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Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_), and text
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Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
SETH JONES.
[Illustration]
BEADLE AND COMPANY.
NEW YORK: 118 WILLIAM ST. LONDON: 44 PATERNOSTER ROW.
A. Winch, Philadelphia
* * * * *
Glorious “Old Kentuck!”
Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 60
TO ISSUE THURSDAY, OCT. 1st,
_Will embody one of the most gratifying Novels of the year, viz._:--
JO DAVIESS’ CLIENT; OR, ‘COURTING’ IN KENTUCKY.
BY MRS. M. V. VICTOR.
Author of “=GOLD HUNTERS=,” “=MAUM GUINEA=,” etc.
In this fine story we have reproduced, to the life, the Kentucky of the
year 1800. It is one of the most exciting and absorbing of stories,
embracing such characters and incidents as only Kentucky can produce.
Jo Daviess was one of the most remarkable men of that remarkable
period. He plays in the novel such a part as only Jo Daviess could
play in and out of court. The great charm of Mrs. Victor’s works is
heightened by the fact that her characters are historically true. In
reading her novels we have, besides the story, real expositions of men
and veritable events. This her last, is, also, one of her best. It will
not fail to command a wide sale.
BEADLE AND COMPANY, Publishers, 118 William St., N. Y.
SINCLAIR TOUSEY, General Agent, N. Y.
Entered according to Act of Congress, In the Year 1863, by BEADLE AND
COMPANY, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
SETH JONES; OR, THE CAPTIVES OF THE FRONTIER
BY EDWARD S. ELLIS.
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
NEW YORK: 118 WILLIAM STREET.
LONDON: 44 PATERNOSTER ROW.
* * * * *
Entered according to Act of Congress, In the Year 1860, by
IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO.,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
* * * * *
SETH JONES OF NEW HAMPSHIRE; OR, THE CAPTIVES OF THE FRONTIER.
CHAPTER I. THE STRANGER.
The clear ring of an ax was echoing through the arches of a forest,
three-quarters of a century ago; and an athletic man was swinging the
instrument, burying its glittering blade deep in the heart of the
mighty kings of the wood.
Alfred Haverland was an American, who, a number of years before, had
emigrated from the more settled provinces in the East, to this then
remote spot in western New York. Here, in the wilderness, he had reared
a humble home, and, with his loving partner, and a sister, laid the
foundation for a settlement. True, this “settlement” was still small,
consisting only of the persons mentioned, and a beautiful blue-eyed
maiden, their daughter; but Haverland saw that the tide of emigration
was rolling rapidly and surely to the west, and, ere many years, the
villages and cities would take the place of the wild forest, while the
Indians would be driven farther on toward the setting sun.
The woodman was a splendid specimen of “nature’s noblemen.” His heavy
coat lay upon a log a short distance away, and his swelling, ponderous
chest was covered only by a close-fitting under garment, with the
collar thrown open, showing the glowing neck and heaving breast.
Substantial pants met the strong moccasins which encased his feet. A
small raccoon-skin cap rested upon the back of his head, exposing his
forehead, while his black hair swept around his shoulders. His features
were regular and strongly marked. The brow was rather heavy, the nose
of the Roman cast, and the eyes of a glittering blackness. So he stood
with one foot thrust forward; his muscles, moving and ridging as they
were called in to play, betrayed their formidable strength.
Still the flashing ax sank deeper and deeper into the oak’s red heart,
until it had gone clean through and met the breach upon the opposite
side. Then the grand old forest king began to totter. Haverland stepped
back and ran his eye to the top, as he noticed it yielding. Slowly it
leaned, increasing each second, until it rushed seemingly forward, and
came down to the earth with a thundering crash and rebound. He stood
a moment, his hot breath issuing like steam from his chest, and then
moved forward toward its branches. At that instant his trained ear
detected a suspicious sound, and dropping his ax, he caught up his
rifle and stood on the defensive.
“How de do? how de do? ain’t frightened I hope; it’s nobody but me,
SETH JONES, from New Hampshire,” said the new-comer in a peculiar
accent. As the woodman looked up he saw a curious specimen of the
_genus homo_ before him. He is what is termed a _Yankee_, being from
New Hampshire; but he was such a person as is rarely met with, and yet
which is too often described now-a-days. He possessed a long, thin Roman
nose, a small twinkling gray eye, with a lithe muscular frame, and long
dangling limbs. His feet were encased in well-fitting shoes, while the
rest of his dress was such as was in vogue on the frontiers at the time
of which we write. His voice was in that peculiar, uncertain state,
which is sometimes seen when it is said to be “changing.” When excited,
it made sounds singular and unimaginable.
