The sun began to tinge the sky with its ruddy hue; the birds filled
their little space of late autumnal song, and the shrill cicada piped
amid the rustling leaves. The rainbow spanned the abyss of waters,
while below, drifting in eddies, were fragments of canoes, spears and
bows, and still more ghastly fragments, telling of the night’s work.
Upon the headland overlooking the falls, and hidden by the heavy but
stunted vegetation of the rocky hight, stood a small group of ancient
warriors, the sole remnant of a once powerful band. These, after taking
into their unwilling minds the terrible truth of ambush, defeat and
death, stole away to the village to hasten the departure of the women
and children.
Not so Acashee. She watched intently the group below in the midst of
which floated the white, abundant locks of Hope Vines. With jealous
rage she saw the sagamore fold the slight form to his breast; with
wild, jealous admiration she noted the manly form, the bright, tender
eye--so fierce in its last look upon herself, when he cut away her
virgin locks, so gentle as it fell upon the face of Hope.
As the extreme of agony merges into a sensation of pleasure, so the
malign passions of Acashee were prolonged in this contemplation of the
tenderness of the lovers, till she could no more endure, and she drew
an arrow to its head, aimed at the heart of her rival.
Hope started, gave one last look of love at the sagamore, and then
darted up the bank, up the projecting curve of water that indicated the
entrance to the grotto, and thence disappeared. Her path was marked by
a long trail of blood, staining the rocks like a slender serpent.
Acashee did not fly. On the contrary, she boldly stood out upon the
headland, and it was a grand sight, the tall, fearless woman in her
proud attitude, standing there courting the death she had inflicted.
“Acashee is avenged, John Bonyton,” she cried; but her voice was
stopped by a hundred arrows, hurtling the air, and penetrating her
flesh--“blood from every pore,” as Hope predicted. She did not quail,
but, with a buoyant motion of feet and arms, she sung her death-song:
“Look from your misty caves, heroes and warriors!
Bend from your storm-clouds--a maiden approaches,
Slain by brave warriors--she brave as the best.”
Arrow after arrow drank her blood while thus she sung--and at length
she toppled headlong into the boiling flood below.
Fierce was the pursuit and desperate the flight of the surviving
Androscoggins, and the Sagamore of Saco, with his followers, never
rested, day nor night, till the last vestige of the Terrentines was
rooted up. To this day, in the village of Lewiston, now a thriving and
wealthy manufacturing city, the new settler, digging the foundation for
his princely mansion, often unearths half-consumed brands, and, sad to
tell, the small skull of the child, thus designating the site of the
old Indian village, and attesting to the truth of that tradition, which
still preserves the memory of the destruction of the Androscoggins as
we have described, and the conflagration of the village above the falls
of the Pejipscot.
No white man has ventured to solve the mystery of the grotto under the
sheet of water, where rest the ashes of Hope Vines.
A story is still extant to this effect: Many years ago, while Lewiston
was a small village, retains its Indian name of Pejipscot, a young man
was standing on the shelf of rock, which we have described, and where
we have often stood ourselves, spell-bound by the majestic scenery,
when suddenly, from amidst the foam and spray, appeared an old man, and
stood upon the rocks beside him. His hair was of a snowy whiteness, but
his eye flashed with the fires of youth as he beheld the white stranger
upon the rock.
Before the latter could recover from his amazement, to inquire of
his advent, the old Indian seized him in his arms and dashed him to
the earth; when he recovered to look about him, he saw his aggressor
rapidly paddling his canoe down the river.
For years John Bonyton lingered about the falls, in the vain desire
of seeing once more the pale, spectral beauty of Hope Vines, but she
appeared no more in the flesh.
Tradition delights to recall her story, and to this day, men not
romantic nor visionary declare to have seen a figure, slight and
beautiful, clad in snowy robes, with moccasined feet, and hair covering
her form like a vail, moving sorrowfully about the falls, and the
strange figure they believe to be the wraith of Hope Vines.
Thus does tradition preserve the memory of the beloved of the Sagamore
of Saco.
John Bonyton at length rejoined the Sacos at what is now known as
Salmon Falls. (We ought to say that this word is pronounced as if
written _Sawco_.) He lived to extreme old age, an object of love
and veneration to the people who had chosen him for their chief, or
sagamore, and reviled, hated and despised by the people of the colony.
At his death he refused to be buried in the “grave-yard” of the
decorous Pilgrims of the day, but gave directions for his repose not
far from the beautiful falls of the Saco, within the sound of those
waters which had witnessed his sorrows, his mortifications and his
triumphs--whose roar had been to him a perpetual inspiration. Here,
for years, was pointed out the rude stone, with its malignant epitaph,
which marked the grave of a man born out of place.
The epitaph of John Bonyton ran in this wise:
“Here lies John Bonyton, Sagamore of Saco:
He lived a rogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomoko.”
This ungracious rhyme was current in the colony of Maine somewhere
about 1684, being the epitaph of a man little understood in his own
times, and greatly traduced by the pen of novelist, if not of the
historian. When the reader understands that Hobomoko, or Hobomok, was
the Indian appellation for the father of lies, it will be seen that the
sarcasm or slander, whichever it may be, was the more inveterate.
THE END.
* * * * *
BEADLE’S DIME NOVEL SERIAL.
THE SILENT HUNTER; OR, THE SCOWL HALL MYSTERY.
This powerful romance of INDIAN AND FRONTIER LIFE was commenced in
Beadle’s Dime Novel No. 141, (THE HELPLESS HAND, by CAPTAIN MAYNE
REID,) and is in _addition to our complete Novel_. It will be continued
in our regular issues, making a _complete Novel and continued story_
for TEN CENTS.
☞ Back numbers can be procured at any Newsdealers; or by sending to
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
GENERAL DIME BOOK PUBLISHERS,
_No. 118 William Street, N. Y._
THE SILENT HUNTER.
CHAPTER V. THE SILENT HUNTER’S CACHE.
The trail was clear and obvious. There were the marks of the Indians’
feet, of the girl’s moccasins, and the hoofs of the loaded horse, of
the cow, and the grunting drove of pigs, that straggled every now end
then as they went along, and were driven into order, or goaded to
advance at the point of a lance. They were able in this way, with so
sure a track, to proceed with considerable activity and ease, the more
that the route was a beaten trail which the Indians were wont to use on
their many friendly visits to the Crow’s Nest, where hitherto they had
been received with extreme friendliness by the hearty woodman, who had
often hunted with them, and even fought with them, when quite a boy,
against their hereditary foes.
They trod upon the trail then, one after another in deep silence, until
the wind began to sigh over the trees, the gloom to collect overhead,
and the forest began to assume that mysterious and solemn appearance
which is always presented by extensive woods on the first approach of
night. It was about a quarter of an hour before dark that they came in
sight of a stream, one of the tributaries of the Scioto river.
“Hist!” said Custa to his companions, who were moving listlessly on,
Harvey admiring with the eye of an artist the changes produced on the
leaves by the crepuscular light, the Silent Hunter moodily reflecting
on the past, and brooding on the future.
All three stood instantly like statues, though a tremulous nervousness
shook for an instant the stout frame of Harrod. Then they gazed
curiously where the finger of the Indian pointed to a small column of
smoke rising from the water’s edge. They again advanced, but no longer
on the trail, having concealed themselves beneath the deep shadows of
the interior of the forest. In another instant they saw that it was an
abandoned fire, and they immediately emerged freely into the small open
space by the banks of the stream. All three instantly sought the trail
on that side first, and then on the other, by wading. But all trace of
the whole party was gone.
