THE PHANTOM HUNTER;
OR,
LOVE AFTER DEATH.

BY EDWIN EMERSON,
AUTHOR OF “THE WOOD WITCH,” ETC.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

THE PHANTOM HUNTER;
OR,
LOVE AFTER DEATH.

CHAPTER I.
BACKWOODS JUSTICE.

Among the earliest settlements of Kentucky was that which figures in our story. At the time of the following events it contained some fifty dwellings, surrounded by strong palisades to defend them from the savages, besides a well-constructed block-house, which was not only strongly garrisoned, but claimed the additional protection of a brass field-piece. This last-named instrument presented quite a formidable appearance to prowling Indians, as it sat on the summit of the block-house reflecting every sunbeam from its polished surface.

One bright afternoon, early in the month of August, there was an unusual commotion at the Indian frontier post.

The entire population, men and women, old and young, had assembled on a broad, level spot just beyond the limits of the fort, many of them to look upon a scene such as they had never before witnessed. This spot was known as “the green,” and it was where the youth of the settlement were wont to repair for their sports, but those gathered there now wore sad faces, and conversed with each other in low, serious tones. And well they might, for they were there to see a man hung for murder!

Russell Trafford was one of the most honored and highly esteemed young men of the place, and yet, on this bright August afternoon, he was to be put to death for the willful murder of another person, who had enjoyed a like reputation. Being an orphan, the young man had lived with his uncle, Doctor Trafford, in the largest and most substantial cabin in the settlement, the worthy doctor being a kind but eccentric individual, who could not have loved his nephew more had the latter been a son instead. These two had never been known to be at odds until very recently, and in fact the peace, harmony and happiness with which they had always lived together, had been a subject of remark on more than one occasion.

But one night, at a late hour, an alarm of fire was raised. The excited settlers, rushing out of their houses, made the startling discovery that the dwelling of Doctor Trafford was in flames. It was readily perceived that the fire had already made such headway as to be past extinguishing, but, notwithstanding that fact, crowds of people rushed to the spot to watch the doomed cabin as it burned, and to learn the cause of the catastrophe. Arriving on the scene, the only person they found there was Russell Trafford. The young man was standing in front of the burning structure, with an open tinder-box in his hand, gazing up at the flames, pale and silent. When spoken to he started violently, and then, quickly thrusting the tinder-box in his pocket, he clasped his hands and cried out in tones of mental anguish, that his poor uncle was dead—murdered—burned alive in his own house! Somebody asked him how he came to be outside of the cabin with an open tinder-box in his hand, and he replied in an absent sort of a way, that he didn’t know—the box was not his—he had found it, he supposed, and begged them to let him alone.

The idea of the esteemed Doctor Trafford being burned to death in his own house and bed, aroused the indignation of all. Somebody had done the deed, and somebody must suffer for it; and the finger of circumstantial evidence pointed to the victim’s nephew, Russell, as the guilty one. Suspicion was fastened strongly upon him, despite the good name he had hitherto borne. On the following day the remains of Doctor Trafford were looked for amid the ruins of the demolished domicil, and the search was rewarded by the finding of a skull and the rest of the bones that belong to the human body, all totally destitute of flesh. These were decently interred, as a last tribute of respect to the dead.

Russell Trafford was arrested, and allowed to go through a mock trial. An Irish boy named Mike Terry—a lad of some fourteen summers, who had lived with the doctor in the capacity of servant—testified that Russell and his uncle had quarreled on the morning preceding the tragedy, and, moreover, that he himself had seen Russell set fire to the building, and he (Mike) had barely escaped with his own life.

This was sufficient. Russell Trafford was declared guilty of firing the cabin with intent to kill his uncle, and he was sentenced to be “hanged by the neck, until dead.” And the sunny afternoon in question was set apart for the punishment of the offender, and many of those who gathered on the green to witness the execution wore sorrowful faces as they looked on the doomed man for the last time. For it was hard to believe that he, who had always been so honorable, upright and noble, could commit such a horrible crime as that ascribed to him. Instead, however, of hanging him by the simple means of a rope and a tree, after the Lynch-law custom of that day, a rude scaffold had been hastily constructed, and the evident intention of the people was to have the affair conducted in proper style. The executioner was an old hunter, ranger and scout, who gloried in the euphonious appellation of Kirby Kidd. Grizzled old borderman that he was, fearless, true-hearted and kind, he formed a good specimen of his class, and his sturdy, Herculean frame showed to good advantage as he stood at his post. His keen black eyes roamed over the crowd with seeming indifference, and occasionally he was observed to address a few words to the prisoner. He was leaning carelessly on his rifle, holding in one hand a tall death-cap, made of undressed bear-skin. There was still a third party on the scaffold. This was a friendly Wyandott Indian, of the name of Wapawah, who was the constant companion of Kirby Kidd when hunting or on the trail, and who had rendered valuable service to many of the frontier posts along the Ohio. Wapawah was as brave a warrior as ever trod Kentucky soil, and possessed all the cunning, vindictiveness and reticence, characteristic of his race. Just now he stood beside his white friend like an image carved in bronze, with his arms folded over his tawny breast, watching the proceedings in stoical silence.

While the spectators were waiting nervously for the finale, the attention of many was attracted to a rather curious-looking individual, who suddenly made his appearance among them. This was a man of medium size, clad in the ordinary garb of a hunter and ranger, who trailed after him a long, black rifle as he walked. There was not the sign of an expression on the fellow’s face. A red, straggling beard covered his mouth and chin; long hair of the same color brushed his shoulders at every movement of his head; an ugly patch disfigured his left cheek; and a rough bandage concealed his right eye. Altogether his was not the most prepossessing face ever seen. Nobody seemed to know him, nor did he return any of the searching glances directed at him. He was pressing through the crowd toward the scaffold, looking neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead.

When the stranger had pushed himself through the wondering throng, he unhesitatingly ascended to the elevated platform, and confronted Kirby Kidd, the hangman. For some minutes the two hunters conversed together in low, earnest tones, the friendly Indian standing near, and evidently drinking in every word that was uttered. When the secret conference had been kept up so long that the mob began to show its impatience by angry shouts, it was promptly ended, and the stranger turned away. Then the hangman spoke out loudly, exclaiming:

“Wal, Nick Robbins, ye know it’s my way. I allers try to do my duty, whether it be pleasant or no.”

“Sartinly, Kidd,” returned the person called Nick Robbins. “Go ahead an’ string the cuss up. I know yer wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with the thing ef yer thought he didn’t desarve it.”

With this, the stranger with the bandaged eye turned and descended to the ground, still dragging his gun after him. Wapawah, the Wyandott, followed him, and the two withdrew to a spot apart from the crowd, where they might talk unheard.

A few of the settlers went forward to shake the hand of the young convict, and bid him a last farewell. Among these were three persons who attracted considerable attention—a man and two women. They were Mr. Moreland, his wife and daughter. Mr. Moreland was one of the first men of the settlement, a sensible, industrious and stout-hearted pioneer, who knew well why God had given him health and a pair of strong arms, and who acted accordingly. He had a wife of the same disposition, kind, charitable and self-sacrificing, and their daughter resembled them both. In point of beauty, Isabel Moreland certainly had no superior in all Kentucky, and in those days real beauty was not so scarce as in this age of fashion and folly. She was the betrothed of Russell Trafford, and people had said they would make an excellent match, but that was all over now, and here stood the young man under the gallows, on the eve of a felon’s death, while his affianced wife wept bitterly as he bid her a final adieu.

