YOUNG FOLKS MAGAZINE
VOLUME 1 NUMBER 1
1902 MARCH
_An_ ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL _for_ BOYS & GIRLS
The Penn Publishing Company Philadelphia
CONTENTS FOR MARCH
PAGE
WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE (Serial) W. Bert Foster 1
Illustrated by F. A. Carter
AT THE BEND OF THE TRAIL Otis T. Merrill 11
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW (Verse) Mackay 13
A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST (Serial) Evelyn Raymond 14
Illustrated by Ida Waugh
MARCH (Poem) Bayard Taylor 22
WOOD-FOLK TALK J. Allison Atwood 23
Illustrated by the Author
LITTLE POLLY PRENTISS (Serial) Elizabeth Lincoln Gould 25
Illustrated by Ida Waugh
A RAMBLE IN EARLY SPRING Julia McNair Wright 31
WITH THE EDITOR 32
EVENT AND COMMENT 33
IN-DOORS (Parlor Magic) Ellis Stanyon 34
THE OLD TRUNK 36
WITH THE PUBLISHER 37
YOUNG FOLKS MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly Journal for Boys and Girls_
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Copyright 1902 by The Penn Publishing Company
Young Folks Magazine
VOL. I MARCH 1902 No. 1
WITH WASHINGTON AT VALLEY FORGE
By W. Bert Foster
CHAPTER I
Unwelcome Guests at the Three Oaks Inn
All day the strident whistle of the locust had declared for a
continuation of the parching heat. The meadows lay brown under the
glare of the August sun; the roads were deep in powdery yellow dust.
The cattle stood with sweating flanks in the shade of the oaks which
bordered the stage track, and although the sun was now declining toward
the summits of the distant mountains, all nature continued in the
somnolence of a summer day.
A huddle of sheep under a wagon shed and the lolling form of a big
collie dog in the barnyard were the only signs of life about the Three
Oaks Inn. Mistress and maids, as well as the guests now sheltered by
its moss-grown roof, had retired to the cooler chambers, and Jonas
Benson, the portly landlord, snored loudly in his armchair in the hall.
Out of this hall, with its exposed beams of time-blackened oak and its
high fanlight over the entrance, opened the main room, its floor sanded
in an intricate pattern that very morning by one of the maids. Across
the hall was the closed door of the darkened parlor.
Had Jonas Benson been of a more wakeful mind this hot afternoon, it is
quite likely that this narrative would never have been written. But
he snored on while behind the closed door of the parlor were whispered
words which, had they reached the ears of the landlord of the Three
Oaks, would have put him instantly on the alert.
The year was 1777, a fateful one indeed for the American arms in the
struggle for liberty--a year of both blessing and misfortune for the
patriot cause. Within its twelve months the Continental army achieved
some notable victories; but it suffered, too, memorable defeats. It
was the year when human liberty seemed trembling in the balance, when
all nations--even France--stood aloof, waiting to see whether the
star of the American Colonies was setting or on the ascendant. The
British army, under Howe and Clinton, occupied New York. Washington
and his little force lay near Philadelphia, then the capital of the
newly-formed confederation. New Jersey--all the traveled ways between
the two armies--was disputed territory, disturbed continually by a sort
of guerilla warfare most hard for the peacefully-inclined farmers and
tradespeople to bear.
Spies of both sides in the great conflict infested the country:
foraging parties, like the rain, descended upon the just and the
unjust; and neighbors who had lived in harmony for years before the war
broke out, now were at daggers’ points. The Tories had grown confident
because of the many set-backs endured by the patriot forces. Many even
prophesied that, when Burgoyne’s army, then being gathered beyond the
Canadian border, should descend the valleys of upper New York and
finally join Howe and Clinton, the handful of Americans bearing arms
against the king would be fairly swept into the sea, or ground to
powder between the victorious British lines.
Jonas Benson was intensely patriotic, and the Three Oaks had given
shelter oft and again to scouts and foraging parties of the Continental
troops. The inn-keeper had given the pick of his horses to the army,
reserving few but such nags as were positively needed for the coach
which went down to Trenton at irregular intervals. There were more than
his staid coach horses in the stable on this afternoon, however, and
the fact was much to his distaste.
There had arrived at the Three Oaks the evening before a private
carriage drawn by a pair of handsome bays and driven by a most
solemn-faced Jehu, whose accent was redolent of Bow Bells. With the
carriage came a gentleman--a fierce, military-looking man, though
not in uniform--who rode a charger, which, so Jonas told his wife,
would have made a saint envious, providing the latter were a judge of
horseflesh. Inside the carriage rode a very pretty girl of sixteen or
seventeen, whose dress and appearance were much different from the
plain country lasses of that region.
“They’re surely gentle folk, Jonas,” Mistress Benson had declared. “The
sweet child is a little lady--see how proud she holds herself. Law!
it’s been a long day since we served real gentles here.”
Jonas snorted disdainfully; he suspected that at heart his good
wife had royalist tendencies. As for him, the American officers who
sometimes made the Three Oaks their headquarters for a few days were
fine enough folk. “I tell ye what, woman,” he said, “they may be great
folk or not; one thing I do know. They possess great influence or
they’d never gotten through the Britishers with them fine nags. And if
the outposts weren’t so far away, I’m blessed if I believe they’d get
away from here without our own lads having a shy at the horses.”
But the Bensons were too busy making their guests comfortable to
discuss them--or their horses--to any length. Colonel Creston Knowles
was the name the gentleman gave, and the girl was his daughter, Miss
Lillian. The driver of the carriage, who served the colonel as valet
as well, was called William, and a more stony-faced, unemotional
individual it had never been the fate of the Bensons to observe. It
was utterly impossible to draw from this servant a word regarding his
master’s business between the lines of the opposing armies.
