XVI

_Do You Believe in Ghosts?_

A. D. Karstetter, painstaking local historian, tells us that there was

no more noteworthy spot in the annals of mountainous Pennsylvania than

the old Washington Inn at Logansville. Built after the fashion of an

ancient English hostelry, with its inn-yard surrounded by sheds and

horse stables, it presented a most picturesque appearance to discerning

travelers. The passage of time had obliterated it, long before the great

fire on June 24, 1918, swept the town, removing even the landmarks which

would have showed where the old-time inn was situated.

Many are the tales, grave or gay, clustered about its memory, far more,

says Mr. Karstetter, than were connected with the Logan Hotel, run by

the Coles, which was erected at a much later day, just when the old

coaching days were passing out, and the new era coming in. All of the

history that grew up about the Washington Inn ante-dated the Civil War,

while that of the Logan Hotel was of the period of that war and later.

This gives one a good mental picture of the type of legend interwoven

with the annals of the ancient Washington Inn.

A winter rain had set in, just at dusk, as the great lumbering

five-horse coach (three wheelers and two leaders) from Hightown entered

the straggling outkirts of Logansville. The post boy on the boot blew

his long horn vociferously, waking the echoes up Summer Creek, then back

again, clear to the “Grandfather Pine” at Chadwick’s Gap.

A whimsical old German, who worked at Jacob Eilert’s pottery, picked up

his old tin horn that he used to blow as a boy when wolves or Indians

were about, and answered the clarion in cracked, uncertain notes. Lights

glimmered in cabin windows, and many a tallow dip, fat lamp or rushlight

was held aloft to get a good view of the coach as it swirled along

through the mud, and its crowded company. Everybody was standing up,

buttoning their coats and gathering together their luggage, as the big,

clumsy vehicle checked up under the swinging sign, on which was painted

the well-loved features of the Father of His Country.

The old landlord, his wife and the hostlers and stable boys and

household help were outside to assist the travelers to alight and show

them into the comfortable glow of the lobby.

“When do you start out in the morning?” all were asking of the

rosy-cheeked driver, although the hour for continuing the journey west

from Logansville was printed in big letters on the rate card at the

posting office at Hightown, as “Sharp, 6.00 A. M.”

In the candle-lit lobby, by a blazing fire of maple logs, the travelers

surveyed one another, the landlord and their surroundings. They were an

even dozen in number, nine men and three women. Some of the men were

hunters and had their Lancaster rifles with them; the others commercial

travelers. The women were also engaged in business pursuits.

The stage was the sole means of penetrating into the back country, and

the canals and the Pennsylvania Central Railroad (now known as the Main

Line) the only methods of crossing the Keystone State in those early

days.

A good supper was served–hickory smoked ham and eggs, hot cakes and

native grown maple syrup, and plentiful libations of original Murray

“Sugar Valley” whiskey, which put the huntsmen and the drummers in

capital humor. After the meal they brought out their pipes and sat in

groups about the fire in the great, low-ceilinged room. The three women,

who were middle-aged and of stolid appearance, sat together, talking in

undertones.

All at once, when the fire suddenly spluttered up, one of the drummers,

a big, black-bearded fellow, said loudly enough so that all could

hear–he was evidently trying to make the conversation general–"In the

mountains they say that it’s a sign of a storm when the fire jumps up

like that."

“And I guess we’re having it,” said another of the travelers, a little

man with gray side whiskers, dryly.

Then, as wide shadows fell across the floor, another of the men, a

hunter, ventured the remark: “Do you believe in ghosts?”

There was a pause, as if no one wanted to take up such a very personal

topic before strangers. It was in the days when the Fox sisters were

electrifying all of Pennsylvania, including the celebrated Dr. Elisha

Kane, with their mediumship, so that it was as popular a topic then as

now, in the days of Sir Oliver Lodge and Mrs. Herbine.

At length one of the men, also a hunter, from Berks County, broke the

silence by asking if any one present had heard the story of the Levan

ghost of Oley Township, in Berks; if not, he would tell it. None had

ever heard it, so he told of the young Levan girl who had lost her

father, to whom she was particularly attached.

One evening, while milking, she was seized with a very strong feeling

that her father was near, which feeling kept up for a week, growing

stronger daily. At last one evening she went into her room–the house was

built all on one floor–and she saw her father, as natural as life,

seated on an old chest that had come from France, for the Levans were

Huguenot refugees.

The girl did not seem to be afraid to see her father, about whom a light

seemed to radiate, and they conversed some time together, mostly on

religious topics. Her mother and sisters, who were in another room,

heard her talking, and the voice which sounded like that of the

departed, and came to the door, which was ajar.

“Who are you talking to?” the mother inquired.

“To father–he is here; come in and see him,” replied the girl, calmly.

The family was afraid to enter, remaining outside until the conversation

had finished and the ghost vanished. When the girl rejoined them, the

side of her face that had been turned to her father was slightly

scorched or reddened, as if she had been close to a fire. And that

tenderness of skin remained as long as she lived.

While other versions of the story have appeared, this is the way it was

told that stormy night in the Washington Inn in the long ago.

The ice having been broken, one of the women spoke up, saying that the

part of the story which told of the girl’s face being burned by the

_aura_ from the ghost interested her most, that over in the Nittany

Valley there was a case in the old Carroll family of a woman who had an

only child which she loved to distraction, but which unfortunately died.

The mother took on terribly, and during the night when she was sitting

up with the little corpse, besought it to prove to her that the dead

lived, if only for just one minute.

In the midst of her weeping and wailing, and romping about the cold,

dimly-lit room, the dead child rose up in its little pine box and

motioned its sorrowing mother to come to it. The woman ran to the coffin

and the little one touched her forehead with its finger, which burned

her like a red-hot poker. Then it sank back with a gasp and a groan, and

was dead again. Ever afterwards there was a sore, tender spot on the

woman’s forehead where the corpse had touched it.

Then another of the women told how she had been selling Bibles in the

Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, and one of the wheels of her

carriage became dished from the bad roads. She had tried to put up with

a mountaineer who would not take her in, and gave her the choice of

sleeping in the barn with the team and the driver, or to occupy a room

in a deserted Negro “quarters” across the road.

All night long she had been annoyed by her candles being blown out and

the door blowing open, though she locked it time and again.

It was a commonplace sort of a ghost story, and one of the hunters

yawned at its conclusion. The evening’s reminiscences might have ended

then and there if the third woman traveler, the youngest and sturdiest

of the lot, who thus far had been the quietest, turned to the landlord,

who sat smoking in the settle, with a couple of his guests, asking him

if he remembered the Big Calf.

“What do you know about the Big Calf?” he said, quizzically, looking at

the woman in order to see if he could recognize her.

“I know as much as you do, I reckon,” she said. “I lived in this town

for a year learning millinery with Emilie Knecht.” “said the landlord.

“I surely am,” responded the woman, “and I knew you well, Jakey

Kleckner, in those days.” “said the boniface, sitting up very straight.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF SCHELLSBURG CHURCH]

“Long years ago,” began the business woman, "when this public house was

first opened, the landlord’s cow gave birth to an unusual calf. At six

weeks it was as big as most heifers of six months, and it was handsome

and intelligent, a brown-gray color–‘Brown Swiss’ they called the breed.

All the drovers and cattle buyers in the mountains wanted that calf for

a show, and her fame spread all over the ‘five counties.’

"There were two buyers from out about Greensburg that came in all the

ways to get her, but the price was too steep. They hung around all day,

drinking with the landlord in the tap room, and though he took too much

in this drunken bout, kept enough of his wits with him to refuse to

lower the price one shilling. The next morning he had to go away on

important business, and in the afternoon the drovers returned, telling

the landlord’s wife that they had met her husband on the road, and he

had consented to accept a lower figure.

"The woman replied that while she was sorry her ‘man’ had shown such

weakness to change his mind so quickly, when on leaving he had told her

that he had been sickened by the importunities of the two strangers the

day before, yet she claimed, the calf as hers and it would not leave the

premises for any price, and except over her dead body. She prized it

especially since she had also raised the mother, which had recently been

killed by a wandering panther.

"The men departed in an ugly mood. When the boniface returned in the

evening he was indignant at what his wife told him; he had not met the

drovers on the road, and if he had, the calf was not for sale.

"Shortly after his arrival a German Gypsy, one of the Einsicks, appeared

in the inn-yard with a big she-bear, a brown one, which he took about

the mountains to dance and amuse the crowds at public houses, fairs and

political meetings. The stables were full, but after some arguing the

landlord consented to let the bear occupy the box stall where he kept

the Big Calf, which he removed to the smoke house.

"During the night, which was very dark, the covetous drovers returned,

and, not knowing of the Big Calf’s changed quarters, one of them went

into steal it. In the darkness the bear seized him and hugged him almost

to death. His companion, vexed at his slowness in fetching out the Big

Calf, called to him, and he made known his predicament.

"There was no way to free the captive but to begin clubbing the bear,

which set up such a loud growling that it aroused the owner and the

landlord, who ran out with pistols, just in time to see the two would-be

cattle thieves decamping from the inn-yard. They both fired after them,

but the scoundrels got off scot free. They never returned.

"The Big Calf grew into a very handsome cow, and was the pride of the

mountain community. It was always brought in from pasture at night and

milked, lest it share its mother’s fate and be pulled down by a

Pennsylvania lion.

"One evening, while the landlord’s only daughter, a very pretty,

graceful girl, was driving the cow home, she was joined by a handsome,

dark-complexioned young man, mounted on a superb black horse. He

accompanied her to the stables, where he watched her milk, and then put

up for the night at the inn. Next day he became very sick, and several

doctors were called in, who bled him, but could not diagnose his

ailment.

"Meanwhile he proposed marriage to the landlord’s daughter, who nursed

him, pretending that he was a young man of quality from Pittsburg, which

flattered the innkeeper and his daughter mightily.

"All this while he was trying to learn if the landlord kept any large

sum of money in the house. It was not long until the girl confided to

him that her father had gone into debt buying a farm in Nippenose

Bottom, as he wanted to retire from the tavern business. It was there

where he was when the two dishonest drovers from Greensburg had returned

and tried to euchre his wife out of the Big Calf.