This affecting scene over, Russell Trafford was asked if he had any thing to say before dying. He replied that he desired a very brief hearing, and then stepped to the edge of the scaffold to speak. He was strangely calm and collected, and his voice was clear, steady and distinct. He said:

“Friends and former friends: it affords me extreme happiness to know that there are those among you who still have faith in my innocence, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. On the heads of such I invoke the blessing of God as I die. For you who believe me guilty I bear no malice, nor even reproach, but trust that a just Heaven will undeceive you after I am gone, and bring the true offender to the retribution he deserves. I am ready to die.”

He stepped back as he made this last declaration, and the old ranger immediately placed the death-cap over his head.

It is not necessary to inflict upon the reader a detailed account of the sickening scene which followed. Sufficient to say, that Russell Trafford was hung before the eyes of his former friends and the grieved maiden who had promised to become his wife. The body of the young man was lowered from the gallows, and placed in the coffin that awaited it, which was nothing more than a rude pine box constructed for this purpose. Old Kirby Kidd, the Wyandott Indian, and their friend, Nick Robbins, volunteered to take the corpse in custody until the morrow, and protect it from the enraged mob, who, it was feared, not being satisfied with the murderer’s death, would further vent its wrath upon the dead body.

On the following day a grave was dug in a pretty glade just outside of the settlement, and burial services were performed.

CHAPTER II.
JONATHAN BOGGS, FROM MAINE.

Isabel Moreland stood in the doorway of her father’s cabin one morning, two or three days after the execution of her lover, Russell Trafford. She was very pale, but very calm. The roses, which had been the admiration of all, were gone from her cheeks, and her dark, soulful eyes, which had been the particular admiration of her ill-fated lover, were hollow and unusually large. A sad, pitiful, expression dwelt in their clear depths, and the lines on her forehead told a tale of mental suffering. The settlers who passed that way, seeing her standing there, marveled at the change that had taken place in her since the death of young Trafford, and felt their hearts moved to pity for the broken-hearted girl.

Presently a man sauntered up to the door, attracted thither by the charming one who stood there. He was a big, burly fellow, with the brute plainly stamped on his coarse, red face, and an air of reckless depravity about him that proclaimed him any thing else but a man. He wore a slouched hat, pulled carelessly down on one side of his head, completely hiding his right eye. This was Jim McCabe, the veriest bully and profligate in the settlement, who, it was said, was so devoid of principle that no piece of deviltry was too great for him to commit. He had been one of Russell Trafford’s rivals in love, and of all the rivals he had been compelled to contend with, Russell had regarded Jim McCabe as the most insignificant. But, now that his successful competitor was out of the way, McCabe seemed to think it possible to thrust himself into the vacant place, and seeing her this morning at the door of her home, he determined to seize the opportunity of renewing the contest for the much-coveted hand and heart.

“Good-morrow, Miss Moreland,” said he, with a profound bow, and an attempt to smile pleasantly.

“Well, sir?” returned the girl, coldly.

“Perfectly well, I thank you,” replied the rogue, choosing to misconstrue her words. “But, really, Miss Moreland, you are looking decidedly unwell to-day. What can be the matter, if I may ask? Are you ill?”

“Not particularly.”

“No? Now that is strange. One would suppose that you had just risen from a prolonged illness. You see I am naturally concerned for the health of one so dear to me. By the way, that was a sad affair about Doctor Trafford and his ingrate of a nephew, wasn’t it?—a sad affair all round. As a friend, I feel for you deeply, but I think you were fortunate in thus finding out the character of your intended husband before—”

“Sir, I must trouble you to drop this subject now and forever.”

Isabel Moreland turned her flashing eyes upon the man as she spoke, and gave him a look that made him recoil. But, quickly recovering himself, he replied, in a tone of apology:

“Why, I did not suspect that I was treading forbidden ground. I only wished to express my sympathy for you, and you certainly need it, since your favored suitor has proven himself only fit to grace the end of a rope.”

“Do you persist in talking of this?” demanded Isabel.

“Not at all—not at all,” was the humble rejoinder. “It being your desire, the subject shall be dropped immediately. I would merely observe, what an inhuman wretch that man was to deliberately kill his own uncle, and that in the most horrible manner conceivable.”

“If you have come here to jeer and mock at me, you must continue your insults without my presence,” interrupted our heroine, and so saying she entered the house, and quietly closed the door between her and her tormentor.

Jim McCabe ground his teeth with rage. Was this to be the result of the new game he had so hopefully commenced? Did she, then, hate him so bitterly? and was her love for Russell Trafford so great that his death had produced this marked change in her lovely face? But Jim McCabe was not the man to submit thus tamely. He shook his fist at the door which shut the maiden from his view, and muttered:

“This is all very fine, my proud lady, but the time is not far off when you will look at Jim McCabe with a much softer expression in those eyes. I have played none but my loose cards as yet, but there are trumps to follow that are certain to win, and two weeks shall not pass away before I shall have the pleasure of seeing this haughty jade at my feet.”

He hissed the last words through his clenched teeth, and his usually red face grew still redder with anger.

He was walking away from the spot, when a peculiar voice behind him arrested his footsteps.

“Hello, you! Jest draw rein a minute, ef you please.”

Instinctively guessing that he was the one accosted, McCabe stopped to see who the presumptuous person was. A tall, angular specimen of humanity, with long, dangling legs and ungainly feet, was coming toward him with awkward strides. He was an utter stranger to McCabe, but the latter saw at a glance that he was a Yankee, of the raw sort, evidently just from his native State. His dress alone would have proven that fact, to say nothing of the nasal twang in his voice, and the “down-east” peculiarity of speech. He wore a tall, white hat, the nap of which stuck straight out; a pair of striped trowsers, which clung tenaciously to the awkward members they protected; and a blue, threadbare coat, whose swallow-tails reached nearly to his heels.

“How d’ye dew, stranger?” drawled the specimen, as he came up. “Right nice weather we’re havin’ nowadays, ain’t it?”

“Splendid. But what do you want of me?”

“What dew I want? Law, now, you’re jest like all the rest o’ the western folks—want a feller tew come tew the p’int instanter, without the least bit o’ prevaricatin’ or dodgin’ round the stump, as Tabitha Simpson used to say. Tabitha Simpson was my third cousin, stranger, on my mother’s side, a gal o’ the femenine persuasion, by the way, and I swan tew man, there never was a couple in all Christendom as had more fun than Tabitha and me used to have. There was one time in partic’lar—”

“See here,” interposed McCabe, crustily, “before you continue your nonsense I should like to know who you are?”

“Me? Darn my buttons! mother allus said I was the most forgitful child she had, and I’m forever provin’ the fact to myself in this very way. Me? Why, bless you, I’m Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine! Jonathan Boggs, stranger, a first-rate feller on the whole, who was considered the smartest member of his father’s family, until he robbed neighbor Green’s hen-roost and had to turn tail on the old humstead.”

Jim McCabe began to regard the Yankee with some curiosity.

“When did you arrive here, Mr. Boggs?” he inquired.

“I brought up in this hamlet yesterday,” replied the Yankee, squeezing his hands with difficulty into the pockets of his “tights.”

“Yesterday,” repeated the other. “It may seem strange to you, but I really think I have seen your face somewhere.”

“Dew tell? I s’pect you have, mister, for I often go there,” said the “specimen,” with provoking coolness. “As Tabitha Simpson used to say, ‘Cousin Jonathan must be known to be liked,’ and I’m glad to l’arn as how my phiz ain’t unfamiliar tew you—”

But Jim McCabe was too thoroughly exasperated by the sang froid of his interlocutor, to let him go on in this strain.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, “if you have any thing of importance to say, I wish to hear it at once.”

“Want to know!” returned the stranger, elevating his eyebrows. “Now that’s what I call right down mean, bluffin’ a chap off in that ’ere style when he’s talkin’ ’bout the land of his birth, and old-time associations. I find I can’t talk enough to please you, but I calkilate you’ll ’scuse me on the score that natur’ neglected to put the gift o’ gab in my blamed noddle.

