DELAWARE TOM;
OR,
THE TRAITOR GUIDE.

BY HARRY HAZARD,
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
No. 38. The Heart Eater,
No. 43. The White Outlaw,
No. 54. Arkansas Jack,
No. 66. Rattling Dick.

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

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

[I An Altercation] 9 [II The Storm-Cloud Breaks] 19 [III A Wild Race] 30 [IV The Forlorn Hope] 34 [V Delaware Tom] 43 [VI Tom Maxwell Turns Indian] 50 [VII A Tangled Trail] 59 [VIII Savage Tactics] 68 [IX Bound to the Stake] 77 [X The Winding Trail] 83 [XI Reunited] 88 [XII Dog Eat Dog] 96

DELAWARE TOM;
OR,
THE TRAITOR GUIDE

CHAPTER I.
AN ALTERCATION.

Mid-afternoon of an oppressively hot and sultry day, in the year ’54.

We call the reader’s attention to a scene, that, if not romantic, is at least attractive and interesting; a wagon-train of emigrants, as is attested by the quantity of driven stock—horses, cattle and sheep. The presence of women and children is still further evidence.

It moved slowly and drearily along over the vast, almost barren stretch of level plain, as though the nearly spent day had been one of hard and unremitting toil. The horses or mules, their heads hanging down, with drooping ears and tails, their hides damp with sweat and covered with the fine sand cast upon the air by the trampling hoofs, or the slowly revolving wheels, scarcely heed the stinging lash or the impatient exclamation of their drivers.

The loose stock move dejectedly along, cured of their morning propensity of running from the trail to snatch a mouthful of grass, or nip the tops of a bush, while more than one of the boys, whose duty it is to keep them within proper limits, dozes in their hard saddles.

But there are three persons who appear full of life and free from the general weariness of mind and body. There: one of them a woman—a girl; the others men.

The first, who rode at several hundred yards in advance, if closely scrutinized, proves to be an old man, who has numbered his half-century, or perhaps nearly a decade more. A close scrutiny, we say, for his figure was as erect and vigorous, his motions as free and supple, the fire of his keen gray eye as clear and penetrating as a generation since.

His hair and long flowing beard were gray, although the thickly clinging dust effectually disguised this. From his position, his arms, his actions, it was plain he acted as guide to the wagon-train.

The next figure, about half-way between this man and the foremost wagon, was also a man, and merits a brief description at our hands for more than one reason.

In stature he was about the mean hight, of a rather slight figure, but with a muscular and active development, clothed in a plain and well-worn suit of gray. His dusky, olive complexion, black hair and eyes like a sloe, had given him the sobriquet of “Dusky Dick,” a name that was already famous throughout the West.

Although not much, if any beyond his third decade, Richard Rouzee, or “Dusky Dick,” had followed the calling of a guide for a number of years, and gained the repute of being peculiarly unfortunate, having lost one-half the trains he had acted as pilot for, and rarely escaped without at least one fierce and desperate struggle.

More than one dark rumor had been put in circulation, and some more boldly declared that he was in league with the red-skins, and only acted as guide, the more surely to compass his purpose. But this was only conjecture, and could not be substantiated by any valid proof.

The third person, who rode at some little distance to the right, so as to escape the annoying dust, was a young woman of more than common grace and beauty, although the latter quality was somewhat obscured by the long, weary day’s travel.

Rather above the medium hight, of a superbly rounded and developed form, that was admirably displayed by her neatly-fitting riding-habit of black, she sat her horse with the ease and grace of an accomplished equestrienne, although he chafed and fretted at the restraint of a tightly-drawn rein, caracoling and prancing in proud strength and spirit.

It was a clear-cut profile and beautiful complexion that Dusky Dick beheld from the corner of his dark, sinister eye, that glared with a fire of unusual admiration. But this his slouched hat concealed, and his smooth, beardless face gave no outward sign of the dark and troubled thoughts that filled his brain.

Then he pricked his half-wild mustang viciously with his spur, and darted suddenly up beside the lady, who uttered a half-suppressed exclamation of annoyance, and made no attempt to conceal the expression of dislike and impatience that clouded her usually sunny features.

“It has been a wearisome day, Miss Clara,” began the guide, speaking in a low and remarkably musical voice although his eyes flashed as he noticed her evident aversion. “But we are almost at the end of our day’s journey. See—that long dark line yonder, a little to the left, is our stopping-place, beside a clear and beautiful stream. I know the spot, well.”

“So we camp there? Well, I am glad of it, for more than one reason,” replied the lady, in an impatient tone.

“And may I ask why so?”

“Do you wish to know the truth?” asked Clara, with a slight emphasis.

“Certainly; the truth will be doubly pleasant, coming from such winsome lips,” Dusky Dick returned, with a half-mocking bow and smile.

“Well then, the main reason is that once there, you will have other things to attend to, and will not have so much leisure to annoy others by impertinent and unwelcome attentions,” curtly replied Clara, urging her high-mettled horse ahead, as if desirous of escaping the company of the swarthy guide.

“And another reason is—that a certain baby-face, Buenos Ayres by name, will not be long in feeding his horses, and then, of course, will hasten to pay his respects to the belle of the wagon-train,” sneered Dusky Dick, keeping close to Clara, whether she rode fast or slow.

“Mr. Rouzee,” at length exclaimed Clara, her eyes flashing angrily, and her cheeks flushing, “your place as guide is yonder, along with Tom Maxwell, and not out here. If I appear rude, you force me to be so.”

“A guide’s place depends greatly upon circumstances, Miss Calhoun; and just now I prefer this position.”

“Then occupy it alone; I will go back to the wagon,” she added, reining in her horse.

“Stay, Miss Clara,” cried Rouzee, his black eyes glittering. “Keep your place, but mark me, the time will come—and soon too—when you will repent these haughty airs, and solicit as a favor, what you now affect to scorn. I tell you that the time is not far distant when you will crouch at my feet—when you will hang around me for a word—a smile; when you will call me master. Do you hear?”

“And I tell you, sir, that when we camp to-night, you will have to answer to the charge of being drunk while upon duty,” haughtily retorted Clara, her eyes flashing. “Will you go, sir, or must I appeal to my father?”

The guide did not reply, but plunging his long, cruel spurs into the flanks of his mustang, he dashed rapidly up alongside of the old borderer, Tom Maxwell, who received him with a cold, half-suspicious start. Evidently there was little love lost between the two men.

Just before sunset, the long line of trees was reached, that bordered upon a small stream, and preparations were immediately begun for encamping, while Dusky Dick and Tom Maxwell galloped off to hunt for “sign.”

The mules and horses were ungeared and turned loose, after being hoppled, and the wagons were formed into a rude sort of corral, one line covering the joints in the other. All was bustle and apparent confusion, although each person knew his duty and busied himself about that alone.

Fires were built, and over them stooped the women, preparing supper for the different messes; while the children brought wood and water, or else rolled and tumbled over each other with merry shouts, in their play, little recking what the morrow might bring forth.

To one of these fires, a little apart from the remainder, we now turn. Over it was bending the form of an old negro woman, whose wrinkled features and gorgeous red and orange head-gear, looked weird and wild through the flame-tinted smoke.