These visitors were not desired by Jonas. He kept a public house, and,
for the sake of being at peace with everybody, his Tory neighbors
included, he treated all guests who came to the Three Oaks with
unfailing cordiality. But the presence of Colonel Knowles at this time
was bound to cause trouble.
The inn was on the road usually traversed by those in haste to reach
Philadelphia, where, while Washington’s army was posted nearby,
Congress held its session. Many a time in the dead of night there was
the rattle of hoofs on the road, as a breathless rider dashed up to
the door, and with a loud “Halloa” aroused the stable boy. Then in
a few moments, mounted afresh, he would hurry on into the darkness.
These dispatch-bearers of the American army knew they could trust mine
host of the Three Oaks, and that a ridable nag could always be found
somewhere in his stable.
The very night Colonel Knowles arrived at the tavern there was an
occurrence of this kind. And after the dispatch-bearer had gone, and
Jonas and Hadley Morris, the stable boy, stood in the paved yard
watching him disappear on the moonlit road, they saw a night-capped
head at the colonel’s window.
“We’ll have no peace, Had, while yon Britisher’s hereabout,” muttered
the old man.
“I wonder why he has come into this country, so far from New York?” was
the boy’s observation. “He can’t be upon military service, though he be
a colonel in his majesty’s army.”
“He’s here for no good, mark that, Had,” grumbled Jonas. “I’d rather
have no guests at the Three Oaks than men of his kidney.”
“His daughter is a pretty girl, and kindly spoken.”
“That may be--that may be,” testily. “You’re as shortsighted as my old
wife, Had. You’ll both let this Master Creston Knowles throw dust in
your eyes because he’s got a pretty daughter. Bah!”
And Jonas stumbled back to bed, leaving Hadley Morris to retire to his
couch on the loft floor of the stable.
But had these well-founded suspicions been to any purpose, the
inn-keeper surely would have remained awake on the afternoon our story
opens, instead of lolling, sound asleep, in his wide chair in the hall.
Behind the parlor door, not ten feet away from mine host of the Three
Oaks, Colonel Creston Knowles was conversing in a low tone with his
serving man.
“And you say it happened twice during the night, sirrah?” queried
the British officer, who spoke to everybody but his daughter with
sternness.
“Twice, hand it please ye, sir. Hi’m sure the stable was hopened once
hafter the time you was hup, sir, hand another ’orse taken hout. My
life! but Hi thought hit thieves hat first, sir--some o’ them murderin’
cowboys; but the young lad has tends to the ’orses seemed to know them
that came, hand they did not touch hour hanimals, sir.”
“It’s a regular nest of rebels!” exclaimed the colonel, his brow black
enough at the report. “Such places as this should be razed to the
earth. The spies who report to this Mr. Washington and his brother
rebels evidently have free course through the country. They even
exchange their steeds here--and Malcolm’s troop lying less than six
miles away this very day. William!”
“Yes, sir?”
The colonel beckoned him nearer and whispered an inaudible order in
the man’s ear. There was no change of expression upon the servant’s
countenance, and the command might have been welcome or distasteful as
far as an observer could have told. When the colonel ceased speaking,
William rose without a word and tiptoed cautiously to the door. On
pulling this ajar, however, the lusty snoring of Jonas Benson warned
him of the inn-keeper’s presence. He closed the door again, nodded to
the colonel, and vaulted through one of the open windows, thus making
his exit without disturbing the landlord.
But although everybody about the tavern itself seemed to be slumbering,
the colonel’s man found that he could not enter the stable without
being observed. As he came out of the glare of sunshine into the half
darkness of the wide threshing floor, the Englishman suddenly came upon
a figure standing between him and the narrow window at the further
end of the stable. It was the stable boy and he was just buckling the
saddle-girth upon a nervous little black mare whose bit was fastened to
a long halter hanging from one of the cross-beams.
Hadley Morris was a brawny youth for his age, which was seventeen. He
was by no means handsome, and few boys would be attractive-looking in
the clothing of a stable boy. Yet there was that in his carriage, in
the keenness of his eye, in the firm lines of his chin and lip, which
would have attracted a second glance from any thoughtful observer.
Hadley had been now more than a year at the Three Oaks Inn, ever since
it had become too unpleasant for him to longer remain with his uncle,
Ephraim Morris, a Tory farmer of the neighborhood. Hadley was legally
bound to Ephraim, better known, perhaps, as “Miser Morris,” and, of
course, was not permitted to join the patriot army as he had wished.
The youth might have broken away from his uncle altogether had he so
desired, but there were good reasons why he had not yet taken this
decisive step.
He had found it impossible to live longer under his uncle’s roof,
however, and therefore had gone to work for Jonas Benson; but he still
considered himself bound to his uncle, and Jonas grumblingly paid over
to the farmer the monthly wage which the boy faithfully earned. Hadley
found occasion oft and again to further the cause which in his soul he
espoused. It was he rather than the landlord who saw to it that the
fleetest horse in the stable was ready saddled against the expected
arrival of one of those dispatch-bearers whose coming and going had
disturbed Colonel Knowles the night before. As he now tightened the
girth of the mare’s trappings she danced about as though eager to be
footing it along the stage road toward the river.
Hadley was startled by the sudden appearance of the colonel’s servant
in the doorway of the barn.
“So you are riding hout, too?” observed the latter, going toward the
stalls occupied by his master’s thoroughbreds. “There’s a deal of going
back and forth ’ere, hit seems to me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing so lively as it was before the war broke out,” Hadley
explained, good-naturedly. “Then the coaches went out thrice a week to
Trenton, and one of the New York and Philadelphia stages always stopped
here, going and coming. Business is killed and the country is all but
dead now.”
William grunted as he backed out one of the carriage horses and threw
his master’s saddle upon it. “You’re going out yourself, I see.” Hadley
said, observing that the man did not saddle the colonel’s charger.
