"Why, Hunter Tom, that's Gray's Ode to Eton College," said Ande with increased respect.

"Aye, sirs, ye are a bit surprised to hear an old backwoodsman and hunter quote that, but I have a right to it, for I was an Etonian, myself, in younger days."

The keel of the light canoe grated on the rocky shingle of the Loop shore. Hunter Tom had insisted on going straight to his cabin on his discovery of the Shawnese. The young men waited until early dawn and then started for Burgtown. On the way they met Hugh Lark astride of his gray mare.

"Hallo! hitting the trail as usual! Well, we'll have a different trail to-night. We meet at Hunter Tom's place at eight o'clock and set out from there. See ye to-night," and Hugh was off up the trail.

"Hunter Tom is a queer character," said Ande to Dick, as they continued their way. "He's a combination of the old hunter and the scholarly civilian. It's a wonder we never heard of his scholarly attainments before."

"From what I have heard, he doesn't mix up with the people around here. What a marvellous woodsman he is, and how silently he approached the Shawnese camp!"

The log houses of Burgtown hove in sight, and they dropped all conversation as they rode up through the double row of log homes and alighted at the tavern of Peter Burke.

CHAPTER XXV

"I tell ye," said the old man, testily, "those were the enemies of my father and, peace or no peace, I trust them not unless I have Brown Bess ready and a quantity of powder and ball nigh at hand," and he continued his polishing and oiling.

"Well, we have some work and we would like to have ye along, if ye can go." The old man made room for him on the rude bench, and looked at him inquiringly. Hugh related the purposed expedition.

"And ye think there is a silver mine, and ye want me to help find it, and if I do I go fair shares?"

"Aye," and Hugh nodded. "Ye see there are two young chaps, travellers, prospectors; they say they know ye——"

"Aye! ye mean the English travellers, Mr. Ande and Mr. Dick."

"Well, ye see they are prospectors and know the real stuff when they see it."

"So they told me," said the old man, nodding.

"Well, we want ye to go along and use your big canoe. I calculate between your intimate knowledge of the section and their prospecting science and my divining rod that we can get at the bottom of this. To-night will be full moon and we would like to start from your place for up stream about eight o'clock."

"Aye," said the old hunter, but he looked a bit dubious when Hugh mentioned the divining rod. Hugh was a firm believer in the accuracy of the rod that he had constructed. It was witch-hazel, curiously carved and with a bit of silver at the end of it. The principle, according to Hugh's statement, was like attracted like.

"Well, I'll go," said the old man, after some thought. "I warn ye, though, to take your guns with ye, for the Shawnese are here."

"Oh, they'll give us no trouble, but we'll take our guns. There may be a chance of shooting a deer or so," said Hugh as he departed. The old man shook his head, forebodingly, as Hugh's form disappeared down the trail. On his way back to Burgtown the pilot met the Shawnese, a full fifteen in number, great, strong, athletic fellows, but beyond a brief, cursory "Howdy!" and a glance they passed on.

At about seven o'clock that evening Hugh Lark rode up to the tavern of Burgtown. Burke, the tavern keeper, met him at the entrance.

"Going rafting, Hugh?"

"No. Air the two strangers here?"

"Been rafting?"

"No. Air Mr. Ande and Mr. Dick here?"

"But ye surely have more rafts to run, Hugh?"

"Ye ken well enou' that I'm not a-going rafting. How could I go rafting a-horse-back. But perhaps ye think that I can get the gray mare to pull an oar, and I've no doubt that she could do that, for she has a heap more sense than some men I know that are not very far from me," said Hugh, exasperated.

"Yes, the mare has great sense," replied Peter, gazing at the animal with a bland eye. "I kalkilate you uns air going to find that mine, Hugh?"

"We are going a-hunting," said the nettled Hugh.

At this moment Ande and Dick came forth upon the long porch, and Hugh's anger was mollified.

"Are ye ready?"

"Yes," said Ande, and the next moment two horses were led around to the front by the stable lad and they vaulted into their saddles and prepared to leave.

"I say, Mr. Ande,"—the tavern keeper had the habit of calling them by their first names, perhaps from Hugh's custom—"I say, air you uns a-going hunting fer thet mine?"

Ande gazed at the curious tavern keeper gravely and then responded:

"The primary intention of our nocturnal expedition is to reconnoitre the situation of the argentiferous fissures indigenous to this locality, the elucidation of which will be beneficial to us and of salient value to the community at large."

"Oh, I thought you uns were a-going to find the mine," said Burke, apologetically, and as they rode off he said, to himself, "Wot langwidge! wot a scholard! He beats Bill, but,—dang it, if I believe they're going fishing, though. They hain't no hooks or rods and who ever hearn tell of a man going fishing with a gun."

So saying, he went within.

The sun had gone down and twilight was creeping on, enveloping the earth with its soft hazy light, as the three rode over the lower bridge and o'er the trail to the forks of the creek. The moon was not up, but it was twilight still when they forded the Big Creek and turned up the trail to Hunter Tom's cabin. A short distance, and a glimmering light penetrated the trees and underbrush ahead.

"Some one on the trail," said Dick.

"No," responded the pilot, "'tis a light from Hunter Tom's cabin. The old man must be getting ready to start."

