It is a terrible thing to see a man stretched out in death who but a minute before stood full of life and strength. Herbert gazed at the dead Indian with a strange sensation of pity and relief, and could hardly realize that, but for his interposition, it would have been the hunter, not the Indian, who would have lost his life.
The hunter was more used to such scenes, and his calmness was unruffled.
“That's the end of the dog!” he said, touching with his foot the dead body.
“What made him want to kill you?” asked Herbert.
“Revenge,” answered Holden.
“For what? Had you injured him?”
“That's the way he looked at it. One day I caught the varmint stealin' my best hoss. He'd have got away with him, too, if I hadn't come home just as I did. I might have shot him—most men would—but I hate to take a man's life for stealin'; and I took another way. My whip was lyin' handy, and I took it and lashed the rascal over his bare back a dozen times, and then told him to dust, or I'd serve him worse. He left, but there was an ugly look in his eyes, and I knew well enough he'd try to get even.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Most a year. It's a long time, but an Indian never forgets an injury or an insult, and I knew that he was only bidin' his time. So I always went armed, and kept a good lookout. It was only this mornin' that he caught me at a disadvantage. I'd been taking a walk, and left my gun at home. He was prowlin' round, and soon saw how things stood. He'd have killed me sure, if you hadn't come in the nick of time.”
“I am glad I was near,” said Herbert, “but it seems to me a terrible thing to shoot a man. I'm glad it wasn't I that killed him.”
“Mebbe it was better for me, as he was my enemy,” said Jack Holden. “It won't trouble my conscience a mite. I don't look upon an Indian as a man.”
“Why not?”
“He's a snake in the grass—a poisonous serpent, that's what I call him,” said Jack Holden.
Herbert shook his head. He couldn't assent to this.
“You feel different, no doubt. You're a tenderfoot. You ain't used to the ways of these reptiles. You haven't seen what I have,” answered Holden.
“What have you seen?” asked Herbert, judging correctly that Holden referred to some special experience.
“I'll tell you. You see, I'm an old settler in this Western country. I've traveled pretty much all over the region beyond the Rockies, and I've seen a good deal of the red men. I know their ways as well as any man. Well, I was trampin' once in Montany, when, one afternoon, I and my pard—he was prospectin'—came to a clearin', and there we saw a sight that made us all feel sick. It was the smokin' ruins of a log cabin, which them devils had set on fire. But that wasn't what I referred to. Alongside there lay six dead bodies—the man, his wife, two boys, somewhere near your age, a little girl, of maybe ten, and a baby—all butchered by them savages, layin'—in the hunter's vernacular—in their gore. It was easy to see how they'd killed the baby, by his broken skull. They had seized the poor thing by the feet, and swung him against the side of the house, dashin' out his brains.”
Herbert shuddered, and felt sick, as the picture of the ruined home and the wretched family rose before his imagination.
“It was Indians that did it, of course,” proceeded Holden. “They're born savage, and such things come natural to them.”
“Are there no good Indians?” asked the boy.
“There may be,” answered Jack Holden, doubtfully, “though I haven't seen many. They're as scarce as plums in a boardin' house puddin', I reckon.”
I present this as Jack Holden's view, not mine. He had the prejudices of the frontier, and frontiersmen are severe judges of their Indian neighbors. They usually look at but one side of the picture, and are not apt to take into consideration the wrongs which the Indians have undeniably received. There is another extreme, however, and the sentimentalists who deplore Indian wrongs, and represent them as a brave, suffering and oppressed people, are quite as far away from a just view of the Indian question.
“What's your name, youngster?” asked Holden, with the curiosity natural under the circumstances.
“Herbert Carr.”
“Do you live nigh here?”
Herbert indicated, as well as he could, the location of his home.
“I know—you live with Mr. Falkland. Are you his son?”
“No; Mr. Falkland has gone away.”
“You're not living there alone, be you?”
“No; I came out here with a young man—Mr. Melville. He bought the cottage of Mr. Falkland, who was obliged to go East.”
