The Cave by the Beech Fork: A Story of Kentucky—1815

BROTHER AND SISTER.

As Owen was fatigued after so many hours of excitement and exertion, he remained in the house the greater part of the following day. This afforded Bertha an excellent occasion of hearing a full account of the shooting match. Owen had scarcely seated himself before the fire-place in the family-room, when his sister brought in her spinning-wheel, and began alternately to work the spindle and ask questions.

"Now, Brother Owen," said she, "do tell me all about yesterday—what happened, how you won—oh, just everything!"

"Buzz-z-z," went the spinning-wheel as if to say, "hurry on, Owen, hurry on, for your sister has many, many questions to ask."

"Did the people like the new cap and coat I made for you?"

Buzz-z-z.

"Did you hit the center of the target every time?"

Buzz-z-z-z.

"How many robins did you kill out of the twenty?"

Buzzz-z-z-z-z.

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.

And Bertha talked so fast, and the wheel buzzed so loud, that Owen did not reply.

"Oh, it's just too mean to keep me waiting so long before telling me all about it!" said Bertha.

"I thought that wheel was answering your questions; you both talk at about the same rate," said Owen, playfully, for he saw that his sister was much excited, and wished to tease her by delaying to answer at once.

"Well, I saddled Log after breakfast, and——"

"I know you did," interrupted his sister; "do tell me something new."

"How can I if you stop me as soon as I begin to speak! Well, I saddled my horse, and took my rifle, and—wait, I forgot something! First, I put my powder-horn over my right shoulder"—a pause—"and then I put my bullet-pouch over my left shoulder"—another pause—"and then I took my rifle, and went down and saddled old Log, and started off, and—Oh, you've killed me! Oh! oh! oh!" For Bertha had taken a ball of yarn from a basket near the spinning-wheel, and playfully struck Owen in the head with the harmless missile. After this bold attack, a treaty of peace was signed, and Owen agreed to answer every question seriously and without delays. He was interrupted in his narrative by some one calling in a loud voice from without:

"Halloo! Halloo!"

It was Louis Bowen. Has he heard of Charlie's going to the shooting-match? was the thought which rushed to Owen's mind as he walked to the yard-gate, where the unexpected visitor was waiting astraddle his horse.

"Good-morning, Mr. Bowen," said he, with all the composure he could summon up.

"I hear you were at Grundy's farm yesterday," said the man gruffly, without seeming to notice Owen's morning greetings, "and I would like to know if you saw my son Charlie there. He hasn't returned yet."

"Yes, sir, he was there."

"The scoundrel!" muttered Bowen. "I'll flay him alive! He is getting worse every day. Spends money as fast as I can make it. I'll—I'll kill the wretch!"

"Many men camped on the grounds all night. He may have stayed with them," said Owen.

"I'll drive him from the house when he comes back! If he won't work, let him starve!" continued the father. "My corn-crib burned, my money stolen and squandered! Misfortune and losses on every side! I'll—I'll—but say, boy, you were along the river the night my crib was burned. Did you meet no one?"

"We met Jerry and Stayford the next morning, sir."

"Did you meet no one that night? Where did you stay that night?"

"We slept under the trees until it began to rain, and then—we went up the hill under the bluffs."

The conversation was here interrupted in a most singular manner. Charlie Bowen passed along the road, close to the two speakers. The father and son recognized each other at almost the same instant. Charlie spurred his horse and dashed down the road, while Mr. Bowen uttered a curse and started in pursuit. The scene was ludicrous in the extreme. Owen felt very serious and nervous while listening to the old farmer's threats, but now he forgot his troubles, and, mounting the gate-post to get a better view, watched father and son as they galloped along the dusty road. Still, when he reflected seriously, he could not but commiserate them both.

Returning to the house, Owen continued his lengthy description of the shooting-match, until Bertha's curiosity was entirely satisfied. During the following week, Bertha visited many of the neighbors, and repeated for them the history of her brother's victory. She also wrote an account of the contest for the Lexington paper and sent it by the stage which passed the house every second week.

Mr. Howard was not so enthusiastic over Owen's success. He was not a rigorist; he could not be called a severe man; still, he did not believe in spoiling children by humoring and flattering them. He feared lest the honors which Owen had received would exercise an evil influence upon him for the future, and felt it his duty to check any such influence at the start by keeping him at steady work.

"Owen," said he on the following morning, "you've had a whole day to rest, so get your axe and come with us to the woods. We must get that strip of land along the river cleared before winter."

After breakfast Owen shouldered his axe, whistled for Bounce and Frisk, and followed the workmen to the woods. The smaller trees were left for him to cut, while the men felled the large oaks, hickories and poplars. Day after day the work progressed. The steady stroke of the axe rang out clearly in the crisp, morning air, and the burning brush-piles dispelled the gloom of the autumn evenings. Occasionally some massive poplar of more than a century's growth would crash to the ground with a force that shook the earth for many yards around, tearing huge branches from the surrounding trees, crushing the smaller ones beneath its ponderous weight, and causing the hills on the other side of the river to ring with prolonged reverberations.

Owen enjoyed the work. He wielded his axe with a true and telling stroke. His hands and muscles were gradually hardened, until he could labor the entire day without the least fatigue.

At night when he returned from the woods he improved his mind by constant study and reading. Learning one day that a certain Mr. Rolling, who had come to the Howard's to buy some stock, was the happy owner of a wonderful book called "Robinson Crusoe," Owen was very anxious to make the acquaintance of Robinson, as he had often heard of his adventures on that far-off island. Mr. Rolling readily consented to lend him the book, promising to bring it to him at the first opportunity. The delay, however, was too long for the boy's impetuous nature; after waiting a few days, Owen decided to ride over to the farmer's house to secure the much-coveted volume.

"You have come after poor old 'Robinson Crusoe,' have you?" said Mr. Rolling, when he met the boy at the door.

"Yes, sir. It's a long ride, but I wanted to read that book, and determined to come after it at once."

"You are a funny, funny boy," replied Mr. Rolling. "And now I am sorry to tell you that you will have to ride five miles farther, for friend Foxway hasn't returned it. You see, old 'Robinson Crusoe' is quite a favorite in the neighborhood, and is continually traveling from one place to another."

"The ride isn't long," said Owen; "but perhaps Mr. Foxway has not read the book."

"Only him and his wife there. I reckon they know the whole story by heart. Tell Mr. Foxway that I sent you for the book. Why, it is worth a five-mile ride to get a look at the farmer and his wife."

