OUTLAW JACK;
OR,
THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.

BY HARRY HAZARD.

AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
39.—Heart-Eater.
43.—The White Outlaw.
54.—Arkansas Jack.
66.—Rattling Dick.
71.—Delaware Tom.
77.—Scarlet Shoulders.

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

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

OUTLAW JACK;
OR,
THE MOUNTAIN DEVIL.

CHAPTER I.

A BLOW IN THE DARK.

"Well, Burr, any change to-day?"

"Yes—a great one."

"For better or worse?"

"The road will be open for us to-morrow. She's dying."

"Dying! is it possible? And the poor creature seemed so much better this morning."

"Listen—there!"

A quavering, pitiful wail came to their ears, proceeding from a small white tent, half-hidden beneath the low-hanging boughs of the grove. That cry told the two men, plainer than spoken words, the sad truth. It told of a household broken and dismembered; of a bereaved husband and daughter, of a dearly-beloved wife and mother who had journeyed thus far from the home of her childhood, only to find a lone grave upon the prairie, or beside the rock-bound rivulet that wound its noisy way adown the valley.

The two young men stood in silence, gazing toward the tent of mourning. They did not speak, though not a little agitated. And yet one of the two caught himself secretly exulting in the thought that now the greatest difficulty was removed from the path he had laid out to follow.

The little valley was studded here and there with diminutive tents, while white-tilted wagons stood grouped together in an oblong circle. These alone would have proclaimed the truth: a company of emigrants tenanted the valley.

Such sights were far from being uncommon in that year—1850. A year before, the Californian "gold-fever" broke out. The first rush was made by men—young and old. But then the fever spread. It infected all—the result was but natural. Family followed family. Almost from ocean to ocean an unbroken train of emigrants toiled wearily on—on toward the glittering phantom that but too often vanished in thin air when seemingly just within their grasp, leaving naught behind but wrecked hopes and ruined fortunes.

One link of the mighty human chain lies before our eyes. For nearly a week this valley has sheltered them. While others pressed on in the road for the yellow delusion, this party had been lying motionless, longing for yet dreading the summons to resume their pilgrimage.

A few hasty words will explain.

This party of emigrants, numbering nearly one hundred souls, was under the command of Caleb Mitchell. He started from Eastern Ohio, in company with several of his neighbors, heading for the Land of Gold, taking with him his wife and daughter. Little by little the company grew to more respectable proportions, as stragglers joined it on the way, until now, as they entered the Foothills, they felt little fear of the red-skinned Ishmaelites of whom they had heard so many frightful tales.

Nearly a week before our story opens, a sad accident occurred. A rifle, suspended by leather strings in Mitchell's wagon, by some means got discharged, its contents lodging in Mrs. Mitchell's breast.

Since then she had been hovering between life and death. To continue their journey would be her certain death, and the kind-hearted emigrants would not abandon their leader in his distress, though each day of delay increased their danger of being overtaken by winter in the mountains. Thus for nearly a week they waited and watched. Slowly Mrs. Mitchell sunk, and now, on this day, her spirit took its departure. The daughter, Lottie, was the first to notice the presence of death, and it was her heart-broken wail that saluted the ears of the two young men, Burr Wythe and Paley Duplin.

"It is all over!" muttered Duplin, drawing a long breath.

"Poor girl—'twill just about kill her; she worshipped her mother," added Burr, his blue eyes winking rapidly.

"It is sad—but then, since it must be so, it's well that all is over. A long road lies before us, and the mountains must be crossed before the snow falls. The lives of all depend upon it."

"Mitchell knows that. He will not delay us any longer than is absolutely necessary. But come—there is work to do. We can help them."

"Wait, Burr. I must see you to-night, alone. I have something of great importance to tell you. Meantime, look at this—but, remember, don't breathe a word of your suspicions. Keep it hid—at least until I say you may speak."

The young man, Duplin, seemed strongly excited for one of his usual phlegm. As he spoke, he thrust a small article into Wythe's hand, and renewing his caution, glided hastily away.

Wonderingly Burr bent over the stone—for such it seemed. But then a wild glow filled his eyes, lighting up his entire countenance, while his muscular form quivered like one under the influence of an ague-shock.

"Is it—can it be gold?" he gasped, huskily.

He too was a victim of the "yellow fever." It had lured him from his far-away home amidst the northern pines of Maine. It had proved stronger than the pleadings of his aged father and mother, stronger than the love of his sister and younger brother. He had left them all to chase up this glittering phantom; and now, for the first time, his eyes rested upon the substance of his dreams by day and by night.

Little wonder, then, that his heart beat fast and hard, that his brain throbbed hotly and his eyes gleamed with a wild light—with the long smoldering fires of greed that might waken to avarice.

The little pebble lay in his palm, looking innocent enough. Its dull surface was scratched and cut here and there, as if by a knife-point. If gold, the nugget must be very pure.

"Hellow, old boy, what ye thinkin' so soberly 'bout, eh?" suddenly uttered a not disagreeable voice, as a heavy hand was placed upon Burr's shoulder, and a heavily-bearded face met his startled gaze.

Wythe started, and the nugget fell from his hand. Hastily he snatched it up, and thrust it into his pocket, but not before the keen black eyes of the new-comer had fallen upon it. In his agitation Burr did not notice the quick, suspicious flash that lighted up the man's face, else he might have used more caution.

"What is it to you, Nate Upshur?" and Wythe shook the hand from his shoulder, with a gesture of dislike. "My thoughts are my own, and none the more agreeable for you thrusting yourself in upon them."

"You speak sharp words, youngster, but best weigh them better. You're not in the States, now, where a man's afeard to take up a cross word for fear o' the courts. Take a fool's advice, an' give a civil answer to a civil question, or you may chaince to run foul o' a snag, one o' these long-come-shortlys."

"And I hold myself ready to accommodate you, whenever you feel inclined to try it on, Nate Upshur. I hope that is plain enough for your comprehension," contemptuously added Burr, turning away.

