CATO, THE CREEPER;
OR,
THE DEMON OF DEAD-MAN’S FOREST.

BY FREDERICK DEWEY.

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

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CATO, THE CREEPER;
OR,
THE DEMON OF DEAD-MAN’S FOREST.

CHAPTER I.

CAPTAIN DOWNING SMILES.

The hot Arkansas sun shone hotly down upon Dead-Man’s Forest, that vast, sleepy army of trees which silently overlooked acres of treacherous swamp, silent glade, and tiny hillock. Why it had been so weirdly named, no one knew, as the name had descended from the Indians, and they had regarded it with awe as being haunted with evil spirits.

In extent it was some thousands of acres, some hilly, others level, and a great portion swampy and gloomy. The trees were thickly planted, and were giants among other trees.

In the swampy regions the sun scarcely ever penetrated the matted branches, and the howl of the wolf, the scream of the catamount, and the hiss of the venomous snake, and the scream of some bird of prey were the only sounds to be heard in its depths.

On the afternoon of which we are speaking, however, the gloomy old forest resounded with the quaint tones of a negro melody, trolled from the lips of one of the most sable negroes who ever hunted a raccoon.

He was shambling along a dim trail through the silent forest, idly gazing right and left, and appeared to be wholly at his leisure.

He was short and stumpy, and was scantily dressed in an old cotton shirt open at the neck, and an old pair of blue jean pants, which were much too short for him, being once the property of a diminutive boy.

His lips were thick and huge, and his large white eyes rolled always, never at rest. His head was bare, showing a cranium covered with close-setting kinks of black hair, or wool. He was very dirty, and was one of those heedless, happy vagabonds who have plenty to eat, plenty of time to sleep, and who care not what the morrow may bring.

His name was Cato, the Creeper—from his aptness and stealthiness in pursuing a trail. He once had been a Mississippi slave, but had been freed many years since—in fact when he was quite young, and he was now thirty-five. He lived alone, and what he did for a living no one knew; but he always was to be found strolling about Dead-Man’s Forest, or else asleep in his cabin, which stood on the edge of the wood. He was suspected of being in league with a band of outlaws which haunted the woods, but, as nothing bad was ever proven against him, he was allowed to go unmolested.

Cato emerged into a flowery glade, with a skip and a caper.

“Hi!” he laughed, cheerily. “Ho! wha’ for dat Dutchman say song war—hi!”

He stopped, and bending his head, mused for a moment. Then he capered on, with a grin.

“Hi! yah! yah! Golly, I hab it!

“‘Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob-ee;

I eat a glass of lager and I run away to sea—

Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob, Sugar Bob-eree,

Zwei glass o’ lager am what suits me.’”

He grinned with delight at his song, and then burst out again:

“Way down on de ole Gum’s island,

Knife and a fork a-stickin’ in de bacon—

Bacon, bacon, bacon plenty.”

He had hardly finished when a huge man burst from a thicket and collared him, with a series of horrible oaths, almost knocking him down in his violence.

“Blast ye!” the new-comer yelled, with another shake, “haint ye b’en told ter keep yer big mouth shet while ye’re in these woods? Do yer want ter bring the Regulators down on us? Be quiet, I say, yer dog!”

“Golly, Mars’r Fink, am dat yo’ fo’ shore? Golly, Mars’r Fink, I’s right glad ter see yer—I be, fo’ a fac’.”

“Shet up! It’s nuthin’ but ‘golly, Mars’r Fink’ all the hull time. Now it’s got ter be stopped—d’ye understand?”

“Sho’, Mars’r Fink; enty you know I’s allus willin’ to ’bey orders? I tell you, Katy, I’s be’n allus a fust-class creeper, ain’t I?”

“Yes, tolerable,” surlily assented the person called Fink. Then he mused for a moment, still wearing a surly air.

He was a rough backwoodsman, dressed in the rough backwoods style, in coarse jeans, coon-skin cap and heavy boots. He wore a belt, in which were a pair of wicked-looking revolvers, a small coil of stout cord, and an ugly knife. His countenance was sinister in the extreme, and denoted he was a slave to his passions, which were very violent. The cord was for the purpose of binding prisoners.

Prisoners? Yes; the man Fink was a desperado. At the time of this story (during the early settling of Arkansas), in addition to the hostile Indians, were a race more feared, more subtle and dangerous—robbers and cut-throats, united in bands for purposes of plunder. He was the second officer of one of these bands.

“Cato, I’ve got a job fur yer,” he said, looking up.

“Hi, Mars’r Fink; show ’em up; I’s allus ready,” replied the negro.

“It is to— Hello! what hev we hyar?”

He started back suddenly, as a rustle was heard in the thicket, and drew a revolver. The negro, from some hidden place, drew a keen razor with remarkable agility, and stood on his guard, lowering at the copse.