“You don't say so. Why, we're neighbors. I live three miles from here.”
“Did you know Mr. Falkland?”
“Yes; we used to see each other now and then. He was a good fellow, but mighty queer. What's the use of settin' down and paintin' pictures? What's the good of it all?”
“Don't you admire pictures, Mr. Holden?” asked Herbert.
“That's that you called me? I didn't quite catch on to it.”
“Mr. Holden. Isn't that your name?”
“Don't call me mister. I'm plain Jack Holden. Call me Jack.”
“I will if you prefer it,” said Herbert, dubiously.
“Of course I do. We don't go much on style in the woods. Won't you come home with me, and take a look at my cabin? I ain't used to company, but we can sit down and have a social smoke together, and then I'll manage to find something to eat.”
“Thank you, Mr. Holden—I mean, Jack—but I must be getting home; Mr. Melville will be feeling anxious, for, as it is, I shall be late.”
“Is Mr. Melville, as you call him, any way kin to you?”
“No; he is my friend and employer.”
“Young man?”
“Yes; he is about twenty-five.”
“How long have you two been out here?”
“Not much over a week.”
“Why isn't Melville with you this morning?”
“He is in delicate health—consumption—and he gets tired sooner than I do.”
“I must come over and see you, I reckon.”
“I hope you will. We get lonely sometimes. If you would like to borrow something to read, Mr. Melville has plenty of books.”
“Read!” repeated Jack. “No, thank you. I don't care much for books. A newspaper, now, is different. A man likes to know what's going on in the world; but I leave books to ministers, schoolmasters, and the like.”
“If you don't read, how do you fill up your time, Jack?”
“My pipe's better than any book, lad. I'm goin' to set down and have a smoke now. Wish I had an extra pipe for you.”
“Thank you,” said Herbert, politely, “but I don't smoke.”
“Don't smoke! How old are you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Sixteen years old, and don't smoke! Why, where was you raised?”
“In the East,” answered Herbert, smiling.
“Why, I smoked before I was three foot high, I was goin' to say. I couldn't get along without smokin'.”
“Nor I without reading.”
“Well, folks will have their different tastes, I allow. I reckon I'll be goin' back.”
“Shan't you bury him?” asked Herbert, with a glance at the dead Indian.
“No; he wouldn't have buried me.”
“But you won't leave him here? If you'll bury him, I'll help you.”
“Not now, boy. Since you make a point of it, I'll come round to-morrow, and dig a hole to put him in. I'll take the liberty of carryin' home his shootin' iron. He won't need it where he's gone.”
The two parted in a friendly manner, and Herbert turned his face homeward, grave and thoughtful.
Toward noon the next day George Melville and Herbert were resting from a country trip, sitting on a rude wooden settee which our hero had made of some superfluous boards, and placed directly in front of the house, when a figure was seen approaching with long strides from the shadow of the neighboring woods. It was not until he was close at hand that Herbert espied him.
“Why, it's Mr. Holden!” he exclaimed.
“Jack Holden, my lad,” said the hunter, correcting him. “Is this the man you're living with?”
Jack Holden was unconventional, and had been brought up in a rude school so far as manners were concerned. It did not occur to him that his question might have been better framed.
“I am Mr. Melville,” answered that gentleman, seeing that Herbert looked embarrassed. “Herbert is my constant and valued companion.”
“He's a trump, that boy!” continued Holden. “Why, if it hadn't been for him, there'd been an end of Jack Holden yesterday.”
“Herbert told me about it. It was indeed a tragic affair. The sacrifice of life is deplorable, but seemed to have been necessary, unless, indeed, you could have disabled him.”
“Disabled him!” echoed the hunter. “That wouldn't have answered by a long shot. As soon as the reptile got well he'd have been on my trail ag'in. No, sir; it was my life or his, and I don't complain of the way things turned out.”
“Have you buried him?” asked Herbert.
“Yes, I've shoved him under, and it's better than he deserved, the sneakin' rascal. I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Melville. Didn't know I had changed neighbors till the boy there told me yesterday. I've tramped over this mornin' to give you a call.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Holden. Sit down here beside us.”
