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Capture of Luke Redman

OUR FELLOWS;
OR,
Skirmishes with the Swamp Dragoons

BY

HARRY CASTLEMON,

AUTHOR OF “GUNBOAT SERIES,” “ROCKY MOUNTAIN

SERIES,” “BOY TRAPPER SERIES.” ETC.

THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,

PHILADELPHIA,

CHICAGO, TORONTO.

Copyright, 1872

BY,

J. W. DAUGHADAY & CO.

Copyright, 1886,

BY

JAMES ELVERSON.

Copyright, 1887,

BY

PORTER & COATES.

CONTENTS.

OUR FELLOWS

OR,

Skirmishes with, the Swamp Dragoons.

CHAPTER I.
WHO OUR FELLOWS ARE.

My name is Joseph Coleman, and at the time my story begins I was sixteen years of age. Mark was my twin brother; and he looked and acted so much like me, or else I looked and acted so much like him, that only our very intimate friends could tell us apart. We always dressed alike, and that, no doubt, had something to do with the remarkable resemblance we bore to each other.

Many were the mistakes that were made in regard to our identity—some of them laughable, others proving exactly the reverse, especially when I was called upon to stand punishment for his misdeeds. On one occasion Mark got into a difficulty with a half-breed. About a week afterward, while I was riding along the road, I met this same half-breed with a big switch in his hand, and all that saved me from a severe whipping was the speed of my horse.

Then there was our old enemy, Tom Mason, who had been badly worsted in an attempt to whip Mark, and ever since that time he had been robbing my traps, shooting at my dog and killing my doves, thinking all the while that he was revenging himself upon Mark, when he was in reality punishing me.

At the time of which I write we lived in Warren County, ten miles below Vicksburg, where our father owned an extensive plantation. He cultivated one thousand acres of cotton and six hundred acres of corn. He owned one hundred and fifty working mules and horses, twice as many young cattle, which ran loose in the swamp, and about twenty-five hundred hogs. It required from sixty to seventy-five cows to supply the plantation with milk and butter, and almost as many dogs to protect the stock from the wild beasts.

Just think of that! Think what music this pack must have made when in pursuit of a bear or deer, and imagine, if you can, the delightful concerts to which we listened on bright moonlight nights!

Perhaps you will wonder if we needed all these dogs. We should have been sorry to part with them, for they were as necessary to our existence as our horses, cows or mules.

Warren County at that time was almost a wilderness. Wolves, foxes and minks were numerous, and our henroosts would have been cleared in a single night, if the dogs had not been there to protect them. Wild-cats were abundant, and panthers were so often met with, that traveling after dark was seldom undertaken for pleasure. Bears, however, were the principal pests. They were, to quote from the settlers, “as plenty as blackberries,” and employed their leisure time during the night in roaming about the plantations, picking up every luckless hog and calf that happened to fall in their way.

I must not forget to say that our fellows had nothing to do with all these plantation dogs. The most of them belonged to father, a few to the overseer, and the rest to the servants.

Our pack numbered only five dogs. Mark was the happy possessor of Rock and Dash, two splendid deer-hounds, which, for size, speed, endurance and courage, were unequaled in all that country except by Sandy’s Sharp and Music. These four hounds were animals worth having. They could run all day, and when they once started on a trail, they never left it until the game, whatever it was, had been killed, or they were called away.

I laid claim to Zip. He was what we boys called a “bench-legged catch-dog”—that is, his fore legs stood wide apart and curved outward, like those of a bulldog, and he was used for catching and holding game.

He was yellow all over except his head, which was as black as jet. His nose and ears were as sharp as those of a wolf, and he was bobtailed.

Zip was unlike any other dog I ever saw. There were a good many queer things about him, and he had at least one peculiarity that every body noticed. He never wagged his tail sideways, as other dogs do, but up and down, and he never wagged it at all except when following a warm trail.

There were five of us boys—Duke Hampton, his cousin, Herbert Dickson, Sandy, Mark and myself. We were near neighbors—that is, we lived about a mile and a half apart—and we were together almost all the time. We always spoke of one another as “our fellows,” and we had finally come to be known by that name all over the country. Sandy merits a short description.

His name was Gabriel Lucien Todd—an odd name, perhaps, but it suited him, for he was an odd boy. No one ever thought the race of giants extinct after seeing him. When he was thirteen years old he was as tall and heavy as his father, and much stronger. Indeed Sandy often boasted that he could pull as many bales of cotton on a wagon as any yoke of oxen in Warren County.

That, of course, was saying a great deal too much; but his strength was really something wonderful. He could outlift any two of our fellows, without puffing out his cheeks, but we could all take his measure on the ground as fast as he could get up.

There were other noticeable things about Sandy, such as his utter disregard for all the proprieties of language, his bright-red hair, and his extreme good nature, which I seldom saw ruffled. The first was by no means the result of ignorance, for Sandy, besides being a capital scholar in other respects, was looked upon by our fellows as a walking repository of grammatical knowledge.

He wrote splendid letters—and that is an accomplishment that every boy, or man either, does not possess—and he would correctly analyze and parse any sentence you could give him, no matter how complex; but when it came to talking he was all afloat. He twisted his sentences into all sorts of awkward shapes, and sometimes used words that had but little connection with the idea he wished to communicate. It was not the result of carelessness either, for he made some desperate attempts to “talk proper,” as he expressed it, especially in the presence of strangers; but the harder he tried the more he blundered.

After saying this much, it is scarcely necessary to add that Sandy was as slow as an elephant in all his movements, and that he never got surprised at any thing that happened.

Mark’s room and mine was regarded as the headquarters of our fellows. On one side two windows looked out upon a wide porch, and on the other was a fire-place, backed up by an immense brick chimney.

An unpainted board over the fireplace formed the mantel, on which were a collection of books, a couple of lamps, an ornamental clock, and a few articles of curiosity, such as alligators’ teeth, bears’ claws, stone arrow-heads and hatchets.

Two pairs of deer’s antlers were fastened to the wall over the head of the bed, and on them hung our guns, game-bags, shot-pouches, riding-whips, gloves and hunting-horns. These last were of great use to us. They were simply cows’ horns scraped thin and supplied with carved mouth-pieces. They were used principally for calling the hounds during a bear or deer-hunt (it may astonish you to learn that every dog knew the sound of his master’s horn and would obey no other), and with them we could talk to a friend on a calm day a mile distant.

I have lately learned that when boys in a city want a companion, they will station themselves in front of his gate and whistle. We did not go to all that trouble. If Mark and I had any thing exciting on hand, and wanted our fellows to join in, one of us would go out on the porch and blow three long blasts on his horn.

We were always sure of an answer, and in a few minutes here would come Sandy Todd from one direction, and Duke and Herbert from the other. We had written out a regular code of signals, and each of us kept a copy at hand for reference, so that there could be no mistake.

We could tell our friends that we wanted them to go hunting, fishing or blackberrying with us; we could ask them to come over and pay us a visit; and we could tell them when to expect us. We had signals of distress, too, and we were all bound to give heed to them when we heard them.