A man burst out of the bushes boldly, as if fearing no danger, and knowing with whom he was meeting. He was dressed in green throughout, with a peaked hat, and high, shining boots. He wore a belt, stuck full of weapons. He was a handsome, genial-looking fellow, in the prime of life, very agile and strong, as could be seen by his sinewy limbs.

His eyes were a deep brown, shining pleasantly, and from under his hat peeped a few short, chestnut curls. His hands were small and shapely, and were very white. His face was intelligent, and his head that of a man born to command. Yet this man, whom, in point of looks, any woman would welcome as a lover, was a fiend within—a demon of extraordinary cruelty and daring. His name was Charles Downing—Captain Downing—and he was the chief of a notorious and feared robber band—the same of which Fink was lieutenant.

“How are you, Cato?” he said, with a smile, which disclosed a set of handsome, even teeth. “So you are on the defensive.”

The negro’s arm dropped, and he slipped the razor into his bosom. Fink belted his revolver.

“Golly, Mars’r Cap’n, Cato t’ink ole fool Injun war prowlin’ ’bout. Berry glad it ain’t, fur ye see thar mout be bloodshed,” and he grinned from ear to ear.

“Nonsense, Cato, there are no Indians within twenty miles. They are nearly all off on the prairie, buffalo-hunting. We will meet them, however, soon, and it will be no harm to be wary and cautious. I was just trying to find you—I’ve work for you to do this afternoon.”

“Dat’s wha’ Mars’r Fink done se’d; golly, I’se fearful dry to-day—ef thar’s whisky in the camp I’se work my fingers off—hi, hi, hi!”

“You shall have all you wish, Cato, after the job is finished. I want to warn you about singing and laughing so shrilly; it may bring the Vigilantes down upon us. You know you are suspected.”

“Hi, yi! ole Creeper Cato done stove ’em off sebenteen times a’ready,” grinned Cato. “Tek’s Cato Creeper ter fool ’em, yi, yi!”

The lieutenant struck in harshly:

“Wal, thar’s an eend ter all things; so thar is ter ropes. Ye’ll find that out soon ef yer aint keerful; yer be too reckless by half.”

“Recollect, Cato, that old man Jeffries is casting a suspicious eye on you. He is very shrewd, and, if my suspicions are correct, he belongs to the Regulators. You can not be too careful; the oldest and slyest foxes are sometimes trapped.”

“And the trees have tongues,” added Fink.

“Whar’s de job, Mars’r Cap’n?” inquired Cato, impatiently.

“Near the brown cabin,” answered Downing. “We will go there now; I am in a hurry. It is nearly sunset, and I have a pleasant mission to-night.”

Turning, he led the way through the quiet, ghostly thickets, closely followed by his comrades. For nearly a mile they silently stole on, warily halting at the slightest rustle in the thicket. At length they entered the confines of a solemn, treacherous swamp, guarded by drooping trees, matted vines, and quiet as the grave. Here no song-bird caroled its merry lay; its dark and gloomy depths the squirrel shunned; while the “honk” of the wild-goose overhead, the hiss of the yellow rattlesnake, the growl of the bear, and the wail of the catamount were its only sounds. It was called “the Shadow Swamp.”

The narrow trail they had been pursuing now ran along the huge trunk of a fallen tree toward its matted butt. Here they stopped.

A gloomy, black expanse of thick, slimy water lay before them, covering about ten feet across in extent. How were they to cross its stagnant and deceitful surface? They could not wade—it would be death by suffocation; they could not swim through its weedy, sluggish current, and they had no boat. They wished to go across, for they intently regarded a small thickly-timbered island which lay in the middle of the pond. It was the robber stronghold.

Only a second they stood there, then the captain drew a whistle from his pocket and blew three long blasts, quite shrilly; then he paused a moment, and then blew twice, softly.

As if by magic a boat or “dug-out” shot out from the island propelled by a dirty, sinister-appearing man, bewhiskered and large in proportions. With a single paddle he forced the craft through the weeds and water-lilies rapidly, paddling carelessly. This man was not armed at all, and he acted as if he had recently been asleep. He had been—for his business was trifling and light. He was the ferryman—the Charon of this River Styx.

The distance was trifling, and the dug-out soon grated against the tree. Without a word they slid down the side and stepped into the craft, and the boatman, Jack Dark, rowed or paddled away in silence. The short voyage was soon ended, and the men stepped ashore, and left the ferryman alone, all in silence.

This was the captain’s order—that from the time the signal was first given until the boat had been hidden away on the island, the utmost silence should be observed. No one dared break this rule, for once a robber disobeyed and he suddenly disappeared, the subordinates of the gang knowing not whither. The captain on being questioned, only smiled quietly and cautioned obedience. Then they knew he was of the world no more.