“I'm more at home here,” answered Holden, stretching himself on the ground, and laying his gun beside him. “How do you like Colorado?”
“Very much, as far as I have seen it,” said Melville. “Herbert probably told you my object, in coming here?”
“He said you were ailin' some way.”
“Yes, my lungs are weak. Since I have been here, I am feeling better and stronger, however.”
“There don't seem to be anything the matter with the boy.”
“Nothing but a healthy appetite,” answered Herbert, smiling.
“That won't hurt anybody. Mr. Melville, do you smoke?”
“No, thank you.”
“Queer! Don't see how you can do without it? Why, sir, I'd been homesick without my pipe. It's company, I tell you, when a chap's alone and got no one to speak to.”
“I take it, Mr. Holden, you are not here for your health?”
“No, I should say not; I'm tough as a hickory nut. When I drop off it's more likely to be an Indian bullet than any disease. I'm forty-seven years old, and I don't know what it is to be sick.”
“You are fortunate, Mr. Holden.”
“I expect I am. But I haven't answered your question. I'm interested in mines, Mr. Melville. Have you ever been to Deer Creek?”
“Yes, I went over with Herbert to visit the store there one day last week.”
“Did you ever hear of the Blazing Star Mine?”
“No, I believe not.”
“I own it,” said Holden. “It's a good mine, and would make me rich if I had a little more money to work it.”
“Are the indications favorable, then?” asked Melville.
“It looks well, if that's what you mean. Yes, sir; the Star is a first-class property.”
“Then it's a pity you don't work it.”
“That's what I say myself. Mr. Melville, I've a proposal to make to you.”
“What is it, Mr. Holden?”
“If you could manage to call me Jack, it would seem more social like.”
“By all means, then, Jack!” said Melville smiling.
“You give me money enough to develop the mine, and I'll make half of it over to you.”
“How much is needed?” asked Melville.
“Not over five hundred dollars. It's a bargain, I tell you.”
“I do not myself wish to assume any business cares,” said Melville.
Jack Holden looked disappointed.
“Just as you say,” he responded.
“But Herbert may feel differently,” continued Melville.
“I'd like the lad for a partner,” said Holden, briskly.
“But I have no money!” said Herbert, in surprise.
George Melville smiled.
“If the mine is a good one,” he said, “I will advance you the money necessary for the purchase of a half interest. If it pays you, you may become rich. Then you can repay the money.”
“But suppose it doesn't, Mr. Melville,” objected Herbert, “how can I ever repay you so large a sum?”
“On the whole, Herbert, I will take the risk.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, his face glowing with anticipation. To be half owner of a mine, with the chance of making a large sum of money, naturally elated him.
“Why shouldn't I be, Herbert? But I want to see the mine first.”
“Can't you go over this afternoon?” asked Holden, eager to settle the matter as soon as possible.
“It is a long journey,” said Melville, hesitating.
“You can stay overnight,” said Jack Holden, “and come back in the morning.”
“Very well; let us go then—that is, after dinner. Herbert, if you will set the table, we will see if we can't offer our friend here some refreshment. He is hungry, I am sure, after his long walk.”
“You've hit it, Mr. Melville,” said Holden. “I allow I'm as hungry as a wolf. But you don't set down to table, do you?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Mr. Melville, smiling pleasantly.
“I ain't used to it,” said Holden; “but I was once. Anyhow, it won't make no difference in the victuals.”
When dinner was ready the three sat down, and did ample justice to it; but Jack Holden made such furious onslaughts that the other two could hardly keep pace with him. Fortunately, there was plenty of food, for Melville did not believe in economical housekeeping.
After dinner they set out for Deer Creek. As has been already explained, it was the name of a mining settlement. Now, by the way, it is a prosperous town, though the name has been changed. Then, however, everything was rude and primitive.
Jack Holden led the way to the Blazing Star Mine, and pointed out its capabilities and promise. He waited with some anxiety for Melville's decision.
