NAT, THE TRAPPER
AND INDIAN-FIGHTER.

BY PAUL J. PRESCOTT.

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. The Ledge] 9 [II. A Wild Chase] 15 [III. The Friend in Need] 19 [IV. Lost Marion] 26 [V. The Hole in the Hill] 32 [VI. A Happy Meeting] 41 [VII. Holed] 49 [VIII. The Last Hope] 60 [IX. Ho-Ho! and Away!] 68 [X. An Unwelcome Visitor] 73 [XI. The Last of Earth] 78 [XII. Conclusion] 82

NAT, THE TRAPPER.

CHAPTER I.
THE LEDGE.

Toward noon of a pleasant June day, 18—, a man, mounted on a powerful animal of the mustang breed, was riding slowly over the plain, some distance south-east of the great South Pass.

His appearance was striking. In hight he was rather more than six feet, his legs and arms being long and lank in the extreme. His eyes were small, gray and piercing, and remarkably deep-set; his face rather thin and cadaverous, the lower part being covered with a scanty growth of grizzled beard. Add to these not very handsome features a wide, though good-natured looking mouth, and a nose of extraordinary length, and he presented a startling, not to say ludicrous, appearance.

He was dressed in a suit of dun-colored deer-skin; and a close-fitting coon-skin cap, from which dangled the tail, covered his head. A long rifle, which evidently had seen considerable service, rested across the saddle-bow, and a large buckhorn-handled knife peeped from the folds of his hunting-shirt. A powder-horn slung at one side, and a small tomahawk stuck in his belt, completed his outfit.

Such was the appearance of Nathan Rogers, well known throughout that region as Wild Nat, trapper and Indian-fighter.

As he rode slowly along, his eyes bent on the ground, a superficial observer would have pronounced him in a deep reverie; but, from the suspicious glance which he frequently threw about him, it was evident that he was on the look-out for any danger that might be near.

“Gittin’ purty near noon,” he said, at last, speaking aloud, as was his habit when alone—“purty near noon, an’ I sw’ar I’m gittin’ e’ena’most famished. I shall be a mere skileton, purty shortly, ef I don’t git a leetle something in the provender line. Guess I’ll make fur thet clump of timber, an’ brile a slice of antelope.”

He raised himself in his stirrups, and swept the plain with swift, piercing glances.

“Nothin’ in sight,” he muttered, dropping to his seat. “Nary an Injun tew be seen. Gittin’ mighty quiet, lately; hain’t seen one of the pesky critters in a week. Git up, Rocky.”

He turned his horse toward a small clump of trees about half a mile distant, and rode rapidly forward. As he neared the grove, his former appearance of carelessness gave place to one of intense watchfulness. His keen gray eyes roved restlessly along the edge of the timber; his movements were slow and wary—every motion being instinct with a caution that long habit had made second nature. When at the edge of the grove, he stopped to listen, rising once more in his stirrups to look about him.

“Nary livin’ thing here ’cept me an’ the squirrels,” he muttered, after a protracted survey of the premises. “So, Rocky,” with a pat on his horse’s head, “we’ll stop, an’ have a bite.”

He slipped to the ground, unfastened the saddle-girth, and left the horse to graze, and then, placing his rifle close at hand, built a fire beside a fallen trunk, and proceeded to cut some slices of meat, a large piece of which hung at his saddle-bow, and place them to broil on the coals.

He had nearly finished his repast, when he suddenly sprung to his feet, grasped his rifle, and turned, in an attitude of defense, toward the south. His quick ear had caught the sound of danger.

He stood for some minutes, rifle in hand, peering into the green, tangled woods before him, and listening intently. No sound met his ear save the gentle rustling of the leaves overhead, and the occasional note of some familiar wood-bird.

“I don’t like this silence,” he muttered, glancing uneasily around. “I’m sure that I heard suthin’, an’ silence in sich cases, ain’t a good symptom.”

He shifted his rifle to the other hand, and still keeping his eyes fixed on the thicket before him, began moving that way, making a wide detour, however, to accomplish his purpose.

As he was creeping noiselessly forward, a slight sound met his ear, and turning his head, he saw, above the top of a huge log, the hideously-painted face of an Indian. Springing to his feet, he was about to make a more decided movement, when a horrible chorus of yells filled the air, and instantly, from every side, save directly behind him, sprung a score of savages.

“Gallinippers!” ejaculated the trapper, “here’s a scrimmage on hand.”

He instantly raised his rifle and discharged both barrels into the painted host that was rapidly rushing upon him, and then turning, darted away, intending to reach his steed and make his escape. On reaching the spot, closely followed by his pursuers, he discovered that his horse was in the hands of a number of Indians, who had reached the place under cover of the timber.

He was now completely surrounded by the savages, who were pressing forward, eager to capture him. To the right, left and rear were the woods; before him the plain; on every side, the Indians. With a comprehensive glance at the case, the trapper came to a halt, turned toward the nearest of his foes, and swinging his rifle over his head, with a yell that would have shamed a Comanche warrior’s best effort, dashed forward. With one blow he felled a gigantic brave who stood before him; another, and a second went down; and then, as the panic-stricken rank broke, leaving a slight opening, he sprung through and darted away to the right, closely followed by the Indians, yelling at the top of their voices.

On he ran, over fallen trees and under branches, and close behind came his pursuers, straining every nerve to overtake him. So close were they, that the fleeing hunter had no opportunity to look for danger ahead, and before he was aware he ran directly into a small band of the enemy, who were evidently lying in ambush.

With shouts of triumph, the Indians gathered round, taunting him with his coming fate.

“The Long-knife shall die,” shouted a pompous chief, with a towering head-dress of eagle-feathers. “He will kill no more braves.”

“That remains tew be seen, ole smut-face,” retorted the trapper. “I ’spect ter hev the pleasure of scalpin’ ye yit.”

The Indian glared at him with a look of ferocity and rage, which was intensified by the cool, mocking smile with which the prisoner regarded him.

“What yer goin’ ter do with me?” asked Wild Nat, as he saw them preparing to move.

“Long-knife will see. He shall die,” was the reply.

He was placed on a horse, his hands tied behind him, his feet lashed together, and surrounded by his captors on every side. The Indians then began moving away to the west.

“Blast it all,” growled the trapper to himself, “this is a purty fix tew be in. I’d like tew know how in thunder they got so clus ’ithout my seein’ ’em. I know they wasn’t—hello! that explains it!”

The incensed trapper gazed about in bewilderment. Directly on the left was a narrow, swale-like hollow, which was completely concealed by the tall grass of the plain, until directly upon it.

“Thar’s whar ye skulked, is it, ole leather-chops?” he exclaimed. “Thought ye’s smart, didn’t yer? I’d like tew snatch ye all bald-headed.

“How in thunder did it happen that I never see that place afore?” he continued to himself. “I sw’ar, I thought I’d tramped over every inch of plain about here. No use in growlin’; but if I ever git away, I’ll bet they’ll wish they’d died when they war young!”