I ought to say that this idea did not originate with us; we learned it from the settlers, who also had a code of signals which had been in use as long as I could remember.

If a planter some evening took it into his head that he would like to go bear-hunting on the following day he would go out with his horn and blow five long blasts and three short ones; and, like us when we called our fellows, he was certain of a reply.

The neighbor who heard him first would respond, then another and another would follow, until all the men in the settlement for two or three miles around, had agreed to go bear-hunting, and that, too, without having seen one another.

Perhaps, now that you have heard so much about our fellows, you would like to have them personally presented. Step into headquarters, and I will introduce you. After that, if you think you would enjoy a four-mile gallop before supper, we will find you a good horse to ride. We are going down the bayou to visit an Indian camp: and if you have never seen one, now is your chance.

The boy who sits in that big arm-chair, thrumming on his guitar and tickling the dog’s ears with the toe of his boot, is my brother Mark. If you don’t find him in some mischief every time you meet him, you mustn’t think it is his fault.

Do you see that broad-shouldered, long-legged, awkward-looking fellow sitting on the floor at the opposite side of the fire-place, with a hammer in his hand and a pan of hickory nuts by his side? That is Sandy Todd, the strongest boy and the best shot in our party.

That curly-headed, blue-eyed fellow, who smiles so good-naturedly every time he speaks, and who sits at the table devouring the hickory-nuts as fast as Sandy cracks them, is Herbert Dickson. He is blessed with a good deal of flesh, is Herbert, and sometimes answers to the name of “Chub”; at others, “Ducklegs.”

I have known plenty of boys at school to be badly deceived in that same Herbert Dickson. As clumsy as he looks, he can run faster and jump higher and further than any other fellow of his age in the settlement. There is nothing in the world that Herbert more enjoys than the astonishment and chagrin of some lithe young fellow who may have challenged him, “just for the fun of the thing,” to run a race; for I don’t remember that I ever saw him beaten.

On the table at Herbert’s elbow is a chessboard with men scattered over it. I am sitting at one end of it, and the tall, dark, dignified-looking youth, in blue jeans roundabout and heavy horseman’s boots, who is sitting opposite me, is Duke Hampton, than whom a better fellow never lived. He is an acknowledged leader. He settles all our disputes, when we have any—which, by the way, does not often happen—and is the projector and manager of most of our plans for amusement. He is handsome and polite, and, of course, a great favorite with the girls. He is a boy of high moral principle, strictly truthful, and honorable even in the smallest matters, and these qualities render him a favorite with the men. He is the most daring and graceful rider among our fellows, and, next to Mark, the best wrestler. He is a good chess-player, too; but by some unaccountable fortune I have driven him into a tight corner.

I do not suppose there is any necessity that I should again introduce myself. If it will help to place me in your good books, however, I will tell you that I own the swiftest horse and the best dog in the settlement. Black Bess has never been beaten in a fair race, and Zip has yet to find his equal as a fighter and bear dog. I am not so modest but that I can tell you, also, that I am the champion hunter among our fellows. I killed a bear alone and unaided, and his skin now hangs on that nail at the foot of the bed; but my companions, one and all, are determined to equal me in this respect, and consequently I do not expect to hold the honors much longer. But here comes our little negro, Bob, to announce that the horses are waiting, and we must off for the camp if we intend to be back in time for supper.

CHAPTER II.
AN UNINVITED GUEST.

We found our horses at the door, saddled and bridled, and held by two negro boys, who, judging by the tugging, pulling and scolding which they kept up, found it something of a task to restrain the fiery steeds, which were impatient to be off. As I have told you about our dogs, I will say a word about these horses. One of them has considerable to do with my story.

The most prominent animal in the group was Herbert’s horse, a magnificent iron-gray, large and good-natured like his master, very fleet, and able to carry his heavy rider like a bird over any fence in the country. He went by the name of Romeo.

The handsomest horse belonged to Duke Hampton. He was a chestnut-sorrel, with white mane and tail, and four white feet. He was a good one to go, and was as well trained as any horse I ever saw in a circus.

He would lie down or stand on his hind feet at the command of his master, and pick up his gloves or riding-whip for him. His name was Moro.

The homeliest horse was called Beauty. He was a Mexican pony, and belonged to Mark. He was a famous traveler—he would go on a gallop all day, and be as fresh and eager at night as when he started out in the morning; but he was so handy with his heels, and had such an easy way of slipping out from under a fellow when he tried to mount him, that, with the exception of his master, who thought him the very best horse in the world, there was not a boy among us who would have accepted him as a gift. But bad as Beauty’s disposition was, it was much better than that of Sandy’s mare, which answered to the name of Gretchen.

She was named after Rip Van Winkle’s wife. She was a large, raw-boned, cream-colored animal, and had an ugly habit of laying back her ears and opening her mouth, when any one approached her, that would have made a stranger think twice before attempting to mount her.

The fleetest, as well as the gentlest horse, was my little Black Bess. She was a Christmas present from an uncle who lived in Kentucky; and I thought so much of her that I would have given up every thing I possessed, rather than part with her.

I said that Bess was the swiftest horse in the group. She had demonstrated the fact in many a race, but somehow I never could induce the others to acknowledge it. Sandy stubbornly refused to give up beaten, and so did Herbert; and even Mark, with his miserable little pony, made big pretensions.

We never went anywhere without a race; and on this particular morning Herbert, who was the first to swing himself into the saddle, leaped his horse over the bars, and tore down the road as if all the wolves in Warren County were close at his heels.

I was the last one out of the yard, but I passed every one of our fellows before I had gone half a mile, and when I reached the outskirts of the Indian camp, they were a long way behind.

The camp, as I saw it that afternoon, did not look much like the illustrations of Indian villages which you have seen in your geographies. Instead of the clean skin-lodges, and the neatly-dressed, imposing savages which you will find in pictures, I saw before me a score of wretched brush shanties, which could afford their inmates but poor protection in stormy weather, and a hundred or more half-starved men and women, some of whom were jumping around in the mud and yelling as if they were greatly excited about something.

There were plenty of these people in Warren County at the time of which I write. They were Choctaws—the remnant of a once powerful tribe, who gained a precarious living by hunting, fishing, stealing and cotton-picking. This band had been encamped on our plantation during the last two weeks. The women had been employed by father to pick cotton, and their lords and masters were now having a glorious time over the money they had earned.

The warriors—lazy dogs, who thought it a disgrace to perform any manual labor—had remained in their wigwams, passing the days very pleasantly with their pipes, while their wives were at work in the cotton-field; but now that the crop had been gathered and the money paid, they had thrown away their pipes and picked up their bottles. In plainer language, we rode into the camp just in time to witness the beginning of a drunken Indian jubilee.

The men were dancing, shouting, fighting, wrestling, going half-hammond (a Northern boy would have called it a “hop, skip and a jump”), and trying to run races; while the women stood around in little groups, chattering like so many blackbirds, and watching all that was going on with apparently a great deal of interest.

I do not suppose that the Indian boys drank any thing stronger than the muddy water that flowed in the bayou, on the banks of which the camp was located; but, at any rate, they seemed to be animated by the same spirit that possessed their fathers, for we saw them engage in no end of fights, foot-races and wrestling matches.