“I don't understand matters very well,” said Melville, “but I am willing to take a good deal on trust. If you desire it, I will buy half the mine, paying you five hundred dollars for that interest. That is, I buy it for Herbert.”
“Hooray!” shouted Holden. “Give us your hand, pard. You are my partner now, you know.”
As he spoke he gripped Herbert's hand in a pressure which was so strong as to be painful, and the necessary business was gone through.
So Herbert found himself a half owner of the Blazing Star Mine, of Deer Creek, Colorado.
“I hope your mine will turn out well, Herbert,” said Melville, smiling.
“I wish it might for mother's sake!” said Herbert, seriously.
“It won't be my fault if it don't,” said his partner. “I shall stay here now, and get to work.”
“Ought I not to help you?” asked Herbert.
“No; Mr. Melville will want you. I will hire a man here to help me, and charge it to your share of the expenses.”
So the matter was arranged; but Herbert rode over two or three times a week to look after his property.
“Well, Herbert, what news from the mine?” asked Melville, two weeks later, on Herbert's return from Deer Creek, whither he had gone alone.
“There are some rich developments, so Jack says. Do you know, Mr. Melville, he says the mine is richly worth five thousand dollars.”
“Bravo, Herbert! That would make your half worth twenty-five hundred.”
“Yes,” said the boy complacently; “if we could sell at that figure, I could pay you back and have two thousand dollars of my own. Think of that, Mr. Melville,” continued Herbert, his eyes glowing with pride and pleasure. “Shouldn't I be a rich boy?”
“You may do even better, Herbert. Don't be in a hurry to sell. That is my advice. If the present favorable indications continue, you may realize a considerably larger sum.”
“So Jack says. He says he is bound to hold on, and hopes I will.”
“You are in luck, Herbert.”
“Yes, Mr. Melville, and I don't forget that it is to you I am indebted for this good fortune,” said the boy, earnestly. “If you hadn't bought the property for me, I could not. I don't know but you ought to get some share ef the profits.”
George Melville shook his head.
“My dear boy,” he said, “I have more than my share of money already. Sometimes I feel ashamed when I compare my lot with others, and consider that for the money I have, I have done no work. The least I can do is to consider myself the Lord's trustee, and do good to others, when it falls in my way.”
“I wish all rich men thought as you do, Mr. Melville; the world would be happier,” said Herbert.
“True, Herbert. I hope and believe there is a considerable number who, like myself, feel under obligations to do good.”
“I shall be very glad, on mother's account, if I can go home with money enough to make her independent of work. By the way, Mr. Melville, I found a letter from mother in the Deer Creek post office. Shall I read it to you?”
“If there is nothing private in it, Herbert.”
“There is nothing private from you, Mr. Melville.”
It may be explained that Deer Creek had already obtained such prominence that the post-office department had established an office there, and learning this, Herbert had requested his mother to address him at that place.
He drew the letter from his pocket and read it aloud.
We quote the essential portions.
“'I am very glad to hear that you have made the long journey in safety, and are now in health.'”
Herbert had not mentioned in his home letter the stage-coach adventure, for he knew that it would disturb his mother to think that he had been exposed to such a risk.
“It will do no good, you know,” he said to Mr. Melville, and his friend had agreed with him.
“'It is very satisfactory to me,' continued Herbert, reading from the letter, 'that you are under the charge of Mr. Melville, who seems to me an excellent, conscientious young man, from whom you can learn only good.'”
“Your mother thinks very kindly of me,” said Melville, evidently pleased.
“She is right, too, Mr. Melville,” said Herbert, with emphasis.
“'It will no doubt be improving to you, my dear Herbert, to travel under such pleasant auspices, for a boy can learn from observation as well as from books. I miss you very much, but since the separation is for your advantage, I can submit to it cheerfully.