Upshur bit his lip fiercely, and fingered the brass-bound butt of the revolver at his waist, but made no attempt to draw it.

"Fer little I'd—but never mind, now. But I would like to know whar he got that—if it was gold."

As the broad red disk of the full moon rose above the eastern swell that night, it shone down upon a peculiarly weird and impressive scene in the little timber-grove beside the creek. It was a burial in the wilderness.

Beneath a wide-spreading cottonwood tree the grave had been dug. And now, gathered round the spot, with bowed and uncovered heads, stood or knelt every member of the wagon-train, listening to the broken, sobbing words of the bereaved husband, Mr. Mitchell. His daughter, Lottie, was beside him, pale and care-worn, bearing up against the blow with a fictitious strength that threatened to give way at any moment.

There was scarcely a dry eye among all these, as the strong man broke down, and bowing his head, mingled his tears with those of his daughter. It was a moment of heart-crushing agony.

Lottie, who was completely exhausted, swooned, and was borne to the nearest tent by sympathizing friends. Mr. Mitchell, nerving himself to the task, completed the service, then stood by in silence while the dead was being hidden forever from mortal view. Then, in a low but steady voice, he spoke:

"I thank you, friends, for your kindness. I will not soon forget it. But now go and try to sleep. We can afford to lose no more time. To-morrow day-dawn must see us once more upon the road. Go—leave me alone here for a minute."

"Come with me, Wythe, and you too, Tyrrel," muttered Paley Duplin. "There's something I'd like to talk over with you to-night."

"Is it about that piece—"

"Yes—but hist!" and Duplin glanced apprehensively around him. "We three are enough. I don't care for more in the secret—much less that man," and he nodded to where Nate Upshur stood leaning against a tree-trunk, close at hand.

"Come, then; the knoll out yonder is the best place. No one could get within ear-shot of us, even should they try, without being seen."

"What's up, boys?" muttered Jack Tyrrel, a young rattle-brained Ohioan.

"Wait—you'll know soon enough."

Gaining the knoll spoken of, the three friends crouched down amid the tall, rank grass and lighted their pipes. Duplin was the first to break the silence.

"You looked at what I showed you, Burr?"

"Yes; it's gold. Where did you get it, Paley?"

"Gold—le's see," eagerly interrupted Tyrrel.

"Wait—the moon does not shine clear enough to show it now. Now, then, I want you to pay particular attention to what I say. Weigh it well in your minds, for on this night the whole course of our future lives may depend. That is, on how you decide. You understand?"

"Yes—that is, I would if I did; but I don't," muttered Jack, lugubriously. "Well, go on, anyhow."

"You know what we are going to California after?"

"Sure! After gold; the shining dust—the great blazing nuggets, big as a water-bucket. Those are what we're after of course."

"You'd know it when you found one, I suppose, Jack?" and Duplin smiled slightly.

"Bah! any fool knows gold."

"Well, I do. But, as I was about to say, I don't think there is any need of our going clear to California for what we can get closer."

"What—Duplin, what do you mean?" demanded Wythe, gazing keenly into his comrade's face.

"No, Burr; I'm an honest man, if not a good one. You need not fear any thing of that sort. But I'll tell you all now, on one condition. Promise me faithfully that neither one of you will ever breathe a word of my secret until after one year has passed. This, I mean, provided you refuse to accept my proposal, for if you do accept it, I know you'll keep silent. How is it—do you agree?"

"I reckon we can, Burr?"

"Yes; though I have not known you long, Duplin, I believe that you are an honest man. Then I promise you, on my honor as a man, that I will never, by word, sign nor hint, reveal what you confide to me as a secret."

"And I say the same; will swear to it, if you prefer," added Tyrrel.

"No. I can trust you without that. Well, then, listen—hist! I thought I heard a footstep," muttered Duplin, warningly.

"I guess it comes from the camp," suggested Burr, rising erect and gazing keenly around. "I can see nothing nearer than there."

"It may be; I suppose I am nervous. I wouldn't like for any one to overhear what I'm about to say, for though enough for us three, it would go but a little way divided among the train."

"It?"

"By that I mean what I have found—what I stumbled on this afternoon as I was coming back to camp. Boys—I've found a placer!"

"Eh—what?" stammered the two young men, completely amazed, though their thoughts had already reverted to some such revelation.

"'Tis true—I've found a gold placer—a pocket—a regular bed of gold!" panted Duplin, his eyes fairly blazing.

Wythe gazed keenly into Duplin's face, as though trying to decide whether or no he had gone crazy. Jack Tyrrel divided his glances between them, the while dolefully scratching his curly pate.

"Yes, think of that! A regular bed of gold, full of nuggets that are so pure you can mark them with a pin-point, almost. I could have filled my pockets in an hour."

"Where is it—where is it? Let's go there now, before some one else steals it away! Come on; thunder and lightning, man, why don't you come?" muttered Tyrrel, half-angrily.

"Easy, Jack," and Duplin calmed his exultation by a desperate effort. "Do you want the whole train after us? No, no; we must work more cunningly than that. I've planned it all; listen, and I'll tell you what we must do."

"Wait, Paley," quietly interrupted Burr. "Begin at the beginning and tell it all. First, how came you to find this pocket?"

"You know I went out hunting, early this morning. Well, I had no luck, and it was past noon before I got a shot. Then I dropped a 'bighorn,' after an hour's work sneaking over the rocks. It fell down a precipice, and pretty soon I found a pass by which I could follow after. It was hard work, though, and I no sooner reached the valley, or basin, rather, than I began hunting for water.

"Half a mile distant, I saw what looked like the bed of a creek, and set off toward it. Such it proved, in fact, though the water was missing. I set off up its bed, hoping to find a water-hole or something of the kind. Nearly a mile further up, the bed began to spread and grow more shallow. Then I knew that if I found water, it must be by digging for it.