"Satisfied that there was no booty in the house, the fellow rose one

morning before daybreak, dressed quietly, although the girl was in the

room, wrote a note to her which he left on the clothes press, and made

his escape. The wording of the letter ran about as follows:

“‘Dearest Love:–I am sorry to have left without saying goodbye, but my

intentions were not sincere, for while I admired your beauty and good

sense, which none can deny, I was only here to find out where your

father kept his money. But since he has none, and has gone into debt, I

need remain no longer. I thank you for all the information you gave me,

and for your kind attentions. Gratefully yours, David Lewis.’

“The poor girl had been one of the dupes of the celebrated ‘Lewis the

Robber,’ or some one impersonating him, as he had many _alter egos_,

some more daring than himself, and understudies. If half the stories

told of his exploits were true, he would have had to be a hundred years

old to do them, and get to so many places.

"At any rate, the pretty girl was frightfully cut up by her misfortune,

and took to the bed lately vacated by ‘Lewis.’ She had told all of her

friends that she was to marry in a fortnight, and go to live in a big

house on Grant’s Hill, Pittsburg, and it was all terrible and

humiliating. Rather than let the real story get out, the girl’s parents

connived with her to say that word had been brought that the young

gentleman, while riding near Standing Stone Town, had been thrown from

his horse and killed. Hence when the girl was able to reappear, she was

dressed in black, as if in mourning for her dashing sweetheart.

"The first time she came out of doors she went for a walk alone just

about dusk, so that not many people would be abroad, towards the lower

part of the village. She was never seen or heard of again. There was no

stream or pool big enough for her to drown herself in; a panther could

hardly have dragged her off and not left signs of a struggle; she might

have fallen in a cave or sink, it is true. At all events, it seemed as

if the earth had swallowed her up. Perhaps Lewis, or whoever he was,

came back after her.

"When I came to Logansville to learn millinery with Emilie Knecht, I

lived in her house over the store, just across the way from this hotel;

the building was burned down afterwards. How such a gifted milliner came

to settle off here in the mountains I could never tell, but I suppose

mountain ladies must have nice hats just like those in the valleys.

"We became good friends, and very confidential, though at that time she

was over thirty years of age and I was at least a dozen years younger.

She would never tell where she came from, except that it was down

country, and there seemed to be something on her mind which weighed on

her terribly. Though I think she was the loveliest looking woman I have

ever seen, she cared absolutely nothing for the men. As she believed in

ghosts, and so did I, we compared experiences.

"I told her of a ghostly episode which left a deep impression on my

childish nature, which happened when I was six years old. My father

worked in the mines, and was on ‘night shift.’ Mother locked the doors

and we all went to bed. Mother’s room adjoined mine and my sister’s.

After we were in bed for some time, but not yet asleep, a man–he seemed

to be black–came to the door which led from mother’s room to ours, and

smiled at us. He drew back, re-appeared and smiled again, or rather

grinned, showing his white teeth; it was a peculiar smile.

"I wanted to call mother, but sister, who was eight, said I must not

speak, I must keep very still.

"Next morning we asked father what time he came home, and he said ‘not

until morning.’ We told our experience, but father and mother seemed to

think we had only imagined it.

"But two persons do not imagine the same thing at the same time.

Besides, we were not afraid. I have often wondered what it was. My

sister died shortly after that. Could it have been a ‘warning,’ I

wonder?

"The pretty milliner’s story was even more startling and unusual. She

declared that her grandmother’s ghost had come to her bedside every

night since she was a small child. She said that she never feared it,

but took it as a matter of course. I think that these nightly

visitations took a whole lot out of her. I can see her yet running down

the steep, narrow stairs in the mornings to the shop where I was

working–I was always an early riser–her face looking as if it had been

whitewashed, more so perhaps because her hair and eyes were so dark.

"She was often nervous and irritable, and I laid it all to the vital

force which the ghost must be drawing out of her to materialize, but she

said it was only her liver which made her so dauncy. I begged her to let

me sleep with her, that I did not think that the ghost would come if I

was present, and if it did it could draw on some of my vitality, as I

was a big, strong, hearty girl. She would not let me sleep with her,

saying that she had gotten used to the ghost.

"One evening Miss Knecht and I were invited to a chicken and waffle

supper at the home of old Mrs. Eilert, wife of the potter, whose house

was the last one in town. In those days there was quite a distance not

built up between the potter’s home and the rest of the village. The

holidays were approaching, and we were getting ready for the Christmas

trade, consequently stayed later in the shop than we had expected.

"As I said before, Mrs. Eilert lived at the extreme end of town. When we

were a few squares from home we noticed a woman dressed in mourning who

seemed to be following us, or at least going in our direction. She was

an entire stranger to us, and we wondered where she could be going; so

each house we came to I would look back to see whether she entered. When

we were half a square from where we were going, we passed a house which

stood back pretty far from the road. There was considerable ground to

the place, and a high board fence all around. After we passed the gate I

turned, as before, to see whether this woman would enter. She did not. I

watched her until she was past the gate quite a ways. I turned and told

my companion she had _not_ entered, and immediately turned to look at

her again, and she was gone!

"Where could she have gone in those few seconds in which I was not

looking at her? Everywhere there was open space–nowhere for her to hide.

Had she jumped the fence she could not have gotten out of sight in those

few seconds. I have often wondered since what it was.

"When we reached the Eilert home I noticed that Miss Knecht was in a

highly unstrung condition, more so than I had ever seen her before. We

told the story, and the old potter smiled grimly, saying: ‘You surely

have seen the ghost of the landlord’s daughter who disappeared, all

dressed in black, after being jilted by the robber.’

"Emilie shook her pretty dark curls, muttering that she feared it was

something worse. She was afraid to go home that night, and we spent the

night with our friends; yet she would not remain unless given a room by

herself. In the morning she was in a most despondent mood; she had not

seen her grandmother–what could it mean?

"The woman in black must have been her ‘familiar’ leaving her, warning

her to that effect, and not the ghost of the landlord’s daughter after

all, she maintained. I tried to reassure her that she would see her

grandmother once she was in her own room, but next morning brought the

tidings that the faithful spirit was again absent. This continued for a

week, my friend becoming more nervous and despondent.

"One morning she did not come downstairs, so at eight o’clock I went up

after her, to see if she were ill. The bed was empty, and had not been

slept in. I searched the house and found her lying dead on a miserable

cot in the cellar–beautiful in death–which an elderly Dutchman sometimes

occupied, when cutting wood and taking care of the garden for us. She

had drunk a potion of arsenic that she had bought some months before to

poison rats which infested the cellar, but her lovely face was not

marked.

“I left town shortly afterwards, and have never been back until

tonight.”

The burly commercial traveler who had started the general conversation

stroked his long black beard.

"I guess it is time for all of us to retire. I don’t think we need to

ask this lady again, ’Do you believe in ghosts?‘"

[Illustration]

XVII

_A Stone’s Throw_

When land warrants were allotted to Jacob Marshall and Jacob Mintges, of

the Hebrew colony at Schaefferstown, there were elaborate preparations

made by these two lifelong friends to migrate to the new country of the

Christunn. That the warrants were laid side by side made the situation

doubly pleasant, a compensation in a measure for any regrets at leaving

the banks of the beautiful Milbach. The country was becoming too closely

settled, opportunities were circumscribed, and the liberality of the

Proprietary Government should be taken advantage of.

When the two groups of pioneers were ready to start for the new home, it

was like some scene from the patriarchal days of the Old Testament. The

long, lean, gaunt, black-bearded Jews, black-capped, cloaked to their

heels, and carrying big staffs, led the way, followed by their families

and possessions of live stock, farming and household utensils. Each head

of a family had an Indian and Negro servant or two, which added to the

picturesqueness of the caravans. Dogs, part wolf, herded the flocks of

sheep, goats and young cattle, while the women rode on mares, the foals

of which trotted along unsteadily at their sides.

Rachel, Jacob Marshall’s handsome daughter, was mounted on a piebald

filly; on her back was slung her violin, a genuine Joseph Guarnerius,

with which she discoursed sacred music around the campfire in the

evenings, just as her ancestors may have done on some harp or cruit in

remote days in Palestine or in the Arabian highlands.

These German Jews, who came to Pennsylvania in 1702 to re-convert the

Indians, whom they believed to be the lost tribe of Israel, back to the

ancient faith of Moses, while destined to fail as proselyters, became

one of the potent root sources of the so-called Pennsylvania Dutch, “The

Black Dutch” of the Christunn, Philadelphia, New York and the World.

The Pennsylvania Dutch are the most adaptable race in the world,

altering the spelling of their names, their genealogies and traditions

with every generation. They find success in all callings and in all

walks of life like the true Nomads that they are. A Pennsylvania

Dutchman’s lineage is kaleidoscopic any way–possibly German, Jewish,

probably Indian, with sure admixtures of Dutch, Quaker, Swiss,

Scotch-Irish, Greek, Bohemian, Spanish or Huguenot. And there were some

propagandists shallow enough to try to line them up with Kaiserism in

the days just anterior to the World War, and call them “Pennsylvania

Germans.”

Their very swarthiness and leanness, the intenseness of their black

eyes, gave the lie to any Teutonic affiliations, despite the jargon that

they speak. And what a race of giants they have produced–Pershing,

Hoover, Gorgas, Schwab, Replogle, Sproul, the Wanamakers, Newton Diehl

Baker, Jane Addams–a group as potent as any other in the sublime effort

of making the world “safe for democracy.”

When the pilgrims reached the Karoondinha, they were met by the local

agents and surveyors of the Proprietors, who escorted them to their new

estates, which were bounded on the south by the Christunn, now renamed

“Middle Creek,” and on the north by the craggy heights of the

culminating pinnacle of Jack’s Mountain, the famed “High Top,” climbed

by the Pennsylvania Alpine Club, August 24, 1919.