The light was dimmed by a brighter effulgence beyond. A rim of silver shoved itself above the neighbouring hills, and then a semi-circular disc, gradually growing in brightness and flooding hill and ravine with mellow light. Giant boulders and tree trunks were silhouetted against its rising disc, and on a tree branch just athwart the centre was, grotesque and huge, the figure of the lone bird of night—an owl.

"Plenty of light to-night," said Hugh.

"But not more than we need; the search will require all the light we can get," said Ande.

They arrived at Hunter Tom's cabin and dismounted. The horses were hobbled and turned out to graze in the clearing. Tom, hearing the noise, opened the door, and cheerfully welcomed them within. The hunter was clothed in his customary fringed buckskin and home-made moccasins, but in his belt, in addition to the usual hunting knife, was a small Indian tomahawk.

"Why, Tom, one would think ye were on the warpath," said the pilot, jokingly.

"Aye, and a warpath it may prove," soberly, and then seeing the look of the pilot concentrated on the tomahawk in his belt: "This tomahawk I secured in the Indian country of the Ohio in 1812. It is an effective weapon."

"But surely you don't expect a fight," said Dick.

The old man shook his hoary locks mysteriously and muttered, "The Shawnese."

By the light of the turnip lamp the pilot brought forth his map and spread it out on the rough wooden table. The hunter scanned it approvingly, and then:

"Where did ye get it, Hugh?"

The pilot related his experience with the Canadian Indian, and the hunter nodded his head as the pilot repeated the Indian legend and directions.

"I know the place so well that ye have no need of a map."

"Ye ken the place without a map?" said Hugh.

"Aye! haven't I searched for it full eighteen years ago, and ten years ago, before there was a settler in the region; I hunted until I was weary. If ye find no more success than I found, ye will have your labour for your pains. But we can try. The place where we will land is there." The hunter placed his knotty finger on a portion of the map. All crowded around the table.

The old hunter's finger was placed on the map at the mouth of a small stream. A moment passed in silent contemplation.

"And now we must be off if we would do much to-night." The old hunter's words aroused all to action. A couple of pickaxes, a shovel and a crowbar, that were in readiness, were shouldered by the pilot, and Dick, at the hunter's suggestion, took up an old tin lantern, pierced with holes and having a candle within, to be used in an emergency. The hunter carefully extinguished the turnip lamp and drawing the door shut behind him led the way to the canoe. The tools were placed in the stern and then the pilot, followed in regular sequence by the hunter, Dick and Ande, took their stations, and soon under the steady sweep of four stout paddles the canoe, though heavily laden, glided up stream.

The evening was still, save for the cry of some wild bird of night and the plash of some wavelet breaking on the shelving shore. Trees and shrubbery, underbrush of the shores, glided by slowly, and were swallowed up in the obscurity of the regions passed. Here and there with a skilful sweep of the paddle the pilot changed the course of the canoe to escape contact with some rock or sunken log. Now and then the hunter would give a sign of silence, and the paddles in their incessant sweep would be stilled into inactivity, while the canoe would drift for a moment until the hand of the pilot in the bow grasped some over-swinging tree branch and stayed her downward course. A moment of silence, in which the hunter strained his ears, would ensue, and then with a shake of the head he would give the sign to proceed. Once he insisted much to the protests of the pilot of going ashore. They drew in to the heavily wooded bank and he disappeared with no change on his immovable countenance. The pilot grumbled to himself at this unnecessary caution. The old man was in his dotage or had become filled with childish fear, thought he, and so he informed the others when the hunter was absent.

Who was going to hurt them? Not the settlers, for they were all safe abed by this time. Not that wandering band of Shawnese. It would be too perilous for them in these days of peace and in a section already vacated by their fathers to make room for the settlers. After the first hour the work of paddling became less arduous, the force of the current had abated, and they shot into a long stretch of slightly moving water.

"Still Water," said the pilot. "It'll be easy from now on until we reach some distance above."

"Aye," murmured the hunter; "but it'll not be still for long."

"No sign of rain; the sky up there is so closely studded with stars that there's not room for a cloud. There'll be no rain, or I'm no pilot. Haven't I piloted here for years, and before I came to this region I run as many rafts down the Susquehanna as any raftsman in the State."

The hunter raised his hand as if deprecating the sound of the pilot's voice, and then said in low tones:

"I have lived in the cabin at the Loop for nigh ten years, and have tramped these regions before my cabin was built, and I can read the stream as well as a scholar reads his book. In three hours what we call the 'Still Water' will be running like a mill race."

The pilot smiled a smile of superior wisdom.

"Look," said the hunter, as he dipped his palm in the water and drew up a little for the pilot's inspection. "The stream is turbid and discoloured, the first sign of the coming flood. There has been great rain at the headwaters. I can see it in the water; I can smell it in the air."

The pilot's smile left his features and he scanned the bosom of the Still Water and then:

"There's some truth in that."

"Aye," said the hunter, "and if we would get to the place we must paddle as strongly as possible. There's the swifter water beyond."

All bent to the paddles again with renewed efforts and the Still Water was soon passed, and the heavier paddling in the swifter water of the upper stream followed. Now they were in the shadow of some towering hill or under the dark tree boughs—that interlaced and formed a dark canopy overhead; now again the canoe shot out into a flood of pale moonlight. The latter the hunter disapproved and the pilot, grumbling, changed the course at times, avoiding the moonlight sections of the stream for the shadowy regions along the shores. At length the hills receded from the stream on the right and gave place to a gently rising plain, burdened with oaks and wild grasses, while the hills to the left seemed to be higher and more precipitous than those down stream.