"I did dig, in a dozen places, but all was dry. At one spot, I kept digging until I made a hole nearly shoulder deep, as the sand felt cool and damp. My knife struck on what seemed to be a pebble, and I pulled it out with one hand and flung it aside. As I did so, the sunlight glittered from its side, where my knife had struck. I looked—it was the lump you have, Wythe—and saw that it was gold!" and pausing, Duplin hurriedly brushed the sweat from his brow, though the night air was cool and bracing.

"Great Lord! go on—hurry up!" muttered Tyrrel, excitedly.

"One glance told me what it was. It was what I had journeyed over fifteen hundred miles in search of, and there it lay, in my hand. I tell you, boys, it nearly killed me—and I haven't got over it yet. I half believe now that I am asleep and only dreaming all this; I do, honestly.

"I did then, too. I sat there for a full hour, almost afraid to move, looking first at the hole, then at the nugget. I told myself over and over again, that I was a fool—that this was only a stray lump that had been dropped here by some Indians, years ago. And yet, even as I said so, the top sand seemed to melt away showing to me great masses of gold, pure and yellow, looking like petrified sunshine. Actually, for a time I believe that I was mad—gold crazy."

"Look here, Paley Duplin," muttered Jack Tyrrel, suspiciously, as the young man paused in his speech. "Better mind what you're about. If this is a joke—if you are making this all up just to have a laugh at us, I'll lick you clean out o' your boots! If I don't, then it's no matter!"

"It's no joke, Jack, my dear fellow, but sober earnest. Sometimes, though, I feel tempted to wish it was a joke."

"Duplin!"

"A fact. I don't know why, but there seems to be a cloud over me—I feel as though some great calamity was impending. Boys, you may laugh at me, but while I was thus stupefied, I saw my mother's spirit before me, beckoning me to leave the spot. She—it was crying, I thought, as though I was in peril. I saw it as plain as I see you now. I flung down the nugget and fled. Not far, though. Then I stopped. The bright, yellow devils seemed to beckon me back. I took a step forward, and she vanished. Then I went back to the hole," and as he spoke, Duplin trembled violently.

"And you found it then—the hole, I mean? It hadn't vanished?" whispered Jack, breathlessly.

"No," smiling faintly. "It was still there. I dug then, like a madman. I tore up the ground for a dozen feet around. Look—my fingers are worn to the quick. I found more nuggets—I found a dozen more, all larger than that, lying close together. I don't know how large the pocket may be, but I saw enough to feel sure that there is a great fortune there for each one of us; enough, at any rate, to make us independent for life."

"You thought of us, then, as sharers in the pocket with you?" queried Burr Wythe.

"No, not then. I only thought of myself, and of how I could secure the treasure without being suspected and robbed—for I believe that, in my madness then, I would have denied my own father a nugget from all that store. It was horrible—that sensation. I can realize now what a miser feels. God protect me from another such attack!" shuddered Duplin.

"But your plan—what do you intend doing?"

"I've weighed the matter well, and this is what I've decided upon. We three are enough. I selected you two, because I knew that I could depend upon you. Our first move will be to desert the wagon-train."

"Desert?"

"Yes. What is there to hinder us? Nothing. We are passengers, and our fare is already paid. We owe them nothing. They will be the gainers as well as we."

"How can we get our tools without exciting suspicion, though?"

"We don't need them. One pick-ax will be enough. We can shape wooden shovels with our knives. This, our blankets and weapons are all we need. Remember that what mining we do, will only be in the soft sand. The gold is in nuggets, not dust or scales, so there will be little or no washing to be done. As for food, a day's hunt will furnish enough to last us a week, with care in curing it. You see I've neglected nothing. True, we may encounter dangers and suffer privations, but no more here than there where we first started for.

"Two, or perhaps three weeks' work, then we can start for home. Two months, at the furthest—then we will be made men for life. Now you know all. What is your decision?"

"You say we must desert?" mused Wythe, thoughtfully.

"Yes. What excuse could we give? We must slip off to-night, without a word to anybody. I know what you are thinking of, Wythe. Nay, don't flush up so. 'Tis nothing to be ashamed of. She's a noble, true-hearted girl, and one that would be a rich prize for any man. I might have loved her myself, only that I had a talisman. In Ohio there is one waiting for me, who, please God, will one day be my wife," and Duplin, as he spoke, reverently uncovered his head.

"You are right, friend, and I'm not offended. But—I would like to speak a word to her before we go, just to keep her from thinking hard of us."

"You could not, Burr, without giving a broad clue to our purpose. She would not be able to see you to-night, anyhow, after her poor mother's death. You must have patience. Think how short the time will be, if you do not fling this chance from you, before you can go to her with a free heart and full hand."

"He talks good sense, Burr. Some other time will do to say good-by in."

"Well, maybe it is for the best. I'd only make a fool of myself. Then, here's my hand. I'm with you, Duplin, for better or worse."

"I'm number three!" chimed in Tyrrel.

"Good! Now there only remains to collect our things. I'll see to the pick. I left mine out, to-day, after that. See to your arms and ammunition, and get a store of coffee. It's paid for, remember. Fill your pockets with cold grub, for they may make a search for us, though I hardly think it. Time's too precious for that. Go, now, and keep close guard over your tongues. 'Twould take but a trifle to direct suspicion when we are found gone, and then good-by to our fortune."

"Trust us—we'll be wise as the dove, and so forth," muttered Tyrrel.

The three plotters glided away and soon rejoined the camp. Scarcely had they disappeared from view, when a dark figure cautiously raised itself above the level of the prairie-grass, where it had been concealed in a hollow, and peered curiously after them, a low, disagreeable chuckle breaking from the black-bearded lips.

"Ho! ho! ho! Nate Upshur, you're in luck, my boy! Fust you see the nugget Wythe drops, then you hear Duplin whisper to him an' Tyrrel, and now, best of all, you hear the whole story! Thar's luck in odd numbers—and yet I'm goin' to have a finger in the pie, too."