“Now, in that respect, I ain’t one iotum like the old woman, ’cause why? she can talk the ha’r right off o’ your head in three jerks of a possum’s ear, and ef you’s with her from Sunday mornin’ till Saturday night, you wouldn’t find a chance to crowd in a word edgewise. But I did forgit my business, that’s a fact; thereby givin’ further proof that mother told no lie, when she said as how I was etarnally disrememberin’ every blamed thing of importance. But now tew the p’int, as Tabitha allus said, when tellin’ one o’ her long-winded yarns. Tabitha had been childerns’ nuss at some time of her life, and so had acquired a habit o’ story-tellin’ that clung to her through the hull course of her existence—”

“Curse you for an idiot!” growled McCabe, irascibly, and with an oath he started away.

“Hold on, mister,” said Jonathan Boggs, coolly laying his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Don’t go off ’thout hearin’ me through.”

“Hands off, scoundrel!” commanded the settler, fiercely. “I’ll knock you down if you repeat this insult.”

“I wouldn’t dew that, mister, I swow I wouldn’t. It takes such a hard lick to knock me down that ye might cripple your hand for life. Besides, when I was a boy it wa’n’t considered healthy tew undertake sech a rash job, and even now you might not be dewin’ the right thing toward yourself.”

Jim McCabe was a coward, like all other bullies. So these words, and the manner in which they were uttered, alarmed him not a little.

“Who the deuce are you, anyway?” he demanded, sullenly.

“Jonathan Boggs, from Maine,” was the quiet reply.

“And your business with me?”

“Now that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, but you wouldn’t listen. I sell clocks for a livelihood. I’ve rented a room in the block-house yonder, and by Jupiter! it’s e’na’most filled up with my clocks. Reckon you’ll buy a clock, won’t you?”

“Fool!” McCabe stamped his foot with vexation, and again turned on his heel to leave his persecutor. But again that opposing hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was once more detained against his will.

“Ain’t you gwine to buy a clock?” asked the Yankee. “I tell you, mister, they’re the nicest thing under the sun and jest presactly what you want. I swow, by gravy, it’s the most complete invention in existence. Why, the man as made them clocks died. He was tew confounded smart tew live—”

“Stop!” said the settler, imperatively. “I don’t wish to buy, and you will oblige me by discontinuing the subject.”

“You don’t tell me! Wal, I don’t wish to impose on the patience of an indulgent audience. I’ve sold so many clocks since I come, that I ain’t spilin’ for your patronage nohow, so we’ll drap the topic. I say, mister, that was a bad thing ’bout your feller-citizen, Doctor Trafford, bein’ killed in his own house, wa’n’t it?”

“It was indeed,” was the brief answer.

“It was, sure’s shootin’,” continued the Yankee; “but the wust part o’ the hull sarcumstance was the awful mistake of arrestin’ the doctor’s own nephew, and hangin’ him for the murder.”

“Mistake!” echoed McCabe, looking sharply at the speaker. “Why, sir, there was no mistake about it. Russell Trafford was found guilty before he was punished. He did do the deed.”

“Did he though? Now that beats me. I s’pose you was there, and see’d him dew it?”

“Not I, sir, but a small boy, who had been in the doctor’s employ, saw the doctor’s nephew set fire to the building.”

“Wal, the lad might have been bribed tew tell all that, you know. I’ve hearn the hull story two or three times, and I hope I may be shot for a chicken-thief ef the young man done the job.”

“Dare you assert that he did not do it?”

“Yas.”

Jim McCabe started visibly at this cool affirmation, and for an instant his naturally red face was almost pale. But he was quickly himself again, and with an incredulous smile, he muttered:

“Pshaw! the cursed fool don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Then he turned on his heel again, and this time he was off and walking briskly away before the Yankee could detain him. Jonathan Boggs looked after him for a moment with a curious expression on his face, and then turning aside, he boldly entered the house of Mr. Moreland, without so much as knocking at the door.

Jim McCabe had not proceeded far, after leaving his new acquaintance so abruptly, before he met another person who stopped him. This was a small boy, about fourteen years of age, who wore a jaunty cap, a green jacket, and corduroy knee-breeches, which revealed his nationality as plainly as did his face. He was a bright-looking little fellow, with intelligent blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and, in fact, was no less a personage than Mike Terry, the former servant of Doctor Trafford. He it was who had furnished the evidence that convicted his master’s murderer.

“The top iv the mornin’ to yeez, Jamie,” said the young Hibernian, as he met McCabe.

“Well, what do you want?” gruffly demanded the man, as the boy seized his arm to prevent him from passing on.

“An’ is it that same quistion ye’d be askin’, sure? Phat w’u’d I be afther wantin’ but money?”

“I haven’t any money,” declared McCabe, angrily.

“I know yeez have,” asserted the boy, firmly, “an’ be gorra, ef yeez don’t give it to me, sorry the day yer honor iver timpted me to desart me colors, intirely. Av I wasn’t yer cousin, Jamie, I should niver have done that wicked thing, no more w’u’d I. An’ av it was all to do over, it isn’t the likes iv Mike Terry that ’ud play false to a kind masther for love or money. For Doctor Trafford and Masther Russell were good to me, Jamie, an’ but for you—”

“Hush, Mike,” continued the man, glancing uneasily around. “Have you gone crazy, or do you wish to expose me?”

“I ain’t carin’ much phat I do. Av yeez don’t kape me in money I won’t hold yer saycret a day longer; divil a bit will I. Ye’ve med a bad b’y iv me, Jamie, an’ ye’re me own cousin, too.”

“Here; take this, boy,” said the angry man, handing him a coin, “and for heaven’s sake let it seal your lips. I can’t afford to give you money every day. Now go.”

So Jim McCabe and Mike Terry parted, both of them looking very much discontented as they walked away in opposite directions.

When they were well gone, a man rose from behind a pile of logs within a few feet of the spot where they had stood conversing. It was the man of the bandaged eye and red, straggling beard, of whom we made mention in the foregoing chapter, and as he strode away, dragging his gun after him, his face was still expressionless.

The eavesdropper was Nick Robbins.

CHAPTER III.
LOVE AFTER DEATH.

As we have already stated, the grave of Doctor Trafford’s supposed murderer was in a pretty little glade just outside of the settlement. Those who had known and liked the young man were only too glad to perform any office of respect to his corpse, and the grave had been dug so deep that there was no possibility of the body being reached by wild animals.

To this lonely spot the intimate friends of Russell Trafford would repair at times to lament, in solitude, the loss of one so good, noble, yet unfortunate.

That night, after his interview with Isabel Moreland, and the provoking stranger, Jonathan Boggs, Jim McCabe was seized with a strong inclination to pay a visit to the tomb of his ill-fated rival in love. Of course this inclination was not born of any such feeling as grief or regret for the lost one, but, rather, of a desire to exult over his fallen foe, and glut his greedy eyes on the last resting-place of the man who would never more stand in his way. He had not seen it as yet—in fact, he had not been outside of the palisades since the day of the execution—and he now felt as if he must see the place where the man was buried, before he could fully realize that his most dangerous rival was indeed out of his way.

The thought struck McCabe while he was sauntering through the settlement. It was night, but not a dark one by any means. The moon was shining in all her glory, and not a cloud obscured the star-studded sky; and, as Jim McCabe seldom turned a deaf ear to the voice of his inclination, he was not long in determining to follow it on this occasion. The hour was late, and none of the inhabitants were out, save a few who sat in their doors, and they would suppose he was merely going out for a stroll in the moonlight. But, pshaw! even if they should see where he went, would they not think he had gone there to drop a silent tear on the sod that covered the remains of a noble man?