“Hi’ve got to give the beasts some hexercise if we’re goin’ ter lie
’ere day hafter day,” grumbled William, and swung himself quickly into
the saddle.
The boy went to the open door and watched him ride heavily away from
the inn, with a puzzled frown upon his brow. “He’s never going for
exercise such a hot afternoon as this,” muttered the youth. “There!
he’s put the horse on the gallop. He’s going somewhere a-purpose--and
he’s in haste. Will he take the turn to the Mills, I wonder, or keep
straight on for Trenton?”
The trees which shaded the road hid horse and rider, and leaving the
little mare dancing on the barn floor, Hadley ran hastily up the ladder
to the loft, and then by a second ladder reached the little cupola,
or ventilator, which Master Benson had built atop his barn. From this
point of vantage all the roads converging near the Three Oaks Inn could
be traced for several miles.
Behind the cluster of tall trees which gave the inn its name, a road
branched off toward the Mills. In a minute or less the watcher saw a
horseman dash along this road amid a cloud of dust.
“He’s bound for the Mills--and in a wonderful hurry. What was it Lafe
Holdness told us when he was along here the other day? Something about
a troop of British horse being at the Mills, I’ll be bound.” Then
he turned toward the east and looked carefully along the brown road
on which any person coming from the way of New York would naturally
travel. “Well, there’s nobody in sight yet. If that fellow means
mischief--Ah! but it’s six miles to the Mills and if he continues to
ride like that on this hot day the horse will be winded long before he
gets there.”
He went down the ladders, however, with anxious face, and during the
ensuing hour made many trips to the wide gateway which opened upon the
dusty road. There was not a sign of life, however, in either direction.
Meanwhile the tavern awakened to its ordinary life and bustle. The
last rays of the sun slanted over the mountain tops and the shadows
crept farther and farther across the meadows. The old collie arose
and stretched himself lazily, while the tinkle of sheep bells and the
heavier jangle which betrayed the approach of the cattle cut the warm
air sharply. Even a breeze arose and curled the road dust in little
spirals and rustled the oak leaves. Dusk was approaching to relieve
panting nature.
Jonas awoke with a start and came out upon the tavern porch to stretch
himself. He saw Hadley standing by the gateway and asked:
“Got the mare saddled, Had?”
“Yes, sir. She’s been standing on the barn floor for an hour. One of
the other horses has gone out, sir.”
“Heh? How’s that?” He tiptoed softly to the end of the porch so as to
be close above the boy. “Who’s been here?” he asked.
“Nobody. But the colonel’s man took one of those bays and started for
the Mills an hour ago.”
“I d’know as I like the sound of that,” muttered Jonas. “I wish these
folks warn’t here--that I do. They aint meanin’ no good--”
“Hush!” whispered Hadley, warningly.
From the wide tavern door there suddenly appeared the British colonel’s
daughter. She was indeed a pretty girl and her smile was infectious.
Even Jonas’ face cleared at sight of her and he hastened, as well as a
man of his portliness could, to set a chair for her.
“It is very beautiful here,” Miss Lillian said, “and so peaceful. I got
so tired in New York seeing soldiers everywhere and hearing about war.
It doesn’t seem as though anything ever happened here.”
“I b’lieve something’s goin’ to happen b’fore long, though,” the
landlord whispered anxiously to Hadley, and walked to the other end of
the porch, leaving the two young people together.
“It is usually very quiet about here,” Hadley said, trying to speak
easily to the guest. He was not at all used to girls, and Miss Lillian
was altogether out of his class. He felt himself rough and uncouth in
her presence. “But we see soldiers once in a while.”
“Our soldiers?” asked the girl, smiling.
“No--not British soldiers,” Hadley replied, slowly.
“Oh, you surely don’t call those ragamuffin colonists soldiers, do
you?” she asked, quickly.
A crimson flush spread from Hadley’s bronzed neck to his brow; but a
little smile followed and his eyes twinkled. “I don’t know what you’d
really call them; but they made your grenadiers fall back at Bunker
Hill.”
Miss Lillian bit her lip in anger; then, as she looked down into the
stable boy’s face her own countenance cleared and she laughed aloud.
“I don’t think I’ll quarrel with you,” she said. “You are a rebel, I
suppose, and I am an English girl. You don’t know what it means to be
born across the water, and--”
“Oh, yes I do. I was born in England myself,” Hadley returned. “My
mother brought me across when she came to keep house for Uncle Ephraim
Morris--”
“Who?” interposed Lillian, turning towards him again, with astonishment
in both voice and countenance.
“My mother.”
“No, no! I mean the man--your uncle. What is his name?”
“Ephraim Morris. He is a farmer back yonder,” and Hadley pointed over
his shoulder. “My name is Hadley Morris.”
Before Lillian could comment upon this, or explain her sudden interest
in his uncle’s name, both were startled by an exclamation from the
landlord at the other end of the porch.
“Had! Had!” he called. “He’s coming.”
Hadley left the gate at once and leaped into the road. Far down the
dusty highway there appeared a little balloon of dust, and the faint
ring of rapid hoofs reached their ears. Somebody was riding furiously
toward the inn from the east. Lillian rose to look, too, and in the
doorway appeared the military figure of her father. His face looked
very grim indeed as he gazed, as the others were doing, down the road.
The advancing horseman was less than a quarter of a mile away when, of
a sudden, there sounded a single pistol shot--then another and another.
It was a scattering volley, but at the first report those watching at
the inn could see the approaching horse fairly leap ahead under the
spur of its rider.
“Ha! the scoundrels are after him!” cried the inn-keeper, his fat face
paling.
The colonel’s countenance expressed sudden satisfaction. “Go into
the house, Lillian!” he commanded. “There will be trouble here in a
moment.” He brought out from under his coat tails as he spoke a huge
pistol such as was usually carried in saddle holsters at that day.