“'You ask me about my relations with Mr. Graham. I am still in the post office, and thus far nearly the whole work devolves upon me. Except in one respect, I am well treated. Mr. G-. is, as you know, very penurious, and grudges every cent that he has to pay out. When he paid me last Saturday night the small sum for which I agreed to assist him, he had much to say about his large expenses, fuel, lights, etc., and asked me if I wouldn't agree to work for two dollars a week, instead of three. I confess, I was almost struck dumb by such an exhibition of meanness, and told him that it would be quite impossible. Since then he has spent some of the time himself in the office, and asked me various questions about the proper way of preparing the mail, etc., and I think it is his intention, if possible, to get along without me. I don't know, if he absolutely insists upon it, but it would be better to accept the reduction than to give up altogether. Two dollars a week will count in my small household.'
“Did you ever hear of such meanness, Mr. Melville?” demanded Herbert, indignantly. “Here is Mr. Graham making, I am sure, two thousand dollars a year clear profit, and yet anxious to reduce mother from three to two dollars a week.”
“It is certainly a very small business, Herbert. I think some men become meaner by indulgence of their defect.”
“I shall write mother to give up the place sooner than submit to such a reduction. Three dollars a week is small enough in all conscience.”
“I approve the advice, Herbert. If Mr. Graham were really cramped for money, and doing a poor business, it would be different. As it is, it seems to me he has no excuse for his extreme penuriousness.”
“How pleasant it would be to pay a flying visit to Wayneboro,” said Herbert, thoughtfully. “One never appreciates home until he has left it.”
“That pleasure must be left for the future. It will keep.”
“Very true, and when I do go home I want to go well fixed.”
Herbert had already caught the popular Western phrase for a man well to do.
“We must depend on the Blazing Star Mine for that,” said Melville, smiling. My young readers may like to know that, while Herbert was prospering financially, he did not neglect the cultivation of his mind. Among the books left by Mr. Falkland were a number of standard histories, some elementary books in French, including a dictionary, a treatise on natural philosophy, and a German grammar and reader.
“Do you know anything of French or German, Mr. Melville?” inquired our hero, when they made their first examination of the library.
“Yes, Herbert, I am a tolerable scholar in each.”
“I wish I were.”
“Would you like to study them?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Then I will make you a proposal. You are likely to have considerable time at your disposal. If you will study either, or both, I will be your teacher.”
“I should like nothing better,” said Herbert, eagerly.
“Moreover, if you wish to study philosophy, I will aid you, though we are not in a position to illustrate the subject by experiments.”
Herbert was a sensible boy. Moreover, he was fond of study, and he saw at once how advantageous this proposal was. He secured a private tutor for nothing, and, as he soon found, an excellent one. Though Mr. Melville had never been a teacher, he had an unusual aptitude for teaching, and it is hard to decide whether he or Herbert enjoyed more the hours which they now regularly passed in the relation of teacher and pupil.
It must be said, also, that while George Melville evinced an aptitude for teaching, Herbert showed an equal aptitude for learning. The tasks which he voluntarily undertook most boys would have found irksome, but he only found them a source of pleasure, and had the satisfaction, after a very short time, to find himself able to read ordinary French and German prose with comparative ease.
“I never had a better pupil,” said George Melville.
“I believe I am the first you ever had,” said Herbert, laughing.
“That is true. I spoke as if I were a veteran teacher.”
“Then I won't be too much elated by the compliment.”
In the rude hotel kept by the outlaw, whom we have introduced under the name of Brown, there sat two men, to neither of whom will my readers need an introduction. They have already appeared in our story.
One was Brown himself, the other Col. Warner, or, as we may as well confess, Jerry Lane, known throughout the West as an unscrupulous robber and chief of a band of road agents, whose depredations had been characterized by audacity and success.
Brown was ostensibly an innkeeper, but this business, honest enough in itself, only veiled the man's real trade, in which he defied alike the laws of honesty and of his country. The other was by turns a gentleman of property, a merchant, a cattle owner, or a speculator, in all of which characters he acted excellently, and succeeded in making the acquaintance of men whom he designed to rob.
The two men wore a sober look. In their business, as in those more legitimate, there are good times and dull times, and of late they had not succeeded.