The Indians traveled steadily forward, and about the middle of the afternoon, reached a high cliff in the Rocky Mountains, at the base of which they halted, and began making some preparations that puzzled Wild Nat considerably. He was not long kept in doubt as to their intentions.

The cliff shot up perpendicularly, a distance of about ninety feet, facing the east. The whole face was smooth, without niche or seam, with the exception of one spot. This was a narrow, shelf-like ledge, about thirty feet from the top, some three yards in length and about one in breadth.

As the trapper was looking at the precipice, with which he was quite familiar, the pompous chief before mentioned accosted him:

“Does Long-knife behold? The ledge shall be his grave! He will thirst, but there will be no water; he will hunger, but there will be no food. Below him, the birds will fly, the antelope will jump, and the buffalo graze, but it will be nothing to him. Long-knife will not be able to reach them!”

Wild Nat looked at him, at first puzzled; but, as the full meaning of his words broke upon him, his heart sunk. It would, indeed, be a fearful death!

But not to his captors would he show fear.

“Kalkerlate tew set me up thar, eh?” he inquired, in so cool a tone that the chief stared. “Be a splendid place to take a look at the country. Guess I’ll make a map on’t while I’m thar.”

“Long-knife sneers,” said the Indian. “He will soon see that the Wolf speaks truth.”

“How ye goin’ tew h’ist me up thar?” queried Wild Nat.

“The Wolf has means,” replied the chief, walking away.

The chiefs now gathered together and held a short council. At its close, the trapper was taken from his horse and placed upon the ground, where he was tied in such a manner as enabled him to stand upright. He was then taken by several Indians and half-dragged, half-driven, up the mountain to the brow of the cliff.

Here, amidst the uproarious and triumphant shouts of his captors, a stout rope of buffalo-hide was produced, and preparations made for lowering the prisoner to the ledge.

Wild Nat looked on with grim stoicism. Well he knew the uselessness of expecting mercy at their hands. For years he had been a scourge among them, and though several times a prisoner, he had always managed to make his escape. His hatred of the Indians was intense; his vengeance unfailing.

After an uproarious tumult, the Wolf stepped forward and tied the buffalo-skin rope about his own waist. His companions then lowered him to the ledge, where he unfastened the rope, and it was drawn up. The trapper was then taken up, his bonds tightened and the rope tied about him, and, amid a hideous yelling, was swung off the cliff.

He landed at last on the ledge where the Wolf stood waiting. He detached the rope, and once more it was drawn up. The trapper’s weapons were next lowered, and the Wolf placed the tomahawk and knife in the prisoner’s belt and leaned the rifle against the rock, regarding him, meanwhile, with a mocking smile.

“Long-knife has his weapons,” he said; “he can shoot the antelope beneath him.”

“Blast ye, who cares?” retorted Wild Nat. “Think yer’ll tanterlize me, I s’pose, leavin’ ’em here; but yer won’t.”

“The Long-knife has killed his last warrior,” continued the Indian, exultingly. “He will take no more scalps. Long-knife is conquered; his carcass will be food for the vultures, and his bones will bleach in the suns of a hundred years.”

He fastened the rope about his waist, the trapper looking on in silence, and mentally cursing his fate.

“Ef I war only loose, I’d topple ye over,” he muttered. “I’ll bet thar ain’t a bird livin’ thet would dirty his bill with ye, ef ye war dead forty times.”

The Wolf gave the signal, and was slowly drawn up. The Indians then went to the plain below, where, in full view of the trapper, they executed their war-dance, and exulted savagely for the space of an hour, at the end of which time they mounted their horses and rode away.

The trapper was alone.

He watched them as they gradually disappeared in the gathering gloom, and then looked at his narrow prison. What a place to meet death in! What a fearful death, to die of starvation and thirst! But the trapper had no weak spot in his nature and was not likely to give way to despair.

As soon as the Indians were fairly gone, he began trying to free himself. In vain he struggled and writhed; the ligatures were too securely fastened. Pausing, at last, from sheer exhaustion, he looked about for means to accomplish his purpose. His hands were tied behind him, so that the knife in his belt was wholly useless. As he speculated, his eye chanced to rest on a single slender edge of rock, projecting from the wall. To this he speedily wriggled himself, and though from the extreme narrowness of the ledge, he was in danger of falling, he placed his hands against it and drew the bonds back and forth across it, until they snapped asunder. It required a great length of time to accomplish this, but Wild Nat had no lack of patience, and he persevered. His hands once free, it was only a moment’s work to cut the other bonds, and in a short time he stood upon the ledge free, at least to move as far as its narrow limits would permit.

But that availed him little, comparatively. In that vast wilderness there was scarcely a possibility of human aid, and he was powerless to help himself.

The narrow ledge was likely to prove his sepulcher.

CHAPTER II.
A WILD CHASE.

The sun was just visible above the burnished peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and its slanting rays rested like a halo on the tops of the trees forming a pleasant grove near the Sweetwater river.

The river, meandering along between its verdant banks, shone and sparkled like burnished silver, and rippled and chattered to itself, as if it felt the exhilarating influence of the quiet breeze and pleasant scene.

In the edge of the grove above mentioned, an emigrant-train was preparing its night-camp. The scene was a merry and exciting one. Children ran laughing and shouting in every direction; groups of women chatted in cheerful voices around fires, or strolled in couples under the trees; men, in knots of two or three, laughed, jested, and told “yarns;” here a boy was training a dog, and yonder a woman perched on a wagon-tongue, with arms akimbo, and laughing, eager face, surrounded with young girls, whose sudden bursts of shrill mirth woke the slumbering echoes of the grove and river.

A little apart from the busy scene stood two men, whom we wish more particularly to introduce to the reader.

The first was an intelligent, manly-looking fellow of about twenty-three years. His cap covered a profusion of brown hair, brushed carelessly back from his forehead, a slight mustache covered his upper lip, and half-shaded his firm, frank mouth.

For the past few minutes, he had been intently watching a small moving speck away to the west, and now, turning his fine gray eyes upon his companion, he called his attention to the same.

The man turned about, and drawing his form to its full hight, took a sweeping view of the valley. As he stood thus, he presented a splendid picture of a free trapper.

Medium-sized, with square shoulders, straight as a young pine and as lithe, he was evidently a full match for any one. His fringed frock of untanned buck-skin was belted tightly about his waist, in which stuck a buckhorn-handled knife, and a small, handsomely-finished tomahawk. A powder-horn and a six-shooter hung at his side, and he carried a long rifle, that had evidently seen considerable service.

After a moment’s keen scrutiny, he turned to the young man, with a broad grin illuminating his rough features, and said:

“That’s a small herd of buffler. They’re comin’ this way, an’ we’ll have a few shots at ’em. Not much time tew be lost, either. Let’s tew horse!”

The word spread through camp like wildfire, and long before the stampeded herd came near, the men were mounted and ready for them. Hearing the unusual noise throughout the camp, a couple of girls came hurriedly from the edge of the grove, where they had been strolling around, with faces full of alarm and apprehension.

