The Bandits of the Osage: A Western Romance

Emerson Bennett

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  • PART I.
  • PART II.
  • PART III.
  • PART IV.
  • PART V. 

    • TO
GEORGE HATCH, ESQ.,
OF NEW YORK,
ONE OF MY EARLIEST AND MOST ESTEEMED FRIENDS,
This Volume
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY
THE AUTHOR.

    PART I.

    CHAPTER I.

    INTRODUCTION—THE TRAVELERS.

    A few years since, most of the western States and Territories—particularly those bordering upon the great Mississippi—were infested with bands of lawless desperadoes, collected from all parts of the globe, who, having become criminals in their native land, here sought an asylum, either beyond the pale of the law entirely, or where stern Justice being weak, was relaxed from that severity which she exercised in the more populous sections of the country. Here, in many cases, they formed themselves into bands, choosing some one of the more bold and daring of their party for leader—their purpose, doubtless, being the greater facility of proceeding in their depredations, as well as firmer security against apprehension.

    But, although, as we have remarked, they formed themselves into bands or parties, yet rarely, in fact we believe only in extreme cases, did they openly act in concert; their policy being to conceal from their more honest neighbors the fact that there was such a regular organized combination of men for outlawry purposes in the vicinity. It was their policy, also, to disperse themselves throughout the country; to meet only at certain intervals, and then in secret, under cover of night; by which means they would appear as honest citizens; live, many of them, unsuspected, and in all cases be among the first to learn of whatever movement might chance to be in progress detrimental to their interests as a body, or to any member individually, and thus be enabled to take measures to prevent, or lay secret plans to counteract it. This will, we think, sufficiently account for their, in many cases, long and sometimes undisturbed career of dissipation and crime.

    Our story opens a few years subsequent to the close of the last war with England, and at a period when the interior of Missouri—the theatre of the scenes, incidents and characters which are about to follow—was, comparatively, but little known; in fact, we believe we may with propriety say, there were portions within its territorial boundaries at this time unseen and untrod by the eye and foot of the white man. But notwithstanding there were sections of it uninhabited, there was already a tide of emigration setting in from the eastward, which rendered it probable that in the course of a few years, at the farthest, it would not only be fully explored, but settled, by some of the more enterprising and industrious inhabitants of the States lying east of the great Mississippi. Even now the eastern portion of it was beginning to exhibit signs of settlement and civilization, and already the blue smoke arose from many a cot which here and there dotted the long line of forest bordering on the Mississippi. This forest followed the windings of the river and extended back some fifteen or twenty miles, opening, in some places, upon the large and beautiful prairie, where the tall grass waved to and fro in the breeze, containing its legions of wild animals, and where the eye could range uninterruptedly for miles on miles, as over some vast sea, until finally shut in by the far distant horizon. In some parts of this forest the ground for miles was nearly level, and only required the removal of the underbrush to make it a beautiful grove, while other parts were wild, rocky and mountainous, presenting to the eye of the beholder many grand and romantic scenes, as though Nature had designed to soothe, awe and display her power by strong and varying contrasts.

    As before remarked, that region of country known as Missouri, was fast emerging from savage to civilized life—from a gloomy wilderness to the abodes of civilization. The axe might now be heard in the forests where, but a few years before, echoed the wild war-whoop of the Indian. On the banks of that rapid and mighty stream, from which Missouri takes her name, a few regular settlements had sprung up—among the most prominent of which we will mention the old town of Franklin, a place that has long since disappeared, having been literally swept away by the eternal knawings of this river whose bed is continually changing.

    The inhabitants of Missouri at the time of which we write, as must naturally be the case in every new settlement, were composed of all classes, from the refined, educated and intellectual, to the coarse, ignorant, demi-savage race, which are ever found to exist as a kind of medium between refinement and utter barbarity.

    Having made these few preliminary remarks, so that the reader may form an idea of the then existing state of the country, we will now at once proceed with our story.

    It was near the close of a hot sultry day, in the summer of 18—, that two travelers were slowly wending their way over a wild and somewhat mountainous tract of land, some thirty miles distant and in a south-westerly direction from St. Louis. The elder of the two was a man about thirty-five years of age, whose height rather exceeded six feet, and although not what might be termed of handsome proportions, yet of that close knit and sinewy build which gives evidence of great muscular strength and a capability of enduring much hardship and fatigue. His forehead, which was visible from his hat being partly removed, was of medium proportions, on one side of which was carelessly parted his long raven colored hair. His face was long, thin and rather strongly marked. His mouth was large, around which played a peculiar smile which, to convey an idea of, we shall term a philosophical one. His lips were thick—cheeks somewhat hollow— nose long and pointed—eyes small and grey, with a peculiar twinkle in the latter, when speaking, which led one to fancy there was more meant than said—and altogether the whole expression of his features was a combination of cunning, shrewdness and candor, mingled with a quiet, thoughtful and humorous turn of mind. In speech he was very deliberate, and no matter by what circumstances surrounded, would never fail to give each word its proper bearing. His dress was a plain home-spun suit of sheep's grey—an article much worn by the yeomen of that day— and his dialect partook strongly of that peculiarity which distinguishes the people of New England— particularly those who have little access to society—from almost every other; and was, besides, of that uncouth form of speech, which is engendered from habit, when not polished by the refinement of education.

    His companion was a very different personage; in fact, of an entirely opposite cast. In years he was some five the other's junior—some three inches less in stature—of a form full of grace and elasticity—a face almost round—a complexion ruddy—large, restless grey eyes—with much hauteur in his bearing, and of an active and rather irritable temperament. His articulation corresponded with his temperament, being quick and impetuous, and his language gave evidence of his superiority over the other in point of education. His dress was a plain suit of black, a little the worse for wear perhaps, but of an excellent fit, which, together with the fine texture of the cloth, the graceful ease with which it was worn, had been proof sufficient the wearer was no laborer, even were not the soft white hand, holding a light fancy cane, to be taken as evidence.

    To some, perhaps, it may appear singular that two individuals, so directly opposite in personal appearance, manners, dress and temperament, should be companions, and what is more, friends; yet such was the case. Notwithstanding the old adage that "like clings to like," it must be admitted we have a great many exceptions, and that like clings to unlike may be said with propriety of the social relations and connections of mankind in general. It is by this process the great strings of Nature are made to blend their sounds in harmony.

    It was, as we have said, near the close of the day, and the last rays of the setting sun had been intercepted by a thick, black thunder cloud, which, approaching rapidly, threatened our travelers with a heavy shower. For some minutes neither spoke, but silently glancing toward the west, both immediately advanced from a slow to a rapid pace.

    The younger was the first to break silence with the exclamation "Ha!" as a flash of lightning, more vivid than any previous, flung its red lurid glare over them, and for a moment seemed to put the forest in a blaze, followed almost instantaneously by a heavy crash of thunder. "By heavens! Bernard, there is no mistaking that! How far are we now from Webber's?"

    "Wal, I should guess about five miles," replied Bernard.

    "Five miles!" echoed the other quickly, with a touch of sarcasm. "Why, Harvey, what are you thinking about? It was only ten miles when we last enquired, nearly two hours since, and now you think we have only reached half way!— Pshaw!"

    "Wal," remarked Bernard, coolly and quietly, "this ere's a free country, and every body's got a right to their own opinion any how; and so, as the feller said, if you don't like the distance at five miles, you can have it for any distance you're a mind to."

    For a moment a half angry smile played around the mouth of the younger, as though he would have laughed, but was checked by some opposite feeling, while he bit his nether lip and tapped his cane in the palm of his left hand with a quick, nervous motion.

    "Well, well," rejoined he, quickly, "if we have yet five miles to travel, our pace must be still increased, for the night gathers fast!"

    "I calculate we'd about as well be seeking for a shelter," remarked Bernard, quietly.

    "A shelter!" exclaimed the other in surprise; "surely you do not dream of spending the night in this lonely place?"

    "Wal, as to the matter o' that," answered Bernard, "I reckon I don't dream no how, 'cause I'm awake and its a sartin thing; and when a body's awake and sartin, ye see he ain't a dreaming; but"—and he looked coolly at the other, speaking slowly and impressively—"if you want to tell your friends of your adventures, and put this 'ere night in as one of 'em, you haint got a minute to lose 'tween this and the time your head's under something more powerful to protect it than that are beaver."

    "Why, what mean you?" cried the other, turning somewhat pale.

    "D'ye see that are cloud?" said Bernard, elevating his finger to an angle of some forty-five degrees; "now mark all the twists in't, and keep tally for about a minute all them are streaks o' lightning dancing up and down, and I reckon you'll come to the conclusion that the safest place for Marcus Tyrone don't lay in the open air by any means."

    "Ay! true, true!" returned Tyrone, with a start. "You are right, Bernard, right; for there is something awful in yonder cloud. But what is to be done? We can reach no habitation, and to remain here is, I fear, but to expose ourselves to certain death! Can we not find shelter under some of these rocks?"

    "Why, ye see, Mark, I'll jest tell ye how 'tis," answered Bernard. "If we don't find some place to git our heads under soon, its my opinion they wont be no further use to us; for that are storm aint a going to be no common one, or else I aint no judge. Now right away here to the left o' us is a cave; for a feller pointed it out to me when I traveled this way afore, and said folks kind o' reckened as how it were a ren—ren—something, for robbers."

    "Rendezvous, doubtless," remarked Tyrone.

    "O yes, that's it! I don't see what makes folks use such tarnal hard names now-a-days; they didn't use to when I got edicated. 'Spect they're gitting a great deal smarter, oh! Mark?"

    "Doubtless," replied the other, with a smile. "But of the cave, Harvey?"

    "O yes; wal, I calculate we'd about as well be putting our heads inside on't, for we wont no more'n git killed if its got robbers in it, and if we stay out here, I swow we'll git blown clean into a jiffy, for that are harrycane yonder aint a going to be over nice about what it does, that's a fact."

    "But where is this cave, Harvey?"

    "D'ye see that are rough pile o' stones, right away there, that look jest as if they'd been playing stone wall all their lives?"

    "Ay, ay."

    "Wal, that's the place, and I swow we can't git there too soon, for that are last streak o' lightning fairly felt hot. Come on, Mark, don't go to getting skeered now."

    "Pshaw!" returned Tyrone, his features becoming a shade more pale; and following Bernard, he proceeded directly towards the spot designated; though, perhaps, with feelings less at ease than he would have his companion imagine.

    The cave alluded to, was situated near the brow of a steep, rocky hill or bluff, some several rods distant to the left of the road, which our travelers had just quitted, and appeared to have been formed by some great convulsion of nature, in the rending and upheaving of rocks, which had fallen together so as to leave a cavity sufficiently large to contain several persons. The mouth of this cave fronted the south, and overlooked the beautiful Maramee, which rolled sparkling along some fifty yards below, and was surrounded by scenery romantic in the extreme. The hill on which it stood was a portion of a ridge which extended in an irregular line far away to the southwest and northeast. Immediately above and below this cave were large projecting rocks, which, to all appearance, were so slightly bedded in the earth, that but little force was necessary to send them thundering to the bottom. A dwarfish growth of shrub-oaks had struggled up between them, and presented their rough, shaggy tops above, as though to give the scene an air of wildness and desolation. But notwithstanding this, there was a fine redeeming trait in the surrounding scenery—viewed from the brow of the hill—whose beauty was heightened by contrasts the most pleasing. At its base on the western side, was a finely timbered forest, stretching far away northward, and finally opening upon a beautiful strip of meadow or prairie land, over which the eye might wander for miles, to rest at last upon a blue hazy ridge of mountains in the distance.

    The view towards the east and south was not so extensive, but this likewise had its attractions. A distant perspective was cut off by another ridge, running almost parallel to the one just described; but the loss was amply compensated, by the wild picturesque scenery presented, and the gentle murmur which stole sweetly upon the ear, as the Maramee sent its waters foaming and dashing over its rocky bed between, anon to glance off into a still silvery belt and for a time mirror surrounding objects ere forever lost in the bosom of the mighty Mississippi.

    The road of which mention has already been made—though it would, perhaps, poorly compare with some of the present day—was, for this period and section of country, uncommonly good— being mostly clear of stones, stumps, brush and the like—so that a skilful horseman might dash rapidly over it with little danger of life or limb. To the eastward it followed the windings of the Maramee, for some considerable distance, through a thick, dark ravine, and then branched off through a level and extensive forest.

    As light one horse vehicles were not in use at this period, and more especially in this part of the country, the horse was ridden instead by those who prefered an easier and more speedy locomotion than walking, and in consequence every settler of note was supplied with a number of these noble animals, for the use of himself and family.

