A DREADFUL ORDEAL—FINIS.
Boston Jake and his men did not resist very long after the departure of
Rafe Norris. They stood out long enough to give a good excuse for
yielding, and then sent out a flag to sue for peace. The Sioux would not
trust to that, but took to the mountain at once, and sought to find
their way back to their own country in small parties. Boston Jake
surrendered his party in person, and Dave received his submission.
“Where is the man who was captured while carrying a flag?” he demanded.
“You know well whom I mean.”
“Yes—I know that well enough, boss, but he’s pegged out. ’Tain’t my
fault, you know.”
“Who, then, is to blame?”
“Jim Diggs shot him on the jump, trying to escape. It were rough, but
Jim couldn’t help it.”
“I shall hang three of your men for the murder,” replied Dave, quietly,
“and they will be selected by lot.”
“That ain’t according to Hoyle, boss,” said Boston Jake. “I kain’t see
that play of yours, after we guv up.”
“_He_ was taken with a white flag in his hand.”
“It were cussid mean, I know,” replied Jake; “but it ain’t right to do
evil acause some one else did, eh?”
“Enough; where is Rafe Norris, better known as Curly-headed Ned?”
“Curly? Why, he went away, two hours ago. He don’t hanker arter you
chaps, you understand; they don’t suit him, nohow.”
“The scoundrel! It will go hard with him when we once lay hands on him.
Where is the daughter of Old Pegs? Tell me quickly before I put a bullet
through your head.”
“You needn’t rare up that ar’ way,” said Boston Jake, sullenly. “I don’t
keer two cents what you do with me, and I don’t skeer at all so you mout
as well let me down easy. That’s the way I talk it. Curly-headed Ned hez
got the gal.”
The forces of Whirlwind satisfied that their sworn enemies—the
Sioux—were scattered in the mountains, at once set out in pursuit,
breaking up into squads of ten or less for that purpose. Woe to the
Modoc Sioux whom they ran down. His scalp quickly adorned the belt of
some son of the Blackfoot tribe, and hung afterward in the smoke of his
lodge. The prisoners were quickly bound, and leaving ten men as a guard
the rest of the trappers began to search for the trail of Rafe Norris.
But they missed the keen eyes and subtle skill of Old Pegs, the man who
could read in rocks and sod the slightest pressure of the human foot,
and the search for a long time was vain, and Dave Farrell began to
despair of success. They could find no trail.
In the meantime, Myrtle was a prisoner in the hands of Rafe Norris. He
rapidly descended the slope which led to the hunter’s cabin, holding her
by the hand, and led her in at the open door of her former home.
“Here we are, my dear,” he said quietly. “You see that it becomes my
province to make you welcome to the home which was once yours. Do not
mistake me, sweet girl. I will do you no wrong, unless it is wicked in
me to wish to make you my wife.”
“It is more than wicked—it is cruel and unmanly. Oh, if my hands could
reach a weapon your life would be short.”
“Doubtless you are right, Myrtle,” he said mournfully. “You would slay
one who stands ready to lay down his life in your service, and who is
willing to devote that life to make you happy. Can I say nothing to make
you change your purpose, my darling?”
“Can you bring the dead to life? Will you be able to call Nicholas
Fletcher from the bloody grave your hounds have given him? Oh, how base
I should be if I ever forgot or forgave this last crowning crime!”
“Enough,” he cried, harshly. “I see that good words are but thrown away
upon you, and that harsh measures are necessary. My mind is fully made
up, and you will find that I can be harsh if it seems to be needful and
can compel obedience to my wishes. Hold out your hands; I must bind you
or you will attempt to escape.”
She put out her hands as if to comply, but as he stooped to take up the
buck-skin thong from the table, she bounded past him, and the sharp
click announced that she had opened the trap beneath the bed. Before he
could reach it the second click announced that it was closed again.
Furious with passion he tugged at the light couch, and literally tore it
from its place, but the trap remained firm in its place and all his
efforts could not move it in the least. Dashing out into the next room
he caught up a heavy ax and darted back.
“Stand out of the way below,” he cried, “or you may be hurt.”
The boards flew asunder under his furious strokes, and in an
inconceivably short space of time he had made an opening large enough to
permit him to descend. As he was about to step upon the stairs he heard
the clear voice of Myrtle.
“For your life—stand back!”
He looked once—and obeyed! She was standing in the little passage,
holding a lighted taper in her hand. Just in front of her stood a small
keg of powder with the head knocked out, and as he saw her pale,
determined face by the light of the taper, he knew that she would
destroy herself sooner than fall into his hands again.
“Mad woman,” he screamed. “What would you do?”
“You can find out readily by coming down,” was the quiet reply. “If you
set your foot upon that step again it is the signal for your death.”
