifles—as a capital marksman, like him, would naturally do. Indeed, it would have been impossible to have "licked" the latter into anything like soldierly shape; and all the drill-sergeants in creation could not have made him stand with "toes turned in," or "eyes right." To have "dressed" the old ranger in line would have been a physical impossibility. In the mounted rifles, personal appearance is of less importance; and considering the little inclination there is to enlist in the American army—especially in times of peace—the oddest looking article is thankfully accepted. In the dearth of recruits. Sure-shot could have had no difficulty in passing inspection.

Both had evidently become tired of their respective services. The routine of a frontier post is of itself sufficient to produce the deadliest ennui; and the Californian attraction had "capped the climax." The temptation was too strong for either Yankee or Hibernian nature to resist; and these worthy types of both had taken French-leave of the fort. It was thus that I epitomised the recent history of my old camarados. As they were evidently aware of the caravan being in the advance, and had been following it, it was easily conjectured that Fort Smith—a military post on the Arkansas opposite Van Buren—had been the scene of their defection. Very likely, they had kept near the train all along the route—with a view to guidance and partial protection—as also for a dernier ressort to which they might betake themselves in case of their stores giving out. The escort, hinted at, would be sufficient to account for their not being in closer communication with the caravan.

It appeared, they had been so far fortunate in escaping an encounter with Indians; but this, as in our case, was most likely due to the passage of the caravan. We knew that the red-skinned robbers would be too much occupied with the train itself and its more immediate stragglers, to be looking out for any so far in the rear as we; and to this circumstance, no doubt, were we indebted for the uninterrupted travel we had achieved. A greater proximity to the train would have rendered our passage more perilous. Sure-shot, though a slouch in his dress, was no simpleton. The trick of taking up the barrow was, no doubt, a conception of his brain, as well as its being borne upon the shoulders of the Irishman—who, in all likelihood, had performed the role of wheeling it from Fort Smith to the Big Timbers, and was expected to push it before him to the edge of the Pacific Ocean! It was evident that Patrick was tired of his task: for they had not made much progress in their Homeric supper, before he once more returned to the subject.

"But shure now, comrayde! we moight manage widout the borra—seein' as we've got into the buffalos' counthry. Aren't them bastes as aizy to kill as tame cows? Shure we'd niver be widout mate as long as our powder lasts?"

"Jess t'other way, ye fool! We're a going out o' the buffuler country, an' into perts where theer ain't a anymal bigger than a rat. On t'other side o' the mountings, theer ain't no beests o' any kind— neery one; an' its jess theer we'll want that eer bag o' meel. Ef we don't take it along, we'll sterve for certing."

"Be me sowl! I'd ruther carry the male on my showlders. There's liss of it now; an' maybe I could manage it, iv you'ld only carry the spids, an' thim other things. We moight lave the knapsicks an' kyarthridge-box behind. What use ud they be in Kalifornya? They'll only lade to our detiction by the throops out there."

"Don't ee be skeert 'bout thet, kimrade! Ef theer's troops in Californey, they'll hev theer hands full 'ithout troublin' us, I reeking. We ain't like to be the only two critters as hain't got a pass for the diggins. Ne'er a bit o't. We'll find deserters out theer es thick as blue-bottles on a barkiss. Certingly we shell. Besides, Petrick, we needn't take the knepsacks all the way out theer, nor the berra neythur, nor nuthin' else we've brought from the Fort."

"Fwhat div yez mane?" interrogated the Irishman—evidently puzzled to interpret the other's speech. "We kin leave all them fixing in Morming City."

"But will the thrain be afther thravellin' that way? Shure ye don't know that."

"Certing it will. A putty consid'able pert o' it air made up o' Mormings; an' they'll be boun' to the Salt Lake. We kin foller them an' drop t'other. In the Morming settlements, we kin swop our unyforms for suthin' else, an' the berra too. Es to the knepsacks an' cartridge-box, I guess as how I inteend to make a spec on them ere two articles."

"Fwhat! a pair ov soger knapsacks, an' an owld kyarthridge-box! They wuldn't fitch the worth ov dhrinks apaice."

"Theer your mistaking, Mister Tigg. Preehaps they'll swop better'n you think. How d'ye know I ain't like to git a beest apiece for 'em—eyther a mule or a hoss? This child ain't a going to fut it all the way to Californey. B'yont the Morming City, he rides a spell, I recking."

"Be japers! that's an out-an'-out good oidea. But how dev ye mane to carry it through? that's what bothers Patrick O'Tigg."

"We—ell, Petrick, I'll tell ee my plan. I ain't got it straightened out yet, but I hope to hev it all right by the time we're on t'other side the mountings—leastwise before we reaches Morming City."

"Arrah! fwhat is it?" inquired the impatient Irishman.

The Yankee did not vouchsafe an immediate answer; but, while polishing off the bone he held in his hand, appeared at the same time to be busy with some mental operation—perhaps straightening out the plan he had promised to reveal.



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

A TOUGH STORY.

For some seconds the two worthies observed a mutual silence—broken only by a formidable rattle of teeth, as large "chunks" of buffalo-meat were put through their respective masticating machines. Curious to hear the promised revelation, Wingrove and I checked our impatience, and clung to our covert among the bushes. One thing—to which their speech had incidentally adverted—was not without much significance; and had produced upon me a certain impression that was unpleasant. They appeared to know, or Sure-shot did, that at least a portion of the train was en route for the Mormon city. It is true, I had had originally suspicions of this; but the letter of Lilian had led me to hope it might be otherwise. Any destination but that.