The woodman, with characteristic penetration, read the man before him
at a glance. Changing his rifle to his left hand, he extended the other.
“Certainly not, my friend; but then, you know, these are times, in
which it behooves us all to use caution and prudence; and where one
is placed in such a remote section as this it would be criminal to be
careless, when more than one life is dependent upon me for support and
protection.”
“Very true, very true, you’re right there, Mr. ---- ah! I declare, I
don’t know your name.”
“Haverland.”
“You’re right, as I said, Mr. Have-your-land, or Haverland as the case
may be. I tell _you_ these _are_ dubious times--no disputin’ that, and
I am considerably s’prised when I heard the ring of an ax down in these
parts.”
“And I was equally surprised to meet your visage when I looked up.
Jones, I believe you said was your name.”
“Exactly:--Seth Jones, from New Hampshire. The Jones’ are a numerous
family up there--rather too many of them for comfort,--so I migrated.
Mought be acquainted perhaps?”
“No; I have no acquaintances, to my knowledge, in that section.”
“Haven’t, eh? Thought the Jones’ were pretty generally known through
the country. Some remarkable geniuses have sprung from the family? But
what under the sun keeps you out in this heathen country? What brought
you here?”
“Enterprise, sir; I was tired of the civilized portion of our country,
and, when such glorious fields were offered to the emigrant, as are
here spread before him, I considered it a duty to avail myself of them,
and I have done so. And now, sir, be equally frank with me, and let
me know what induced you to visit this perilous region when you had
no reason to suppose that a settlement had yet been commenced by the
whites. You look to me as if you were an Indian hunter or scout.”
“Wal, perhaps I am. At any rate I have been. I was scout among the
Green Mountain Boys, under Colonel Allen, and staid with them till the
Revolution was finished. After that, I went down on the farm and worked
a while with the old man. Something occurred in our neighborhood that
led me to think, it was best for me to leave, I won’t say what it was,
but I will say it was no crime I committed. I stopped at the settlement
down the river a few days, and then come to the conclusion to take a
tramp in these parts.”
“I am very glad you have come, for it isn’t often you get sight of a
white face. I hope you will take the welcome of a backwoodsman, and
make your home with us as long a time as you can--remembering that the
longer you stay, the more welcome you will be.”
“I shall probably stay till you git tired of me, at any rate,” laughed
the eccentric Seth Jones.
“As you are from the East, probably you can give information of the
state of feeling among the Indians between that section and us. From
your remarks, I should infer, however, that nothing very serious
threatens.”
“Don’t know ’bout that,” replied Seth, shaking his head and looking to
the ground.
“Why so, my friend?”
“I tell you what, you, I heerd orful stories ’long the way. They say
since this war, the darned red-coats have kept the Injins at work.
Leastways it’s pretty sartin they are at work, anyhow.”
“Are you sure?” asked the woodman, betraying an anxiety in his speech.
“Purty sure. There’s a little settlement down here some miles, (I have
forgot the name,) sot on by the imps, and burned all up.”
“Is it possible? Reports have reached me during the past three or four
months, of the deadly hostility existing between the whites and reds,
but I was glad to doubt it. Although, I sometimes felt it was wrong.”
“’Twas so; and if you vally that ar wife of your bussum, and your
little cherubims, (as I allow you’ve got,) you’d better be makin’
tracks for safer quarters. Why, how have you stood it so long?”
“My conduct toward the Indians has ever been characterized by honesty
and good will upon my part, and they have ever evinced a friendly
feeling toward me, and my helpless ones. I place great reliance upon
this state of feeling, in fact, my _only reliance_.
“Just so; but I tell you, it won’t do to trust an Ingin. They’re
obstropertous. Go to put your finger on them, and they ain’t thar. Jest
so, by gracious.”
“I fear there is too much truth in your suspicions,” replied Haverland,
in a saddened tone.
“I’m glad I’ve tumbled onto you, coz I begin to git skeerish, and I
like to do a feller a good turn, and I’ll stick to you, bein’ I’ve
found you.”
“Thank you, friend, and let us now proceed homeward. I intended to
spend the day in work, but your words have taken away all desire.”
“Sorry to do it; but it’s best, ain’t it?”
“Certainly, it would have been wrong, had you not warned me of
impending danger. Let us go home.”
So saying, Alfred drew on his coat, slung his rifle and ax over his
shoulder, and struck into a path in the forest, which he himself had
used, and with a thoughtful tread, made his way homeward. Close behind
him, followed his new-made friend.