He went. He told the man at the gate, as he passed out, that he would return in a few minutes, and then he walked slowly away into the shadows of the forest. He was musing on the events of the day as he wandered on; of the freezing coldness with which Isabel Moreland had met him; of the eccentric character, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine; and not a little of his cousin, the Irish boy, who had demanded money of him.

Thus meditating, Jim McCabe arrived at his destination. Emerging from the darkness of the woods, he paused on the edge of the glade to contemplate the scene before him.

Yes, there was the grave of the man he hated, in the very center of the open place—the small, grassy mound he had come to gloat over. He saw it now, and was satisfied; but why did the villain start back and stare, as his gleaming eyes alighted on the object he had come here to see? Why did he seem so surprised, and even alarmed? Well he might, for he saw at a glance that he was not the only person in that lonely spot. A man was there—a tall, finely-formed man, standing by the grave, with his head bowed upon his breast! He was motionless as a statue of stone. Who was this man—this mourner—this night visitor at the tomb of Russell Trafford?

Jim McCabe asked himself this question over and over, gazing keenly at the stately figure before him for an answer. Had he not seen that tall, graceful form before? He thought at first that he had, but, as he called to mind every person of his acquaintance, and compared them with this one, he was compelled to admit that this one was a stranger to him. Just as he arrived at this conclusion the unknown moved. He turned half around, which gave the silent watcher a full view of his face. The moonlight fell on his bare head, revealing a noble forehead, a pair of brilliant eyes, and features of the handsomest mold.

Good Heaven! the man was Russell Trafford himself!

Jim McCabe staggered backward, and grasped a tree for support. His face changed to a deathly pallor, the perspiration poured from his brow, and for a moment his breath came in spasmodic gasps. Russell Trafford! he who had been hung—he who was dead and buried—now standing before him in all his living health and manly beauty! Great God could he believe his eyes? Had not he himself seen the man hung? Was he dreaming, or was this some frightful delusion of a disordered brain? That face, with the mellow light of the moon falling gently upon it, was not to be mistaken.

While the terrified ruffian was staring at the apparition, still another figure appeared in the glade. This, more to his surprise, he observed was not a male, but a female figure. It wore a white dress, and it was gliding toward the grave in the center of the natural clearing. Another keen glance, and McCabe had recognized this new appearance. It was Isabel Moreland!

Dumb with amazement, the lurker could do nothing but stand and stare. He saw the woman go up to the man; he saw the man catch her in his arms, and press his lips to her fair brow; and then he heard the low hum of their voices as they began an earnest but guarded conversation. In an instant his astonishment and consternation were transformed into fierce, ungovernable rage. He forgot, for the moment, that the appearance of this man, alive and well, was the most miraculous thing he had ever heard of. He forgot that he must be dreaming or insane, or that the familiar form before him was but a spirit from the dead. He forgot every thing, except that Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland were standing there within a few feet of him, locked in each other’s arms! His blood boiled in his veins, and his hot head swam with the demoniac fury that took possession of him.

“A thousand curses!” he roared, in a voice hoarse with passion, as he snatched a pistol from his breast. “I swear I’ll kill the scoundrel if he has a hundred lives!”

Like a wild beast bursting from its covert, Jim McCabe sprung from the shadow of the tree, pistol in hand, and bounded across the open space toward the lovers. But he had taken scarcely half a dozen strides, when a rough hand grasped his collar from behind, and he was jerked backward with a violence that well-nigh precipitated him to the ground. As soon as he had regained his equilibrium, he wheeled around to see who it was that had so abruptly put an end to his fierce attack. In the moonlight he saw the faces of three men, all scowling upon him as though he were the worst person in existence! He knew them all at a glance. One of them, he who had seized him by the collar, was Kirby Kidd, the stalwart ranger who had acted the part of hangman in the execution of young Trafford. Another was the friendly Wyandott Indian, Wapawah, the constant companion of the white hunter. The third and last member of the group was Nick Robbins, the man of the bandaged eye and expressionless face.

“What do you want of me?” demanded McCabe; “and what do you mean by jerking a fellow about in that manner?”

“See hyur, youngster,” drawled Kirby Kidd, peering into the face of his captive, “who in creation are you, anyhow?”

“None of your business,” was the curt reply.

“Yas, I thort so,” continued the ranger, coolly. “But, never mind; I know who you be, now. Ye’re Jim McCabe, the chap as are known to be the black sheep of the fort, an’ the sneakin’est hang-dog that ever set fire to a shanty! What in all natur’ are ye—an eediot or a sleep-walker? ’cause it’s plain to this coon ’ut ye’re one or t’other. What wur ye caperin’ round hyur fur? Hav yer treed sunkthin’?”

“Can’t you see what it is?” exclaimed McCabe, wildly. “Where are your eyes? Don’t you see Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing there, locked in a close embrace?”

“What! When? Where?” ejaculated Kirby Kidd and Nick Robbins, in a breath.

“Why, there!” roared the ruffian, in the wildest excitement, pointing toward the grave as he spoke.

“This coon sees nothin’,” asserted Kidd.

“Neither do this ’un,” echoed Robbins.

Nor did Jim McCabe himself see the apparitions now. During the brief space of time that his eyes were averted from the spot, the two figures had disappeared! Had he, after all, been laboring under a freak of imagination? He stared blankly at the three men, and the three men stared blankly at him.

“Poor cuss!” said the ranger; “he’s gone crazy, to a sartainty.”

“I haven’t—I deny it,” panted the terrified wretch. “By the Great Jehovah, I saw them as plainly as I now see you!”

“Yer see’d who?”

“Why, Miss Moreland and that young scamp of a Trafford.”

“Poor cuss!” repeated the ranger, slowly. “He is crazy, mold me into buckshot ef he ain’t.”

“I tell you I am not,” cried the villain, with an oath.

“Look hyur, kumrid,” argued Nick Robbins, “the man ye speak of are dead, and thar’s his grave, right behind ye. Kidd, thar, wur the coon as hung him, an’ ’most ev’rybody at the fort wur out hyur when the buryin’ tuck place.”

“I know all that, and yet I have not taken leave of my senses. If I did not see the real Russell Trafford, I saw his ghost, although I was never thought to believe in such things. He was standing yonder by the grave, and he was joined there by a female, whom I at once recognized as the daughter of Mr. Moreland.”

“I reckon ’twur a couple o’ spooks,” said Kidd, solemnly. “Whar wur ye goin’ when we saw fit to detain yer?”

“I was approaching the ‘spooks,’ as you call them.”

“Approachin’ ’em? Yas, I guess ye wur, but ye may mold me into buckshot ef I don’t think ye’re a sleep-walker. Ye started off as if yer futur’ redemption depended upon yer speed, an’ I must say ’ut ye seemed jest the least little bit angry, or frightened, or excited, or sunkthin’ else, ’cause why? yer face was redder’n I ever see’d it, an’ ye cussed like a trooper, an’ yer eyes shined like hot fat. What ye got that pistol in yer hand fur?”

The ranger looked straight in the eye of McCabe as he made this last inquiry. McCabe started nervously, and quickly thrust the pistol into his pocket.

“I hardly know why I drew the weapon,” he answered, turning very red, “but surely with no intention of using it. But, my friends, how came you here at this hour of the night?” he added, not caring particularly to continue the subject.

“How kum us hyur? Wal, ye see, Nick, thar, is a great coon-hunter, an’ me an’ the red-skin volunteered to ’kump’ny him to-night on one of his nocturnal tramps. But that reminds me, kumrids, that it’s time we wur movin’ on.”

“And I must return home,” said McCabe. “So good night.”

They parted, and while the three hunters went their way Jim McCabe walked slowly homeward.