Then he, too, proceeded stealthily toward the camp, by a circuitous route, entering unobserved.

That night, the sick-camp was the scene of strange acts. And among them was one of terror—of cold-blooded, merciless crime.

As the bright moon sailed from behind a dense cloud, a dark figure silently crept into the shadow cast by a small white tent. From within, as the shadow paused, came the sound of calm, steady breathing. Then the door-flap was raised—the black shadow cautiously glided into the tent, like a venomous serpent in human form. The flap falls behind the serpent, and all is still.

Then—a horrible sound breaks the stillness of the night—a faint, gasping, half-stifled groan of death-agony. Then the shadow reappears, bearing in one hand a blood-stained knife, in the other a small parcel that chinks metallic-like as it falls from its hand. Then all is still.

CHAPTER II.

THE TELL-TALE PIPE.

Long before the first beams of breaking day illumined the eastern horizon, the shrill voice of the little, wrinkled, half-apish-looking guide, Paul Chicot, roused the sleeping camp, bidding all prepare for a long, hard day's travel. Eagerly the emigrants flew around, for once more the golden phantom seemed beckoning them on.

And yet, despite their anxiety, that day was to carry them no nearer the golden land. A blow fell that for the moment drove away all such thoughts.

"Whar's Dutchy?" suddenly queried Paul Chicot, running his beadlike eyes rapidly around the little group.

As customary, the emigrants were regularly divided into "messes." One of these messes was formed by the guide, Chicot, Nate Upshur, an Irishman called Tim Dooley, and "Dutchy," as the fourth member was familiarly known.

This last personage was an enigma to the greater portion of the emigrants. At times he appeared the polished scholar, then again one of the most ignorant men imaginable. He had joined the train at St. Charles, preferring the overland route on account of his poor health, hoping thus to recuperate. He seemed possessed of plenty of money, paying his fare in gold, without a demur at the price.

"I don't know—I hain't seen him since last night," replied Upshur, wiping his lips, after a long draught of coffee.

"Go hyste him out, Tim. He takes so durned long to fix up his ha'r an' teeth afore eatin' thet he won't be ready fer the road none too soon. Tell 'im we're all ready fer startin'," muttered Chicot.

Dooley arose and glided toward a small tent a little to one side, and pushing back the hanging door-flap, entered. The next moment he reappeared, staggering back with starting eyeballs and hair standing on end, a wild cry bursting from his pallid lips.

The shrill cry startled the entire camp, and all eyes were turned toward the trembling man. Paul Chicot was the first to speak, in an angry tone:

"What the devil's the matter wi' ye now, I'd like to ax? See'd another snake, eh?" he asked, sarcastically.

"It's murther, that's what it is! He's kilt—kilt intirely!" gasped Dooley, his eyes still glaring toward the quiet tent, as if enchanted by the horrible object lying so still and ghastly within.

"Who's kilt—not Dutchy?" quietly demanded Upshur, stepping forward.

Chicot, giving over all idea of getting any thing satisfactory out of the stupefied Irishman, sprung forward and flung aside the strip of canvas that protected the entrance. One glance told him the truth. Tim was right. Murder had been done!

Lying upon a couple of blankets, was all that remained of their quaint, pleasant comrade, Carl Hefler, or "Dutchy," the sobriquet suggested by his broken, stammering speech.

The long, slim figure lay at full length, as though peacefully slumbering, but the arms were flung wide, the long, bony fingers clutched as though in agony. An agonized expression had frozen upon the thin, pallid face.

On the white shirt-bosom was a great stain—a stain of that peculiar, unmistakable color that seldom requires a second glance to designate. Directly above the heart the stain was blackest. There the blow had been dealt.

Chicot, old and thoroughly versed in that art peculiar to his craft and the detectives—of remarking everything—knew that no feeble, faltering hand had dealt this blow. Either the hand of an unusually bold and cool-headed man, or else that of one to whom such deeds had been familiar.

He knew that the murderer had crept fairly into the tent, had glided close to the victim, as he lay buried in unconscious slumber, and that he must have even felt out the region of the heart, since all within had been dark, else the blow could never have been delivered with such deadly precision.

"What is all this, Chicot?" hurriedly demanded the leader, Mitchell, as he reached the guide's side.

"It's murder—thet's what it is," coolly returned Chicot.

"But who could—"

"Thet's jest what I'm goin' to find out, 'f you give me time. Keep back—don't none o' you step inside here ontil I say ye may. Mebbe thar's some sign left."

"Wouldn't it be a good plan to call the roll and see if all are present?" suddenly suggested Upshur, his eyes gleaming furtively.

"'Twon't do no harm. You mought as well, cap'n," muttered Chicot. "This 'll keep us back hafe the day, anyhow, ef not more."

Mitchell promptly sounded his whistle—and taught its meaning, the members of the wagon-train followed his lead back to the open ground. Upshur ran his eyes hastily over the group. Then the evil glow deepened, and his lip curled with triumph.

Chicot, free from the annoying crowd, proceeded with his investigations, with all the relish of a true-born detective. Yet there seemed little show of his making any discovery, since the floor of the little tent was beaten hard and dry by the murdered man's own feet, during the stay at the sick-camp.

Of course no trail had been left, nor did he seek for one. His eye had already fallen upon the little leather sachel, lying beside the dead man's head, where it had been dragged from beneath the blankets. Its lock was unbroken, but one side had been slit through with a knife—the same weapon that had dealt the death-blow, for the leather was stained here and there with blood.

"He stuck 'im fer the money," muttered Paul, as he dropped the valise.

Suddenly he stooped and lifted the right arm of the dead man. A tiny point of something yellow had caught his keen eye.

Chicot uttered a low grunt, and started back. The clue was before him; and yet he scarce believed his eyes. Could it be?—

Exposed to view lay a small, curiously-carved meerschaum pipe, with stem of bright, clear amber. This it was that had caught his eye.