    But we fear the reader will think us digressing, and so let us return to our travelers.

    CHAPTER II.

    THE STORM—THE KIDNAPPERS.

    Although Bernard approached the cave with a firm step, apparently indifferent as to what might be therein concealed, yet it must be admitted there were feelings within his breast strangely at variance with his calm, unmoved exterior. Twice he seemed on the point of coming to a halt, but then, as though actuated by some counteracting feeling, he strode steadily onward, and was soon standing at the entrance. It was now fast growing dark, for the coming storm had considerably advanced the night, and although the sun had barely set, objects at but a little distance appeared dim and indistinct, save when thrown into bold relief, for a moment, by some vivid flash of lightning, when, as if to repair the error, they apparently sunk into a deeper gloom than ever.

    Casting a hasty glance behind him, and perceiving his companion close at hand, Bernard motioned him to silence, and had cautiously began his entrance, when a hurried exclamation from the other caused him to look around, and seeing him gazing steadily towards the west, he turned his eyes in that direction, and soon became transfixed as though by a spell.

    We have already remarked it was growing dark, but below the gloom had deepened into night, which lay like a pall along the valley, into which even the lightning, as it played along the tops of the trees with a lurid glare, seemed unable to penetrate. But the scene higher up was what had caught and riveted the attention of our travelers.

    Just over the summit of another hill, towards the west, was a white misty streak, which lay spread along the horizon, like in appearance a bank of snow seen through a fog, above which awful black clouds were rolling, and tumbling, and twisting themselves into the most angry shapes possible — belching forth their forked tongues of lightning—seeming like some dark and mighty spirits of the etherial, enraged, and charging with all Heaven's artillery against this nether world. During the intervals between each clap of thunder, a roaring sound, like that of some distant waterfall, was borne to the ears of the travelers with a startling distinctness, gradually increasing each moment, until it sounded like the roll of an hundred drums.

    During this brief space—for brief indeed it was— not a twig was seen to move—not a leaf to stir— but all, all was motionless, us though Nature were holding her breath in awe of some great and mighty convulsion. The air felt hot, thick and oppressive, as from the breath of an evil spirit. Suddenly the trees on the other hill became dreadfully agitated—bowing their heads, and writhing, and twisting themselves into all manner of shapes possible, while a dark misty shadow crept, or rather swept along, and buried them in terrible night.

    Thus it appeared to our travelers, who, warned by this and a few heavy drops of rain, now eagerly sought their shelter; Bernard, as previously, taking the precedence. Moving cautiously forward, after entering the mouth of the cave— for caution was a part of his nature—he presently gained the interior, where he was immediately joined by his companion.

    A flash of lightning at this moment discovered to our travellers that they were the only occupants of the cave, when something like a sigh from Bernard, and the ejaculation of "Thank God!" from Tyrone, attested the relief felt by both.

    "I say, Mark," began Bernard, who was the first to speak, "I don't believe this ere cave's a ren— what d'ye call it?"

    "Rendezvous," answered Tyrone.

    "O yes, rendezvous. I say, I don't believe this ere cave's a rendezvous for robbers, for when that are last streak o' lightning danced around in here, I could'nt see no traces of its being inhabited."

    "But what led you to think inhabited, Harvey?"

    "Why, when I's out here afore, I hearn a good deal o' talk about a banditti, which had been skeering people round here, and some feller told me they used to meet in this ere cave."

    "Indeed? But why did not the citizens take measures to apprehend them?" enquired the other.

    "Wal, there was some such kind o' talk, but I don't know how it come out, for jest about that time I went back to the East, and haint never heard nothing on't since. But I say, Mark, its lucky we've got in here, I swow—robbers or not— for that are harrycane's ripping every thing afore it. Jest listen how it roars. I never—" the remainder of the sentence, if spoken, was drowned in a terrible crash of thunder, that shook the ground beneath them, and caused both the speaker and his companion to start involuntarily.

    During the conversation just recorded, the storm had been rushing on with all the wild fury of a tornado, and now came sweeping down the opposite hill—tearing along through the valley— up the hill—dashing against the cave, as though to rend it asunder—snapping lofty trees like twigs— tearing them, in many instances, quite up by the roots--hissing, and foaming, and roaring—on, on it went in its mad career, seeking new victims amid the quiet glades, and making the very earth beneath it tremble in its fierce carousal! For some half hour our travelers stood mute—awed to silence by the raging of the elements—gazing forth through the aperture, assisted by the incessant flashes of lightning, upon the awful devastation going on without.

    "A fortunate escape, truly!" remarked Tyrone, at length, drawing a long breath.

    "Jest what I's a thinking on exactly," returned Bernard. "I knowed when I seed it a coming up, that there wouldn't be no child's play about it; but its gone clean ahead o' my calculations altogether. How them are streaks o' lightning did dance around us here, and cut capers 'mong the trees. I never seed the like on't afore in all my born days. For the matter o' that, they haint done yet," added he, as a bright flash for a moment blinded him, and a peal of thunder shook the cave.

    For some minutes his companion made no reply, and then in a complaining, petulent tone said: "Was there ever any thing so unlucky? Only to think of our being literally forced to pass the night in such a place as this, and so near our destination too! I declare it vexes me."

    "Hello! What's all this ere gammon about now?" cried Bernard. "You're the strangest, queerest chap I ever seed in all my life; one minute all thankfulness and the next all grumbles. Why don't ye larn a little patience? A body'd think when you'd jest 'scaped with your life, you would'nt, in all human probability, set up grumbling for half an hour, at least."

    "Well, well, Bernard, say no more," replied Tyrone, in a voice of contrition. "You know my hasty, impatient nature, and must overlook my language. I know it was wrong in me to complain; but I had set my heart so much on reaching Webber's to-night, that it seemed hard to relinquish the design."

    "Now you speak a little more sensible like," rejoined Bernard; "and as to gitting to Webber's, I guess we'll be able to do it yit. The moon 'll be up in about an hour, and I reckon this ere storm will clear away by that time."

    And Bernard was right. In an hour the storm had passed on to the east, leaving behind it a few broken, scattered clouds, sailing lazily through the air—above which Heaven's diamonds gleamed and sparkled—now hidden from the sight, now shining out merrily—while the far off flashes and distant rumble betokened the storm still speeding on in its fury. Anon the moon arose, slowly and majestically, to pour her silvery flood of light upon the scene,
    While here and there a modest star
    Drew back from Luna's ray,
    Yet shining in its realm afar,
    Perchance the queen of day.

    Our travelers, now that the storm was passed and moon risen, deeming it expedient to resume their journey, emerged at once from the cave, and had advanced a few paces towards the road, when their attention and progress were arrested by the sound of voices in conversation. At first the sounds were indistinct, but gradually they seemed to grow louder, denoting thereby the approach of the speakers. At length they descried two figures descending the hill, and instantly crouching behind a rock, were enabled to overhear a few sentences as they passed.

    "I don't believe a word on't," growled a gruff voice, accompanied with an oath. "Its only one of the old fool's freaks; and for my part, I've served him long enough, and blast me if I don't slit his wesand, as soon as I find out whar he stows the shiners, and then make off and set up for a gentleman in some foreign part; hey, Bill? ha, ha, ha!"

    "Hist!" returned his companion. "Thar's no perticular use in telling every body else what you're going to do, as I knows on; and besides, if the gal and her lover should happen to hear ye, why ye see its all up at once. Curses on that ar' storm," he added; "I'm feard as how they'll bunk somewhere and take daylight for't. I wouldn't like 'em to slip me now, for such a chance don't come every day, you know."

    "But what can the old fool want of the gal?" growled the other.

    "Why I've told ye once, you—but hark! they're coming, and so—" here the conversation became so indistinct that our travelers could make out nothing further, save the word "pistols," which occured shortly after; but enough had been gleaned to denote foul play, and simultaneously grasping their weapons, both advanced cautiously in the direction taken by the others.

    The moon as yet had not risen sufficiently to be of any material service in distinguishing objects even on the summit of the hill, and the ravine below still lay in the gloomy repose of solitude and darkness.

    Gliding quickly forward, but at the same time as stealthily as possible, our travelers soon gained sufficient on the ruffians to enable them to see their dusky forms, and overhear their conversation.

    At length the foremost two came to a halt, at the foot of the hill, just where you enter the ravine already mentioned, and separating, each took his station opposite the other—one on either side of the road—which being at this point uncommonly narrow, owing to some rocks having been removed and piled up on either hand, made it a desirable place for their attack upon the individuals approaching, who must necessarily pass within their reach.

    Ensconsing themselves behind some bushes, which grew by the way side, Bernard and Tyrone awaited in anxious suspense the moment when they would, probably—in defence of others—be called into action of no enviable nature. For some moments all was still, and then the silence was broken by one of the ruffians.

    "I say, Bill Riley!" began he of the gruff voice, "blast me, but your ears is a little over-keen to-night. Per'aps you hears 'em coming now, but hang me if I do, and what's more, haint heard 'em."

    "Per'aps I's mistaken," answered the other; "at least I thought I heard 'em. However, thar's no perticular harm in being ready 'gin they do come, you know."

    "You're right thar', my trump. But what d'ye think, croney; is't best to leave the younker in Heaven?"

    "No! no! Curdish," replied the other vehenently; "no murder, if we can help it. Tap the feller over, but no killing; that's a perticularly agly business, brings ugly consequences, and a feller's mighty apt to catch hemp fever arter it. No, no, Jack, my boy, we musn't have no killing. Jest knock the younker over gently—mount his horse—I'll mount behind the gal, and then we'll sort o' travel, you know."

    "Why hang me for a green un, but I think— rayther think, Bill—we'll travel then, ha, ha, ha. But 'sposin, my ace o' trumps, the younker happens to take it into his head not to be knocked over gently?"

    "Why then, Jack, you must kind o' take it out agin, you know,—ha, ha, ha."

    "Well, well," growled Curdish, don't be gittin' foolish over it."

    "No!" returned the other drily; "one fool in a party'll do, I reckon."

    Following this last remark, was a pause of some minutes, when the conversation was again renewed by Curdish.

    "I say, Bill, what's yer honest, disinterested, confidential and most perticular opinion of old Ben, any how?"

    "Why that's come at without any study," answered Bill. "I jest think he's an arrant knave."

    "A what?"

    "A bloody rascal!"

    "I'll take yer fist on that, Bill, by —," and the speaker uttered an oath. "What a long hooked nose he's got, haint he? If I'd such a nose, by St. Christopher! I'd sell myself for a screech owl—ha, ha, ha."

    "Hush, Jack! You always laugh as if you wer' a going to split yer jaws."

    "Ye-e-s, per'aps so."

    "By-the-by, Jack, I couldn't never exactly understand how you and old Ben come to be on such friendly terms? You've said you didn't like him."

    "Like him!" cried Jack. "O yes, I like him— ha, ha, ha! Jest wait, Bill, don't be in a hurry, and I'll show ye how I like him. Hang me for a dog, if I don't cut his bloody old heart out o' him 'fore I'm done!"

    "Well but Jack, I say, how the dence comes it you've seemed on such friendly terms?"

    "Why ye see, Bill, I'll tell ye. The old chap kind o' did me a favor one time, in the way of savin' me from the hemp fever, in the case o' that ar' young man as was suddenly missed, when people took the perticular trouble to swear that I— put him out o' the way, you know; and being's I'm sort o' in his power yit, why I've rather kept up an affectionate feeling, ye see—ha, ha, ha! But I say, old feller, seein' as how I've answered your question, maybe you'll have the perticular goodness to answer mine. What is the old cut-throat goin' to do with the gal?"

    "Why's I've told ye afore, I ain't sure, but I 'spect thar's a curious design about it. I've bin kind o' watching round, a pickin' up a little here and a little thar, puttin' 'em together and guessin' on the whole, and it looks rayther mysterious, I tell ye. You know the old feller we stuck and fleeced a few months back, and how old Ben, not satisfied, stuck him twice more, and then saved his life—a thing he warn't never known to do afore; well you know as how he got hold o' some papers too, which he said warn't o' no account to us, and so took 'em for his share, which looked sort o' curious agin, and which bein' all put together, makes me think as how them ar' papers, this gal, and the 'tother old feller ar' all kind o' mixed up into a secret; for ever since he's bin mighty anxious to git hold o' the gal, and I overhearn him say one time, when talkin' to himself, that he'd sometime be a great man, and as soon he could get the gal he was goin' to mizzle and set sail on the big brine."

    "Set sail, eh!" growled Curdish. "He said as how he'd set sail, did he? Well, blast me, if he don't too; but it'll be an ugly voyage he'll be goin', by—! or else Jack Curdish ain't no prophet."