“And yours—also!”
“And mine. I think that I should be doing good service in killing you
even though I lose my life.”
The man hesitated and stepped back into the room with a look of absolute
terror on his face. He had not lied when he said that he loved her
dearly, and it was terrible to him to think that she hated him so much
that she would sooner die than be his wife. He tried persuasion, but to
that she would not answer, standing statue-like, holding the taper in
her unshaking hand.
“What good can it do you?” he said. “You must yield in time.”
“If I feel that I am growing weak,” she replied, “at that moment I will
fire the powder. At the least I shall go to my Maker pure, and send you
to your Judge at the same moment. From this time I will not answer you a
word.”
She drew a block close to the side of the keg and sat down with a bundle
of tapers by her side. The one she held burned low, and she lighted
another and waited as calmly as before, while above her the hungry eyes
of Rafe Norris looked down at the prize he could not reach. He hoped
that she would sleep, but the peculiar brightness of her eyes convinced
him that it was impossible. Only fatigue, hunger or thirst could
overcome her, and she had sworn that when that time came she would fire
the train.
Twice he called to her as the hours passed on, but neither by sign, word
or look did she show that she knew any thing of his presence, although
her eyes never left the opening in the floor. In his madness he revolved
in his mind a thousand plans to get her away from the powder if but for
a moment, but it was useless; none of his plans were feasible while he
could not draw from her a single look or sign of recognition. He felt
that he could not bear this suspense much longer, but it must be borne.
Hour after hour crept on; the tapers burned out, one by one, and as the
first gray streaks of the morning light showed themselves in the east
she took up the _last taper_ and calmly lighted it.
“Ha! ha! ha!” he cried, exultantly; “your lights are gone. In a moment I
shall have you in my power.”
She spoke now for the first time since she had sealed her lips.
“It will burn for an hour,” she said. “I will spend that hour in praying
to God to take me in mercy to his rest, and when the taper burns low I
will fire the powder.”
“You dare not, girl,” he hissed. “It is murder. You cannot destroy
yourself in that cruel way. Oh, heaven, what shall I do? I will give you
up—do you hear? I will give you up.”
“I cannot trust you. If I throw away the taper, you will treat your word
as you did when my guardian fell into your hands.”
“I will not—I swear by everything I hold holy and pure. I will go away
and never come back if you will throw away the taper. I swear it, on my
soul.”
“Swear by something else. I will not trust you. Keep silent, base man,
and let me at least spend my last hour in quiet.”
“You shall not do it,” he screamed. “Here are my weapons, and I have no
others—my revolvers. Take them, and then you can surely consider
yourself safe.”
“Will you give them?” she cried, eagerly. “If you do that, I may put
some trust in your promises, for I shall be able to enforce obedience.”
He hesitated for a moment, but as she advanced the light in the
direction of the keg, he took the weapons from his belt and threw them
down to her. Shifting the taper into her left hand, she caught up a
weapon and glanced at it, her quick look assuring her that it was ready
for service, and she sprung to her feet, hastily hurling away the taper
which was burned half-way down. Myrtle was young, and life was in its
bloom for her, and she was happy in her escape.
“Go outside,” she said, “and let me see your face at the window of my
room.”
He hurried out at once, and looking up through the trap, she caught
sight of his pale face peering through the little window. In an instant
she was out of the passage and at the door, holding her revolvers cocked
in each hand.
“It is over now, Rafe Norris,” she said. “Go, before I forget myself and
avenge in your person my murdered friend, my more than father, Nicholas
Fletcher.”
But he folded his arms and looked at her fixedly, the light of a strange
resolve in his eyes.
“You think you have conquered,” he said, “because I have given up my
weapons. But not yet, my dear, not yet. I swear that you shall either
kill me where I stand or go with me.”
He made a step in advance, and she brought down her right-hand pistol
with a stern, decided movement. Thus they stood at bay, each looking
into the eyes of the other.
“If you miss!” he hissed, speaking through his set teeth.
“I shall _not_ miss,” was the stern reply. “Beware what you do.”
He was doubling himself for a spring, and her bright eyes were glancing
resolutely along the barrel of the deadly weapon, when a calm voice
said:
“Hold on! _I_ meander in and take a hand.”
Myrtle turned with a wild cry of delight. Old Pegs in the body, to all
appearance sound in every part, stood before her.
“Come hyar while I hug yer!” cried the old man, with a suspicious catch
in his voice. “Rafe Norris, I’ll attend to _you_, right soon, I will.”
He passed his strong arm about the slender form of Myrtle, and pressed
his lips to her fair cheek.
“Give them yer playthings ter me, darlin’,” he said, taking the
revolvers from her. “I ain’t got ne’er a weepon. Now stand one side and
see me mount this cuss.”