Chicot turned and left the tent, slowly gliding out toward where Mitchell was calling over the list. The guide's brows contracted as he listened.

"John Tyrrel."

"Not here," slowly replied a voice, after a brief, painful silence.

"Burr Wythe."

"I reckon he's gone, too, cap'n," quietly uttered Chicot. "Thar ain't much use o' your goin' any furder. I think I've found the right eend o' the trail."

"What do you mean, Paul?" cried Mitchell, in surprise. "Surely you don't suspect—"

"I don't go by 'spicions, myself, but I know a trail when I strike it. Come an' look fer yourself—one at a time, though. See what I've found, then say who it b'longs to."

One by one the party filed into the tent and glanced at the tell-tale pipe. All recognized it. There was not another in any wise resembling it in the company.

"Whose pipe is it, boys?" demanded Chicot.

"Burr Wythe's!" came the reply, the voice of Nat Upshur above all others.

"But he may not have dropped it there," suggested Mitchell. "Might not Hefler have borrowed it?"

"No," declared Upshur, stepping forward. "Hefler went to bed just after dark, and I saw Wythe smoking that pipe as late as two o'clock, and he was talking with Jack Tyrrel and Paley Duplin, at the time."

"It's so—I see'd 'em, too," reluctantly added Chicot.

"I admit that it has an awkward look, but after all, though those three are absent, they may return soon and clear matters up. If he, or they, are guilty, I will not be one of those who would seek to screen them from justice; but for all that, they shall not be condemned without a chance to clear themselves. First we must find them," said the wagon-master.

"But it is nearly sunrise; we were to take up the march to-day," ventured one.

"Justice first: we must not let this brutal murder go unavenged. One day, more or less, can make but little difference to us, in the end. If Wythe did kill him, he must pay the penalty."

"But what object could he have in doing it? They were good friends, so far as I know."

"Look here," uttered Chicot, lifting the cut sachel. "This is what the Dutchman kept his money in. He was a simple-hearted feller, like, an' didn't seem to think but that all was as honest as he was hisself, fer he showed us his money only two nights ago. We laughed at him, I 'member, fer kerryin' gold to Californey, but he wasn't goin' to dig. He went overland fer his health, and then was goin' to ship fer Chinese land, or some sech place, I b'lieve."

"Who was with you when he showed the money?"

"He was—Burr Wythe—an' a lot more," reluctantly added Chicot.

Mitchell looked sober. He had formed a high opinion of the young man, but he could no longer blind himself to the fact that suspicion pointed strongly toward young Wythe as the murderer. And he saw, too, that this belief was gradually gaining ground among the emigrants, and deep whispers ran round, while eyes flashed and brows grew black. The spirit of Lynch-law was rapidly arising, and woe be unto the victim that should first feel its power!

"Easy, men," he shouted, waving his hand. "Keep silent for a moment and listen to me. There must be no mad action here. We must proceed carefully and justly. First, you must elect a leader, whose word shall be law; then we must hunt up the missing men and hear their defense. That one murder has been committed is no reason that another should follow. I cast my vote for a fair trial."

"So we all do, I reckon," chimed in Paul Chicot. "An' I don't know any better man for Judge Lynch than you be. What say, boys?"

"Good—good!" came an almost unanimous shout; but Nathan Upshur was silent.

"Very well; I will act as such, since you demand it. And I am glad, for one thing. After what I have already spoken, it shows that you aim at strict and impartial justice. But now to work. If they have really abandoned the train—as of course they have, if they did kill Hefler—they must have taken food and other articles that would be missed. And a close search may give us the clue. You know the messes they belonged to; go and search closely. Chicot, come with me. I wish a word with you."

Once fairly set to work, there was little time lost. In ten minutes the report was given. A small supply of provisions had been taken, and one pick-ax was missing; but that all believed to have been mislaid somewhere. No one—save Upshur—dreamed that the deserters had taken it.

Paul Chicot gave his supposition or conjecture concerning the course most likely to be followed by the deserters. He believed they would take to the neighboring mountains, there to lie hidden until all search was given over. They would not be likely to take the back-trail, as they were afoot, and the country in that direction was mostly open and level.

"I believe you're right, Chicot," remarked Mitchell, thoughtfully, "and we will act on that supposition first. We'd best form three or four parties and each choose a separate trail, for this day is all we can spare without absolute danger to the whole train."

Little time was lost, now that the duty before them was fairly decided upon, and all entered upon it with growing eagerness. There is something strangely exciting in a manhunt. Set a warm friend upon the track of another, and, when once fairly aroused, that friend will be as inveterate and deadly in pursuit as though a lifelong enemy.

This trait was exemplified now. Before an hour more passed by, even those who had first declared their belief in the young man's innocence, were the foremost in searching for his trail, eager to bring him to justice.

Nathan Upshur kept close to Paul Chicot, the guide, eying him furtively, seemingly ill at ease. It was plainly evident that he felt no great desire for Burr Wythe's capture. Indeed, he tried to mislead Paul, and finally succeeded in doing so.

Upshur had stealthily followed the three deserters for a considerable distance, on the night before, when they started for the "golden bed," as Duplin had called it, the better to satisfy his mind as to the location of the placer. And now for reasons of his own, he craftily led Chicot far astray from the right course, though none of the trail-hunters suspected his purpose.

Satisfied with this, Upshur contentedly followed the guide's lead, feeling assured there was little or no danger of striking the deserters' trail, on that day at least. But at a cry from Chicot, his heart leaped wildly, and the flush left his face pale and ghastly.

"Hold! Stand back, you fellers," cried Chicot, lifting a hand in warning, as his companions rushed forward, eager to learn the cause of his sudden exclamation.

"What is it, Chicot?" gasped Upshur.

"A trail, but not the one we're looking fer," was the slow reply, as Paul closely scrutinized the ground.

Upshur gave a gasp of relief, unnoticed by those near, and then pressed forward. Pausing beside Chicot, he bent his gaze down upon the narrow strip of moist sand, upon which was imprinted the strange trail.