Hadley Morris, from the centre of the road, did not see the colonel’s
weapon. He only observed the approaching horseman in the cloud of dust,
and knew him to be a dispatch-bearer aiming to reach the ferry and
Washington’s headquarters beyond. In a moment there loomed up behind
him a group of pursuers riding neck and neck upon his trail. They were
British dragoons and the space between them and their prey was scarce a
hundred yards.
CHAPTER II
RELATING A WILD NIGHT RIDE
It did not take a very sharp eye to observe that the horse which
the messenger bestrode was laboring sorely, while his pursuers were
blessed with comparatively fresh mounts. The American had ridden long
and hard, and his steed was in no shape for such a spurt of speed as
it was put to now. The British had kept clear of this road for weeks,
because of the foraging parties from Philadelphia, and, doubtless, the
dispatch-bearer hoped to find at the Three Oaks those who would stand
him well in this emergency.
At least, there would be a fresh horse there, and perhaps a faithful
man or two to help beat off the dragoons until he could escape with
his precious charge. He had no thought that there was a still greater
danger ahead of him. The dragoons were lashing and spurring their
horses to the utmost; and now and again one took a potshot at him; but
there on the porch of the old inn stood Colonel Knowles, waiting with
all the calmness of a sportsman to bring the fleeing man to earth.
Young Hadley Morris did not notice the colonel; he had forgotten his
presence in his interest in the flight and pursuit. But Jonas Benson
saw his guest’s big pistol and realized the danger to the approaching
fugitive. Yet there seemed nothing he could do to avert the calamity.
He dared not openly attack the colonel, for whether the dispatch-bearer
escaped or no, the dragoons would be at the inn in a few moments, and,
there being no such force of Americans in the neighborhood, they might
wreak vengeance on him and his family. The old man was hard put to it,
indeed, in this emergency.
Not so Hadley, however. He was quick of thought and quite as brisk of
action. The charge of galloping horse was but a short distance away,
the American still a little in the lead, when the boy darted back to
the heavy barred gate which shut the yard from the road. The barrier
had been swung wide open and fastened with a loop of rope to a hook in
the side of the house. He slipped this fastening and stood ready to
shut the gate between the fugitive and his pursuers, and thus delay the
latter for a possible few moments.
If the dispatch-bearer got into the yard safely he could leap upon the
back of the black mare now standing impatiently on the barn floor,
and escape his pursuers through the fields and orchard back of the
outbuildings. No ordinary horse would be able to leap the high gate,
and Hadley did not believe the dragoons were overly well mounted. As
the dispatch-bearer dashed up, foam flying from his horse’s mouth and
the blood dripping from its flanks where the cruel spurs had done
their work, it looked to Colonel Knowles as though the American would
ride right by, and he raised his pistol in a deliberate intention of
bringing the man to earth.
But as he pulled the trigger old Jonas stumbled against him and the
ball went wide of its mark. The shot did much harm, however, for it
frightened the already maddened horse, which leaped to one side,
pitching the man completely over its head upon the paving of the yard.
The horse fell, too, but outside the gate, and Hadley was able to slam
the barrier and drop the bar into place before the dragoons arrived.
The explosion of the colonel’s pistol and that officer’s angry shout
warned Hadley of the added and closer danger. He darted to the side of
the fallen messenger. The poor fellow had struggled partly up and was
tearing at his coat. His face was covered with blood, for he was badly
injured by his fall; but one thought kept him conscious.
[Illustration: HE DARTED TOWARD THE FALLEN MESSENGER]
“The papers--the papers, lad!” he gasped. “For General
Washington--quick!”
But he had only half pulled the packet from his inner pocket when he
dropped back upon the flagstones, and, with a groan, lay still.
Hadley seized the precious packet and leaped to his feet. With a
clatter of hoofs and amid a cloud of dust the dragoons arrived at the
yard gate.
“There he is! He’s down--down!” shouted the leader. “We’ve got him
safe! Hi, there landlord! open your gate or we’ll batter it in!”
“They’ve got him safe, that’s a fact,” muttered Hadley, in distress.
“But--but they haven’t got the papers!”
He turned swiftly and ran toward the barn.
“There goes one of them running!” shouted a voice behind. Then a pistol
exploded and Hadley leaped forward as though the ball had stung him,
although it whistled far above his head.
“Look out for that boy!” he heard Colonel Knowles say, and, glancing
back, Hadley saw the officer leaning out of one of the windows which
overlooked the yard. At a neighboring casement the fleeing youth saw
Miss Lillian. Even at that distance, and in so perilous a moment,
Hadley noted that the girl’s face was very pale and that she watched
him with clasped hands and anxious countenance.
One of the dragoons had dismounted and now unbarred the gate. Before
Hadley reached the wide doorway of the great barn the soldiers were
trooping through into the yard.
“The boy has the papers--look after him, I tell you!” he heard the
colonel shout. Then Hadley pulled the great door shut and fastened it
securely on the inside. For an instant he could breathe.
But only for an instant. The dragoons were at the door then, beating
upon it with the hilts of their sabres and pistol-butts, demanding
entrance. Hadley had no weapon had he desired to defend the barn from
attack. And that would be a foolish attempt, indeed. It would be an
easy matter for the dragoons to break down the fences and surround the
barn so that he could not escape, and then beat in the door and capture
him--and with him the papers. He did not know how valuable those
documents might be; but the man now lying senseless in the inn yard had
saved them at the risk of his life; the boy felt it his duty to do as
much.
Colonel Knowles had now come out into the yard and taken command of the
attack. Evidently he was recognized by the British soldiers, despite
his civilian’s dress. He gave orders for a timber to be brought to beat
in the door, and Hadley likewise heard him send two of the soldiers
around the barn to watch the rear. If the boy would escape it must be
within the next few seconds.