The island was level and had once been heavily wooded, but now the center was cleared, leaving a thick underbrush to the sides near the water. Thus the interior was level and bare, while the outer rim of tangled willows and reeds, made it impossible to discover the retreat from the mainland, even if any one should chance to climb a tree, which no one ever did except on urgent occasions.

Two cabins stood in this clearing, both equal in size, but of different colors. They were composed of roughly-hewn logs set firmly together, the interstices being filled in with moss and dried mud. Neither had but one opening—one door which served for light and ingress. They were the common log-cabins to be seen anywhere in the Western or Southern States.

One was occupied by the officers and the scout—Captain Downing, Fink, and Bob Griffith. It was called the white cabin, because it was composed of light-colored wood, with the bark taken off. The other was about fifty yards distant, and was called the brown cabin, to distinguish it from the other. This was occupied by the subordinates, where the captain’s cooking was done, as he was very fastidious and detested the smell of cookery.

The three men emerged from the clearing, when they were challenged by a sentry, who started up from behind a log. The countersign was given, the sentry slunk back, and they went on toward the brown cabin. Captain Downing was vigilant and cunning.

Several ill-looking men, armed to the teeth, were lying in the cabin door, some dozing and smoking short pipes, while others played cards and quarreled. A fierce black dog was chained to a stump close by. He was a bloodhound—the fiercest of his race.

They walked up to the cabin and the men stopped gambling for a moment to watch Downing’s lips. If he smiled, beware! evil was brewing. If he was demure he was watching every thing with the eye of a lynx.

In this state he was as harmless as a tame bear when filled with meat and honey. But when he softly whistled a dirge, even his most trusted companions feared him. He was then a tiger. If he laughed pleasantly he was in high spirits and his companions felt easy and secure. But that was seldom.

He regarded his men quietly, then looked toward an object, prostrate, a few yards away, and smiled quietly. Then he became demure, then said with a pleasant laugh:

“Well, boys, who is winner? Is anybody bankrupt?”

“Spades trumps!” vociferated a wiry fellow who had been regarding his captain anxiously. He had slightly offended him the day before. His face grew joyful, and as he swept his winnings between his knees, he cried:

“Hurrah fur Cap’n Downing, boys! three and a tiger!”

The cheers were given lustily. Downing bowed with a look of gratification.

“Thank you, boys,” he said.

Then he turned to Cato.

“There is your job. Bury that villain!”

He turned, and followed by Fink, walked to his cabin, entered it, and closed the door. The men were hilarious.

He had pointed toward the prostrate object. Cato walked up to it curiously. What was his horror at seeing the body of Bill Jameson, better known as Fighting Jim, dead at his feet.

A bullet-hole was in his forehead, and in his stiffened hand was a long knife. The sinister countenance was ghastly and cold, and the stream of blood from the hole had congealed on his face. He was quite dead.

Cato felt nervous. Only that morning he had seen Jim alive and well and had spoken to him. He was now dead. By whose hand did he die, and when?

As he stood gazing nervously down upon the departed robber, his courage failed. This would make the third robber that he had buried in a month. They had all died by the hand of beautiful, girlish Captain Downing.

The scout, Bob Griffith, came up to him and touched his elbow.

“You had better hurry up and bury him; the cap’n is watching you. He is grinning.”

The sweat started out on Cato’s forehead. Without further delay he seized a spade and fell to work lustily; the captain was smiling.

“Golly, Mars’r Griffit’! wha’ for he go um dead?” he asked, working hastily at a rude grave.

“Cap’n told him ter do suthin’ he didn’t like and he kedn’t see it. He called the cap’n a doll-babby. Then cap’n draws and shoots, and thar Jim lays.”

He was moving away when Cato caught him by the arm.

“Who’s de next?” he whispered, with eyes rolling and teeth chattering. “Fo’ God, I ain’t afeard o’ no man—yer know dat am de truf. But I’se done skeered at um cap’n, he so still an’ fierce. He bad man—bad man—Cato t’inks de debbil cotches him, sure. Say, Mars’r Griffit’! who’s de next?”

“Durn it, how do I know? Ef a man keeps a civil tongue and obeys orders, the cap’n is his good friend. But let a man jist buck ag’in’ him—whew!” and Bob the scout walked away.

Cato dug the grave, then without ceremony rolled the body into it. Then he filled it in and stamped the soil down, thinking all the time he might be the next. With the laziness and heedlessness of a negro he had buried all the victims where they fell, one, not ten paces from the captain’s own door.

After his work was finished the captain called him into his cabin, and ordered him to meet him at a certain place when the moon rose. Then he gave him a bottle of liquor, and some money, and sent him away.

After he had gone the captain mused deeply for a moment, then laughed.

“Before long I will be a Benedick!” he said; “a Benedick!”

“Speak to me, cap’n?” grunted Fink, from his pile of blankets and robes in his sleeping corner.

“No; I was just soliloquizing.”