A large gray fox, or Colishay, having led Mintges‘ dogs away from the

camp, caused this “Father in Israel” to be absent during the critical

moments when the line between his property and that of Marshall was

being confirmed by the Proprietary surveyors. When he returned,

exultingly swinging the fox’s pelt above his head and looking all the

world like a lower Fifth Avenue fur jobber, the day was almost spent and

the surveyors were gathering up their instruments.

Marshall, who was a kindly and just man, tried to explain to his friend,

before the sun went down, just where the line was blazed. It seemed fair

enough at the time to Mintges. Later on, when alone one day, he walked

over the line, comparing it with the warrant, and it did not seem to

satisfy him as much. He believed that the surveyors had deviated a rod

or two all along, to his disadvantage. Doubtless if such was the case,

it had been due to their haste to get through, for they had a daily

grind of similar cases, but Marshall, he thought, should have compelled

them to follow the parchment drafts, and not uncertain instruments.

Nevertheless, he decided to say nothing to his friend; they had always

been good intimates, why should their relations be jeopardized for a

paltry rod or two. Mintges confided the mistake to his wife, and later

on to his children. It was unfortunate, but where there were so few

neighbors it was hardly worth a fight.

As Mintges grew older the matter began to prey on his mind, to obsess

him. It worried him until his head ached, and he could not drive it

away. Marshall and his heirs were profiting at his expense; it should

not be allowed to rest that way.

The surveyors had placed a great stone at the upper corner of the line,

at the slope of the mountain, and there Jacob Mintges repaired one

moonlight night, armed with a crowbar, and reset the stone two rods on

the alleged domain of Jacob Marshall. Mintges was an old man at the

time, rabbinical in appearance, and he chuckled and “washed his hands”

as he stood and viewed the fruits of his labor. A wrong had been quietly

righted; why hadn’t he done it twenty years ago?

It so happened that Jacob Marshall went out for chestnuts a week or so

after Mintges’ performance, and saw the altered position of the stone.

Instead of hastening to his friend’s house and asking him for a frank

explanation, he, not being conscious of any wrong-doing, moved the stone

back to its original position, to rebuke the presumptuous Mintges. Then

he stood admiring his work, while he stroked his long black beard.

A few weeks later Mintges and his sons went to the mountain to brush out

a road on which to haul logs with their oxteams in the winter-time. One

of the boys, named Lazarus, called his father’s attention to the stone’s

position. It made the old man “see red,” and he would not rest until,

with the aid of his sons, it was again set where he felt it should

rightfully be.

All this produced a coolness, almost a feud, between the two families,

which kept up until Jacob Mintges died at the age of eighty years. Jacob

Marshall, friend of his youth and companion of his “trek” to the

wilderness, did not attend the obsequies.

It was not many nights afterwards when reports were made on all sides

that Mintges’ spook was abroad, walking about the fields and lanes

adjacent to Jacob Marshall’s home, his arms holding aloft a great block

of stone. Marshall saw the apparition several times, but shunned it as

he had the living Mintges the last years of his life.

What he wanted was very plain, for sometimes the night wind wafted the

mournful words down Marshall’s bedroom chimney (for he always kept his

windows nailed shut): “Where shall I put it; oh, where shall I put it?”

The ghost began his hauntings in the spring, kept it up all summer,

fall, winter, then another spring and summer. He had affixed himself to

the family, Marshall thought, as he racked his brain to lay the

troublesome night prowler.

It was during the fall of the second year that a big party of moonlight

’coon hunters went up the lane which led between the Marshall and

Mintges farms, headed for the rocky heights of Jack’s Mountain. In the

party was Otto Gleim, the half-witted drunkard of Selin’s Grove, little,

dumpy, long-armed High German, high-shouldered Otto Gleim, who was left

at the foot of the mountain to hold one of the lanterns.

Gleim was half full on this occasion, as it was in the cider season, and

he staggered about under the aged chestnut trees, while his wits

revolved in his head with the speed of an electric fan. He felt

lonesome, sick and uncomfortable. It was a relief to see a great, tall

figure, with a long, black beard, approaching him, holding aloft a huge

stone. It looked like “Uncle Jake” Marshall at first; no, it wasn’t–it

was no one else but the late “Uncle Jake” Mintges, his neighbor.

As the gaunt figure drew nearer, it began groaning and wailing: “Where

shall I put it; oh, where shall I put it?” in tones as melancholy as

those of the Great Horned Owl on a New Year’s Eve.

“Put it where it belongs,” spluttered Otto Gleim, the drunkard, with a

gleam of super-human prescience, and lo and behold, the ghost set the

stone where it had been for twenty years after the surveyors had placed

it there. Then the apparition vanished, and Gleim, in a matter-of-fact

way, sat down on the cornerstone, where he waited until the ’coon

hunters returned.

Jake Mintges’ ghost ceased to wander and lament, but instead allied

itself closely with Jake Marshall’s family as private stock banshee,

warning, token or familiar. Whenever a disaster was due to any member he

would show his grinning tusks, as much as to say: “Now, make the best of

what is coming; life is short anyway.”

No doubt his visits of forewarning strengthened the nerves of the family

to face trouble with a greater degree of equanimity; in all events the

poor old fellow meant it that way. Old and young, rich and poor, in

cities or in the wilds, wherever the blood of Jacob Marshall flowed, the

ghost of Mintges was in evidence at the climacteric moments of their

lives. They were all used to him, and never resented his visits or tried

in any way to lay him.

The scene shifts to one of the last to encounter this strange old ghost.

It is in a great city, in a high-ceilinged, yet gloomy room, furnished

in the plush and mahogany of the middle eighties of the last century. A

very dark girl, with full pouting lips and black eyes, half closed and

sullen, yet beautiful in the first flush of youth withal, is seated on

one of the upholstered easy chairs. Standing in the bay window facing

her is a very tall man, equally dark, his drooping black mustache and

long Prince Albert coat making him appear at least ten years older than

the twenty-eight which was his correct age.

[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARDS SUMMER CREEK GAP FROM LOGANTON]

On a centre table, with a top of brown onyx, on which were also several

bisque ornaments, lay an ancient violin and bow, a veritable Joseph

Guarnerius. It was made of a curious piece of spruce which, when growing

in some remote forest of Northern Italy, had been punctured by a “Gran

Pico” or large green woodpecker, and the wood stained, giving a unique

and picturesque touch to this specimen of the skill of the old master of

Cremona.

“I have determined to go home tonight,” said the dark girl, with

decision, “and nothing can stop me. When any of our family see the face

of Jacob Mintges, it means disaster to some one near to us; my mother

and her old parents, whom I left so suddenly, may be grieving to death;

I will go to them tonight.”

The tall man fumbled with his long fingers among the tassels on the back

of a chair in front of him, as if trying to frame up a decisive answer.

“This is what I call base ingratitude,” he faltered at length, in high,

almost feminine tones. “Just when I have had your musical talent

developed, turning you from a common fiddler to a finished artiste, and

having you almost ready to make your stage debut as a popular juvenile,

you leave me in the lurch, and all because you imagined you saw a

ghost–_imagined_, I say, for there are no such things.”

The dark girl sat perfectly still, biting her full red lips, her immoble

face as if made of ivory.

“What are you, anyway?” she finally responded; “nothing but what my

father called a mountebank; he hated them, an _actor_, and I owe you

nothing but contempt for having brought me here to be your plaything

while my youth and good looks last.”

Then, as she got up and started towards a door, the tall man darted

after her.

“I’ll not let you make a fool of yourself,” he hissed, theatrically.

Catching her by the wrists, he attempted to detain her.

“Sit down; we must have this out.”

She was almost as tall as he, and very muscular, and the Jewish strain

in her blood was hot. The pair struggled about the room, until the man

in his anger seized the old violin and hit her a heavy blow over the

head. She sank down on the floor in a limp mass, and the man, picking up

his brown Fedora, ran out of the room and down the long flight of stairs

and out into the street. The girl was not badly hurt, only stunned, and

came to herself in about fifteen minutes. She saw that she was alone,

and the Guarnerius was around her neck.

Gathering herself up, her first thought was for the violin, and tying

the smallest chips in her handkerchief she went to the inner room and

began to pack a large portmanteau. Then she put on her hat, veil and

cloak and, locking the apartment door and slipping the key in her grip,

she left the house and hurried down town towards the railroad depot.

It was dark when she reached there, and she quickly boarded a local, to

wait in the suburbs until the night sleeping car train for Derrstown

made its stop there. All went well, and by midnight she was boarding the

sleeper and was soon afterwards undressed and under the sooty-smelling

blankets in a lower berth.

She did not know how long she had been sleeping when the train suddenly

stopped with a jerk and she was awake. Looking around, she saw a face

peering through the curtains. It was not the porter, but the leering,

open mouth, old Jacob Mintges himself, tusks and all.

Twice now in twenty-four hours he had come to her, for the night

previous she had waked just in the gray half light before dawn, and had

seen him standing grinning by her bedside.

An inexperienced person might have screamed, but not so Eugenie

Carlevan, the great-great-granddaughter of Jacob Marshall. When their

eyes met, Mintges quickly withdrew, and the girl, wide awake, began

thinking over the past years of her life, as the train again started to

roll on into the night. She had always been fond of music and theatres.

The violin given to her on her sixth birthday by her grandfather

Marshall had become the evil genius of her destiny. Her father had died

and her mother was too much of a drudge to control her. She had attended

every circus, burlesque, minstrel show or dramatic performance that had

come to the town where she had lived, since she was thirteen years old.

When the young Thespian who called himself Derment Catesby had come to

Swinefordstown, where she was visiting an aunt, with the “Lights

O’London” Company, she had fallen violently in love with him, had made

his acquaintance, and he, struck by her imperious beauty and musical

predilections, had asked her to go away with him.

She had joined him a few days later in Sunbury, bringing her precious

violin, and traveled with him to the great city. There the actor soon

signed up to play in repertoire at a stock company. She liked him well

enough, despite his vanity and selfishness, for he was very handsome. It

was before the days when actors were clean-shaven like every servant,

and looked much like other people. However much she had loved him, Jacob

Mintges’ ghost had revealed a more pressing duty twice, and she was on

her way home.