"The place is nigh here," said the hunter.

They rested on their paddles for a moment in the shadow of a great boulder that stayed the downward drift of the canoe. Ande and the pilot instinctively felt for their maps and tried to refresh their memory in reference to the directions, but the dim light almost made it useless. Hunter Tom, in the meantime, was scanning the stream and shores and seemed to be ill at ease.

"The mouth of the little run is but a dozen rods up stream. Ye can put away the maps, lads, for I know the place." At the words of Hunter Tom both Ande and the pilot dropped their maps in the canoe, and all bending to the paddles while the hunter with his keen sight directed their movements, they moved on. Then came the babbling, rippling sound of a little run as it leaped, gurgling with delight, into the stream, like a child into the arms of its mother. The craft was turned to shore and soon grated on the pebbly beach. They stepped ashore and stretched their cramped limbs, while Hunter Tom tied the canoe to a swaying pine, and then pursuing his directions, they followed up the run. Ten yards up the run a divided oak was located.

"Now," said the Hunter, as he gazed around uneasily, "fifty yards due north."

Dick, having a pocket compass, now took the lead, following a course due north, and in the rear was the pilot balancing his divining rod, while Ande as closely as possible measured the distance. Hunter Tom, taking little interest in the affair, seemed to concentrate his attention on the trees, underbrush and regions around about.

"'Tis here, as near as I can calculate it, that the fifty yards end," said Ande.

"And the divining rod says the same, and it tells truth," said Hugh, the pilot, with a little triumph in his tones.

"My calculations, heretofore, located the spot a bit beyond," said the hunter, with the first interest he had betrayed since they landed. "Ye may be right."

Dick and the pilot grasped the pickaxes and set to work with vigour, while Ande used the shovel and occasionally removed with his hands some large boulder that impeded their work. The hunter seemed to constitute himself watchman and was incessantly on guard. The work went on for an hour, and considerable debris was removed when Dick's pickaxe slipped from his hands and disappeared from sight. With an exclamation he leaned forward and found that it had disappeared in an old excavation a few feet in depth. The excavation was widened and the pilot, leaping in, began to work with increased vigour. Hunter Tom now became as deeply interested as the others. It was at a spot that he had not investigated before. That old excavation must mean something, he thought.

There was the sound of a metallic click as the pilot's implement struck something hard. With an exclamation of "I've found it," he reached down and grasped something which he handed up to Ande for investigation. It was a small tobacco or snuff-box of ancient make.

"Time enough to look at that when we find the ore," said Ande, as he placed it in his inside pocket. The work was again resumed. The labour of excavation now became harder and Dick with his great strength took the pilot's place. At length a peculiar, grey, metallic substance rewarded their labour. A handful of small cubes and octahedral pebbles were passed up for inspection.

The tin lantern was lighted and around about clustered the pilot, Dick, and the hunter, while Ande held the handful close to the flame.

"The grey, metallic lustre looks like silver glance. It may be the blossom of sulphide of silver or sulphide of lead. We ought to have daylight for a better examination," said Ande; "now——"

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Crack! Crack! Crack!

There was the whistling of bullets in the trees around them, and spiteful thuds as leaden missiles flattened themselves against the rocks. The lantern fell with a crash to the ground, perforated with a dozen bullets. The candle sputtered and went out.

"Quick!" shouted Hunter Tom. "'Tis the Shawnese. Aye, I feared it."

The pilot grasped his rifle and the prospectors theirs.

"This way! To the canoe!" roared Tom, and slipping from tree to tree, they reached the landing in breathless haste. Then came a yell that echoed through the hills, a yell—hellish and replete with rage. Trusting in their numbers, scorning concealment and fearing their victims would escape, the Shawnese charged after them. At the landing there was a sanguine scene, and now it was that old Tom showed the experience and skill he had gained in the Ohio region. Stationing himself behind a tree the old hoary-headed hunter fired, loaded, and fired again and again, and each time by the yell the bullet had found a mark. But the Shawnese were now close at hand and a hand to hand conflict ensued that was savage in the extreme. Hunter Tom seemed to be possessed with the fury of a madman. The presence of the foes that had tortured his father seemed to fill him with a wrath that was demoniacal. With clubbed rifle he beat back the foremost and sent him to the ground, lifeless, then with a swift turn he flung the useless weapon into the canoe, and with knife and tomahawk gave blows right and left. Swifter than a weaver's shuttle the bright weapons flashed in the pale moonlight. Nor was the hunter alone active in the fray, for Dick—great Dick, made more effective use of the butt of his gun than the muzzle by using it as a farmer would his flail. Ande and the pilot, for a time, had fired from a natural breast-works of boulders along the shore, but the proximity of the enemy was so close that they, too, were compelled to resort to the butts of their guns. At one time the pilot was down, but the dusky face over him went down a moment later under a crashing sweep of Ande's gun. The desperate valour of these few men was beginning to tell upon the spirits of their foes. One-third of their number were upon the ground, dead or helpless. There was a shout and a few unintelligible words among them, and then, as if in concert, they began to retreat slowly, followed by the impetuosity of Dick and Ande. Tom thanked his good fortune then for his understanding of the Shawnese tongue; he understood their plan to draw them from the shore and to give chance for two or three skulking forms to gain the rear.