“I want some money, captain,” said Brown, sullenly, laying down a black pipe, which he had been smoking.
“So do I, Brown,” answered Warner, as we will continue to call him. “It's a dry time with me.”
“You don't understand me, captain,” continued Brown. “I want you to give me some money.”
“First you must tell me where I am to get it,” answered Warner, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Do you mean to say you have no money?” asked Brown, frowning.
“How should I have?”
“Because in all our enterprises you have taken the lion's share, though you haven't always done the chief part. You can't have spent the whole.”
“No, not quite; but I have nothing to spare. I need to travel about, and—”
“You've got a soft thing,” grumbled Brown. “You go round and have a good time while I am tied down to this fourth-rate tavern in the woods.”
“Well, it isn't much more than that,” said Warner, musingly.
“Do you expect me to keep a first-class hotel?” demanded Brown, defiantly.
“No, of course not. Brown,” continued Warner, soothingly, “don't let us quarrel; we can't afford it. Let us talk together reasonably.”
“What have you to say?”
“This, that it isn't my fault if things have gone wrong. Was it my fault that we found so little cash in that last store we broke open?”
“Nineteen dollars!” muttered Brown, contemptuously.
“Nineteen dollars, as you say. It didn't pay us for our trouble. Well, I was as sorry as you. I fail to see how it was my fault. Better luck next time.”
“When is the next time to be?” asked Brown, somewhat placated.
“As soon as you please.”
“What is it?”
“I will tell you. You remember that stagecoach full of passengers that fooled us some time since?”
“I ought to.”
“I always meant to get on the track of that Melville, who spoiled our plot by overhearing us and giving us away to the passengers. He is very rich, so the boy who was with him told me, and I have every reason to rely upon his statement. Well, I want to be revenged upon him, and, at the same time, to relieve him of the doubtless large sum of money which he keeps with him.”
“I'm with you. Where is he?”
“I have only recently ascertained—no matter how. He lives in a small cabin, far from any other, about eight miles from the mining town of Deer Creek.”
“I know the place.”
“Precisely. No one lives there with him except the boy, and it would be easy enough to rob him. I saw a man from Deer Creek yesterday. He tells me that Melville has bought for the boy a half share in a rich mine, and is thought to have at least five thousand dollars in gold and bills in his cabin.”
Brown's eyes glistened with cupidity.
“That would be a big haul,” he said.
“Of course, it would. Now, Brown, while you have been grumbling at me I have been saving this little affair for our benefit—yours and mine. We won't let any of the rest of them into it, but whatever we find we will divide, and share alike.”
“Do you mean this, captain?”
“Yes, I mean it, friend Brown. You shan't charge me with taking the lion's share in this case. If there are five thousand dollars, as my informant seems to think, your share shall be half.”
“Twenty-five hundred dollars!”
“Exactly; twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“That will pay for my hard luck lately,” said Brown, his face clearing.
“Very handsomely, too.”
“When shall we start?”
“To-morrow morning. We will set out early in the morning; and, by the way, Brown, it's just as well not to let your wife or anyone else know where we are going.”
“All right,” answered Brown, cheerfully.
The next morning the two worthies set out their far from meritorious errand. Brown told his wife vaguely, in reply to her questioning, that he was called away for a few days on business.
If he expected to evade further question by this answer, he was mistaken. Mrs. Brown was naturally of a jealous and suspicious temperament, and doubt was excited in her breast.
“Where shall I say you have gone if I am asked?” she said.
“You may say that you don't know,” answered Brown, brusquely.
“I don't think much of a man who keeps secrets from his wife,” said Mrs. Brown, coldly.
“And I don't think much of a man who tells everything to his wife,” retorted Brown. “It's all right, Kitty, You needn't concern yourself. But the captain and I are on an expedition, which, to be successful, needs to be kept secret.”
Mrs. Brown was not more than half convinced, but she was compelled to accept this statement, for her husband would vouchsafe no other.
