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Transcriber’s Notes:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.
* * * * *
Semi-Monthly Novels Series,
No. 282.
BEADLE’S DIME NOVELS
[Illustration]
RUBY ROLAND, THE GIRL SPY.
BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.
New England News Co., Boston, Mass.
* * * * *
A TALE OF THE LONG TRAIL.
THE OLD RED RIVER TRAIL
In the next issue of the “HOUSEHOLD AND FIRESIDE GUEST” series
Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 283
Ready Tuesday, June 3, lovers of the _Romance of the Wilderness and
Plains_ have a story that will enlist their attention to an unusual
degree, viz.:
THE LONE CHIEF; OR, The Trappers of the Saskatchewan.
BY JOS. E. BADGER, JR.
The Lone Chief is the noted Omaha “Blackbird,” who takes the long trail
to the far Saskatchewan in pursuit of an object which sustains him in
hours of awful trial, and awakens our warmest admiration.
His unexpected friends--a band of trappers--become involved with him in
the meshes of a conflict with the fierce Crees of the Plains.
The old trapper, Ben Duncan, a second edition of Old Nick Whiffles, is
a splendid character, equally handy in scrimmage, on the trail, in the
camp, or at a yarn.
That there are women in the case does not lessen the interest taken in
the Chief’s affairs by the two younger members of Old Duncan’s party,
who, even in that remote region, find that the course of true love
never runs smooth.
A strangely beautiful Cree girl is drawn into the foreground of the
story to become its heroine and--something else!
☞ BEADLE’S DIME NOVELS are always kept in print and for sale by all
newsdealers; or are sent, _post-paid_, to any address on receipt of
price--TEN CENTS EACH--by
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
* * * * *
RUBY ROLAND, THE GIRL SPY; OR, SIMON KENTON’S PROTEGE.
BY FREDERICK WHITTAKER,
AUTHOR OF “MUSTANG-HUNTERS,” “WHITE WIZARD,” “JAGUAR QUEEN,”
“BOONE, THE HUNTER,” ETC.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
* * * * *
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
(No. 282.)
* * * * *
RUBY ROLAND, THE GIRL SPY.
CHAPTER I. THE RANGER’S RUSE.
A tall, muscular young fellow, dressed in hunter garb, came silently
out of the woods from the north side of the Kentucky river, about a
hundred years ago, and pausing by the bole of a gigantic beech tree,
scanned the opposite shore with keen, silent attention.
There was a peculiar air of resolute fearless deviltry in the face
of the young hunter, coupled with the piercing, roving glances of
his intensely black eyes, that showed he was no novice to the trade
of hunter and scout. He was in the midst of the hunting-grounds of
Shawnee and Delaware, miles away from the then infant settlement of
Boonesborough; and he was all alone with his rifle and knife, to take
care of himself.
The look of his face abundantly evinced that he felt quite equal to the
task, and only the acquired caution of his craft kept him from wading
boldly into the river at once.
But as it was, he had learned the lesson of the successful
Indian-slayer by hard experience. Therefore, now, it was with a long,
deep scrutiny that he scanned the opposite banks, across the first open
piece of landscape he had come on in a day’s travel. On the opposite
bank all was still as death, save for the occasional note of a bird.
It was late in May and the forest was all blinded with its canopy of
leaves, while game was distant and hiding in the coverts.
As the young hunter looked, a black squirrel, shyest of all its kind,
ran out on a limb of a tree on the other side of the river, and stood,
whisking its tail and chattering, before his eyes, above the stream.
“Wal,” muttered the young man, as he stepped boldly out, “thar kurn’t
be much to be skeered on when _you’re_ thar, my little kuss. Go ahead,
Simon.”
Without further ado he descended the bank, deep, brown, and bare, for
some sixty feet, and then ran quickly across a bed of sand into the
shallow stream.
The Kentucky river, in winter a broad and powerful stream, had dwindled
under the summer heats to a rivulet not more than two hundred feet
across, running over a sandy rocky bed walled in by high banks.
Into this stream waded the hunter, and soon found himself midway
between the banks and up to his armpits in water. He was obliged to
lift up rifle and powder-horn over his head as he waded along, and
every now and then he would stop to brace himself against the current,
and glance anxiously up and down either side of the river, as if
anticipating the presence of enemies, ready to take him at advantage.