    The conversation after this for something over an hour, was carried on in a tone so low, that our travelers were unable to distinguish what was said, when the voice of Riley was again heard to articulate:

    "I'm afeard this ere storm's knocked our calculations all in the head, Jack."

    "Hark!" returned the other; "don't you hear 'em?"

    "Ha! yes, 'tis they at last. Now be careful, my boy, and jest do up the thing safe and genteel, for thar's a few shiners at stake, you know." As he spoke, horses were heard approaching at a quick pace, and presently the voices of their riders in conversation.

    "Now then, Mark," whispered Bernard, grasping a pistol with one hand and his companion's arm with the other, "jest let us show these ere chaps that there's other folks about."

    "Ay!" returned Tyrone, setting his teeth hard, "they need an honest man's lesson."

    A thrilling scream aroused them to action, and both sprang forward at once. Immediately after was heard the sharp report of a pistol—a groan— another scream, and the clatter of a horse's hoofs on through the ravine.

    CHAPTER III.

    THE LOVERS—THE WARNING—THE CAPTURE.

    We must now go back in our narrative, to a short time previous to its opening in the first chapter. On the same road already mentioned as leading on through the ravine, about ten miles to the northeast of the place described in the foregoing chapter, and on the same day the events just recorded took place, were two personages, well mounted on a couple of beautiful horses, riding along at a leisure pace. Of the two, one was a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, of a fine form and manly bearing. His countenance was well shaped, open, frank and noble, and of a high intellectual cast; while his bright, hazel eye sparkled with a true poetic expression. His forehead was smooth, broad and high, surmounted by dark brown hair, which hung in graceful curls far down his neck, giving to him a somewhat feminine, though not unpleasing, appearance. He was well dressed—uncommonly so for this section of the country—in a fine suit of black; the lower extremity of his pantaloons being encased in fine buckskin leggins, while his head was covered by a beautiful cap of dark silk velvet, on either side of which a couple of gold mounted buttons shone conspicuously. He rode his high mettled steed in that easy, graceful, dignified manner, which sets forth the rider to so much advantage, and which is only acquired by constant practice, together with a knowledge of the rules of horsemanship.

    His companion was a female, elegantly attired in a riding suit, and likewise rode very gracefully. Of years she had seen some eighteen, was medium in stature, and beautifully formed. Her countenance, strictly speaking, could scarce be account ed handsome, for her features were not entirely regular; yet there was something so noble, so intelligent in the expression, her dark blue eyes were so lit up with the fires of an earnest soul, that ten to one you would pronounce her beautiful, ere the form of her features was distinctly recognised; thus unconsciously awarding another proof of the mind's immortal triumph over matter. Her hair was a glossy auburn, the front of which was neatly braided, brought down with a graceful curve below her ears, and fastened behind. Her checks were slightly dimpled, and around her mouth lingered one of those pleasing expressions—a sort of half smile—which, combined with a bright flashing eye, invariably wins upon the beholder in spite of himself, and leads us to fancy there is an influence of a Mesmeric nature connected therewith.

    The country through which the two were traveling, was mostly level, and heavily shaded by thick, dark woods, stretching far away on either hand, occasionally broken a little in places by the clearing up of some settler, whereby the beams of the sun poured gently in, refreshing to the eyes of civilization, as the cool springs of water to the thirsty traveler of the Arabian Desert.

    It was an exceedingly warm day, and the travelers would have suffered much, had they not been so well protected from the rays of the sun, which already far advanced toward the western horizon, threw the shade of the lofty trees directly across their path. Still the air was hot and sultry, unaccompanied by any cooling breeze, and although jogging along at a very moderate pace, both horse and rider perspired freely.

    "Ah! how refreshing!" exclaimed the lady, as a cool breeze fanned for an instant her heated brow, rustling the leaves with that pleasing sound so delightful in a forest. "See, even my noble Fanny pricks up her ears, and seems greatly rejoiced."

    "Ay, and so does Sir Harry," returned her companion. "It is delightful truly, after this intense and almost suffocating heat. Ah! it dies away again; I would it were to continue."

    "Well, Edward, let us be thankful for a little, you know that is my motto."

    "True, Emily, and I agree with all my heart."

    "All?" enquired Emily with emphasis, casting her head a little one side, and throwing on him one of her peculiar, fascinating glances; "with all your heart, Edward?"

    "That is, all there is left me," replied Edward, with a meaning smile, gracefully bowing to the lady.

    "Ay, that indeed! well put in, Sir Knight! but a little late withal. However, better late than never, says the adage, and I trust you will be a little more circumspect of speech hereafter."

    "I will do any thing you require, Emily," returned Edward gallantly; "you have only to command to be obeyed."

    "Indeed, Sir Knight! you are very proficient in promises; you have yielded to a hard task-master, and I fear me if put to the test, your actions would much belie your words."

    "Nay, indeed, Emily, you are in error; only give me the trial, and see if I do not produce the proof."

    "Well, sir, since you require it, please ride forward and announce to the good inhabitants—if you should chance to meet any—that a lady is approaching, in the person of Emily Novance, whose gallant by her orders goes before as a herall.— What? you hesitate! is this the way I am to be obeyed? Go, sir! it is my command!"

    "Nay, but Emily, this is unfair."

    "So, then, you question my orders, do you? Ah! I fear you are like all the rest of your sex— full of promises, which doubtless you all fulfil, when the fulfilment proves agreeable to yourselves; but when otherwise, ah me! for our sex;" and the speaker shook her head with an arch look.

    "Now, now, Emily; but I see you are determined to carry the point your own way, so I will fain give in, lest I get worsted by argument."

    "Ay, do if you please, Sir Knight! and you will oblige me much, very much."

    For some minutes after this both rode along in silence, when the conversation was again opened by Edward.

    "I say, Emily," began he, at length, "to one of your refined taste, does not this country life, so tone, so solitary, in the woods as it were, seem very irksome? Methinks to one of your light turn of mind, that had been used to the gay crowds which throng the city, it must be very tiresome, full of sameness, causing ennvi and discontent."

    "Indeed!" exclaimed the lady, a slight flush singing her fair noble features, while her eyes sparkled with more than wonted brilliancy. "Indeed! think you so? then have I given you more credit for discernment than you really possess, if thus you judge the heart of Emily Nevance! What are the gay crowds of the city, of which you speak? Of what are they composed, but of fops and fools—apes of fashion—walking advertisements for tailors and milliners—whose mirrors are their prophets, and themselves the only God they worship!—whose very souls are confined within the trappings of dress, and know as little of what human beings should be, as the insects that crawl beneath our feet! And do you think I sigh for their society? No! give me Nature in her wildest, grandest, seul-inspiring moods!— away from the haunts of men, let me contemplate her in silence, and in awe! 'Tis then, far from loncliness, I feel I hold communion with the All Pervading Spirit! I look around me, and behold the works of One, compared with whom, I sink into utter insignificance. Ay! away with dusty cities! Give me the hills, the dales, the rocky steeps, the level plains, the tall, majestic, sighing forests, with the music of their creating— the laughing, rippling, sunay streams, that dance along in childish glee—and with a soul pure, sinless in the sight of God, I will rest content to spend my days in holy contemplation."

    "Spoken like yourself, Emily!—my sentiments, for the world!" exclaimed Edward, with a bright, enthusiastic animation of countenance that told the feelings within more eloquently far than words "I was but jesting, dear Emily."

    "Well, I am glad to hear you say that, at all events. I should be sorry to have you form such an opinion of me as you first expressed." This was said in a sad, almost mournful tone of voice, while the speaker bent her head forward, and appeared to be examining some of the trappings of the saddle.

    "Nay, never fear, dear Emily, that I will think aught of you but what is most worthy," replied Edward, in that deep, earnest tone of voice which invariably carries conviction with it the speaker is sincere. "But why," continued he, after a pause of some moments, during which each seemed buried in some deep study, "why, dearest Emily, when every thing concurs to prove us so fitly adapted to each other, why will you withhold your consent to be mine? O, if you did but know the deep, ardent passion I possess for you, methinks you would not turn so deaf an ear to all my pleadings!"

    "There, Edward, you do me wrong," replied Emily; "I am not deaf to your pleadings, far from it; nor do I in the least doubt the passion of which you speak; but Edward, as I told you before, we are both as yet young, and I would rather, ere you bind yourself by a solemn promise, that you look more about you, lest by too hasty nuptials you do an act which you may repent the remainder of your days. Besides, you know you are wealthy; I am not; and your parents will, perchance, object to your wedding one so far beneath you."

    "Ah! Emily," sighed Edward, "that is the unkindest word of all. Beneath me," cried he suddenly, "by heavens! it were not well for any to utter that in my presence, save Emily Nevance! Beneath me, indeed! and in what am I your superior? In gold! And did not you yourself despise it but now, and all its idle votaries?"

    "But then, Edward, you know the world—"

    "Pshaw! what care I for the world? The world — nonsense! I am a man, and I stand on my own opinions, in matters of my own concern! Surely I would be mad, or worse than mad, to sacrifice my own happiness to please the world!"

    "But then, Edward, you know your parents may think differently in regard to the opinions of the world."

    For some minutes Edward, mused thoughtfully, before making a reply. He knew that Emily was correct in her surmises, for his parents were both rich and proud—his father more especially—and he knew too that the latter, in his own mind, had already disposed of his hand, to one he had never seem, simply because she was a personage of wealth; and consequently, that it would be a difficult matter, even if done at all, to gain their consent to his union with another, and furthermore too, when that other was poor; but still he loved Emily sincerely, deeply, and was fully determined not to sacrifice his own happiness to gratify the caprices of others, even were those others his parents.

    "Well, Emily," he at length replied, "depend upon it, whatever my parents may think, my views and sentiments shall, at least, ever remain unaltered; and since you will not now sacredly promise to become mine, I will live on the joyful hope of some day winning your consent— some day calling you so, with the sanction of the laws of both God and man."

    "And I," rejoined Emily, in a low sweet tone, with her eyes cast down, "I will live on in the sincere hope, that should that day ever come, I may be worthy of you."

    "Ah, then you admit—"

    "No! for the present I admit nothing. But see! the sun is already nearing the western horizon, where black clouds are looming up in sullen majesty, and we have a goocly distance yet to ride. Let us put our horses to the spur."

    "Ay, you are right," returned Edward; "time flies so rapidly when with those we love we scarcely head it. But we must make amends for our delay in this instance, as I like not the looks of yonder claud, and methought but now I heard the distant sound of thunder."

    Accordingly putting spurs to the noble animals, they rode forward at a fast gallop. Half an hour of good riding brought them to an humble cottage, where, finding the storm was likely to prove detrimental if they continued their journey, they concluded to await its termination. Alighting, Edward secured the horses under a sort of shed, and then led the way into the hovel, which was a rough, homely fabric, composed of logs, put together in the rude, half-civilized manner common to the first settlers of the West. At the door, or entrance, they were met by a female—the hostess—a woman somewhat past the middle age, of rather an unprepossessing appearance, who gave them a cold salutation, and learning the object of their visit, civilly bade them enter. She was dressed in the simplest, coarsest garb of the day, and wore a stern, haughty, or rather an angry look, which made her person appear to her guests anything but agreeable. The room which they entered waslow, dark, and dirty; the ground—for it could not boast of a floor—being strewed with damp, filthy straw. In one corner was some of a fresher, cleanlier appearance; used, undoubtedly, as a place of rest for the occupants. Several rough benches promiscuously standing about, together with a plain deal table, a few pots and kettles, apparently completed the stock of furniture.

    "You're jest in time," remarked the hostess, retreating within, and pointing our travelers to one of the benches; "you haint bin a minnet too quick; for sich a guster as we're goin' to have, arn't seen in these diggins often."

    "Do you think, madam, we shall have a severe shower?" enquired Edward, casually.

    "Think!" cried she contemptuously, drawing herself up, her small black eyes flashing angrily, "I arn't one to think, sir! I knows! Thar's goin' to happen one of the greatest gusters as ever was knowd on, sir! The tall big trees ar' going to snap like pipe stems! Listen! The thunder growls like a savarageous lion! The lightning dances like mad! Think, indeed! Hetty Brogan what tells fortunes, arn't one as thinks much, I reckon Thar! d'ye hear that?" screamed she, as a tremendous crash of thunder broke over their heads. "That ar's the speret o' the storm, cheering it on! Hist! d'ye hear that ar' roarin? I tell ye its comin'. Young folks, bewar'! thar's danger in your way! I see it—the storm—the woods!" and she strode to and fro the apartment, her eyes turned upward, apparently fixed on some distant object, gesticulating, the while, in that wild manner, which led our travelers to believe her touched with insanity. Suddenly stretching out her long bony arm, pausing, and pointing with her finger in the direction she was gazing, while with the other she seemed to brush a mist from before her eyes, she exclaimed with vehemence, "I see it again! the woods!—the ambush—all—all! Young folks bewar'! thar's danger in your way!—be—" a vivid flash of lightning, followed instantaneously by another crash of thunder, that made the old cabin tremble, here cut her speech short. "Well, enough," muttered she to herself, "if Jack and Bill only manage to play their parts, I'll git more credit for witcheraft."