“Oh!” and Fink dropped asleep.

The captain smiled.

CHAPTER II.

A WARNING.

On the skirts of Dead-Man’s Forest, on the side opposite to that on which Cato the Creeper lived, was a small settlement on a hillside.

It was very small, numbering but about a dozen houses or cabins, and in the center on the hilltop was a small block-house.

The soil about the houses was somewhat cultivated and fenced, but the latter was hardly needed, for the settlers owned but few cattle and these were “kept up,” to protect them from the Indians which infested the country.

The settlement, being on a hill, overlooked a fine landscape. On one side, and in close proximity, lay Dead-Man’s Forest, with its acres of gnarled and towering trees, nestling knolls, and vast swamps—gloomy and specter-like, forbidding and haunted.

On the other side, the gazer looked upon a glistening river, winding its way through fertile and beautiful vales, dashing by bluffs and bickering down ravines. The hazy hills in the distance were tinted in the sunlight gloriously, and would be the envy of many a master artist.

On the same afternoon in which last chapter’s events occurred, a young girl sat before a cabin, larger and more tasty than the rest, dreamily gazing into the purple-tinted distance.

She was very beautiful, and her beauty was of the pure and holy kind—virgin.

In her deep, earnest brown eyes a wonderful mellow light played and gleamed, and at intervals she sweetly smiled to herself. Her hair was a rich red-brown and fell in glistening waves nearly to her waist, and was confined at the crown by a bit of bright blue ribbon. Her snow-white dress was short and displayed a charming ankle and the comeliest of little feet. Her hands were shapely, and though somewhat browned by the sun, had not lost their original beauty.

But, though the form was of the fairest to look upon, her face cast it into the shade.

Blessed with clear-cut and regular features, with sweet mouth and decided chin, it would have been beautiful without her eyes, which were deep brown and surpassingly lovely.

Lovely they were at all times, but now in the light of the setting sun, they glowed with a new, glorious light—the light of a pure love.

She was the daughter of old Robert Jeffries, the prominent man of the settlement, and every man, young or old, in the village, would have cheerfully risked his life for little Katie Jeffries. Since his wife had died, years ago, she was all that was left to him, and he idolized her.

The sun went down, and still she sat there, smiling and blushing. Her father was away on some neighborly errand, and she was left alone.

But not long. A hurried, light step came up the hill, a form appeared in the dusky light, and she rose to greet a handsome, athletic young man who sprung to greet her, embracing and kissing her tenderly.

“My love!” he whispered, pressing her fondly to his bosom.

“You are late to-night, Walter,” she said, in affectionate reproach.

“Yes, dearest; somewhat. But you know I have a farm, all my own, and I am working hard now that you may grace it, next spring. It won’t be long, my darling, and then think how happy we will be. You will by your love make me better and a more earnest worker; and will save for me too; while I—”

He drew her nearer, fondly. She felt a delicious thrill, and nestled close to him.

“You will what?” she whispered, blushing at her boldness.

“Try to make life a sweet, happy dream, for my darling.”

A few precious moments of silence ensued; then young Ridgely spoke.

“I’ve the nicest farm in the settlement for you, my darling. I have worked hard, it is true; but even when toil was the hardest and most trying to my patience, I have dissipated all discontent by thinking whom I was working for. You don’t know how your love has soothed me, my darling.”

“Oh, you are too flattering, Walter; too kind and noble. It is sweet to be loved as I am sure you love me, and I have tried very hard to please you; but you are too extravagant. ‘Praise to the face,’ you know, dear.”

“I cannot praise you, my own. It is impossible. That is, I cannot overrate you. Why, you innocent dear, you don’t know how lovable and good you are.”

“Now, Walter, really you must not talk so. I am very happy in the thought you care so for me, but it is wrong—real wrong to talk so to me. The truth is not to be spoken at all times, you know.”

“Well, then, if you wish it I will not. What do you think of the new young man that has come among us—Charles Danforth?”

“He is very pleasant and agreeable, but I do not like him. He looks cunning and cruel. Besides, I like to see men grand, powerful, and hardy—he looks too much like a girl. What is his occupation?”

“I don’t know. He does nothing but wander away into the forest, where he spends nearly two-thirds of his time. Dutch Joe said he saw him in company with another man in a dug-out on Shadow Pond, yesterday, but I believe it was only his imagination. He is not very smart and clever you know—he is simple.”

“Walter!” and Katie lowered her voice, and nestling closer to her lover, glanced nervously around in the twilight. “I am afraid of him. Father distrusts him. He fears the existence of a band of robbers in that dreadful forest. You know men have gone in there and have never come out.”

“Besides that rich man, that trapper that found the treasure somewhere in Mexico. You know the day he left us to go to St. Louis, screams were heard coming from the woods, and the people on the other side did not see him come out. Then father found blood and marks of violence in a small glade. Oh, Walter, I am afraid something is wrong.”