He was sorely troubled. He could not banish his strange adventure from his mind. That he had seen either the ghost or exact counterpart of Russell Trafford, he was morally certain, and that the female who joined him was the beautiful Isabel, he was ready to swear. A train of horrible thoughts passed through his mind as he walked through the dark woods, and then he began to glance suspiciously around on every side, and tremble unconsciously at every rustle of a leaf. Once he stopped short and caught his breath, at sight of his own shadow on the trunk of a tree, and then he hurried on, chiding himself for his weakness. Nor did he feel safe until he had dashed through the gate, and found himself once more within the stockade.

“Strange,” he whispered to himself, as he hastened home; “’tis very strange indeed, but I know that I was not walking in my sleep. I believe that I am haunted. It never occurred to me before to-night that I am a double murderer!”

CHAPTER IV.
POOR ISABEL!

To say that Jim McCabe soon forgot his midnight adventure would not be speaking truthfully, for he did not. It preyed upon his mind so continuously that his once red face began to grow pale and haggard, and his eyes hollow. He unconsciously acquired the habit of falling into a deep reverie when alone, and on such occasions he started nervously when spoken to, and stared wildly around. In his dreams he saw visions of Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing by the grave in the glade, and sometimes it seemed as if they were joined there by Doctor Trafford, the murdered man. He could not muster up courage sufficient to pay that lonely tomb another visit after dark, for, though always before he laughed at the mere idea of ghosts appearing to mortals on this earth, he now firmly believed that he had seen the spirit of a dead man! He could not, nor did he attempt to, explain the mysterious actions of Isabel, and her meeting with the supposed ghost, but he thought of it a great deal, and even told the girl’s father about it.

Yes, embracing the first opportunity that offered, McCabe related the circumstance to Moreland. That is to say, he informed that gentleman that he had seen his daughter meet a man in the woods; but he forbore mentioning the resemblance of the man to Russell Trafford, for fear such a statement would make him an object of ridicule. Mr. Moreland was sadly grieved by the intelligence. It is hardly probable that he would have put any faith in the testimony of such an unreliable person as Jim McCabe, had he not heard the same story from other sources. Different parties, happening by the glade on different nights, had come to him with the information that they had been very much surprised by seeing his daughter meet a man there in a very loverlike manner. None of them was prepared to say who the man was, since they had not been able to see his face, but that of Isabel seemed to have been plainly visible on each and every occasion.

No wonder, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Moreland were deeply troubled, and began to look on their daughter with distrust. Was it possible that Isabel, always so good and dutiful, was clandestinely meeting a stranger every night in the woods? They would fain have turned a deaf ear to every word touching the character of their idolized child, but all of those who had witnessed the secret meetings—we may except McCabe—were persons whom they positively could not disbelieve. They were at a loss what course to pursue. They decided to say nothing on the subject to their daughter, but to devise a plan instead, of putting an end to the nocturnal meetings without seeming to have such an object in view. The whole settlement was soon talking about the mysterious stranger, wondering who in the world he was, whence he came, and where he kept himself during the day. And the men looked puzzled, and the women held up their hands with horrified looks, as they speculated on the immodest conduct of Miss Moreland, but not a word of the gossip reached the ear of the wronged girl herself. All knew that the death of Russell Trafford had wrought a marked change in her appearance, but already the roses were returning to her cheeks, the luster to her eyes, and she was fast becoming the same light-hearted, joyous girl that had once been the light and life of the whole settlement. Was not this, in itself, proof that she had forgotten her old love?

Poor Isabel! She knew nothing of the calumnious gossip that was being indulged in at her expense. She little dreamed even that her friends had begun to regard her with feelings of distrust, much less her own kind parents, who had always had confidence in her self-esteem, womanly modesty, and true dignity of soul. But, when Sunday came round, and she went with her parents to the little log meeting-house, where the settlers were wont to repair for worship on this day of each week, she was surprised and pained by the strange looks and cold salutations she there received. She spoke of this to her mother on returning home, but only an evasive reply was offered in return, leaving her as much in the dark as before.

Thus matters went on with the Morelands. Almost every evening, Isabel was observed to throw a light shawl over her shoulders and leave the house, and, on inquiry of the guards at the gate, it was ascertained that she really did leave the fort entirely in her nocturnal strolls. Still, neither the father nor mother was willing to broach the subject to the misguided daughter. They tried to think her innocent of any impropriety—to believe that she went out in the silent hours of night to weep unseen over the grave of her dead lover. But to no purpose. They could not discard the statement of those whom they knew too thoroughly to suspect of fabrication. So the talk was kept up, and the cause of it all was ignorant of the sensation she had raised.

Once Mr. Morton thought of forbidding the guard to let her out through the gate, but, before he had decided as to the feasibility of this plan, another one came to his mind which he liked much better. The forming of this last plan was followed by a firm resolution, and Mr. Moreland was not the man to break a resolution when once it was made.

“My dear,” he said, when he and his wife were alone in the house, “I am no longer at a loss what course to take to prevent a continuance of this imprudent conduct on the part of our child. I have thought of several plans which I did not think proper, on careful consideration, to put into execution, but I have devised one now which I shall certainly act upon. About fifteen miles down the river there is a fort, as you doubtless remember, and to this fort I propose to remove. Some fine morning we will pack our worldly effects, and take our poor daughter to a new home. She shall know nothing of the project until the time of starting, and then this strange lover of hers will not know what has become of her.”

Mrs. Moreland listened calmly to this. The idea of breaking off old associations, and turning their backs on their present home, was by no means a pleasant one to her. But she thought of all that was in the scales, and did not demur. Whatever her husband said was right, that she was willing to do, she said, and then bowed her head low over her knitting, to hide the tears that would come at the remembrance of her child’s conduct of late. So it was decided to take Isabel far away from the unknown scoundrel who had lured her from the path of duty, but they studiously avoided uttering a word of their intentions in her presence.

Among the foremost of the girl’s vilifiers was Jim McCabe, who told all of his acquaintances how he had seen her meet a strange-looking man at an unseemly hour, in an unseemly place, and how she had permitted him to embrace and kiss her. Of all this he had ample proof, but he began to exaggerate the story as he repeated it, and at the end would go on to say that Miss Moreland was no longer fit to associate with the other young women of the fort. As may well be supposed, the scheming rascal had an object in this. His hope was to deprive her entirely of her good name, and then go to her with words of deep compassion and urge her to fly with him away from those bad people!

One day, while McCabe was strolling through the settlement, he encountered the Irish boy, Mike Terry. Somewhat to his surprise, Mike had seemed to purposely shun him of late, and on this occasion he determined to have an interview. So he took a gold-piece from his pocket, and accosted the lad.

“Mike, here is some money for you,” he said, with a bland smile. “I have not given you any for some time, and I must say that your long silence has pleased me very much.”

“Divil a cint iv yer money do I want,” replied the boy, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“What! Don’t you want it?”

“Divil a cint,” he repeated, firmly.

“Why, what has come over you?” asked McCabe, in surprise.

“A faylin’ iv remorse for phat I’ve been an’ done,” answered Mike, moodily, beginning to dig his heel into the ground. “It’s yer own cousin I am, Jamie, on me mother’s side iv the house, but, begorra, ye’ve made me hate yeez like a kitten hates a wet floor.”

“Why so, Mike? What the deuce are you whining about?”

“Faith! don’t I have enough throuble to make me whine? Didn’t yeez do an awful wicked thing, sure, and didn’t yeez make a tool iv me to work yersilf out iv the scrape wid yer life? That ye did, ye bla’guard, an’ av it wasn’t yer own cousin I am, I should niver have done it, at all, at all. Bad ’cess to yeez for takin’ advantage iv me youth, an’ our relationship, to wheedle me into this wickedness. I’ve a great mind to confess all, an’ let ’em sthring ye up be the neck iv yeez; it’s desarvin’ it, ye are.”