The tallest one, a pretty, slender maid, with dark eyes and floating black curls, whose name was Marion Verne, ran up to the old trapper before mentioned, and exclaimed:

“What is the matter, Vic? Have the Indians come?”

“Nary an Injun,” replied Vic Potter, springing into his saddle; “only a herd of buffler. We’re goin’ to have a few shots at ’em. Ready, Kent?”

The young man replied in the affirmative, and as the herd was yet some distance off, he walked his horse to the trapper’s side, and stood talking with him and Marion Verne.

The herd came on grandly. It numbered only three or four hundred, and was passing to the right of the camp, at the distance of half a mile. As the first of the herd came opposite, Vic Potter gave the signal, and the half-dozen mounted men dashed toward them.

There was no evidence in the herd that they were seen or noticed until they were very close, when some agitation in the outskirts, and running to and fro, showed they were discovered.

The hunters rode steadily abreast until within about twenty-five yards of the herd, when they separated and broke into it.

Vic Potter selected a large cow, and brought her down at the first shot. Leaving her, he dashed after an old bull, which showed symptoms of fight, and charged his horse several times. He succeeded, after considerable trouble and several shots, in bringing him to the ground.

Meantime the herd had passed on, leaving an immense cloud of dust, and the hunters were preparing to cut up such of the game as they desired. Vic Potter tied his horse to the horns of the cow he had secured, and then looked around for his companions. All were near except Wayne Kent. The trapper raised himself and gazed earnestly down the valley.

Far away toward the south-east he descried a small, moving object. One whose eyes were less keen would never have seen it. The trapper shook his head at the sight.

“The boy’s chasin’ a buffler, an’ he’s lettin’ his excitement run away with his reason. Don’t he see thet the sun is down, an’ he’s plump tew miles from camp, an’ goin’ like mad? He’s a new hand on the plains, an’ don’t know nothin’ about Injun ways. Like as not they’ll gobble him up.”

Muttering away, the hunter continued to watch the fast-receding figure, until distance, and the fast-gathering dusk, hid it from view.

Then, after securing the choicest portions of the cow, he returned with the others to the camp.

“Where is Kent?” was the question that greeted them on their arrival.

“He’s off chasin’ a buffler, an’ I’m thinkin’ he’ll git inter trouble, tew,” replied Potter, throwing down his load. It was now dark, and considerable anxiety was felt for the young man. Among the ones most interested was Marion Verne, though she said nothing, and was, to all appearances, indifferent as to whether Wayne Kent was there or in Nova Zembla. Such is the hypocrisy of the fair!

Meanwhile, the dashing young hunter was getting into trouble.

He had singled out a huge bull, on entering the chase, and fired several shots at him. But the animal seemed possessed of a charmed life, and led him a wild chase.

Excited by the sport, and eager to bring the noble animal down, he followed him until the rapidly-gathering darkness warned him to stop. Relinquishing his pursuit with reluctance, he pulled up his horse, and stopped to look about him.

To his utter dismay, he found himself completely out of sight of camp, and, as the sun was down, he was without a guide. He did not stop to consider long, as it was already so dark that objects were distinguishable only at a short distance, but headed his horse in the direction he supposed the camp to be, and pushed forward rapidly.

The night proved to be a dark, cloudy one, so that he was without the stars for a guide, and utterly at a loss. He wandered about, searching vainly for the welcome light of the emigrant camp-fires, until nearly morning, when, wearied with the unavailing search, he threw himself on the ground, and securing his horse to a tree near, soon fell asleep.

He had slept about an hour, he judged, when he was awakened suddenly, in that strange way that probably every one has experienced at some period during his life, namely, that of feeling as if there was some one present, though he heard nothing. Listening attentively, he soon heard the low whinny of his horse. Raising himself to a sitting posture, he listened again, and soon it was repeated, this time lower than before. Rising silently, he went to the horse, and putting his hand on his neck, whispered:

“What is the matter, Bayard? Danger?”

The animal replied with an inaudible whinny, then erected his head, and appeared to be listening intently. Following his example, the young man soon heard the sound of voices at some little distance off and, after assuring himself that they were coming no closer, he whispered to the horse to “be quiet,” and glided away in the darkness.

Proceeding noiselessly, and following the sound, he soon saw a sight that made him start. Gathered around a smoldering fire, that flickered faintly on their painted faces, were some twenty-five Indians!

Our hero only waited a moment to count their number, and then left the vicinity as noiselessly as he had come. Proceeding at once to his horse, he untied and mounted him, and was soon once more on the move. He did not know which way he was going, only that it was away from his unpleasant neighbors, who, fortunately for him, had not suspected his presence.

CHAPTER III.
THE FRIEND IN NEED.

“Blarst thar durned painted hides! I wish they’d shot an’ skulped me, ’fore they left me in sich a trap as this. Been here tew nights an’ one day, an’ am like tew be here, an’ make this my last restin’-place. I war a fool for ever fallin’ inter ther clutches.”

It was now the morning of the second day of Wild Nat’s enforced rest, and he paced restlessly up and down the narrow limits of his prison, or paused to gaze over the valley below. Frequently a bird skimmed beneath him, or wheeled close to his niche, and then away, as free as the air.

“Ef I only had you,” he muttered, watching one of those fleet-winged creatures skimming airily beneath him, “I believe I could eat you, feathers an’ all! Blarst the reds, anyhow! S’pose they thought ef they left me my weepons, it would aggravate me, seein’ I couldn’t use ’em. Wish they’d left me some ammunition. It wouldn’t done me any good, though; if I shot forty birds, I couldn’t git ’em.”

The pleasant June day wore on. Below in the valley the birds flitted from tree to tree, and squirrels ran chattering over the fallen trunks, or chased each other up and down the cottonwoods, and once a herd of buffalo went tearing down the further corner of the valley, and disappeared behind the woods beyond.

Still scorched by the sun, and pierced with the pangs of hunger, the trapper paced up and down his narrow beat, occasionally pausing and talking to himself. So the time passed until noon, and the tired hunter gave a glance at the sun, muttering:

“Noon again. I’ve a notion to jump down. But I might as well die here, as tew die jumpin’ off, an’ die I shall, for all I see. Cuss ’em, anyhow! If ever I git out, I’ll make ’em wish they’d killed me on the spot. But thar’s no use talkin’ ’bout gittin’ out. ’Way off in this wilderness, folks ain’t comin’ ’long every day, an’ I’m dished, that’s sartain. I never s’posed I war goin’ tew die like a rat in a trap, an’—waugh!”

The trapper paused abruptly, and strained his eyes to see some object afar in the distance, that had attracted his attention. After watching it a moment, he muttered:

“It’s somebody, thet’s a fact. Like as not, an Indian.”

He continued watching him eagerly for a few minutes longer, and then ejaculated:

“Beavers! it’s a white man! Whoop! If he war only comin’ this way, or rather, if he war only comin’ here, for he’s got his nose p’inted in this direction; but it’s noways likely he’ll come near enough for me tew holler tew him. If my gun war only loaded!”