Presently a smart, lively young savage, the son of the principal chief of the band, who had easily thrown every one of his companions whom he could induce to wrestle with him, stepped up to us, and fastening his eyes upon Mark, asked him if he would like to come out and try his strength. Now, if Mark had been in good health, the challenge would have been promptly accepted; and if I am any judge of boys, that young Indian would have found himself flat on the ground before he could have winked twice; but he was just recovering from an attack of his old enemy, the chills and fever, and for that reason was obliged, much to his regret, to turn a deaf ear to the Indian’s entreaties.

“Oh, yes, you come,” said the young wrestler, after Mark had told him, perhaps for the twentieth time, that he was out of condition; “I show you what Indian boy can do. I put you down as quick as lightning. Eh! You come?”

As he spoke he stepped back and spread out his sinewy arms, as if waiting for Mark to jump into them.

“Go off about your business, Jim,” said Duke. “Haven’t you sense enough to see that the boy has had the ague? If he was well, he would throw you or any other young Indian in the camp. Go away now, I tell you, or I’ll take hold of you; and if I do, I will put you down a little quicker than lightning.”

“Isn’t he a splendid-looking fellow?” said Mark, gazing admiringly at the young savage’s supple form, which, cold as the day was, was stripped to the waist. “Look at the muscles on his arms! I believe I’ll try him just one round.”

“Don’t do it, Mark,” I interposed.

“Well, if you say so, Joe, I won’t; but I should really like to take a little of that conceit out of him. I’ll soon be up to my regular wrestling weight,” he added, addressing himself to the Indian, “and then I will see what you are made of.”

“Ugh!” grunted Jim. “I wait for you.”

We spent an hour walking about the camp, and then returned to the house. The jubilee was kept up all night, and we went to sleep with those wild Indian whoops ringing in our ears. To me there was something almost unearthly in the sound, and I thought I could imagine how our early settlers felt when they were aroused from their sleep at dead of night by just such yells uttered by hostile red men.

The next day our fellows accompanied some of the settlers on a deer-hunt—all except Mark, who, being too weak to ride all day on horse-back, remained at home with his hounds for company; and, for want of something better to do, assisted the plantation blacksmith at his work by blowing the bellows for him.

The Indians were quiet all the morning, no doubt making up for the sleep they had lost the night before, but about eleven o’clock they began their dancing and shouting again. After that, Mark did not perform his part of the work very well, for his attention was fully occupied by the sounds that came from the camp.

Finally the horn was blown for dinner, and Mark started toward the house. Just as he was passing through the gate that led into the garden, he was startled by a loud yell, which was followed by a great commotion in the kitchen, and the next moment out came mother and half a dozen young lady visitors.

A very fat negro woman brought up the rear, carrying in her hand a platter of roast beef, which she was too badly frightened to put down, and the screams that saluted Mark’s ears were almost as loud and unearthly as those which came from the Indian camp. He did not like the look of things, but, being a resolute fellow, he determined to find out what was going on in the house. He had two friends upon whom he could rely in any emergency, and, with a word to them, he was off like a shot.

“Oh, don’t go in there!” cried mother, when she saw him running toward the kitchen, followed by his hounds. “He will kill you! He’s got a big knife!”

Mark, who was too highly excited to hear any thing short of a terrific peal of thunder, kept on, and when he reached the door discovered the cause of the disturbance in the person of a tall, dignified-looking Indian, who was acting in a very undignified manner.

As Mark afterward learned, the savage had walked into the parlor, where all the ladies were sitting; thence into the kitchen, where active preparations for dinner were going on, attracting the attention of the cook by flourishing a knife, and uttering an appalling yell; after which he made known the object of his visit by exclaiming:

“Ugh! Me big Injun, an’ me hungry.”

The yell and the sight of the knife occasioned a hurried stampede among the women, and the savage, being left alone, proceeded to help himself to what he liked best.

The table was loaded with good things, but there was not so very much left upon it by the time this uninvited guest had got all he wanted. He filled his mouth, and his arms, too, and when Mark discovered him he was walking through the sitting-room toward the porch, demolishing a custard-pie as he went.

Mark was impulsive, and, without stopping to consider what might be the consequences of the act, he started in hot pursuit of the Indian, resolved to punish him for what he had done, and to teach him better than to take such liberties with what did not belong to him.

He came up with the robber just as he was about to descend the steps that led down from the porch. The latter, wholly intent upon his meal, never thought of looking for an enemy in the rear, until Mark dashed against him like a battering-ram—an action which caused the Indian to flourish his heels in the air, and fall headlong to the ground, scattering the bread, meat, pies and cakes, with which his arms were loaded, about in all directions. Mark followed him down the steps, not to attack him, of course, but to keep off the hounds, which would have torn the savage in pieces if they had not been restrained.

“Don’t let those dogs hurt him,” said mother, who had mustered up courage enough to come back to the house.

“No, ma’am,” replied Mark. “Now, old fellow,” he added, as the robber rose slowly to his feet, “you had better take yourself off. Your room suits us better than your company.”

But the savage had no intention of taking himself off. He glared fiercely around him for a moment, and finding that he was opposed by nothing more formidable than a few frightened women, a boy of sixteen and a couple of dogs, he caught up his knife, and gave a war-whoop.

CHAPTER III.
MARK’S ADVENTURE.

Mark was badly frightened, but he did not show it.

“Look here, old gentleman,” said he, with a pretty show of courage, “you had better not try to hurt any body with that knife. Put it away, and go back to camp where you belong.”

The savage paid no more attention to his words than if he had not spoken at all. He wanted to be revenged upon something for the fall he had received, and not daring to molest either the ladies or Mark, he charged furiously upon the hounds, which nimbly eluded all his attacks, and easily kept out of reach of the knife.

“Do you see what he is doing, mother?” shouted Mark, astonished and enraged at the Indian’s attempts to injure his favorites. “Say the word, and I’ll make the dogs stretch him as if he were a ’coon.”

“No! no!” answered mother, hastily. “Don’t make him angry, and perhaps he will go away after a while.”

“He is as angry as he can be already,” replied Mark.

The boy curbed his indignation as well as he was able, and watched the savage as he followed up the hounds, which barked at him, but kept out of his way. They ran under the house, but the robber crawled after them and drove them out. They were too well trained to take hold of him without the word from their master; but they grew angrier every minute, and finally, as if they feared that their rage might get the better of them if they remained longer in sight of their enemy, they sullenly retreated up the steps that led to the porch.

“Hold on, there!” shouted Mark, as the Indian, yelling furiously, prepared to follow the dogs into the house. “Keep away from there, I tell you.”

But the noble warrior did not stop. Striking right and left with his knife, he sprang up the steps into the midst of the women; and Mark, believing that it was his intention to attack them, yelled quite as loudly as the Indian.

“Hi! hi! Pull him down, fellows!” he shouted.

The hounds understood that yell; they had been waiting for it. As quick as thought one of them turned and sprang at his throat; the other seized him by the shoulder from behind, and the savage was thrown flat on his back—stretched as if he had been a “’coon.”