“Don’t fight him, father,” she said. “I’m not afraid of him, and beyond
the fact that he has kept me prisoner he has done me no wrong.”
“It won’t do,” replied Old Pegs, fiercely. “I’m going ter wipe him out,
sure, and I don’t want you to interfere or you and I’ll hev words. Look
hyar, Rafe Norris, Curly-headed Ned, Sarpint, whatever yer name is,
you’ve got ter fight _me_.”
“I am willing,” he cried, anxiously. “I’ll fight you in any way you
name.”
“Wait; I wanter leave the gal safe in case I go under. I don’t wanter,
but then I mout. Whar’s yer carbine, Myrtle?”
“In the cabin.”
“Git it and put a new charge in. You’ve got ter boss this skrimmage, you
understand, and see fa’r play. This yer skunk hez lived long enuff, I
kalkilate, and the sooner he’s wiped out the better.”
Myrtle knew the determined character of the old hunter well and that it
was useless to oppose him. She hurried into the house and brought out
her carbine, discharged it and put in a new load. She had the utmost
confidence in her guardian and believed that he was able to overcome
Rafe Norris in a fair fight. When she had loaded, Old Pegs turned to
Norris.
“We’ll stand off at about twenty paces and begin ef you hev no
objections. Thar’s a shooter.”
He tossed one of the revolvers to Rafe, who snatched it up eagerly.
“Ef I go under, gal, take to ther foot-hills and don’t come out till you
find Dave or some of the boys. Now we’ll stand back to back, walk ten
paces and wheel when you give the word. After that let the best man win,
but ef one of us tries to turn till you _do_ give the word—_send_ fur
him, thet’s all.”
“I’ll do it,” replied Myrtle, quietly, “and you may be sure I will not
miss. Get ready.”
The men placed themselves back to back.
“March,” she said.
They advanced ten paces each with his revolver ready.
“Ready—turn!”
The pistols exploded at the same moment. Old Pegs staggered a little,
but quickly recovered himself and fired again. Rafe Norris spun round
upon his heel, uttered a short, quick cry and fell upon his back while
the revolver dropped out of his hand. They ran to raise him and he made
a feeble effort to lift his weapon but his hand refused its office and
dropped heavily to his side.
“I’m done for,” he groaned, “and it served me right for all my villainy.
Old Pegs, open my coat and take out the paper you will find there.”
Old Pegs obeyed and found two or three letters and a legal-looking
document.
“I told you the truth, Myrtle, when I said I was your cousin. That paper
is a copy of our grandfather’s will which you will find in the hands of
Justin Lawrence, attorney, at St. Louis. When you read the will you will
understand why I wished to make you my wife. Never fear for me; I’ll die
as I have lived—game to the last. Here’s luck to the Hudson Bay!”
He shook his hand above his head and with the effort his life went out.
The will when read was found to be in favor of the heirs of Edward
Forrester, or, failing that, all was left to a benevolent institution at
St. Louis. To Edward Forrester, Jr., the only child of his youngest son,
the testator left one dollar “on account of his dissolute and unmanly
conduct.” The secret of his persistent effort to make Myrtle his wife
was explained.
There is little more to tell. They buried the unhappy man in the little
valley next day, and just as Old Pegs had laid the last sod upon him
Dave Farrell, followed by a portion of his men, rode into the place. The
yell which the trappers gave as they saw Old Pegs and Myrtle alive made
the mountains ring again, and Myrtle with a glad cry threw herself into
the arms of her “teacher,” brave Dave Farrell, the Beaver Captain.
A few days later the party set out for the fort, Old Pegs taking charge
of the papers left in his hands by Myrtle’s father by means of which her
identity was easily established, and she took possession by the will of
a property valued at one hundred thousand dollars.
But, prosperity did not spoil her; she still remained the same, and
loved her guardian and her trapper lover as of yore. Six months after
their return there was a quiet wedding and Dave Farrell with his
beautiful wife started for the East. Old Pegs left them in St. Louis,
resisting all entreaties to spend his life with the woman who had been a
daughter—more than a daughter to him. He could not leave the mountain
yet, but promised that when old age comes on him Myrtle shall smooth his
pathway to the grave. So promising he turned his face to the west and
was gone.
Whirlwind was killed in an attack upon a trapping camp, some years
since. The men who had followed Edward Forrester in his last expedition
scattered, and the time has nearly passed when the two great companies
strive for the possession of the trapping-grounds. But often by the
trapper’s fire some gray-haired man will tell the tale of the old days
when he took sides in this strange struggle.
Every year Old Pegs comes down to St. Louis and spends a month in the
company of his son and daughter—for he so regards them—and tells the
boys wild stories of the plains and mountains where he has lived so
long. May the day be far distant when he must lay his armor down.