That part of the State into which they journeyed was not new ground to either. They were familiar with all the settled portion of Colorado, and had no difficulty in finding the cabin occupied by George Melville.
Now it happened that they reached the modest dwelling in the woods about three o'clock in the afternoon. Herbert had ridden over to Deer Creek to look after his mining property, and it was not yet time to expect him back. George Melville was therefore left alone.
Knowing, as my young readers do, his literary tastes, they will understand that, though left alone, he was not lonely. The stock of books which he had bought from his predecessor was to him an unfailing resource. Moreover, he had taken up Italian, of which he knew a little, and was reading in the original the “Divina Comedia” of Dante, a work which consumed many hours, and was not likely soon to be over. To-day, however, for some reason Melville found it more difficult than usual to fix his mind upon his pleasant study. Was it a presentiment of coming evil that made him so unusually restless? At all events, the hours, which were wont to be fleet-footed, passed with unusual slowness, and he found himself longing for the return of his young friend.
“I don't know what has got into me to-day,” said Melville to himself. “It's only three o'clock, yet the day seems very long. I wish Herbert would return. I feel uneasy. I don't know why. I hope it is not a presage of misfortune. I shall not be sure that something has not happened to Herbert till I see him again.”
As he spoke George Melville rose from his chair, and was about to put on his hat and take a short walk in the neighboring woods, when he heard the tramp of approaching horses. Looking out from the window, he saw two horsemen close at hand.
He started in dismay, for in the two men he was at no loss in recognizing his stagecoach companion, Col. Warner, and the landlord who had essayed the part of a road agent.
Col. Warner and his companion enjoyed the effect of their presence upon their intended victim, and smiled in a manner that boded little good to Melville, as they dismounted from their steeds and advanced to the door of the cabin.
“How are you, Melville?” said Warner, ironically. “I see you have not forgotten me.”
“No, I have not forgotten you,” answered Melville, regarding his visitor uneasily.
“This is my friend, Mr. Brown. Perhaps you remember him?”
“I do remember him, and the circumstances under which I last saw him,” replied Melville, rather imprudently.
Brown frowned, but he did not speak. He generally left his companion to do the talking.
“Being in the neighborhood, we thought we'd call upon you,” continued Col. Warner.
“Walk in, gentlemen, if you see fit,” said Melville. “I suppose it would be only polite to say that I am glad to see you, but I have some regard for truth, and cannot say it.”
“I admire your candor, Mr. Melville. Walk in, Brown. Ha! upon my word, you have a nice home here. Didn't expect to see anything of the kind in this wilderness. Books and pictures! Really, now, Brown, I am quite tempted to ask our friend, Melville, to entertain us for a few days.”
“I don't think it would suit you,” said Melville, dryly. “You are probably more fond of exciting adventure than of books.”
“Does the boy live with you?” asked Warner, dropping his bantering tone, and looking about his searchingly.
“Yes, he is still with me.”
“I don't see him.”
“Because he has gone to Deer Creek on business.”
When Melville saw the rapid glance of satisfaction interchanged by the two visitors he realized that he had made an imprudent admission. He suspected that their design was to rob him, and he had voluntarily assured them that he was alone, and that they could proceed without interruption.
“Sorry not to see him,” said Warner. “I'd like to renew our pleasant acquaintance.”
Melville was about to reply that Herbert would be back directly, when it occurred to him that this would be a fresh piece of imprudence. It would doubtless lead them to proceed at once to the object of their visit, while if he could only keep them till his boy companion did actually return, they would at least be two to two. Even then they would be by no means equally matched, but something might occur to help them.
“I suppose Herbert will return by evening,” he replied. “You can see him if you remain till then.”
Another expression of satisfaction appeared upon the faces of his two visitors, but for this he was prepared.
“Sorry we can't stay till then,” said Warner, “but business of importance will limit our stay. Eh, Brown?”
“I don't see the use of delaying at all!” growled Brown, who was not as partial as his companion to the feline amusement of playing with his intended victim. With him, on the contrary, it was a word, and a blow, and sometimes the blow came first.