It was astonishing how quickly all the fight was shaken out of that ferocious Choctaw. He made one or two wild cuts at his assailants, then the knife dropped from his grasp and he lay like a log upon the porch. He was so still, and the blood flowed so freely from the numerous wounds he had received, that Mark became frightened and spoke to the hounds, which released their enemy very reluctantly. He never would have robbed any more dinner-tables if they had been allowed to have their own way with him.

“Ugh!” roared the Indian, when he found himself free from the teeth of the hounds. “Wh-o-o-p!”

He was not seriously injured; he had been “playing ’possum.” He raised himself to a sitting position and gazed about for a moment with a bewildered air, and then jumped to his feet, bounded down the steps and drew a beeline for camp at a rate of speed that made Mark open his eyes.

He did not stop to look for gates, or to let down bars. Whatever may have been that Indian’s claims to courage, he could certainly boast of being a swift runner and a most remarkable jumper.

“Oh, you awful boy! What have you done?” chorused all the visitors, as Mark entered the house.

“I’ve saved somebody from being hurt—that’s what I’ve done,” was the cool reply. “I am the only man about the house, and of course it was my duty to protect you.”

“But don’t you know that an Indian never forgives an injury? He will have revenge for that. He will come back here with his friends and kill and scalp us all.”

“Well, he had better bring a good many friends if he intends to try that,” said Mark, shaking his head in a very threatening manner. “I’ll take Rock and Dash and whip his whole tribe. How long before dinner will be ready, mother?”

For an answer to this question he was referred to the cook. Now, Aunt Martha was an old and favorite servant, who had somehow got it into her head that she had a perfect right to grumble at any one, from her master down to the smallest pickaninny on the plantation. Having recovered from her fright, she was scolding at an alarming rate over the loss of her fine dinner, and for want of some better object upon which to vent her spite she opened upon Mark the moment he entered the kitchen.

Being unable to obtain any satisfactory replies to his questions, he walked off whistling to drown the clatter of the cook’s tongue, and as he went down the steps he heard her say to herself:

“Dat ar is a monstrous bad boy. He’s boun’ to be de def of all us white folks.”

At the end of an hour Mark was again summoned to dinner, which this time passed off without interruption. Aunt Martha had recovered her good nature, and sought to restore herself to favor by stepping down from her high position as head cook, and condescending to wait upon “young mass’r,” whose plate she kept bountifully supplied.

When Mark returned to the shop after eating his dinner, he noticed that an unusual silence reigned in the Indian camp. Not a yell, or a song, or even the bark of a dog came from the woods, which were so still that Mark almost believed them to be deserted.

As he could not help feeling somewhat uneasy over what had been said in regard to the savage coming back with re-enforcements, he kept his eye turned in the direction of the camp, and presently discovered a gray streak moving through the cotton-field.

As it approached he saw that it was an Indian; and when he reached the fence Mark recognized the young wrestler, who appeared to be intensely excited about something. He breathed hard after his rapid run, his eyes had a wild look in them, and he was in so great a hurry to communicate the object of his visit that he began shouting to Mark as soon as he came within speaking distance.

He might as well have kept silent, however, for he talked principally in his native tongue, and Mark could not understand that. Reaching the fence, he cleared it at a bound, and running up to Mark, who stood looking at him in astonishment, exclaimed:

“Mil-la-la, you white boy! mil-la-la you, quick!”

And as he spoke he seized Mark by the arm, and tried to pull him toward the house.

“Now, see here,” said the latter, pulling off his jacket; “do you want to wrestle? If you do, you’re just the fellow I am looking for.”

“No, no! no, no!” cried the young savage, jumping back, and vehemently shaking his head. “Mil-la-la, you!”

“Talk English, why don’t you?” said Mark impatiently. “I can’t understand that jargon. What do you want me to do? If you haven’t come over here to wrestle, you had better keep your hands to yourself.”

“Well, I mean you run,” urged Jim. “You run away, quick. See! Indian coming to kill!”

He pointed toward the cotton-field, and the sight that met Mark’s gaze made the cold chills creep all over him. A party of half a dozen braves were approaching the shop in single file at a rapid trot. They were all stripped to the waist, daubed with paint, wore feathers in their hair, carried knives and hatchets in their hands, and altogether their appearance was enough to frighten any boy who had never seen Indians in war costume before. The foremost warrior was the one who had been pulled down by the dogs. When he discovered Mark, he placed his hand to his mouth and gave the war-whoop.

“Jeemes’ River!” was Mark’s mental ejaculation (that was what he always said when he was astonished or alarmed). “Don’t I wish I was somewhere?”

“See, you white boy!” exclaimed Jim, who was so excited and terrified that he could scarcely stand still. “You run, or Indian kill.”

“Keep your hands off,” said Mark, as the young wrestler once more tried to push him toward the house. “This is my father’s plantation. I’ve more right here than they have. I haven’t done any thing to be ashamed of, and I shan’t run a step.”

The savages had by this time reached the fence that inclosed the cotton-field, and there they stopped to listen to a speech from their leader, who emphasized his remarks by flourishing his knife and hatchet above his head and yelling furiously.

“Look here, Jim!” said Mark suddenly. “Go and tell those fellows that if they know when they are well off they won’t come over that fence.”

“Oh, no! You run!” entreated Jim, who seemed to be greatly distressed on Mark’s account. “Indian kill, sure!”

“I shan’t budge an inch. Now, that’s flat. Jim, I shan’t tell you more than a dozen times that if you don’t want to wrestle you had better keep your hands away from me. Go and tell those painted gentlemen that I say they have come close enough.”

The young wrestler, seeing that Mark was firmly resolved to stand his ground, darted off like a flask, and, perching himself upon the fence, began a speech. He threw his arms wildly about his head, twisted himself into all sorts of shapes, and shouted at the top of his voice.

Mark could not understand a word he said, but the Indians could, and they seemed very much interested. They listened respectfully, no doubt, because the speaker was the son of their chief, only interrupting him now and then with a long-drawn “O-o m-i!” which was probably intended for applause.

If Jim was trying to induce the warriors to return peaceably to camp, he did not succeed in his object. The leader looked toward Mark, who stood in the door of the shop, keeping his eye on the savages, and stooping down occasionally to caress his hounds, and becoming enraged at his coolness, again raised the war-whoop, whereupon Jim brought his speech to a sudden close, and, jumping down from the fence, hurried up to Mark, and begged him to run for his life.

“I shan’t stir a peg,” was the angry response. “Go back and say to those men that I am tired of waiting. Tell them that if they come inside this lot I’ll make my hounds eat them up.”

Jim ran back to the fence, and for the second time occupied the attention of the warriors with a speech. They listened attentively for awhile, as before, but his eloquence seemed to make but very little impression upon them, for the leader again raised the war-whoop, and placed his hands upon the fence, as if about to spring over.