He stood in silence, watching the approaching object—which was now plainly visible as a man on horseback—for some time, and then a shadow crossed his face, as the rider turned his horse in an opposite direction.

“Hel-lo-o!” shouted the trapper. “’Tain’t likely he can hear so fur off, but I’ll try anyhow. Hel-lo-o!”

The equestrian passed on without seeming to hear.

“Whoop!” screamed Wild Nat, making every sound the human voice can compass. “Who-o-o-p! Hel-l-l-oo!”

The stranger seemed to hear, for he stopped to listen.

“Hello! Whoop! Hel-l-loo!” yelled the trapper, growing black in the face with his efforts. “He hears!” he ejaculated, joyfully, as the stranger turned toward him. “He hears, an’ I’m out of this trap!”

The stranger approached to within a few hundred yards of the cliff, and then, not being able to see any one, shouted.

“Up here,” answered Wild Nat. “I’m dished, an’ would like yer distinguished consideration on the best way tew git out.”

The stranger looked up, and after taking a somewhat protracted view of the situation, called out:

“Well, you are in a not over-pleasant place. Been there long?”

“Ever since the night before last,” returned Nathan. “Can ye lend a feller a helpin’ paw?”

“Certainly,” replied the other, heartily; “but how is it to be done? Some sort of a rope is needed.”

“Sartin,” responded the trapper. “Must have one. Don’t scarcely think ye can step up here, nor I can’t step down. Ye can git a rope an’ let it down from above.”

“But the rope?” said the other. “If I had an ax I could peel some bark, and make one of that; but—”

“I’ve got one,” interrupted the trapper. “Thar it comes!”

The stranger took the hatchet, and tethering his horse, fell to work with a will. It was a long task, however, and the sun was not far above the mountain-tops when the rope was of sufficient length and stoutness for the purpose required.

“It’s done,” called out the laborer. “Half an hour longer, and you will be a free man. It will be no small task to climb the mountain.”

He took a survey of the cliff, and then, going several hundred yards to the right, began the ascent. It was a tortuous winding, rocky way, and it was some time before he arrived, panting and somewhat exhausted, at the top.

Securing the rope firmly, he let it down.

“Is it long enough?” he called down.

“Plenty. Touches the ground. Hurrah!”

The trapper, lashing his rifle to his back, grasped the rope, and steadying himself, slid slowly to the ground, where he arrived considerably sooner than the stranger, and stood rubbing his nearly blistered hands when his deliverer appeared.

“All right!” he exclaimed, with a nod, and giving his suspenders a hitch, took a stride forward and extended his hand.

“Give us yer paw. Ye’ve got me out of a rather nice sitoation, an’ I’m corrasponden’ly grateful. What mought yer name be, stranger?”

“Wayne Kent,” responded the other; “what’s yours?”

“Nathan Rogers, more commonly called Wild Nat,” replied the trapper; “maybe ye’ve heard of me.”

“I have,” replied Kent, “and am glad to be able to offer you assistance. You look tired.”

“Tired! Stranger, I don’t know the meanin’ of the word when I can git any thing tew eat; but, jist at present, I hain’t hed a toothful in three days. I’m holler clean tew my boot-heels. Got any thing eatable?”

“Yes; I have a piece of buffalo-hump. I shot one this morning,” replied Wayne, disengaging the meat from his saddle, and preparing to cook it.

A fire was soon kindled beside a log, and the meat stewing and sputtering on a stick beside it. The hungry trapper watched it eagerly, and when done, lost no time in disposing of a considerable piece of it.

“Thet was good,” he ejaculated, wiping his mouth; “an’ now, as it’s ’bout sundown, I guess we’d better be lookin’ ’round for night-quarters, ’specially as we’re in pretty open ground, an’ thar may be red-skins about. That grove, half a mile off, is a good place. What ye say?”

“I think we had better go there,” responded Wayne. “I wish I could find my friends.”

“Yer friends?” said the trapper, inquiringly. “I hain’t asked ye how ye come tew be pokin’ round here alone. How was it? Ye ain’t trappin’ alone?”

Kent then went on to relate his adventures, and when he was done, the trapper remarked:

“Wal, they are not fur from the South Pass, by this time. As I hain’t got nothin’ tew dew, an’ no hoss, I don’t mind goin’ with ye to ’em. We can stay here till airly to-morrow mornin’, an’ then we can push on an’ overtake ’em. Can’t really say that I can ’preciate this trampin’ ’round on foot. I’ll pay them Injuns for takin’ my horse an’ puttin’ me in thet trap. They’ll wish they’d died when they war young.”

Kent laughed at the trapper’s earnest manner and emphatic nods, and said:

“I don’t blame you for feeling rather hard toward them about it. It would have been a fearful death, to die of starvation and thirst.”

The trapper’s face contracted.

“I’ve had more cause than thet tew feel hard toward the red brutes. I owe ’em a debt, an’ for ten years I’ve been makin’ payments on it, an’ hain’t begun yit.”

The grove was soon reached, and selecting a suitable spot, the men prepared to encamp for the night.

About nine o’clock a storm came up; the thunder rolled and the lightnings flashed vividly. Torrents of rain came down, and the wind rocked the trees fearfully, sometimes breaking off a limb, and hurling it down in close proximity to our friends, who experienced some discomfort and inconvenience from the raging elements, being without blankets, and obliged to endure the soaking rain.

The storm was of short duration. In an hour the rain had ceased, and a few faint stars struggled through the broken clouds, looking, to the young man’s sleepy vision, as the wind-stirred boughs alternately hid and revealed them, like so many erratic fire-flies, that danced and gamboled among the swaying leaves; but even these were finally lost in slumber.

The morning broke clear and shining. Kent was awakened by a rough shake, and the voice of Nat telling him, “it war time they war trampin’.”

Starting up, he saw that it was full daybreak. Rubbing his eyes, he arose and obeyed the trapper’s advice to have “a toothful of buffler-hump,” which he already had cooked.

After eating their breakfast, they started toward the South Pass, Wild Nat saying that the emigrants would probably be there, or near there, so they could find them by night.

“If you only had a horse, we could travel much faster,” said Kent, as he mounted. “As it is, we will have to change occasionally.”

“I kin keep up with ye, as fast as ye’ll care tew go,” replied the trapper, striding away.

And he did. His immense strides were laughably grotesque, and his appearance, as his tall, lank figure glided over the ground, was ludicrous in the extreme.

Changing occasionally to take turns in walking, and stopping only long enough for dinner, sundown found them in a small wood near the emigrant-trail, and not far east of the pass.

“If they have gone ahead of us, it will be unfortunate,” said Kent, as they wound along through the woods.

“They hain’t,” said Wild Nat, clambering over a huge log, rather than go round it, as Kent was forced to do, being mounted. “From whar ye said they war when ye left ’em, they hain’t more’n got here. Emigrants must allers camp in these woods, ef they git along here anywhar near night, ’cause, ye see, they couldn’t git through the pass by night. No danger but what we’ll find ’em.”