I had commenced reflecting upon this point, when I was interrupted by the voice of Sure-shot resuming the conversation. Thus did he enter on his explanation:

"Ye see, kimrade, these Mormings, es I've heern, air mighty taken up wi' sogerin', an' thet sort o' thing. Ye've heerd talk o' theer great bettelion. They'll be arter these eer treppings for certing, since they hain't much chence o' gittin' soger fixings out theer. We-ell, what I mean to do is to put the knepsacks off on 'em for some new improvement o' pattern. I guess it air thet—I've heerd say so at the Fort—then the Morming jineral, who air the prophet hisself, an' who's got berrls o' dollars—he'll buy the knepsacks at any price. Now, de ye take, Mister Tigg?"

"Troth do I. But dev ye think yez can fool thim so aizy?"

"Easy as eatin' punkin-pie. Jehosophet! I hain't been five year in the tradin' line 'ithout lernin' the bizness, I recking."

"Be me faith! yez must have been raal cliver at it, whin ye sowld them cypress-knees for bacon-hams to the Bawltemoreans. You remimber that story yez towld us down in Mixico?"

"Yees; certingly I remember it—he, he, he! But I kim a better trick then thet on the Orleens people 'bout five yeer ago—jest 'fore I jined the Rangers."

"Fwhat was it, shure?"

"We—ell, ye see, I wan't allers es poor es I'm now. I hed a pertnership in a bit o' a schooner, es used to trade 'tween Bosting an' Orleens, an' we used to load her wi' all sorts o' notions, to sell to the Orleens folk. Jehosophet an' pork-pies! they air fools, an' no mistake—them Creole French. We ked a sold 'em wooden nutmegs, an' brick-dust for Cayenne pepper, an' such like; an' I 'bout guess es how we did spekoolate a leetle in thet line o' bizness. Wall, there kim a time when they tuk a notion they ked make cheep brogan, as they call 'em, out o' allygator's leather, an' supply the hul nigger market wi' 'em. The neels were dear, an' so they tuk to usin' boot-pegs; but not hevin' a manafactry o' the pegs down south, they hed to git 'em from the no'th. Jest then, my pertner an' I thought o' makin' a spekoolashun on the pegs; so we loaded our schooner wi' thet eer freight, chuck right up to the hetches; an' then sot off from Bosting for Orleens. We thort we'd make our derned fortune out thet eer trip."

"Shure yez did, didn't ye?"

"No-o-o; neer a bit o' 't. It keemd nigh breakin' us."

"Arrah, how?"

"We-ell! ye see, when we got roun' to Orleens, we learnt that the boot-trade hed a'most stopped. The allygator leather didn't turn out jest the thing for brogans; an' besides, it got sca'ce by reezun o' the killin' o' them verming. In coorse, the pegs hed fell in price; they'd kim down so low, that we ked only git twenty-five cents a bushel for 'em!"

"Mother ov Moses! only twenty-five cents a bushel!"

"Thet was all they'd fetch—offer 'em when an' wheer we would. In coorse, we wan't fools enough to take thet—the dernationed pegs hed cost us more in Bosting!"

"Divil a doubt ov it? But fwhat did yez do wid 'em, anyhow?"

"We-ell, Mister Tigg, we weer cleer beat at fust; an' didn't know what to do—neyther me'r my pertner. But arter takin' a good think over it, I seed a way o' gitting out o' the scrape—leestwise 'ithout sech a loss as sellin' the pegs at twenty-five cents the bushel. I seed a chence o' gitting rid o' them at fifty cents."

"Arrah, now! in fwhat way, comrade?"

"You've seed boot-pegs, I recking, Mister Tigg?"

"An' shure I hiv. Aren't they the same that's in these suttlers' brogues we've got on—bad luck to them?"

"Jess the same—only whitier when they air new."

"Be japers! I think I remimber seein' a barrel full ov thim in New Yark."

"Very certing it were them—they air usooaly packed in berr'ls. Can you think o' anything they looked like?"

"Wil, in troth, they looked more loike oats than anything I can recollect. Shure they did look moighty like oats!"

"An' don't ee kalkerlate they'd a looked more like oats, ef they'd been pointed at both ends instead o' one!"

"In troth, would they—all that same."

"We-ell, thet's the very idee thet kem inter my mind at the time."

"Arrah now, is it? An' fwhat did yez do wid the pegs then?"

"Jest sharpened the other eends o' 'em, an' sold 'em for oats!"

The puzzled, half-incredulous stare, on the countenance of the Hibernian, was ridiculous in the extreme. The allegation of the Yankee had deprived him of speech; and for some moments he sat gazing at the latter, evidently in doubt whether to give credence to the story, or reject it as a little bit of a "sell" upon the part of his comrade—with whose eccentricity of character he was well acquainted. Equally ludicrous was the look of gravity on the countenance of the other—which he continued to preserve under the continued gaze of his comrade, with all the solemnity of a judge upon the bench. It was as much as my companion and I could do to restrain our laughter; but we were desirous of witnessing the finale of the affair, and, by an effort, succeeded in holding in.

"Och, now, Misther Shure-shat!" gasped the Irishman at length, "an' it's only jokin' ye are?"

"Truth I tell ye, Petrick—every word o' 't. Ye see the oats weer jest then sellin' at fifty cents the bushel, an' thet paid us. We made a lettle suthin', too, by the speekolashun."

"But how did yez get the other inds pointed at all—at all?"

"Oh! thet weer eezy enough. I invented a machine for thet, an' run 'em through in less'n no time. When they kim out at t'other eend o' the machine, I kednt meself a told 'em from oats!"

"Och! now I comprehend. Arrah! an' wasn't it a quare thrick? Be my sowl, it bates Bannagher all to paces! Ha, ha, haw!"