“This is Indian devilry with a vengeance,” said Harvey, angrily. “Have
they spirited her away, or have they hid in the trees?”
“Hist!” replied Custa, “there are ears in the forest. Look at the
stricken pine--he has no tongue--he is silent as the tall tree of the
forest that rocks the hummingbird to rest, and sings no lullaby that
can wake the echoes.”
“If he ain’t got a tongue, and a _locrum_ is inconvenient to him,”
continued Harvey, smiling, “he has got eyes--look, he has found
something.”
Harrod was on the other side of the stream near the fire, and when they
joined him they found that he had discovered the bones and some small
parts of the cow, which had been slaughtered and in part devoured. The
horse was also immediately afterwards found, just behind the bushes,
cropping some grass, and so hoppled that it could not go far away.
“Ugh!” told Custaloga, in a low whisper.
“This is the queerest start I ever saw. I guess we’ve got an ounce of
dust in our eyes, or we can’t see for the dark. I suspect they are just
hid close by.”
The Silent Hunter shook his head.
“Water is soft, and earth is hard; but the earth leaves a mark and
water shows no trail.”
“That’s it,” said Harvey; “they had canoes--by gum, they must be in
force. They’ve slummucked the pigs and the cow-beef, and left no mark.”
“In the morning we will rub our eyes and see clear,” replied Custa;
“they have put the plunder and prisoners in the canoes, and have
walked. But they are not coons: they will not deceive a Wyandot. In the
morning we will find their trail.”
“I suppose you are about right,” said Harvey, “and that we’re bound to
wait. But this is a hottish place for a camp, I conclude, Custa. My
scalp kind of crawls at the idea of sleeping here.”
The Silent Hunter made a sign for them to follow him. They clearly
understood by his manner that he had a better place to show them, and
they had already, by his directions, entered the bed of the river in an
upward direction, and were fifty feet from the fire, when he clutched
them both violently, and imposed solemn silence by a gesture which was
not to be mistaken.
The gloom had now settled on forest and plain, the song of birds, the
gobble of the turkey, the cry of the sandhill crane had ceased, and
naught was heard save the low whispering of the trees, as their heads
met and kissed, and that mysterious song of nature, a kind of low,
hushed, broken chord of some Eolian harp, that often accompanies in
vast solitudes the setting of the hot sun--the fall of night being felt
almost as well as heard.
But a step was in the forest--a step advancing stealthily, it is true,
but with some little want of caution at times, as if the benighted
stranger were sure of finding friends round the fire which he saw
blazing in the distance; for the woodmen had purposely roused it from
its dying state and made it blaze on high.
Then a dark form appeared on the edge of the circle of light, the
very extreme edge, peering slowly around, listening with the ear of
a startled deer. Something made him dart back to seek cover, but it
was too late. Simultaneous with the click came the sheet of flame and
the swift messenger of death. He bounded on high, gave a wild yell,
and then fell flat near the fire. Harrod, who had done this deed,
went quietly back, finished the unfortunate wretch, and then came to
join his companions, who conversed in inaudible whispers relative to
the conduct of Harrod, which was clearly that of a man who had bound
himself down to a mission of revenge.
In another instant he was by their side, and passing them, led up the
stream toward what the two hunters well knew as the Devil’s Gully.
They had implicit reliance on the woodcraft of their huge and fearless
companion, who knew every turning in the forest; but still they had so
often, during panther and deer hunts, visited the spot, that they could
not understand how he was about to use that place for the purposes of
concealment.
In about ten minutes the water began to rush swiftly by, the banks came
nearer and nearer, they were wading far above their knees, and then
they stood at the mouth of the Devil’s Gully.
The night was dark, but, their eyes now growing accustomed to the
gloom, they could distinguish the principal features of the scene.
The banks of the river were now suddenly projected upward to a hight
of fifty feet, about half the way up precipitous rock, with a bush
desperately clinging here and there, the other half a shelving mixture
of earth and stone dotted with trees and shrubs. Below, in the depths
of the gully, all was dark; even the silvery thread of water, that in
the day, when the sun dived down to cool its rays in the very caverns
of the night, might be seen running swiftly along, could now only be
heard, rumbling, rushing, dashing by like the waters of a sluice.
Harvey could not restrain an exclamation.
“This is almighty grand!” he said. “I guess they don’t beat this in the
island.”
“Come,” replied Custa.
Harrod had disappeared.
“Hillo! where is he?” exclaimed Harvey. “He ain’t carried away by the
water, is he?”
“Come,” said Custa, again; “there is a trail in the swift water. Let
your hand never leave the left rock. The eyes of an eagle could not
see--we must feel like moles.”
Harvey obeyed, and found, by keeping his hand gliding along the rock,
that he thus walked on a ledge, that was scarcely covered by the water,
which swept furiously by, deep, within two inches of where he walked.
They moved in utter darkness. They saw nothing but the rock they
touched with their hands; they heard nothing but the swift current to
their right.
Harvey was advancing, still wondering when all this groping in the dark
would end, peering forward to try and catch a glimpse of those who
preceded him, when suddenly his hand slipped from the damp, cold rock
onto what appeared stubble, and he heard the voice of Custa by his side
instead of before.
“Wagh,” said the Indian, whose manners, language, mien, actions, were
one continual struggle between his savage and civilized instincts,
those of childhood and those of manhood--“a beaver in a dam, a fox in
a hollow tree, an otter in a hole, never made such a _cache_ as this.
Wagh! it is good.”
A torch which the Silent Hunter now lit with his tinder-box, revealed
to Harvey the nature of the place. It was a niche in the rock, about
fifteen feet high, ten across the mouth, and as many deep, overhung so
by the two banks that even a fire could not betray it, while even in
the daytime smoke would have been dispersed ere it reached the summit
of the tall trees.
“It’s a rare burrow--a reg’lar fox’s hole. I expect many an old
four-legged red-skin has done the dogs here, and will ag’in. My! It’s
beautiful. This is your old _cache_, when you came up here afore there
were any settlers in these parts.”
Harrod bowed his head.
He had fixed the torch in a piece of wood which had been cut and
planted for the purpose. He left the two friends to do the rest, though
he showed them a hole in a corner, where there were wood, deer-meat, a
jug, and some skins. Harvey and Custa quickly made a fire and cooked
their supper, which having finished--in this passively imitated by
Harrod--they lit their pipes and prepared for a “big talk” on the
duties they had to perform--duties which did not affect them in an
equal degree; for what can equal, what be like, the earnest solicitude
of a passionate lover, whose mistress is in the hands of such ruthless
beings as the wild savages of North America?
And Custaloga, the brave and devoted Wyandot, did love Amy with all
the wild ardor of his half-tamed nature--loved her, too, without hope,
without future, without an idea that his love could ever be aught save
a dream--and thus, perhaps, had his affection risen to the greater
hight, as it was invested with a melancholy and sadness, which to his
wayward nature, but half conquered by education, was not without its
charm.
Custaloga loved Amy, the affianced bride of Squire Barton, for whom he
had an instinctive dislike, which, however, had never manifested itself
as yet in any way save that already described. He ignored his existence.
Amy saw this and wondered.
But her secrets we are not privileged to reveal until the day and
hour when she avows them herself, and deprives them of that vail of
obscurity and doubt which we may not raise, even though, from the
journals, notes, and letters before us, we have already mastered the
mystery.