A little to one side of this sat three persons, or rather half reclining against the moss-covered roots of the gigantic oak tree, idly watching the motions of “Aunt Medora,” as she turned the hissing bacon, or the nicely browning “hoe-cake.” One of these was Clara Calhoun; the others were men.

The eldest one—tall, portly and of a soldierly bearing—was her father, the leader or captain of the wagon-train. Of perhaps fifty years in age, his muscular frame gave no evidence of decay, and the fire of youth still seemed to shine in his large dark eyes. The heavy, grizzled mustache and beard, gave a somewhat stern cast to his features, that were massive and regular, and his voice, used to command, enhanced this idea; but at heart he was kind and gentle.

The other was a young man, between his fifth and sixth lustrum, with a handsome, manly face and form; with a calm, steadfast look in his gray eye that instinctively commanded one’s respect, and told that he could be depended upon in any emergency, however dangerous or trying.

His garments were plain and almost poor, but there was an air of conscious independence and freedom in his bearing and demeanor, that attracted one, despite himself.

“Father, do you know that I think you made a great mistake in hiring this Dusky Dick, or whatever may be his name, to act as guide?”

“Why so, Clara?” asked her parent, with an air of surprise.

“Well, you may laugh at me, or call me visionary, but I shudder whenever he comes near me. I believe he is a traitor, and that he has some deep purpose of his own that means danger to us all. If you ask my reasons, I can only say what I have; I only feel that he’s not what he seems, and I shall never rest easy until we are well rid of him.”

“I don’t like him overly well, myself,” slowly replied Calhoun, “but still, I think he is honest and trustworthy.”

“Then why does he not attend to his business, instead of intruding where he can’t help but see his presence is unwelcome?” warmly cried Clara.

“Why, daughter, what do you mean? What has he been doing?”

“Just this. I can’t stir a step from the wagons, but what he is at my side, with his disagreeable smile and worse compliments. At first I did not appear to mind them, but of late he has grown still more impudent, and the worse I rebuff him, the more he persists, until now, unless it is put a stop to, I will feel obliged to keep within the wagon all the time.”

“You never spoke of this before, Clara,” uttered Calhoun, slowly. “If he has troubled you so much, why not have told me?”

“Because I thought he would desist, and then there would be no trouble. But to-day he grossly insulted me.”

“Stay, Buenos,” commanded the major, placing a hand upon the young man’s arm, as he made a motion of anger—“let me settle this. He insulted you, Clara?”

“Yes. He told me that the time was not far distant when I would crouch at his feet, and be glad to call him master!” exclaimed the maiden, her eyes flashing.

“But what led to this?”

“I hardly remember, but I told him he had other duties to perform, that would become him better than forcing his company upon those to whom it was unwelcome. I had tried to leave him by riding faster, to one side, or by falling back; but he kept close beside me.”

Major Calhoun arose and glanced around upon the animated scene. The two guides had returned, and were awaiting supper, meanwhile smoking their pipes.

“Tom Maxwell, come here for a moment,” called the leader, and the tall guide sprung nimbly to his feet and approached the group, doffing the dirty felt hat, with an almost reverential bow to Clara.

“Maxwell, my man, I wish to ask your advice, and I trust you will be plain and candid, in your reply,” began Calhoun.

“Maje, I’m Tom Maxwell, an’ you’ve hearn tell o’ me afore now; but did you ever hear ’at I lied, or made a practyce o’ any sech a dirty, sneakin’ business? The truth is a mighty broad an plain trail, boss, to them which is clear in the sight, an’ my ol’ mother l’arnt me to squint true ’long that trail, tellin’ me—‘Now, sonny, jest foller your nose, an’ go ahead!’ An’ ever sence then, I’ve did so, on’y, mayhap, steppin’ a lettle to one side in the matter o’ a red-skin, or sech like; but I al’ays tuck it up jest whar I left it. I’ll tell you the truth ef it bu’sts me—go on!”

Calhoun appeared used to the somewhat rambling style of the old guide, and resumed:

“We were just talking about this Dusky Dick, as you call him; what is your opinion of him, Tom?”

“H-u-m! As a guide, or a man?”

“Well—both.”

“Ya—as,” drawled Maxwell, smoking rapidly. “Fust, as a guide. He’s quick an’ sharp-witted, knows a buffler-chip from a ant-hill; he is dead shore on a trail or fer sign; a bully shot, rider, an’ all that; kin tell you, or mark down like a printed map, every river, crick an’ waterhole that is atween here an’ Salt Lake. Or to sum it up, as the lawyers o’ St. Louey ’d say, he knows every feet o’ the trail, kin tell whar to ixpect Injuns, or not to ixpect ’em, ekil to anybody what lives an’ breathes.”

“You praise him up very highly, Tom,” remarked Buenos Ayres.

“Do I, then? That’s jest as folks thinks. But honest, I don’t know a single man ’at I’d ruther hev along ’th me, ’n this very Dusky Dick, pervidin’, mind ye, thet he hed some strong intrust in the train’s gittin’ through right side up, all hunky. But ef so be he hed a spite ag’inst anybody, then I’d ruther hev the devil hisself fer a chum,” he said, earnestly.

“Well, as a man,” added Major Calhoun.

“Wal, fust; he shoots off his mouth too durned much; he’d talk the ha’r off ’m a buffler bull’s hump, an’ not more’n hafe try. He’s wuss ’n old Daddy Lapyear, the preacherman which used to keep camp meetin’ nigh to whar I lived when a little shaver; an’ more’n that couldn’t be said. Look at his eyes—look at his face—look at his motion; look at him all over, well. The hull outfit sais snake, jest as plain as geese-goose; an’ the wust kind o’ sarpint, too—the ongainly, sneakin’ copperhead.

“Ef he tuck a dislike to a feller, would he come right out flatfooted an’ tell him so? Nary time—not muchly! He’d lay low an’ bite ’em in the heel. He’s pizon, I tell ye, pizon from head to toe, an’ sartin death. Ef he gives you a black look, jest putt your heel on his head an’ squash it. But look to your boots, fust. Gi’ me a match, youngster.”

Calhoun then repeat the threats of Dusky Dick, he had that day addressed to Clara, and then awaited Tom’s reply, in some anxiety of mind.

“An’ he said that—he did?” slowly returned Maxwell, his brow knitting, as he puffed furiously at his relighted pipe.

“Those words, or to the same effect.”

“Wal then, thar’s snags ahead, boss, you kin jest bet your high old ocean ware!” exclaimed Tom. “What’re you goin’ to do ’bout it?”

“I don’t know, just yet. That is what I asked your opinion for.”

“Wal then, ef he said them words, he meant somethin’. He ain’t the sort o’ feller to shoot his mouth off at nothin’, when he’s mad, jest fer the fun o’ hearin’ hisself talk. Look here—do you know ’at he’s lost four trains in the last two years? an’ that one more jest got through by stud-hoss luck, a’ter two days’ hard fightin’? I don’t say ’at he’s in cahoot ’th the reds, not a-tall; but ef I hed a spite ag’in’ this ’ere train, an’ wanted to git it wiped out, I’d jest go to Mister Dusky Dick, Esquire, an’ say—whar’s the brigynees, Dick?” significantly replied Tom, tapping one horny finger against the other palm.