Soon she fell asleep again, and did not wake until the porter’s face

appeared to notify her that the train was leaving Sunbury. Her mother

lived with her aged parents out near Hartley Hall, among the high

mountains; it would be a relief to see those lofty peaks and wide

expanse of vision once more, after the cramped outlook of the city. How

peculiarly sweet the air seemed, with the sun coming up behind the

fringe of old yellow pines and oaks along the river! What refreshing

zephyrs were wafted from those newly-ploughed fields. The bluebirds and

robins were singing in the maple trees about the station. On a

side-track stood the little wood-burner engine, with its bulbous stack,

puffing black smoke, ready to pull its train of tiny cars out to the

wonderful, wild mountain country, the land of Lick Run Gap, the Lost

Valley, the High Head, Big Buffalo, Winklebleck and Shreiner!

How well she remembered the first time she had seen that wood-burner, as

a little tot, going on a visit with her father and mother. It was in the

golden hour, and deep purple shadows fell from the station roof athwart

the golden light on the platform!

All these thoughts were crowding through her head until the bell on the

little engine reminded her that the L. & T. train was soon to depart.

She reached home in time for dinner, was received with no enthusiasm,

for her mother and grandparents were true mountaineers, and their

swarthy faces masked their feelings, yet she was made to feel perfectly

welcome.

Nobody had died, no one was sick, the house hadn’t burned down,

evidently the trials foretold by Jake Mintges were yet to come.

That afternoon she showed the broken violin to her grandfather, who took

it to his workbench in an out-house to repair it, undaunted by the

seeming endlessness of the reconstruction.

Eugenie seemed perfectly contented to be at home, She had had enough of

the _bizarre_, and reveled again in the humdrum. Five or six days after

her return the weekly county paper appeared at the house, with its

boiler plate front page and patent insides. Some instinct made her open

the wrapper as it lay on the kitchen table. On the front page she saw

the likeness of a familiar face, the well-known full eyes, oval cheeks,

rounded chin and drooping mustache, Derment Catesby. Then the headlines

caught her eyes, “Handsome Actor Shot to Death by Insanely Jealous

Husband at Stage Door.” Then she glanced at the date and the hour. It

was the night that she had taken the train–the very moment, perhaps,

that Jacob Mintges’ grinning face had looked through the curtains of her

berth. Yes, the murderer had waited a long time, as the victim had

tarried in the green-room.

Eugenie sucked her full lips a moment, then looked hard at the picture

and the whole article again. Then she turned to her mother and

grandparents, who were seated about the stove.

“Say, folks,” she said, coldly, “there’s the fine gent I went away with

from Swinesfordstown. I got out in time, the very night he was

murdered.”

The mother and the old people half rose in their chairs to look at the

wood cut.

“How did you know he was playing you false?” said the old grandfather.

“How did I know, gran’pap?” she replied. “Why, the night before, Jake

Mintges came to me, and I knew _something_ was due to go wrong, and home

was the place for little me. You see I missed it all by a stone’s

throw.”

"You’re right, ‘Genie’," said the old mountaineer. “Mintges never comes

to us unless he means business.”

XVIII

_The Turning of the Belt_

There are not many memories of Ole Bull in the vicinity of the ruins of

his castle today. Fifteen years ago, before the timber was all gone,

there were quite a few old people who were living in the Black Forest at

the time of his colonization venture, who remembered him well, also a

couple of his original colonists, Andriesen and Oleson, but these are no

more. One has to go to Renovo or to Austin or Germania to find any

reminiscences now, and those have suffered through passing from “hand to

mouth” and are scattered and fragmentary. They used to say that the

great violinist was, like his descendants, a believer in spiritualism,

and on the first snowy night that he occupied his unfinished mansion,

chancing to look out he saw what seemed to him a tall, white figure

standing by the ramparts.

Fearing that it was some _skeld_ come to warn him of impending disaster

to his beloved colony, he rushed out hatless, only to find that it was

an old hemlock stab, snow encrusted.

Disaster did come, but as far as local tradition goes Ole Bull had no

warning of it. The hemlock stab which so disturbed him has been gone

these many years, but a smaller one, when encased in snow, has

frightened many a superstitious wayfarer along the Kettle Creek road,

and gone on feeling that he had seen “the ghost of Ole Bull.”

But unaccountable and worthy of investigation are the weird strains of

music heard on wild, stormy nights, which seem to emanate from the

castle. Belated hunters coming down the deep gorge of Ole Bull Run, back

of the castle, or travelers along the main highway from Oleona to Cross

Forks, have heard it and refused to be convinced that there is not a

musician hidden away somewhere among the crumbling ruins. The “oldest

inhabitants,” sturdy race of trappers, who antedated Ole Bull’s

colonists, declare that the ghostly musician was playing just the same

in the great virtuoso’s time, and that it is the ghost of a French

fifer, ambushed and killed by Indians when his battalion was marching

along the “Boone Road” from Fort Le Boeuf to the memorable and

ill-starred attack on Fort Augusta at Sunbury in 1757.

At the mention of “Boone Road” another question is opened, as there is

no historic record of such a military highway between Lake Erie and the

West Branch of the Susquehanna River. The afore-mentioned very old

people used to say that the road was still visible to them in certain

places; that there could be no doubt of its existence and former

utilization.

Daniel Boone, if he be the pioneer of that name who first “blazed it

out,” was a very young man during the “French and Indian War,” and his

presence in that part of the country is a mooted question. Perhaps it

was another “Boone,” and a Norseman, for many persons named “Bonde” or

“Boon” were among the first Swedish settlers on the Lanape-Wihittuck, or

Delaware River, unconsciously pioneering for their famous cousin-German,

Ole Borneman Bull.

In all events, the French fifer was shot and grievously wounded, and his

comrades, in the rout which ensued, were forced to leave him behind.

After refreshing himself at the cold spring, which nearly a century

later Ole Bull named “Lyso”–the water of light–he crawled up on the

hill, on which the castle was afterwards partly erected, to reconnoitre

the country, but dropping from exhaustion and loss of blood, soon died.

The wolves carried away his physical remains, but his spirit rested on

the high knoll, to startle Ole Bull and many others, with the strains of

his weird, unearthly music.

It seems a pity that these old legends are passing with the lives of the

aged people, but the coming of Ira Keeney, the grizzled Civil War

veteran, as caretaker for the handsome Armstrong-Quigley hunting lodge,

on the site of one of the former proposed _fogderier_ Walhalla, has

awakened anew the world of romance, of dashing exploits in the war under

Sheridan and Rosecrans, of lumbering days, wolves, panthers and wild

pigeons, all of which memories the venerable soldier loves to recount.

Yet can these be compared with the legend that Ole Bull, seeing a Bald

Eagle rise from its nest on the top of a tall oak near the banks of

Freeman’s Run, named the village he planned to locate there Odin, after

the supreme deity of the Scandinavian mythology, who took the form of an

eagle on one period of his development. His other settlements or

_herods_ he called Walhalla, Oleona and New Bergen. Planned at first by

the French to be a purely military route for ingress to the West Branch

country, but owing to the repulse at Fort Augusta, very infrequently

traversed by them, if at all, it became principally an overland “short

cut” for trappers, traders, travelers and settlers, all of whom knew its

location well.

Who could have laid out such an intricate road over high mountains and

through deep valleys, unless a military force, is hard to imagine, even

if for some strange reason it was never written into “history.”

After the Revolutionary War there was naturally an unsettled state of

affairs, and many farmers and adventurers turned their thought to the

country west of the Allegheny Mountains and River, as the land of

opportunity, consequently there was much desultory travel over the Boone

Road. Unemployment prevailed everywhere, and hordes of penniless

ex-soldiers, turned adrift by their victorious new nation, traveled

backwards and forwards along all the known highways and trails, picking

up a day’s work as best they could, their precarious mode of living

giving them the name of “cider tramps.” A few more reckless and blood

thirsty than their fellows, claimed that the country which they had

freed owed them a living; if there was no work and no pensions, and they

could not get it by hook they would take it by crook. In other words,

certain ex-service men, became strong-arm men, road agents, or

highwaymen, whichever name seems most suitable.

The Boone Road, in a remote wilderness of gloomy, untrodden forests,

made an ideal haunt for footpads, and when not robbing travelers, they

took their toll from the wild game, elks, deer, bears, grouse and wild

pigeons which infested the region. Law and order had not penetrated into

such forgotten and forbidding realms, and obscure victims could report

outrages and protest to a deaf and dumb government. How long it was

before these robbers were curbed is hard to say.

One story which the backwoods people about Hamesley’s Fork used to tell

dates back to five years after the close of the Revolution, about 1788.

Jenkin Doane, possibly a member of the same family that produced the

Doane outlaws in the Welsh Mountains, was one of the notorious

characters along the Boone Road. Like others, he was an ex-soldier, a

hero of Brandywine and Paoli, but his plight was worse, for just before

peace was declared, when a premature rumor to that effect had reached

his company, lying at Fort Washington, he had assaulted and beaten up an

aristocratic and brutal officer who was the terror of the line. For this

he had been sentenced to death, but later his sentence was commuted, and

finally, because there were no satisfactory jails for military

prisoners, he was quietly released, _sans h. d._ and the ability to make

a livelihood.

He finally became a wagoner and hired out with a party of emigrants

going to Lake Erie, who traveled over the Boone Road. He saw them safely

to their destination, but on his return journey tarried in the

mountains, hunting and fishing, until his supplies were gone, when he

turned “road agent.” He evidently had a low grade of morals at that

time, for he robbed old as well as young, women as readily as men. He

was fairly successful, considering the comparative lightness of travel

and the poor class of victims financially.

In an up-and-down country, where feed and shelter were scarce, he kept

no horse, but traveled afoot. He had no opportunity to test his heels,

as he never ran away, all his attacks being followed by speedy

capitulation. If a trained force of bailiffs had been sent out to

apprehend him, doubtless he could have been caught, as he had his

favorite retreats, where he lingered, waiting for his prey.