He ran back to the rear of the building. Here was another wide door and
he flung it open. The soldiers had not appeared; but the doorsill was
a good eight feet and more from the ground. The barn had been built
on a hillside. Directly below the door was a pen in which hogs were
kept. Eight feet was a good drop, and besides it would be impossible to
escape the soldiers on foot.
A crash sounded at the front of the building. The men had brought up
the timber for a battering ram. The door would certainly be burst
inward before many moments. Hadley ran back to the waiting mare that
already seemed to share his own excitement. He freed her from the
halter and sprang into the saddle. He dared not try getting past his
enemies when the door fell and with a quick jerk of the rein he pulled
the mare around. She trotted swiftly to the rear door which the boy had
flung open; but when she saw the distance to the ground below, her ears
went back and she crouched.
“You’ve got to do it, Molly!” exclaimed the boy, desperately. He
reached to the stanchion at his right hand and seized a riding-whip
hanging there. As the mare continued to back, Hadley brought the lash
down again and again upon her quivering flank. The poor beast was not
used to such treatment, and in her rage and fright she forgot the
danger ahead and leaped straight out from the open stable door.
Hadley stood up in the stirrups when he felt her go. He knew where she
would land, and he believed the feat would be without danger; but he
was ready to kick out of the stirrups and save himself if the little
mare missed her footing.
Fortunately she landed just where her rider had planned. There was a
pile of straw and barn scrapings below the door, and from this Black
Molly rebounded as though from a mattress. She was not an instant
in recovering herself, and, still frightened by the sting of the
whip-lash, darted out through the orchard. Hadley flung away the whip,
and, leaning forward, hugged her neck so as not to be swept off by the
low branches of the apple trees.
There was a wild halloa behind him. The dragoons sent to cut off his
escape had arrived too late; but they emptied their pistols at the
black mare and her young rider.
“They won’t give up so easily,” Hadley muttered, not daring to look
around while still in the orchard. “That Colonel Knowles would rather
die than be outwitted by a boy. I’ll make right for the ferry, and
perhaps I may meet Holdness somewhere on the road. I can give the
papers up to him, and I know he’ll find some way of getting them to
General Washington.”
He pulled Black Molly’s head around and took a nearer slant for the
road. The mare was more easily managed now, and when he reached the
rail fence which divided the orchard from the highway his mount had
forgotten her fright and allowed him to stop and fling down a part
of the fence so that they could get through and down the bank into
the road. Looking back before descending the bank, Hadley saw several
horsemen streaming through the orchard behind him, and, more to be
feared than these, was the party leaving the inn yard and taking to
the very road out upon which he had come. At the head of this second
cavalcade rode Colonel Knowles himself on his great charger, and
Hadley’s heart sank. Black Molly was famed throughout the countryside
for her speed; but that great beast of the colonel’s--evidently brought
from across the sea, and a thoroughbred hunter--would be more than a
match for the little mare in a long chase.
“We must do our best, Molly,” cried the boy, slapping her side with his
palm and riding down into the dusty road. “You can keep ahead of them,
I know, for a short distance, and you must do your best now. It will
soon be too dark for them to see us--that’s a blessing.”
The little mare needed no spur or urging. She clattered along the
darkening road with head down and neck outstretched, Hadley riding with
a loose rein and letting her pick her own way over the track. He could
trust to her instinct more safely than to his own sight. The oaks cast
thick shadows across his path, and now the whole sky was turning a deep
indigo, dotted here and there with star points. There was no moon until
later, and he believed the darkness was more favorable to him than to
his pursuers.
He could hear the thunder of the hoofs behind him, however, and he
patted Molly’s neck encouragingly and talked to her as she ran. “Go it,
girl! you’ve got to go!” he said. “Just make your little feet fly.
Remember the times I’ve rubbed you down, and fed you, and taken you to
water. Just do your very prettiest, my girl, for it’s more than my life
you’ve got to save--it’s these papers, whatever they be.”
And the little mare seemed to understand what he said, for she strained
every effort for speed. She fairly skimmed over the ground, and for the
first mile or more the hoof-beats gained not at all upon them. Then, to
Hadley’s straining ears, it seemed as though the pursuit grew closer.
It was not a mob of hoof-beats which he heard, but the steady, unbroken
gallop of one horse. And it took little intuition for the boy to know
which this leading pursuer was. The great black charger, the colonel’s
mount, had left the dragoons behind, and its stride was now shortening
the distance rapidly between its master and himself.
“Oh, Molly, run--run!” gasped the boy, digging his heels into the
mare’s sides.
Molly was doing her best, but the sound of the black horse’s hoofs grew
louder. The road was not straight or Hadley might have looked back and
seen the colonel bearing down upon him. But the officer could doubtless
follow his prey by the sound of Molly’s feet, quite as accurately as
Hadley could estimate his speed. At this thought, and hoping to put his
pursuer at a disadvantage for the moment, the boy pulled the mare out
upon the level sward beside the road. There Black Molly pattered along
silently: but the boy could hear the thunder of pursuit growing louder
and louder.
Now that the clatter of his own mount’s hoofs were not in his ears,
Hadley was suddenly aware of a new sound cutting the night air. And it
was not from the rear, but from ahead--the loud complaint of ungreased
axles: a low, heavy wagon was coming slowly along the road.
“If it should be Holdness!” gasped the boy. “It sounds like his wagon.”
Around another turn in the crooked road they flashed and then the
creaking of the wheels was quite near. A great covered wagon loomed up
in the dusk, and Hadley uttered a cry of joy.
“Lafe! Lafe Holdness!” he shouted, while yet the wagon was some rods
away.
But the driver of the squeaking vehicle heard him, and there was a
flash of light as he rose up on the footboard and held the lantern
above his head.
“Hi, there! slow down or ye’ll run over me!” drawled a nasal voice.