Jim McCabe began to exhibit signs of alarm.

“See here, you little fool,” he hissed, grasping the boy’s arm, “you must exercise better judgment than this, or things will be brought to a pretty pass. The man is dead; both are dead, and it is too late now to remedy the matter. All you have to do is to keep your mouth, and all will be well; but let contrition bring you to a confession of your guilt, and, just so surely as you stand before me now, you will hang!”

“Not I, Jamie.”

“Yes, you as well as I. Was it not your evidence that convicted him? Would they not regard you as a murderer, and punish you accordingly? As a matter of course they would, and the best thing you can do is to keep your tongue in your head. Do you hear?”

Mike Terry heard, and it was evident, too, that he believed his crafty cousin, for he relapsed into silence and continued digging in the ground with his heel. At length, however, he looked up suddenly, with a strange glitter in his eyes.

“Jamie,” he whispered, huskily, “do yeez belave in spooks?”

McCabe started in spite of himself at this unexpected inquiry.

“Spooks, boy? What do you mean?”

“Why, ghosts, to be sure. Raal ginewine ghosts.”

“Ha, ha! of course I do not. But why do you ask?”

It was plain that the laugh was forced, and that the villain was not a little disconcerted by the question put to him. He was thinking of a night not long gone, which would ever be fresh in his memory, should he live a hundred years. There were a few gray hairs on his temples now, the effects of that night’s fright.

“The raison why I ax,” said Mike, “is this: I saw one!”

“What! saw a ghost? Nonsense.”

“Yis, sur; a ginewine sperit. Ye know there’s a big sinsation ’bout that Moreland gurril. They say she mates a sthranger ivery night, out there where masther Russell’s grave is. (Wirra! wirra! phat good masthers they were, to be sure—Russell an’ the doctor!) Well, me curiosity got the upper hand iv me, Jamie, an’ I thought I’d thry an’ git a glimpse iv the sthranger that iverybody was talkin’ about. So last avenin’ I went out there in the woods all alone. I hid mesilf in the bushes, an’ while I was layin’ there, phat d’ yeez think come along? The ghost iv Russell Trafford!”

Jim McCabe closed his white lips tightly over his teeth, with a mighty effort to control himself. This conclusion of Mike Terry’s recital was just what he had expected, but it was none the less startling for that fact. Up to this time he had thought it possible that he was laboring under a mysterious illusion, but, now that another had seen the same thing, every doubt fled.

“You positively saw this?” he said to Mike.

“Yis,” said Mike, “an’ I was dridfully scairt.”

“Was the ‘ghost,’ as you call it, alone?”

“Entirely alone; an’ I was scairt half out iv me wits.”

“Did nobody join him there?”

“Faith! I didn’t wait to see. I took to me heels like a strake iv gr’ased lightin’. Musha! musha! I niver was so scairt before.”

McCabe mused awhile, and then asked:

“You don’t believe in ghosts, Mike?”

“Och, but I do, though,” asserted the Irish boy. “Me father used to belave in ’em, ye know, an’ he used to till long sthories about ’em that ’ud raise the hair iv me to hear.”

“Pshaw! your father was a drunken sot.”

“Yis; he resimbled, in that respect, yer own dear silf,” said Mike, with a flash of his old jocoseness. “But, Jamie,” he added, seriously, “av I had niver belaved in sperits before, I couldn’t help doin’ it now, afther phat I’ve been an’ seen.”

“Come with me, cousin,” said McCabe, in a changed tone of voice. “Let us go to my house and talk this thing over.”

He linked his arm in that of the lad, and the two walked slowly on together.

No sooner were they gone from the spot where they had been conversing, than a man stepped out from behind a tree, and stalked away as calmly as if nothing had been said in his hearing.

Again it was Nick Robbins!

CHAPTER V.
CLOUDED HEARTS.

The day soon came that was to witness the departure of the Morelands, and there was much ado in preparing for the down-river journey. They were not to start until nightfall, as they had been repeatedly advised to travel wholly by night, and lie in concealment during the day. The woods at that time were swarming with hostile Indians, who, indignant at the increasing tide of white humanity that was flowing westward and spreading over their broad domains, were watching continually for flatboats and overland emigrants. Many and horrible were the massacres perpetrated on those daring souls who turned their backs on civilization to brave the dangers of the great western wilderness and clear the way for those to come thereafter. At such a time as this, then, it was well understood that the voyage of the Morelands would be beset with innumerable dangers, but to undertake it in the broad light of day, would seem almost like throwing their lives away. But even under cover of darkness they were not permitted to go alone. The commandant at the block-house selected a dozen good men to accompany them down the river as an escort.

Isabel was not apprised of the project in view, until the afternoon preceding the evening of their departure. When informed that they were going to take up their abode at another fort, miles away, she took no pains to conceal her astonishment, but prudently refrained from asking questions. It was plain that she suspicioned the true cause of this strange decision on the part of her father, but the troubled look she wore, as she saw herself an object of distrust in the eyes of her parents, was interpreted by them as deep regret at being compelled to leave her new lover.

Isabel was standing in the door, looking very beautiful and very sad, when Jim McCabe, who always seemed lying in wait for this sort of an opportunity to gain an interview, stepped up to her, and doffed his hat with an attempt at politeness. She would have retreated had she seen him approaching, but he had spoken to her before she knew he was nigh.

“Miss Moreland,” he said, leaning against the house, and looking up at her with a bland smile, “I hear you are about to leave us?”

“Yes, sir,” she answered, briefly.

“I—I—am really sorry, Miss Moreland,” he continued, feigning embarrassment, “that we are doomed to be deprived of the brightest star that lights the little world within these palisades. I presume, though, that you have friends here with whom you are equally as sorry to part. Am I not right?”

“It is never a pleasure to part with one’s friends.”

“Very true; and you will leave a great many friends behind you,” said McCabe, feeling his way cautiously.

“I trust you are right,” replied Isabel, coldly. “It is not pleasant to reflect that our pathway of life is surrounded by enemies alone.”

“And yet such may be the case,” hinted the man.

Observing nothing serious behind these words, Isabel was silent.

“Miss Moreland,” he resumed, “I suppose you know nothing of the slanderous reports that have been circulated at your expense?”

“I do not understand.”

“Then listen. We were speaking of friends; it is my opinion that you have comparatively few at present.”

“Explain yourself.”

“I will. But, first—begging your pardon—let me be so presumptuous as to ask you a question. Have you recently been meeting a man, at a certain hour of the night, out yonder by the grave of Russell Trafford?”

He looked keenly at her, but was disappointed in what he saw. Her face expressed nothing but astonishment and offended pride.

“Sir, you are impertinent,” she exclaimed.

“I ask a simple question.”

“I say you speak in riddles.”

“Then I will be more explicit. For a week your supposed unwomanly conduct has been the talk of the whole village. They say that you have been led astray by an entire stranger, who has won your affections, and whom you have been meeting at an unbecoming hour and place. I need hardly tell you that I have met this wicked rumor with the contempt it deserves, but, I am sorry to say, that in which I have no faith is believed by every one else.”

Isabel Moreland bit her lip hard to stop its quivering, and the rich color came and went beneath the transparent surface of her cheeks. It was all plain to her now. At last she had explanation of the great change that had taken place in her former friends, and she knew why they treated her so coldly. She was silent for some time, and then, flashing her big, black eyes upon McCabe, she gave him a look that seemed to burn into his very soul.

“I know who started that report,” she said.

“What—you know who—well?”

“You did it, sir!”

“Eh?”

“I say, sir, that you were the originator of the malicious report of which you take delight in telling me.”