At last the water began to sink below his arms; and slowly he emerged
from the river, strode through the shallows, and stood on the opposite
shore.
“By the holy poker!” he muttered, as he climbed the further bank, “that
ar’s a bad scrape fur to ketch a kuss in. You’d best git to cover right
smartly, Simon, ef you’re the spy you used to was. _Git!_”
And, as he spoke, he hurried up the bank into the woods, and threw
himself down under a tree, completely hidden from sight. With the
hunter’s instinct, he lay still as death, listening intently for
sounds. The presence of the squirrel had assured him of the quiet of
things before, or he would not have ventured where he did. But, the
hunter knew too well that a very few minutes were able to change the
whole current of events around him, and that the chance passing of a
single Indian might render his own situation very perilous.
It was therefore with the keenest attention that he looked and listened
in the woods all round, before going further.
Presently came the sweet pipe of a red-bird from a tree not far off,
and the hunter muttered:
“All right on _that_ side.”
He knew the note, as belonging to one of the most wary of birds. Then
several other birds chirped at intervals, and he heard the tiny chatter
of squirrels all round him.
“Simon, you blamed ornary kuss, I reckon you kin git,” said the hunter
deliberately, and he rose to his feet.
Hardly had he done so, when he sunk down again as if shot, for the loud
snap of a dry stick sounded plainly in the air, and it came from the
further bank of the river.
“Follered, by the holy poker!” he ejaculated, in a low tone. “Now, who
the Old Scratch kin that be?”
As he spoke he threw himself down behind the tree, and, bringing all
his intelligence to bear on the north bank, which he had just left,
awaited the advance of the stranger.
There was no more noise now. The other, whoever he was, had evidently
been startled by his own carelessness. Apart from the snapping of that
single stick, there was no further sign of human presence on the north
bank.
The man on the south bank lay there watching silently and eagerly, but
saw nothing. The usual noises of the woods kept on around him, and he
could see squirrels moving on the other side of the river.
There was a small deserted space on either side of him, and a patch of
the same breadth on the opposite side that showed him that the wild
animals were shy of human creatures, and revealed to him the locality
of his enemy.
In those two places all were still, and, as unerringly as if he had
seen the strange hunter, Simon guessed that the latter had come to the
identical tree by which himself had first scanned the river.
“And by the holy poker, ef that’s so, the kuss kin see my trail,” he
grumbled, half aloud. “Simon, Simon, you orter be ashamed of yourself
fur leavin’ them huff-tracks in the mud, when ye mout ’a’ jumped from
stone to stone.”
Even while he grumbled, his eyes were fixed on the great beech tree,
and the heavy Kentucky rifle he carried was trained on its bole, while
he watched with intense gaze for a motion of the foe he guessed to be
there.
Suddenly he shifted his gaze and aim to a point on one side of the
tree, and fired at something moving there.
Leaping to one side out of the smoke, he distinctly beheld the
splinters of bark fly where his bullet struck, and the next moment
felt the stinging whiz of a bullet, that grazed his own side, as an
answering puff of white smoke came _from the other side of the tree_,
followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet stung him sharply,
and he dropped to the earth, catching a glimpse of the vanishing figure
of a man on the other side of the river, flitting from tree to tree.
“By the holy poker, that’s a right smart kuss, whoever he is,” muttered
Simon, ruefully, as he rubbed his side, “Who’d ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’
fooled me as quick as that, and with sich an old trick. By the holy
poker, Simon, you’d better go and soak your head ef you ain’t smarter
than that kuss. But, I’ll get even with him. Darn me ef he shall fool
me ag’in like that. No, sir. Mister stranger, be you white or red,
runnygade or Shawnee, I’ll hev your skulp fur that ar’ shot, or my name
ain’t Simon Kenton.”
And the renowned ranger darted from tree to tree on his passage up
the river, following the shadowy form of his antagonist, as he caught
occasional glimpses of it, and both tending toward a spot a mile
further up the stream, where a wooded island reduced the danger of
crossing to a less degree.
The two enemies raced for that island, loading as they ran.