“The British are after me--I’ve got dispatches!” shouted the boy,
reining in the mare beside the wagon.
“Had Morris, as I’m a livin’ sinner! What ye doin’ here?” Then the
driver cocked his head and listened to the thud of hoofs behind the
flying boy. “They’re arter ye close, lad--an’ Molly’s winded. Quick!
there’s naught but straw in here. It’s your best chance.”
The wagon was still creaking slowly along and Holdness did not stop his
team. He dropped the lantern and dodged back to the rear of the wagon.
There he quickly flung aside the end curtain and then returned to the
driver’s seat.
Hadley had ridden by, but the instant he saw the curtain raised he
wheeled Molly about and aimed her for the end of the huge wagon.
“Quick, girl! You’ve done it before,” muttered the boy, and the little
mare obeyed. The driver did not bring his wagon to a stop, but it was
moving very slowly. Molly had long since learned the trick expected of
her, and she trotted up to the rear of the vehicle, rose in the air,
and landed firmly on the straw-covered bottom.
“Draw the curtain, Had, ’n’ keep yer hand on her nose,” commanded
Holdness, the teamster, without turning his head.
Already the boy had ordered the little mare to lie down and she had
sunk upon the straw. He whipped down the curtain, fastened it, and then
lay down beside the mare with his hand upon her velvety nose, ready to
stifle any desire on her part to whinny when the pursuing horses should
arrive.
And they were here in a moment now. Colonel Knowles, on his great
charger, ahead, and the company of dragoons not many rods behind.
[TO BE CONTINUED]
[Illustration]
AT THE BEND OF THE TRAIL
By OTIS T. MERRILL
“Well, hurry back, boy. You’re rather green, you know, to be going out
alone.” The captain winked at Sergeant Mills as Tom Ray turned towards
his horse.
There had been no fighting as yet, and Tom was rather disappointed,
for, to tell the truth, it was love of adventure rather than patriotism
that had induced him to join the little squad of cavalry then
journeying through the heart of the Apache country. They had encamped
in the little valley of the Salt River, in Arizona. The land was dry
and parched. Even the hardy cactus was taking on a leathery hue.
To Tom it was a monotonous view--the yellow earth: that everlasting
Giant Cactus; and occasionally the tall, bleached form of a dead tree,
reaching its arms despairingly upward from the dearth of life below.
With some little impatience he urged the pony into a gallop. In an hour
he must be at the fork of the Salt to receive Custer’s dispatches.
Everybody had wondered why Tom Ray, the only one in the party who
had never heard an Indian war-whoop, should have been chosen for the
work. It was a case of eloquence. Tom pleaded, and the captain--who
wasn’t much afraid of Indians himself--forgot his military caution and
consented.
The first two miles of the journey lay back along their own trail to
the point where a long depression in the plain marked the bed of some
old river. From there he must turn sharp to the right and make for the
foot of the lone gray butte, about whose base wound the west branch of
the Salt. He had started early, and it was not yet four o’clock when
he reached the crossing of the low ground. He paused for a moment and
looked about him.
A large shadow rolled along the ground before him and caught his eye.
From overhead came the shrill cry of an eagle--the same bird who, in
spite of numerous rifle balls, had aroused the admiration of the whole
party on the previous day, by its mad swoops in their direction.
Tom cast a reluctant glance at the distant cottonwood and the huge pile
of sticks saddled in its crotch. The old egg-collecting instinct welled
up strongly within him, but he held the mustang’s head resolutely away.
In his mind he already pictured the impatience of the old scout at the
fork and, hardly daring to take a second look at the nest, he again
brought the little pony to a full gallop.
Cris Wood had been a bearer of government dispatches ever since the
thriving settlement of Hopkins’ Bend could boast of a telegraph wire.
His greeting for the “youngster,” as he termed Tom Ray, was that of an
old friend:--
“What have you been waiting for, t’ give the Indians a chance to scalp
me?”
Tom laughed as he looked at the scant fringe of gray beneath the rough,
worn hat.
“I guess they wouldn’t be paid for their trouble,” he answered, as he
took the well-handled dispatches from the old scout.
“No, not by me,” retorted the latter, grimly. “But, anyway, there’s
only one lot of Indians around, and they’re way over at the crossing,”
referring to a point on Tom’s return journey.
“All right,” responded Tom, amused at the scout’s time-honored attempt
to play on his nerves. “If I see them, I’ll give them the chase of
their lives.”
“You’ll be the front party, most likely, though.”
A few more courtesies were tossed freely from one to the other,
together with what little news had fallen in the way of both before
they parted.
Half an hour later, as the return road before him sank gently to the
lower ground, Tom’s eyes were again drawn instinctively to the tall
cottonwood. Though still distant, he could already see the watchful
eagle silhouetted from its topmost point. The sun was yet high--he
might as well have a look at the nest. With this Tom drew the horse’s
head in the direction of the great cottonwood.
The boy’s approach to the lofty tree was greatly resented by the pair
of golden eagles who had chosen it as a site for their home. A little
ball of cottony down showed itself over the side of the rude structure.
There was at least one eaglet, and Tom knew then that it would be with
no small danger to himself if he chose to investigate. Then there came
to him the misty recollection of the tame eagle which Jack Warren, one
of the cowboys, had brought into camp. With this bit of memory his
hesitation vanished.
The tree was bare and barked. Its lower branches had long since rotted
and now lay on the ground crumbling. Rough knots remained, however,
here and there, and by grasping these Tom was able to make the ascent.
The old birds whirled round the tree in giant spirals. First one and
then the other would suddenly swerve from the circle and sweep past the
boy’s head so close that he would involuntarily throw up his arm in
defence.
When Tom was about thirty feet from the ground all thought of the
infuriated birds was suddenly driven from his mind. At a distance of
perhaps one hundred yards stood an unusually thick clump of cactus.