“What is Harrod up to?” whispered Harvey, as soon as he had loaded his
pipe to his own satisfaction.
Custaloga looked not to the right or left, and yet his eagle eye had
caught the outward character of his occupation in an instant. He was
whittling.
In his hand was a long piece of pine-wood, which he was striving to
bring into shape with his hunting-knife. After some labor he succeeded
to his satisfaction, for he ceased and proceeded to bore a hole through
one end, through which he afterward passed a thong. _He then, with a
grim and ghastly smile, cut one notch._
All this while the two friends, who were thinking over their plans, had
watched him in silence. But as he cut the notch Harvey gave a cry of
surprise and horror.
“It’s a tally, Custa. Hundred thunders!” cried he, “what a mole-eyed,
one-eyed gunner I am not to have seen it afore. It’s a tally, and that
notch is for the first Indian. Why that stick will hold a matter of two
hundred.”
“On the waters of the wide lake,” said Custa, holding up his hand
toward the north, “the red-skins wear a bead for every scalp. Our white
brother cuts a mark in a little bit of wood. Carry it about like the
little gods of the priests.”
“Bah!” said Harvey, “not our priests; you will confound the Romans with
us.”
“They all worship the same Father,” replied Custa, in a low tone,
talking rather to himself than to Harvey; “why does one man say one
thing, one another?”
Custa sighed. As yet religion had not fully touched his heart. He
understood Christianity to a certain extent, and yet the faith was
not in him, though Amy and Jane had both striven for years, aided by
Clara’s father, to open his eyes.
The Eccentric Artist made no reply, not wishing to enter upon a topic
which had often induced heated arguments between them. He smoked his
pipe with redoubled vigor, and gazed with a mysterious awe at the
bereaved husband, whose kindly nature and warm heart appeared to have
utterly fled before the fierce, untamed passion of revenge.
To speak to him he knew was useless now while the night of sorrow and
wrath was on his soul, concealing all that was bright and good on
earth, and prompting him only to deeds of darkness.
“Harvey,” said Custaloga, when he had smoked his calumet pipe in peace
for some time, “my heart is very sad; the singing-bird is safe in the
wigwam of her father; but the queen-bird is silent in the lodge of the
Shawnees.”
“She is, Custa,” replied Harvey, moodily, “and must be got out, if we
fight the whole tribe of dingy catamounts.”
“My brother,” said Custa, affectionately, “is a brave, and not a
boaster; he talks of fighting a cloud of men, but he does not mean it.
The Shawnee villages are as many as the weeks of the year, and each
village has more warriors than there are days.”
“Then by all the b’ars in Kentuck, what is to be done?” exclaimed
Harvey, impatiently.
“When a fox sees a fat partridge in the grass he does not fly at it,
because he has no wings; he creep and glides, while the birds nestle;
and though they do fly, he is quicker than they, and runs into the
woods with his prize.”
“I understand you, Custa; you are up to some devilry you learnt
among the Wyandots. Well, well, it’s your natur’, Custa, and I won’t
gainsay it. Besides, in the woods it’s right--I know it is. Indians
ain’t regiments, and forests ain’t regular battle-fields. What do you
propose?”
The young Indian rose to speak. There was none of the semi-educated
gentleman about him now. He was all red. He laid down his calumet
and his rifle, and assumed all the dignified mien of a chief and
a warrior. The two white men looked at him--Harrod vacantly and
listlessly, Harvey with that deep earnestness, that strong affection,
which, by some strange instinct, the secret of which he little knew, he
had always felt for Custaloga.
“The Shawnees are women. There are beasts in the forest, and birds
in the air, and fish in the streams, and warriors in the great
hunting-ground under the setting sun; but they are too lazy to hunt the
forest, too idle to shoot the bird, too stupid to fish the stream, too
cowardly to fight with men. There are a few long-knives in the woods,
men who make themselves wigwams, and grow corn to make themselves their
bread, and hunt, and fish like red-men, doing them no harm. And they
buried the hatchet, and smoked the calumet of peace with the Indians.
But the Shawnees are skunks--they shake hands with the right arm,
and kill with the left. They have come like red foxes, and they have
stolen the queen bird”--here he spoke fiercely, and then his voice sunk
to a melancholy softness that was quite musical in its deep mellow
sadness--“they came like cowards, like skunks and polecats, and they
have killed a woman, and the little pappoose that could not walk, and
stolen the little bounding-deer, the son of the pale-face with the
large heart. They are gone, like beasts, to burrow in their holes. But
men are behind. Let them look, and they will gaze on warriors; one of
them has already seen the face of a brave.”
And he bowed gracefully to Harrod, who, however, made no sign.
“The great heart is weary; the friends of Custa need rest. Let them lie
in the cache to-night, and follow on the trail when the sun lights the
earth. Custa will go alone.
“Where to?” asked Harvey, quickly.
Custaloga then developed his plan, which was simple enough.
There was an Indian village about nine or ten miles off, and though
in a straight line, the way was difficult, yet one used to the woods
could go and return in a night. Custaloga, believed from his intimate
knowledge of the tribe to which Tecumseh--the young chief who had saved
Amy--belonged, that the prisoners would in the first instance be taken
to that place, as the nearest, and also because it was close to the
village of Tecumseh himself, who doubtless would claim Amy as his prize.
“But how do you know it was Tecumseh at all?” said Harvey.
“My brother is very quick of eye, but he is not an Indian, born in the
woods. Can you read the little marks on a book?”
“Well, Custa, what a question; you know I can.”
“And an Indian can read the print of a foot,” said the warrior, with a
grim smile, as he saw the pun, but could not check it.
“Now for an Injun to make a joke about the print of a foot and the
print in a book, is mighty queer,” put in Harvey; “wouldn’t Jane laugh
and show her pretty teeth. She’d say six years’ study had done you
good, too.”
Custaloga remained silent a moment, as if ashamed of his weakness, and
then continued his explanation in the same dignified and solemn manner
in which he had commenced it.
He proposed to enter the village under cover of the night, trusting to
his skin, and discover, roaming about, whether Amy was really there,
as this would materially aid their plan the next day. He undertook to
return before daylight, in time for a short rest.
“’Tis plaguy risky,” said Harvey, moodily. “I don’t like it Custa. A
pretty kettle of fish if you get took.”
“I will not be taken,” replied Custa, simply.
“I know you won’t--but you’ll be worse,” continued Harvey, sulkily.
“Custa will not be scalped--he has long legs,” said the Indian, again.
“You promise that? Now mind--if you are found, you’ll make tracks and
run.”
Custa made signs that he would, and then began taking off every
particle of dress that looked like an assumption of civilized garb.
In an instant he stood almost in a state of nature, an apology for a
tunic beginning at his waist and hanging to within four inches of his
knees, and his moccasins, being his whole dress. He then took from his
hunting-bag the necessary materials, and began painting himself with
great care. Harrod, however, quickly took the matter out of his hand,
and finished him off so perfectly, that Harvey quite started.
“I wouldn’t advise you to let Amy see you,” he said, gravely.
“Ugh,” replied Custaloga with the deepest guttural sound he had yet
uttered.
“You know she don’t like you in any Indian fixings--but in that she’d
hate you.”
The young warrior looked very grave, but made no reply. He was ready,
and standing up, his rifle in hand, his horn and shot-pouch hanging
from his naked shoulder, he said a quiet good-by, and prepared to
depart.
“Nonsense, I’ll come down the gully with you--”
“The night is very dark, the stones are slippery--stay--the red-skin
warrior will go alone.”