There were not many such places in the depths of the seemingly endless

forests of giant and gloomy hemlocks and pines, places where the sun

could shine and the air radiated dryness and warmth. One of his

best-liked haunts was known as the Indian Garden, situated in an open

glade among the mountains which divide the country of Kettle Creek from

that of Drury’s Run.

“Art.” Vallon, one of the oldest hunters on Kettle Creek, who died

recently, once described the spot as follows: “More than sixty years ago

my father on a hunting trip showed me a clearing of perhaps half an

acre, which he told me was called ‘The Indian Garden.’ I visited it many

times afterwards on my trapping excursions. It impressed me as very

unusual, being entirely free from undergrowth, except the furze grass

one sees on poor, worked-out land.

“It was a perfect square of about half an acre, and was surrounded by

the deep, primeval forest. There was a fine spring not very far away.”

It was there that Jenkin Doane and two other reckless characters who had

served with Simon Girty and acted as his henchmen lolled for hours in

the sun, waiting for victims. It was there that he usually maintained

his “camp fire” and at night slept on the ground in a sleeping bag of

buffalo hides.

One night in the late winter, when there were still patches of snow on

the ground, Doane dreamed very vividly of a girl whom he had never seen.

He could hardly realize he had been dreaming when he awoke and sat up

looking about him, to where his vision was cut off by the interminable

“aisles of the forest.” He seemed to be married to her, at least they

were together, and he had the pleasure of saving her life from drowning

in a deep torrent where she had gone, probably to bathe.

He had never seen a person of such unusual beauty. Her hair was dark and

inclined to curl, complexion hectic, her eyes hazel, but the chief charm

lay in the line of her nose and upper lip. The nose was slightly turned

up at the end, adding, with the curve of her upper lip, a piquancy to an

expression of exceptional loveliness.

All the day he kept wishing that this charming young woman might

materialize into his life; he could not bring himself to believe but

that such a realistic vision must have a living counterpart.

It was during the morning of the second day, when he had about given up

hope, that he saw coming towards him, down a steep pitch in the Boone

Road–it is part of the Standard Oil Pipe Line now–a young woman on

horseback, wearing a red velvet hat and a brown cloak. She was mounted

on a flea-bitten white horse of uncertain age and gait. Close behind her

rode two elderly Indians, also indifferently mounted, who seemed to be

her bodyguard, and between them they were leading a heavily-laden

pack-horse.

He quickly turned his belt, an Indian signal of great antiquity, which

indicated to his companions that they would make an attack.

Just as the white horse touched fairly level ground he commenced to

stumble and run sideways, having stepped on a rusty caltrop or “crow’s

foot” which the outlaws had strewn across the trail at that point for

that very purpose. Seeing the animal’s plight, the young equestrienne

quickly stopped him and dismounted. She had been riding astride, and

Doane noticed the brown woolen stockings which covered her shapely legs,

her ankle-boots of good make, as she rolled off the horse’s back.

As she stood before her quivering steed, patting his shoulder, Doane and

his companions drew near, covering the three with their army muskets. It

was then to his infinite surprise he noticed that the girl in brown,

with the red hat, was the heroine of his dream, though in the vision she

had been attired in black, but the gown was half off her shoulders and

back when he drew her out of the water.

It would have been hard to tell who was most surprised, Doane or the

girl. Much as he admired her loveliness, there had been the turning of

the belt, which meant there could be no change of purpose; his comrades

were already eyeing the well-filled packsaddles.

The frightened Indians had dismounted, being watched by one of the

outlaws, while Doane politely yet firmly demanded the whereabouts of her

money. Lifting her cloak and turning her belt, she disclosed two long

deerskin pouches, heavy with gold. Unbuckling them, she handed them to

Doane, while tears began to stream down her cheeks.

“You may take it, sir,” she sobbed, "but you are ruining my chances in

life. I am partly Indian, Brant’s daughter, grand-daughter of the old

Brant, and my father had arranged a marriage for me with a young officer

whom I met during the war, and I love him dearly. Though I told him of

my love, he would not marry me without a dowry of $3,000, and it took my

father five long years to gather it together. I would not care if I did

not love him so much. I was on my way to his home at the forks of

Susquehanna, and now you have destroyed all my hopes."

The brigand’s steely heart was for a moment touched. “Brant’s daughter,”

he said, “you Indian people know the turning of the belt, which means

that what is decided on at that moment must be carried out; before I saw

who you were I resolved to rob you. It must be done, for I have two

partners who will demand their shares.”

"You said ‘before you knew who I was,’" broke in the girl, her tearful,

piquant face filled with curiosity. “You never saw _me_ before.”

“Oh, yes, I did,” replied Doane, “in a dream a couple of nights ago.”

“she said, as a final appeal.

“I am afraid not,” he answered, as his comrade started to open one of

the pouches. Then he paused, saying: “I will not take all. I’d not take

anything from _you_ except that I have these partners. I will retain

half for them, and let you go on your way with the rest. Your good

looks–for you are truly the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on–will

outweigh with your lover a paltry fifteen hundred dollars in gold.”

“cried the girl weeping afresh. “He does not love me; he only wants the

gold. I am the one that loves, and am lost and discarded without the

dowry.”

Meanwhile one of the outlaws had drawn the caltrop from the horse’s

frog, and having smeared it with bear’s grease, the animal was walking

about in a fairly comfortable manner.

[Illustration: AN ALLEGHENY EPISODE]

The girl stood looking at Doane. He was young, strong, and had a fairly

decent face. How could he be so cruel? Then she looked at his partners,

low-browed wretches, who were already muttering at the delay, and she

realized there was no hope. Doane gave up his share, and tossed the

other of the bags of gold to his “pals,” then ordered the girl and her

escort to proceed. He said that he would accompany her to the river, to

where the danger of meeting other highwaymen would be passed. The girl

traveled on foot the entire distance, to ease her horse over the rough,

uneven trail, walking side by side with the highwayman.

They parted with civility, and on Doane’s side with deep regret, for the

dream had inflamed his soul, and the reality was so startlingly lovely

that he was deeply smitten. Before he had reached the river he wished

that he had shot his grasping companions, rather than endanger this

beautiful creature’s future happiness.

“That was an unlucky turning of the belt,” he said to himself, as he

retraced his steps towards the Indian Garden.

Brant’s daughter rode with a heavy heart the balance of the journey, for

she knew her lover’s nature. The Indian bodyguards were equally

downcast, for they had sworn to deliver her safe and sound at the forks

of the Susquehanna.

When she reached the handsome colonial gray stone house, on a headland

overlooking the “meeting of the waters,” her lover, a handsome

upstanding youth, with a sports suit made of his old officer’s buff

uniform, and surrounded by a pack of his hunting dogs, came out to greet

her. His manner was not very cordial. With penetrating eyes he saw that

she was disturbed over something, so he quickly asked if she suffered

from fatigue after the long overland journey.

“No, Major,” she replied, “I am not at all tired in body, but I am in

heart. I cannot postpone the evil moment. On the Boone Road we were

stopped by three highwaymen, armed, who took from me half of my dowry.”

The Major’s handsome countenance darkened. “Why did you not tell them

you needed it to get married?” he blurted out angrily. “A pretty wench

like you could have honey-foogled them to keep it.” “replied the girl,

confidently, “and for that reason the chief of the band, a very pretty

man, let me keep the one-half, but he had to retain the rest for his

companions.” “ “I think I came off well,” she said, hanging her pretty

head, her cheeks all crimson flush. She was sitting on the horse, her

feet dangling out of the stirrups, her skirts turned up revealing those

shapely legs, and he had not asked her to dismount.

The Major drew nearer, with an angry gesture. “I have a mind to smack

your face good and hard for your folly,” he stormed. “What do you think

I have been waiting for, a paltry _fifteen hundred dollars_?”

Brant’s daughter turned her belt and handed him the pouch of gold, which

he threw down testily. It was quickly picked up by one of his German

redemptioner servants, who carried it into the house.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to come in?” pleaded the now humiliated

love-sick girl. “You can slap me all you want. Punish me any way you

will,” offering him her stiff riding crop, “only don’t cast me off.”

“Come down if you wish; I don’t care,” he mumbled in reply. “I wouldn’t

exert myself enough to whip you, but your hide _ought_ to be tanned for

your stupidity.”

Cut to the heart, yet still loving abjectly, she slid off the horse and

meekly followed the imperious Major into the mansion. During the balance

of the afternoon, and at supper, and until she begged to be allowed to

retire, she was reviled and humbled in the presence of his

redemptioners. He declared that no one man in a thousand, in his station

of life, would consider marriage with a person of Indian blood; that it

was worth twice three thousand dollars, the figure he had originally

named. Nevertheless, he had carefully put the money bag in his strong

box, even though saying nothing about setting a date for a marriage.

She was shown into an unfinished room. There was no bed, only a few

chairs, and two big walnut chests. Tearful and nervously unstrung, she

took off her shoes and, wrapping herself in her cloak, lay down on the

cold wooden floor. She could have called for blankets, and doubtless

gotten them, but her pride had rebelled and she resolved to make the

best of conditions. She could not sleep, and her mind was tortured with

her love for the Major, anger at his ungrateful conduct, and an

ever-recurring vision of the highwayman on the Boone Road. She heard the

great Irish clock in the hall below strike every hour until one.

Suddenly she got up, her face brightened with a new resolve. Tying her

shoes together, she threw them them across her shoulder and tiptoed to

the door, which she opened softly, and went downstairs. Her Indian

bodyguards were sleeping on the stone floor in the vestibule, wrapped in

their blankets.

“Exundos,” she whispered in the ear of the oldest, “get me out of this;

I am going to go away.”

The trusty redskin, who always slept with one eye open, nudged his

comrade, Firequill, and made their way to the door. It was locked and

chained, and the key probably under the Major’s pillow.

Exundos was determined to redeem his record. He rushed upstairs to where

a portly German was sleeping in the officer’s antechamber. He knocked

the valet senseless with the butt of his horse pistol. Then he sprang

like a panther over the prostrate body into the Major’s apartment. In a

moment he had gagged him with the caltrop extracted from the horse’s

foot, then bound him hand and foot.