"To the canoe! Back for your lives!" he shouted, and simultaneously rushed for the shore. Dick and Ande were either too confused by the yells around them or hard pressed in the conflict to give heed. Not so the crafty pilot. With instinct he seemed to understand the import of the retreat, and rushed headlong into the water after the canoe. The rope by which it was attached had stretched itself to its full length and the canoe had edged out by the force of the rising current. He had almost reached it when a shot rang out from the shore, and the pilot, flinging up his arms, plunged into the muddy tide. Hunter Tom who was next to him, tried ineffectually to grasp his falling form, but the next moment the swirling waters bore him away. There was no time for regret. The canoe was hauled in and Tom in its bow, with knife ready to sever the rope, looked shoreward for his friends.

Ah! What a scene! A sight that, though it filled the old hunter with alarm, yet thrilled him with admiration. Ande, apparently deeply wounded, was on the ground and Dick—did he ever appear so heroic? Standing head and shoulders above the tall savages, he seemed like a pine surrounded by scrub oaks. Nor was the giant Cornishman idle for, like a child's toy, the heavy rifle whirled and whistled around his head and shoulders. Death lurked in its sweeping circle. Nor was strategy of any avail. One sought to run in under his guard, while another was receiving the attack, but the attacking party went down under a terrific swing, while the stooping, swiftly moving strategist received, the next moment, a jolt from the end of the gun barrel that was as disastrous as the blow of the butt. Four had already fallen under those sweeping blows. Old Tom paused not for an instant. While some occupied Dick's attention in front, one or two were edging toward the rear, and should they accomplish their purpose the end was certain. With a cry of "Have at them," the hunter leaped from the canoe, beat off the skulking forms in the rear, and then reaching down he grasped the unconscious Ande, like a father would a child, and hurriedly placed him in the canoe.

"Back, Dick, lad!" he shouted as he pushed out a little from the shore.

Dick heard the call, and with another sweep of his weapon cleared a broader circle, but the rifle unused to the unnatural strain, broke at the lock. Flinging the shattered piece in the face of an advancing enemy he leaped to the shore. Two Shawnese, one a powerful built fellow, strove to intercept him, but there were other defences.

Crack! A shot rang out from the canoe. It was the trapper's gun that spoke, and one fell under that unerring aim. Crash! went Dick's great fist on the countenance of the other, and the dazed Shawnese sat down in a heap. Hunter Tom could have laughed then and there at the repulse of the latter, but there was not much time for sentiments of any kind. Dick had leaped into the stream after the canoe and was pushing toward it through the swift current. There were a few yells of disappointment on shore, and then a perfect fusillade of bullets hissed spitefully on the waters and crashed through the underbrush on the farther shore and then—like the falling of a forest giant that had felt the biting steel in its vitals, Dick fell. He struggled for a moment to reach the hunter's outstretched hand and then sank, and the swift current, now a roaring turbulent, gyrating mass, swelled to foaming madness by the rain at the headwaters, whirled his great body under the bellying bow of the canoe—and he was gone from sight.

With a quick sweep of the knife Hunter Tom cut the rope, and the canoe, freed, bounded away on the surface of the flood like a thing of life. Carefully pillowing Ande's head on his rolled up wamus in the rear, he lay down in the bow and with one hand over the gunwale, holding the paddle, he sought to guide the swiftly floating craft, while with his head slightly raised he kept a keen lookout for the bodies of Dick and the pilot. The Shawnese kept up a running fire on shore for the distance of a half a mile, when the fire slackened, and evidently the swiftness of the current and the gloom cast by the heavy foliage overhead had caused pursuit to be abandoned. The Still Water was reached and the aged hunter perceived with grim satisfaction that his prediction had come true. What was some hours before a still, softly flowing body was now a rollicking, turbulent mass that glowed with a yellow, dunnish hue in the moonlight. Onwards bounded the canoe, the hunter guiding it with unerring hand, now avoiding a towering rock, now bending with the full power of his muscles to guide the craft around a sharp bend in the stream. Fear of pursuit having long been left behind, he had arose to a sitting posture, and was lending to the onward force of the current the might of his own arms. No vessel ever scudded before a gale faster than the canoe on that eventful night. Once the sole, lone canoeist thought he saw the body of Dick floating before him on the surface of the tide and he redoubled his efforts to overtake him. The object was reached, but proved but a piece of driftwood, darkly dappling the yellow flood. With the first feeling of relief that he had experienced that night he saw the winding course of the Loop before him. Once more the paddle was brought into vigorous requisition, and then with a sigh of relief he turned the prow toward shore and the keel grated on the shelving beach. Tenderly he lifted Ande from the stern and laid him on the sward, then turning to the canoe he lifted it bodily from the water and, taking it a few yards inland, hid it securely in the underbrush. Then returning to his unconscious companion he carried him to his cabin home. Knowing that he dared not leave his wounded friend, and yet wishing to arouse the citizens of Burgtown, he went without, unhobbled the horses, and with a smart blow sent each galloping home to town. This done he returned to the cabin, barricaded the house, both window and door, loaded his rifle, and feeling secure, turned to resuscitate the wounded man. With a woodsman's skill he laboured through the long hours of the night until the dawn appeared, examining, with muttered commentations.