“Come on!” shouted Mark, who was every moment growing more angry and impatient. “Come inside this lot if you dare! Hands off, Jim!” he added, pushing back the young Indian, who once more tried to pull him toward the house. “I am just in the right humor for a wrestle now, and when I get through with your friends there I will show you what a white boy can do. Jeemes’ River! why don’t you come on?”

But the Indians, if they had any intention of crossing the fence at all, were not ready to do it just then. They listened to another long speech from their leader, and then, to Mark’s great amazement, started back through the cotton-field toward the camp. When they disappeared in the woods, Mark drew a long breath of relief, and turned to Jim, who stood looking at him with every expression of wonder and curiosity. The young wrestler was hardly prepared to believe that any one, especially a boy sixteen years old, could see the famous Choctaw braves in war-paint without being very badly frightened.

“You no afraid?” he inquired.

“Afraid!” repeated Mark. “Scarcely. What’s the use of being afraid until you see something to be afraid of? I feel grateful to you, Jim, for the interest you seem to take in my welfare, and I assure you that I shall always remember it. But you know you challenged me to wrestle with you last night. Come on now; I am ready for you.”

But Jim was not ready for Mark. The latter had given evidence that he was blessed with a goodly share of courage; and the Indian, believing, no doubt, that he possessed strength and activity in the same proportion, thought it best to keep out of his reach. He retreated toward the fence, crying out, “No, no; no, no, white boy!” at the same time waving Mark back with his open hands.

“Well, then, if you don’t want to wrestle, perhaps you will be good enough to carry a message from me to your friends,” said Mark. “Tell them that if they will take my advice they will leave this plantation with as little delay as possible. I shall ride through those woods with my hounds about sundown, and—pay strict attention to what I say now, Jim—if I catch a redskin in that camp, I’ll—I’ll—”

Mark finished the sentence by drawing his head down between his shoulders, opening his eyes to their widest extent, spreading out his fingers like the claws of some wild animal, and assuming a most ferocious expression of countenance, which made Jim retreat a step or two as if afraid that Mark was about to jump at him.

I am not certain that Mark could have told exactly what he meant by this pantomime, and neither am I prepared to say how Jim interpreted it; but I do know that he started for the camp with all possible speed, while Mark, highly excited, went back to the house to relate his adventure to mother.

That evening, about an hour before sunset, we returned from our deer hunt, and were not a little surprised to find the camp deserted. Not an Indian was to be seen. The warriors, squaws, pappooses, dogs and all had left for parts unknown. Father laughed when mother told him what had happened during our absence; but I could see by the expression in his eye that one Indian, at least, did a very wise thing when he took Mark’s advice and left the plantation.

I have since learned enough about these people to know that Mark showed himself a hero on that day. If he had taken to his heels the Indians would have pursued him, and there was no knowing what they might have done in their blind rage. His bold front cooled their ardor, and perhaps saved somebody’s life.

Although the savages had left the plantation, we were not yet done with them. A few nights afterward our cotton gin was set on fire, and the moccasin tracks in the mud showed who did it. We had a lively time hunting up the incendiaries, and I came in for some adventures, the like of which I had never known before.

CHAPTER IV.
A FRIEND IN NEED.

Our fellows all ate supper at our house that night, and a happier party than that which sat at our table was never seen anywhere.

Mark was the hero of the evening, and after he had entertained us with a glowing description of his adventure with the Indians, we related to him the exciting and amusing incidents that had happened during our deer hunt.

Duke, Herbert and Sandy started for home shortly after dark, and Mark and I went up to headquarters and prepared to pass the evening with our books. We intended to go back to school in the spring, and as we were too ambitious to fall behind our classes, we made it a point to devote a portion of each day to good hard study. I picked up my philosophy; while Mark settled into a comfortable position in his easy-chair, thrust his slippered feet out toward the fire, and soon became deeply interested in a problem in quadratic equations.

The hours flew rapidly by, and it was nine o’clock almost before we knew it. By that time Mark had found a problem that brought him to a standstill, and resorting to his usual method of stimulating his ideas, he picked up his guitar and cleared his throat preparatory to treating me to his favorite song, “The Hunter’s Chorus,” which I had heard so often that I was heartily tired of it.

Just then the hounds in the yard set up a loud baying. We heard the bars rattle, and then came the clatter of horses’ hoofs and loud voices at the door. Heavy steps sounded in the hall and ascended the stairs. A moment afterward the door opened and Sandy Todd came in, his clothes all splashed with mud, and his usually red face pale with excitement or anger, we could not tell which.

“What’s up?” we asked, in concert.

“I reckon I might as well tell you to onct,” answered Sandy, “’cause you never could guess it. Jerry Lamar is in jail.”

“In jail!” we echoed. “What for?”

“He is charged with stealin’ eight thousand dollars from General Mason,” was the reply.

I must stop here long enough to tell you something about Jerry Lamar, because he had considerable to do with the adventures that befell us during the winter. He lived about six miles from our house, on the banks of Black Bayou. His parents were poor, and Jerry and his father were lumbermen. They cut logs in the swamp, made them into rafts, and when the freshets came, floated them out to the river and down to New Orleans, where they sold them.

The timber they cut was all on our plantation, and father had so much confidence in their honesty that he never measured the rafts when they came out, but accepted the money Mr. Lamar offered him without asking any questions.

Jerry was one of the best boys I ever knew. Honest, good-natured and accommodating, he was beloved by every body (except old General Mason, who cared for no one but himself and his graceless nephew), and he would have been one of our fellows if he could have found time to accompany us on our expeditions; but he was too poor to own a horse or gun, and was obliged to work steadily from one year’s end to another. He was ambitious and tried hard to better his condition, but somehow he always had bad luck.

General Mason (I do not know why people called him “General,” unless it was because he had plenty of money, for he never held a military commission in his life) was continually getting himself or somebody else into trouble.

He had long shown a disposition to persecute Mr. Lamar, because the latter refused to buy his timber in the swamps at double its value, and Mark and I had no hesitation in affirming that he had brought this charge against Jerry to be revenged on his father.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” said I.

“Any one who knows Jerry Lamar would never suspect him of such a thing,” chimed in Mark.

“I am sorry to say, fellers, that thar’s no mistake about it—that is, as fur as his bein’ in jail is consarned, ’cause my father seed him when he was goin’ in. He’s down stairs now, pap is, talkin’ to your folks about goin’ Jerry’s bail.”

“Is there nothing we can do for him?” I asked.

“We can at least go down and see him, and assure him of our sympathy,” said Mark.

“That’s jest what I thought,” replied Sandy. “I will ride over arter Duke and Herbert, and by the time I get back you can be ready.”

Sandy lumbered off down stairs, and Mark and I pulled on our boots and hurried after him. We stopped in the sitting-room for a few minutes to hear what Mr. Todd had to say about it, and when we saw father preparing to accompany him to town, we ran out to the barn to saddle our horses.

In about a quarter of an hour Sandy came back with Duke and Herbert, and we all set out for Burton (that was the name of the village in which the jail was situated), galloping along the road at break-neck speed, and spattering the mud in every direction.

When he had gone about a mile and a half, we suddenly discovered a horseman in the road in advance of us, whose actions we thought indicated a desire to avoid us, for he turned off the road into the bushes.