“I beg your pardon, madam, if I see fit to dispute your word, but I must say, in defense of myself, that you are speaking under a sad mistake. Why do you think me guilty of this wicked thing? Ah, I know. You are thinking of the night when I saw you in the glade, clasped in the embrace of that stranger.”

The girl dropped her eyes in confusion. Her heart heaved tumultuously with conflicting emotions, and a sinister smile curled his thin lips as he observed it.

“Still,” continued the brute, “you wrong me in attributing the origin of that report to me. I was not certain that the woman I saw that evening was you, though it is true I noted the resemblance. On my word of honor, Miss Moreland, I have not opened my mouth until this moment concerning that of which I chanced to be a witness. There are several others who have seen the same thing that I saw, and have been gossiping about it at a fearful rate. The story has been related to me fifty times, perhaps, and, although I have cursed the gabbling idiots, and formed numberless excuses in your defense, they only laugh at my skepticism and declare that I am in love. Believe me, I have tried to be your friend through this ordeal, and I feel that I am only doing the duty of a friend in letting you know to what a humiliating extent you are being imposed upon.”

Having relieved himself of this speech, McCabe fancied he had said the right thing in the right place, and looked vastly important as he awaited an answer. Isabel composed herself with difficulty, but when she spoke again it was quite calmly.

“Does my father know of this?” she asked.

“He does. Both your father and mother have been repeatedly told of it, if I am rightly informed.”

The girl was silent again.

“Miss Moreland,” pursued the profligate, taking a step nearer, “I have told you how firmly I have espoused your cause, and proved myself your devoted friend through all. I am certain that you have the best of reasons for meeting this so-called stranger—a reason which, although it is sufficient to excuse you from censure, you are not yet at liberty to divulge. Darling, I am the only one who has faith in your innocence. I know you are too good, too pure—”

“Cease your mockery, villain!” cried Isabel, her whole manner changing in an instant. “Leave me at once, and see that you never open your foul mouth to address me again! I have been blind heretofore, but I now see your object in lionizing yourself in my presence! Be off! I hate you! I loathe you!”

Jim McCabe was somewhat taken aback by this outburst. Passion getting the best of him, his face became livid; he clenched his hands involuntarily, and gnashed his teeth like a maddened brute.

“Go, execrable wretch!” commanded Isabel. “I see my father coming; take yourself off immediately, or I shall ask him to assist you.”

“Your father, indeed,” laughed McCabe, in a sort of ecstasy of rage. “Little does he now care for his deceitful, perfidious daughter. He won’t think it possible for anybody to insult her after all that has been revealed to him. Listen, Isabel Moreland; I leave you now at your command, but, mark my word, two days shall not pass away before we meet again; and you will be in my power!”

The next moment he was gone.

Isabel entered the house, and at once sought her little chamber, there to be alone with her thoughts and tears. She understood now why she was about to be taken away from her present home, and it grieved her to think her parents had lost confidence in her. But, she could not undeceive them now, and, since hearing what she had heard, she was glad that she was going away, knowing it was better thus than to remain there an object of scorn. There was no help for her unhappiness at present; none knew that better than she; but she felt assured that all would be well in good time, and so tried hard to be contented with her lot.

When night came she went with her parents to the river which flowed by within three hundred yards of the settlement. On reaching the bank they found the escort waiting—stalwart, sturdy-looking rangers, all armed to the teeth. There were two large boats lying close up under the river-bank, one of them being occupied by eight of the men, and the other by the remaining four, which latter was also to carry the family.

Mr. and Mrs. Moreland at once took their places in the boat, but Isabel hesitated.

“Come, child,” said her mother; “step in, and sit down here by me. I suspect the men are impatient to be off.”

The men were taking up their oars, preparatory to starting.

“Mamma,” said Isabel, “I have forgotten something.”

“Forgotten something?”

“Yes.”

“What is it? Nothing of importance, I hope, for we can not tarry until you return for it.”

“But it is of importance, mamma. It is that pretty case of trinkets that father gave me, and among its contents is that golden locket which I prize so highly, containing the pictures of yourself and papa. I placed it on the mantle-piece in the front room just before starting, intending to get it as I came out. I must go back now, for I can not lose it.”

“There is no necessity for either the one or the other,” put in her father, a little sharply. “We can not wait here until you obtain it, so get in here with your mother and let us be gone.”

“I will not be absent long,” persisted the maiden.

“Too long to keep us waiting. Please take your place in the boat, and say no more about it. Your case of trinkets will not be lost, depend upon it. We can speak to old Kirby Kidd, and have him bring it to you, as you know he frequently makes a trip between the two forts. The men have been waiting here long enough already to try their patience, and I’m sure they don’t relish the idea of a longer delay.”

“Yer father’s right, miss,” said one of the rangers, respectfully. “I don’t want to oppose ye, but hyur’s as calculates yer father’s right; ’cause why? we got to go a consid’rable ways afore mornin’.”

“Not so very fur,” said another. “We’ve only to make two-thirds o’ the distance to-night, an’ that ain’t more’n ten mile, ye know. We’ve got to stop at that island, Jack, that Kidd was tellin’ us about, and lay thar till to-morrer night ’fore completin’ the journey. The gal’s got plenty o’ time to git her valu’bles.”

“There, father; what do you say to that?” cried Isabel.

“I say, my child, that I myself will go back after your treasure,” said Mr. Moreland, preparing to step out of the boat.

“No, papa; no, no, no!” contested the daughter, earnestly. “I will go myself. I can go more quickly, you know.”

And, before he could expostulate, she had turned and tripped lightly up the bank, and in another moment had disappeared in the darkness.

As Isabel hurried through the woods toward the settlement, she murmured to herself:

“Poor papa and mamma! It goes to my heart to look upon them in their deep sorrow, conscious that I could relieve them of their trouble by a word. It is hard to deceive them, who love me so dearly, but I am sure they will forgive me when they know all. My case of trinkets I left for an excuse to return. God forgive me! I believe it is all for the best. I must hurry and get the case, and then keep my appointment with him.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE MYSTERY DEEPENS.

Jim McCabe had formed a villainous plot when he heard that the Morelands were about to remove down the river, and, now that they were gone, he proceeded at once to put it into execution. He had had this plot in his mind when he told Isabel that she would be in his power before the lapse of two days, and he vowed again and again to himself that his scheme should be carried out to the letter. He was a desperate man when aroused to a frenzy by repeated reverses, and, now that he had been cast off in anger by the woman he had hoped to win by fair means, he swore by all that was good and bad that she should be his in spite of all opposition. He had committed worse deeds than this he had in contemplation; therefore he did not hesitate to undertake it on the score of conscientious scruples.

That night, as soon as the Moreland family had set out for the river, McCabe went to his cabin, armed himself with a gun, pistol and knife, secured about his person an ample supply of ammunition, and otherwise equipped himself in a manner indicating a dangerous journey in view.

This done, which took considerable time, he left the fort without delay. As he passed out he stopped at the gate long enough to inform the sentry that he need not be expected back that night, as he would be gone two days or more. The sentry indulged in a prolonged whistle of surprise, and looked closely at the man, observing that his face was flushed redder than usual and that his eyes shone with an unnatural light.

“Whar the nation be ye goin’?” he asked, suspiciously.

“No matter,” muttered the villain, and then he hurried on to avoid further questioning, leaving the sentry to conjecture that “the blamed cuss was up to some new piece o’ deviltry.”