“Willful and obstinate, like all his race,” said Harvey to himself. “Ah
me! it’s a risky thing, a very risky thing. The lad must be in love
with Amy.”
And thus roused, his ideas took another road, and soon led him on
to think of Jane; and once directed into this current he lost all
recollection of every thing else, and sunk into one of those dreamy
visions of love and hope and joy, which come sometimes in the still
solitude of night, whether we lie in down-beds, or on the hard rock or
grassy earth; with naught above us but the canopy of heaven.
At last Harvey fell asleep, but he did not sleep long, for when his
eyes opened again, the fire burnt still brightly, and Harrod lay in so
deep and heavy a slumber that he could scarcely have replenished it.
Harvey sat up, lit a pipe, and his thoughts turning toward the young
Indian, he began to feel extremely uneasy. What he had undertaken he
knew to be perilous in the extreme--one of those Indian artifices,
which succeed sometimes from their extreme boldness and audacity, but
which are attended with an amount of danger and difficulty which make
them rarely used, or only in extreme cases like the present, where the
feelings of the actor impelled him even to the verge of rashness.
Harvey gazed at the sleeper with pity. He lay still now; his stormy
passions, his fearful sorrows, his regrets, his anxieties, his burning
desire for vengeance, all at rest; and perhaps--who can say?--some
sweet and cheering dream of the dear ones, some soft vision of the
night was his, giving to his soul some of that pleasant rest which the
body derives from cessation from labor.
“He sleeps--poor fellow; I must not wake him,” said the artist, gently.
He always liked that fearless spirit, that warm-hearted though wild
hunter. “How hushed and still this place is! Ah, what is that?”
He leaned down carefully in the dark shadow of the rock, clutching his
rifle, as a heavy body was clearly heard above, making its way through
the bushes. On the opposite side of the gully the bank rose about
twenty feet precipitously, and then sloped back--an inclined plane,
covered by shrubs and trees. Through these some body of considerable
weight had appeared to slide, and then stopped close to the edge of
the cliff.
Harvey peered cautiously up--it was bright moonlight now--and raised
his rifle, expecting every minute to see the glaring eyeballs of an
Indian looking down upon them from that hight. The noise continued, the
bushes parted, and the head of a panther, that had scented out, with
his keen and horrid instinct, the presence of men, came looming out in
the pale moonlight.
“My!” muttered Harvey, and then without a moment’s hesitation, he fired.
A roar, a yell, and then a bound, proclaimed that the savage beast
had fallen, or made a spring at them. Harvey instinctively drew back
to clutch his knife. The smoke of the gun prevented his seeing any
thing at first, and then he beheld--the panther, which, wounded and
bewildered for an instant, had missed its aim and fallen into the
river, preparing for another spring.
The fierce, untamed brute, the only approach to lion or tiger on the
American continent, glared wildly at Harvey, and hung out his horrid
tongue, just as he prepared for the fatal spring. The artist shuddered,
and dropping his gun stood with his back to the wall, his long, keen
hunting-knife presented at the beast, the handle resting on his chest.
The panther give a low whine, wagged its tail, and advanced its paws
onto the edge of the niche.
This moment was fatal, for at the same instant a dark, shiny object
swung in the air, and a huge and ponderous American ax came down with
irresistible force on the cranium of the beast, which, stunned, its
head split open, fell back with a savage cry and was carried away by
the rushing stream.
“My!” said Harvey, drawing a long breath, “that was a sledge-hammer
hit, I don’t think. Harrod, I’m much beholden to you. I did feel mighty
skeered--that fellow would have eat me up slick. Well, you’re off
again, are you? You take it quiet I expect. I don’t. I mean to have
that skin--it’s a beauty.”
And taking only his knife, Harvey descended onto the ledge, and began
groping his way down the gully, which was a little more light than
in the evening, under the influence of the moon’s pale, cold, and
quivering rays, that dropped here and there through the open space
between trees and boughs. He advanced the whole length of the gully
before he saw any sign of the unfortunate brute; but there at the
mouth of the ravine it lay by the bank, motionless, still, quite dead.
The tremendous force of the woodman’s ax, wielded by such an arm, had
caused death to be instantaneous.
“It’s a mighty tall brute,” said Harvey, who now was a rude trapper--“a
mighty tall brute. I expect that skin will make a fine rug for Miss
Jane--so, lest the wolves should tear it, which _wud_ be a pity, I’ll
just skin it on the spot.”
And he did. He drew it ashore, and there, regardless of danger,
laughing at the wolves, forgetting his own lesson to Custaloga,
forgetting that the loping and murderous Indians were about, he sat
down, and never stopped until the skin was quite clear of the carcass.
Then, and only then, he started on his way upward to the niche,
carrying his prize in triumph.
He laid it up safely, and then, somewhat tired of his strange
occupation, he went soon to sleep, and slept so heavily, that nothing
disturbed him, not even the howling of the wolves, as they fought and
gorged themselves over the body of the dead panther.
CHAPTER VI. THE FROG’S HOLE.
Meanwhile events were elsewhere taking place, which are so essentially
necessary to the proper understanding of our narrative that we must
leave Custa to perform his journey, the inhabitants of the block
to grieve for Amy, and she herself to continue on her way with the
Indians, while we introduce characters who will have much to do with
the elucidation of events, and the clearing up of the mystery which
attaches to a very large portion of our narrative. The early events
of our story have, however, been, in relation to incidents, so rapid
that we have not been able to turn to what may in the outset appear a
subject of minor interest, but which will in the end be found to be
absolutely necessary to the understanding of what follows.
At some distance from the Scioto river, up toward the hills, hitherto
chiefly frequented by wild trappers and men of the woods, by bordermen,
and by a race of some bandits left by the war, horse-stealers,
cow-thieves, and others--about three hours’ hard ride from the
Moss, and an equal distance from Scowl Hall--was a shanty, log, or
farm-house, which had obtained, from the locality in which it was
situated, the name of the Frog’s Hole. It was notorious by name to most
of the wild bordermen--had been used as a place of refuge by runaway
negroes; but was chiefly the rendezvous of the abominable race of White
Indians, or renegades, who played so infamous a part in the war, and
who, as outlaws and outcasts of society, were compelled, when they
wished to meet for the purposes of conspiracy or amusement, to select
some spot where they were safe from the honest white men: from the
Indians they had nothing to fear. Here it was that the spies, too, of
the British army were wont to quarter during the war; and here might
often be seen Red-Bird the Shawnee, Simon Girty the ex-American, now
the bitter enemy of his countrymen, whom he had betrayed; Captain Peter
Druyer, a Canadian, once in the service of England, now a wanderer;
and here, during the war, the celebrated Captain Duquesne had often
organized his expeditions.
A small and beautiful glen, with pine and larch and elms bursting from
its fertile sides, conducted the waters of a pleasant stream into
a little pool or lake, which, after barring up the entrance of the
valley, again fell away to the west, and by a winding course gained the
Scioto, and then the Ohio. A path round this pool led, by a number of
steps in the rock, to a rustic lodge, opening on to a platform, upon
which was built, leaning against the rock, a house of somewhat antique
appearance for that part of the world. It was built partly of stone,
and partly of wood.