    The storm now howled in all its fury, making the rough old timbers of the cabin creak and tremble, as though about to be demolished, while a thick, heavy darkness shut in every object, save when relieved by the lurid glare of lightaing. Edward and Emily sat mute, gazing upon the scene with that sense of awe, which intelligent and sensitive minds ever experience, when brought by the fierce combat of the elements into the presence of the Almighty Spirit of the Universe.

    Something less than two hours served to clear away the storm, when our travelers prepared to leave. The horses were found safe, though the saddles were rendered disagreeable from being saturated with the rain. This, however, being of minor importance, they mounted, thanked the hostess for her accommodation, and rode away—she the while repeating: "Bewar', thar's danger on yer way!" so long as they were within hearing.

    "What think you of that old woman?" enquired Emily, as they rode along, carefully picleing their way, it still being dark, while here and there a tree felled directly across their path, warned them to move cautiously.

    "Why, I scarcely gave her a thought, except to think her a little deranged," answered Edward.

    "But if what she vaguely hinted should prove true—"

    "Poh! Emily," interrupted Edward, "do not give it a thought. Surely, you are not frightened at the idle outpourings of such an illiterate old woman as that?"

    "I scarcely know, Edward, whether I am or not. But something weighs heavily on my spirits, and I feel a strange foreboding of some coming ill."

    "O, the effect of the storm no doubt; it will soon pass away; come, come, do not be down-hearted, the moon will be up presently, and then we can move forward with greater facility."

    They now rode on for some time in silence, occasionally venturing their horses into a trot, whenever the road appeared a little more open, until they entered the ravine, where the trees being of much smaller growth, of a swampy nature, had made little or no obstruction to their progress, when giving their steeds the reins, they moved forward at a much faster pace. The Maramee, running along to their left, being much swolen by the late rains, now rolled on with that sullen, gloomy, monotonous sound, which the turbulent waters of a flood will invariably produce.

    "Oh, how gloomy!" began Emily, breaking the silence they had for some time maintained; "I shall feel much relieved when we pass this lonely place, for here every sound seems to send a chill to my heart."

    "And my spirits," returned Edward, "from some cause, are less buoyant than is common with me. I wonder if that old woman could have any secret meaning in what she said? But no! pshaw! what a foolish idea;" and he tried to laugh, as if to shake off his thoughts, but the attempt ended in a hollow tone, that sounded strange and unnatural.

    "I fear, Edward, there was more in her words than you are willing to eredence. But here we are, thank Heaven! at the foot of the hill: now then, we shall leave this—" what more she would have added was interrupted by a scream, as two figures, springing from either side of the path, grasped the bridles of both Edward's horse and her own. The next moment Emily felt herself seized by one of the raffians, who instantly mounted behind her—saw her companion felled to the ground—saw two more figures rush forward— heard the report of a pistol—a groan, and uttering another wild scream of fear and despair, she was rapidly borne away into the dark ravine.

    In the execution of this nefarious design, Curdish was less successful than Riley; for having struck Edward from his horse, and just as his foot was placed in the stirrup to mount, a shot from the pistol of Bernard disabled him, and he was immediately taken prisoner. At this juncture Edward, recovering from the stunning effects of the blow, sprang to his feet, and learning from Tyrone how matters were, in an agitated voice of deep emotion, said:

    "Gentlemen, you are both strangers to me, but you have acted like men, and from my heart I thank you. Some five miles from here, on this road, you will find a cottage occupied by one Webber, where you can confine this villain, and take such measures as you may think proper. Inform Webber of the circumstances, and say that Edward Merton has gone in pursuit of his ward."

    "His ward!" echoed Bernard and Tyrone in a breath.

    "Even so; adieu!" and mounting his horse, which stood by him, while speaking, he drove the spurs into his sides, and dashed on in pursuit of the kidnapper, with that wild, reckless daring, that uncertainty of purpose, which hot-brained youth ever exhibits, ere subdued by the stern, calm teachings of experience.

    "Heavens!" exclaimed Tyrone, as Merton rode away, ere he was fully aware of his purpose; "his rashness may spoil all. But come, Bernard, let us take this cut-throat along, and forward to Webber's as soon as possible."

    "Wal, that's to my notion exactly," returned Bernard. "So, Mr. Jack Curdish, you didn't quite come it this ere time, I guess, did ye? Pre'aps you'll have better luck agin you git another such a chance. If I's you, I wouldn't holler and laugh quite so loud next time; I'd du it all a great deal more stiller like; I would, I swow, that's a fact."

    "Curses on ye!" growled Curdish between his clenched teeth. "I'll pay ye some day, hang me if I don't!"

    "O, you needn't cuss and squirm, 'cause 't wont be o' no use, not a darned bit. I guess I've seen chaps afore to-day git cured, when they got a little obstropulous, mighty tarnal quick too; so come along with ye;" and taking hold of one arm, while Tyrone walked on the other side, the arm of which was broken by the shot of Bernard, they proceeded in the direction of Webber's, where they arrived in about an hour and a half, and where for the present we shall leave them.

    CHAPTER IV.

    THE PURSUIT—THE INFORMATION—THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGERS.

    Wild and turbulent as the waters that rushed along by his side, were the thoughts and feelings crowding the breast of Edward Merton, as he spurred his noble animal on through the ravine. His mind was now a perfect chaos, where hope and fear, love and revenge, were alternately struggling for the mastery. One thought, however, was ever uppermost: Emily Nevance must be rescued; but as to the manner time and place, he scarcely gave a thought; for amid the whirlwind of ideas crowding his brain, there were none of calm delit ration, so essential to the effecting of his purpose. As he cleared the ravine and entered the forest, he was very forcibly reminded of his headlong speed, by the stumbling of his horse against a tree that had been blown partly across the road, by which he was nearly thrown to the earth.

    Immediately dismounting, and finding his horse not materially injured—having only in one or two places slightly ruptured the skin—Merton seated himself upon the fallen tree, and for a few minutes seemed to hold a consultation with himself. Whatever this consultation was, it probably savored more of reason than his former transactions; for on remounting he proceeded at a much slower pace, his mind evidently occupied with matters which at first had been overlooked.

    "Yes, she must be saved!" exclaimed he, at length, vehemently. "But how is this to be done? where can I find her? for what purpose is she thus taken away? Doubtless for some foul end! Oh God! if she but come to harm—but no! no! I will not think it—it must not, shall not be!—and yet, and yet, if it should be"—and Edward pressed his hands to his throbbing, burning temples, in an agony of mind almost insupportable. "Oh, the villain! if he do but wrong her, I swear his heart's blood shall answer for it, though I spend a life in search for him! But why do I idle here, when perhaps I may overtake the ruffian—may save her from death, or what is worse, dishonor? Gods! if he wrong her!" and as he spoke, Merton buried the rowels in the flanks of the gallant horse which bore him, and again he was wildly dashing forward, seemingly forgetful of the former accident. But he remained unharmed, and a few minutes hard riding brought him to the cot which had protected him from the storm, when, as if struck by a sudden thought, he ejaculated, "Ha! I will know," and immediately reined in his noble beast, already covered with foam, close to the entrance. A loud hallo not serving to bring any one to the door, he sprang to the ground and for some time vigorously applied his fist to it with no better success. As he was about to remount, however, thinking there was no one within, the sound of smothered voices caught his ear and determined him to continue. His efforts were at last rewarded by a somewhat husky voice calling out:

    "Who's thar'?"

    "A friend!" replied Merton.

    "What d'ye want?"

    "To gain an entrance."

    "We don't never admit strangers arter night; call to-morrow."

    "I cannot delay!—my business is urgent."

    "Who d'ye want to see?"

    "Hetty Brogan."

    Here the smothered conversation was again renewed, which at length resulted in the door being unbolted, and a man's head peeping cautiously out.

    "Ar' ye alone?" enquired the same husky voice.

    "I am!" replied Merton.

    "What brings ye here?"

    "I wish to question Hetty Brogan."

    "Consarning fortins?"

    "Yes!"

    "Come in."

    Merton immediately secured his horse and entered. Some half smothered embers on a rude hearth cast forth a sombrous light, and served to relieve the various objects from total darkness. Hetty immediately came forward and enquired of Merton his business.

    "When I was here a short time since," answered he, "you warned me of danger lying on my path, to which I then gave little heed—for, to tell you the truth, I thought you deranged; but I have since learned the sad reality. I was felled from my horse by a ruffianly blow, while my companion was kidnapped and borne I know not whither. It matters not to me at present how you gained the knowledge you imparted, but I wish to know more. Tell me, if indeed you can tell, where she is at the present moment, or whither her destination, and you shall be richly rewarded."

    "To tell you whar' she is don't lay in my power. Her destination is—"

    "Where? where?—for Heaven's sake speak!" exclaimed Merton, as the old woman paused.

    "Thar', thar', don't git in a passion: you hain't said what you'd give to know; and I reckon as how Hetty Brogan arn't one as tells for nothing."

    "Speak, then! old woman; there is gold to unloose the hinges of your tongue!" cried Merton, placing in the hands of Hetty a well filled purse, which she grasped with avidity and dropped into a side pocket; then motioning him to a seat, she resumed:

    "Why, ye see, mister—what's yer name, sir?"

    "No matter! go on with your story!" said Merton, sternly.

    "Ye see, this ere ar' rather ticklish business; and I don't much like the idea o' gitting myself into a scrape, which prehaps I might do by telling a hot-headed younker like you, what you want to know consarning the gal, without first gitting precautions taken."

    "Do you mean to say you are going to refuse me the information for which you are already paid?" enquired Merton, angrily.

    "Now, now, don't be gitting angry, don't. I only wanted to make you promise you wont never in no way use this ar' information against me; `cause if some folks should find it out, my head wouldn't be worth that;" and she snapped her fingers.

    "Well, well, go on! I promise all you desire, on the honor of a gentleman," returned Merton, hastily.

    "Well, then, d'ye ever happen to hears o' old Ben David, the Jew, what lives on the bank of the Mississippi?"

    "Ay! heard of him for a cut-throat!"

    "Hush! not so loud."

    "Well, well!—speak, speak! what of him?"

    "Thar's whar' the gal's gone."

    "Gracious Heavens!" cried Merton, wildly, springing from his seat and clasping his forehead with his hand; "surely, surely not there! My God! what can be done? I will fly to her instantly!— but how gained you this information?—yet no matter!—I will fly this instant!" and Edward bounded to the door, where he suddenly recoiled as though met by some repulsive obstacle, while at the same instant the dark figure of a man filled the entrance, and a deep voice cried, "Hold!" The next moment the figure had advanced into the centre of the room and the door was again closed.

    "Hetty, what means this? who have we here?" asked the same deep, stern voice.

    "A—a—gen—a stranger, sir! as was just enquiring his way to the river, sir!" stammered Hetty, confusedly, who on the entrance of the last comer had retreated to the farther-side of the apartment, where the darkness screened her from observation.

    "Ha! you seem agitated! Beware now you deceive me! A light here!—quick—a light!"

    The individual whom we first noticed as questioning Merton previous to his entrance, and who had since remained a silent spectator, advanced to the fire and placed thereon a pine knot, which immediately sent forth a ruddy gleam, lighting the whole cabin and producing a picturesque effect. A momentary pause ensued, during which the gaze of Merton and the stranger met. The latter was tall, commanding in figure, with broad massive chest and limbs to correspond. The outline of his form was decidedly handsome, as was also that of his features, which although of a dark, almost dingy hue, were very expressive, and seemed lit up with the fires of a mighty, and but for a certain slight sinister expression, a noble soul. His eyes were dark and brilliant—his forehead broad and high, surmounted by jet-black hair, which fell down around his neck in long glossy ringlets. His face was medium in length, with rather prominent cheek-bones, cheeks a little dimpled, from which ran two gently curved lines, terminating at the corners of his mouth. His lips were thin and generally compressed— though when otherwise, turned up with something of a sneer. His chin rose prominently from a graceful curve below his mouth, on which was a handsome imperial, and ended with an oval turn. His dress was fashioned much like a sailor's. He wore a roundabout of dark blue cloth, richly embroidered with silk and tassel, tastefully set off by two rows of gold mounted buttons. Underneath of this he wore a fine blue shirt, with large open collar, falling negligently back from the neck, secured by a dark silk cravat, which was in turn secured by running through a plain gold ring. His nether garments were in singular contrast with his upper. His pantaloons of coarse, dark cloth, were fastened around the waist by a sort of wampum helt, in which were confined a knife and two pistols. They came a little below his knees, where they were met by leggins from the skin of deer, which connecting with moceasins, formed a sort of rough boot. On his head he wore a singular covering of untanned leather, shaped something between a hat and cap. Altogether, his whole appearance bespoke a man of a wild, reckless, yet withal, fanciful disposition.