The key was under the pillow. In five minutes the fugitives were on the

front lawn, surrounded by the Major’s pack of yelping, snarling hounds.

Getting by them as best they could, the trio made for the bluffs, found

a dugout in which they crossed the river, and were soon in the shelter

of the friendly mountains.

In the morning the Major’s other servants who slept in quarters near the

stables, found the half-dazed bodyguard with a bloody head, and their

gagged and helpless master. Once released, the Major decided not to send

a posse after the runaways; he was heavily in debt, and needed that

pouch of fifteen hundred dollars in gold.

Brant’s daughter, after her fortuitous escape, was not completely happy.

She had longed for the Major for five years, and had almost gotten him

as the result of severe privations. It was pretty hard to lose him now.

She was going home defeated, to die unwed. Her feelings became desperate

when she reached the Boone Road, with all its haunting memories.

As she clambered up the steep grades, and the Indian Garden came into

view, she reached down and turned her belt, the symbol of resolution. No

one was about as she passed the garden, which made her heart sink with

loneliness for some strong man’s love.

When Kettle Creek was reached and crossed near the Cold Spring, she

decided to rest awhile. After a meal, which she barely tasted, she told

the Indians that she was going for a little walk in the woods.

“I am safe now,” she said, bitterly; “I have no gold.”

Past the Cold Spring she went, on and on up the wild, narrow gorge of

what is now called Ole Bull Run, where a dark and dismal hemlock forest

of colossal proportions bent over the torrent, keeping out the light of

day.

While she was absent, who should appear at the Cold Spring but Doane,

with his colleagues in crime.

“So he took her after all, with only half the money,” he said, almost

regretfully, to the Indians.

“I don’t know,” replied one of the bodyguard. “He was very ugly when he

heard it, wanted to slap her, and she ran away in the night, leaving

horses, saddle-bags and gold. Oh, she felt terribly, for she truly loved

the monster.” “said Doane, in surprised tones.

The Indian pointed up the dark gorge of the run. That moment the outlaw

thought of his dream, of his rescuing her from an angry torrent.

Motioning to her guards to follow, he made haste along the edges of the

stream, slipping often on the moss-grown rocks. Half way to the top of

the gigantic mountain, he heard the roar of a cascade. There was a

great, dark, seething pool beneath. Just as Doane came in sight of this

he beheld, to his horror, Brant’s daughter, hatless and cloakless,

plunging in. It was like a Dryad’s immolation!

With superhuman effort he reached the brink and sprang after her. He

caught her, as she rose the first time, by her profuse brown hair, but

as he lifted her ashore a snag or branch tore her shirtwaist, so that

her shoulder and back were almost completely bare, just as in the dream.

Aided by the faithful Indians, he laid her tenderly among the moss and

ferns, and poured some rum from a buffalo horn flask down her throat.

She revived and opened her pretty hazel eyes quizzically.

“Am I at the Indian Garden?” she said.

“You are with the one who turned his belt there,” answered Doane; “only

this time I don’t want anything for my comrades. I only want you for

myself.” “said Brant’s daughter, having now fully recovered the power of

speech. “When I came back to the Garden and you were not there, I turned

my belt.” “said Doane, “for that last resolve has brought us together. I

should have known from the beginning my destiny was revealed in that

dream.” “said the girl.

“Of course I will, anywhere with you, and never follow the road again,

or anything not strictly honorable. Wrongdoing, I see now, is caused by

the preponderance of the events of life going against us. Where things

come our way, and there is joy, one can never aspire to ill. Wrong is

the continued disappointment. I could never molest a soul after I saw

you, and have lived by hunting ever since. I made my partners return the

purse of gold; it shall go to your father to buy a farm.”

Brant’s daughter now motioned to him that she felt like sitting up, and

he propped her back against an old cork pine, kissing her pretty plump

cheeks and shoulders many times as he did so. “And that scoundrel would

have smacked you,” he thought, boiling inwardly. Then taking her cold

hands in his, he said:

“Out of evil comes good. I do not regret this one robbery, for if I had

not taken that gold for my comrades, some one would have robbed me of

you!”

[Illustration: SHAWANA]

XIX

_Riding His Pony_

When Rev. James Martin visited the celebrated Penn’s Cave, in the Spring

of 1795, it was related that he found a small group of Indians encamped

there. That evening, around the campfire, one of the redskins related a

legend of one of the curiosities of the watery cave, the flambuoyant

“Indian Riding Pony” mural-piece which decorates one of the walls.

Spirited as a Remington, it bursts upon the view, creates a lasting

impression, then vanishes as the power skiff, the “Nita-nee,” draws

nearer.

According to the old Indians, there lived not far from where the

Karoondinha emerges from the cavern a body of aborigines of the

Susquehannock tribe who made this delightful lowland their permanent

abode. While most of their cabins were huddled near together on the

upper reaches of the stream, there were straggling huts clear to the

Beaver Dams. The finding of arrow points, beads and pottery along the

creek amply attests to this.

Among the clan was a maiden named Quetajaku, not good to look upon, but

in no way ugly or deformed. In her youth she was light-hearted and

sociable, with a gentle disposition. Yet for some reason she was not

favored by the young bucks. All her contemporaries found lovers and

husbands, but poor Quetajaku was left severely alone. She knew that she

was not beautiful, though she was of good size; she was equally certain

that she was not a physical monster. She could not understand why she

could find no lover, why she was singled out to be a “chauchschisis,” or

old maid. It hurt her pride as a young girl, it broke her heart

completely when she was older.

Gradually she withdrew from the society of her tribal friends, building

herself a lodge-house on the hill, in what is now the cave orchard.

There she led a very introspective life, grieving over the love that

might have been. To console herself she imagined that some day a

handsome warrior would appear, seek her out, load her with gifts,

overwhelm her with love and carry her away to some distant region in

triumph. He would be handsomer and braver than any youth in the whole

country of the Karoondinha. She would be the most envied of women when

he came.

This poor little fancy saved her from going stark mad; it remedied the

horror of her lonely lot. Every time the night wind stirred the rude

hempen curtain which hung before the door of her cabin, she would

picture it was the chivalrous stranger knight come to claim her. When it

was cold she drew the folds of her buffalo robe tighter about her as if

it was his arms.

As time went on she grew happy in her secret lover, whom no other

woman’s flame could equal, whom no one could steal away. She was ever

imagining him saying to her that her looks exactly suited him, that she

was his ideal.

But like the seeker after Eldorado, years passed, and Quetajaku did not

come nearer to her spirit lover. But her soul kept up the conceit; every

night when she curled herself up to sleep he was the vastness of the

night.

On one occasion an Indian artist named Naganit, an undersized old

wanderer appeared at the lonely woman’s home. For a living he decorated

pottery, shells and bones, sometimes even painted war pictures on rocks.

Quetajaku was so kind to him that he built himself a lean-to on the

slope of the hill, intending to spend the winter.

On the long winter evenings the old woman confided to the wanderer the

story of her unhappy life, of her inward consolation. She said that she

had longed to meet an artist who could carry out a certain part of her

dream which had a right to come true.

When she died she had arranged to be buried in a fissure of rocks which

ran horizontally into one of the walls of the “watery” cave. On the

opposite wall she would like painted in the most brilliant colors a

portrait of a handsome young warrior, with arms outstretched, coming

towards her.

Naganit said that he understood what she meant exactly, but suggested

that the youth be mounted on a pony, a beast which was coming into use

as a mount for warriors, of which he had lately seen a number in his

travels on the Virginia coast, near Chincoteague.

This idea was pleasing to Quetajaku, who authorized the stranger to

begin work at once. She had saved up a little property of various kinds;

she promised to bestow all of this on Naganit, except what would be

necessary to bury her, if the picture proved satisfactory.

The artist rigged up a dog-raft with a scaffold on it, and this he poled

into the place where the fissure was located, the woman accompanying him

the first time, so there would be no mistake. All winter long by

torchlight, he labored away. He used only one color, an intensive

brick-red made from mixing sumac berries, the pollen of the Turk’s Cap

Lily, a small root and the bark of a tree, as being more permanent than

that made from ochers and other ores of stained earth.

Marvelous and vital was the result of this early impressionist; the

painting had all the action of life. The superb youth in war dress, with

arms outstretched, on the agile war pony, rushing towards the

foreground, almost in the act of leaping from the rocky panel into life,

across the waters of the cave to the arms of his beloved.

It would make old Quetajaku happy to see it, she who had never known

love or beauty. The youth in the mural typified what Naganit would have

been himself were he the chosen, and what the “bachelor maid” would have

possessed had nature favored her. It was the ideal for two disappointed

souls.

Breathlessly the old artist ferried Quetajaku to the scene of his

endeavors. When they reached the proper spot he held aloft his quavering

torch. Quetajaku, in order to see more clearly, held her two hands above

her eyes. She gave a little cry of exclamation, then turned and looked

at Naganit intently. Then she dropped her eyes, beginning to cry to

herself, a rare thing for an Indian to do!

The artist looked at her fine face, down which the tears were streaming,

and asked her the cause of her grief–was the picture _such_ a terrible

disappointment?

The woman drew herself together, replying that it was grander than she

had anticipated, but the face of Naganit’s, and, strangely enough, the

face she had dreamed of all her life.

“But I am not the heroic youth you pictured”, said the artist, sadly. “I

am sixty years old, stoop-shouldered, and one leg is shorter than the

other.” “ Naganit looked at the Indian woman. She was not hideous; there

was even a dignity to her large, plain features, her great, gaunt form.

“I have never received such praise as yours. I always vowed I would love

the woman who really understood me and my art. I am yours. Let us think

no more of funeral decorations, but go to the east, to the land of war

ponies, and ride to endless joy together.”

Quetajaku, overcome by the majesty of his words, leaned against his

massive shoulder. In that way he poled his dog-raft against the current

to the entrance of the cave. There was a glory in the reflection from

the setting sun over against the east; night would not close in for an

hour or two. And towards the darkening east that night two happy

travelers could be seen wending their way.