Mrs. Foxway was certainly a curious little creature, with a withered face and weasel eyes. She received Owen very kindly, invited him into the house, and, when informed of the object of his visit, went at once to get the book. "Robinson Crusoe," however, seemed by no means desirous of making Owen's acquaintance, for Mrs. Foxway, after searching every room in the house, upsetting a table and breaking several pieces of china-ware, finally concluded that old Robinson had run away. She insisted, however, that he could not have gone a great distance, for her husband had him in his hands that very morning, while she was preparing breakfast. She informed Owen that Mr. Foxway would soon be home for dinner, and assured him that her husband was never known to misplace anything, and that if the book had not left the house of its own accord, he would find it the moment he came. She then returned to the kitchen to continue her work, and Owen was left alone.

"Here he is! Here he is!" screeched little weasel-eyes, soon after she had gone into the kitchen.

"Mr. Foxway has returned rather early," mused Owen. "But why should his coming create such excitement?"

"Hiding in the flour barrel! Hiding in the flour barrel!" called out weasel-eyes in the most alarming way.

"Hiding in the flour barrel!" repeated Owen to himself. "Perhaps he did not want to give me that book."

"Ha! ha! All covered with flour!" came the screechy voice from the kitchen.

"If he didn't want to give me the book, why didn't he say so," thought Owen.

"O mister! mister! Come and look at him before I dust him off with the turkey-wing," cried the little woman.

Owen started toward the kitchen expecting to find a wee little man sprinkled with flour, but Mrs. Foxway was the only one there, standing near a barrel, with the turkey-wing duster in her right hand.

"Trying to hide! Nearly covered with flour!" she said, pointing down into the barrel.

Owen looked in the direction indicated and was surprised to find, not the dwarfish farmer, but the book which he had come to get. It had fallen from the kitchen table into the flour barrel, and presented quite a snowy appearance. In one of the pictures where Robinson was sitting in his rude house, with his parrot on his knee, both were entirely embedded in the late mimic snowfall. Friday seemed to have forsaken his tribe, and become a Caucasian, for he was as white as his master. A few strokes of the dusting brush, and everything was restored to its original color and true form—the parrot became a bright green, while Friday, like the jack-daw, shorn of its stolen feathers, resumed his sable hue.

At last Owen had obtained the long-desired book. In its dilapidated condition, it appeared to have passed through as many catastrophies as old Robinson himself, not excepting the shipwreck, for some careless reader had let it fall into a bucket of water, on which account it had lost one of its covers and expanded to wonderful proportions. A whole category of Robinson's admirers had made use of that old-time way of marking the place, (often condemned, but more often practiced,) until almost every page was dog's-eared. Although these marks detracted from the appearance of the book, they by no means lowered it in Owen's estimation. On the contrary, he regarded it in the same light that he would a veteran soldier who had served in many campaigns, and whose reputation was enhanced by the number of wounds he had received.

Mr. Foxway now appeared upon the scene. He was even smaller than his wife—a big, round head, large, oval eyes, and thick duck-legs. He reminded Owen of the little screech-owls which often peered out at him from the dark eaves of the barn. The farmer was more than willing to part with the book, as he intended to return it to Mr. Rolling that afternoon.

Many a pleasant evening did Owen and Bertha spend in "Robinson Crusoe's" company. Moreover, the little screech-owls in the barn were ever afterwards called Mr. and Mrs. Foxway.

One night while Owen sat before the bright fire-place with the interesting volume in his hand he chanced to turn the pages, and there upon a fly-leaf saw some writing and a rough drawing which excited his curiosity. The writing was crude and scarcely legible; the drawing evidently represented a place or scene along the Beech Fork.

"What have you found?" asked Bertha, who noticed Owen's intense interest as he leaned closer to the fire to get a better light.

"Oh, nothing!" he replied with forced indifference.

"Let me see."

"You would not understand it."

"So there is something on that page?"

"Yes, but you could not make it out, for you never saw the——." Here Owen paused.

"The what?" asked Bertha.

Just then the book dropped from Owen's hands. The fly-leaf, which was loose, fell out, was caught by the strong draft of the fire-place, and was carried up the chimney.

"Oh, Bertha!" cried Owen. "There it goes, and it's on fire. It was all about a great secret, a——oh, if I could only tell you! But some day you shall know all about it."

AROUND THE FIRE-PLACE.

Father Byrne, who had noticed Owen's fondness for reading and wished to encourage him in this respect, brought him the few books he could obtain. Among the number was a selection of English poets, the first book of poems which Owen had ever seen.

He had not possessed the treasure many days before Martin Cooper came over to see it. When the latter arrived, Owen was busy with the chores.

"Don't wait for me, Mart," said he. "You'll find the book on the mantel. I'll be through in a short time. I've some news, too, about the cave."

"Just as you say. I'm anxious to try that wonderful book."

Martin seated himself before the spacious fire-place, which served the double purpose of heating and lighting the room, and began his work of inspection. The book was opened at random, and a passage of Shakespeare read,—a difficult one, not a line of which was understood. What could a farmer-boy who had read scarcely a dozen books expect to gather from the pages of Shakespeare? Martin closed the book, examined the cover, gazed into the fire-place, watched the shadows, and whistled three times. After this performance had been concluded, the book was again opened, but at a different place.

"Il Pen-se-ro-so"—he was forced to spell every syllable of the strange title, and as for the poem with its many mythological allusions, it was worse than a Chinese puzzle. Again Martin shuffled his feet, again he stared at the shadows. He then opened the book for the third time, with a firm resolve that if he did not understand the next lines he would never in the future enter the domains of poetry. Did his eyes deceive him? He leaned forward to get a better light. Was there really a poem on Kentucky? Impossible! He was dreaming! No, there it was, and to make sure that he was not deceived, he pronounced every letter, "K-e-n-t-u-c-k-y," and then read the line, "Kentucky's wild and tangled wood." Book in hand he rushed from the room into the yard, calling at the top of his voice: "Owen! Owen! here's a poem about Kentucky."

When the two boys returned to the room, they found that the poem was entitled "Marmion," the line, "Kentucky's wild and tangled wood," being simply an allusion to their State.

"Halloo!" exclaimed Owen, examining the title page, "it's written by a fellow named Scott."

"From Scott county," suggested Martin.

"May be. He seems to know all about the country."

"Yes! He says it's wild."