“Then what do you advise, Maxwell?” somewhat anxiously asked Major Calhoun, deeply impressed by the earnest words of the veteran guide.

“What do I ’vise? Now thar you’ve got me, as Joe Nerr said to the whale when he sucked him in. What d’you think?”

“I thought some of discharging him,” was the thoughtful reply.

“The very wust thing you could do! ’Cause why. Ef he is a runnygade, thet is jest what he’d choose hisself, an’ then he’d hold high, low, jack in his hand, ’th a fa’r show o’ ketchin’ the game, to boot. No, sir! You must keep him, an’ say nothin’ to make him ’spicious, an’ then—watch ’im. You’ll watch—the young feller, he’ll watch, an’ I’ll watch, an’ it’s hard but what we kin manidge to keep him in trim.”

“’S—st!” cautioned Ayres, rising erect, with hand upon his ready revolver. “So, Mr. Dusky Dick, this is a specimen of your manners, is it? Eavesdropping!” he added, as the form of the guide stepped out from behind the tree beneath which the party were sitting.

“Should the criminal be absent when he is being tried?” sneered Rouzee, with a slight emphasis on the word italicized. “I was passing by—I heard my name coupled with treachery—and so I paused.”

“Jest so—I was hungry—I saw a fat goose—I stole it, said the fox!” murmured Tom, carelessly hitching his belt around. “I told you he was a snake!”

“And what did you hear?” demanded Calhoun, arising.

“I heard myself accused of treachery—of being a renegade, and in collusion with the Indians. If not in so many words, at least plainly enough to be understood,” said Dusky Dick, deliberately.

“Well then—what is your answer?”

“What can it be! You are dissatisfied with me, and condemn me unheard. I will not serve any man who does not trust me fully. Tom Maxwell, yonder, knows the route quite as well as I do, and is capable of acting alone. I will bid you good-by, now.”

“You mean to leave us?”

“Yes.”

“If you heard so much, Mr. Rouzee, as you say, surely you heard Maxwell’s last words?” coldly added Major Calhoun. “We prefer not to part with you; at least, not until we have reached a safer portion of the country than this is.”

“True as preachin’!” softly interjected the old guide.

“Do you mean to detain me against my will?” said Dusky Dick, stepping back a pace.

“If necessary—yes.”

“By force?”

“By force, if you compel us to adopt harsh measures,” impatiently exclaimed the major.

“Now look here, Mr. Calhoun,” began Rouzee, in a firm tone. “I’m a free man, and not bound to you in any way. I have honestly performed my part of the contract, thus far, and if I choose to leave you now, all you can do is to retain my wages. Do this if you will, but I’ll not stay with you any longer.”

“Ef I hed a jass-ack what wouldn’t go, d’y’ think I’d wallop ’im?—bet your monkey-musek I would!” gently whistled Tom Maxwell, eying Dusky Dick with a benignant smile from beneath his battered slouch hat.

“You are but one—we are three—or if but one word is spoken aloud, fifty.”

“And I am Dusky Dick!” cried the guide, in a defiant tone. “You have heard of me before now, but you will know me, if you persist in this outrage. I tell you that I will go, and there is but one thing that can stop me—death!” and as he spoke, he leaped back so as to place the trio in front of him, and drawing a brace of revolvers, he cocked them with a clear, significant click.

“That long-legged beauty yonder told you that I could shoot true, and for once he told the truth. You may keep me here, but it will not be while I can draw trigger or sight along a barrel. Stop!” he added, sternly, as the three men made a motion toward advancing. “The first weapon drawn, or the first step toward me, will be the death-warrant of Miss Clara yonder! Before God, I will shoot her, if I am molested!”

They saw that he was in terrible earnest, and instinctively shrunk back.

“Shell I take him, maje—shell I take him?” hoarsely whispered the old guide, his form crouching and trembling with anger, at the rebel’s audacity.

“No—no, don’t stir, Tom—for your life, don’t!” cried Calhoun, fearfully. “The devil will shoot her if you do! Go, then, if you wish it, but if you harm one of the party, I will hunt you down like a dog! Go, while you can,” he added, bitterly.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Dusky Dick, “you are very generous, Major Calhoun, and I congratulate you upon the facility with which you reverse your decision. I will go, but you may expect me again, very soon. I love Miss Clara too greatly to abandon her so abruptly, for good.”

“Shoot him, father!” cried Clara, as she sprung up behind the huge tree-trunk. “Never mind me—don’t let him brave you so!”

The three men abruptly turned around at this sudden interruption, and then as they saw that the maiden’s maneuver placed her in comparative safety, they quickly drew their weapons; but the guide had vanished, and his taunting laugh of defiance echoed back through the woods.

“After him, Tom—Buenos! and shoot him like a wolf, if you find him!” shouted Calhoun, as the three men dashed through the timber, in the direction from whence had come the insolent laugh.

But their efforts at Dusky Dick’s capture were all in vain, although the majority of the now fully aroused campers set out in pursuit of the fugitive; and one by one they returned to their now cold supper, silent and filled with a dim foreboding of impending peril.

“It’s a bad job, maje, a pesky bad job,” quoth Tom Maxwell, as he helped himself to a fresh supply of the rude but wholesome viands; “an’ I’m dub’ous that it hain’t all over yit. He never shed ’a’ got away—never! But who under the sun would ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ p’inted them pistils at Miss Clary? The dratted sarpint! Burnin’s too good for sech as he is! Lord—Lord! what’s this world a-comin’ to, when sech pesky critters is made?”

Double guards were posted that night, and an unusually strict watch was kept, but the long night passed by without further event worthy of record, and as the sun arose, it shined down upon the party slowly trailing along their weary way.

CHAPTER II.
THE STORM-CLOUD BREAKS.

The next day and the next passed by without any event other than such usually attendant upon an emigrant’s daily toil along the almost endless trail, and the majority of the party were inclined to laugh at the parting words of Dusky Dick, as mere vaporings, proceeding from chagrin.

But not so with all. Tom Maxwell did not take this view of it, nor did the major or Buenos Ayres, and a steady, unremitting watch was kept up, both night and day, while great precautions were used in selecting the nightly encampment.

Toward night of the second day succeeding the departure of Rouzee, the veteran guide paused until the wagon driven by young Ayres, in which also sat Major Calhoun, came up beside him.

“What’s up now, Max?”

“Nothin’, maje, as I knows on,” replied Tom. “But look yonder—d’ y’ see them ’ar trees, jest beyon’ that peint o’ risin’ ground?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, that’s the place to camp to-night. Plenty of wood, water an’ grass.”

“Well?” queried the leader, seeing that something lay beyond the guide’s words.

“I don’t know, boss, but what you’ll laugh at me, an’ think I mought be in better biziness, but—” hesitated Tom, a little nervously.

“Why should I, Tom? I certainly should not if you are in earnest. But what’s the matter?”

“Jest this: you hain’t forgot what Dusky Dick said, nor hain’t I n’ither. It’s be’n a-runnin in my mind all day, an’ I can’t help thinkin’ that thar’s so’thin’ in it. You know he said that we’d see him ag’in, an’ his eyes said, jest as plain as a nigger’s heel, that if we did, it would not be alone.”