“Come to business!” continued Brown, impatiently, addressing his associate.
“That is my purpose, friend Brown.”
“Mr. Melville, it is not solely the pleasure of seeing you that has led my friend and myself to call this afternoon.”
Melville nodded.
“So I supposed,” he said.
“There is a little unfinished business between us, as you will remember. I owe you a return for the manner in which you saw fit to throw suspicion upon me some time since, when we were traveling together.”
“I shall be very glad to have you convince me that I did you an injustice,” said Melville. “I was led to believe that you and your friend now present were leagued together to rob us of our money and valuables. If it was not so—”
“You were not very far from right, Mr. Melville. Still it was not polite to express your suspicions so rudely. Besides, you were instrumental in defeating our plan.”
“I can't express any regret for that, Col. Warner, or Jerry Lane, as I suppose that is your real name.”
“I am Jerry Lane!” said Warner, proudly. “I may as well confess it, since it is well that you should know with whom you have to deal. When I say that I am Jerry Lane, you will understand that I mean business.”
“I do,” answered Melville, quietly.
“You know me by reputation?” said the outlaw, with a curious pride in his unenviable notoriety.
“I do.”
“What do men say of me?”
“That you are at the head of a gang of reckless assassins and outlaws, and that you have been implicated in scores of robberies and atrocities.”
This was not so satisfactory.
“Young man,” said Lane—to drop his false name—“I advise you to be careful how you talk. It may be the worse for you. Now, to come to business, how much money have you in the house?”
“Why do you ask, and by what right?”
“We propose to take it. Now answer my question.”
“Gentlemen, you will be very poorly paid for the trouble you have taken in visiting me. I have very little money.”
“Of course, you say so. We want an answer.”
“As well as I can remember I have between forty and fifty dollars in my pocketbook.”
Brown uttered an oath under his breath, and Lane looked uneasy.
“That's a lie!” said Brown, speaking first. “We were told you had five thousand dollars here.”
“Your informant was badly mistaken, then. I am not very wise, perhaps, in worldly matters, but I certainly am not such a fool as to keep so large a sum of money in a lonely cabin like this.”
“Perhaps not so much as that,” returned Lane. “I don't pretend to say how much you have. That is for you to tell us.”
George Melville drew from his pocket a wallet, and passed it to the outlaw.
“Count the money for yourself, if you wish,” he said. “You can verify my statement.”
Lane opened the wallet with avidity, and drew out the contents. It was apparent at the first glance that the sum it contained was small. It was counted, however, and proved to amount to forty-seven dollars and a few silver coins.
The two robbers looked at each other in dismay. Was it possible that this was all? If so, they would certainly be very poorly paid for their trouble.
“Do you expect us to believe, Mr. Melville,” said Jerry Lane, sternly, “that this is all the money you have?”
“In this cabin—yes.”
“We are not so easily fooled. It is probably all you carry about with you; but you have more concealed somewhere about the premises. It will be best for you to produce at once, unless you are ready to pass in your checks.”
“That means,” said Melville, growing pale in spite of himself, for he knew from report the desperate character of his guests, “that means, I suppose, that you will kill me unless I satisfy your rapacity.”
“It does,” said Lane, curtly. “Now for your answer!”
“Gentlemen, I cannot accomplish impossibilities. It is as I say. The money in your hands is all that I have by me.”
“Do you mean to deny that you are rich?” asked Lane.
“No, I do not deny it. That is not the point in question. You ask me to produce all the money I have with me. I have done so.”
“Do you believe this, Brown?” asked the captain, turning to his subordinate.
“No, I don't.”
“It is strictly true.”
“Then,” said Brown, “you deserve to die for having no more money for us.”
“True,” chimed in Lane. “Once more, will you produce your secret hoard?”
“I have none.”
“Then you must be dealt with in the usual way. Brown, have you a rope?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a convenient tree near by.”
“We'll find one.”
The two seized Melville, and, despite his resistance, dragged him violently from the cabin, and adjusted a rope about his neck. The young man was pale, and gave himself up for lost.