“I dare say they will be surprised to see me, as no doubt they have given me up for lost,” said Kent, his thoughts reverting to Marion Verne, and wondering if she would sorrow if she should never see him again.

“Don’t doubt it,” said Nat. “I rather think— Hark, what’s that?”

Both men stopped and listened attentively. The sun was down, and the forest beginning to grow shadowy. At first they could hear nothing, and then suddenly a slight crashing of brush at a little distance drew their attention. For a moment all was still; then they heard the noise again, this time accompanied with the sound of footsteps, which rapidly approached, and, in another minute, an unmistakable son of Ham, of the darkest type, came in view, tearing along at a two-forty pace, oblivious of them and every thing else, apparently, and muttering away to his familiar spirit, in the very extremity of fear.

“Hello, thar!” shouted Nat, “whar are ye precipitatin’ yerself tew, at thet rate?”

The darkey never looked up, only muttered something unintelligible, and, if possible, increased his gait.

“Hold on, I say,” cried the trapper; “what on airth are ye locomotin’ so fast for? Jest stop a bit!”

Seeing that the negro made no motion toward halting, the trapper, with a bound, cleared the distance between them, and grasped him by the collar.

“What’s the matter? What ye runnin’ so for? Ye needn’t be so all-fired scart; I ain’t an Injun, but a full blooded white man, an’ a hansum one, at thet. Jist down brakes, an’ ease up a leetle on yer speed!”

“Hol—hold on, sah—I mean, let go!” roared the darkey. “Dar’s more’n ten hundred Injuns back yender, an’ dis chile hain’t any notion to lose his sculp. It’s de solemn fac’, sah. O-o-h! dar’s one ob de ’fernal cussess now, an’ dis chile am a goner!” he cried, catching sight of Kent, who was laughing till he could hardly keep his saddle.

“Nonsense, Scip,” said the young man, as soon as he could speak, “don’t you know me?”

The darkey straightened himself up, and rolling his eyes toward Kent with a laughable look of relief, in which terror yet had a prominent part, ejaculated:

“Am it reely you, sah? Laws, I thort you was an Injun. Anyhow, sah, dar is lots of ’em behind. Mass’r Vic is dar, an’ I hain’t no sort o’ doubt but what he’s dewoured long ’go. Hi, dar dey comes!” and the frightened African made a frantic plunge, as the sound of footsteps was heard approaching.

The trapper held him fast, and in an instant Vic Potter strode into the opening. Seeing Kent, he stopped at once, his face expressive of his glad surprise.

“Hello, my boy! I’m mighty glad tew see ye. I war ’beout sartin that the Injuns had done for ye. If yer comrad’ thar— Varmints! Is that yer, Nathan Rogers?”

“Wal, I reckon it are,” replied Nat, loosening his hold of the darkey, and advancing with a broad grin; “an’ ef that ain’t Vic Potter, then skin me for a grizzly! How are ye?”

“Hearty,” replied Vic, grasping the extended hand; “did ye ever know Vic tew be any thing else? How do ye come on, arter three years?”

“Smilin’ as a May mornin’,” replied Nat. “What was it scart this fellar out of his seven senses? Injuns?”

“Wal,” said Vic, “I’ve a notion thar’s some ’bout, an’ has been for sev’ral days; but we didn’t see any thing only some tracks; an’ that, on top of a raisin’-ha’r story I’ve jist been gittin’ off, started him. Varmints! but he measured sile without wastin’ time!”

“I should rather think he did,” said Wild Nat, laughing. “Whar’s yer camp?”

“’Bout forty rods off,” was the reply; “let’s turn toes that way. Jist ’tween us, now, I shouldn’t wonder if we had a scrimmage ’fore mornin’. They’re round.”

“Seen any, Vic?” asked Kent.

“No hain’t seen any, but I’ve seen signs, which are all the same. I told the train they’d better be cautious, an’ not wander off fur, an’ keep track of the young ones. They are not fur off, an’ I know it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder ef it war the same ones thet sarved me thet ongentlemanly trick,” said Nat. “Ef it are, an’ I git at ’em, they’ll wish they’d not made my acquaintance.”

“Hark!”

It was the wild, piercing scream of a female, for help, and sounded in the direction of the emigrant-camp.

Twice it was repeated—each time more wild and despairing than before; then all was still.

CHAPTER IV.
LOST MARION.

“Injuns thar! Come on, boys!” cried Nat, as he dashed away at the top of his speed.

Vic and Kent followed, leaving the quaking Scip behind, and soon arrived at the edge of the wood, in view of the emigrants, who were running hither and thither in the wildest confusion and alarm.

A group of girls stood near, crying hysterically.

“What’s up?” cried Wild Nat, bounding into the center of the confused camp.

“The Indians have carried off Marion!” sobbed one of the girls, while the others huddled together with frightened faces, and fearful glances toward the darkening woods.

“How?” “When?” “Where?” were questions asked, simultaneously, by the excited men, who at length drew from the frightened girls the following facts:

Marion Verne, in company with half a dozen other girls, had been strolling about in the grove, and tempted by the beauty of the scene, and the lovely and varied flowers that constantly met their view, they had wandered further into the woods than they had intended, or thought they were doing.

Noticing at last, that it was growing dusk, they turned to retrace their steps, when a small band of savages sprung from the bushes, and seizing Marion, who was a little in the rear of the others, disappeared in the woods before the poor girl could hardly comprehend her fearful situation. The other girls ran crying in the direction of camp, and had only just arrived there when the men came up.

It was now deep darkness, and for a moment every one stood irresolute, trying to think what to do. Wild Nat was the first to speak:

“It never’ll dew tew stan’ here an’ think about it,” were his first words. “While we’re thinkin’, the reds are actin’, an’ ef we stan’ here idle long, we’ll run a good chance to be in the gal’s place.”

“Fact,” said Vic Potter; “tharfore, fix yerselves tew welcome the painted devils.”

For a while the emigrants worked with a will, and half an hour later every thing was in the best possible shape for defense.

Guards were stationed every few rods, on every side, and Wild Nat took his stand on the side from which the most danger was apprehended.

Vic occupied his time in standing sentinel, and occasionally taking the rounds of the camp, to see that every man was in his place, and every thing as it should be. But the long night wore wearily away, and the morning dawn came, showing the wide prairie and woodland, from which the light was fast dispelling the shadows, but no signs of the dreaded enemy.

“It’s about as well for them thet they didn’t tackle us,” said Wild Nat.

“It’s about as well for us, I guess,” said one of the men. “We are only sixty, all told, and there is no doubt hundreds of the Indians.”

“Wal,” said Nat, shutting one eye and aiming a tobacco-spit directly at the tip of a small dog’s tail, “it’s jist as well for them, anyhow, for thar’d be ’bout two dozen less ‘live an’ kickin’, at this present speakin’, on my account merely.”