“Then you think—?”

“I reckon; leastways I ’spect so. Ef you ax what, why I’ll bet a buffler’ hump ag’in’ a turkey buzzard, that we’ll ’ither see or hear so’thin’ o’ Mr. Dusky Dick, afore another sun. I feel it all over me.”

“What are you going to do?” somewhat impatiently asked Major Calhoun.

“First, I’m goin’ to scout ’round ontel dusk. I know the lay right well around here, an’ it’s jist the out-doin’est place you ever did see, for ’bushments and Injun deviltries. It’s a plain shoot for the river thar, an’ you won’t need me for that.”

“Well, don’t be gone long, nor run any more risk than is absolutely necessary, Maxwell,” earnestly added Calhoun; “for you are our only dependence, now. I don’t believe there is one of us all that has the slightest idea of where we are, or the road necessary to take, in order to reach safety.”

“Maje,” slowly said the old guide, “I’m a rough old coon, what ain’t o’ much a’count one way nor t’other; I hain’t got no kin, nor ’lations livin,’ as I knows on. I never hed a wife—leastways, nobody ’cept it mought be a squaw, now an’ then, for a week or so, an’ I never hed a child who could call me pap; but for all that, I know how you must feel when you look at Miss Clary, an’ think ’at she’s in danger.

“I ain’t o’ much a’count, as I said, for I’m old an’ most wored out, but still I’d fou’t as hard as the best, for the few drops o’ blood in my karkidge, an’ I say sooner than let her get hurt, even to her teentiest finger, why I’d be shot, burnt, cut to pieces an’ then swallered hole! I would, by ge-mently!”

“I believe you, Tom, but I hope there’ll be no call for your doing all that,” laughed Calhoun.

“Wall, jist follow your nose, an’ stop yonder ontil I git back,” and then loosening the tightly drawn rein against which his half-wild mustang was chafing, the grizzled old guide sped swiftly away from the wagon-train.

Once beyond sight of the trail, Maxwell proceeded more slowly and with greater precaution. Veering to the right, so as to embrace as much ground as possible in his contemplated detour, he closely scrutinized the ground for sign, while keeping a wary look-out upon either hand and in front, not caring to run blindfold into an ambush should there in reality prove to be enemies in his vicinity.

He was proceeding thus, when his horse suddenly gave a snort and stood still in his track. Quickly raising his eyes from the ground, the old guide sent a keen glance around him, and then uttered a long, low whistle, as he perceived the evident cause of his animal’s alarm.

Just debouching from the hills, or rather from behind them, was a large body of horsemen, and though at nearly a mile’s distance, he had no hesitation in pronouncing them to be Indians, from the long spears and various trappings, together with their peculiar style of riding. They were to the right, and at the same time a little in his front, being nearly in a direct line with himself and the place where the emigrants intended to camp for the night.

They had evidently observed him, and had paused, as if in irresolution, thus allowing Maxwell a moment for deliberation.

They might be friendly, but he did not believe it, and felt little inclined to cultivate their close acquaintance. Still he did not like to run, for he well knew the truth of the old adage—a fleeing form invites pursuit—and that should he flee, the rogues would assuredly chase him.

Then were they hostile, as he more than suspected, the emigrants would undoubtedly be the sufferers, as they had not yet had time to encamp and corral the wagons, in order of defense. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, they would be massacred without mercy.

Tom Maxwell did not believe that their exact position was known by the Indians, from the unguarded movements of the latter, and resolved to draw them away, if possible, or at least detain them until the emigrants would be better prepared for the meeting.

“Come, Ebenezer,” he muttered, drawing up the reins and settling himself firmly in the deep saddle; “you hain’t any much tired as yit, an’ kin hold your own with these scalawags, for a bit, anyhow. Now you jest git up an’ git!”

As he spoke, Maxwell urged the sturdy mustang onward, uttering a wild yell and bending low down.

As if decided upon their course by the old man’s action, the Indians dashed after him, in silence. The look of anxiety upon Maxwell’s face deepened, as he noted this fact, for it served to confirm his already strong suspicions.

He knew that only some great and powerful motive could induce an Indian to suppress the vindictive, exultant yell usual when their foe and an anticipated victim is before them; and what could that motive be, unless it was a desire not to alarm the company of emigrants whom he had been guiding? More than ever he believed that Dusky Dick was connected with this new phase, and if so, he would need to be doubly wary and foresighted.

Instead of riding direct toward the camp, Maxwell pursued a course that would carry him past it, at about a mile’s distance, with a considerable ridge intervening, intending to draw the savages entirely away from the wagon-train, if possible, but at any risk to protract the race until a more favorable moment.

His thorough knowledge of the surrounding country now stood him in good stead. The hills loomed up before him, and the valley he was now in appeared to extend clear through beyond the high ground, but in reality, it ended in a cul de sac, from which escape would be almost impossible.

Veering a little to the right, he dashed on, with an occasional glance back at his pursuers. He was gratified to see that he at any rate had maintained his vantage-ground, and, barring an accident, he felt confident of baffling pursuit until the shades of night afforded him secure cover.

Maxwell knew that by rounding the now near hill, he would find a clear route to the plains beyond, whose small mottes of timber were scattered at short intervals. Close along the further side of these hills, the river ran; then making an abrupt turn, flowed through the level ground.

Maxwell was much attached to “Ebenezer,” his horse, but when it was placed against the welfare of the train, and that of Clara Calhoun, for whom he had taken a deep and fervent liking, he did not hesitate. He resolved to abandon the mustang, and trust to good fortune to recover him again.

Still, at nearly a mile in advance of his pursuers, the guide rounded the hill, and reached the river side. Dismounting, he struck the horse a sharp blow, and thus turned him loose. True to his plans, Ebenezer dashed madly away up the river, toward the nearest clump of timber, with a wild snort of alarm and pain.

Running along a few yards in an opposite direction, Maxwell crouched down in a rocky hollow, with a fast-beating heart and an anxious face. He knew that, was his ruse discovered too soon, his life would be forfeited, beyond all doubt. True, he still held his rifle and revolvers, but what would his one arm avail against those of over three-score savages?

He saw the mustang disappear behind the motte, at full speed, and hoped that his pursuers had not yet gained a position from whence they could note the absence of its rider. If they had not, then he felt that he was safe.

Then the enemy spurred swiftly by, following keenly upon the plain trail, without a pause or single glance around the point. Then they, too, passed behind the timber island.

Chuckling heartily, Tom arose and entering the water, ran lightly along its edge, until he came to a small log, lying upon the shore. Rolling this into the water, the guide secured his rifle upon it, and then entering the swift current, swam rapidly down-stream, pushing the float before him, thus keeping his gun and powder dry.

As he came in view of the wagon-train, he uttered a loud, clear shout, and leaving the water, ran lightly toward the camp, which was all confusion.

“What is it, Tom? Where’s your horse?” excitedly asked the major, as he met the old scout.

“Boun’ for Salt Lake, takin’ a wheen o’ pesky red-skins to visit ol’ Brigham!”

“What do you mean?”