"Ah, a wound in the arm. It could not have been the last. A brave young man and fought like an old Indian fighter. Aye, another wound in the leg; 'tis only a flesh wound and will heal soon or old Tom doesn't know his art. And here's a slash of a knife in the breast. Ah! 'twas a cruel stroke, that. But none of them are strong enough to lay such a man out. He has the strength of a young lion and Tom will bring him through. But what's this?" In handling the unconscious man's head the hair had fallen aside and revealed the stroke of a tomahawk or knife. "Zounds! A ghastly wound that. It must have stunned him." With water taken from an earthen basin in the corner of the cabin he bathed the wounds, poured in some healing lotion and bound them up with a rude skill. Then, having poured a little brandy down his throat, he began to chafe his hands and wrists until, with the glimmering light of dawn, the light of consciousness returned.

"Where am I?"

"Safe here in my cabin, lad."

"And Dick and the pilot?"

"They are gone, my lad, the Lord knows where," answered the old hunter, and with his eyes glistening with tears he related the closing scenes of the fight, and how Dick and the pilot were shot and swallowed up in the flood.

"Poor Dick—I have lost in him the pearl, and my dream is fulfilled."

He sank back in weariness and closed his eyes. Suddenly the wounded man started to a sitting position and whispered with excited face:

"The Shawnese. Don't you hear them, Tom, Hunter Tom? They are stealing through the woods and around the house. I hear them. Give me a gun, and we'll defend the cabin."

The effort was too much, and he sank back again on the couch of deerskins in a semi-conscious condition.

Tom, too, had heard something, but it was not the tread of Indians. The next moment there was a shout without and the clatter of approaching horses' feet. 'Twas the settlers.

CHAPTER XXVI

"It war this way. The pilot, Hugh Lark, he kem a-riding up about dark last night and asked fer the strangers, whether they was to home in the tavern. He seemed powerful anxious to have them right away. 'Going rafting, Hugh?' sez I, social-like. 'No,' sez he; 'air Mr. Ande and Mr. Dick in?' 'Been rafting?' sez I. Then he fired up, mad-like, and talked about the grey mare of hisn being able to pull a oar as good as any raftsman. I had my doubts of that, though the mare has a heap of sense. But I thought he war joking, and I guess he war. About that time I up and asked whether he war a-going a-hunting for the mine. You see the strangers air pros—whatever it is—I mean they war miners, and we uns had the idee that they were a-searching for something of that kind. He up and sez, short-like, that he warn't and that they war just going hunting. 'Bout this time Mr. Ande and Mr. Dick come out, and their hosses were brought around, and they jumped on, and then I thought I would ask Mr. Ande, being as he war allers social-like. 'Air ye going to find thet mine, Mr. Ande?' sez I. Then he up, and in high larndt langwidge, told we uns about their going after some kind of fishes, but I ne'er hearn tell of a man going fishin' without hooks and with a gun and——"

"Come, cut it short," said Professor Bill, impatiently. "At what hour did they go?"

"'Bout seven o'clock last night, and——"

"And when did the horses return?"

"Well, if I do hev to say it——"

"Come," said Bill, with the authority of a leader, "when did they return?"

"Well—I kalkilate 'bout five o'clock in the morning, leastways they were here when we uns got up."

"And which way did they go?"

"Well, ye see, Mr. Ande, who is a great scholard and high larndt, he——"

"Egregious dolt! Vociferous driveller!" exclaimed Bill, in exasperation, "can't you say which way they went."

"Gosh, what langwidge!" murmured the tavern keeper in excessive admiration of Bill's explosion, but seeing that Bill was getting angry he answered quickly: "As I live, Bill, I think they went down creek to old Hunter Tom's, seein' as Hugh war fond of Tom. Leastways they went that way and——"

Old Burke's words were drowned in the commands of Bill.

"Every man get his horse and gun and we'll start in five minutes. Others can follow. We go to Hunter Tom's place. Perhaps some accident has happened. Fetch me some brandy, Burke; if they are hurt they may need it."

Rapidly the men collected, and under the able generalship of Professor Bill Banks forth they sallied. The tavern keeper watched them gallop down the town road and thunder over the lower bridge, and when they had disappeared among the trees of the farther shore he entered the tavern.

"Wot a scholard Bill is," he murmured as he endeavoured to write down his learned words. "Egg—egg—" he murmured, and then he slowly allowed his tongue to follow the twisting, uncertain movements of his quill pen. "It's no use," he said, as he flung down the quill; "Bill will hev to write her down fer me. Wot a scholard! He'll be a Congressman yit."

Bill and his men in a short time reached the hunter's cabin in the Loop. Tom, hearing the shout of familiar voices, flung open the door, and in a few, brief words narrated the adventures of the night. They had been up the creek, he said, and had been attacked by Shawnese. About the object of their night expedition he was silent.