"I wonder whether he ever saw 'Green Briar'? It's the most tangled part of the State I know of. I went 'coon hunting one night, and got so tangled up among the bushes and briars that when I came home I had only half a coat."

"Let us see what the book says about Scott!"

"He lives in England," said Owen, turning to a brief account of the author's life.

"Did he ever come to this country?" inquired Martin.

"No! At least there is nothing here about it."

The boys were disappointed, for they had at first concluded that the poem was about Kentucky, and afterwards that the writer himself was a Kentuckian. Scott, however, had mentioned their native State; so without a long process of reasoning they placed him first among the poets.

"Look at this," said Owen, pointing to the title of the first book of "The Lady of the Lake."

"What is it?"

"What is it! Why it is about a chase—a deer hunt."

The boys had at last found something which they could understand and appreciate. Many of the beauties of the poem were lost to them, still they understood enough to enjoy it. Martin declared that he could see the stag as it "sniffed the tainted gale," sprung to its feet, shook the dew-drops from its flanks, and bounded off toward the mountains. What would the poet have thought could he have heard the remarks of his two young admirers beyond the ocean? They wondered if the hounds could run faster than Bounce; they wondered why the huntsman did not shoot the deer, little knowing that it was long before the invention of the flint-lock or rifle; they wondered and wondered about many things which their simple and untrained minds could not grasp or understand.

"Why, I almost forgot that news about the cave," said Owen when the two boys were tired of the poem.

"Let me hear it. You don't know how often I think about that place."

"The other night when I was reading 'Robinson Crusoe'——"

"Tell me about the cave. I've had enough about books for one night," interrupted Martin.

"That's just what I'm trying to do."

"Pardon me. I thought you were going to speak of the old man and his island."

"No. While I had the book in my hand I happened to see some writing and drawing on one of the last pages. There was a line marked Beech Fork; above this was the word hill; then a few scratches over which were written in two places, big rocks. Beginning with these two rocks was a single way or entrance which branched off into a number of passages."

"Were the passages marked?"

"Nothing was written over them; but it seemed to me that the lines represented them."

"Probably they did," said Martin. "Get the book and let us look at them."

"That's the bad luck of it, Mart. The page was burned."

"Who burned it?"

"Well, it was my fault. You see the page was loose; I let the book drop, and the draft from the chimney sucked the leaf into the fire."

"What else was written on that leaf?"

"The word light was put down in three different places."

"Did the man show us the night we were there three places where the light entered?"

"No, only two; but of course we didn't see everything."

"I do believe it was a drawing of the cave," said Martin. "But the next question is, who drew it. If we only knew that, we could find out the names of the fellows in the place."

"Nearly every person in the State has read that book," replied Owen. "I don't see what good it would do to get the names."

The boys were silent for some time.

The drawing which Owen had seen was the work of Jerry. When the trapper discovered the cave he went to the Tinker's house and offered to show it to him under certain conditions. Some of these conditions were written on the back of the page which had been burned. If Owen could have examined that page for five minutes he would have known the secret of the cave; for, while the few words scribbled there were unintelligible to others, they were sufficiently plain to any one who had visited the spot.

"I have something else to tell you about the cave," said Owen who was the first to speak. "You know old Bowen came up here the day after the shooting-match to inquire about Charlie; then he wanted to know where we slept the night we went to the cave."

"How does he know anything about the place?"

"That's just what I don't see; but from the way he asked the question I began to think he knew something about it. Father and mother talk about him every night. Father can't understand how it is that old Bowen's corn-crib has burned the last three years—and burned, mind you, just at the beginning of winter, when he had it full of corn."

"And what has that to do with the cave?" asked Martin.

"Nothing, as far as I can see. But father thinks that old Bowen is a rascal; that something will turn up one of these days and surprise everyone."

"If he does find out about the cave," said Martin, "he will charge that fellow who wants to buy it twice as much as it is worth."

"He will not find out from us. That man treated us kindly. We promised not to tell, and we must keep our promise."

"Just what I think about it, Owen! But I wish the fellow would hurry on and buy it. You see, we'll spend a whole day going through it."

"Do you think he will take us in as partners, because we've kept the secret so well?" asked Owen.

"I didn't think of that. We can be the guides to show the people around."

"But we must make him let us in as partners."

"Yes, we'll be guides and partners at the same time."

"I wonder whether he will make much money on it."

"And I wonder whether he will be able to buy it soon."

The boys continued for some time to build castles in the air, and to speak of their interest in the cave as if it were already a reality. Their conversation was interrupted by Bounce, who ran out from the porch to the yard-gate barking furiously. They went to the door, but saw no one. It was a poor runaway slave who had caused the disturbance. He had been whipped most cruelly by his master, old Bowen, and threatened with death; and knowing that this was but the beginning of his sufferings, had resolved to attempt an escape. He was now concealed near the yard-gate, in the branches of a small tree. Later in the night he contrived to attract Mose's notice, who, pitying him in his distress, carried him to one of the hay-lofts.

ON THE TRAIL OF THE RUNAWAY SLAVE.

Early the next morning, when old Bowen discovered that the slave had fled, he called his dogs and started in pursuit. It was easy to follow the trail, as it was still fresh. He urged his horse on as fast as it could go, shouted to the dogs, and cursed the fugitive slave. In his hand he held a long, blacksnake whip to administer punishment. His eyes sparkled with cruel expectation. His hand grasped the whip firmly, while on, on he rode. The hounds increased their speed. The trail was growing fresher. They would overtake the wretch soon. The heartless master plunged the spurs into his horse's sides, for the dogs were out-distancing him. They passed the Howard house. No! They suddenly stopped in front of the yard-gate. They dashed on, ran wildly in several directions, and returned to the gate. Here they barked, jumped into the air, and scratched around a small tree. The trail ended here. Old Bowen rode up to the spot almost maddened with fury, for Zachary Howard, he thought, had given shelter and protection to his fugitive slave. What revenge! What revenge would be his! Now had his day of retaliation come! He would drag the slave out from his place of concealment, would scourge him in Howard's presence—scourge him until the ground was covered with blood, and the more he writhed and cried for mercy, the harder the lash would fall. If Howard pleaded for him, his punishment would be prolonged. Oh! revenge, cruel, terrible revenge! He leaped from his horse, and, grasping his whip firmly, started toward the house. Mr. Howard, who had been disturbed by the noise, came out to meet him.

"Zach Howard!" cried the raging master, "show me where my slave is concealed. You can't deny it, you have hid him. But I'll find him, and whip him here while you look on—whip him until there is not a drop of blood left in his body. I'll whip him and show you that he is my slave, not yours! Where is he? Bring him out. Zach! Bring him out!"