“Jest what I say. But we hain’t got no time to talk now—thar’s work to be did. Dusky Dick an’ a wheen o’ red imps is on the rampage, red-hot fer ha’r, an’ ’ll pay us a visit afore sun-up to-morry.”

“How do you know?” anxiously queried Calhoun.

“’Ca’se I see’d ’em. Don’t jabber—work!” impatiently added Tom, as he entered the little corral.

He glanced around, anxiously taking in every detail, and then added, in a voice of disgust:

“What on airth was you fellers a-thinkin’ about, anyhow? Don’t you see you’d orter bin out yander, away from the river? They kin swim down in the dark, an’ take us in the r’ar, now. But it’s too late to mend that now, so do as I do. They’ll be here in less’n a-nour now, fer they’ll know we’re on the look-out, soon’s they find Ebenezer.”

The corral had been formed close to the river-bank, in a half-circle, and in the usual manner; that is, in two rows of wagons, the one covering the joints in the other. By Tom Maxwell’s directions, the wheels were let down in holes hastily dug, so that the axles rested upon the prairie, and the openings were still further barricaded by articles taken from the wagons.

The fires were extinguished and the women and children stowed away in as perfect security as could be obtained, in the inner tier of vehicles. But while doing so, a startling discovery was made.

There was one missing—Clara Calhoun was in no place to be found! A few minutes’ quest showed them that she was not within the corral!

And then Maxwell found that his horse was also missing from the others. In an agony of apprehension, Calhoun hastened to and fro, eagerly questioning each one as to when they had last noticed her.

All he could learn was simply this: Clara had been riding, as usual, and at some little distance to one side of the train, just before Tom Maxwell started out on his reconnoissance. During the confusion anent the encamping, she had been lost sight of. No one could say more than this.

“What can we do, Tom?” anxiously asked Calhoun, to the gloomy guide.

“Not much, onless she comes in o’ herself. The reds is snoopin’ ’round, an’ ’ll be most sartin to gobble up any as goes out to hunt fer her. But I’ll resk it, anyhow, fer a bit. Keep the boys to work, an’ don’t git fooled, ’fore I come back.”

Then the old guide left the corral and hastened along the back trail, soon disappearing amid the fast-gathering shadows. And thus an hour passed by, when the whistle of Maxwell was heard, followed in a few moments by himself; but he was alone.

“Where is she, Tom?”

“The good Lord on’y knows, boss. Leastways, I don’t. Didn’t see hide nor ha’r o’ her. But the reds is a-comin’.”

“Do they know where we are?”

“Reckon so; but ef not, they’ll soon find us.”

“If they do find us, how do you think it’ll end, Maxwell?” queried an emigrant, in a tone of anxiety.

“I kin tell better a’ter it’s over, fri’nd,” dryly replied Tom, with a significant shrug. “But ef they don’t git no more to help ’em, why we stand a fa’r show. They’re on’y three to one.”

“Only! And isn’t that enough, for conscience sake?”

“Fri’nd, where a feller is fightin’ fer his wife an’ lettle ones, he’s ekil to four, what’s on’y themselves,” and then silence once more reigned throughout the corral, at least so far as conversation was concerned.

But as may be imagined, the suspense and misgiving of the father, with others, was terrible, when they thought of what might have befallen the missing maiden. It was well that the welfare of the train helped to divide their thoughts. Without some such duty, their thoughts would have been doubly distracting.

It was plain that nothing more could be done, until after the threatened peril had passed. Until then, they could only hope and pray that no serious evil might befall the wanderer.

Thus far, nothing had been seen or heard of the savages, and a number of the emigrants half-believed that the old guide had been deceived, and that the party of red-skins had been peaceable ones, who had no designs upon the train.

The sky was clear and unclouded, and the full moon had already arisen. Whether this last fact was a blessing or otherwise, was an open question to the emigrants, for if it served to betray the enemy in case they attempted a surprise, it would likewise furnish sufficient light by which the death-dealing bullet, or the scarcely less to be dreaded arrow, could be directed with almost the certainty of one at midday.

As an off-set to the error in corraling the wagons upon the river-bank, there were no trees or bushes within short gunshot of the encampment, while the plain was level and smooth almost as a floor, so that, for over an hundred yards, the savages would be forced to advance right in the teeth of their enemy.

Old Tom Maxwell was regarded by all as a sort of leader, and each word he spoke was earnestly listened to, and every hint or direction promptly obeyed, without a murmur or a protest.

It was some two hours or more, after the moon had arisen, that the first sign of the enemy’s presence was observed, and only the well-trained eye of the old guide could at first discern the suspicious object. He quickly glided from man to man, whispering to each:

“Thar’s a red out yon’, snoopin’ ’round, to diskiver ef so be we’re on the look-out. Now don’t spile it all, but take it cool an’ do jest as I say. Ef he on’y keeps to the outside, why let ’im go, but ef he a’tempts to enter, then wipe him out as quickly as you know how. Don’t make no n’ise, nor don’t let him make none, nyther.”

As he returned to his post, old Tom saw that the spy had drawn considerably nearer, until the paint-bedaubed face could be distinctly seen, as the moon’s bright rays streamed full upon the cautiously uplifted head.

The eyes of the veteran scout began to glisten, and his hands nervously clutched at his rifle, as though eager to put a final period to the night-prowling of the painted demon, but then his habitual coolness returned, and he calmly awaited the denouement.

The spy gradually drew nearer to the double row of wagons, and paused close beside the outer line, just in front of Maxwell. He uttered a low grunt as of disgust, as he found that the beds were almost upon a level with the ground, and that he could not pass beneath them, as he evidently intended.

Then he turned aside and slowly began skirting the corral. Although it was a trying ordeal, the emigrants obeyed their leader’s orders to the very letter, even suspending their breath as the spy gently stole along the line.

Apparently this worthy became fully convinced that the emigrants were soundly sleeping in false security, for he at length began to climb over the barricade. Perhaps he was after plunder, or mayhap he was a young brave, burning to distinguish himself and to win a name among his people, by taking the first scalp.

But if so, he was doomed never to realize his dream, for as he leaped lightly to the ground, a pair of strong hands were instantly twined around his throat, effectually checking all outcry, while another of the emigrants plunged a keen knife deep into the broad, swelling chest. One faint, gurgling groan, a convulsive quiver, and the spirit of the red-man fled from the ghastly wound and took up the trail to the happy hunting-grounds.

Tom Maxwell glided quickly to the scene of death, and bent eagerly over the corpse, scanning its features closely by the clear moonlight.

“It’s a dratted ’Rapahoe, boys, but I don’t know him. You did it up slick, but it’s on’y jest a beginnin’; they’ll send out another, when he don’t come back on time, to l’arn what’s up. So hunker down an’ wait. Don’t one o’ you fire, though, ontel I give the word.”

Perhaps another half-hour slowly dragged its weary length along, before any thing more occurred to break this painful suspense, and then another dusky form was observed coming from much the same direction as that followed by the ill-fated spy. They all knew that the crisis was now close at hand, and every nerve was steeled, and though many a heart beat faster than usual, there was none that fluttered with fear.