“Do you think you could dispatch that number in one fight?” asked Kent, smiling at the trapper’s remark.

“I’m equal to an indefinite an’ unkalkulated number of ’em,” responded the trapper, “an’ answer in the place of meat-vittals an’ drink to ’em. I kalkerlate,” he added, squinting along his rifle-barrel, and waiting to draw a fine sight on a large eagle overhead—“I kalkerlate thet I save about five hundred bufflers every year by removin’ thar nateral enemies, which ain’t qualified, so to say, to live on any thing but buffler, an’ what they git for the hides. Thet eagle’s tew fur off tew shoot, ain’t he?”

“Laws!” said Scip, who stood near, listening in wonder to the trapper’s words, “did ye ever kill enny Injuns, sah?”

The trapper turned, and drawing his tall, ungainly form to its full hight, gazed on the negro in dead silence for a few moments, evidently too much astonished to speak, at this exhibition of ignorance and apparent incredulity.

“Africa,” he said, solemnly, after an impressive pause, “did ye ever eat any pertaters?”

“Reckon I hab,” said Scip, with a broad grin, “’bout forty bushels a year.”

“Wal,” continued the trapper, planting his rifle down solemnly, and gesticulating with his left hand, “I reckon thet for every pertater ye eat, I hev knocked down, tipped over, dragged out, sculped, mewtilated, an’ otherwise disfiggered, one dozen Injuns. An’ I’m good for as menny more.”

During this address, Scip stood listening, with the grin on his black face gradually expanding, until, as Vic told him, his “mouth war in danger of runnin’ inter his ears,” and when the trapper finished speaking, he stood silent for a moment, evidently thinking how to express an opinion without giving offense. At last he broke out with:

“Sah, am dar any Injuns left?”

“Plenty of them,” responded Nathan; “they’re thicker’n skeeters in August.”

“Wal, den,” said Scip, after a moment, “I don’t b’lieve ye ever killed a dozen for every tater I eat. What did ye do wid dar sculps, jest tell dis chile dat, will ye?”

Vic came up before the trapper had time to reply, and called him away to participate in a council, the result of which was that the train lay by, while twelve of the best men, led by Wild Nat, were to take the trail. After considerable trouble this was found, and traced for about thirty rods, where the captors had evidently joined a party of nearly or quite two hundred. From there the trail was so cleverly covered that when, after going a short distance, it struck a sandy tract, only partially grassed, it broke into three sections, thus baffling pursuit for a rescue.

The men returned to camp, when it was decided that pursuit was simply impossible; and with gloomy forebodings and sad hearts, the emigrant-train prepared to move on. During these preparations, Wayne Kent stood a little apart in silence, his usually bright, frank face overclouded and troubled.

Wild Nat stood near, watching the breaking up of the camp, one elbow leaning on the saddle that covered the back of a large mustang, which he had procured from the train, and the other hand holding “Roarer,” as he termed his rifle.

When every thing was ready, Vic shook hands with Wild Nat, saying:

“As I didn’t engage tew guide the train only jist through the pass, I dare say ye’ll see my ugly picter some time in the course of a month. I’m kalkerlatin’ ter trap up this way somewhar.”

“Come up on Deep Creek an’ ye’ll find me,” said Wild Nat; “the beaver is so thick thar, thet they cover the ground, an’ thar tails lap by a piece. I’m bound for thar, at this present speakin’.”

“Will you take me along for company, Nat?” asked Kent, suddenly. “If you want a companion, I will act in that capacity. I have some curiosity to try a trapper’s life.”

“Take ye along?” said the trapper. “In course! Yer as welcum as the posies, my boy, an’ I hain’t enny kind o’ doubt but what, in time, ye’ll git tew know a thing or two about Injuns. All ready tew go?”

“Yes,” was the response; “all ready, and waiting.”

Bidding the emigrants good-by, the two men rode away, and were soon out of sight of the long train of white wagons left behind. For some time Kent was silent and thoughtful. He was thinking of Marion Verne, and wondering what her fate was. A desire to find, or at least be near her, had led him to stay with Wild Nat, rather than any great love for trapping, though it was curiosity to try life in the wilderness that led him to leave his home in Ohio and join the train. It was there he first saw Marion Verne, an orphan, who, in company with one of her mother’s sisters, was going to California. His musings were suddenly brought to an end by Wild Nat exclaiming:

“Thar’s suthin’ off yender. It’s Injuns tew, but they don’t see us. I’ll snatch ’em bald-headed if they cum close enough.”

“The party appears to be a very small one,” said Kent, rising in his stirrups to look at the distant object, which was so far off as to look to him like an indistinct mass, which might be buffalo, or Indians, or whites, though Wild Nat declared it was a party of seven Indians.

“My eyes are purty considerable sharp,” he said, in answer to Kent’s wondering remark, concerning the keenness of his vision. “In fact, I never yit saw the man who could see as fur as I could. Them Injuns are goin’ off north. I’d like tew have a chance to sp’ile sev’ral of thar purty picters. Blarst thar karkasses, anyhow!”

“Nat,” said Kent, suddenly, “what makes you feel so bitter a hatred of the Indians?”

“Beavers!” ejaculated the trapper, “I should think I’d hed reason. Younker, ten year ago I hed a little cabin an’ a wife an’ tew children. I war livin’ peaceably an’ mindin’ my own consarns. One night a band of Injuns come, took me prisoner, an’ butchered my wife an’ children afore my very eyes. Then they burnt my cabin, an’ took me off for torture. I got away the second night, an’ left seven dead red-skins as part pay. Since then, I’ve been an Injun-hater, an’ I’ll lift the head-gear off of every red devil thet I cum acrost.”

The trapper relapsed into silence, and spoke no more until they came upon several buffalo, feeding at some distance from the main herd. One of these the old trapper shot, and, after securing a considerable quantity of the meat, they again rode on, and sunset found them near Deep Creek, a small stream that had its source in the mountains, and after making a winding course for many miles, was finally lost in the Sweetwater river.

Wild Nat halted at a little distance from the stream, among a thick growth of timber.

“Guess we’ll stop here. Tie yer hoss an’ I’ll show ye my den. This ar’ ’bout as nice scenery as ye generally find. This stream hurryin’ along over the stuns, an’ the woods here, an’ the mount’ins up thar—I can’t see how any one can like the towns. Give me the wild peraries, an’ the woods, an’ mount’ins, an’ git away with yer towns an’ cities! Here, foller me.”

The two men turned back from the stream, and pursued a narrow, deep ravine, extending back toward the mountains that towered above them; the sides of which were covered with luxuriant bushes and wild vines tangled about them, often forming impenetrable thickets.

Among these the men advanced, the trapper leading the way, and neither of them aware of the dark face that looked after them from a thicket of bushes, nor the pair of malignant eyes that followed their movements with such keen scrutiny.