"There is no slave of yours around these premises," replied the astonished farmer.

"A lie! My dogs tracked him to that tree in front of your gate! Those dogs never fail, Zach, never fail!"

"If the slave was tracked to that tree, Mr. Bowen, he can certainly be tracked farther."

"No sir!" growled old Bowen. "He stopped right there, was helped down by some one, carried away and hid. I have been in this business too long to be deceived by a little scheme like that."

"Strange that this could have happened without my knowing anything about it," said Mr. Howard.

"Well, it did happen, Howard. It happened last night, the trail shows it plainly—shows that he came to the tree and climbed it. The trail doesn't start any place near the tree, and this shows that the cussed negro was helped by some one."

"And why do you think he climbed the tree?" asked Mr. Howard.

"To throw me off the track. The stupid fool! I saw through the trick at the first glance."

"I think I can explain the whole affair."

"How?"

"Do you see that poplar?"

"Yes."

"Do you notice that large limb reaching out toward the tree which you say the negro climbed?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Don't you think that the negro could have climbed from the small tree into the large one?"

"Possibly. But what did he do when he got in the large tree?"

"Don't you notice that from the other side of the poplar there is another long branch extending over my carriage-house?"

"Yes! yes!"

"Don't you see plainly that he could have climbed on the roof?"

"Yes! What then?"

"The rest of the work was easy."

"How? how?"

"He let himself down from the caves to the rail-fence, and then crawled along."

"You've got the whole trail knit together nicely," said old Bowen, deeply wounded and humiliated because he had failed to connect the facts.

"Ha! ha! I'll get him now! And how I'll lash him!" he continued, with satanic glee, at the same time calling his dogs and starting for the fence, where he hoped to find the lost trail.

"But hold! Mr. Bowen, why are you so cruel with your slaves? If you treated them kindly, they would not run away."

"Zach Howard!" cried old Bowen, "those slaves are mine! They are mine, and I'll whip them as often as I wish—whip them just to hear them yell, if I choose to do so. That's my answer to your question."

"And my answer to you is this," retorted Mr. Howard, in a tone of voice that made Louis Bowen quail before him, "you are a heartless wretch, with whom I'll have nothing in common. Never again cross the threshold of my door, or enter this yard. If you do——"

"No threats are necessary," interrupted Bowen. "I hate and despise you too much for that. Now that you have shown me how and where to find my slave, I have no further use for your company." He wheeled around and started off to find the trail.

Mr. Howard regretted that he had given the information. It was too late, however, to amend matters, so he went into the house, and from one of the upper windows, where he could get a full view of the scene, eagerly watched old Bowen in his vain attempts to follow up the trail. After riding up and down either side of the fence for about an hour, the master grew tired of the fruitless labor, and regretted that he had disposed of Mr. Howard's services so quickly. Still, not having the courage to return and ask for help, he spurred his horse on toward the river, where he hoped to find a new clue to the direction taken by the runaway.

The escaped slave, trembling with fright, watched the whole proceedings from a crevice in the hayloft, and when his master had disappeared he sank back upon the hay exhausted. For days and weeks he suffered from his sore and emaciated back. The negro, Mose, came to him regularly three times a day, bringing him food and applying salve to his wounds.

When asked why he had been whipped, the poor slave would only answer: "He'll kill me if I tell; he'll kill me if I tell." After a month had passed, the wounds were entirely healed, and Mose suggested to his friend that he should start out again and try to make his escape to some more northern State. But the poor wretch was afraid to leave his place of concealment, knowing that if he were caught a worse punishment, even death, would be his fate.

CARRYING THE NEWS.

It was the morning of the twenty-fifth of January, 1815. Martin Cooper rode up before Mr. Howard's and, dismounting, called Owen, whom he saw busy with the chores around the house.

"Owen," said he, "look at this! Father was working at the barn yesterday, and found it in the saddle pockets—it's one of the prize pistols you won at the shooting-match. I don't know how it got into the pockets. Why didn't you speak about it?"

"Why, Martin!" was the answer, "I thought you would find it as soon as you got home. I slipped it into the pockets just before we parted."

"I've brought it back, Owen. You must not give it to me."

"Keep it, Mart! You did as much to get the pistols as I. When I told them here at home that I had given you one of the prizes, they all said you deserved it."

"No, Owen! it wouldn't be right for me to take your prize."

"Right, nothing. It's yours, Mart, and you have got to keep it."

"I can't."

"You must," and with playful firmness Owen quickly replaced the pistol in the saddle pockets, and secured the buckles.

"But look!" he continued, running toward the gate, "there comes a man with a flag."

"Hurrah, boys!" cried the stranger, riding up at full speed. "Hurrah! Our soldiers have whipped the English in a great battle at New Orleans. Not more than a dozen of our men killed. Two thousand of the red-coats have been captured, killed or wounded. Here is the account of the battle written by Jackson; and this is the flag carried by the Kentucky regiment."

"Hurrah! hurrah!" chimed in the two boys, throwing their caps into the air. "Hurrah for the American soldiers! Hurrah for the Kentuckians!"

Mr. Howard heard the shouting, and came out into the yard. He was overjoyed at the report, and taking the bullet-rent flag he waved it three times over his head, invoking a blessing on his country.

"We have no time to lose," said the stranger. "This flag and this report must be carried to Washington. The man who handed it to me on the banks of the Green river killed his horse, he rode so fast. I have been on the road since four this morning, and my horse can not go a mile farther. Some one here must take my place."

Owen and Martin interchanged a rapid glance, and demanded at the same time the privilege of heralding the victory.

"Go, my boys! It is no small honor to carry such a flag and such news, and both of you shall have it," said Mr. Howard. "Owen, hurry on and saddle Hickory. Martin, leave your saddle pockets here, but take out the pistol which you and Owen were speaking of. It is yours; buckle it around your waist. It will look more like war. And now, stranger," he continued, turning to the man, "you are welcome! Walk into the house. I'll have breakfast ready for you in a short time, and we'll see that one of the negroes takes care of your horse."

"Before the boys start," said the stranger, "I must say a word to them about giving the flag, and especially the message, to a reliable person. They were intrusted to an officer of one of our Kentucky regiments. He changed horses eight times before he reached Tennessee. The last horse dropped in a marshy country, and the poor fellow was forced to push his way on foot for five miles before he came to a settlement. He fell exhausted at the door of a farmer's house. The message has been given to four persons since that time. If the boys can carry it to Louisville, the soldiers there will see it safe to Pittsburg; beyond that the forts are so close that it can be carried one hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours."