The news of the presence of Indians in the neighbourhood was new to all but two of the party, who had seen them as the pilot had seen them on the former day. Bill, with the skill of a general, divided his forces. Two he told to remain with Ande in the cabin; some were sent down the river in search of the pilot and Dick; the remainder and greater number, with the hunter in their midst, were to take the trail up stream to avenge themselves on the remaining Shawnese. According to the hunter's account but half a dozen at the most remained. Tom was in little hopes of finding them, as by this time they had made good their escape; but Professor Bill was inflexible, and forth up the creek trail they started. Part of the expedition went in Tom's canoe and the rest, leaving their horses in Tom's clearing, started forth on foot. The place of the battle was reached after an hour or so, but little was to be learned. At the landing, with the exception of trampled ground and a few pools of blood, nothing could be seen. The bodies of the slain Shawnese were either buried or consigned to the flood. The neighbourhood was thoroughly searched, the woods and hills beaten by the scattering settlers, but Shawnese, living and dead, and even Dick's broken rifle, had dis appeared. Expecting the rising of the settlers they had decamped in haste. Disappointed in their quest they returned to the Loop.

There they waited the return of the party down stream while they listened to Hunter Tom's cursory narrative of the battle and the chief events. He told how they were surprised, but not for what purpose they had journeyed to that locality; how the pilot fought and slew a couple of the foe and afterward, rushing into the flood to reach the canoe, was shot down by an Indian bullet; how Dick, "the giant," as he was sometimes called by the settlers, towered a head and shoulders o'er the enemy.

"I'll wager he knocked them down like nine-pins," said Professor Bill Banks.

"Aye," said the hunter, "he did that; he handled his rifle like a farmer's flail, and every time he struck he threshed their top-knots out. Then, when I caught up the lad in yonder and took him back to the canoe, he cleared a wider circle for himself and leaped like a kangaroo toward shore."

"And they didn't dare stop him?" asked one.

"Not they? They couldn't. Aye, there were two fellows, one a stout one, good-sized, that did hedge in to cut him off, but one was shot down and the other——" The old man allowed his weather-beaten face to relax into a grim smile of humour as the scene arose before him in mind.

"And the other?"

"Well, the other come too nigh to Mr. Dick's big fist, and he went down in a heap with the most astonishing look on his countenance that I ever saw on the face of any one. It makes me smile now when I think of it. Then Mr. Dick came leaping and pushing through the water. I had pushed out a little from shore and had my knife ready to cut the rope as soon as he could reach the canoe, when a hailstorm of bullets skipped across the water and Dick plunged under and I saw him no more. The rest of the tale you know."

The narrative was finished, but it was noticed by several that the old hunter spoke very little of his own achievements in that battle. And yet they knew that he had not been idle.

"And did Mr. Ande do much fighting?" asked Professor Bill.

"Fighting? Aye, he fought like an old Indian fighter. In all my experience with Indians, I have come across none who put up a braver battle than the young lion cub in yonder; aye, and fighting wounded at that, for he carries a wound in the chest that would have killed an ordinary man, and a wound in the leg, and another in the arm that would have made many a stout heart give in, but he fought on until he received that blow on the head that rendered him unconscious. Brave—very brave."

"And how about yourself, Tom?" asked one of the settlers.

"Oh, I killed a few," said the old hunter, simply.

There was a shout from down the creek trail, and the sound of horses' hoofs, and proceeding as rapidly as possible over the uncertain trail the band from down stream entered the clearing.

"What news?" asked Professor Bill, rising from his recumbent position.

"We found the pilot and he's living, but pretty badly hurt. He was pulled on a raft by the Pegleg pilot, and they put him off at a tavern further down stream."

A cheer went up from all the assembled settlers, and the wildwood rang with their voices again and again, and then when silence had come there were various comments.

"I thought the pilot was too tough to be put out by a single bullet," said one.

"I knew that ye couldn't drown an old water dog like him," said another.

"Did they get a doctor," said Professor Bill.

"Yaas," drawled one of the returned expedition, "they got a doctor and he fixed him up, but he can't be moved yet for some time, but he'll pull through, he said. We didn't have much time fer to talk with Hugh, for we uns wanted to see about the tother fellow and the Shawnese. We went all the way to the mouth of the creek, and there we learned thet five Indians were seen crossing the river in a canoe some hours before. Now, I remembers it, some of the fellows at the mouth said they seemed in a powerful hurry, and passed over the river in the early dawn, and were making their way toward Michigan."

"And Mr. Dick?" asked the Professor.

"Nawthing was seen of him at all. He must be drowned by this time."

There was a little conference between Professor Bill and the hunter about moving Ande to Burgtown, but the old man strenuously opposed it, and Bill acquiesced in his plan of leaving him at the Loop until he should recover. The setting sun saw all of the expedition trotting homeward to Burgtown, where the events of the day were gone over again and again for the benefit of Peter Burke, tavern keeper. In the mind of that worthy they were tabulated and placed on the same shelf in his memory as the records of Reverend Burg.