It was a quaint old building, the inn of the Frog’s Hole. For about
five feet from the ground it was of stone, moss-covered, and fastened
together by plaster. Then rose a wall of planks, supported on the
inside and the out by beams of wood that reached to the first story,
which was a kind of loft, made use of as bedrooms, and to be reached
only from the outside by means of a ladder. The house was longer than
it was deep or high, extending some distance along the rock, and
showing such a goodly row of chimneys as to hold out a promise of
plenty within. And plenty there was for those who had money to pay,
as Ralph Regin was a man who respected his customers, and took care
they should want for neither meat nor drink in his house. There were
hams, and ribs of beef, and legs of mutton, and fowls, and turkeys,
and corn-cakes and hominy; but whence they came was another thing--a
question, however, which none of the visitors ever asked. And there
were whisky and Hollands, and brandy in profusion; and whence these
came all knew, for few who frequented the house but aided in bringing
up a supply of fiery liquid, which sometimes brought more wretched
Indians about the place than was agreeable or pleasant.
The platform, when the bridge was crossed, circled round the house on
the side of the pool, which it towered over by some thirty feet--a
steep and rocky descent of great difficulty, and which never would have
been attempted in the face of a resolute enemy. It was, however, here
that water was drawn up by a bucket, which hung over the part where the
pool was shallow, and showed the golden sand at the bottom bright and
sparkling.
On the evening of the day before Amy Moss fell into the hands of the
ruthless gang of Shawnees it is that we introduce this place to the
notice of our readers. It was a pleasant evening, and the rich tide
of sunset fell with deep glow on the mossy walls of the inn, and
illumined the face of a girl who stood beside the bridge, looking down
with thoughtful mien upon the plain below. She was about nineteen--a
tall, handsome girl, of rather bold and decided mien, as if accustomed
to rude life and the companionship of rough men, especially those who
frequent inns and grow boisterous, maudlin, or ferocious over the demon
drink, which, let a man’s prejudices be what they may, is an awful
master to get complete hold of a man.
She had bright, sparkling eyes and white teeth, which she was rather
fond of displaying; and she wore a bodice like a Swiss girl, and short
woollen petticoats, and red stockings; the whole neat and jaunty and
fascinating--a little jewel, in fact, of a Dutch picture. Her character
will better appear from our narrative than from any description.
“Father,” said she, suddenly, in a cold voice, as of one who spoke that
word from necessity rather than choice, “there is a traveler crossing
the dyke.”
“Who on airth is it?” replied a thick voice from within.
“Well, I don’t know; I think it’s Ezram Cook, the peddler-merchant.”
“My!” said the other, coming out and shading his eyes with his hands,
to catch the figure of the wayfarer.
His eye fell first on the deep foliage of the forest, which could be
seen mellowing away into the far distance, golden and sparkling beneath
the setting sun; then it came down to where the trunks and roots of the
trees were left in deep shade; and then it settled upon the figure of a
man moving along steadily on a horse with a small pack.
“Well, it is Ezram Cook, I do declayre; he’s been up selling and
collecting in his money, I expect. Martha! thar’s one with a mighty
good craw coming to supper. So you’re a-looking out for _him_, are you?
He won’t come here to-night.”
This was said in a half-sneering, half-anxious tone, as if the speaker
hardly knew how the listener might take it. He was short, thick-set,
and powerful in make, but every thing in him was ungainly. He wore
a dog-skin cap close over his low forehead, which formed a perfect
pent-house over little round gray goggle eyes, that were forever moving
restlessly about, as if afraid each instant of Indians, or constables,
or something terrible--he could hardly, perhaps, say what. He wore a
thick beard over chin, face and upper lip, so that little could be
detected of expression, save where his thin lips, closed over his
projecting teeth, gave a savage and brutal expression which never
failed to strike all beholders. He wore a great loose blanket coat,
corduroy trowsers, and huge, heavy boots made for contending with mud
and swamp; and his name was Ralph Regin. He had once been hostler at
Scowl Hall, years before, but, detected in a theft, had left it, and
never been seen again, until one memorable occasion, hereafter to
be described, when the negroes said they saw him lurking about the
premises.
A terrible murder had been perpetrated about the time of his
disappearance. An inoffensive Dutch settler, with a very pretty wife
and child, and possessing, it was well known, considerable wealth, had
been murdered near his home down by Wheeling, and his log-house fired,
and his wealth, family and furniture destroyed with it. The fire was
so tremendous in its effect, that when there came neighbors from the
nearest station, it was reduced to a pile of ashes, and was ever after
left a memento of a terrible and mysterious tragedy.
“I know better than you,” said the girl, after a pause, “that he will
not come to-night. His beauty will not be here.”
“I reckon not; it ain’t likely; the boys ain’t up yar yet, and I don’t
conclude one or _tu_ will like to go down to Crow’s Nest. Harrod ain’t
no chicken, I know. He’ll fit.”
“Of course he will, and I hope he’ll kill the wretches. What does he
want with this work? She is to be his wife--”
“Wake snakes and walk chalks, my pretty Kate,” said the ugly innkeeper;
“not so sure--”
“What mean you?” exclaimed the girl called Kate, clutching his arm.
“Well, don’t be so raspish. It seems she don’t convene to him just as
much as she used; she’s kicked once or twice; she don’t like to break
off, and jist right away, but she’s riled him a few. Howsomdever, he
knows she don’t like him.”
“Why, then, will he persecute her? Why will he not give her up? He must
be meaner and baser than an Indian.”
“You women is so mighty quick. She’s rich, and my! ain’t she
_bootiful_--sich eyes, and sich a skin; she’s about the smartest gal
in these parts.”
“Ralph Regin,” said the girl, advancing close to him, “what is the
meaning of all this? Why am I tortured thus? Did you not say she never
should be his, and that I should be his wife? Speak, I ask you?”
“Don’t hollo! I ain’t deaf; I wish I was. Lor! a catamount’s nothin’
to a ’ooman. Well, I did say so, and the mole-eyed varmint shall,
_tu_. I’ve sot him a riddle. S’pose I say s’pose”--and the fellow
laughed--“s’pose some few of Injins war to be afore them spekilators,
eh?”
“What mean you? Give her up to the bloodthirsty red-skins?”
“You’re mighty pertiklar, you are. But they ain’t _toe_ kill her--not
by no means. She’ll fetch ten thousand dollars, she will, and no
mistake; and I go halves.”
“But what is the use of all this? He’ll be angry, and that will not
serve me.”
“Kate, now _du_ tell, what on airth makes you like that varmint?” said
the other, imploringly.
“Ralph Regin--for I can not and will not call you father--will you ask
why the wind shakes yonder trees? Will you tell me why the panther will
come to one particular place to clutch his prey, despite all danger?
Will you tell me why the bird clings to its mate, and the chicken runs
to seek shelter near its mother? I can not--I only know that I love
him. He is a bad man--a bold, bad man--but I knew not this at fifteen;
and then he said soft words to me, and his eyes looked love, and he
smiled, and his voice was gentle, and--and--I loved him. What then that
I know he loves another--that he would wed her, and not me? I can not
alter it. I hate and love him both. Now love is uppermost; but hate may
be one day, and then--”
“What then?” sneered Ralph Regin.
“Never mind; here comes the peddler.”
“Hillo! Leave the old hoss in the stable, Mister Ezram; he’ll never ran
up thyat ladder; thar’s no horse-thieves up yar.”
The peddler made no reply, but took his horse into a stable at the foot
of the rocky stairs, and after a few minutes returned with his bags,
pistols and a somewhat heavy portmanteau, which Ralph assisted him to
carry up the steps.
“Evenin’, stranger,” said Ralph, pretending not to know the peddler,
who had never been up there before; “jist time for supper; come doon
country?”