In the midst of this, peering intently at him, was a dark, bronzed
face--that of an Apache Indian. A wave of terror swept over the boy,
and in his fright he imagined he could even discern the triumphant
expression upon the swarthy visage, as it sank behind the dark barrier.
Then all of a sudden he became cool. He looked for his horse. To his
dismay he discovered that the animal had wandered some little distance
from the tree. Then he realized his danger.
If he descended at once it would be to certain death. His only hope lay
in strategy.
Immediately he again began the struggle upward. All the suppressed
energy of the moment went into the grip of his hands as they took hold
of the rough knots. The eagles became more demonstrative, and more than
once the swish of a powerful wing caused him to duck his head. But of
this he was hardly conscious. When at length he bent over the nest,
under pretense of examining it, Tom’s eyes were in reality strained
in an attempt to locate the enemy. He never knew whether the nest
contained one or two eaglets.
His mustang and the Indian were about the same distance from the tree.
But how was he to reach the animal? A too sudden descent would arouse
suspicion. At length, with every nerve on edge for the trial to come,
he began to work his way down. The eagles, their courage increased with
apparent victory, gave even freer utterance to their rage, and their
shrieks as they swooped past his head rang in the boy’s ears for many
a day afterward. On a sudden thought, as if in mockery, he took up the
cries of the birds, imitating them by long, piercing whistles.
Presently the sound varied, yet to such a slight degree that a listener
might not have noted it. Tip, the pony, however, did seem to notice
it, and at each call would lift his head impatiently and look in the
direction of the tree. Finally, as if by a familiar impulse, he tossed
his head in air, and walked slowly toward the well-known call.
All the while Tom had kept his face in such a direction that the Indian
could not have left his ambush without being discovered. The pony was
now within twenty paces of the tree. By way of distracting the Indian’s
attention, the boy waved his hat and shouted to an imaginary comrade.
Then, fifteen feet from the ground, first throwing a quick glance
at his steed, Tom allowed himself to drop. As he did so the dreaded
war-whoop rang out from the distant clump. To his horror, an answering
call came from just ahead of him. Once on the ground, he darted toward
the horse. A cactus plant, which on ordinary occasions he would
have given a wide berth, brushed sharply against him, yet, in his
excitement, he hardly felt the pain it caused.
In the next instant he had swung into the saddle and wheeled the pony’s
head toward the camp. The first glance ahead, however, revealed the
supple body of an Indian half concealed by a cactus bush. There was
no choice. Striking his spurs into the pony, Tom dashed forward. The
Indian suddenly dropped his rifle and crouched beside a Giant Cactus.
As Tom and the mustang flew past he made a panther-like leap, and
throwing his arms about the boy, tried to drag him from the saddle.
Turning upon him, Tom seized the lithe arms and with all his strength
tried to throw the enemy from him. But the grip of the savage was like
that of a wild animal, and the boy’s most vigorous efforts failed to
break it.
While the Indian and boy were thus struggling, the mustang had made
good some one hundred yards, in spite of the double burden. Though
greatly excited, Tom thought of the six-shooter at his belt, but before
he could reach it a quick movement of the savage pinned his arms to
his side. The boy then worked his hand under the wiry arm which held a
strangling grip on his neck. As he did so, his eyes met a sight that
changed his purpose. He thought a moment of the savage clinging to him.
Then, with all his strength, he wrapped his arms around the Indian and
imprisoned him. The Indian was confused by the change of action, and,
like a wild animal, fought to release himself, for by this time he,
too, saw Sergeant Mills and three other approaching horsemen.
A party of soldiers, wondering at the boy’s delay, had ridden out from
the camp, and they were not a little surprised to see Tom galloping
toward them, carrying what to them was a very odd looking burden. When,
upon nearer approach, this object developed into a full-grown Apache
Indian, their astonishment knew no bounds, and they hastened forward,
lest the prisoner, in his fierce struggles, should escape them.
Ten minutes later, the Indian, bound hand and foot, was brought before
the captain, and at the same time Tom handed over the all-important
dispatches. As he did so, the boy’s spirits reacted from their strained
condition and his sense of humor asserted itself.
“Well, captain,” he said, “I knew that you didn’t want me to be out
alone, so I brought this Indian along, just to keep me company.”
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW
If fortune, with a smiling face
Strew roses on our way,
When shall we stoop to pick them up?
To-day, my friend, to-day.
But should she frown with face of care,
And talk of coming sorrow,
When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?
To-morrow, friend, to-morrow.
--_Mackay_
A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST
By Evelyn Raymond
CHAPTER I
The Storm
“Margot! Margot!”
Mother Angelique’s anxious call rang out over the water, once,
twice, many times. But, though she shaded her brows with her hands
and strained her keen ears to listen, there was no one visible and
no response came back to her. So she climbed the hill again and,
reëntering the cabin, began to stir with almost vicious energy the
contents of a pot swinging in the wide fireplace. As she toiled she
muttered and wagged her gray head, with sage misgivings.
“For my soul! There is the ver’ bad hoorican’ will come, and the child
so heedless. But the signs, the omens! This same day I did fall asleep
at the knitting and waked a-smother. True, ’twas Meroude, the cat,
crouched on my breast; yet what sent her, save for a warning?”
Though even in her scolding, the woman smiled, recalling how Margot
had jeered at her superstition; and that when she had dropped her bit
of looking-glass the girl had merrily congratulated her on the fact;
since by so doing, she had secured “two mirrors in which to behold such
loveliness!”
“No, no; not so. Death lurks in a broken glass; or, at the best, must
follow seven full years of bad luck and sorrow.”
On which had come the instant reproof:
“Silly Angelique! When there is no such thing as luck, but all is of
the will of God.”