“That fellow, whoever he is, has been doing something mean,” said Duke, jumping his horse across the ditch beside the road and riding toward the place where the stranger was concealed. “An honest man wouldn’t sneak off into the woods and hide that way. Hallo, there! Come out and show yourself!”

“Is that you, boys?” asked a trembling voice in the bushes.

“Oh, it’s that Tom Mason!” said Mark, contemptuously. “What trick are you up to now? You have been about some under-handed business, or you wouldn’t be afraid of us.”

“I haven’t been up to any trick; I haven’t, honor bright,” declared Tom, with more earnestness than we thought the occasion demanded. “I didn’t know who it was coming down the road at that reckless pace. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“To town, to see Jerry,” replied Duke.

“You are! I wouldn’t go near him if I were you. He’s a thief!”

As Tom said this he came out into the road, and we saw that his face was deathly pale, and that he was trembling all over, as if he had been seized with an attack of the ague.

If we had known what Tom had passed through during the last few hours, perhaps we should not have been so surprised at the sight. Had we been in his situation, it is probable that we would have been frightened, too.

Tom Mason was the nephew and ward of the richest man in that part of Mississippi, and the most unpopular boy in the settlement. He was so overbearing, and so dishonest and untruthful, that no one who had the least respect for himself could associate with him.

He cordially hated our fellows, because we would not invite him to accompany us on our hunting and fishing excursions, and never allowed an opportunity to do us an injury to pass unimproved. I shall have more to say about him presently.

“You fellows act as though you thought yourselves something grand,” continued Tom, “and I supposed you were above associating with a thief.”

“Now, I’ll tell you what’s the truth,” said Sandy, shutting one eye and wrinkling up his nose, as he always did when he was very much in earnest, “Jerry ain’t no more of a thief than I be.”

“He is in jail, isn’t he?” demanded Tom. “That is enough to disgrace him forever. Those who visit him and sympathize with him are no better than he is.”

“Thar ain’t no disgrace whar thar ain’t no guilt,” replied Sandy, half inclined to get angry. “An’ another thing, what’s the use of a fellow’s havin’ friends if they go back on him the minute he gets into trouble? Jerry will find that we’ll stick to him now same as we did afore. Now I’ll tell you what’s the truth, Tom Mason: He don’t know no more about them thar eight thousand dollars than you do.”

“Nor half as much,” said Mark, decidedly. “Fellows,” he added, as we left Tom and went clattering down the road again, “if the general has really lost any money, that boy knows where it is.”

We reached the village in a few minutes, and without any delay were conducted to the cell in which Jerry was confined.

I shall never forget the thrill of horror that ran through me as the heavy iron door clanged behind us, or the despairing, woe-begone expression on the face of the prisoner. A few hours had made a great change in that jolly, wide-awake boy. He sat on his narrow bed with his face hidden in his hands, and when he looked up, I saw that his eyes were red and swollen with weeping.

“I little thought I should ever come to this,” said Jerry, in a husky voice; “and I never expected to see you here, either.”

“When a fellow is in trouble he wants friends, doesn’t he?” asked Duke. “Have you had any examination yet?”

“I have been before the squire, if that is what you mean, and have been sent here in default of bail—sixteen thousand dollars. The squire might as well have said a million.”

“No, I reckon not,” said Sandy. “Mr. Coleman an’ Mr. Dickson an’ my father can raise sixteen thousand dollars, I think, but it might bother ’em some to find a million. Now, I’ll tell you what’s the truth, Jeremiah Lamar, did you steal them thar eight thousand from General Mason?”

“No, I never saw the money.”

“How in the world did you manage to get into this miserable scrape?” asked Duke.

Jerry wiped his eyes and settled back on his elbow, while we disposed of ourselves in various attitudes about the cell and waited for him to begin the story.

CHAPTER V.
WE TALK THE MATTER OVER.

As Jerry’s utterance was often interrupted by sobs, it took him a long time to tell us how this unpleasant state of affairs had been brought about.

During the progress of his story we learned that General Mason, according to the evidence he had given before the squire, had that morning returned from New Orleans, where he had been to draw some money to make the first payment on a plantation he had recently purchased.

The boat on which he was a passenger stopped at the mouth of the bayou to take on a supply of wood; and the general, learning that Mr. Lamar was about to come down with another raft, suddenly took it into his head that it would be a good plan to go up and examine it. He had lost a good deal of valuable timber of late, he said, and he believed that Jerry and his father had stolen it. He would look at the raft, and if there were any of his logs in it he would know them, for they were all marked.

So he jumped into a skiff and pulled up the bayou, taking with him a valise containing eight thousand dollars in gold.

He found Mr. Lamar engaged in making up the raft, a portion of which was moored to the bank in front of his house. The general got out of his skiff, and after examining that part of the raft, walked up the bayou to the place where Mr. Lamar was at work.

The latter, knowing why he had come there, good-naturedly took his pike-staff and turned the logs over in the water, so that the general could see all sides of them.

But none of them bore his mark; and without even apologizing to the lumberman for the trouble he had given him, the general returned to the skiff. He got out the oars and was about to shove off from the bank, when he discovered that the valise containing the eight thousand dollars, which he had carelessly left in the boat, was gone.

Jerry was busy chopping wood in front of the house, and without an instant’s hesitation the general sprang ashore, seized him by the collar, and walking him into the skiff, started off to take him before the magistrate.

“You can’t imagine how astonished I was,” said Jerry. "When the general first came there I was not at home; I was up the bayou after a load of wood. You know that when the water comes up it makes an island of the hill on which our house stands, and we are obliged to bring all our firewood from the mainland in a canoe. I noticed the skiff when I came back, but I did not know who had brought it there until I saw General Mason up the bank with father, looking at the logs. When he came down I wished him good-morning; but he did not speak or even look at me, and I went on with my work. The next thing I knew I was lying flat on the bottom of the skiff, and he was shoving off into the stream.

"‘You see I am prepared for any tricks,’ said he, flourishing a revolver before my face. ‘You have stolen eight thousand dollars out of this boat. Now will you tell me where it is, or go to jail?"

"If the Mississippi had suddenly overflowed its banks and come pouring into the bayou, carrying every thing before it, I could not have been more astounded and alarmed. How could I tell him where his money was when I had never seen it?

“I said every thing I could to convince him that I was innocent of the crime with which he charged me; but it was of no use. I might as well have kept silent. In obedience to his orders I picked up the oars and pulled down the bayou; and here I am.”

“Well,” said I, when Jerry paused, “I don’t see that you are in such a terrible scrape. How is General Mason going to prove that you stole his money?”

“Humph!” exclaimed Duke, "you had better ask ‘How is Jerry going to prove that he didn’t steal it?’ I have read somewhere," he continued, "that a trial at law is a lie direct. One says ‘You did,’ and the other says ‘I didn’t.’ In this case General Mason affirms that Jerry stole his money, and Jerry declares that he never saw it. We know that the general is mistaken, but how are we going to convince him of that fact while he has the evidence all on his side?"