"I can easily arrange the matter," replied Mr. Howard; "there is a friend of mine by the name of Sims, who lives twelve miles beyond Bardstown on the Louisville road; he is a true patriot in whose hands the letter will be safe. The boys can carry the message twenty miles, and friend Sims can take it twenty-eight more."

Martin and Owen were soon ready for their long ride, strapping their pistols around their waists and hanging their powder flasks at their sides.

"This flag for you," said the stranger, handing it to Martin; "and this for you," he continued, giving Jackson's letter to Owen. "Give it to no one except your father's friend. The President, Congress, and the whole country are waiting anxiously for the news from New Orleans; but I have my reasons for suspecting that there are some unprincipled wretches who would gladly intercept such joyful tidings. Even if you die for it, my boy, do not give this letter to any one but the man who is to carry it to Louisville."

Owen's heart beat with patriotic pride as he placed the missive deep down in his coat pocket, and promised to guard it faithfully.

The whole family came out to bid the boys "God speed." When Martin waved the flag, and both he and Owen fired a farewell salute from their pistols, they were answered by shouts while hats and bonnets were tossed in the air. Little Robin, who, as the reader has seen, was always frightened at the report of a fire-arm, sought shelter behind Mrs. Howard's apron; while Wash, who thought that Owen never fired a pistol without killing something, sallied forth in quest of the victim.

My readers have all heard of "Paul Revere's Ride," and how the patriot, spreading the news from farm to farm, aroused the American yeomen to battle with the British regulars.

The tidings which our young friends carried resembled in some respects the message of Paul Revere—his was the cry of battle, theirs the shout of victory; he called his countrymen to defend their rights, they proclaimed that their country's wrongs had been redressed. On they sped, their young hearts burning with patriotic pride. Firing their pistols to attract the attention of the farmers near the road, pausing for a moment to show the flag and tell the good news, then dashing on again, in less than two hours the boys were galloping up the hill in sight of Bardstown.

They remembered, however, that it was county court day, and that the town would be filled with visitors. They, therefore, determined upon a definite course of action. Martin, according to the arrangement, was to ride into the midst of the crowd, show the flag and announce the victory. Owen, on his part, was to remain at one side, and if the written report of the battle were demanded, to put spurs to his horse and escape from the town; for they were determined to be true to their charge, and under no conditions to surrender the message to another for a single instant.

The public square, as it was called, a large open lot in the middle of the town, was crowded with townfolk and farmers from all parts of the county. These were engaged in a variety of ways—some entered the stone court house to follow the proceedings of the bar, while others stood around in groups chatting about their crops, and inquiring about the latest reports of the war. But by far the greater number was engaged in trading horses and cattle, or purchasing various articles of the peddlers who came to town in great numbers on court days.

Suddenly the attention of all was attracted in the same direction, for Martin and Owen rode into the public square, checking their horses in the midst of the crowd and crying out: "Hurrah for the Americans! The English army has been defeated at New Orleans!" As Martin preceded Owen, and carried the flag, the eyes of all were directed toward him.

A wild shout of triumph answered the announcement of the victory. Then the crowd pressed around and demanded the particulars of the battle.

"Who brought the news from the South?"

"When was the battle fought?"

"How many were killed?"

"Where did that flag come from?"

"Are you sure about the result?"

"Have you any written account of the battle?"

Such were the questions which came from every side, but the shouts and hurrahs were so prolonged and loud that Martin was no longer heard. A few men who were nearest to him demanded the written account of the battle. Martin replied that he had orders not to show it to any one. The men became excited at once, and threatened to drag him from his horse. The boy saw that he was powerless; turning therefore toward Owen, who was ready to start at a moment's notice, he signaled to him to go. Owen understood the sign, sank his spurs into old Hickory's side, and dashed down the road toward Louisville.

At the same time Martin was dragged from his horse by several strong men and forced by them through the crowd into the court house. Here he easily succeeded in explaining his conduct, and why it was that his companion had escaped with Jackson's message. The county judge learned from him the full account of the battle, as contained in the written report of the commander; then going out upon the steps of the court house repeated the news to the excited throng. The town was wild with enthusiasm! An old cannon, which years before had been used to defend Bardstown when it was a frontier post, was dragged out into the street and was made once more to raise its thundering voice. Old heroes of the Revolution were there—old soldiers who had fought at Trenton and Yorktown. Some of these who had treasured up their rust-worn muskets marched in line and fired salutes.

At the west end of the town, workmen were busily engaged on the new cathedral; its steeple was already completed, and in it hung a bell, whose mellowed notes had never yet been heard in the western hemisphere. This bell was four feet in height and eight in circumference, and was destined for years to be the largest in the country from the Allegheny Mountains to the Pacific Ocean. For more than a century it had hung in an old Gothic steeple, in the northern part of Europe, and called pious pilgrims and holy monks to prayer and meditation. When impious hands destroyed the sacred shrine, the bell was spared and transported beyond the seas, where, wreathed with evergreens, it waited the day when it would again give forth its harmonious notes.

Near the church stood the saintly, zealous Bishop Flaget, contemplating the work before him. His meditation was disturbed by the shouts of victory; then came the report that it was in honor of the American success at the battle of New Orleans. At once he caught the enthusiasm of those around; raising his voice he cried aloud to the workmen in the steeple: "Ring the bell! Ring the bell! The American army has been victorious at New Orleans!" Long and loud it rang mingling its mellow notes with the roar of the cannon and announcing peace to all.

SAVING THE MESSAGE.

When Owen had gone some distance from the town, and realized that he was not pursued, he stopped for a few minutes, hoping that Martin would extricate himself from the crowd and overtake him. As he glanced down the road over which he had passed, he descried two horsemen galloping toward him; suspecting the object of their mission, he prepared for a second flight at the least sign of danger. When the two men were within a hundred yards of him, one checked his horse, while the other continued to gallop straight ahead. Not wishing to be surprised, Owen started out at a brisk gait. "Stop there, young fellow! they want to see that message at the court-house!" cried out the man who was nearest to him.

"Go it, Hickory! go it, old fellow!" was Owen's only reply; at the same time he plied the spurs vigorously.

"Stop there! I tell you, stop there!" again cried the man, laying the whip to his horse's side and following in hot pursuit.