[Illustration]

XX

_The Little Postmistress_

It was long past dark when Mifflin Sargeant, of the Snow Shoe Land

Company, came within sight of the welcoming lights of Stover’s. For

fourteen miles, through the foothills on the Narrows, he had not seen a

sign of human habitation, except one deserted hunter’s cabin at Yankee

Gap. There was an air of cheerfulness and life about the building he had

arrived at. Several doors opened simultaneously at the signal of his

approach, given by a faithful watchdog, throwing the rich glow of the

fat-lamps and tallow candles across the road.

The structure, which was very long and two stories high, housed under

its accommodating roofs a tavern, a boarding house, a farmstead, a

lumber camp, a general store, and a post office. It was the last outpost

of civilization in the east end of Brush Valley; beyond were mountains

and wilderness almost to Youngmanstown. Tom Tunis had not yet erected

the substantial structure on the verge of the forest later known as “The

Forest House.”

A dark-complexioned lad, who later proved to be Reuben Stover, the son

of the landlord, took the horse by the bridle, assisting the young

stranger to dismount. He also helped him to unstrap his saddle-bags,

carrying them into the house. Sargeant noticed, as he passed across the

porch, that the walls were closely hung with stags’ horns, which showed

the prevalence of these noble animals in the neighborhood.

Old Daddy and Mammy Stover, who ran the quaint caravansery, quickly made

the visitor feel at home. It was after the regular supper-time, but a

fresh repast of bear’s meat and corn bread was cheerfully prepared in

the huge stone chimney.

The young man explained to his hosts that he had ridden that day from

New Berlin; he had come from Philadelphia to Harrisburg by train, to

Liverpool by packet boat, at which last named place his horse had been

sent on to meet him. He added that he was on his way into the

Alleghenies, where he had recently purchased an interest in the Snow

Shoe development.

After supper he strolled along the porch to the far end, to the post

office, thinking he would send a letter home. A mail had been brought in

from Rebersburg during the afternoon, consequently the post office, and

not the tavern stand, was the attraction of the crowd this night.

The narrow room was poorly lighted by fat-lamps, which cast great,

fitful shadows, making grotesques out of the oddly-costumed, bearded

wolf hunters present, who were the principal inhabitants of the

surrounding ridges. A few women, hooded and shawled, were noticeable in

the throng. In a far corner, leaning against the water bench, was young

Reuben, the hostler, tuning up his wheezy fiddle. As many persons as

possible hung over the rude counter, across which the mail was being

delivered, and where many letters were written in reply. Above this

counter were suspended three fat-lamps, attached to grooved poles,

which, by cleverly-devised pulleys, could be lifted to any height

desired.

[Illustration: SETH NELSON, JR., AFTER A GOOD DAY’S SPORT]

The young Philadelphian edged his way through the good-humored concourse

to ask permission to use the ink; he had brought his favorite quill pen

and the paper with him. This brought him face to face, across the

counter, with the postmistress. He had not been able to see her before,

as her trim little figure had been wholly obscured by the ponderous

forms that lined the counter.

Instantly he was charmed by her appearance–it was unusual–by her look of

neatness and alertness. Their eyes met–it was almost with a smile of

mutual recognition. When he asked her if he could borrow the ink, which

was kept in a large earthen pot of famous Sugar Valley make, she smiled

on him again, and he absorbed the charm of her personality anew.

Though she was below the middle height, her figure was so lithe and

erect that it fully compensated for the lack of inches. She wore a blue

homespun dress, with a neat checked apron over it, the material for

which constituted a luxury, and must have come all the way from

Youngmanstown or Sunbury. Her profuse masses of soft, wavy, light brown

hair, on which the hanging lamps above brought out a glint of gold, was

worn low on her head. Her deepset eyes were a transparent blue, her

features well developed, and when she turned her face in profile, the

high arch of the nose showed at once mental stability and energy. Her

complexion was pink and white. There seemed to be always that kindly

smile playing about the eyes and lips.

When she pushed the heavy inkwell towards him he noticed that her hands

were very white, the fingers tapering; they were the hands of innate

refinement.

Almost imperceptibly the young man found himself in conversation with

the little postmistress. Doubtless she was interested to meet an

attractive stranger, one from such a distant city as Philadelphia. While

they talked, the letter was gradually written, sealed, weighed and paid

for–it was before the days of postage stamps, and the postmistress

politely waited on her customers.

He had told her his name–Mifflin Sargeant–and she had given him

hers–Caroline Hager–and that she was eighteen years of age. He had told

her about his prospective trip into the wilds of Centre County, of the

fierce beasts which he had heard still abounded there. The girl informed

him that he would not have to go farther west to meet wild animals; that

wolf hides by the dozen were brought to Stover’s each winter, where they

were traded in; that old Stover, a justice of the peace, attested to the

bounty warrants–in fact, the wolves howled from the hill across the road

on cold nights when the dogs were particularly restless.

Her father was a wolf hunter, and would never allow her to go home

alone; consequently, when he could not accompany her she remained over

night in the dwelling which housed the post office. Panthers, too, were

occasionally met with in the locality–in the original surveys this

region was referred to as “Catland”–also huge red bears and the somewhat

smaller black ones.

If he was going West, she continued in her pretty way, he must not fail

to visit the great limestone cave near where the Brush Mountains ended.

She had a sister married and living not far from it, from whom she had

heard wonderful tales, though she had never been there herself. It was a

cave so vast it had not as yet been fully explored; one could travel for

miles in it in a boat; the Karoondinha, or John Penn’s Creek, had its

source in it; Indians had formerly lived in the dry parts, and wild

beasts. Then she lowered her voice to say that it was now haunted by the

Indians’ spirits.

And so they talked until a very late hour, the crowd in the post office

melting away, until Jared Hager, the girl’s father, in his wolfskin

coat, appeared to escort her home, to the cabin beyond the waterfall

near the trail to Dolly Hope’s Valley. She was to have a holiday until

the next afternoon.

The wolf hunter was a courageous-looking man, much darker than his

daughter, with a heavy black beard and bushy eyebrows; in fact, she was

the only brown-haired, blue-eyed one in the entire family connection. He

spoke pleasantly with the young stranger, and then they all said good

night.

“Don’t forget to visit the great cavern,” Caroline called to the youth.

“I surely will,” he answered, “and stop here on my way east to tell you

all about it.”

“That’s good; we want to see you again,” said the girl, as she

disappeared into the gloomy shadows which the shaggy white pines cast

across the road.

Young Stover was playing “Green Grows the Rushes” on his fiddle in the

tap-room, and Sargeant sat there listening to him, dreaming and musing

all the while, his consciousness singularly alert, until the closing

hour came.

That night, in the old stained four-poster, in his tiny, cold room, he

slept not at all. “Yet he feared to dream.” Though his thoughts carried

him all over the world, the little postmistress was uppermost in every

fancy. Among the other things, he wished that he had asked her to ride

with him to the cave. They could have visited the subterranean marvels

together. He got out of bed and managed to light the fat lamp. By its

sputtering gleams he wrote her a letter, which came to an abrupt end as

the small supply of ink which he carried with him was exhausted. But as

he repented of the intense sentences penned to a person who knew him so

slightly, he arose again before morning and tore it to bits.

There was a white frost on the buildings and ground when he came

downstairs. The autumn air was cold, the atmosphere was a hazy,

melancholy gray. There seemed to be a cessation of all the living forces

of nature, as if waiting for the summons of winter. From the chimney of

the old inn came purple smoke, charged with the pungent odor of burning

pine wood.

With a strange sadness he saddled his horse and resumed his ride towards

the west. He thought constantly of Caroline–so much so that after he had

traveled ten miles he wanted to turn back; he felt miserable without

her. If only she were riding beside him, the two bound for Penn’s Valley

Cave, he could be supremely happy. Without her, he did not care to visit

the cavern, or anything else; so at Jacobsburg he crossed the Nittany

Mountains, leaving the southerly valleys behind.

He rode up Nittany Valley to Bellefonte, where he met the agent of the

Snow Shoe Company. With this gentleman he visited the vast tract being

opened up to lumbering, mining and colonization. But his thoughts were

elsewhere; they were across the mountains with the little postmistress

of Stover’s.

Satisfied that his investment would prove remunerative, he left the

development company’s cozy lodge-house, and, with a heart growing

lighter with each mile, started for the east. It was wonderful how

differently–how vastly more beautiful the country seemed on this return

journey. He fully appreciated the wistful loveliness of the fast-fading

autumn foliage, the crispness of the air, the beauty of each stray tuft

of asters, the last survivors of the wild flowers along the trail. The

world was full of joy, everything was in harmony.

Again it was after nightfall when he reined his horse in front of

Stover’s long, rambling public house. This time two doors opened

simultaneously, sending forth golden lights and shadows. One was from

the tap-room, where the hostler emerged; the other from the post office,

bringing little Caroline. There was no mail that night, consequently the

office was practically deserted; she had time to come out and greet her

much-admired friend. And let it be said that ever since she had seen him

her heart was agog with the image of Mifflin Sargeant. She was canny

enough to appreciate such a man; besides, he was a good-looking youth

though perhaps of a less robust type than those most admired in the Red

Hills.

After cordial greetings the young man ate supper, after which he

repaired to the post office. By that time the last straggler was gone;

he had a blissful evening with his fair Caroline. She anticipated his

coming, being somewhat of a _psychic_, and had arranged to spend the

night with the Stovers. There was no hurry to retire; when they went out

on the porch, preparatory to locking up, the hunter’s moon was sinking

behind the western knobs, which rose like the pyramids of Egypt against

the sky line.

Sargeant lingered around the old house for three days; when he departed

it was with extreme reluctance. Seeing Caroline again in the future

appeared like something too good to be true, so down-hearted was he at

the parting. But he had arranged to come back the following autumn,

bringing an extra horse with him, and the two would ride to the

wonderful cavern in Penn’s Valley and explore to the ends its stygian

depths. Meanwhile they would make most of their separation through a

regular correspondence.