THE END
DIME POCKET NOVELS.
PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.
1—Hawkeye Harry. By Oll Coomes.
2—Dead Shot. By Albert W. Aiken.
3—The Boy Miners. By Edward S. Ellis.
4—Blue Dick. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
5—Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
6—The White Tracker. By Edward S. Ellis.
7—The Outlaw’s Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
8—The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.
9—Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.
10—The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
11—The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
12—Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.
13—The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.
14—Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.
15—The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.
16—Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.
17—Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.
18—Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.
19—The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robins.
20—The B’ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.
21—Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.
22—Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.
23—Old Kent, the Ranger. By Edward S. Ellis.
24—The One-Eyed Trapper. By Capt. Comstock.
25—Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.
26—The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.
27—Single Eye. By Warren St. John.
28—Indian Jim. By Edward S. Ellis.
29—The Scout. By Warren St. John.
30—Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
31—The Mystic Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.
32—The Golden Harpoon. By R. Starbuck.
33—The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
34—Old Lute. By E. W. Archer.
35—Rainbolt, Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
36—The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
37—Carson, the Guide. By J. H. Randolph.
38—The Heart Eater. By Harry Hazard.
39—Wetzel, the Scout. By Boynton Belknap.
40—The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.
41—Wild Nat, the Trapper. By Paul Prescott.
42—Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.
43—The White Outlaw. By Harry Hazard.
44—The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
45—The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
46—Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. P. Ingraham.
47—The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.
48—The Phantom Tracker. By F. Dewey.
49—Mocassin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.
50—The Wolf Queen. By Charles Howard.
51—Tom Hawk, the Trailer.
52—The Mad Chief. By Chas. Howard.
53—The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.
54—Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.
55—Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.
56—The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.
57—Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Iliff.
58—Cloudwood. By J. M. Merrill.
59—The Texas Hawks By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
60—Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
61—Mad Anthony’s Scouts. By E. Rodman.
62—The Luckless Trapper. By Wm. R. Eyster.
63—The Florida Scout. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
64—The Island Trapper. By Chas. Howard.
65—Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
66—Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.
67—Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.
68—Iron-Hand. By Frederick Forest.
69—The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.
70—The Phantom Rider. By Maro O. Rolfe.
71—Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.
72—Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
73—The Skeleton Scout. By Maj. L. W. Carson.
74—Little Rifle. By Capt. “Bruin” Adams.
75—The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.
76—Old Ruff, the Trapper. By “Bruin” Adams.
77—The Scarlet Shoulders. By Harry Hazard.
78—The Border Rifleman. By L. W. Carson.
79—Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.
80—Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. By R. Ringwood.
81—Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.
82—Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.
83—The Specter Horseman. By Frank Dewey.
84—The Three Trappers. By Seelin Robins.
85—Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.
86—The Hunter Hercules. By Harry St. George.
87—Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
88—The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
89—The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
90—The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
91—Star-Face, the Slayer.
92—The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
93—The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
94—Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
95—The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
96—The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
97—The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
98—Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
99—Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
100—Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
101—Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
102—Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
103—The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
104—Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
105—Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
106—The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
107—Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
108—The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
109—The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
110—Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
111—The Texas Tiger. By Edward Willett.
112—The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.
113—Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.
114—The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.
115—The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.
116—Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger. Jr.
117—Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
118—Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.
119—Two-Handed Mat. By Jos. E. Badger.
120—Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
121—Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.
122—Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.
123—The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.
124—Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.
125—The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger.
126—Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.
127—Silverspur. By Edward Willett.
128—Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger.
129—The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
130—Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger.
131—Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.
132—Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.
133—The Lost Cache. By J. Stanley Henderson.
134—The Cannibal Chief. By Paul J. Prescott.
135—Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.
136—Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.
137—Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.
138—Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
139—The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.
140—The Border Renegade. By Badger.
141—The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.
142—Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.
143—Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
144—The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.
145—The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
146—The Silver Bugle. By Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
147—Chinga, the Cheyenne. By E. S. Ellis.
148—The Tangled Trail. By Major Martine.
149—The Unseen Hand. By J. S. Henderson.
150—The Lone Indian. By Capt. C. Howard.
151—The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs.
152—Billy Bowlegs, The Seminole Chief.
153—The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robins.
154—Red Jacket. By Paul Bibbs.
155—The Jungle Scout. Ready
156—Cherokee Chief. Ready
157—The Bandit Hermit. Ready
158—The Patriot Scouts. Ready
159—The Wood Rangers.
160—The Red Foe. Ready
161—The Beautiful Unknown.
162—Canebrake Mose. Ready
163—Hank, the Guide. Ready
164—The Border Scout. Ready
BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.
Transcriber’s Notes
—Silently corrected a few typos.
—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
is public-domain in the country of publication.
—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
_underscores_.
—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.