Owen glanced behind—the man was gaining on him.

The boy leaned far over on the horse's neck, stroked his mane and said: "Go on, Hickory! don't let him catch us, go on! go on!"

"Say! youngster! If you don't stop there, I'll thrash you when I catch you!" cried the angered pursuer.

"But you won't catch me," thought Owen, for Hickory was now gaining a little, and his young rider knew that he was no mean runner.

The man was evidently not prepared for a long race; he beat his horse cruelly, urging the poor animal on at its utmost speed. Again Owen looked behind—again the man was gaining on him.

He saw that his pursuer was making one mighty effort to overtake him; he plunged his spur deep into the side of his faithful beast. The enraged animal sprang forward: The race was nearly even for a full quarter of a mile. Now Owen gained, and now the angry man behind. Hickory slipped and nearly fell in the soft, muddy road. The man yelled in triumph, gaining twenty yards in a few minutes. Then Hickory was on again—Owen slowly recovered lost ground. The man shouted to frighten him—this, however, had the effect of making him goad his horse the more. He saw the man gradually drop behind, and then abandon the unequal race. Owen pushed on briskly for about a mile, when he too paused to give the horse a much needed rest.

Eight miles of the road still remained to be traveled, and as Owen now felt secure he proceeded slowly, occasionally looking behind to see whether or not the man would continue the pursuit. He had gone about another mile, when to his astonishment the man reappeared riding another horse. Could Hickory stand the race for seven miles? Owen doubted, yet he resolved to save the message or kill the horse. The man on his part regarded the result as only a matter of time, for his horse was fresh, and would sooner or later overtake the wearied animal which he followed.

On went the boy, on came the man. On, on they rode, past the farm houses by the wayside, past the fallow fields and leafless woods which seemed to take wings and fly behind. On, on they sped, now darting down some rough, steep hill, now clambering up the rocky ascent on the opposite side. A settler, cutting wood close to the road, heard the clatter of hoofs, and, dropping his axe, watched with bated breath the onward rush of the boy and man. Little did he dream that the boy was carrying a message of victory and peace; that the man was a veritable Arnold in the hatred of his country. Yet the settler's sympathies were with the boy. He admired, too, the youth's superior horsemanship. How gallantly he bestrode his horse. "Go it, my lad, go it!" he shouted. "You're a fine rider, and I reckon you'll win." On, on they plunged, the boy and man, and the settler was far behind. Another farm house was reached. In front of it a country urchin was swinging on a gate. He climbed to the top of the gate-post to view the race, laughed with delight as he saw the sparks struck from the stony road, and waved his ragged hat in boisterous glee. Past him they fled. A few minutes later, and the urchin was far behind.

But soon old Hickory began to lag. Yard by yard the man drew closer to the boy. Owen saw plainly that the race was over.

"Back! stop there!" cried he, at the same time drawing his pistol. But the man came on.

"Stop! stop there! or I'll wound your horse," said the boy, pointing the pistol toward the advancing enemy.

The man, however, seemed to realize the difficulty of firing with any accuracy under such conditions; he, therefore, lowered his head behind the horse's neck to escape any stray ball, and continued to ride on. Owen was true to his threat, taking deliberate aim he sent a ball through one of the animal's front legs; the horse fell to the ground unable to arise.

Still the pursuit did not end here, for old Hickory began to stagger and reel from one side of the road to the other.

"Poor old Hickory! poor old fellow!" said Owen, stroking the animal's neck and mane.

Hickory turned his head as if to beseech his young master not to urge him farther.

"Poor old fellow!" continued Owen, trying in vain to keep back the tears that gathered in his eyes; for Hickory was a true friend of his, and it pained the boy to make him suffer so.

Hickory stopped—he could go no farther!

Owen dug the spurs deep into his side, crying at the same time: "Poor! poor old Hickory! I have to do it; can't you go? Can't you go, old Hickory?"

The jaded beast made another effort, trembled in every limb, and fell heavily to the ground. The man whose horse had been shot gave a yell and started on a run toward Owen, who quickly extricated himself from the stirrups and ran down the road.

"I'll give you a sound thrashing when I catch you!" cried the man, as both pursuer and pursued rushed along over the rough road. "You see I am gaining on you!" he continued, after a few minutes, "you may as well give up."

Owen didn't think so; at least it was evident from the way he ran that he intended to continue the race as long as he was able to move.

"Say, youngster," resumed the man, "the Salt river is about a quarter of a mile ahead; I'll get you when we come to it."

Owen did not answer, but continued straight on.

"If you stop now I won't whip you," shouted the man.

But his threats and promises were equally fruitless.

"And if you don't stop I'll go back and kill your horse after I have taken your letter from you!"

Owen felt this keenly, yet he remembered the promise he had made before he left his father's house, and for no consideration would he be unfaithful to it. The man continued to yell, to promise, to threaten, while both continued to run; not very fast, it is true, for the man had decided for himself that Owen would be forced to surrender on the bank of the Salt river, which was at no great distance away.

Soon the dreaded river appeared, covered with floating ice. All hope seemed to be lost! The very thought of jumping into the icy stream sent a shudder through the frame of the exhausted boy! The man now began to run at full speed, for he feared that Owen would dart off into the woods. The bank was reached! No time was left for deliberation! The man was only twenty yards away!

"You shall not have it!" cried Owen, facing his pursuer and shaking the letter above his head. With these words he rushed into the water among the cakes of floating ice. As this was a ford and the usual place for crossing, the river was not deep. But the current was swift, and it seemed at any moment that it would sweep him away.

Bravely our little hero pushed his way through the battering ice, while the angry man on the shore cursed him, called him a fool, and swore that he would drown if he did not turn back. If ever Owen prayed fervently it was while he battled with that current and ice; he felt that he should be unable to hold his footing if the current became stronger or deeper. He realized, too, that he was weakening fast—the river seemed an angry whirlpool, rushing round and round and carrying him in its cold and frothy eddy. How chilled he was! His teeth chattered and his whole body trembled! Could he reach the opposite shore; it was not ten feet away? Slowly! slowly! still he reached it—thank God, he was safe!

Yet not safe! for unless he find shelter soon he must surely die of cold. On the top of the hill in front of him stood a large frame house. After ten minutes of intense suffering Owen knocked at the door, and, without waiting for an answer, rushed in. Before him sat an elderly man enjoying his after-dinner smoke, in a bright, warm room. It was Mr. Sims. Owen had accomplished his mission—the letter was safe.