“Well,” replied the other, a down-east Yankee, “I _are_; I’ve been
doin’ a considerable slick trade; got in _the_ browns mighty well. Sold
yup considerable figure _uv_ watches and chains; glad to yar supper is
ready, ’cause I’m famished and tired.”
They had now reached the top of the steps. Kate was looking hard at
Ralph Regin, in whose eyes even in that twilight, she thought she
detected a strange expression.
“Give me your bags and let me show you a room,” said she, abruptly.
The stranger started as he gazed on one so fair and neat, and his
countenance assumed an expression of satisfaction as he followed her.
They passed through a room used as kitchen, dining-room and tap-room,
went up seven steps to the door of a room which Kate threw open, and in
this the traveler deposited his goods. When he had done so, the girl,
who was bustling about in rather an angry way, as if this kind of work
disgusted her, pulled the key out of the door and gave it to him.
“There are many travelers here sometimes, so keep the key of your room.”
The peddler started, but the face of Kate was so calm and careless that
he took the key, made no remark, and went down-stairs.
The room was large and airy. A large fireplace, which admitted of
benches within its ample dimensions, was occupied by a huge iron pot
and a turkey roasting. A woman of about forty, somewhat stout, handsome
still but for a wild and savage expression, was preparing the evening
meal. A dresser covered by abundance of crockery, a bar filled with
colored bottles, a huge table, several chairs and stools, guns, hams,
sides of bacon hanging round the walls, with two windows and many
doors, completed the scene.
“I guess that smells fine,” said the peddler, rubbing his hands.
“What kind o’ livin’ have you had lately, then?” asked Ralph.
“Nothin’ solid or pleasant--birds and dry jerked beef.”
“Poorish! Well, it’s better farin’ yar, so turn to; we’re all at home.”
All sat down--the woman, who had black hair and eyes, and tawdry
finery, and a coral necklace, and a watch, and a dirty lace cap, at
the head, Ralph Regin at the end of the table, Kate and the peddler
opposite the fire. The supper was plentiful and well cooked. There
was liquor in plenty, and the peddler, who was very weary, ate his
meal in silence, swallowed a horn of corn-juice, lit his old pipe, and
stretched himself on a bench by the fire. Kate helped to clear away,
and then sat down also, and took up a book--a strange thing up there,
and yet there were many in that house, for Mrs. Regin had been almost a
lady once, and had, despite crime and guilt, educated her child up to
a certain time. Kate now wanted no assistance, and one who wished to
obtain her smile, often brought her such books as he thought would suit
her taste.
Presently the peddler-merchant rose, yawned, said he must start
“airly,” and taking a light, wished all good-night, and went to bed.
Kate, who had never turned over a single leaf of her book, and who had
been watching every motion and look of the man who called himself her
father, also lit a candle and went to bed. Her room was beside that of
the peddler, but on a level with the kitchen.
“Now, Martha,” said Ralph Regin, in a low, hushed voice, hissed forth
from between his teeth, “that peddler’s box is full of dollars and
watches. He must sleep in the pool.”
“No more murter,” replied the woman, sinking into a chair, and hiding
him from her with her hands.
“Hush! the girl may be listening!”
And Ralph rose, crawled across the room, but stopped as he heard Kate
singing merrily at her window.
CHAPTER VII. THE INDIAN VILLAGE.
When Custaloga left his companion in that wild gully of the woods,
he began his journey with all that caution and circumspection for
which his race have so long been widely celebrated. His ear drank in
every sound, he trod the woods with the lightness of a fawn, his feet
scarcely stirred the leaves and twigs which covered the ground, and his
arms were so held as to avoid all chance of contact with the trees.
There was something singularly solemn in the aspect of the forest
through which the red-man glided noiselessly, stealthily, as a snake
does through the tall prairie grass or the thick under-brush. For some
time his path led through the thicket that skirted the side of the
stream. This, however, he crossed at the first convenient opportunity,
and plunged deep into the forest itself. It now became truly a matter
of wonder how he guided himself, how he found his way. All was
darkness, gloom, and night. There was not a sound to tell that nature
was not dead. Not an owl hooted, not a wild beast was heard to roar;
and the gentle sighing of trees in the light air that prevailed, was
all that told that nature still lived and ruled creation.
But Custaloga moved along with the unerring instinct of a woodman, one
of the first features of whose woodcraft was to find his way where
no man else could guide himself. When one has become in some degree
accustomed to the forest and the prairie, it is singular with what ease
he penetrates in a direct line through wilds where there seems no guide.
But the moss on the trees, the pebbles in the path, the color of the
bark, the twinkling of a star, the point of a rock, are indications
to the hunter as sure as sign-post or road. As, however, Custaloga
proceeded, he slackened his pace, until at last he paused, looked
round, and then seated himself at the foot of a tree. He was now on the
summit of a gentle slope, very thickly wooded, but with scarcely any
undergrowth of bushes.
Custaloga had rested himself for about five minutes, and had in that
time gained breath and considered the course now to be adopted. He
began by hiding his rifle behind a tree, whence he could easily snatch
it, but where, from several trunks being together, no one could very
easily see it in passing.
He then lay flat on his face, his ear to the ground. The change from
the stillness of night in that gloomy thicket to what he now heard, was
very singular and striking. He seemed quite surrounded by busy life,
by some phantasmagorial life, through which he could hear murmuring,
whispering, buzzing, but which he could not see. The gentle wind which
prevailed came up the slope, and brought with it sounds of warriors
gravely talking, of maidens laughing, of women scolding, of dogs
growling over a bone--all the usual manifestations, in fact, of Indian
life.
“Ugh,” muttered Custaloga, whose Wyandot caution had served him well.
Generally speaking, it would have been quite safe for the Indian
warrior to have approached the camp of the Shawnees at that advanced
hour of the night without many precautions, the Indians not being in
the habit of sitting up much after dark. But, on the present occasion,
something out of the common doubtless made them more than usually
excited, and Custaloga at once made up his mind that it was, as he had
expected, to this village Amy had been brought, and that the warriors
were telling the stories and narratives of their adventures while
smoking their pipes over the camp-fires.
Having gone so far and learned so much, the Wyandot was not a man to
retreat without making sure of the fact he was so deeply anxious to
know, and by which he intended guiding his future proceedings. Instead,
therefore, of retreating when he discovered that the Indians had not
retired to the shelter of their wigwams, he merely determined to act
with extreme caution and circumspection, clearly, however, showing,
that he did not intend to retreat. He now kept nothing on him but the
small breech-cloth of the Shawnee warrior on the war-path, fastened
his hunting-knife in his belt, tightened the thongs of his moccasins,
and began quietly descending the slope toward the village. It was a
position and an hour which would have sorely tried the nerves of any,
save a borderman or an Indian.
He had advanced a hundred yards before the voices, which had been
so plain above when he lay on the ground, became again audible. He
now seemed a vision of the night, so solemnly did he stalk on toward
the edge of the clearing. In a few minutes he stood as near as was
consistent with safety to the Indian village of Wya-na-mah, a kind of
outpost of Chillicothe.
A large, natural opening in the forest, where an arid soil or some
accident had prevented the thick growth of trees, or which in days gone
by had been cleared, had been selected by the Shawnees for their town.
About thirty wigwams had been arranged in a semi-circle round an open
grass-plot, much worn, however, and stubbly; and behind these a rude
stockade was visible, which also extended round in front, leaving only
two entrances to the village, which were guarded by hungry dogs.