“Nonsense, Katie dear! every thing is quiet. There are no Indians here now, at least in the neighborhood, and even if danger did come, am I not here, my own?”

“Hush, Walter! some one is coming; see!” and she pointed to an approaching shadow. Walter Ridgely withdrew his embrace and sat in a more decorous attitude. Katie’s face expressed discontent at the interruption. The form approached; it was a man.

“Why Walter! it is Charles Danforth!” she whispered.

Walter arose to go. She caught him and begged him to stay—she was afraid to be alone with him, she said. So he again sat down.

It was Danforth (or Downing, for he it was) approaching quite near, humming a jaunty tune.

“Good-evening, Miss Jeffries,” he said, bowing. “And you, Ridgely; how is your health?”

He extended his hand to Katie, who took it reluctantly. Ditto Walter.

Then he seated himself on the doorstep and at once began a lively, rattling conversation. He was a versatile, vivacious conversationalist, and had been educated well. To the backwoods girl, though she had lived at one time in a civilized community, he seemed a paragon of learning, wit and beauty.

But then she mentally compared him to Walter. He had not the frank, honest gaze of the latter; and what women care more for, he did not have the powerful frame and strength of young Ridgely.

Her eyes were partial, it is true, but she found by comparison that Walter was his superior in morals, earnestness, strength and hardihood. But, she could not deny Danforth was gifted with rare beauty. Still she did not like him—she feared him.

After some time spent in conversation, which Katie sustained by monosyllables, and in which Walter did not join, Danforth arose.

“May I see you aside a moment, Miss Jeffries?” he asked. “I have something to say to you.”

She acquiesced, looking disappointedly at Walter, who watched them retire to a little distance. He did not like it.

When they had gone a short distance, Danforth proposed a stroll down the hill. She refused, abruptly. He stared; he had expected a glad affirmative answer. He looked at Walter, and Captain Downing smiled.

“Miss Jeffries, how long has that young man been in the settlement?”

“You mean Walt—Mr. Ridgely? He came with us from New York.”

“Do you know his character?”

“Perfectly; it is above reproach.”

The captain smiled and talked.

“Miss Jeffries, I am the owner of one of the finest farms in the State of Ohio. I am alone in the world—friendless. Will you grace that home?—will you make me happy by being my wife? I love you fondly.”

He spoke this in his sweetest tone, and with his most tender glance, encircling her waist with his arm. She drew away abruptly, and stammered:

“Oh, sir, you can not, you must not talk so to me! You must not—it is wrong for me to listen to you. Please let me go.”

She was flushed and irresistibly lovely. He looked at her quietly for a moment, then caught her in his arms passionately and kissed her hotly.

“My darling!” he passionately cried.

She struggled, ashamed, insulted, shocked at his tones and gestures. He held her tightly, and pressed another kiss upon her.

Walter, watching them jealously from the doorstep, saw the disturbance, and, mad with jealousy and rage, rushed toward them. She escaped from Downing’s arms just as he reached them, and glided to her lover’s side.

“What do you mean, you rascal?” huskily growled Walter, through his clenched teeth.

“Rascal? Take care, young whipper-snapper!”

“Yes, rascal—poltroon—villain! What do you mean? What was he doing, pet?”

“He kissed——”

“Yes, I kissed her, whipper-snapper. I asked for her hand, like a man. She did not choose to smile on me. I have no ill-will about it. I take it you are the favored one. Well, if you had behaved yourself, I would not have borne you any dislike; but you took offense, called me names I never before took, and now you stand sneering at me. Whipper-snapper, you are a scoundrel!”

Walter boiled over and sprung toward him with danger in his eyes. Katie as quickly interposed, holding him tightly, between him and Downing, so if he clenched with him he must run over her body.

“Let me go, Kate! I command you to let me go immediately.”

He was thoroughly aroused, the more so at seeing Downing’s face wear a provoking smile. He endeavored to elude her, but she still kept him closely clasped.

“I will not, Walter; I can not. Be quiet—calm yourself! Do, Walter.”

“Yes; calm yourself, whipper-snapper. Keep your temper, bantam.”

The exasperating smile with which Downing accompanied these provoking words maddened Ridgely. He took Katie by sheer force from around his waist, and eluding her, darted toward the robber. He was close upon him, with his sturdy arm upraised, ready to fell the other to the ground, when she caught him.

He was off his guard; the wily captain saw it, and dealt him a lightning blow from the arm-pit. The blow struck Walter squarely between the eyes, and he dropped like a bullock, with the blood spirting from his nose.

For a few seconds he was stunned, and sat vacantly on the ground. Then he aroused himself and crawled to his feet.