“I know how,” exclaimed Herbert, excitedly. “We’ll find the real culprit, that’s the way we’ll do it; and I can put my hands on him in less than half an hour. That Tom Mason is the very fellow.”

“Where is your proof?” inquired the practical Duke.

“Who knows that the money was stolen at all?” asked Mark. “Perhaps it fell overboard.”

“Well, suppose it did. That doesn’t help the matter any, for how are we going to show that it fell overboard?”

“Oh, I am ruined, boys!” groaned Jerry, who had listened attentively to what Duke had to say. “I can’t prove that I did not steal the money, for there was no one near me. Mother was in the house, and I was alone with the skiff for at least ten minutes. My word will go for nothing against that of a man like General Mason. But, fellows, if that money was stolen at all, it was taken before I got back with my load of wood.”

“Did you see any one prowling around your house?” asked Duke. “Perhaps some of the Swamp Dragoons were up there hunting.”

“If they were, I did not see them. I was alone.”

Duke had shown us just how the matter stood, and our friend’s prospects began to look very dark indeed. No one could blame General Mason, for the evidence was strong against Jerry. We knew he was innocent, but we could not prove it, and he would spend the best years of his life in prison, and the real culprit would never be discovered.

While we were thinking the matter over, and wondering what we could do to assist Jerry, we heard a heavy tramping in the hall, and presently Mr. Todd, Mr. Dickson and father came in, accompanied by the constable and jailer. They had found bail for Jerry, and he was once more at liberty to go where he pleased until the following month, when his case would come up for trial before the Circuit Court. He did not seem very much elated over his liberation, for he shrank from encountering the curious eyes which he knew would be turned upon him when he reached the street. But we did not give him time to think about that. Herbert and I caught him by the arms, Sandy put his hat on his head (he was so completely wrapped up in his troubles that he seemed to have forgotten that he had a hat to wear, or a pair of feet to stand upon), and we hurried him out of the jail and across the road to the place where we had left our horses.

We sprang into our saddles, I took Jerry up behind me, and in a few minutes carried him out of sight of the village. In accordance with his request, I put him down at the head of the lane that led to the swamp, and there we all separated and set out for home.

It was late when Mark and I awoke the next morning. After breakfast, I shouldered an ax, and, mounting my horse, started for the woods, where I had agreed to meet the rest of our fellows and spend an hour or two with them in building turkey-traps, while Mark, who said he didn’t feel like tramping around in the mud all day, remained at home.

No one could have told from the way the day began, that it was destined to wind up with an adventure, and that Mark’s “laziness,” as I called it, was to bring about a series of events that ultimately proved to be of the greatest benefit to Jerry Lamar; but yet it was so.

Before Mark went to bed again he got into a scrape that well nigh cost him his life, and enabled him to prove Jerry’s innocence to every body’s satisfaction. In order that you may understand how it came about, I must follow his movements.

After I left, Mark studied awhile, read a little, and thrummed on his guitar a good deal. He passed an hour in this way, and at the end of that time was aroused from a reverie into which he had fallen by a sound which never failed to throw him into a state of intense excitement—the “honk, honk!” uttered by a flock of wild geese as they flew over the house.

Mark was all life and activity in an instant. Dropping his guitar as if it had been a coal of fire, he caught up his gun, which he always kept loaded and ready for such an emergency, and, in less time than it takes to tell it, was standing bareheaded in the yard, gazing up into the air, which was fairly darkened by wild geese.

Bang! bang! spoke the double-barrel, in quick, decided tones, and down came two of the flock, one stone dead and the other with a broken wing.

After securing his game, Mark stood watching the birds, which flew slowly onward, gradually settling down as they neared the swamp, and finally disappearing behind the bushes that lined the banks of the bayou.

“They have taken to the water,” said Mark, gleefully, “and if I don’t bag a dozen of them before I am an hour older, it will be because I have forgotten how to shoot on the wing.”

Mark ran up to headquarters, and presently reappeared in his big boots and shooting-jacket, his powder-flask and shot-bag slung over his shoulder, and his trusty double-barrel under his arm.

He ran into the kitchen to ask Aunt Martha to put up a lunch for him, and in half an hour more he had embarked in the canoe which we kept moored in the bayou, and was paddling for dear life toward the place where he had seen the geese alight in the water.

If you have never seen a freshet I can not convey to you even a slight idea of the appearance the swamp presented to Mark’s gaze that morning.

In summer it was perfectly dry, and the bayou which ran through it was not more than ten feet wide, and so shallow that the little trading boats, which are said to be able to run after a heavy dew, could not possibly ascend it.

Now the swamp was covered to the depth of fifteen feet, and the bayou was booming along at the rate of ten miles an hour, carrying with it huge trees and logs, which were whirled about in every direction, threatening instant destruction to any thing that came within their reach.

Of course navigation was dangerous in the extreme; but Mark never thought of that. His mind was wholly occupied with the wild geese.

The canoe, propelled by the current and the rapid strokes of the paddle, quickly reached the bend in which the geese had alighted, and as Mark rounded the point above it, he saw the flock before him, and within easy range.

I need not stop to relate to you the incidents of the hunt, which continued nearly all day; for, although interesting in themselves, they have no bearing upon the adventure which followed. It will be enough to say that the geese took wing as often as Mark approached them; that they always left two, and sometimes four and five, of their number dead or wounded behind them; that at last they became alarmed at the havoc made in their ranks, and rising high in the air, flew over the tops of the trees, toward the river; and that when they disappeared, Mark, with some difficulty, landed on a little island in the bayou to rest after his long-continued exertions, and to eat the lunch which Aunt Martha had put up for him.

As soon as his excitement had somewhat abated, he proceeded to make an examination of his spoils, and found that he had been successful beyond his most sanguine expectations—thirty-two fine, fat geese bearing evidence to the skill with which he had handled his double-barrel.

He also became conscious of another fact after he had looked about him, and that was that he had not the least idea how far he was from home, or in what part of the swamp he had brought up. He could not discover a single familiar landmark. With the exception of the island on which he was standing, and which was not more than twenty feet square, there was not a spot of dry land within the range of his vision—nothing but a wilderness of giant trees, standing half submerged in the dark, muddy water, which rushed by the island with the speed of a mill-sluice.

To add to the unpleasantness of his situation, the leafless branches above his head were tossing about in violent commotion, and the surface of the water was whirled into eddies by a fierce wind, which increased in fury every moment, betokening the approach of a tempest.

Some boys would have been frightened, but Mark was not. He ate his lunch with great deliberation, glancing up at the clouds occasionally, thinking over the incidents of the day, and trying to determine upon some plan of action.

There were two ways for him to return home. One was to pull back up the bayou in the direction from which he had come, and the other to float down the stream until he reached the river.

There was one insurmountable obstacle in the way of carrying out the first plan, and that was, that alone and unaided he could not possibly propel his canoe against the current.

To the second plan there was also an objection—quite a formidable one, too—which, in order that you may understand what followed, I must explain at some length.