The trapper continued up the ravine the distance of ten rods, and then thrusting aside the thick vines from one side, removed a large stone, revealing a small, dark opening. Into this he crept, hastily calling Kent to follow. The young man obeyed, and in an instant the stone slid into its place, and the twisted vines, relieved of its support, fell down over it, effectually concealing all trace of the opening.

A moment after, the bushes, a few yards off, parted slowly, and the dusky face became visible. For many minutes the glittering eyes gazed about, and then a look of disappointment succeeded the previous one of triumph. After remaining in silence for a short time, the savage cautiously ventured forth. He had lost sight of the men and was trying to regain the lost clue. Stepping carefully forward, he bent down and earnestly examined the ground. But he was foiled; the ground betrayed no print of footsteps. After searching vainly for some time, the baffled Indian turned and strode away, shaking his tomahawk in futile rage at the silent covert behind him.

CHAPTER V.
THE HOLE IN THE HILL.

“Total darkness down here, isn’t there?” said Kent, putting out his hand to see how wide the passage was, and finding hard walls within a foot of where he stood.

“Yas,” answered Wild Nat; “but thet’s nothin’. Foller yer nose, an’ I’ll foller you.”

The young man cautiously advanced, feeling his way, and after going some ten paces, suddenly emerged into a cavern—how large it was impossible to tell, owing to the darkness. It was evident, however, that there was somewhere a communication with the outer world, as the air was not stifling or mephitic, as usual in caves, but quite fresh and agreeable.

“Do we stop here?” asked Kent.

“Yas; I’ll have a light in about a minnit,” replied the trapper, groping about in search of some torchwood, which he soon found and lighted, revealing the size of the cave. It was a small, oval-shaped room, not more than sixteen feet in length, and proportionately narrow. On two sides there was a small recess, beyond which were several openings or chambers communicating with each other by rugged passages, some of which were several rods in length—mere rifts in the rock.

Kent amused himself with looking at the different rooms, while the trapper built a small fire, and went out to take the horses to a more secure place. In one of the chambers adjoining the first cavern was a small pool of clear, cold water on one side, evidently a living spring, for the water ran bubbling over the stones, disappearing on the other side of the cave. The curious Kent followed the passages from one cave to another until he had passed five, and then came to a large hall or room, with which the cavern terminated. After examining these several subterranean wonders as well as the dim light would permit, the explorer returned to the outer room, and sat down to await Wild Nat’s return.

It was some time before the trapper returned, and when he made his appearance his usually long face was considerably elongated.

“What is the matter?” asked his companion, noticing the hunter’s looks.

“Wal, sir,” said Wild Nat, “jist tew tell the truth in plain langwage, kalkulated for everybody’s understandin’, thar’s an Injun been doggin’ our steps. Gallernippers an’ centerpedes! I’d like to scratch his bald head!”

Kent smiled, despite his anxiety, at the trapper’s manner, and said:

“Dogging our steps, eh? How did you find it out?”

“Found out by virtew of my opptickles, in course! When I went out I see sign plenty—broken twigs an’ misplaced bushes thet I knew dogoned well we didn’t dew, an’ then I perceeded tew look about a little, an’ on lookin’ about I see the catapiller’s tracks. Yes, I did.”

“Do you think he saw us come in here?” asked Kent.

“Can’t say,” replied Nat. “Might or mightn’t ag’in. I’m sumwhat afeard he did. But, ef he did, an’ I git a chance at him, I’ll bet a holler cottonwood full of beaver-tails thet he’ll wish he’d died afore he saw me.”

“What will be the consequence if he has seen us?”

“Be down on us with a whole tribe, like bagpipes and wolf-preachin’; but I’m not goin’ tew leave this place jist yet, till I see. When I pre-empt a spot, I generally squat thar for sum time, as I shell on this present occasion, ef nothin’ turns up wuss’n a red nigger’s moccasin. Let’s have a little grub. I’m ’ginnin’ tew feel empty as an old sugar-cask.”

Seizing the piece of broiled meat, the trapper tore it in twain and tossed his companion half. This being discussed, ere long they relapsed into slumber.

The next morning the two men were out early, setting traps.

“We’d better keep our opptickles peeled,” said Nat, “or we might git sick with lead pills on the stomach. I persume tew say thet thar’s copper-skins ’round. Jist toss me over thet hatchet, will ye?”

When the traps were set, both men proceeded up the stream. As they were passing through a small open spot, they were suddenly surprised by half a dozen Indians, who rushed out at them from the bushes.

“Yahoo!” shouted Wild Nat. “Here’s for a scrimmage. Come on, ye yaller-skinned alligators. I’m ekal tew any ten of ye!” and drawing his bowie-knife with his right hand, and his revolver with his left, he plunged at them, striking right and left, and firing at the same time.

Wayne, meantime, was not idle. With his rifle he brought down one of the savages, and then, as the other barrel was empty, he clubbed it, and swinging it about his head dealt blows right and left with terrible fury.

In a moment half the Indians were down, and the remainder, surprised and bewildered by the decision and effect with which they were met, when they had counted on a complete surprise, took to their heels and vanished in a twinkling.

“Purty well done,” said the trapper, coolly. “We’ve unkivered four greasy nobs, an’ the rest, residew, an’ remainder has measured sile. He! he! I guess they thought the climate warn’t healthy—not adapted to thar peculiar constitutions, so tew speak. Let’s lift ha’r.”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Kent, “you are not going to scalp them?”

“I consider I be!” returned the trapper. “Wild Nat Rogers ain’t the feller tew let ’em off with thar top-knots unmerlested. Kinder mortifies ’em, ye see, tew hev thar ha’r lifted, an’ any thin’ to morterfy a red nigger, I say.”

“Only the savages practice that barbarity,” said Kent. “Why are you better than they if you follow their customs?”

“By virtew of bein’ born a white man,” replied the trapper, proceeding to remove the scalps of the fallen foe, while his companion went aside, not caring to witness the operation.

The scalps the hunter carried to the cave, where he hung them up as “trophies,” he said, “an’ ter remind him of the scrimmage.”

“Well,” said Kent, “I’d rather the ‘noble red-man’ should keep away from here. I don’t relish the idea of having them discover this cave, and likely enough keep us in here until we starve.”

“I should objeck tew thet thing, myself,” said the trapper, “but, I guess they won’t find us. I’ve ockepied this domicil for several seasons, an’ I hain’t been walled in yet. Fact is,” said the old hunter, waxing eloquent, “I never was born an’ reared for the purpose of bein’ killed by an Injun. I’ve lived in this kentry for a number of years, an’ been in some four hundred an’ thirty-two scrimmages, reckonin’ it by arithmetickal progression, an’ snatched some half-dozen copper-skins bald-headed in each one; an’ I’m now goin’ on my fifty-tooth year, an’ at this present speakin’ I’m a whole individual, an’ endowed with sartin unailyunable rights, among which is life, liberty, an’ the pursuit of Injuns.”

This was said while the old trapper proceeded with the manufacture of a pair of moccasins which he “wanted tew fool the reds with. Ye see,” he said, cutting away at the leather, “thar’s Injuns ’round, an’ I want tew scout a bit, an’ seein’ these moccasin-tracks they’ll naterly suppose it’s an Injun made the tracks.”