There, plainly outlined, was the impress of a large human foot, naked and bare. That it was not made by an Indian was plain, for though many white men in-toe, a red-man, unless an habitual drunkard, never toes out, as this trail plainly did. Then, again, an Indian's foot, from never having been tightly compressed in boots or shoes, is very flat and broad; this trail was made by a man with a high instep and arching sole.

"How do you know it isn't one of them?" asked Upshur.

"Easily enough. Look back along the trail. You see, it crosses that stretch o' splintered rocks? Now, look at these tracks. The foot ain't cut none. That shows that it's made by a feller that's used to goin' bar'foot fer a long time. Ef you was to cross that, you'd cut an' gouge your hoofs so this 'ere 'd be a trail o' blood. See?"

"But who can it be then?"

"Don't know. It's fresh—ain't bin made over a hour, at furderest. Whoever it is, must be in the hills yender. I move we foller on, an' find 'im. Mebbe he kin tell us somethin' 'bout the boys," suggested Chicot, moving forward, without waiting to learn the wishes of his followers.

In fact, Chicot was only too glad of a good excuse to delay the search for Burr Wythe. Though firmly believing him guilty of the murder, yet he did not wish to be the instrument of justice. In his quiet, unobtrusive way, he loved Burr, almost as he would have loved a son.

The trail led in a direct line toward the hills, here rising abrupt and rocky, broken and rugged. Though at times losing all trace, Chicot found little difficulty in recovering the trail as often.

An abrupt exclamation from Nathan Upshur startled him, and all eyes turned upon him. His face wore an expression of wonder, as he pointed with outstretched hand toward the rocks above the party.

"Look there! Is it man, or devil?"

Glancing in the direction indicated, the trail-hunters beheld the object of his wonder. And they, too, stood as if bewildered. And little wonder. A truly strange object was before their eyes.

Standing erect upon a large bowlder, half-way up the hill, was a human form, though strange and wild-looking enough to have been taken for something supernatural. One long arm was extended, pointing toward them, the rags that only partially clothed the member fluttering in the brisk breeze.

The stranger seemed far above the usual height of men, and of great age, if the long, flowing hair and beard of a snowy whiteness be taken as evidence. This the wind tossed wildly around his face, in a fleecy cloud.

Rude, uncouth garments partially covered his body and limbs, patched here and there with pieces of skin and fur. In one hand he bore a heavy bow, tightly strung. At his shoulder could be seen the feathered tips of a number of arrows.

"It's the Mountain Devil!" muttered Chicot, in a low, hushed tone, as he shrunk back, his bronzed cheek paling, his eyes dilating with a look of fear.

"Man or devil, I do not fear him!" said Upshur, as his rifle clicked sharply as the hammer was lifted.

"Don't shoot! Make him mad, an' he'll clean out the whole crowd!" warningly cried Paul; his eyes still riveted upon the strange form. "He's a devil—you can't hurt him."

"I'll try it, anyhow," and the man's rifle spoke sharp and clear.

The wild-man started and seemed to stagger, as though the bullet had found its mark. Then, with a shrill cry, he turned and leaped from the bowlder, the next moment disappearing far up the hillside.

"There's your devil, Paul," chuckled Upshur, as he dropped his rifle and began reloading it. "And I had only a leaden bullet in, too."

"You laugh now—but the time 'll come when you won't. Believe it or not, Nate Upshur, you've signed your death papers. A man never shot at the Mountain Devil but he died for it. You will, too. Mebbe not to-day—mebbe not for a year, but the time 'll come, I tell you—the time 'll come at last. Mark my words."

"Bah! you've listened too much to Indian legends, Chicot. That is no devil, but a man, like you or I, turned hermit like. To prove it, I'm going to follow after. Come on, boys! Let's go and see what Paul's devil is made of, anyhow," recklessly said Upshur, who was no coward, whatever else he might be.

Pale and disturbed, Chicot followed the boaster, and close behind came the other emigrants, curious to see the denouement. At the bowlder Upshur paused, with a harsh laugh.

"See!" and he pointed at the rocks before him. "Your devil bleeds, Paul, like an ordinary man. I thought I touched the rascal."

Here and there drops of blood sprinkled the rocky surface, and Chicot, though still skeptical, brightened up. After all, this wild-man was not proof against mortal weapons.

Laughing scornfully, Upshur led the way along the bloody trail, up the hillside, until it crossed the ridge, keeping a good look-out to guard against surprise, for none knew better than he what awkward weapons flint-headed arrows are, at close quarters, when guided by a strong and experienced hand. And after his wound, the wild-man would not be likely to stand on ceremony, should he be overtaken.

But overtaken he was not, at least on that occasion. The hillside seemed to be unoccupied, save by the trail-hunters, but Upshur suddenly paused, when half-way down the hill, shrinking back with a cry of horror.

Passing through the dense bushes, he had found himself upon the very verge of a steep precipice. Staggering back, he clutched the bushes, unmanned.

"Look yonder!" cried Chicot, pointing downward. "Now what do you say—is he a devil, or not?"

Swiftly racing along the narrow valley far below, was the form of the wild-man. To reach this, he must have descended the precipice, and that seemed beyond mortal skill to accomplish.

Wonderingly the emigrants watched him until he disappeared upon the further hill, then they slowly retraced their steps toward camp. The sun was far down in the west, and they had found no trace of the deserters.

CHAPTER III.

THE GOLDEN BED.

The three adventurers, Duplin, Wythe, and Tyrrel, little imagined that at least one pair of keen eyes observed very closely their movements on that memorable night, as they noiselessly went about their preparations for their desertion. Jack and Paley were filled with golden visions of the enormous wealth that only awaited their coming to gather it up in handfuls, while Burr thought far more of pretty Lottie Mitchell, and how she would receive the tidings of the strange desertion, for it could be called by no other name.