There were two fires on the open plot in the center, round one of which
about twenty warriors were collected, while as many women and girls
were congregated near the other.
It was a wild and singular scene. Around, the dark and gloomy forest;
above, the sky, now illumined by the rising moon; and there, the
conical huts of the terrible red-skins lying still and yet marked
in the moonlight; and their owners, those grim and ghastly warriors
who during that day had wrought so much evil and done so much
mischief--mischief never to be forgotten--sitting there like peaceful
citizens in their pleasant homesteads, talking, laughing, chattering,
thus at eventide, without any of that gravity and solemnity assumed at
times for a purpose. It was truly a subject for the pencil of a Murillo
or a Claude. And the merry group of girls, and the sedate and sad
women, were, with the children, the dogs, and the other little addenda
of the scene, singularly picturesque.
Custaloga stood in the deep shadow of the trees, about thirty yards
from the fire around which the women were congregated. It was evident,
from the stockade being, in some instances, built close to the trees,
which thus could easily have afforded dangerous cover to the lurking
foe, that the Indians considered themselves tolerably secure up in
Wya-na-mah or that they trusted chiefly to their scouts outlying in the
forest.
And Custaloga looked in vain, amid that group of tawny girls and bowed
and chastened women; for the form of Amy. His quick and piercing eyes
wandered everywhere around the camp, but not a sign of her existence
could be seen in any direction, nor of any thing else which that day
had been stolen from the Crow’s Nest, the property of the Silent Hunter.
Still, from a few words he was able to distinguish, he was satisfied
that Amy was concealed in one of the huts; but his determination was so
great to be certain of this fact, that, utterly disregarding all ideas
of danger, he determined to enter the camp itself before he departed,
and satisfy himself upon this point. The manner of Custaloga was not
at this instant that of an Indian warrior. He seemed rather one of the
children of the pale-faces, so impatient did he appear.
But with a shake of the head he kept down the rising feeling of
boyish impatience which had moved him, and stood close to the tree
which afforded him shelter--so closely, indeed, that he seemed part
and parcel of it. He appeared a statue, not a man; so motionless, so
upright, and yet so graceful was his mien.
He listened to the talk of the girls, he heard the guttural tones of
the warriors, the bark of the dogs over their bones, and then suddenly
he started, despite his self-possession, as a howl resounded through
the forest--a wail, a howl of woe, uttered by one long practiced in
such screeching. A deathlike pause ensued, the warriors were all
silent, the girls laughed no more, as all waited for the explanation of
this noise.
A woman came staggering from out a wigwam, her hair disheveled, a
tomahawk in her hand, and advanced, still howling and wailing, toward
the warriors, who rose to receive her with a marked politeness which
would have done credit to the most civilized society. Having reached
the group, she halted, and was immediately inclosed by the circle
of women, who kept at a respectful distance, still near enough to
hear distinctly. Custaloga himself felt inclined to advance; but he
contented himself with gliding forward to another tree, and then stood
still, leaning forward, listening with rapt attention.
“Cosama was a brave--no hunter,” she began, “ever made his wigwam
warmer, or kept it better supplied with meat--he was never the last
on the war-path, his cry was always heard on the battle-field; his
wife and little ones were happy, for they knew the husband and father
was a brave. And where is Cosama now? Is his voice heard at the
council-fire to-night? Will his cry ever wake the echoes in the forest
again? No. He went forth, on the first day of the moon, to fight the
sneaking pale-faces, and yesterday he fell into an ambush, and the
great warrior, Cosama the brave, the Quivering Spear, died by the hand
of a squaw. Wah! The wigwam of Rice-stalk is empty; no more shall the
voice of Cosama bid his woman go fetch the game in the forest; no more
shall his boy run to meet him on the edge of the wood, and learn to be
a brave at the sound of his voice. Cosama was a brave, but he died by
the hand of a squaw. A woman of the pale-faces is in yonder tent, a
pappoose is by her side; they are alive, and Cosama is unavenged.”
Custaloga shuddered, clutched his knife, and drew back for a bound. His
eyes glared, his form seemed to swell, and one would have said he was
about to do reckless battle with the whole tribe.
To be continued in Dime Novel 143, and in addition to a complete Novel.
* * * * *
BEADLE’S Standard Dime Publications
NOVELS SERIES.
1. Malaeska.
2. The Privateer’s Cruise.
3. Myra, the Child of Adoption.
4. Alice Wilde.
5. The Golden Belt.
6. Chip, the Cave Child.
7. The Reefer of ’76.
8. Seth Jones.
9. The Slave Sculptor.
10. The Backwoods Bride.
11. The Prisoner of La Vintresse.
12. Bill Biddon, the Trapper.
13. Cedar Swamp.
14. The Emerald Necklace.
15. The Frontier Angel.
16. Uncle Ezekiel.
17. Madge Wylde.
18. Nat Todd.
19. Massasoit’s Daughter.
20. Florida, or, the Iron Will.
21. Sybil Chase.
22. The Maid of Esopus.
23. Winifred Winthrop.
24. The Trail Hunters.
25. The Peon Prince.
26. The Brethren of the Coast.
27. The Daughter of Liberty.
28. King Barnaby.
29. The Forest Spy.
30. Putnam Pomfret’s Ward.
31. The Double Hero.
32. Irona, or, Life on the Border.
33. Maum Guinea. (20 cents.)
34. Ruth Margerie.
35. East and West.
36. The Rifleman of the Miami.
37. Godbold, the Spy.
38. The Wrong Man.
39. The Land Claim.
40. The Unionist’s Daughter. (20c.)
41. The Hunter’s Cabin.
42. The King’s Man.
43. The Allens.
44. Agnes Falkland.
45. Esther; or, the Oregon Trail.
46. The Wreck of the Albion.
47. Tim Bumble’s Charge.
48. Oonomoo, the Huron.
49. The Gold Hunters.
50. The Black Ship.
51. The Two Guards.
52. Single Eye.
53. Hates and Loves.
54. Myrtle, the Child of the Prairie.
55. Off and On.
56. Ahmo’s Plot.
57. The Scout.
58. The Mad Hunter.
59. Kent, the Ranger.
60. Jo Daviess’ Client.
61. Laughing Eyes.
62. The Unknown.
63. The Indian Princess.
64. The Rangers of the Mohawk.
65. The Wrecker’s Prize.
66. The Hunter’s Vow.
67. Indian Jim.
68. The Brigantine.
69. Black Hollow.
70. The Indian Queen.
71. The Lost Trail.
72. The Moose Hunter.
73. The Silver Bugle.
74. The Cruiser of the Chesapeake.
75. The Hunter’s Escape
76. The Scout’s Prize.
77. Quindaro.
78. The Rival Scouts.
79. The Schuylkill Rangers.
80. Eagle Eye.
81. The Two Hunters.
82. The Mystic Canoe.
83. The Golden Harpoon.
84. The Seminole Chief.
85. The Fugitives.
86. Red Plume.
87. On the Deep.
88. Captain Molly.
89. Star Eyes.
90. Cast Away.
91. The Lost Cache.
92. The Twin Scouts.
93. The Creole Sisters.
94. The Mad Skipper.
95. Eph Peters.
96. Little Moccasin.
97. The Doomed Hunter.
98. Ruth Harland.
99. Overboard.
100. Karaibo.
101. The Maid of Wyoming.
102. Hearts Forever.
103. Big Foot, the Guide.
104. Guilty or Not Guilty.
105. The Man in Green.
106. Simple Phil.
107. The Peddler Spy.
108. The Last Ship.
109. Kidnapped.
110. The Hidden Home.
111. The Shawnees’ Foe.
112. The Falcon Rover.
113. Rattlepate.
114. Ned Starling.
115. The Sons of Liberty.
116. Port at Last.
117. The Mohegan Maiden.
118. The Water Waif.
119. The Five Champions.
120. The Hunchback.
121. The Vailed Benefactress.
122. Barden, the Ranger.
123. The Missing Bride.
124. Sumter’s Scouts.
125. The Hunted Life.
126. Old Jupe.
127. Bald Eagle.
128. The Gulch Miners.
129. Blackeyes.
130. Brave Heart.
131. The Wrecker’s Daughter.
132. Old Honesty.
133. Yankee Eph.
134. Foul-weather Jack.
135. The Cherokee Chief.
136. The Indian-Hunters.
137. The Traitor Spy.
138. Tim, the Scout.
139. The Border Foes.
140. Sheet-Anchor Tom.
141. The Helpless Hand.
LIBRARY.