Several days passed without any signs of Indians, and the young man was enjoying himself. This wild, free life greatly pleased him. He went and came, with no cares nor duties to hinder or perplex.

One day Wild Nat was busy cleaning his gun, which he averred had been “consarndly bamboozled in some way. Why, it’s a solemn fackt, thet yesterday when I shot at thet wild turkey it held fire, an’ it’s suthin’ it never done afore since I got it,” he continued, giving the wiper a vicious jerk.

“Well,” said Kent, taking up his rifle and examining the priming, “I believe I’ll go out a while, and see if I can get a wild turkey. I can’t say that I appreciate buffalo-hump as a regular diet.”

He shouldered his rifle and started, followed by the trapper’s warning words:

“Keep yer eyes open for Injuns, or they might ask ye to taste tomahawk. I don’t doubt but they’re ’round.”

“All right; I will keep a sharp look-out,” was answered, as the young man emerged from their retreat in the hill, and started up the ravine.

Passing from the gorge, Kent turned up the creek, which he followed for a considerable distance, and then struck off to the south. From this point there was a beautiful view of the mountains, and the young hunter resolved to explore further. Accordingly he shaped his course toward the desired point, and walked briskly for the space of half an hour, paying, meantime, but little heed to Wild Nat’s injunction about keeping a look-out for Indians. His thoughts were with Marion Verne, and he wandered on abstractedly, till the extreme beauty of the scene before him drew his attention, and he stopped to look about him.

Before, the mountains reared their heads, and at the left a high cliff shot upward, crowned with a few stunted cedars, and draped with a profusion of wild vines. He stood on a slight eminence, which sloped away to the right, terminating in a series of gorges, deep and shadowy, and covered with a thick growth of slender trees, laced and interlaced with bushes and vines, till they were almost impenetrable. Around him huge trees reared their heads, and bushes and vines grew in the wildest confusion, and high in the ether a large bird screamed harshly as it flew slowly over.

As the young man stood silently contemplating the scene, and wondering at the deep silence which pervaded it, he was startled suddenly, by hearing deep, guttural voices near him.

He had barely time to spring aside in the bushes, when, standing precisely where he had stood a moment before, he beheld eight or nine hideously-painted savages. Evidently the noise of his retreat had startled them, for they stopped and listened attentively. He scarcely dared to breathe, so close were the savages to him—the nearest one standing not more than six feet distant. He was so situated that he could see the Indians, while they could not see him, but, unfortunately, in his haste, he had neglected to get his gun concealed, and about six inches of the muzzle protruded from the bushes. He dared not withdraw it, well knowing that the slightest movement would betray him, and with bated breath he stood, hoping they would not discriminate between it and the stems of the bushes.

The hope was a vain one. The Indian nearest him turned his head an instant, and his eyes fell on the unlucky rifle. With a ferocious grunt, he darted forward, followed by the rest. For Wayne there was nothing to do but run, and, firing both barrels at the advancing foe, he turned and fled toward one of the gorges before mentioned, the whole pack at his heels.

The young man was an expert runner, but running on open ground was quite a different thing from running in this wilderness, as he soon found. However, he made pretty good progress, scrambling over logs, leaping rocks, and dodging under lodged trees, over stones and dead boughs, “ducking” his head to avoid limbs, and diving through thickets of vines, with a celerity which would have astonished any one new to the business, and utterly impossible, had it not been for the “motive power” behind.

Gradually he found he was distancing his pursuers, though they still were not far behind. Hurrying forward, he scrambled through a tangled thicket, and plunged down a narrow gorge, half filled with bushes, through whose rocky bottom a little stream bubbled, and which terminated in a sort of broken dell, intersected by ravines and gulf-like fissures in every direction. Darting into one of these, he followed it until the sound of pursuit grew faint, and then, panting and exhausted, he sunk down against the rocky bank and drew a long breath. As he sat there, mentally congratulating himself on his escape, and thinking of the discomfiture of his enemies, his musings were suddenly interrupted by a vise-like grip on his arm, and a guttural voice saying, in most execrable English:

“Ugh! White man go with us.”

Looking up he found himself surrounded with Indians, painted similarly to the ones he had just left behind.

He was a prisoner!

In an instant the woods rung with the wild whoops of his captors, and directly the Indians who had pursued him arrived, rejoicing at the capture, and brandishing their tomahawks with savage glee. After a short consultation, the white man was bound securely, and mounted on a small nag, whose powers of locomotion evidently had been exhausted years before, and the whole party set out on the march.

As they journeyed on, the young man’s thoughts were of any thing but a pleasant nature. A prisoner in the hands of these merciless savages, with no one who knew of his whereabouts, what hope was there? If Wild Nat knew of his plight there might be a rescue, and yet, what was one man against so many?

They traveled steadily on until late in the afternoon; then halted in a wood, and all dismounted. Wayne was considerably puzzled by the proceedings. The Indians held a short council, and finally an old, grave-looking fellow, who, Kent thought, might be a chief from his appearance, and from the deference paid him, arose and made a speech of some length. The prisoner, ignorant of the Indian tongue, of course did not comprehend a word, but he saw that the chief’s wishes met with approbation, from the nods and grunts of the august assembly.

The chief sat down and the consultation ended. Kent was most unceremoniously taken from his horse and bound to a small tree. The savages evidently were greatly pleased, and while wondering what it all meant, their prisoner saw several Indians busily engaged in gathering wood, which they deposited near him. The mystery was explained! He was about to be burned at the stake!

The Indians, of whom there were fifteen or sixteen, began to yell and jabber violently, and jumped about, brandishing their war-clubs and tomahawks alarmingly near the prisoner’s head, who heartily wished they would strike a hatchet into his skull, and save him from the fearful death before him. He could meet death bravely in any form, but to be burned at the stake—to die by inches in excruciating torture—the thought was one of horror.

The wood was piled about him, at a little distance, to the hight of a couple of feet, built up artistically with dry fagots, that looked as if they carried in their gray hearts a world of heat and flame.

At last all was ready; the match was applied, and the little tongues of fire began to curl up among the fagots, creeping slowly, but surely, among the dry wood, and lapping hungrily about the sticks as if impatient for its victim.

The young man resolved to die bravely, and as the heat increased so that he began to feel its effects, he mentally commended his soul to heaven and breathed a prayer for the safety and welfare of his aged parents, who would mourn his unknown fate.

The savages were executing a wild war-dance, mingled with shouts and songs, and accompanied by waving of clubs and tomahawks, and brandishing of knives. In the shadow of the falling twilight their dusky forms swayed to and fro, and their painted faces, lit by the increasing flames, looked more like the faces of fiends than human beings.

The forked tongues of fire crawled on, increasing in strength and fury every moment. Already Kent began to feel their scorching effects. His knees were almost blistered, and the dense, rising smoke nearly suffocated him.