"Never mind—if the deposit is as rich as Paley declares, we can finish before winter, and then—"

Wythe smiled faintly as a far-away look came into his handsome eyes. Even to himself he does not finish the thought, for, though he loved Lottie Mitchell with all his young heart, he had scarce spoken a score of times with her, during the journey.

Still watched by Nate Upshur, the three adventurers silently left the camp and set forth upon their mission, all, even the rattle-brained Jack Tyrrel, feeling serious, for, truly, it was no commonplace step they were taking, and one that might well result disastrously. Turning, they cast a last look at the silent camp of the wagon-train that had for so many days been their only home, and then, led by Duplin, they disappeared beyond the ridge, still followed by Nate Upshur, who exhibited the skill and address of a veritable savage.

After a rapid tramp of several miles, Duplin paused and said:

"Now, boys, for a little headwork. First, shall we go on at once to the pocket?"

"How far is it?"

"Not ten miles, as the crow flies."

"We can reach it before day, then?"

"Yes—if we wish. But, frankly, I don't think we had better go there, at least not before to-morrow night."

"Why so?"

"Well, there is a risk. To be sure they may not think it worth while to make any search for us, when our disappearance is found out, yet still they may, especially as the most dangerous portion of the trail is near at hand. You see three rifles such as ours would count in case of an attack."

"If I thought there was the slightest danger of that, I would return at once," suddenly cried Wythe, thinking of Lottie Mitchell.

"I don't think there is. You remember the treaty we heard of at the fort? The Indians are all peaceable, now. But, as I was saying, they may try to follow our trail, and if we lay it straight to the pocket, ten to one that Paul Chicot picks it out with those keen eyes of his. Then? Instead of a fortune, we'd have only a few ounces apiece, and perhaps have to fight for that. You know the material many of the emigrants are composed of. Brave men enough, but rather peculiar in their ideas of honesty. It would be 'divide or fight!' and as I found the pocket, I consider our claim is the best."

"You are right there, Paley. But you decide. Whatever you think best, we will agree to. You agree, Tyrrel?"

"Yes; Duplin is captain."

"Very well, then. We will strike over there toward those hills, and hide there until certain that all fear of pursuit is over. Then to the pocket and clean it out, after which—ho! for home!"

With long, swift strides, Duplin, greatly excited no doubt by the picture his last words had conjured up before his mind's eye, led the way toward the hill alluded to, that rose abruptly, high into the air, rocky, broken and wild-looking.

After him trudged Burr and Jack, little dreaming of the strange adventure that was to meet them there, in the heart of that wild, desolate spot.

Duplin, who by his superior age and experience, naturally assumed the position of leader during the adventure, soon selected a spot where the trio could very comfortably remain concealed during the ensuing day; should their fear of a pursuit prove correct, and at the same time one not entirely devoid of comfort.

Entering a narrow, level valley, on one side of which uprose an almost perpendicular cliff, its face scarred and jagged, studded here and there with stunted evergreen shrubs or parasitic plants, they soon found a secure covert upon the opposite side, where the hill was less abrupt, and more easy of ascent. From here they had a fair view of the cliff, as well as the open ground beyond the mouth of the valley, in the direction from whence they had come.

"I move that you two lie down for a nap, while I stand guard," quoth Duplin, as the trio sunk back upon the soft, mossy earth behind the vine clad rock.

"I want a smoke, first," said Tyrrel, producing his pipe.

"And so do I, but can't find my pipe," muttered Wythe, vexedly. "I must have lost it on the way."

"Never mind; that is easily replaced—I mean so far as comfort is concerned. A bit of bark—a joint of the 'carpenter's weed,' and you have it."

The three comrades conversed, in low, eager tones, of the fortune that lay waiting their coming, and magnificent were the air-castles they each reared, when they should return home, rich men. But one delicious one Burr Wythe hugged to his own heart. Only one ear must hear that dream—the ear of sweet Lottie Mitchell.

"Hist!" muttered Duplin, after an hour or more had crept by.

The two young men caught the same sound, with him, and needed not the caution to cease their conversation. From close above them, on the hillside, there rattled down several pebbles, evidently dislodged by human aid, for directly afterwards the trio could hear a footstep, light yet deliberate, evidently descending the slope.

Instinctively each man grasped his weapon, for the same thought occurred to each. If this footfall betokened the presence of Indians, as seemed but too probable, there was danger threatening. Right well they knew that no true woodman could pass by, in such close proximity, without detecting the scent of tobacco-smoke, and that, once scented, he would not rest until the matter was thoroughly investigated. And, though the Indians were nominally at peace, they well knew that if a superior force was at hand, that fact would be but a feeble restraint. At best they must expect to be plundered, and as that meant either starvation or a return to the wagon-train, the three men prepared silently for a struggle.

The sound of footsteps ceased, and for several minutes all was silent. Motionless as death, tightly grasping their weapons, the gold-hunters awaited the result in stern suspense.

But their preparations, in this case, were needless, for the footstep again met their ears, and then, through the surrounding screen of bushes, they observed a tall figure glide past their covert, descending the hill. Even in that brief glimpse, they saw enough to deeply excite their curiosity.

Peering through the bushes, they saw that the stranger had again paused, this time standing upon a bowlder, in the full glare of the bright moonlight. They were gazing upon the same being who, a few hours later, was pronounced the Mountain Devil by Paul Chicot.

They could distinguish his features; pale, haggard and wearing a peculiarly mournful expression, that still did not conceal the vacant stare that proclaimed a shattered mind. This thought occurred to each of the three men. They were watching a madman.

They noted his ragged dress, rudely patched with skins and bits of various fur. They saw that he was armed with a bow and arrows, and that a long-bladed knife was dangling at his side.

This much they noted before he stepped from the rock and resumed his course toward the valley. Arising, the gold-hunters closely observed his movements, until hidden in the shade cast by the towering precipice beyond.

"Wonder what—or who the fellow is, anyhow," muttered Tyrrel, reflectively.