“I wonder if I’ll succeed?” mused McCabe, as he hastened on through the darkness. “If I can find Simon Girty before the game has reached a place of refuge, success is certain; but the question is, will I find him? Without his services I can see how the thing will result; but if he is not to be found I shall undertake the task alone at all hazards, rather than throw up my hand without an attempt to win. Christopher! wouldn’t there be a big furore at the fort should my intimacy with that notorious renegade, Girty, be discovered? My life wouldn’t be worth shucks. I would be thrown into confinement beyond a doubt, and then, when the innocence of the place was wrapped in slumber, an infuriated mob would take me out and string me up with a little less ceremony than was awarded to Russell Trafford. By the way—”

Jim McCabe stopped suddenly, and stood stock-still. An idea struck him. He trembled to think of such a thing, yet he was seized with a desire to look once more on the grave of Russell Trafford before going away! To be sure he had not effaced a previous occasion from his memory, when such a desire led him to the most terrible fright he had ever received; but this time the attraction was stronger than before, and he half-believed that he might now gloat over the grave of his rival undisturbed. Isabel Moreland had gone away, and she could not meet anybody there now, ghost or mortal, so he deemed it probable that he would find the coast clear to-night.

He acted upon the irresistible impulse, and that without any unnecessary loss of time, for he had evidently begun a journey that would not admit of procrastination. Turning aside from the course he had been pursuing, he bent his footsteps toward the glade. He looked to the priming of his gun, and began to exercise caution as he proceeded, for fear that somebody was indeed there, who would be apprised of his approach unless he stepped with care.

“Of course nobody is there,” he said to himself, “but it is best to be careful. I wish I could forget that I ever saw any thing frightful in that haunted place; but even rum has lost its power to drown the memory of that awful night. I can no longer doubt that it was a spirit I saw, for Kirby Kidd, and Wapawah, and Nick Robbins were there, and they saw nothing. But how can I account for her being there in the embrace of that unearthly shadow? She, a living mortal, holding tryst with a—Well, it is simply inexplicable, and it drives me to distraction to think of it. Could it have been my imagination, after all, that made his face resemble that one under the ground? My mind was full of Trafford, and it is not very strange that I should fancy a resemblance. But no. I have discarded that idea a hundred times already, because it isn’t possible that I could be so deceived. True, every one else who has seen him declares that he is a stranger, but they all admit that they did not obtain a fair view of his face.”

While thus communing with himself, McCabe was moving along slowly and cautiously, scarcely misplacing a twig, or rustling a leaf, in his progress. But, no sooner had he finished his monologue than he suddenly came to a dead halt, and bent forward in a listening attitude.

No wonder, for he distinctly heard the low hum of voices, rising and falling in calm, smooth tones, as if engaged in friendly and familiar conversation. The sound came from some point directly in front of him—evidently from the glade!

The profligate began to tremble with fear. His first impulse was to take to his heels, and make them do good service until he was far away from that vicinity; but before he could follow this impulse he had recovered his courage. Repenting his temporary weakness, he determined to be bold, and then curiosity came to his assistance, and he resolved to find out who the parties were who had preceded him. Surely they were not the same he had seen there, for he knew that Isabel had gone away with her father and mother. But he must see to know, and see he would.

Dropping down on his hands and knees, he advanced stealthily toward the glade, as the panther approaches its prey. The voices grew more distinct as he drew nearer to the speakers, and once or twice he paused to listen as he fancied he detected the dulcet tones of a female voice. But he could not be certain.

When he had gone so far that he could go no further without exposing himself to the parties from whom he was hiding, he stopped and rose slowly to his feet behind a large tree. He was gratified to find that he had reached this place of concealment without being discovered, and he now observed that it was an excellent point from which to view the whole length of the glade. Peering around the tree slyly, he looked out into the opening.

There, sure enough, were two human forms sitting side by side on the grave! One of them was that of a woman, too, as he could plainly see, and the other was a fine-looking man, bareheaded and dressed in a suit of somber black. Her hands were in his, and they were looking into each other’s eyes in a manner that could not be mistaken. They were conversing pleasantly, but in such low tones that few of the words were distinguishable. Jim McCabe leaned forward to give them a closer look. The next instant his knees struck together, his eyes started half out of their sockets, and he scarcely suppressed the cry that sprung to his lips.

The man and woman sitting on the grave were Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland!

It would be difficult to describe the feelings that harrowed the villain’s breast as he made this discovery, but fear, amazement, and indomitable rage were predominant. This time the appearance of the girl there was more wonderful than that of the man, to him, for he deemed it not nearly so strange for a spirit to walk the earth, as he did for a human being to be present at two places at the same time; and he had certainly seen Isabel go away with her parents that evening.

When his fear had subsided his blood began to boil with furious anger, as on the first occasion. He not only found it impossible to control himself, but he scarcely knew what he did.

“By the Eternal!” he shrieked, “’tis the second time I have been fated to look on this scene, and if that man is not a ghost he shall be one in less than a minute! Curse you, take that!”

McCabe threw up his rifle and leveled it at the couple on the grave. He did not aim at the man particularly. In his fierce passion he cared but little which one he shot.

There was a flash and a report, followed by a suppressed scream. Then Jim McCabe leaped out from behind the tree, clubbed his gun and bounded out into the open glade. He dashed through the cloud of smoke that had been caused by the discharge of his piece, and in another moment was standing beside the grave.

Nobody was there! The baffled wretch glared about him like a madman. Not a living thing was within range of his gleaming eyes! Not the slightest sound of a footstep told him that they had fled from him. What had become of them so quickly? Had his aim proved untrue? and had they made good their escape in so short a space of time, and so noiselessly that they could not be heard? These, and a score of similar questions, flashed through the bewildered man’s mind, as he stood by the grave, staring wildly around and listening in vain for the sound of a retreating footstep. He knew he had seen them sitting there where he was now standing; but how they had vanished so quickly was an unfathomable mystery. He walked round the edge of the wood, looking behind trees, and thrusting the barrel of his gun into the bushes, but discovered no trace of those for whom he was searching. Then he stopped and pressed his hand to his brow, with an effort to calm his excited brain.

“I must be doomed,” he thought. “I have heard of people seeing such visions, but they always die shortly afterward.”

“Hallo, stranger! How dew you dew?” called out a sharp, nasal voice at that juncture.

McCabe whirled round and placed himself on the defensive in a twinkling. But he instantly lowered his weapon with a show of recognition, as he found himself face to face with a singular-looking specimen of the genus homo, who wore a blue swallow-tail coat, and a tall white hat with the nap brushed the wrong way. It was the Yankee clock-peddler, who had been hanging about the settlement for the last week or two, and who, it will be remembered, had previously introduced himself to McCabe, much to that gentleman’s vexation.

“You here?” he exclaimed, staring in wonder at the intruder, as the latter grasped his hand in an iron gripe, and began to talk to him familiarly.

“Wal, yas,” answered the Yankee, with a huge grin; “I calkilate this is me, and ef it is me I’m here. As Tabitha Simpson used tew say—”

“How came you here?” demanded McCabe, uneasily.

“Now I consider that a leetle tew steep, mister,” declared the clock-peddler, gravely. “I’m Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine, and I’m ’customed tew dewin’ jest as I darn please when I’m tew hum, and I guess I mought venture tew foller up the rule out in these diggin’s. When mother told me as how I shouldn’t go tew a corn-shuckin’ one night, I swore I’d dew as I pleased about it, and I did—but I tuck the headache, though, and concluded to stay hum. When I robbed neighbor Green’s hen-roost, I found it convenient to slope, and I sloped, ’thout axin’ the advice or opinion of anybody; and you may tear every brass button off o’ my coat ef I go back till they promise to let me alone. How came me here? did you ask? I swan tew man—”

“Stop!” cried McCabe. “Tell me, how long have you been here?”

“’Bout five feet ten, ’cordin’ tew last measure; but maybe I am longer ’n that now, seein’ I’ve growed some since I left Maine.”

“No, no!” said the other, impatiently; “you misunderstood me. What length of time have you been here?”

“Been where?”

“Why, here, in the vicinity—this spot?”