I have told you that the bayou emptied into the Mississippi River. About a mile above its mouth was a succession of falls, perhaps fifteen feet high, and at this point the bayou, which ran between two rocky bluffs, made a very abrupt bend. The foot of the bluff on the lower side had been worn away by the constant action of the water, causing the top to hang threateningly over the bed of the stream.

Against this bluff, and along the whole length of it, was piled a dense mass of logs and trees, thus forming a sort of cavern, open at both ends.

This cave went by the name of “Dead Man’s Elbow,” from the fact that more than one lumberman had lost his life there.

When the water was low it could be easily explored, and many a hot summer’s day had our fellows spent there fishing and shooting alligators; but during a freshet it was a dangerous place.

The space between the bluffs was so narrow that only a small portion of the water could pass over the falls, and the most of it found its way into this cavern, through which it rushed and roared with the speed of a small Niagara; and any thing that came within its reach was hurried along with almost incredible fury, and dashed upon the logs and rocks below.

This was the obstacle that Mark would be obliged to pass on his way to the river. Of course there was a possibility that he would accomplish the descent in safety, for he was a skillful boatman, and he knew that more than one canoe and dozens of heavy rafts had passed over the falls when the water was at its highest; but if any accident befell him—if he once allowed himself to be brought within the influence of the powerful current that set toward the cavern—if his paddle broke or he became exhausted, it would be “all day” with him.

Mark thought of these things while he was munching his sandwiches, and when the last one had been disposed of he stepped into his canoe and began to make preparations for his perilous voyage.

His first move was to pack the geese carefully away under the thwarts, so that they would not be thrown overboard in case of any sudden lurching of his little vessel, and the second to fasten a strap to his shotgun and sling it over his shoulder.

Mark was greatly attached to that little double-barrel, and he was determined that if he passed Dead Man’s Elbow in safety, the gun should go through safely, also.

Perhaps his hands trembled a little while he was making these preparations, perhaps too, he wished that some other boy had been standing in his boots just then; but there was no alternative between attempting the passage of the falls and camping all night in the swamp without a fire, and of the two evils he thought he had chosen the least.

All things being ready, Mark cast off the painter, and with one sweep of the paddle turned the canoe about and sent it flying down the bayou. He went at almost railroad speed, but kept his craft completely under control, and when at last he came suddenly around a sharp bend and found himself between two high bluffs, with Dead Man’s Elbow in plain sight, he had screwed his courage up to the sticking point, and was ready to face the danger.

He placed his hat more firmly on his head, tightened his grasp on his paddle, and fastening his eyes on the falls before him, was nerving himself for the plunge, when his attention was suddenly attracted by loud shouts, which sounded from the cliffs above. He looked up, and the sight that met his gaze filled him with amazement and consternation.

Near the middle of the bayou, and but a short distance above the falls, was a dead tree which must have possessed enormous roots, for it had stood there ever since I could remember, holding its upright position in defiance of the logs and rafts that had been dashed against it.

It was not the tree itself that fixed Mark’s gaze and excited his surprise, but something that was crouching among its branches. It was not a bear or panther, but a man, dressed in a tattered brown jeans suit, who seemed to be very badly frightened, for that portion of his face which was visible over his bushy, uncombed whiskers was as pale as death.

Stranded on the very brink of the falls was the skiff in which the man had doubtless descended the bayou. It was lying on its side, half filled with water, and all that kept it from going over the falls was the log against which it had lodged.

On the cliff above the falls stood the persons whose shouts had attracted Mark’s attention. There were half a dozen of them—boys about his own age—and they were the redoubtable Swamp Dragoons who have already been mentioned in this story, and who are destined from this time forth to play a prominent part in it.

One of them held a long rope in his hand, with which he had been trying to rescue the man in the tree. They were all in a high state of excitement and alarm, which seemed to be greatly increased by Mark’s sudden appearance among them.

As soon as he came in sight, one of the Dragoons, who, like a good many others in the settlement, had not yet learned to tell Mark and me apart, called out:

“Now, then, what do you want here, Joe Coleman? Jest turn right around and go back up the bayou. You’ve got no sort of business here.”

“Yes,” shouted the man in the tree, shaking his fist at Mark, “go back whar you come from. What are you spyin’ about here fur?”

At first Mark did not know what to make of this greeting. Why should the man in the tree accuse him of acting as a spy upon his movements, and what reason had the Dragoons for ordering him away when he had as much right there as they had? There could be but one answer to these questions, and that was that there was something in the vicinity which they did not want him to see.

“Do you hear what I say!” shouted the man in the tree. “Get away—go back whar you come from. We don’t want you about here.”

“Get away yourself,” replied Mark. “Haven’t you sense enough to know that I couldn’t go back if I wanted to? There isn’t a man living who can paddle a canoe against this current.”

These words had scarcely left Mark’s lips before he became aware that he had got himself into trouble. While his attention was drawn to the man in the tree, his canoe had escaped from his control, and was now shooting with the speed of an arrow toward the cavern. It was not more than twenty feet distant, and if he once entered it no power on earth could save him.

When he saw and fully realized his danger, his face grew deathly pale, and for an instant the light paddle in his hand felt as heavy as lead. But it was only for an instant. His power of action returned almost as quickly as it had deserted him, and, jumping to his feet, he fought hard for his life.

For a few seconds it seemed as if his puny arm could combat successfully with the roaring, foaming waters which leaped so wildly around him; but just at the moment when the canoe appeared to be perfectly motionless, and it seemed as if a feather’s weight might turn it either way—toward the falls, where it would be comparatively safe, or toward the cavern where its destruction was certain—there was a loud snap, and Mark found himself standing with a broken paddle in his hand, and saw the bow of the canoe swinging rapidly toward the waves which filled the mouth of Dead Man’s Elbow.

CHAPTER VI.
MARK MAKES A DISCOVERY.

If there was any thing for which Mark was noted, besides his skill as a wrestler, it was the coolness and deliberation with which he acted in times of danger.

In this, he was a good deal like Sandy, who could scarcely be induced to move one step faster than his ordinary gait even under the most exciting circumstances.

Mark often grew pale in trying situations, and sometimes seemed utterly powerless to lift hand or foot, but when the decisive moment came, and action could be no longer delayed, he moved with a promptness and celerity that was astonishing.

On this occasion it did not seem that there was the smallest chance of escape. The Swamp Dragoons and the man in the tree thought so, and looked down at him with blanched cheeks.

Mark thought so, and stood erect in his boat, gazing in a stupid, benumbed sort of way into the dark opening where more than one strong man had given up his life, and toward which he was being hurried with lightning speed. But all this time he knew what he was about, and, when the canoe was on the very point of taking the fatal plunge, he sprang into the air with the agility of a squirrel.

The instant he touched the water he gave one swift stroke and reached a place of refuge—a huge sawyer, one end of which was imbedded in the mud at the bottom of the bayou, and the other projecting two or three feet above the surface of the water.

Clinging with a death-grip to this friendly support, he turned to look at his canoe; but it had already disappeared, and was being smashed into kindling-wood as the mad waters hurried it through the cavern.

“Whew!” gasped Mark, drawing himself out of the water and seating himself on the sawyer; “did any body ever hear of a closer shave than that?”