The second spy had advanced to within a dozen yards of the corral, when one of the eagerly watching emigrants fell forward, and accidentally touched the trigger of his cocked rifle. The sharp report rung out upon the still night-air, sounding to the startled men like the roar of artillery.

At the same moment the spy arose to his feet and turned to flee, uttering a wild whoop of alarm. But it was his last cry upon earth, for the quick eye of Maxwell directed the unerring rifle, and at the red skin’s second leap, the quick report rung out, and the second victim of the list that was yet to follow, died without a groan.

Like an accompaniment to the double shot, there came a blood-curdling chorus of yells and whoops, and a horde of dusky fiends were seen to spring up as if from the bowels of the earth, upon the level plain beyond.

“Look out, boys! here they come!” yelled old Tom, as he sprung to his feet and began rapidly reloading his rifle. “Take it cool, but gi’e them h—l. It’s fer life, now!”

As the dusky fiends swarmed close to the barricade, a blinding flash rose along the line, and at such near quarters, the effect was deadly in the extreme. Shrill cries of agony were blended with yells of rage, as a number of assailants fell, dead or dying, before the scathing volley.

The savages paused, as if in stupor, and then as the terrible quick-repeating revolvers began to play upon their crowded ranks, their ardor suddenly cooled, and as if by magic they disappeared, leaving their fallen as they lay, upon the field. A wild exultant shout followed them, for it seemed as if the repulse was complete.

“Save your breath, boys,” said the veteran guide, with a silent but joyous laugh; “fer you’ll need it, every smich, afore day. This is on’y the primin’, an’ the rail airnest work is yit to come. Fodder up an’ look out fer breakers!”

“Then you think they’ll make another attack?” anxiously queried Major Calhoun, who stood beside Maxwell, reloading his weapons with the rapidity of an expert.

“Bet Ebenezer ag’in’ a jack-rabbit—which is long odds—that they will. They didn’t know we was ready for ’em, but they’ve l’arnt a lesson now, an’ they never need more’n one o’ thet kind to open thar eyes.”

This was probably the reason of the strange recklessness and want of caution that the Indians had exhibited, for such is not their usual nature. They most likely believed that the shots had been fired by an alarmed sentinel, and then made their quick rush, hoping to overpower the startled and bewildered emigrants before they were well awakened and aware of the real facts.

And then, when greeted in such a deadly manner, they perceived the error they had fallen into, fleeing in confusion and momentary dismay. But as the old guide had predicted, the worst was yet to come, and the savages would be doubly desperate now, from the heavy loss they had experienced.

Their approaches now would be all the more to be dreaded, because they would be conducted with all caution and subtleness.

During the entire assault and repulse, the savages had scarce fired a dozen shots, and not one of the emigrants was harmed, so well were they sheltered. But one of the horses, who had all been tethered at either end of the barricade, near the banks of the river, had been struck by a random bullet, and killed.

As it alarmed the others, by Maxwell’s direction, the body was pushed over the bank into the river. And then each man returned to his post, while those detailed to watch the water side, retained their position.

CHAPTER III.
A WILD RACE.

Meanwhile, where was the missing maiden, Clara Calhoun? Let us glance back and learn.

The information gleaned by Major Calhoun from the emigrants was correct, so far as it went. Clara had been riding, as usual, and when she had learned the spot chosen for the encampment, which she could already locate by the neighboring grove of trees, she resolved to enjoy a little gallop ere night fell, and by this means she would also avoid much of the disagreeable noise and confusion attendant upon halting.

So she bore abruptly to the right, and with loosened rein dashed merrily away, the proud mustang tossing his head gladly, at this unusual relaxation. But Clara’s little ride was destined to be carried out upon a scale of far greater importance than she had anticipated, and ere it was ended, she was fated to undergo a season of peculiar trial.

From before her horse’s feet there sprung up a rabbit—one of that overgrown breed popularly known as “jack-rabbits,” which, if not often palmed off on greenhorns as full grown mules, as Westerners frequently assert, are sufficiently large to astonish those used only to the more diminutive species common to “the States”—and dashed away over the short grass, clearing fully half a score yards at each jump.

Clara’s eyes sparkled, and bending forward she spoke to her horse in a low tone, gently touching his flanks with her switch. The game creature bounded forward with a wild snort, while the maiden laughed long and loudly at this unique race.

The jack-rabbit, like his more diminutive brother of the States, invariably resorts to one ruse, in order to escape an enemy. It will flee for a considerable distance in a direct line, but then will “double,” and return by a detour to near the starting-point.

And this one was not an exception to the general rule. For fully a mile it leaped ahead, with astonishing speed, leaving Clara far behind, and then doubled.

But Clara did not detect this last move, and urged her horse on at full speed. Then, however, having lost sight of the animal, she drew rein and turned as if to retrace her steps.

She glanced around, but the point toward which she believed was the camping-ground was bare and like that upon either hand. Not a tree was to be seen. The plain was nearly level, but she was now in a slight depression, that was from right to left, like the trough between two huge waves.

“Come,” she said, us she twitched the reins and turned the mustang’s head toward the crest, “we must hurry, or we’ll be too late for supper. It’s almost sundown.”

But then, as she paused upon the ridge, a wild cry broke from her lips. A startling sight met her gaze.

Before her, at not more than one-half mile distance, were a number of horsemen, coming toward her at full speed. And even her untrained eyes could tell that they were Indians; their trappings and peculiar manner of riding, outlined upon the red sky beyond, as they crossed a slight swell, told her that.

“My God! I am lost!” gasped Clara, for she believed that these forms were directly between her and her friends, unknowing how the chase after the rabbit had caused her to deviate from a true line.

But then as a shrill cry came to her ears, borne over the intervening space by the light breeze, she wrenched her horse’s head around and dashed down the slope at a break-neck pace. Only one thought possessed her now: to increase the distance between her and these dusky fiends, of whose daring she had heard so many frightful incidents.

And now the race was begun in sober earnest. It was no longer one of mere sport; freedom, perhaps even life depended upon her retaining the vantage-ground thus fortunately gained.

The truth may be told in a few words. These savages were but part of the band that had pursued old Tom Maxwell, who, after discovering the riderless horse, had suspected the ruse, and were searching for the emigrant train. They had caught sight of Clara, just after she set off in pursuit of the rabbit, and a band of them immediately spurred forth to effect her capture.

There was one circumstance in Clara’s favor, though she did not think of it then. The sun had already sunk behind the western horizon, and in a short time more, the shades of night would hide her from her enemies, provided she could elude their clutches for so long.

But then she knew not whither she was going. Ignorant of what lay before her, in a strange and wild region, what hope was there for her?

Even supposing she should escape these enemies, how could she subsist in that wide prairie, destitute of food, or even the means of procuring any? She would only starve to death, die by slow degrees!

And thus she sped on, carefully assisting her noble horse, as he labored on. Fortunate indeed it was for her that he was a mustang, prairie born and bred; tough and hardy, though not remarkably fleet at a short stretch.

But one of this race will easily tire out and even kill one of the larger breed from the States, and yet, after a short rest and mouthful of short grass, be as well and fresh as ever. For hours they can be urged on at full speed, without giving way beneath the strain.