His adversary had vanished, and was nowhere to be seen. Burning with chagrin, pain and rage, he commenced wandering about vacantly in pursuit. But he was too dizzy and stunned to see plainly, and before he had been on his feet two minutes he fell again; the girlish fist of effeminate Captain Downing was hard as a rock, and was backed by the arm of a blacksmith.

Katie sunk down beside her lover, astounded at the sudden change in affairs. Shocked at the captain’s ungentlemanly conduct to her, burning with sorrow at her lover’s harsh action in putting her aside—these were but trifles compared with the intense shame at seeing him whipped and vanquished. She was as much ashamed as her champion, though dimly conscious that she had caused the disaster by unguarding Walter.

She raised him to a sitting posture, and pillowing his head on her breast, wiped the blood from his face with her handkerchief. The moon had just risen, and by its strong light she saw he had received a herculean blow, as his eyes were red and swollen, his nose was bruised and bleeding, and he was weak and stunned—scarcely more than conscious.

She began to cry piteously and stroke his forehead, when a harsh voice behind her growled:

“What in thunder air ye doin’ thar, gal?”

She turned quickly; her father, a sturdy man in the prime of life, was regarding her curiously. He was an odd mixture of fun, moodiness and good-nature, and united the most repelling face and voice to the kindest heart imaginable. He had been bred in a large city, and was perfectly “well up” in all matters which interest fast youth. He recognized the form of Walter, noticed his bruised face, and saw his daughter’s anxiety. At this last he chuckled.

“Wal, what hev we hyar?” he said, going down on his knees beside them. “We hev a couple of moss-agate eyes, and we hev a Roman nose. Wal, what air we goin’ ter do with ’em? Why, we air goin’ to cure ’em. Why didn’t ye do suthin’ fer ’em, gal?”

“I did not know what to do, father. Oh, dear father, please relieve him—I know he is hurt terribly. Do, please, father.”

Robert Jeffries stopped not, but whipped out a huge clasp-knife, and told her to hold it across the bridge of his nose. Then he went off, muttering:

“Ef we lived in a decent place, now, we’d hev oysters, beefsteak, ice and sech fur the eyes; but we live in black Arkansaw, and we hain’t any thing but vinegar, salt and mud. Cuss sech a kentry!”

He bustled about the cabin, struck a light, and rapidly procured some vinegar and salt. Then he took a cup of water, and making some mud, formed the three ingredients into a paste, which he clapped on Walter’s eyes.

It aroused him instantly, and smarting from the salve, he staggered to his feet, and looked vacantly about; he had received a terrible blow. Katie affectionately supported him.

“Lie down—lie down!” commanded Jeffries. “D’ye want ter start the blood a-runnin’, an’ make yer eyes like a hearse? Lie down and keep still!”

“Where is he?” inquired Walter, making a faint show of determination. “Where is he?”

“Who?” inquired Jeffries.

“Charles Danforth, father. Oh, he struck poor Walter as hard as he could, right on his poor forehead.”

“What! yer don’t mean to say that girl Danforth knocked him down like a beef! whipped a feller that cleaned out six Pawnees, one after t’other! Wal, I will—that’s good.”

“Oh, father; he wouldn’t have done it if I had not caught him when he was going to strike. I held him, then Danforth struck him.”

“Yer did, eh! yer did; and yer promised to be his wife. Gal, I’m ashamed of yer. It’s foul—it ain’t ’cordin’ to the rules of the ring—wal, wal; and yer claim to be a Jeffries.”

Walter, who had recovered his senses, here interfered.

“You see, sir, she meant good—she tried to prevent a fight. So she tried to stop me—if she hadn’t I would have given him a thrashing.”

“Thank you; thank you, Walter,” said Katie, with a grateful glance at him.

“What was the mill about?” asked Jeffries.

“He treated Katie like a—a—”

“What!” vociferated the father. “Treated my daughter like what?”

“He threw his arms around her and kissed her.”

Jeffries’ eyebrows sunk down over his eyes, and he breathed hard. He was aroused.

“And yer got hit fightin’ for my daughter, did ye? Well young feller, yer did right, and I’ll remember yer. And him too,” he resumed. “I’ll make his hide smart.”

Without further parley he walked away down the hill toward the grocery or rather cabin, for there was no good “store” in the settlement. Katie knew what was his errand, and she also knew he was not to be turned aside from his purpose. But she tried to alleviate his wrath, and called out:

“Now, father, please think before you speak.”

He muttered some reply and strode down the hill. Three hundred yards away was the provision cabin where Danforth stayed when he was in the settlement. It was kept by a German named Hans Winkler. It was not a “store,” for the few families which lived in the neighborhood were too poor to require such a thing. But the old German, thinking to turn an honest penny now and then, had brought on a few staple articles from the Eastern States, which he retailed out for furs, produce, etc., making a large profit on every thing.

The cabin stood on the bank of the river already mentioned. To this Jeffries strode, and after listening for a moment, knocked at the door loudly.