    For a moment he stood gazing on Merton with a severe expression—his dark eyes gleaming with unusual brightness—his broad forehead gradually contracting into a frown, as he found his bold gaze returned by one equally bold and unquailing.

    "Who are you, and what is your business here?" demanded he, in the tone of one who deems he has a right to know.

    "Ere I answer," replied Merton, somewhat haughtily, without removing his gaze, "I would know by what right you question."

    "By the right of might!" rejoined the other quickly, his dark eyes flashing.

    "Indeed!"

    "Ay, sir, indeed!" and his lips parted with a sneer. "Come, sir, do not trifle!" he resumed, again compressing his lips. "If you are unfortunate, speak out, and if it is in my power I will assist you; but if you are beat on an evil errand"— and his eyes flashed fiercely—" beware!"

    "My errand is truly not one of evil, and I am rather unfortunate," returned Merton, struck by a singular frankness about the other, and thinking he might perhaps render him assistance. "But whom have I the honor of addressing?"

    "I am called Barton. But go on! go on! I would know your story!" he added hastily.

    Merton simply related some of the incidents with which the reader is already acquainted.

    "Ha!" exclaimed Barton—as Edward concluded his account of the kidnapping of Emily—"and you are now in pursuit?"

    "I am."

    "But where can the villain have borne her? Here, Hetty, you pretend in second sight, give us the desired information!"

    "Why rea-really sir, I—"

    "Speak, woman!" interrupted Barton, fiercely. "You know me;" he muttered in an under tone.

    "I-I thinks to-to-David's, sir!" stammered Hetty, turning pale and trembling.

    "What, the Jew!" cried Barton, with a start. "Here, young man;" and turning to Edward, he hastily drew from his finger a curiously wrought ring; "take this, and speed! speed! for there is not a moment to be lost. Do you know the residence of the Jew?"

    "I know the vicinity, and can find it," answered Edward.

    "Enough, then! away, away! for you have no time to lose. Find the Jew, present this ring, and demand the girl. He will not refuse your demand. He dare not!" added Barton, with strong emphasis, as he saw Edward look incredulous.

    "But—"

    "Nay, young man, no questions now. I will see you anon and explain all. Enough, that I have taken a fancy, and am willing to serve you. But come, come—away, away, or you may be too late!" and hurrying Merton from the house, Barton assisted him to mount, and then turned away with an abrupt "adieu!" Once more burying the rowels in his horse, in an instant Merton was rapidly speeding on to the great river, lost in vague conjectures concerning this singular individual, and how his own strange adventure might terminate.

    CHAPTER V.

    THE JEW—THE KIDNAPPER—THE RESCUE.

    On the margin of the Mississippi, some eight or ten miles below St. Louis, stood, at the time of which we write, an old, somewhat dilapidated, and apparently untenanted log hut. Although standing on the bank of the river, it was well screened from observation by thick branching trees and a dense shrubbery, which completely surrounded it. The ground in the rear of it was mostly level; but in front, it abruptly descended to the river, which came sweeping along some thirty yards below. The hut itself, on close inspection, presented both externally and internally a very disagreeable appearance. It contained but one apartment, if we except a place partitioned off at one end, for what purpose may, perhaps, be seen hereafter. However ugly and disagreeable the matter may prove, dear reader, it now becomes necessary for us to introduce you within the precints of this old dwelling—for dwelling indeed it was—at an hour not the most agreeable, were you obliged to enter corporeally.

    Seated upon an old stool, beside a small table, on which his elbow rested, his head in turn resting upon his hand, was a man over whom some sixty years had made their circling rounds. One hand held a paper, on which he was intently gazing, while some few others were scattered carelessly over the table. It was near the "witching time of night," and a dim, flickering candle served to show the outline of his form, and bring his features into a more bold relief. His countenance was strongly marked by several lines which depicted cunning and avarice to a remarkable degree. His eyes were small, dark and piercing, and were surmounted by heavy beetling brows. His forehead was low, and deeply wrinkled; and his head, though a little bald, was generally covered with long hair, besprinkled with the silver touches of time. The most striking feature of his face, was his nose; being long, pointed and aquiine— denoting him to be one of that often despised race, the Jew. His beard was suffered to grow, unmolested by the civilizing touches of a razor; was rough, of a dirty brown color; and came below his chin sufficiently, with his head bent forward, to rest on his bosom. His skin was dark and filthy, deeply wrinkled, and begrimed with dirt. Altogether his whole appearance betokeued a man full of treachery and deceit; of dark sinister motives; and one who, to a person of the least refined taste, would prove repugnant in the extreme.

    He was seated as before said, intently gazing on a paper held in his hand, which trembling in the light, threw over his swarthy, hideous features a flitting shade; making them, if possible, even more hideous in expression. Gradually his small, while a sinister smile hovered around the corners of his mouth, as he uttered a low, chuckling laugh.— Suddenly starting, a paleness overspread his countenance, the paper dropped from his hand, and he looked hurriedly around the room, vainly endeavoring to peer into the darkness, his limbs trembling with cowardly fear, exclaiming:

    "Ha! mine Gott! vot wash dat? O! poh, poh! twas noshings; vot fors should I pees afraids?— noshings vill hurtish me;" and turning to the table, he again took up the paper, muttering— "Dis ish von good documents, as shall makes mine fortunes. De old Jew vill von days pe a very great mans, mid a young handsome wifes;" and again he chuckled, with a fiendish glee.

    Scanning the papers for a few minutes, he commenced rolling them carefully together, and ended by securing them with a string. When done, he laid the roll upon the table before him, and gazed upon it long and wistfully:—then rising from his seat, he shuffled slowly across the apartment, to the place already mentioned as being partitioned off, where disappearing for a few minutes, he reappeared, returned, reseated himself on his stool, crossed his arms an the table, bent his head forward, and, judging from his vacant stare, was soon engaged in some deep study.

    "Ha! mine Gott! but dey mush succeeds!" exclaimed he, at length, as though speaking from a train of thought:—"yet I fears dat infernal showers will make it too mush bad. Ah! vot wash dat!" cried he suddenly, starting up and bending forward in alistening attitude. "Blessed pe Fader Abram! dat ish de signals," continued he, rubbing his hands, chuckling, and advancing towards the door, as a clear, shrill whistle rang through the hovel. "Ah, mine Gott! mine Gott! von day nows I shall haves plenty of monish;" and he attempted a feeble imitation at dancing, which, with his stooped figure and trembling limbs, presented a spectacle disgusting as it was ridiculous.

    Advancing to the door, the opened it, gave an answering signal from a piece of ivory which he applied to his mouth, and then leaned against the door post, as if in expectation of some visitor.— For some minutes all was silent, and then came the sound of approaching footsteps, with which was occasionally mingled a grunt and a deep muttered curse, as though the comer was toiling with some heavy burthen. Directly the figure of a man was seen struggling through the bushes, bearing a human body in his arms, and a moment after, entering the hovel, he deposited it on the ground.

    "Thar,' Mister Jew David, when you want another gal cotched, I reckons as how you'll have to cotch her yerself—for Bill Riley aint found on such an errand agin, not afore this scrape's forgot, anyhow."

    "Vare ish Mistoor Jacks?" enquired the Jew.

    "Why ye see, old feller, that ar's much easier axed, than answered. Most likely he's in a straight jacket by this time, if he arn't already bored through the body. I did'nt wait to see how it come out, for I thought one was about as many as I could tend on, conveniently."

    "Vy, vot dosh you means?" cried the Jew, in alarm.

    "O, nothing much, only somebody happened to hear what was a goin' on, and come up in a hurry, pistol in hand, which probably went off accidentally, and ye see Jack arn't here; that's all I know about it."

    "Oh, mine Gott! mine Gott! do you thinks Jacks vosh kilt?" enquired the Jew, his dark eyes gleaming strangely.

    "Can't say—most likely he's dead by this time."

    A low, half-smothered chuckle escaped the Jew, which Bill overheard, and turning fiercely to him, exclaimed:

    "Look ye here, old rough-head! I believe you're a most outrageous, old villainous cut-throat! I do upon my honor."

    "Vot fors you shays dat?" asked the Jew, with a savage grin.

    "Cause I jest think so, and I al'ays like to speak my mind. Here you are now, laughing to yerself, for ye darn't to laugh out like a man, thinking Jack, poor feller's, dead. Well, it's lucky for you if he is: that's my opinion about it."

    "Vot for you shays dat?" repeated the Jew, turning a little pale.

    "Come, come, old feller, not so fast. Bill Riley don't peach; if he did"—and he looked keenly at the Jew, drawing his right hand obliquely across his throat, making a gurgling sound— "somebody might get that ar' you know. But come," he added, "I've done the job, and now I'll trouble you for the chinkers—a cool hundred, you remember."

    "Oh, mine Gott! it vosh but fifty!" cried the Jew, starting back.

    "Fifty apiece, old covey, and thar's two on us, which jest makes it a hundred. As Jack's not here, I'll jest take his for him, and in case I cum across him, its easily paid over, ye see."

    "Oh, mine Gott! I vill not not do so," whimpered the Jew, who in Jack's absence thought he might cheat him of his share.

    "You won't, eh?" exclaimed Bill, advancing to the table and returning with the light, which he held close to the features of Emily, who lay extended on the ground, pale and motionless, yet even lovely withal: "Look thar,' Jew! d'ye see that ar' innocent young lady, whom God forgive me, for bringing into harm's way! D'ye see her? Now look at me;" and he drew himself up to his full height, bringing the light full in front of his face, while the Jew stood wondering:—"Look well! d'ye see me? do I look like a feller that can be trifled with?" Then drawing a pistol, he raised it to a level with the head of David, who turned pale, trembled, and threw up his hands in an imploring attitude as he continued: "Now mark me, Jew David, if them ar' chinkers arn't forthcoming in about two minutes, I'll send a bullet through your head, by—!" and he concluded with an oath.

    "Oh, Fader Abram!" exclaimed the Jew, trembling like an aspen leaf; "poot down de pishtools, Mistoor Rileys, and you shall haves de monish."

    For a moment the other stood gazing on him with a look of ineffable scorn, and as he did so, the trio formed a scene worthy the pencil of an artist.

    Near the centre of the room was Riley, his tall straight form drawn proudly up, one foot thrown a little back, his right hand grasping a pistol, his left the light, which throwing its gleams upon his countenance, exhibited it in strong relief. His features were not handsome—strictly speaking— and yet they were well formed; the outlines bold and rather prepossessing. Their expression was stern, rather than villainous, and his clear, bold, grey eyes, which were now fastened with intensity upon the Jew, spoke more the courage of a man, than the braggadocio of a scoundrel. There was something in his look which told you he would do what he said; and one that to trifle with under circumstances like the present, would prove a dangerous individual. His lips thin, and generally close drawn over his teeth, were now parted and slightly drawn up with a sneer, wherein was concentrated all the scorn which a truly brave man feels at the sight of a whimpering, cowardly ruffian. Some two or three feet in front of Riley, stood the Jew; his withered form, blanched cheeks, quivering lips and trembling limbs, presenting a striking contrast. Ay, he, the dastardly cutthroat, who would not flinch from burying the murderer's dagger in the heart of some poor, unsuspecting victim, now quaked and trembled at only the bare thought of death overtaking his shriveled, worthless carcase! A little to the left of Riley, lay the apparently lifeless form of Emily Nevance; her pale features looking even more pale and death-like, as the dim light of the lamp fell faintly upon her lovely, upturned countenance; while night formed the back-ground, and compietely encircling them, threw a dark veil over surrounding objects.

    After gazing a moment on the Jew, Riley advanced to the table, replaced the light, seated himself on the stool, and then bade the Israelite "make haste with the chinkers."

    Old David tottered slowly across the apartment, to the closet before spoken of, groaning at the very idea of parting with so much money; but presently he returned, bringing with him a leathern purse, which he emptied on the table, exclaiming;

    "Dare, Mistoor Rileys, ish all my monish.— Oh! mine Gott! I shall always more pe one ruined mans."