Despite glances, pressure of hands, chance caresses, and evident

happiness in one another’s society, not a word of love had passed

between the pair. That was why the pain of parting was so intense. If

Caroline could have remembered one loving phrase, then she would have

felt that she had something tangible on which to hang her hopes. If the

young Philadelphian had unburdened his heart by telling her that he

loved her, and her alone, and heard her words of affirmation, the world

out into which he was riding would have seemed less blank.

But underneath his love, burning like a hot branding iron, was his

consciousness of class, his fear of the consequences if he took to the

great city a bride from another sphere. As an only son, he could not

picture himself deserting his widowed mother and sisters, and living at

Snow Shoe; there he was sure that Caroline would be happy. Neither could

he see permanent peace of mind if he married her and brought her into

his exclusive circles in the Quaker City.

As he was an honorable young man, and his love was real, making her

truly and always happy was the solitary consideration. These thoughts

marred the parting; they blistered and ravaged his spirit on the whole

dreary way back to Liverpool. There his colored servant, an antic

darkey, was waiting at the old Susquehanna House to ride the horse to

Philadelphia.

The young man boarded the packet, riding on it to Harrisburg, where he

took the steam train for home. In one way he was happier than ever

before in his life, for he had found love; in another he was the most

dejected of men, for his beloved might never be his own.

He seemed gayer and stronger to his family; evidently the trip into the

wilderness had done him good. He had begun his letter-writing to

Caroline promptly. It was his great solace in his heart perplexity. She

wrote a very good letter, very tender and sympathetic; the handwriting

was clear, almost masculine, denoting the bravery of her spirit.

During the winter he was called upon through his sisters to mingle much

with the society of the city. He met many beautiful and attractive young

women, but for him the die of love had been cast. He was Caroline’s

irretrievably. Absence made his love firmer, yet the solution of it all

the more enigmatical.

The time passed on apace. Another autumn set in, but on account of

important business matters it was not until December that Sargeant

departed for the wilds of mountainous Pennsylvania. But he could spend

Christmas with his love.

This time he sent two horses ahead to Liverpool. When he reached the

queer old river town he dropped into an old saddlery shop, where the

canal-boat drivers had their harness mended, and purchased a neat side

saddle, all studded with brass-headed nails. This he tied on behind his

servant’s saddle.

The two horsemen started up the beautiful West Mahantango, crossing the

Shade Mountain to Swinefordstown, thence along the edge of Jack’s

Mountain, by the gently flowing Karoondinha, to Hartley Hall and the

Narrows, through the Fox Gap and Minnick’s Gap, a slightly shorter route

to Stover’s.

On his previous trip he had ridden along the river to Selin’s Grove,

across Chestnut Ridge to New Berlin, over Shamokin Ridge to

Youngmanstown, and from there to the Narrows; he was in no hurry; no

dearly loved girl was waiting for him in those days.

Caroline, looking prettier than ever–she was a trifle plumper and redder

cheeked–was at the post office steps to greet him. Despite his avoidance

of words of love, she was certain of his inmost feelings, and opined

that somehow the ultimate result would be well.

Sargeant had arranged to arrive on a Saturday evening, so that they

could begin their ride to the cave that night after the post office

closed, and be there bright and early Sunday morning. For this reason he

had traveled by very easy stages from Hartley Hall, that the horses

might be fresh for their added journey.

Sargeant’s devoted Negro factotum was taken somewhat aback when he saw

how attentive the young man was to the girl, and marveled at the

mountain maid’s rare beauty. Upon instructions from his master, he set

about to changing the saddles, placing the brand new lady’s saddle on

the horse he had been riding.

It was not long until the tiny post office was closed for the night, and

Caroline emerged, wearing a many-caped red riding coat, the hood of

which she threw over her head to keep the wavy, chestnut hair in place.

She climbed into the saddle gracefully–she seemed a natural

horse-woman–and soon the loving pair were cantering up the road towards

Wolfe’s Store, Rebersburg and the cave.

It was not quite daybreak when they passed the home of old Jacob

Harshbarger, the tenant of the “cave farm;” a Creeley rooster was

crowing lustily in the barnyard, the unmilked cattle of the ancient

black breed shook their shaggy heads lazily; no one was up.

The young couple had planned to visit the cave, breakfast, and spend the

day with Caroline’s sister, who lived not far away at Centre Hill, and

ride leisurely back to Stover’s in the late afternoon. It had been a

very cold all-night ride, but they had been so happy that it seemed

brief and free from all disagreeable physical sensations.

In those days there was no boat in the cave, and no guides; consequently

all intending visitors had to bring their own torches. This Caroline had

seen to, and in her leisure moments for weeks before her lover’s coming,

had been arranging a supply of rich pine lights that would see them

safely through the gloomy labyrinths.

They fed their horses and then tied them to the fence of the orchard

which surrounded the entrance to the “dry” cave, which had been recently

set out. Several big original white pines grew along the road, and would

give the horses shelter in case it turned out to be a windy day. The

young couple strolled through the orchard, and down the steep path to

the mouth of the “watery” cave, where they gazed for some minutes at the

expanse of greenish water, the high span of the arched roof, the general

impressiveness of the scene, so like the stage setting of some elfin

drama.

They sat on the dead grass, near this entrance, eating a light breakfast

with relish. Then they wended their way up the hill to the circular

“hole in the ground” which formed the doorway to the “dry” cave. The

torches were carefully lit, the supply of fresh ones was tied in a

bundle about Sargeant’s waist. The burning pine gave forth an aromatic

odor and a mellow light. They descended through the narrow opening, the

young man going ahead and helping his sweetheart after him. Down the

spiral passageway they went, until at length they came into a larger

chamber. Here the torches cast unearthly shadows, bats flitted about;

some small animal ran past them into an aperture at a far corner.

Sargeant declared that he believed the elusive creature a fox, and he

followed in the direction in which it had gone.

When he came to this opening he peered through it, finding that it led

to an inner chamber of impressive proportions. He went back, taking

Caroline by the hand, and led her to the narrow chamber, into which they

both entered. Once in the interior room, they were amazed by its size,

the height of its roof, the beauty of the stalactite formations. They

sat down on a fallen stalagmite, holding aloft their torches, absorbed

by the beauty of the scene.

In the midst of their musing, a sudden gust of wind blew out their

lights. They were in utter darkness. The young lover bade his sweetheart

be unafraid, while he reached his hand in his pocket for the matches.

They were primitive affairs, the few he had, and he could not make them

light. He had not counted on the use of the matches, as he thought one

torch could be lit from another; consequently had brought so few with

him. Finally he lit a match, but the dampness extinguished it before he

could ignite his torch.

When the last match failed, it seemed as if the couple were in a serious

predicament. They first shouted at the top of their voices but only

empty echoes answered them. They fumbled about in the chamber, stumbling

over rocks and stalagmites, their eyes refusing to become accustomed to

the profound blackness. Try as they would, they could not locate the

passage that led from the room they were in to the outer apartment.

Caroline, little heroine that she was, made no complaint. If she had any

secret fears, her lover effectually quenched them by telling her that

the presence of the two saddle horses tied to the orchard fence would

acquaint the Harshbarger family of their presence in the cave.

“Surely,” he went on, “we will be rescued in a few hours. There’s bound

to be some member of the household or some hunter see those horses.”

But the hours passed, and with them came no intimations of rescue. But

the two “prisoners” loved one another, time was nothing to them. In the

outer world, both thought, but neither made bold to say, that they might

have to separate–in the cave they were one in purpose, one in love. How

gloriously happy they were! But they did get a trifle hungry, but that

was appeased at first by the remnants of the breakfast provisions, which

they luckily still had in a little bundle.

When sufficient time had elapsed for night to set in, they fell asleep,

and in each other’s arms. Caroline’s last conscious moment was to feel

her lover’s kisses. When they awoke, many hours afterwards, they were

hungrier than ever, and thirsty. Sargeant fumbled about, locating a

small pool of water, where the two quenched their thirsts. But still

they were happy, come what may.

They would be rescued, that was certain, unless the horses had broken

loose and run away, but there was small chance of that. They had been

securely tied. It was strange that no one had seen the steeds in so long

a time, with the farmhouse less than a quarter of a mile away–but it was

at the foot of the hill.

Hunger grew apace with every hour. After a while drinking water could

not sate it. It throbbed and ached, it became a dull pain that only love

could triumph over. Again enough hours elapsed to bring sleep, but it

was harder to find repose, though Sargeant’s kisses were marvelous

recompense. Caroline never whimpered from lack of food. To be with her

lover was all she asked. She had prayed for over a year to be with him

again. She would be glad to die at his side, even of starvation.

The young man was content; hunger was less a pain to him than had been

the past fourteen months’ separation.

Again came what they supposed to be morning. They knew that there must

be some way out near at hand, as the air was so pure. They shouted, but

the dull echoes were their only reward. Strangely enough, they had never

felt another cold gust like the one which had blown out their torches.

Could the shade of one of the old-time Indians who had fought for

possession of the cave been perpetrator of the trick? suggested lovely

little Caroline. If so, she thought to herself, he had helped her, not

harmed her, for could there be in the world a sensation half so sweet as

sinking to rest in her lover’s arms?

Meanwhile the world outside the cavern had been going its way. Shortly

after the young equestrian passed the Harshbarger dwelling, all the

family had come out, and, after attending to their farm duties, driven

off to the Seven Mountains, where the sons of the family maintained a

hunting camp on Cherry Run, on the other side of High Valley.

The boys had killed an elk, consequently the guests remained longer than

expected, to partake of a grand Christmas feast. They tarried at the

camp all of that day, all of the next; it was not until early on the

morning of the third day that they started back to the Penn’s Creek

farm.

They had arranged with a neighbor’s boy, Mosey Scull, who lived further

along the creek below the farm house, to do the feeding in their

absence; it was winter, there was no need to hurry home.

When they got home they found Mosey in the act of watering two very

dejected and dirty looking horses with saddles on their backs.

“Where did they come from?” shouted the big freight-wagon load in

unison.

“I found them tied to the fence up at the orchard. By the way they act

I’d think they hadn’t been watered or fed for several days,” replied the

boy.

“You dummy!” said old Harshbarger, in Dutch. “Somebody’s in that cave,

and got lost, and can’t get out.”