No answer. Hans must be asleep. He knocked again. Still all was quiet. Then he halloed. Yet the cabin was still.

He turned away, provoked; his bird had eluded his wrath for the present. Resolving to punish him severely at the first opportunity, he was striding away, when a faint voice, seemingly far away, came to his ears:

“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”

He stopped and listened intently; all was still. The placid stream flowed on quietly, leaving no sound; the night was still. He started on.

Before he had gone a yard, the same voice rung out in clarion tones, near, loud, and shrill:

“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”

The sound proceeded from a group of willows a few yards up the river bank. He darted to them. He entered their gloomy recesses, ready against surprise, and searched them through; but, though he beat them for an hour he found nothing, and heard the mysterious voice no more. Then he went home, wondering intensely.

CHAPTER III.

“BEWARE!”

Walter, after being nursed a while by the tender hands of Katie, bid her an affectionate good-evening, and started toward his lonely bachelor-hall, which was situated beyond the cabin of Hans Winkler a mile, and down the stream. Half of the distance home lay through the settlement, while the other was rendered dismal and gloomy by the road’s running through a projecting cape of Dead-Man’s Forest.

It was a lonely, gloomy walk to take in an unsettled country, and through a skirt of such an ill-omened wood. But Walter was sturdy and bold, and thought nothing of it. What danger? had he not a revolver? could he not shoot with the best? Certainly; what had he to fear?

He strode along with his hands in his pockets, musing. His thoughts were partially pleasant and gloomy. He had been unable to avenge an insult offered to the girl he idolized; he had been “knocked out of time” by an effeminate youth; and mauger the salve, his eyes were purple and swollen, and his face was bruised; never mind—he would search out Danforth in the morning.

On the other hand, she had tenderly cried over and tended him; she had shown, without doubt, she devotedly loved him; and in the spring she would be his own loved wife.

What more could a young man, very handsome and intelligent, in the full vigor of early manhood, in possession of a good farm which in a few years would yield him a good living, desire?

“No more,” he said, after a mental calculation.

What! was it possible here was a contented man? No; a lingering drop of gall remained; he was smarting at defeat, and bruised eyes. He would show him to-morrow—that he would.

He passed Hans’ cabin, and noticed it was dark and silent; then he continued, whistling.

Before him lay a short reach of open, moonlit glade, then came Dead-Man’s Forest.

Every thing was in perfect repose. In front the dark, somber wood stretched away; behind was the settlement, sleeping on the hill; and around him was the ghostly, quiet glade.

“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”

Hallo! who said that in such a quiet, far-away voice? Who spoke? Hallo!

The voice did not reach his ears—he did not hear it; but it spoke for all that. He went on.

He was plunging into the haunted forest; in another moment he would be lost to sight in the ghostly mazes.

“You are treading on dangerous ground; take care!”

He did not hear the warning, and went on. He passed a thick tree in the middle of the wood; a man glided out from behind its trunk; there was a dull, heavy blow, a deep, rattling groan, a fall; and a man was bleeding on the ground in Dead Man’s Forest.

Robert Jeffries returned to his cabin, very much out of humor. His revenge was yet to come; he was forced to wait; and he ground his teeth.

A light was burning in the little cabin when he entered, and Katie was sitting by it, sewing. She looked very sweet and lovely as she sat there, and his heart first softened, then became adamant; let any man insult her—the tenderest, purest girl in the world.

She greeted him with an anxious look.

“Well, father?”

“I couldn’t find the villain—curse him!”

“Oh, father, I’m so glad!”

“Glad of what, gal? When a man insults ye and gits out’n yer father’s reach, air ye glad?”

“Oh, father, he wanted me to marry him.” (This with a blush—very red.)

“The skunk!”

“And I am glad because you did not have a quarrel.”

“I ain’t; I’ll fix him! Marry you! Why, gal, ye don’t mean to say ye like him?”

“No, father; far from it. I am afraid of him; but perhaps—perhaps—”

“Wal?”

“Perhaps he—loved—me—so he could not control himself. I am sure he is not to blame for loving me.”

A woman all over. They never think the less of a man for loving them, however low he may be. If they did they would be disparaging themselves.

“I guess yer’d better go ter bed—I’m going.”

She arose and lighted another candle and then kissed him tenderly.

“Good-night, dear father,” she said. “A pleasant night and happy dreams. I know you will feel softer in the morning. Good-night.”

The cabin contained two rooms; one sacred as her sleeping room, the other the kitchen, parlor, dining and her father’s sleeping room.

She had a bedstead with a soft bed, pure and white as was she; he had a double blanket, with a valise for a pillow; she had a window in her room large enough for a bear to clamber through; he had none.

The window was of glass and opened like a door—on hinges. It was about five feet from the floor and was usually kept closed at night with a button, but as the summer nights were hot and uncomfortable, she left it open to admit the cool breeze—in her innocence never dreading harm.