1. The White-faced Pacer.
2. The Blacksmith of Antwerp.
3. The Maiden Martyr.
4. The Loyalist.
5. The Country Cousin.
6. The Messenger.
FICTION.
1. The Marked Bullet.
2. The Outlaw Brothers.
3. The Willing Captive.
4. The Deer Hunters.
5. The Dacotah Queen.
6. Missing Jo.
7. Gottlieb Gottsoock.
8. Prairie Chick.
9. Roving Ben.
BIOGRAPHIES.
1. Garibaldi.
2. Daniel Boone.
3. Kit Carson.
4. Anthony Wayne.
5. David Crockett.
6. Winfield Scott.
7. Pontiac.
8. John C. Fremont.
9. John Paul Jones.
10. Marquis de Lafayette.
11. Tecumseh.
12. General George B. McClellan.
13. Parson Brownlow.
14. Abraham Lincoln.
15. Ulysses S Grant.
MEN OF THE TIME, Nos. 1, 2 and 3.
SCHOOL SERIES.
1. American Speaker.
2. National Speaker.
3. Patriotic Speaker.
4. Comic Speaker.
5. Elecutionist.
6. Humorous Speaker.
7. Standard Speaker.
DIALOGUES, Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6.
Melodist.
School Melodist.
HAND-BOOKS OF GAMES.
Guide to Curling and Skating.
Yachting and Rowing.
Riding and Driving.
Chess Instructor.
Book of Cricket and Football.
Base-Ball Player for 1867.
Guide to Swimming.
Book of Croquet.
FAMILY SERIES.
1. Cook Book.
2. Recipe Book.
3. Housewife’s Manual.
4. Family Physician.
5. Dressmaking and Millinery.
POPULAR HAND-BOOKS.
1. Letter-Writer.
2. Book of Etiquette.
3. Book of Verses.
4. Book of Dreams.
SONG BOOKS.
Song Books. Nos. 1 to 90.
Pocket Songsters, Nos. 1 to 6.
MISCELLANEOUS.
Dime Tales, Nos. 1 to 12.
Grant’s and Sherman’s Reports.
Books of Fun, Nos. 1, 2 and 3.
Robinson Crusoe, (Illustrated).
The New House that Jack Built.
* * * * *
BEADLE’S DIME PUBLICATIONS.
What is said of them by Competent Judges.
We were agreeably surprised, on looking over the series of these
works, to find how much excellent matter is given for that now defunct
article, the dime, but still purchasable at ten cents. History,
Fiction, and Useful Works--some of which are suitable for Schools--are
to be found in this remarkably cheap series of publications. Of one
thing we can assure our readers--that nothing immoral, or of a _slang_
nature, is published in them. So, if you want a cheap and good ten
cents’ worth, get one of BEADLE’S DIME BOOKS.--LOUIS A. GODEY, _Godey’s
Lady’s Book_.
One of the most successful enterprises of modern times in the literary
world was inaugurated with the introduction of the “Dime” publications
of the well-known firm of Beadle and Company.... Their success has
been unprecedented, but not undeserved, for we believe it has been
their conscientious aim to cultivate the popular taste up to a higher
standard of literature than was the case before they took the field.
Yellow-covered literature was therefore so aptly described as “cheap
and nasty;” but the publications of this house, though the cheapest of
the cheap, have proved that that desirable quality is not inconsistent
with a high order of literary merit, and an irreproachable standard of
morality.--_Buffalo Commercial Advertiser._
Why these works, (Beadle’s Dime Books), are popular is a problem,
quite as much for the moralist and student of national character as
for the critic. It is a satisfaction that, being so, they are, without
exception, so far as we can judge, unexceptionably moral.... They do
not even obscurely pander to vice, or excite the passions.--_North
American Review_, July, 1864.
These works are of a high moral character, and are written in a popular
and entertaining style. They are certain to find their way into the
home circle, and when once they have made room for themselves in the
English heart, they are certain to find an ever-ready welcome.--_London
(England) American._
Since the time that Fenimore Cooper wrote his Indian tales, few works
of fiction have excited greater attention or given greater satisfaction
to the reader of romance, forcibly reminding us of those works of the
above deceased author which have won for him a world-wide celebrity.
The Indian and genuine Yankee character, together with that of the
sturdy backwoodsman and settler, are graphically drawn.--_Examiner_,
Brighton, England.
Beadle and Company deserve all credit for their series of Dime
Publications, as in no case have they allowed a work of poisonous
character to pass through their hands to the public. Evil is not
glossed over in any instance with a veneer of virtue, to mimic the
genuine. A general observation on American light literature will apply
to the publications of Beadle and Company.--Rondout, N. Y., _Courier_.
In his series of Dime Publications, Beadle has struck upon a new
path--at once excellent and original. By this means he has brought much
of the very best of our current literature within the reach of all.
His publications embrace History, Biography, Adventure and Romance,
and nothing of a worthless or immoral tendency is issued from his
presses.--_Perrysburg, O., Journal._
Beadle’s Dime Publications, by their combined cheapness, excellence
and beauty, have become familiar to the American public. They are,
doubtless, the most popular series of books ever issued in this
country. This popularity is due quite as much to the high standard of
merit maintained in each work as to the exceeding cheapness of the
little volumes. Literary and moral excellence are primary requisites
for all contributions to the series, as well as dramatic interest,
power and beauty of story. Hence the popularity and permanent value
of these now conceded household and public favorites; and the general
reader, the teacher, the parent and the scholar, may rest assured that
in securing any of Beadle’s publications, they have what will prove
eminently satisfactory.--_Mt. Carmel (Ill.) Register._
The wonder is how they can afford to furnish so much for so little; but
they do, upon receipt of the sum designated.--_Gazette_, Williamsport,
Pa.
The publishers are issuing a series of Dime Books, which contains
a large amount of interesting and useful reading, at a very small
expense.--_Standard_, Kendallville, Ind.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
An earlier shorter version of this story appeared in Elizabeth Oakes
Smith, “The Sagamore of Saco: A Legend of Maine,” _Graham’s American
Monthly Magazine of Literature and Art_, Vol. XXXIII, No. 1, July,
1848. This is available online from Project Gutenberg.
Punctuation has been made consistent.
Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.
The following changes were made:
p. 52: crone changed to croon (to croon, in)
Back cover: of assumed for unclear original text (veneer of virtue,)
End of Project Gutenberg's The Sagamore of Saco, by Mrs. E. Oakes Smith