    Riley deigned no reply, but cooly commenced counting the money and transferring it to his pockets. Then turning to the Jew, he enquired what he intended to do with the lady.

    The Jew looked at him steadily for a moment, and then as if satisfied there was nothing to fear, replied, with a grin, his small black eyes twinkling with savage humor:

    "Vy, Mistoor Rileys, I tinks I shall makes her my vife."

    "Your what?" cried Bill, half starting up.

    "My vife," repeated the Jew, scarcely knowing whether to be alarmed or not.

    "Your wife, eh? ha, ha, ha!—that's capital; a mighty good joke that, old boy—ha, ha, ha!— You're such a good looking, soft eyed, clean faced old beauty, that if the lady don't fall in love with ye at first sight, you'll have the perticular satisfaction o' knowing the fault warn't yours, anyhow— ha, ha, ha!"

    "He, he, he!" laughed the Jew, grinning hideously.

    "But I say, Jew, what's yer object in throwin' yerself away at such a tender age?"

    "Vot fors mine objects?" repeated the Jew, enquiringly.

    "Yes! what'll ye get by marryin' this ere lady? for in course ye'll gain somethin' or yer wouldn't do it."

    "O, mine Gott! I shall marrys for loves, Mistoor Rileys;" replied the Jew, with stoical gravity.

    "For love, eh?—ha, ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho!" roared Bill, holding his sides:—"For love, eh?" and again he went into convulsive fits of laughter. "Why you confounded, stupid old heathen! do you think as how you can make an ass o' Bill Riley? Do you really think thar's anything perticularly verdant about him? Love—paugh! your shrivelled old carcase never fell in love with anything yet, unless thar' was "monish" attached to't. Now jest mark me!" continued he, looking steadily at the Jew, raising the forefinger of his right hand, and assuming a serious tone of voice: "Thar's a mystery connected with this ere business, and per'aps you thinks as how you can blind me, and per'aps you may; but I tell you one thing, bewar' what you do! for if this ere gal comes to harm, through your doings, I, Bill Riley, swear by the honor of a gentleman, to send a bullet through yer loathsome carcase! I do, by heavens! And Jew, I know more consarnin' this, than you're a thinkin' on. Thar's some secret connected with this gal's birth, and you intend crossin' the big waters."

    The Jew started back, exclaiming: "Vy, how you finds dat outs?"

    "Ha! then I'm right there," thought Bill.— "No matter how I found it out," he replied; "but ye see I know a little what's a goin' on, so have a care friend David. But enough! I'll have to begin to travel; so good bye, old boy, and jest keep yer eye skinned for squalls;" and rising as he spoke, he moved for the door.

    At this juncture, Emily, whom they supposed lay in a swoon, but who in reality bad feigned it, in order to learn as much as possible regarding the wherefore of her capture; and who, thinking from the foregoing conversation there might be something gained by appealing to the feelings of Riley; uttered a scream, and sprang into a sitting posture, exclaiming:

    "Save me, save me!" But her plan did not succeed. Riley, either fearful of being discovered, or that she might work upon his feelings, pushed quickly forward and disappeared.

    As the door closed behind the kidnapper, the Jew looked hurriedly around, gave a low chuckle, rubbed his hands together, and advanced towards Emily, who instantly sprang to her feet. Recoiling a step or two, he gazed upon her with undisguised admiration, as well he might. Her beauful figure drawn gracefully up, the flush of excitement mounting her face and neck with a ruddy glow, her proud lip curling with a look of scorn, again reflected from her brilliant, dark blue eyes, as she crossed her arms on her breast and stood regarding him; formed a picture which might win the admiration of even a miserly cutthroat.

    "O, mine Gott! she does looks so mush pooty!" cried the Jew—"Vot a fine wifes!"

    "Jew," began Emily, in a dignified tone, "what means this? why have I been brought hither?"

    For a moment the Jew looked at her steadily, and as he did so, his ugly features contracted into a grin, followed by a low chuckle.

    "You ish very mush pootish, gal," he replied, "and Ben David vill makes you his wifes."

    "Never!" cried Emily, in a voice so loud, bold and firm, that the Jew involuntarily started back "Never, sir! I become your wife? No! sooner would I die a thousand deaths!"

    "O, mine Gott! she does looks so mush pootish!" exclaimed old David, recovering from his surprise as Emily ceased, and gazing upon her with a doting look of exultation. "Come, young ladish, we vill takes a walk," continued he, approaching and taking hold of her arm, which she threw off with a contemptuous look,—at the same time drawing a dagger from the folds of her dress, while the Jew again started suddenly back, she exclaimed:

    Beware, Jew, beware! It were better for you to beard a lion in his den, than a woman armed, in my situation. Do not attempt to touch me with your foul, polluted hands, or your much fouler soul, thrice damned with sin, with all its hideous weight of guilt, shall wing its flight and stand arraigned before the bar of the eternal God! And Jew," continued she solemnly, "there is a God! and one of justice."

    So sudden the action, so bold the movement, so solemn the tone of Emily, all combined, took the Jew completely by surprise; and he stood for a moment, gazing upon her dark blue, soul-speaking eyes, with alook wherein was blended all the awe, admiration and respect, which one like him was capable of expressing. It was but for a moment however. A dark shade suddenly flitted across his forehead; his eyes shot forth strange, savage gleams; his lips quivered, as he attempted to compress them over his almost toothless gums, and he bent on Emily a look so full of the expression of a fiend, that she felt her eye quail, while the blood receded to her heart and a tremor of secret terror ran throughout her system.

    Applying the ivory to his lips, the Jew gave a peculiar whistle, which was immediately answered from without. A minute later, two figures entered the doorway; and ere Emily had fairly comprehended what was going forward, she found herself pinioned in the grasp of two ruffians.

    "Oh!" exclaimed she, "all is lost!" and she uttered a heart-piercing scream.

    The Jew chuckled merrily, and advancing toward her, until she felt his very breath on her face, said:

    "You looks very mush more pootish;" and he attempted to press his loathsome lips against her face. Recoiling as much as lay in her power— each wrist being grasped by the strong arm of a man—Emily managed to evade what she would have suffered death sooner than permitted, a kiss from the Jew. At this moment she thought of Edward, and scarcely knowing why, she called upon his name for help.

    "Vot fors you calls?" chuckled the Jew. "Mistoor Edwards vill not comes!"

    "'Tis a lie!" uttered a deep, manly voice, that made Emily scream for joy, as the figure of a man sprang quickly forward, a pistol in either hand, still exclaiming:—"Back, fiends of hell! back! ere I send a bullet through your brains!" and the next instant Emily was clasped in the arms of Edward Merton, who pressed her to his bosom with all the wild foundness of a first passionate love.

    After leaving Merton in the previous chapter, he had ridden quickly forward, but had been somewhat delayed, as the exact location of the old hut was unknown to him. He had secured his horse at a short distance, and was searching along the bank of the river, assisted by the light of the moon, which pouring down her silvery flood of light, gave to each thing a calm and pleasing effect— when the scream of Emily arresting his attention, effectually enabled him to find the house; which being completely surrounded by trees and bushes, had thus far eluded his observation. Instantly springing forward, he reached the entrance just in time to hear the voice of her he loved, in tones that went to his very soul, calling on him for help, and the taunting reply of the Jew. Mad, almost, with hope, rage and fear combined, he entered as described; but so suddenly, and unexpectedly, that the ruffians relaxed their hold and retreated to the farther side of the apartment; while the Jew, not knowing what he had to fear, stood trembling with very fright. Seeing there was but one, however, he somewhat recovered, exclaiming:

    "Vy you don't sheize him? vot fors you ish afraids?"

    "Off, ruffians, off! or by heavens you journey to another world!" cried Merton, springing in front of Emily. "And as for you, old dastardly cutthroat!" continued he, turning to David, as the ruffians paused—"I have a word to say, which you will do well to heed! This girl I demand by virtue of this ring!" and as he spoke, he presented the one given him by Barton.

    Whether Merton expected this to have any effect on the Jew or not, certain it is that he was very much surprised at the singular change it did effect; for the Jew instantly advanced in a fawning manner, while the ruffians slunk quietly away. Content that his purpose was gained, without seeking the mysterious cause, Merton, accompanied by Emily, quitted the hovel as soon as possible. The Jew followed them to the door, whispering them a good night, pleasant journey and so forth, and even went so far as to offer his service as a guide, which of course was declined. As Merton entered the bushes, he looked back and saw the Jew standing in the doorway, his face upturned as though gazing at the stars. At this moment a cloud which had obseured the rays of the moon passed, and the light streaming full upon his countenance, exhibited features so wrought up in expression with all that was dark, treacherous and devilish, that in Merton's estimation the owner was well worthy to become the master fiend of hell itself.

    A short walk of a few minutes brought them to the spot where Merton had left his horse, when to the surprise of both, they found the one Emily had ridden standing along side. Merton accounted for this by supposing that the kidnapper, either forgetting, or not having any further use, had left her at liberty, when attracted by the neighing of Sir Harry she had sought him out. Assisting Emily to mount, he was soon once more astride his own fine steed; and moving away with lightened hearts, they were shortly traversing a path which led on toward Webber's, engaged in mutual explanations of what had occurred to each in the others absence; and if in doing so, Merton did ride a little closer to the side of Emily than was actually necessary—and if when the moon shone full on her fair countenance, he did bend forward and gaze thereon with a look of fondness that told of holy love, drinking in the glances of her dark blue eyes—and if in attempting to lay hold of her bridle-rein, to guide her horse in the better path, he sometimes touched her hand, pressing it within his own, and whispered words so soft and low the very zephyrs could not catch their import, causing her head to droop, while a rosy tint sprang brightly o'er her face,— is it anything that the reader should stop to wonder at? We think not. Very few but would have done the same under like circumstances.

    CHAPTER VI.

    WEBBER AND HIS FAMILY—RETROSPECTION—MYSTERY— EMILY NEVANCE.

    About five miles from the place where our tale first opens and in a southwesterly direction, stood a neat cottage, in size and appearance greatly the superior of the generality of these buildings, erected in this part of the country. It was composed of logs it is true, but then parts of them were hewn and put together with compactness and regularity, while the crevices were neatly filled with a clay-like substance. The roof was pierced by a chimney built of stone, and was well thatched with straw. A stranger, after traveling through much of the surrounding country, would have been struck with the air of taste and elegant neatness belonging to it, compared with the more slovenly appearance of many of its neighbors. The ground round about, was generally level, of a fertile order, and exhibited marks of fruitful tillage. In the immediate vicinity of the cottage, grass had sprung up, forming a thick green sward, a sure indicative of civilization. A few fences, rough it is true, but still answering the purpose for which they were designed, marked out the fields of tillage, and secured the crops from the invasion of cattle. In the rear of the cottage, was formed a garden; back of which, in orchard regularity, were set out various kinds of domestic trees—such as the apple, pear, peach, and so forth. Opposite the house, some hundred yards distant, was a barn, built of logs, where the cattle could find shelter from the rough storms of winter. In front of the house ran the road before mentioned, which wound over a hill a short distance to the right. Altogether, the whole betokened the owner a farmer of the first class, bred in some of the Eastern States, who had come to the "Far West" with the intention of here passing the remainder of his days. Such was the fact; and although in speaking of him and his family, we may digress a little from the main story, we trust the reader will deem such digression pardonable.

    William Webber was a man in size far above the ordinary—standing six feet one inch, with limbs and body well proportioned. In years he numbered some forty-five, with a robust, healthy look about his face that would have set him five years younger. There was nothing remarkable in his countenance, which was open and frank in expression, wherein was likewise written a look of honest hospitality. His complexion was light, with light-brown hair, cut close and combed up above a high, intellectual forehead. His eyes were grey, full, and very expressive, as were his features generally. Around his mouth were a few lines that denoted firmness, when roused, with courage to act; while his features exhibited a calm self-possession that would be of very material service to one in the hour of peril.

    He had been born and bred in the good old State of Massachusetts, where he lived in comfortable circumstances, until about five years previous to the opening of our story; when following up a desire he had for sometime entertained, he came to the West, purchased the land where he now resided, built the cottage, returned, and soon removed his family hither; which consisted of a wife and two sons—one now aged twenty, the other some three years his elder.

    His wife was a robust, healthy looking woman, some five years his junior, of the medium height, very fleshy, with a full, round, good-natured-looking countenance, such as we behold almost daily, and one to whom the adage, "fat, fair and forty," would be truly applicable.