Mr. Sims naturally supposed that Owen had fallen from his horse while attempting to ford the river. He saw that the boy was extremely weak, and ordered him to bed at once. Owen told his story briefly, and handed the official document to the farmer. Before the sun had set, it was placed in the hands of the commanding officer at the little fort near the falls of the Ohio. From Louisville to Pittsburg, from Pittsburg to Washington—at last the message of General Jackson was delivered to the President.

When the man who had followed Owen for nearly eight miles saw that he was foiled in his attempt he hastily retraced his steps to the place where he had abandoned his wounded horse. Here he was joined by Tom the Tinker, who had set out with him from Bardstown, but lagged behind, since he did not wish to be recognized by Owen.

"The rascal of a boy shot this horse just as I was about to overtake him," said the man, as the Tinker came up to him.

"The message—did you get the message?"

"How could I when he shot the horse?"

"My! my!" continued Tom, in tones of despair, "a hundred dollars for the horse! did not get the message! My! my! And all my work for nothing!"

"And I want the fifty dollars you promised me," interrupted the man.

"You do?"

"Yes, I do! Did I not ride my horse half to death before you borrowed that second one from the farmer?"

"But you did not get the message."

"I am going to have that money. I worked hard enough for it. I followed the little devil until—until he jumped into the river."

"And where was his horse?" asked Tom.

"It gave out, too. There it is up there," answered the man, pointing to the place where old Hickory was lying, apparently dead.

"Perhaps the boy was drowned while trying to cross the river," said the Tinker.

"I watched him until he came to Sims'."

"Then he's safe."

"Of course he is. At least, you'll never see that message. I won't be surprised, however, if the boy dies."

"I hope he does," said Tom. "Those Howards have been in my way for fifteen years. You see, they live near me. I hate every one of them!"

"See here! I want my fifty dollars," interrupted the man. "I don't care about your Howards and your neighbors. I want my money."

"I promised you fifty dollars if you caught the boy. I'll give you ten for your work."

"Not a cent less than fifty," demanded the man.

"Say twenty-five and you shall have it," replied Tom.

"If you don't give me fifty dollars we are going to fight here!" growled the angry man, at the same time grasping the reins of the Tinker's horse.

As much as Tom the Tinker loved his money, he was not willing to fight for it; he therefore gave the man the full amount. Then he paid a hundred dollars more for the horse which he had borrowed from his accomplice, and which Owen had shot. He then rode off toward Bardstown, uttering imprecations against the boy who had thwarted him, against the man who had robbed him, against everybody and everything. How was he to regain the money which he had lost? For a long time he sought an answer to this question. He seemed to have solved the difficulty before he reached the town, for he was in the best of spirits. Here he consulted several men on some secret business, and then proceeded at once to the cave on the banks of the Beech Fork.

Late that same evening Martin joined Owen at Mr. Sims'.

"Did you see old Hickory?" inquired Owen, sitting up in the bed where he had been sleeping.

"Yes!"

"How is he? Tell me quick! How is the poor old fellow?"

"First tell me about yourself, and then we'll see about the horse!"

"Nothing the matter with me. I never felt better, although that was a pretty cold bath I took—and now about Hickory."

"Well, Owen, if you must know it," said Martin, in a broken voice, "the old fellow is dead—stiff—shot through the head."

Owen did not answer, but fell back in the bed and wept bitterly.

When he returned home two days later, what was his surprise to find old Hickory eating away contentedly in his stall. It was the horse wounded by Owen that Martin had seen lying in the road, and in the dark had mistaken for Hickory. As it was impossible for the animal to recover, the owner had shot it through the head.

THE TINKER DISTURBS THE INMATES OF THE CAVE.

It was after midnight when Tom the Tinker reached the cave.

"Have you heard the news?" he inquired of Stayford, who seemed to be the only occupant of the dingy abode.

"News! What news?" growled Stayford. "We hear nothing in this hole. Jerry and myself spend our whole time working for you. I am tired of it, Tom, and it's got to stop. That's the news I've for you!"

"Don't be hard on me, Stayford," said the Tinker in almost piteous tones. "I've lost a hundred and fifty dollars to-day. My! my! a hundred and fifty dollars!"

"And is this the news you wished to give me?" demanded Stayford.

"No; it was this. Our troops have whipped the English at New Orleans. The war is over, and there will be no more tax on whisky."

"And then all of our work will be for nothing?"

"It seems so, Stayford; it seems so. But where is Jerry? I've business news to communicate to both of you."

"He just went to bed. Since you were not here to help him, he had to work hard for fully fifteen hours to keep the mash from souring." Stayford now spoke in the most friendly way. At the approach of danger he forgot that he was angry.

"Let him sleep!" said the Tinker, as he and Stayford seated themselves on a pile of wood at the end of the cave. "We can settle the affair; he will agree to it, I know he will. First, let me tell you about the hundred and fifty dollars. I wanted to take revenge on those men at Washington for putting me in prison and robbing me when I was in the whisky business in Pennsylvania twenty years ago. Every man, from the President down to the lowest officer, had a hand in the work. They ruined me when I was a rich man; for years and years I've been waiting to square up accounts with them. I had a chance to-day, but it failed. I was going to change Jackson's letter, and put the English down as the winners. This would have frightened the authorities at Washington, and they wouldn't find out their mistake for a month. It is probable that the whisky tax would have been doubled."

"And why did you not get the general's message about the battle?" interrupted Stayford.

"Ah! Stayford, it is all your fault! If you had killed that young Howard last fall when I had him in this cave we should be rich men to-day. He carried the message from his father's house to old Sims' farm. I offered a man fifty dollars—fifty dollars; just think of it!—if he secured it. The man's horse gave out. I hired another—young Howard shot it. Then young Howard's horse fell and could go no farther. He left it, waded across an ice-cold river and saved the letter. There's the whole story for you—money gone, whisky gone—all gone, because we spared the life of a Howard!"

Tom was angry—very angry. He rose from his seat and paced the floor of the cave, muttering his broken sentences. Stayford grew angry, too, for it seemed that Tom was shifting the whole failure on him, since he had saved Martin and Owen the night they entered the cave. However, he overlooked the slight, as he wished to learn whether Tom had heard anything definite about the battle. The Americans had gained a decided victory! This was all the Tinker knew about it.

"And the war is over?" said Stayford.

"Yes, and the hundreds of barrels of whisky which we have been storing away in this cave are a dead loss if we cannot sell them in six months. I sold thirty barrels to-day at twenty cents below tax."