And so, though beneath the saddle well-nigh that entire day, Clara’s horse sped on without flinching, and the maiden saw with joy that she was nearly, if not quite, maintaining her vantage ground.

But still, of what avail? How would it all end? She was fleeing further with each moment, from her friends, and in trying to avoid one death, seemed but rushing upon another, scarcely less terrible.

For fully an hour the race swept on, without any great change in the relative positions. The shades of night were now upon the prairie, and the moon not yet having risen, all around was dark and gloomy.

Clara could see that she was nearing high ground, but as she looked to see if she could not skirt it, the dim outlines of a long range met her eye, extending for miles upon either hand. Though fearful of losing ground, there was nothing for it but to dare the steep ascent.

In a few minutes more, the fugitive was at the base of a rugged hill, and then as the shrill yells of exultation came up from the pursuers behind her, Clara urged her laboring horse up the steep ascent.

It was hard work for the already overtasked animal, but it nobly responded to the call, and although more than once stumbling, it struggled on until the extreme crest was gained. But then as it dashed down the steep declivity, the mustang’s hoof rested upon a loose stone, and it pitched forward, head-first, flinging its rider violently to the ground. Then arising, it still kept on, snorting wildly.

Clara felt a shock, then that she was falling—falling down what seemed an interminable depth, and then, with a frightful shock her downward course seemed to be checked. This; and then followed a blank.

A blank, so far as any definite sensation was concerned, and yet not entirely one, either. For it seemed—faint and indistinct, as in a dream—as though she was shortly afterward surrounded by phantom figures, and a far-away hum as of human voices in consultation, was also in the vision, if vision it was.

The figures seemed to raise her from the ground and then convey her gently through the air for what seemed an almost interminable length of time. Then she was placed upon the cool ground beside a murmuring rivulet, when cool water was sprinkled over her face, while warm, soft hands chafed her own.

Then with a feeble cry she started up and gazed wildly around her. The phantom forms were now more substantial—the voices sounded more clearly upon her ear, and she knew that the visionary dream had been a reality.

Then she uttered a feeble cry and sunk back, with a convulsive shudder. Before her she beheld a hideous face, dusky, it seemed, with nodding plumes surmounting it, that she knew could only belong to an Indian!

She felt that she was lost—that her pursuers had overtaken her, and that now she was helpless in the power of the merciless fiends!

CHAPTER IV.
THE FORLORN HOPE.

“Do you think that Dusky Dick is with them, Maxwell?”

“I would sw’ar it, boss, ef that wasn’t ag’in my natur’,” promptly replied the old borderer, as he seated himself beside his loop-hole, and coolly began cutting a plug of tobacco into bits, to fill the pipe that he held in his mouth, as he spoke. “But I tell you he’s thar. I didn’t see him when those galoots was a’ter old Ebenezer, but they was in a crowd, an’ I didn’t hev time to look good. But I kin smell him, now.”

“Smell him!” echoed Calhoun, somewhat astonished at the positive tone of the old guide.

“Yas, sir,” quoth Tom, cramming the tobacco into the pipe-bowl. “You know thar is sech a thing as smell, don’t ye? Wal, then, one thing smells like somethin’ else, an’ then ag’in another don’t. See?” selecting a match from a small pocket-safe.

“You won’t risk a light here, now, Tom?”

“No danger, boss, fer as you’ll see, when I make a light, thar hain’t a smich o’ light to be see’d; that is, onless you look whar it is, an’ then you won’t see it, nuther,” laying his old slouched hat upon the ground, over the handle of his knife.

Then he lay down, protruding his pipe-bowl beneath the hat, and striking a match, ignited the pipe without betraying a light larger than that of a glow-worm.

“You see, some things kin be did ’s well ’s others, ef so be you know jest how to do it. But as I was sayin’, I kin smell that pesky varmint, Dusky Dick. Dif’rent folks is dif’rent, you know, but then they’re all alike, too, a’ter all. Now then thar’s Miss Clary; she smells jest like a gre’t big bnn’le o’ posies, figur’tively speakin’, in course. Then thar’s you—sorter like a persimming. Ef a feller bites you at the wrong time, why he’d a heap ruther squat down bar’-legged onto a big ho’nets’ nest than to do it ag’in. But ef the sign is right, then it’s jest like b’iled honey, unly more so. Then ag’in, furder an’ more so, thar’s Jack Wilson. He smells jest like a bottle o’ pepper-sass. A lettle is mighty good, but ef you gits too much, why you’re boun’ to sneeze an’ go a-milkin’. So Dusky Dick smells like a copperhead or a rattler. I tell you he’s thar, all ready for bitin’, for I smells ’im!” earnestly declared Maxwell, smoking vigorously.

“Look out yonder, Tom, where that little ridge of sand ends,” suddenly whispered Calhoun, touching the old guide upon the shoulder. “What is that long, dark thing?”

After a moment’s scrutiny of the suspicious-looking object, Maxwell replied:

“It looks su’thin’ like a chunk cut out o’ a black cloud, don’t it? Reckon ’tain’t, though, come to think. Would be a Injun ef ’twasn’t somethin’ else. ’Sides, it’s too big an’ too long an’ too much so all over, for a red. ’Tain’t a canoe, nuther, ’cause thar hain’t no water thar. I’d go out an’ ax its name, on’y I’m ’feered it’d rare up an’ onsettle my supper,” slowly drawled the old guide, evidently talking from mere force of habit, without heeding what he said.

“It surely moves—see! It’s closer now than when I first noticed it!” anxiously added Calhoun, nervously handling his rifle.

“Easy—easy, boss, or you’ll skeer the durned thing so bad it’ll run off, right spang-a-diddle through us,” continued Tom, the while keenly eying the nondescript. “It does move, by ge-mently! but I don’t see no legs, an’ it ain’t no sarpint, ’less it’s swallered its own head an’ tail. Mebbe it’s a whale?”

One of the emigrants now came up beside them, and called their attention to a similar object at a little distance to the left, that had puzzled the others in the same manner.

“Good gracious, boss,” exclaimed Tom, in a vexed tone, “thar’s jest the biggest set o’ fools ’round these diggin’s as was ever got together in one heap, I jest bet my pile! They was fools for thinkin’ they could fool us with them, an’ we was bigger fools for gittin’ fooled by them dratted fool logs! It’s the beatin’est foolery ’at I ever knowed!”

These words explained the mystery, and the others were as greatly surprised as had been the old scout, that they had not penetrated the ruse sooner.

The Indians had procured a number of logs, and were now busied in rolling them up toward the corral, evidently hoping to thus gain a position from whence they could securely pick off the defenders of the wagon-train at their own leisure.

“What is to be done, now, Tom?” and the major could not entirely conceal his uneasiness as he spoke.

“Why, jest kill a dozen o’ them loggerheads, an’ then the others’ll take the hint an’ leave.”

“But how?”

“Shoot ’em, in course. You don’t s’pose they’ll let you git cluss enough to do any thin’ else, do ye?”

“But they’re hid behind the logs.”

“Ef they keeps hid all the time, they won’t do overly much damage a-shootin’, shore. No, sir! When a feller shoots, his head hes got to be as high as the bar’l, an’ ef it’s atop o’ the log, why don’t you see? his head must be thar too, in course, onless he’s cross-eyed an’ kin shoot roun’ the corner,” argued Tom.