    The eldest son, John, in some respects resembled his father—tall, well-built, with features of a similar shape, though in expression far different. In saying there was a resemblance between him and his father, we wish the reader to distinctly understand it was only in the formation of the features— all else being totally different. His complexion was dark, with jet black hair, and eyes somewhat shaded by dark, heavy, overhanging brows. Around his mouth were lines similar to those of his father, yet taking more of a sinister turn. His look generally, was that of a man dark, deep, and treacherous, and one little likely to inspire confidence. But it was when he smiled, which he did but seldom, that you would have been the most struck by an expression from which you would involuntarily recoil, as from the gaze of a deadly serpent.

    From youth up, John had been a being isolated as it were from the world, wrapped up in his own dark thoughts, communing but seldom with any, and then with those of a disposition like to his own. Already had he caused his father much anxiety and trouble; and was, in fact, one cause of his removing to the West, where he thought he would be free from the snares and temptations likely to be thrown around him in the East, and where as he supposed he would be free at least from companions in vice, and where, to sum up, he would in all probability spend his days in honest pursuits. Could the first design of his father have been strictly carried out, viz: that of removing him from temptation, bad company, and so forth, the latter might perchance have followed. But alas! in selecting the West, and more especially this part of it, he undesignedly opened a field for the cultivation of his son's natural disposition, by throwing him among the most depraved villains of which society could boast. That he was an apt scholar, the sequel of our story will probably show.

    His brother Rufus, younger by three years, was of a make and disposition in every respect totally different. In stature he was of the medium size, straight and slim, with light hair, and a fair, sunny countenance. His features were regular, approaching perhaps a little too much the feminine, with such an open, expressive frankness of look, that your confidence was immediately won. His disposition was mild and affable, his voice rich and musical in tone, while his full blue eyes not unfrequently flashed forth gleams of a lofty intellect. Around his mouth also, were lines similar to those of his father, expressive of firmness and a determination of character.

    There is one other of whom we must speak to complete the family, in order to do which it will be necessary for us to go back somewhat in our narrative. About fifteen years prior to the date of our story, a stranger, accompanied by a little girl some three years of age, cailed late one evening at the residence of Webber, and requested permission to tarry through the night, which request was granted. He was a dark, stern looking man, some thirty-five years of age, and of a moody, taciturn disposition. But little was gleaned from his conversation, as to who he was or whence he came. In the morning he asked permission for the child to remain a few days, stating as a reason that business of importance called him away. The permission was granted and he took his leave, since when he had never been heard from. Enquiries were instituted by Webber, but nothing authentic had ever been heard concerning him. A man answering his description was seen a short time after in the western part of New York, apparently bound for the West; and Webber came to the conclusion the child had been voluntarily deserted; the more so, as on questioning her, the account she gave was of harsh treatment, and sometimes severe chastisement, for asking of home. The child was too young to give even a succinct detail of her adventures, remembering only some of the more glaring, such as the dark man carrying her away from home, putting her in a house that floated on the water, and the like—from all of which Webber drew his conclusions that she had been brought from another country, perhaps across the Atlantic, by an intrigueing design he was unable to fathom.

    It was a riddle too deep for the gossips infesting the neighborhood of Webber (as what place do they not) to solve, concerning who was the child, who were her parents, where she came from, and so forth; and after various conjectures, probable and improbable, they finally agreed that her parents were no better than they should be, and that being of that doubtful cast, it were better to shun the company of the child, lest by intercourse their prudish decorum should be vielated, and their over-wise virtuous principles become contaminated.

    So much for ye, moth-eaters of reputation colleagues of idleness and breeders of scandal!— who "strain at a knat and swallow a camel"— blasting all with your polluted breath whom the world hath not acknowledged above your reach— preying upon society as the worm will sooner or later prey upon your corrupted flesh!—God send that the innocent and harmless wanderer be not caught within your damning toils!

    If the child was shunned by some, she was not by all; for Webber, to whom she soon became an object of affection, determined to rear her as though she were his own; and as she grew older, he had no cause to regret it; for naturally of a sweet, affectionate disposition, she won friends among those who were at first disposed to treat her uncivilly, while to Webber she clung with all the fondness of a child to a parent.

    Time in the meanwhile rolled on, and what at first created a great commotion among the gossips, gradually wore away, settled down into a shake of the head whenever the object of calumny approached, until at length, won over in spite of themselves by her angel disposition, even the retailers of scandal ceased their persecutions and the unknown wanderer became an object of general regard.

    About this period an event took place, which created another mighty sensation, although gossip this time ran in a very different channel from the previous one. It was a calm summer evening in the month of August. The sun had just retired behind the Western hill, and was yet tipping the mountain tops with a rich golden tint; the songsters were singing their farewell songs for the night; the breeze came with that gentle, soothing effect, so delightful on such an eve, making one feel that placid, yet saddened happiness, which wins our thoughts from the darker things of life, and directs them into a higher, nobler, holier vein. Around the porch of Webber's dwelling were seated himself, wife, and two children— one a fair-haired boy of winning appearance, the other a girl of bright eyes and golden tresses, whose age might be thirteen. In the countenance of the latter there was something so noble, so fascinating, combined with such a quiet, thoughtful, almost melancholy air, that ten to one a stranger would have paused to wonder why one so young should bear the look of maturer years. As Webber gazed upon her, and mused on her sad, singular fate—torn from home and friends at so early an age—thrown upon the world for protection, and thought what if such had been the case with one of his own children, he involuntarily hove a sigh, and vowed to watch over her with more than a parent's care.

    Suddenly the attention of the group, which had been occupied in various ways, was arrested by the rapid approach of a horseman. A minute later he was standing among them, his horse foaming and panting from hard riding, while with his own head uncovered he wiped the perspiration from his heated brow.

    "Is your name Webber?" demanded he of that individual.

    "It is."

    "William Webber?"

    "The same."

    "Ten years ago a stranger left with you a little girl: am I right?"

    "You are," answered Webber, wondering what was to be revealed. "This is the child;" and he pointed towards her.

    The stranger turned an enquiring glance, examined her attentively from head to foot, apparently much struck by her appearance, and then said abruptly: "Enough! I am commanded to deliver you this packet;" saying which he placed a sealed package in Webber's hand—turned— mounted his horse—dashed the spurs into his sides, and ere the astonished group had recovered from their surprise, he was fast speeding out of sight.

    "Strange," remarked Webber, breaking the seal; "what new mystery is this?" As he spoke, he opened the parcel, and was surprised to find ten one hundred dollar notes, accompanied with the following singular epistle:

    "To William Webber, greeting:—Ten years since was placed in your charge a child, who bears or bore the name of Emily Nevance. In the name of God! treat her well! Educate her for any station in society, and accept the notes enclosed, with the thanks of the

    Unknown."

    CHAPTER VI.

    Great was the wonderment among the gossips, when the news went forth of Emily's great fortune,— for rumor soon swelled it into a fortune— and the following six months were employed by all the unmarriageable spinsters and old ladies with spectacles, in conjectures and discussions as to the strange singularity of such an event; and she who had in her earlier years been considered in birth far beneath them, was now, by this incident, placed far above. Oh! the inconsistency of human beings!

    A new epoch was now opened to Emily; for Webber, punctual to what he considered a duty, took immediate steps to place her in one of the best institutions in the city of New York, in charge of a distant relative, who, moving in the best circles of society, gave her not only the advantages of intellectual education, but also that of acquiring the ease, grace and dignity belonging to the true etiquette of fashion. Soon after this disposition of Emily, Webber made a tour to the West, purchased a farm as already shown, and removed thither with his family.

    Four years passed, and Emily saw nothing of the Webbers. During this period she had grown to womanhood, and what had promised so well when young, was amply fulfilled in maturer years. She became attractive in person, graceful in accomplishments, while her intellectual faculties far exceeded ordinary minds. Her temperament was truly poetic, with nothing of affectation or coquetry (which spoils so many) in her manner.— She was a warm patriot and enthusiast; and when conversing on some noble theme, dull must be the eye that would not flash, or the mind that would not fire, with the inspiration thrown from her speaking eyes and glowing flowery language.

    It was in New York that Edward Merton, then a student in the University, first became acquainted with Emily; and struck, we might add fascinated, with manners and appearance so far above the gay flirting things with which she was surrounded, he sought, gained an introduction, and almost immediately commenced paying her his addresses. The result of those addresses, thus far, the reader has already seen.

    Although it was generally believed that Emily was rich, yet she knew to the contrary; and possessed of a pride too noble to take advantage of such a reputation, she, through a sensitive delicacy, repulsed the advancements often made by those whom she considered her superiors in point of wealth. Wealth was certainly a great bar to the progress of Merton; a bar, in fact, which he found far more difficult to pass than he at first supposed; and although his nobleness of heart, his sincere, ardent passion, inspired within her own breast feelings of affection—of love—yet pride prevailed; and Merton, to whom she revealed her scruples, saw with painful regret that unless there were some counteracting power, Emily might love, but would never consent to be his.

    Tired of city life, and the gay frivolties of the day, Emily longed for the quiet retreat of her guardian; and having made preparations to that effect, about six months prior to the opening of our story, she, accompanied by Merton, whose father resided in St. Louis, set out for the West.

    Happy, most happy, was the meeting between Emily and her friends, who had been to her as parents and brothers. Webber, when he came fairly to recognise the "long lost one," as he termed her, could scarcely restrain himself for joy.— Even John, as he extended the hand of welcome, seemed to smile with less of deceit and more of earnestness than was his wont; while Rufus approached her with that bashful timidity, almost amounting to awe, which persons of sensitive minds often exhibit when they fancy themselves in the presence of their superiors.

    A great change had been wrought in the personal appearance of Emily. She had left them as it were a child, and as such they remembered her; consequently there was surprise mingled with their joy, to behold such a fine, graceful, lady-like form, combined with such ease and dignity of manner, returned in place of the image on which memory still dwelt. But as it is not our purpose to enter into details here, therefore let it suffice, that up to the time of the commencement of our story, things had run on smoothly.

    Merton, whose collegiate course was finished, was now preparing to practice law in St. Louis; but sometimes finding bright eyes a much more pleasing study, not unfrequently wandered off in the direction of Webber's; and almost as frequently, through a singular coincidence, he and Emily might be seen mounted on their fine steeds, scouring the country in various directions:—in fact, it was on one of these excursions, in which they were first introduced to the reader. As their proceedings since then have been made known, we trust sufficient has been said to justify us in proceeding with our tale.

    CHAPTER VII.

    WEBBER'S—SINGULAR CONDUCT OF RUFUS—ARRIVAL OF BERNARD AND TYRONE WITH THEIR PRISONER— ILLNESS OF RUFUS—RETURN OF EDWARD AND EMILY—MORE MYSTERY.

    At the time of which we write, the unsettled state of the country required every settler to be as much as possible on his guard, and for this purpose Webber had provided his house with a heavy oaken door, strengthened still more by cross bars of iron, through which passed bolts of the same solid material. The windows were protected by shutters similar to the door, and when closed, which could be done almost at a moment's notice, the house, manned by a few within, seemed of sufficient strength to withstand a regular seige. A few loop-holes, cut here and there, would enable those within to fire on an attacking party, with but little danger to themselves. The main, in fact the only entrance to the house, was by the door already mentioned, which opened into a hall running through the centre of the building, on either side of which was a door, opening in turn into other apartments. To the right of the entrance was a room of good dimensions, comfortably furnished, containing an old fashioned fire-place, where the meals were cooked and served, and where the family generally assembled. From this apartment was a stair-case leading to a floor above, which ran along under the roof, forming a place of deposit for old rubbish, and which, if necessary, could be used as a sleeping room. The cottage was well furnished throughout, better than could reasonably have been expected in this part of the country—Webber having brought much of the furniture with him from the East.

    In the apartment to the right, just spoken of, on the evening of the day which opens our tale, were assembled Webber, his wife and younger son. In the middle of the floor stood a table, covered with a clean white cloth, on which were ranged various dishes, some evidently used, while others remained untouched in their places, indicating that a part of the family, and a part only, had partaken of the evening's repast. A candle placed on the table, served to light the apartment and exhibit the features of the occupants, all of whom seemed to wear an air of gloomy apprehension.— The doors and windows being thrown open, admitted the breeze, which came with a cool and invigorating effect. For some minutes the silence remained unbroken, while Webber arose from his seat, and paced with anxious strides the floor of the apartment.

    "I wonder they do not arrive!" at length he exclaimed; "they surely have had time enough since the shower!" and as he spoke he strode to the door.