CHAPTER XXVII

It was in the late fall and the forests and wildwood had adorned themselves with their autumnal dress. Hills, mountains and ravines were gorgeous with mantles of scarlet, of brown, and of gold, while amidst it all several hardy ranges of pine seemed to resist the onward sweep of the frost, and triumphant in their vernal-hued robes, seemed to fling their plumy tops this way and that in contempt of their conquered brethren who wore the livery of the frost tyrant. Here and there several forest giants, weaker than their brethren, were completely denuded of their garments and stood mournfully shivering, trembling, sighing, in the faint afternoon breezes. The rocks and boulders of the Loop, once covered with green creepers, now were bare and desolate, except where a creeper, its leaves smitten to blood red hue, sought to lend its warmth to its cold, rocky, affianced one. The cabin of Hunter Tom seemed to stand out more clearly in relief against the general background of leaves and hills. The door was ajar and the window partly open, but it had no occupant. In a little glade near the cabin, and on a pile of bear and deerskins, was the form of Ande Trembath, apparently in a gentle slumber. Near him, seated on a rude, wooden bench, wedged in between the bases of two chestnuts, were the forms of Hunter Tom and the pilot, Hugh Lark. Hugh had recovered from the severe injuries of the Shawnese battle and had returned to his home and his pursuit of rafting. The old hunter, his hoary hair falling like a veil o'er his ears and shoulders, was engaged in cleaning "Brown Bess," as he called his trusty rifle, but he was not so intent upon this as he was in listening to the conversation of the pilot. It was their first meeting after the notable events of the previous spring, and Hugh was relating his experience.

"I don't remember much of the things that happened after the first few moments that I was shot. I was intent on bringing the canoe closer to land, and was just reaching out for it when I heard a shot and then felt a sting alongside of the head, and then I remember falling and hearing the waters buzzing around my ears like ten thousand bees. Then I kenned naething for, it seemed to me, quite a time. Then there was a time of dim consciousness, and I knew I was floating on at a pretty good speed, but it seemed I didn't care where I went, until at last I came to my full senses by a heavy blow that I got on the arm. I had been dashed by the flood against one of the rocks below the Still Water. Then I realised where I was, and tried to make for land, but the strength of the flood, or my own weakness, made all my efforts useless. I swept past the cabin there and soon approached the place where the Little Lycamahoning empties into the Big, and there I made a strong effort to get ashore, and did succeed in getting away from the violence of the current, but in the meantime I was swept onward past Pilot Rock and I began to hear the roar of the rapids of the Rough Water. I knew I could never get through that stretch of water alive, and had given myself up for lost, when old Pegleg with his raft hove in sight. There ne'er was a more welcome sight. I shouted to them and they heard me, and, as I swept by, they flung me a rope that I managed to grasp, and they hauled me on board. I was so done out that I couldn't speak until they put me off at the tavern, some miles down."

"It was a marvellous escape, and ye ought to thank God for it," said the hunter.

"Aye, I have many a time."

"I'm afraid we have seen the last of Mr. Dick."

"If he wasn't killed outright he must have been battered to pieces in the Rough Water, for I don't think there is a man living that could go through the Rough Water without some support. I have taken a stick of timber through, but riding a stick of timber and going through with nothing but your own arms is a different case. I have seen sticks of timber that have drifted through and been gathered in at the mouth of the creek, and the way they have been gouged and splintered in contact with the rocks was a caution. No man could be beaten around that way and live."

There was a pause of some length, during which Hunter Tom forgot his cleansing of the rifle, and there was a moisture in his eye, a faint indication of the sad ness that he had within him, and all the while the mellow autumnal sunshine poured down and around them through the crimson foliage o'erhead, and the birds of the neighbouring woods seemed to sing merrily as if jesting, laughing, at the solemn import of the pilot's words. It was the pilot who broke the silence.

"Is Mr. Ande nigh well?" with a nod at the slumbering form on the bearskins.

"Still weak, although his wounds have healed. I believe he came off the worst of any of us in the battle. But he's getting stronger. He was much worried about Mr. Dick and the maps being lost."

"Maps lost?"

"Aye. He said that both maps were placed in the bottom of the canoe before we landed. They may have been dropped out when I hauled the canoe ashore and hid it among the underbrush when I returned. The doctor thinks, though, he will be able to be moved soon, and then we shall have a search for them." Tom mentioned the doctor with a tinge of sarcasm as if in contempt of doctors and their medicine. "The lad was getting on well enough under my care, but Professor Bill insisted on calling in the doctor, and so I handed over the case to him, though the lad would have done just as well, if not better, under my own care."

"Do ye think ye can find the mine again?"

"Aye, perhaps, and yet 'twill be a hard thing. I looked o'er the ground when the searching party was with me. The oak and the stream can be found easy enough, but the place of excavation I looked for in vain. The whole hill is covered with loose stones and debris and should we find it, I doubt whether it will prove much more than a small vein of sulphide of lead. I might possibly find it again, for my memory is good, but I have sickened of the whole affair. What use is it to me?" There was a tinge of bitterness in the old man's tones.

"Ye were interested in it, though, years ago, for ye told us so."

"Aye, that was when I was younger than I am now. But my friends and family are all dead, and I am an old man. The rifle gives me all that I need; the spring that gushes forth from under the big rock gives all my drink; I am content to be as I am until God calls me hence; and then I shall go where there is no injustice and where traitorous friends shall be rewarded according to their due and all wrong righted; I am content."

The old man had finished cleaning his rifle; he entered the cabin and returned with a battered violin. Placing it tenderly 'neath his chin, he proceeded gently to draw the old bow across the strings, gently as if he was loathe to awaken the slumbering form on the bearskins near at hand. But the first, faint tones, quivering and like a child's cry, awakened the sleeper. He turned his eyes to Hugh and smiled a welcome and then extended his hand.