She went into her room and closed the door, her father directly going to bed, sleeping on his gun; Robert Jeffries was wary.

After she had gone to bed and had put out the candle, she lay thinking of Walter, smiling, and feeling very happy. In the spring he would be her husband.

After she had thought and happily dreamed a delicious wide-awake dream, she felt cool. Should she close the window? She had better; she had grown timid of late. But she called herself a timid, weak thing and resolved to leave it open. She did; and went to sleep.

“Trouble is coming; take care!”

Hallo! away down there in the dark, grim wood. Who is talking at this time of night? Hallo!

She went to sleep, so did Robert Jeffries, and the window was open.

The moon rose into the zenith and looked down from her pale face upon three different objects: a forest, a river, and a cabin.

In the forest a silent form lay cold, still and bloody, near a thick tree; a man stood over him, looking quietly down upon him.

The watcher spoke in a strange, far-away voice.

“Trouble is coming; take care, take care.”

He turned and was gone with a very white face, a silent, swift tread, and a cold, staring eye.

On the bank of the river a negro crept back and forth by the cabin of the German. He was evidently waiting for some one, as he stopped now and then and peered intently toward the cabin on the hill, then kept his creeping pace.

A man kept along a dark shadow, stealing toward the cabin. He drew near, then listened; crept on a little, then listened again. All was quiet; he stole up to its walls, then stopped and listened a third time.

Jeffries was snoring inside. He crept round to the other side and stood under the window. Inside was beauty, innocence and virtue; outside was beauty, cunning and wickedness. He placed his hand on the sill.

Creak!

He peered in. By the pale moonlight he could see the fair girl in deep sleep—deep and placid. The pure white covering fell daintily over her as she lay there, with a smile on her lips, and a sweet expression on her face. She was dreaming of him.

He could not hear her breath—it was too soft and gentle; but he could tell by the gentle rise and fall, and by the placid expression of her face, that she was in a deep sleep.

Creak!

He stood for a moment, gazing at her, with a smile on his comely face. Then he turned and went from the shadow of the cabin out into the bright moonlight. Drawing a white handkerchief from his green coat he waved it briskly above his head.

Down on the river bank, near the German’s cabin, a bright light glowed for a moment, and a white object waved. Then both disappeared.

He stole back with another smile and again stood under the window.

Creak!

She moved, then turned gently, smiling sweetly in her sleep as she did so, and one word escaped her lips:

“Walter!”

The man outside smiled sweeter than ever at this and again placed his hand on the sill.

“Take care! beware!”

He started as if he had been shot, and cowered under the wall in affright. He had heard a loud, shrill voice away in the forest utter those words, and a deadly fear overcame him.

For many times of late he had heard that voice, warning him of evil; too many times he had laughed at it; but now?

Creak!

He was thoroughly frightened and fairly shook with fear, though a bolder man never trod the earth. He might well shake.

He listened for a repetition but it did not come. Then after a few moments he recovered and laughed at himself, and again for the third time placed his hand on the sill.

Creak!

Three times he had placed his hand on the sill ready to enter; it was loose and it creaked; but the fair sleeper, unconscious of danger, slept sweetly on.

He listened and peered a last time, and then cautiously mounted the sill. Half in the window he stopped, fearful lest the shadow might awaken her; but she still slept on.

He dropped lightly to the floor and crept to the bed. Gazing at her as she lay there, a wicked smile crept over his lips.

A low chirp came faintly to his ears; the sleepy chirp of a half-awakened bird.

He went to the window and waved his white handkerchief, then glided back to the bedside.

A shadow fell over the room; he turned and saw a round, woolly head in the window. He smiled again and gave a gesture of satisfaction.

Then he stole to the head of the bed, and took a small instrument from his pocket.

It was a piece of wood about an inch and a half square, padded with cotton, with a string knotted in both ends—it was a gag.

He reached over and with a quick, cunning movement, placed it in her mouth.

Then like a flash of lightning he passed the string around her neck; she was gagged!

She awoke with a start, and looked wildly at the man standing over her. She tried to scream—she could not. Then she rose upright with terror depicted on her face, and her eyes wore a horrified expression.

She attempted to rise and fly but he held her fast. He had his hands full in a double sense, for she struggled violently, beating him with her hands, her whole nature aroused. He made a signal to the man outside.

He slid through the window with the agility and silence of a cat and stood beside him.

“Throw her clothing out of the window!” he whispered. The negro obeyed.

“Now get outside and take her!” He clambered out.

“Here she is. Ha! she’s fainted!”

She had. Unnerved by the suddenness and alarm of the scene, by the terror of maidenly modesty, she had fainted dead away and lay motionless in his arms.

He passed her out to the negro, who gave a chuckle of delight at his lovely burden.

Then he swiftly followed.