The old nurse had frowned. The maid was too wise for her years. She
talked too much with the master. It was not good for women-kind to
listen to grave speech or plague their heads with graver books. Books,
indeed, were for priests and doctors; and, maybe, now and then, for men
who could not live without them, like Master Hugh. She, Angelique, had
never read a book in all her life. She never meant to do so. She had
not even learned a single letter printed in their foolish pages--not
she. Yet was not she a most excellent cook and seamstress? Was there
any cabin in all that northland as tidy as that she ruled? Would
matters have been the better had she bothered her poor brain with
books? She knew her duty and she did it. What more could mortal?
This argument had been early in the day--a day on which the master
had gone away to the mainland and the house mistress had improved by
giving the house an extra cleaning. To escape the soapsuds and the
loneliness, Margot had also gone, alone and unquestioned; taking with
her a luncheon of brown bread and cold fowl, her book and microscope.
Angelique had watched the little canoe push off from the shore, without
regret, since now she could work unhindered at clearing the room of the
“rubbishy specimens” which the others had brought in to mess the place.
Now, at supper time, perfect order reigned, and perfect quiet, as well;
save for the purring of Meroude upon the hearth and the simmering of
the kettle. Angelique wiped her face with her apron.
“The great heat, and May but young yet. It means trouble. I wish--”
Suddenly the cat waked from her sleep, and, with a sharp “meouw,”
leaped to her mistress’s shoulder; who screamed, dropped the ladle,
splashed the stew, and boxed the animal’s ears--all within a few
seconds. Her nerves were already tingling from the electricity in the
air, and her anxiety returned with such force that, again swinging the
crane around away from the fire, she hurried to the beach.
To one so weather-wise, the unusual heat, the leaden sky, and the
intense hush were ominous. There was not a breath of wind stirring,
apparently, yet the surface of the lake was already dotted by tiny
white-caps, racing and chasing shoreward, like live creatures at
play. Not many times, even in her long life in that solitude, had
Angelique Ricord seen just that curious coloring of cloud and water,
and she recalled these with a shudder. The child she loved was strong
and skillful, but what would that avail? Her thin face darkened, its
features sharpened, and, making a trumpet of her hands, she put all her
force into a long, terrified halloo.
“Ah-ho-a-ah! Margot--Mar-g-o-t--Margot!”
Something clutched her shoulder, and with another frightened scream,
the woman turned, to confront her master.
“Is the child away?”
“Yes, yes; I know not where.”
“Since when?”
“It seems but an hour, maybe two--three--and she was here, laughing,
singing, all as ever. Though it was before the mid-day, and she went in
her canoe, still singing.”
“Which way?”
She pointed due east, but now into a gloom that was impenetrable. On
the instant the lapping wavelets became breakers, the wind rose to a
deafening shriek, throwing Angelique to the ground, and causing even
the strong man to reel before it. As soon as he could right himself,
he lifted her in his arms and staggered up the slope. Rather, he was
almost blown up it and through the open door into the cabin, about
which the furnishings were flying wildly. Here the woman recovered
herself and lent her aid in closing the door against the tempest, a
task that, for a time, seemed impossible. Her next thought was for her
dinner-pot, now swaying in the fireplace, up which the draught was
roaring furiously. Once the precious stew was in a sheltered corner,
her courage failed again, and she sank down beside it, moaning and
wringing her hands.
“It is the end of the world!”
“Angelique!”
Her wails ceased. That was a tone of voice she had never disobeyed in
all her fifteen years of service.
“Yes, Master Hugh?”
“Spread some blankets. Brew some herb tea. Get out a change of dry
clothing. Make everything ready against I bring Margot in.”
She watched him hurrying about, securing all the windows, piling wood
on the coals, straightening the disordered furniture, fastening a
bundle of kindlings to his own shoulders, putting matches in the pocket
of his closely-buttoned coat, and she caught something of his spirit.
After all, it was a relief to be doing something, even though the roar
of the tempest and the incessant flashes of lightning turned her sick
with fear. But it was all too short a task; and when, at last, her
master climbed outward through a sheltered rear window, closing it
behind him, her temporary courage sank again.
“The broken glass! the broken glass! Yet who would dream it is my
darling’s bright young life must pay for that and not mine, the old and
careworn? Ouch! the blast! That bolt struck--and near! Ah, me! Ah, me!”
Meroude rubbed pleadingly against her arm, and, glad of any living
companionship, she put out her hand to touch him; but drew it back in
dread, for his sur-charged fur sparkled and set her flesh a-tingle,
while the whole room grew luminous with an uncanny radiance. Feeling
that her own last hour had come, poor Angelique crouched still lower in
her corner and began to say her prayers with so much earnestness that
she became almost oblivious to the tornado without.
Meanwhile, by stooping and clinging to whatever support offered, Hugh
Dutton made his slow way beachward. But the bushes uprooted in his
clasp and the bowlders slipped by him on this new torrent rushing to
the lake. Then he flung himself face downward and cautiously crawled
toward the Point of Rocks whereon he meant to make his beacon fire.
“She will see it and steer by it,” he reflected; for he would not
acknowledge how hopeless would be any human steering under such a
stress.
Alas! the beacon would not light. The wind had turned icy cold and
the rain changed to hail which hurled itself upon the tiny blaze and
stifled its first breath. A sort of desperate patience fell on the man,
and he began again, with utmost care, to build and shelter his little
stock of firewood. Match after match he struck, and with unvarying
failure, till all were gone; and realizing at last how chilled and
rigid he was growing, he struggled to his feet and set them into motion.
Then there came a momentary lull in the storm and he shouted aloud, as
Angelique had done:
“Margot! Little Margot! Margot!”
Another gust swept over the lake and island. He could hear the great
trees falling in the forest, the bang, bang, bang, of the deafening
thunder, as, blinded by lightning and overcome by exhaustion, he sank
down behind the pile of rocks and knew no more.