“Then you mean to—?”

“I reckon. We’ll try it, anyhow, jest for beans. You feller, go an’ send Wilson an’ Texas Joe here, quicker!”

In a few moments the two men designated were at hand, and then Maxwell directed them what to do. The logs were now within fifty yards of the outer wagons, and were still drawing yet nearer, though slowly.

“Hunker down here, boys, an’ see that you’re well kivered. Ready? Now one o’ you fire to’rds that log afore us. Don’t make no differ’ whether you aim at it or that big star yonder, jest so you shoot; an’ then dodge down, quick.”

The gun was discharged as directed, at one of the stationary logs, and instantly there came a return shot, evidently aimed at this flash, for the bullet plowed up the dirt in close proximity to the men.

Then like an echo the rifle of the guide spoke, and was blended with a wild yell of death-agony, that told it had not been discharged in vain, while a dark figure sprung high up into the air, and falling, lay motionless upon the ground, out in the open moonlight.

“See, boss,” exultantly cried Maxwell, rolling quickly aside from his loop-hole in time to avoid a return shot. “I told you ’at something could be did ’s well ’s others, an’ now you see they kin, an’ better, too!”

A chorus of vindictive hoots and cries announced that the enemy were any thing but pleased at the working of their scheme, and then a general volley was fired from behind the logs.

This time a cry uprose from the interior of the corral, and then the word was passed around that one of the men was killed. At this calamity—the first one of any importance—a heavy gloom settled over the spirits of the defenders, for they knew not but that ere the morning’s sun should arise, they would all have met the same dread fate.

But their attention was speedily diverted from this sad thought, and their every energy required to avert the threatened doom. The cry went up that another onset was at hand.

With the never-failing yells and screeches, the foe sprung up from behind their coverts, and swarmed forward like so many phantoms of death; and then the air was filled with the hissing bullets and hurtling arrows.

As before, a dazzling line of flame shot along the entire length of the barricade, and so deadly was its effect that the desperate onslaught was momentarily checked. Only momentarily, though, and then there came a simultaneous shock against the outer row of wagons, as the assailants gained this shelter.

Then the enemies were separated by only a few feet, and for a few fast-fleeting seconds there was a pause. It was broken, however, by a shot from the corral, and as an Indian uttered the death-shriek, his companions strove desperately to scale the barricade.

Did they reveal their persons to the keen eyes of the besieged, a bullet was speedily sent upon its deadly mission; did they essay to crawl beneath or over the wagons, they were met by pistol-shots, knife thrusts or clubbed rifles.

Nor were the defenders unscathed. More than one still and ghastly form incumbered the interior of the corral, while here and there writhed one in mortal agony, shrieking aloud, but with fast weakening accents, the names of his loved ones; of those, who were even then, perchance, praying for his safety, that he might pass that terrific ordeal unharmed.

Although old Tom Maxwell and Major Calhoun were desperately busy, their voices were silent. There was little need of orders then, for each man was nobly doing his duty, and that lay plainly before him.

Then there came a loud shout from those men who were stationed close to the extremities of the barricade, so as to overlook the water’s surface. A cry that announced some new peril threatening their safety; a cry that was echoed exultantly back by the demons in front, who now seemed to redouble their efforts to scale the barrier.

Maxwell quickly gained one end of the corral, and beheld the river’s surface above their position, as well as directly in front, close to the water’s edge, dotted with sundry black objects that needed but one glance to be recognized as logs, bearing the firearms of savages, who were evidently sheltered behind them, but at the same time drawing nearer to their anticipated prey.

Those who exposed themselves first, on going to the shore, were instantly saluted with a deadly volley of pistol-balls, and for a brief space, the others hesitated, as if disconcerted. They had evidently counted upon effecting an entrance into the corral by surprise, while the emigrants were engaged in repelling the attack of the main body, and then overpowering their obstinate foes, but the forethought of the veteran guide had baulked them.

Then rallying, they made a desperate rush, gaining the shore, and several of them actually gaining the bank, entering the corral, only to be hurled back, dead or dying, into the water. For a brief space, it was a wild, horrible melee, desperate and bloody.

The report of fire-arms—the occasional ringing of steel against steel, as two foemen met in close contest—the confused trampling to and fro—the shrill yell, either of rage or else of death-agony—the defiant shouts and hoarse oaths—the affrighted screams of the snorting horses—or the wail of some terrified infant, all combined into one fearful tumult!

Then there came a long-drawn, quavering cry, and as if by magic the savage assailants vanished, like hoar-frost before the sun’s warm breath. But there followed no exultant shout from the emigrants.

As they glanced fearfully around upon the forms of their dead and dying comrades, their hearts were rent with anguish and apprehension. They saw but too plainly, that another such triumph would be almost equivalent to a defeat.

While the majority still retained their posts, keenly vigilant, others of the little band removed the dead into one place and ministered to the wants of the wounded, to the best of their ability. It was a sad and heart-rending task, but their own peril was such that they had no time for bewailing their comrade’s sad fate, and then once more they returned to their posts.

For nearly an hour all was silence within the little corral, and even the sorely wounded, despite their agony, heroically suppressed their moans of pain, lest they should tend to weaken the nerves of the defenders still left. And the latter were far too deeply occupied with their own thoughts upon the impending peril to feel like conversing.

But, at the end of this time, there was one who could maintain silence no longer—the old guide, Tom Maxwell. A voluble talker, he seemed totally at a loss while his tongue was idle, and, unlike most people, he appeared to think better and more closely while dilating upon some entirely foreign subject.

Upon one side of him was stationed Major Calhoun; upon the other, the young man, Buenos Ayres. It was with them, either or both, that he spoke.

“Wuss’n a Quaker meetin’, this is, ’specially a’ter sich lively doin’s as was jist now. ’Pears like I’d bu’st ef I was to hold in any longer; the words scroudge each other so’t they hain’ got room to kick in. What d’you think o’ the sitivation, any how, boss?”

“It’s bad—very bad!” gloomily responded Calhoun.

“That’s true as gospil; but then ’tain’t quite so bad as it mought be ef it was wuss, anyhow, which is a gre’t consolation. I thought I was once in the wuss fix ’at ever could be hatched up, when I was in the middle o’ a bayou, down in Texas, with a passel o’ red-skins on ’ither hand, an’ three in a canoe, cluss ahind me. But then a corntwisted alligator poked his nose right up from the water, against mine, which mixed things up a little more so.

“But I div’—the canoe ran smack inside the critter’s mouth—thar was a scrunch, an’ then mebbe thar wasn’t some splashin’! I swum in ’mongst the reeds, while the reds was flustrated, an’ so fooled ’em. All of which goes to prove that we ain’t cotched yit.”

“Are you sure that Dusky Dick is with these devils, to-night? I have neither seen nor heard him.”

“Bet yer life he is. But he hain’t nobody’s fool, an’ knows well enough that ef he should show his ugly mug, it’d bring a dozen bullets a’ter it. Most like, he’s painted up like one o’ the rest; but he’s thar, shure. I smell him, I tell ye.