"Ah, Hugh, old fellow, glad to see you back and well. I heard that you had returned," shaking Hugh's hand as he knelt down beside him, "and wondered why you didn't come over and see your fellow soldier. Poor Dick is gone, though, and the maps are lost."

"And Hunter Tom says it's useless to try and find the mine," said Hugh, regretfully.

"It may be useless, but we can try. You know that it's not for the silver alone that I'm looking, Hugh."

"Aye, I ken well enou' that."

"Tom, could you play us something. You didn't know, Hugh, that Hunter Tom is a player. He can make the violin talk, and he has often made me cheerful when I felt sad."

Hunter Tom readjusted the violin, and forth upon the afternoon air, silencing the birds for a time and rivalling them in sweetness, pealed the tones of the old violin. It was a martial strain at first that seemed to swell and soar like some triumphant march of some hero returning from the wars. The stream back of the cabin seemed to roar in harmony with the melody, like the thrilling chords of some giant bass viol. The blood mounted to Ande's cheeks as he listened, and his eyes brightened. The pilot gazed at the figure of the old hunter with awe and reverence. If the melody was warlike and stirring the figure of the old man was more so; yes, it was imposing, like some old Viking, who had dared the deep and conquered it; the hunter's figure straightened, his eye flashed, and his hoary locks and beard, stirred by the breeze, appeared to roll away from his head and features like the dashing waters of some cataract from its rocky crest. On and on went the melody, soaring and wildly triumphant with its strong major chords. Then, almost imperceptibly, there was the change to the minor key, and then a number of changes from one to the other, and the effect was like hearing the distant murmur of crashing pieces of artillery. At times there would be a wild shriek from the upper chords and then the same repetition of booming artillery fire. The old man seemed to be giving a musical history of one of his own battles. Then, all of a sudden, all was in the minor key, soft and sorrowful. There was a wailing hopelessness in the tones. The old man's form ceased to tower at his full height, his head sank lower and more lovingly upon the violin, and the strains were like the requiem of a lost soul. The pallor returned to Ande's cheeks and Hugh bowed his head in his hands. The leaves o'erhead rustled in whispering sympathy, and here and there one would fall—a crimson tear from the eye of a giant.

The melody ceased.

"Tom, I didn't ken that ye could play like that. It made me feel that I was fighting the Shawnese again, and that I was knocking them right and left, and then it seemed to me that I was in the Rough Waters, hearing the noise of the rapids, and guiding a raft around the rocks, and then it seemed to me as if the raft was a-dashed to pieces and I was flung solitary and alone on the shore without a friend and without a baubee in my pocket to buy a night's lodging. It near made me greet. Hunter Tom, ye are a wonderful man."

There were tears in the pilot's eyes.

"I tell you, Hunter Tom, you should be on the stage. Play like that before an audience in New Orleans, New York, or London and your fortune is made. Whose melody was it?" said Ande.

"The melody is my own. Ne'er a note of it was e'er on paper; I composed it here in the wilderness and it's a history of my own life and my family. The end of the piece represents me now, a solitary dweller in the wilderness, an exile from home, with no friends but the great God above." The old man bowed his head in weariness, and then sat down on the wooden bench 'neath the trees.

"Ye have other tunes?" asked Hugh.

"Hunter Tom, you never told me that you were a composer and ne'er played that for me before. You have other melodies of your own; play them for us," said Ande.

"Aye, I have other tunes, and many of my own, but I'm not going to make ye sad with an old man's woes. I'll play ye 'Chevy Chase' and 'I See Three Ships Come Sailing In,' to make your hearts glad, and then I'll give ye some more of my own composition." The familiar airs, one after the other, in sequence, airs so delightful to the English ear, came forth from the violin under the magical touch of the old man, and all the while the pilot listened as if he was entranced, and Ande,—it seemed as if the green fields and coasts of England arose before him. Again he saw the Manor and the Manor woods, the Bowling Green of old Helston, and the gleaming, shimmering waters of the Lowe, and the rolling blue of the channel beyond. All passed before him again as if in a dream, and then there were faces that passed before his mind, Tom Puckinharn, Pengilly, and Tom Glaze, and the face of his mother, and back beyond all, a dark-eyed, youthful face, with dark curling locks deep on a broad brow, a countenance, merry, and with something of the joyousness of spring flowers in the gently flushing cheeks. There was an intense longing in his eyes as he allowed his imagination to roam at will. Ah, it was eight long years since he had seen her, and heard those words: "You are my knight." Would she remember him still? Was she married?

The thought gave him pain, and he drove it from him and thought of other themes. The Primrose Cottage arose clearly to his mind. Ah, he must get well soon and return to those haunts of boyhood, and to the dear ones of years ago. But what was that that the old hunter was playing? It could not be "Chevy Chase." The opening bars were swept off the strings with a master's hand. Soft at first and then with louder, more resonant tones. The old man was standing again, his head partly elevated, a look of hopefulness on his weather-beaten countenance. The pilot was drinking in, with eager ears, the melody, and sat motionless. The opening bars were finished, and the old hunter's voice rang out clear and with a wonderful pathos in the tones. He had sung before in other melodies, but never with such feeling as now. Ande rose on one elbow and stared excitedly at the old man. That song! Where had he learned it!