"I don't know, unless—You've heard Paul Chicot speak of a wild-man they sometimes call the "Mountain Devil," haven't you?"

"Who hasn't, I wonder?" with a shrug. "I've heard of nothing else since we've been camped here."

"I believe this is the being he means, then."

"You don't—thunder! I always thought he was lying!"

"Hark!" muttered Burr, touching his comrades.

From out the gloom, in the direction in which the strange being had disappeared, there came a clear, shrill whistle, long-drawn and quavering. Eagerly the gold-hunters watched and listened.

"Look there—see that light!" uttered Duplin, after a brief silence. "What can it mean—up there, too?"

A small but brilliant point of light had suddenly appeared, as though hanging nearly midway up the cliff, not steady and fixed, but slightly wavering, or moving slowly from side to side. Evidently, it was suspended there by some human agency; but who?

"Is there not a human form close beside the light? It seems so to me," whispered Wythe.

"Wait. The light is in answer to that whistle. Perhaps Paul's Devil has his home up there, and that is one of its imps," half-laughed Duplin.

Still closely watching, the three friends a few moments later saw a tall form uprise beside the light, that, the next instant, vanished from sight. But not before another discovery was made.

A human being had been holding the light, and as the wild-man took it, the upper portion of the second person had been distinctly, though momentarily revealed. Duplin was the first to speak, after the disappearance.

"Did you see that, boys?"

"I saw something—a shadow, or—"

"I saw the form of a woman!" declared Burr, in a peculiar tone of voice.

"So I thought, but was not sure. I don't know what to think of it. There's some deep mystery here," added Paley, reflectively.

"I move we expose it, then," impulsively cried Jack. "Who knows—maybe 'tis a princess in disguise—or else carried off and kept in seclusion by some evil genie! An adventure—le's go!"

"Easy, rattlepate," laughed Duplin. "You forget what frightful tales Paul told of this creature, and whether they have any foundation in truth or not, if we attempt to solve this affair, we must use caution. If nothing more, he is a madman, and were he to discover our approach, he might do us mischief. One man then—for they must have a cave, or something of the sort—one man then could keep a thousand at bay who tried to reach him by scaling the cliff."

"Is it worth the risk?" thoughtfully uttered Wythe. "She answered his signal so promptly, there can be little doubt but she is there by her own free will. Then what right have we to molest them?"

"The right of unsatisfied curiosity—and whether you go or not, I'll not rest until I've had a good peep at the angel—for such she must be if he's a devil," cried Tyrrel, springing through the bushes as he spoke.

"Wait, Jack—you'll ruin all by your haste. We'll go—but you must not lead the way. You'll be sure to alarm them."

"Very well—all I want is to get a good look at them. Lead the way, if you'd rather."

Duplin knew the futility of reasoning with Jack, else he would not have been drawn into the foolhardy adventure so easily. He knew there was danger, Tyrrel did not. But alone, Jack would be sure to precipitate this, and hoping to avoid discovery by due caution, Duplin led the way toward the cliff, having determined the exact position where the light had been shown.

Evidently the cliff-lodgers had disappeared at the same time the light did, else they must have discovered the three dark figures as they glided across the open, level valley, plainly outlined by the moon's rays.

Reaching the foot of the cliff, they began searching for the path by which the wild-man must have ascended, but for several minutes without success. Then, however, a low whistle from Burr Wythe called Duplin and Tyrrel to his side. Even in that gloom, they could see that the path bore evident traces of having been frequently used, either by bipeds or quadrupeds.

"I think this is folly, boys," muttered Duplin.

"Folly or not—up I go," determinedly added Jack.

"Then I claim the right to lead the way," and so speaking, Paley Duplin cautiously began the difficult ascent, having first carefully deposited his rifle at the base of the hill; an example that was promptly imitated by his companions.

The trail was comparatively easy of ascent, but the gold-hunters made slow progress, as Duplin carefully examined each foot of the way, lest he should be misled by the numerous other clefts and seeming paths that thickly crossed the trace. Thus he neared the point from whence he felt sure the light had been shown, and as yet no signs had been given by those above that their approach had been observed.

Suddenly Duplin paused, and turning his head, upheld his finger in warning. Then stooping, he whispered to Wythe, who stood just below him:

"Careful, now! I just caught a glimpse of the light. We're close to the spot. Caution Tyrrel. One rash move now may be fatal."

Though rash and hasty, Tyrrel was by no means a fool, and agreeably surprised both Wythe and Duplin by his prudence.

Cautiously, silently as so many shadowy phantoms, the gold-hunters crept on, until, their heads above the level of a broad ledge, they gazed in upon a peculiarly strange scene. Fairly holding their breath, their eyes eagerly drank in every detail.

Before them was a small, low-roofed cavern, dimly lighted up by a rude wooden lamp that sat upon a projecting spur of rock.

There were two occupants; a man and a woman. These first enchained the eyes of the gold-hunters.

The first was the man they had observed beside their covert on the opposite hill. The woman was truly a surprise, when viewed in this strange, wild spot.

That she was young—not more than twenty years of age, if so much—was plain. That she was possessed of a more than ordinary beauty, needed but a second glance to tell.

She was small, of a graceful figure that even the rude dress she wore could not entirely disguise. In complexion she was a perfect blonde, with a profusion of softly-curling yellow hair, that, unconfined, fell around her person almost like a mantle.

Her garb, like that worn by the old man, was rough and uncouth, telling of a long absence from civilization. Her feet were incased in moccasins, while his feet were bare.

This strange couple were seated near each other, the woman at the wild-man's feet, feeding him as she would have done an overgrown baby, mouthful after mouthful. Neither spoke, and then, with a gesture, the man signified he had sufficient, when the maiden arose and glided away, disappearing from view of the watchers around a projecting spur of rock.

The old man arose, stretched his limbs and yawned heavily, then sunk down upon a small pallet of skins, leaving the light still burning. One hand clutched the strung bow, and the quiver of arrows lay close at hand.