"What's that?"

"Thirty barrels to-day, before I left Bardstown. We get ten cents extra on each gallon; it isn't much, but it's better than keeping the whisky until you can't give it away."

"When and how is it to be delivered?"

"Six barrels to-morrow. We'll pay Simpson well and get him off before sunrise."

Stayford was astounded at the Tinker's boldness. For three years they had worked at their trade only at night, and had guarded their movements with the utmost secrecy. And now to go to the other extreme and deliver whisky in open daylight seemed little short of insanity.

When Jerry heard of the scheme the wary old trapper shook his head and remarked: "That's usin' new kinds of dead-falls to ketch foxes. I reckon Stayford and me can stan' it if you can, Tom. If we're caught in our own traps we can stay hare in the den and fight a whole pack of hounds."

Simpson, a workman, who had lately joined the other three men in the cave, agreed to deliver the whisky, and was to receive extra payment for each load. A little before sunrise he had the team ready. An old oaken beam which served the double purpose of door and a means of loading was lowered—the barrels were let down into the wagon and carefully covered with straw. Everything had been so arranged that neither the horses, the wagon, nor the whisky could be identified, even if taken by the town authorities.

It was about ten o'clock when he reached the town. Passing along one of the principal streets, toward an old stable, where the barrels were to be delivered, Simpson was congratulating himself on his success, when he chanced to turn and see a little boy sitting on the wagon-bed.

"Get down, there!" he stammered.

Whereat the urchin dropped off into the mud, making wry faces at the driver and yelling: "Corn juice! Corn juice!"

"Shut up! you rascal!" cried Simpson, rising from his seat and feigning to pursue him with his blacksnake whip. The boy made good his retreat, leaving Simpson to proceed without further molestation. After unloading the barrels, he remained in town for an hour to give his horses a rest and then started for home.

He had gone about a mile, when he was startled by the sound of voices and the clatter of hoofs. Was he pursued? Yes; three men were after him, well armed and mounted. The long blacksnake lashed the horses, they ran as they had never run before; the heavy wain rattled over the rough road, bounding over bowlders, falling into ruts, throwing streams of muddy water from all four wheels. The wagon-bed was loosened and rolled off. Simpson took refuge on the front axle, and used the whip still more freely. The horsemen gained on him, however, yelling as they advanced. Following the next impulse of self-preservation, he leaped from the wagon, clambered up the steep hillside, and, running through the woods for half a mile, concealed himself in a hollow tree.

The men who were pursuing him—or rather who had frightened him, for they were not in pursuit,—overtook the team and tied it at the side of the road, thinking that the owner would return and get it on discovering his mistake. They had been in town for the night's celebration, and on their return were just sober enough to realize that the teamster was trying to escape from them. This induced them to follow him, and the faster he ran the more they enjoyed the joke. That same afternoon some pilfering travelers passing along the road and seeing the wagon without an owner, boldly loaded it with their own luggage and drove on.

Simpson remained in the hollow tree until night, and then made his way toward the cave. When within two hundred yards of it he saw the dark outline of some one standing in the narrow footpath directly in front of him. At once he darted off into the thick underbrush.

"Simpson! Simpson! Is that you, Simpson?" called out a voice.

It was the Tinker. Simpson retraced his steps.

"The wagon!" demanded Tom.

"Captured!"

"The team!"

"Gone!"

"The whisky!"

"Gone, too!"

"Speak out, Simpson! tell me! what has happened?"

"All gone! But wait until I get something to eat; besides, you may be arrested if you remain here!"

"Do they know?—Did you tell them?—Do they know my name?" inquired Tom, walking rapidly toward the cave.

"I can't tell you everything at once!" growled Simpson.

"My! my! my! I am ruined! I see it now! I was a fool! My! my! my!"

"What's the matter, old feller?" asked Jerry, as the Tinker entered, followed by the workman, who secured the rock door behind him.

"My! my! my! My money, my money!" continued Tom, throwing himself on a pile of straw and weeping like a child.

When Simpson had satisfied his appetite, he narrated his day's experience.

"Ha! ha! ha!" ejaculated Tom, when he heard that the whisky was safely delivered.

"My! my! my!" he groaned, upon being told that the team was lost.

"What horses did you take?" he anxiously inquired.

"Those you told me to take—Blind and Ruble."

"Nobody knows them; nobody knows them! And what wagon?"

"The one from under the shed."

"Nobody will think it belongs to me!" Tom pronounced these words with evident satisfaction. "But," he continued, after a short interval, "they cost money! Wagons cost money! Horses cost money! Blind horses cost money! Working day and night——"

"Stop your whimperin', Tom," interrupted Jerry. "It's gone—let it go. We won't be caught in no more traps—won't give the dogs no more fresh trails, and I reckon it'll be all correct in the end."

"It is well enough to say let it go," replied Tom. "You and Stayford lost nothing. You've got nothing to lose. I found you starving dogs when I came here, and——"

"You've kept us starving dogs!" cried Stayford, with a burst of mingled wrath and defiance, at the same time clenching his fist and starting toward the cringing wretch. "Yes, you have kept us starving dogs! We did the work—you got the money. I would like to see you robbed of every cent, put in jail, and then—then hanged!"

"Hare! hare!" interposed Jerry, who had frequently to separate the two, "it's a sorry thing to have the dogs 'round the den; but when the foxes fight inside, it's a darn sight worse."

When peace had been restored, Tom and Simpson left the cave, while Joe and Jerry lay down to take their short repose.

Weeks passed by, and no further signs of discovery were brought to light. The two men within the cave did not leave their safe retreat. Tom did not make his nightly visits. The whisky still and treadmill were idle. One morning Jerry rose from a heavy slumber, and after a short deliberation shook his sleeping companion and said:

"I reckon I have it. If the dogs is on the trail, thare'll be some letters sent to old Squire Grundy down below. The stage passes in a few days. We'll cut her off and take the mail. How's that? Ha!"

"Good enough," replied Stayford. "But while we are waiting I am going out to see how the world looks."

"You had better stay hare until you are sure thar's no danger—no dogs on the trail."

"I can't wait any longer, Jerry. This place is worse than a jail. I am going to find out what has happened."

"Kinder strange way of doin'," said Jerry. "I've heard of many a fox hunt, but never heard of foxes lookin' for dogs."

"I'll never be cornered, you can depend on that. I'll try it alone to-day, and if I cannot learn whether we are suspected, then we'll capture the mail."