    The moon had sufficiently risen to throw light upon a scene, where the work of devastation had been carried on to a remarkable degree. As Webber gazed around him, he beheld in every direction tall, lofty trees torn from their foundations— limbs torn from the trunks of others—fences leveled to the ground, and the crops, the toil of a season, beat to the earth as though trampled by a caravan. But with this it was evident his mind was but little occupied; for after casting a hasty glance over the scene, he turned in another direction, and his eye followed the road, which at some little distance to the east wound over the brow of a hill. Here he gazed intently for a few moments, while the gloom which had been settling over his features, gradually deepened. As he stood gazing thus, a sigh, which seemed to come from the heart, caused him to turn his head, when he beheld Rufus—who had noiselessly followed him to the door—with his eyes fixed in the same direction, his features pale, almost ghastly—while the workings of his countenance, and the quivering of his lips, denoted a strange nervous excitability.

    "Rufus! Rufus!" cried Webber, taking hold of his arm; "what means this, my son?—why are you so agitated?"

    The young man started, passed his hand across his eyes, looked hurriedly around, as one suddenly awakened from a dream; and then, while a slight flush tinged his handsome features, quietly withdrew without deigning a reply.

    At another time such singularity of conduct on the part of his son, would have attracted the attention of Webber to know the cause; but under the present circumstances, his own mind was too much occupied to give it heed. For a moment longer, he stood, his eyes fixed in the direction mentioned, and then, as if sadly disappointed, with slow and musing pace returned to the apartment.

    "Strange!" said he, "that they do not return. I fear they have met with some serious accident; for this storm has been most alarming in its consequences."

    "Had we not better go in search?" enquired Rufus, his voice trembling with emotion.

    "True, my son, we must!" replied Webber, with decision. "Can the horses be found conveniently?"

    "I observed two, but a few paces distant," rejoined Rufus.

    "But you will not both leave?" said Mrs. Webber, enquiringly.

    "Why, no," answered Webber, thoughtfully; "one I think will be sufficient."

    "Then I will go," said Rufus, with energy.

    "Why so, my son?"

    "Ask me not, father; I have reasons," replied he, confusedly.

    "Well, be it so; but be speedy." As he spoke, he started, for he fancied he heard voices in conversation; and moving quickly to the door, both father and son listened attentively.

    "Ha! they come!" exclaimed Webber, as some figures were descried descending the hill.

    "She is not there!" cried Rufus, quickly.

    "How know you that?" enquired Webber! "With my eyes I cannot distinguish individuals at that distance. How know you Emily is not there, Rufus?"

    But Rufus was gone; and his father discerned his figure, at some little distance, gliding swiftly on in the direction of the horses. A moment or two later, he heard the clattering of hoofs, and his son rode quickly past. He called to him, but in vain. He heard not, heeded not, but urged his horse to his utmost speed.

    "Why the youth is insane!" remarked Webber, to himself. "Ha! he stops!—he has met them returning. But no! on he goes again!— now he dashes over the hill!—surely, something has happened, or he would have returned;" and with an agitated step, he moved on in the same direction.

    The voices of the approaching party were, in the meanwhile, growing louder as they neared him, and Webber was soon enabled to hear their conversation. He paused to listen, for he fancied he heard a voice with which he was not unfamiliar.

    "Now jest keep right on, Mr. Jack; you haint got a great ways furder to go, no how; and I kind o' guess you'll git rested by the time you'll be wanted to travel agin. Now ye needn't look so tarnal cross about it;—I don't much like the idea o' bragging over a chap that's hampered, but I'll jest tell ye what 'tis, Mr. Jack Curdish, I jest think I could lick you in a fair rough and tumble fight in about two minutes; I do, I swow!"

    "Hush!" said another voice. "Be not too over-bearing— remember the man is your prisoner."

    "Wal so I do, Mark; but the feller won't say nothing. He's as stuffey as a mule, and I's jest trying to see if I could'nt brag something out o' him."

    "Why, Harvey Bernard!" cried Webber, springing forward, as he fully recognised the speaker, and grasping his hand,—"welcome, most welcome, friend Harvey."

    "Jest the same old Webber yit," returned Bernard, giving his hand a hearty shake. "Why you look jest as naternal as life. This ere's Marcus Tyrone, a friend o' mine."

    "Welcome, Tyrone," said Webber, cordially extending his hand.

    "This other chap's name's Jack Curdish. You needn't shake hands with him; for he's jest as big a rascal as ever run."

    "Why, what mean you?" enquired Webber, in surprise.

    "Tell him, Mark; you can git at it a great deal quicker than I can."

    Tyrone accordingly explained, in as few words as possible, how matters stood.

    "Gods!" exclaimed Webber, as he heard of Emily's capture, his features working with the most powerful emotion; and for a moment he buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook convulsively. Again resuming his outward calmness, he walked close to the side of Curdish, who glanced uneasily about him, and in a voice of suppressed passion, between his clenched teeth, said: "Curdish, by the living God above us! if that girl come to harm, I will make such an example of you, that it shall find a place on history's page for its atrocity! Tell me, where is the girl? and if I succeed in finding her, unharmed, it shall go much better with you."

    "I'll tell you nothing to-night," growled Curdish; who fearful of consequences, if they went in pursuit, thought he would gain time by delaying the search.

    "Why not to-night?"

    "'Cause I won't—that's why!—hang me, if I'm goin' to give ye any more explanations."

    "Then your blood be on your own head!" rejoined Webber, sternly. "To the house with him, as fast as possible! I will hurry forward and prepare a place for his reception."

    In a few minutes Curdish was placed in the room on the left of the hall, the door and windows made fast, and there left to pass the remainder of the night, in communion with his own dark thoughts. And dark and dreadful are the thoughts of the guilty!—for their conscience is a hell, from which there is no escape.

    After a brief consultation, Webber and his friends concluded it were better to wait till morning, ere they set out in search of Emily; the more so, as both Edward and Rufus had already gone in pursuit, and perchance, by awaiting, tidings might be gained of her. But little was said, for all felt a heaviness of heart; and wearied by traveling, Bernard and Tyrone partook of the food set before them, in gloomy silence.

    "This is a sad meeting!" began Webber, after a long pause, in a voice so changed that both Bernard and Tyrone involuntarily started. "A sad meeting! If this girl comes to harm, I fear my reason will desert me."

    "Why, William!" cried his wife; "are your thoughts more bound up in the child of a stranger, than in your own flesh and blood?"

    "Yes, Sarah, I confess it is even so. I have struggled hard against it—I have sought to share my affection alike with each member of my family; but why, I know not—perhaps by her angel disposition—the gentle forsaken has been the idol of my secret thoughts. But enough of this, Sarah; the subject is painful to me;" and he pressed his hands against his heated temples, as though to still their throbbing.

    "What course do you intend to pursue with your prisoner?" enquired Tyrone, anxious to draw his thoughts into another channel.

    "Death!" exclaimed Webber, quickly and fiercely, while his teeth clenched, and his brow contracted into a frown of unshaken resolve.

    "Death!" cried all at once.

    "Ay, death! there must be an example made!" said Webber, in a deep, stern tone.

    "William!" cried his wife, rushing to him:— "You are not yourself,—do not talk thus!"

    "Sarah," returned Webber, gently pushing her from him, while the frown grew darker on his brow, "seek not to alter it; I have said."

    "But why not appeal to the law for redress?" asked Tyrone.

    "You overlook, Tyrone, that our laws here are almost ineffective, and force us, in a measure, to make our own."

    "True! I did not think of that."

    "Now, Bill Webber, I'll jest tell you what 'tis," began Bernard: "I know my opinion aint o' no great account, any how; but I've known you ever since I was a leetle boy, and somehow I kind o' feel I have a right to say something; and I'm jest agoing to say, if you could manage to punish this ere infernal scoundrel some way, without taking his life, you'll feel a great deal better when you come to die yourself. I haint the least doubt but the feller oughter die, to get his deserts; but ye see, the Almighty made him, and has kept him alive, so far, and will undoubtedly punish him, some day or other; and now the question is, whether you hadn't better let the Almighty take his own way about it, instead of taking all o' the responsibility yourself?"

    "I know your honest heart, Bernard," said Webber, approaching and grasping his hand; "I know in all you say, you aim for my own good; but in this I am resolved, and must have my own way, therefore seek not to alter me."

    "Wal, if your mind's made up," rejoined Bernard, "I aint the chap to say anything furder; only if you want any help, Harvey Bernard's right here, and he haint never been known to refuse a friend assistance yit. I jest spoke, 'cause I kind o' considered it a duty to do it, and bein' as how I've eased my mind, I haint nothing furder to say about the matter."

    Just at this instant was heard the clatter of a horse's hoofs, and all sprang eagerly to the door. "What news, my son?" cried Webber, as Rufus, pale and breathless, leaped from his panting steed.

    "She—they are safe and coming!" replied he, almost wildly.

    "Thank God, and you!" exclaimed Webber, clasping him in his arms, as though he were a child. "You have relieved my brain of a weight of anguish. But what is the matter, my son?"— added he in alarm, as he became aware of an increasing languor on the part of Rufus.

    "Father, I am ill!" sighed Rufus, faintly.

    "You are indeed, my son!" and he bore him into the house.

    Cordials, such as they had, were administered, but to no effect. He grew wild, delirious, and was finally placed in bed, in a high state of fever. His mother, whose whole soul seemed bound up in him, paced the room, wringing her hands in an agony of grief, and crying: "Oh, my God! my God! spare me this!"

    There are some people so constituted by nature, that they possess no feelings in common with the rest of mankind. With those around them they have no kindred ties, no sympathetic chord that vibrates at the slightest touch, linking soul with soul in the holy bond of friendship. They live in, yet separate as it were, from the world; and are thought by the rest of mankind to be cold, unsocial, unfeeling. Perhaps in a great measure they are so; yet notwithstanding, they have their objects of affection, for the heart must cling to something, and in proportion as they isolate themselves from the many, so does their soul embrace the few, or the one, with a violence of passion others deem not they possess. Such was, in part, the case with Mrs. Webber. 'Tis true she liked her husband, she liked her family, her friends, but Rufus was the idol, the only idol of her soul. In him were her hopes, fears and joys centered. A woman that said very little, she was not one to make an outward show of affection, by a thousand little demonstrations that count so much in the eyes of the world, and a stranger might have thought she felt alike toward all. She would steal away unseen, and hour by hour watch, concentrating her very soul on him, with all the deep, holy devotion of a mother's love. And well was he worthy—for within his breast beat a pure, a high-minded, noble heart. What then were her feelings when she saw him stretched on a bed of sickness—pain—with reason, the immortal endowment of God, tottering upon its throne? Who shall tell—who describe a mother's anguish in a scene like this? when she beholds the beloved of her soul in the jaws of earth's mightiest foe, Death! Words fail, the pen droops, and we veil the feelings from the eyes of all but imagination.

    An hour or two later Merton and Emily arrived. They were warmly greeted, but there was no rejoicing. Over all hung the cold icy gloom which pervades the house of mourning.— Words were said in whispers, and each glided stealthily about, with that mysterious air which reminds one of the fabled spectres of tradition.— Emily, like a ministering spirit, immediately took her place at the bedside of the sufferer. She felt grieved to the heart, for she loved him with a sister's love. Both herself and Merton were surprised to learn he had been in pursuit of them.— They had never seen him. Once they had fancied they heard the sound of a horse somewhat distant, but nothing further. This annunciation surprised all, for it was evident that he had seen them, as he had told of their coming. Webber mused on the singular conduct of Rufus, prior to his departure, which now struck him with force, shook his head gravely, but said nothing. As soon as Merton had partaken of some refreshment, he mounted another horse and rode swiftly to St. Louis for a physician, who arrived toward night of the following day. He felt of the sufferer's pulse—looked grave—felt of his pulse again—shook his head, and pronounced it a severe case of intermittent fever.

    On opening the door of the apartment where Curdish had been confined, to the astonishment of all it was found empty, which was the more unaccountable, as everything was fast just as it had been left the evening before. Webber was both vexed and perplexed that the villain had thus escaped; but after reasoning awhile with himself, he came to the conclusion that under the present circumstances it was all for the best; and his thoughts of vengeance gradually emerged into fears for the life of his youngest born.

    We must now leave all for the present, and turn to another scene.

    PART II.

    CHAPTER I.

    THE GRAND RENDEZVOUS OF THE BANDITTI—THE BANDIT CHIEF AND HIS WIFE—THE SONG—THE TALE.

    On the banks of the Osage, some several miles from where it empties into the dark and muddy Missouri, is a wild, gloomy and romantic spot.— Even at the present day it has not been reached by civilization, and still stands alone in the solemn grandeur of nature. Here mountains rear their rugged heads steep and stupendous; there fearful chasms yawn as if awaiting some prey for their mighty jaws; while anon dashes along some sparkling rivulet, leaping from rock to rock, mak