The Sportsman’s Club at Home.

THE SPORTSMAN’S CLUB SERIES.

THE
SPORTSMAN’S CLUB
IN THE SADDLE.

BY HARRY CASTLEMON,
AUTHOR OF “THE GUNBOAT SERIES,” “GO AHEAD SERIES,”
“ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES,” ETC.

PHILADELPHIA
HENRY T. COATES & CO.

FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.

GUNBOAT SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 6 vols. 12mo.

• Frank the Young Naturalist.
• Frank in the Woods.
• Frank on the Lower Mississippi.
• Frank on a Gunboat.
• Frank before Vicksburg.
• Frank on the Prairie.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• Frank among the Rancheros.
• Frank in the Mountains.
• Frank at Don Carlos’ Ranch.

SPORTSMAN’S CLUB SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• The Sportsman’s Club in the Saddle.
• The Sportsman’s Club Afloat.
• The Sportsman’s Club among the Trappers.

FRANK NELSON SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• Snowed Up.
• Frank in the Forecastle.
• The Boy Traders.

BOY TRAPPER SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• The Buried Treasure.
• The Boy Trapper.
• The Mail-Carrier.

ROUGHING IT SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• George in Camp.
• George at the Wheel.
• George at the Fort.

ROD AND GUN SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• Don Gordon’s Shooting Box.
• The Young Wild Fowlers.
• Rod and Gun Club.

GO-AHEAD SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• Tom Newcombe.
• Go-Ahead.
• No Moss.

FOREST AND STREAM SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• Joe Wayring.
• Snagged and Sunk.
• Steel Horse.

WAR SERIES. By Harry Castlemon. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

• True to his Colors.
• Rodney the Overseer.
• Marcy the Refugee.
• Rodney the Partisan.
• Marcy the Blockade-Runner.

Other Volumes in Preparation.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
R. W. CARROLL & CO.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

CONTENTS

THE
SPORTSMAN’S CLUB
IN THE SADDLE.

CHAPTER I.
WALTER AND EUGENE.

Which is the pleasantest season of the year, boy reader? No doubt you have written more than one composition on the subject, and perhaps you will say, as most boys do, that you like winter best. If you live in the city you can spend your leisure hours at the skating-rink; or it may be that your father owns an ice-boat, and you take great delight in riding in it. Your cousin Tom, who lives in the country, will tell you that winter is the time for him, for he is fond of sleigh-riding, and sees any amount of sport at quiltings, apple-bees, corn-huskings and surprise parties. If you had asked Walter and Eugene Gaylord what they thought about it, Eugene, who was a lively, talkative fellow, would have answered you something like this:

“We see more real fun in one week during the winter time than in all the rest of the year. The quails, that have been rearing their broods in these fields during the summer, are in prime condition then, and if you ever handled a shot-gun or owned a setter, you know there is no sport in the world like shooting on the wing. Wild turkeys are plenty, also. They come into the hills about here to feed on the beech-nuts. It is time then to set traps for minks and to go coon-hunting. Minks are abundant about here, and their skins are worth two dollars apiece. And then, is there any music in the world that can equal the baying of a hound of a clear, frosty morning? That brier patch down there covers more than two hundred acres—father calls it his preserves—it is literally filled with rabbits and foxes, and our club owns a pack of the best hounds in the state. That sheet of water you see over there is an arm of the Gulf of Mexico. I don’t exaggerate when I say that I have seen it black with wild geese and ducks. They stay around here during the fall and winter. All the shooting we can do will not frighten them away, for the bay is an excellent feeding-ground, and it never freezes over. You know the winters are not as cold down here as they are up North. Deer are plenty in the swamp, bears are so abundant that they are really troublesome, wild hogs you can find any day, and panthers are killed on our plantation every winter. And then, if every other source of excitement should fail us, there are Bayard Bell and his crowd of fellows, who are bound that the members of our club shall not enjoy a minute’s peace if they can help it. You see, while we were students at the Academy at Bellville last summer, our club defeated Bayard and his crew in a four-oared race for the championship, and that made him very angry. More than that, he wanted to be commodore of the academy squadron, but when the election came off he was badly beaten, and that was another thing that made him mad. He has promised to square yards with every one of us this winter, and we are waiting to see what he will do. I like these long evenings, too. When the wind is whistling dismally without, and the rain and sleet are rattling against the window-panes, isn’t it jolly to draw up in front of a warm fire, and while away the hours with a game of chess or backgammon with some good fellow, or listen to the stories of Uncle Dick, who has travelled over every portion of the habitable globe? O, we always see plenty of sport during the winter.”

Two better boys than Walter and Eugene Gaylord never lived, and none ever had a pleasanter home or a kinder father and mother. When we say that they were good boys, we do not mean that they were perfect. We would not give a fig for an army of perfect boys, even if there were such impossible things in the world; but, thank goodness, they do not exist outside of story-books. Walter and Eugene had their faults, and some glaring ones, too, like all other live, wide-awake boys. They had done things they were sorry for and did not mean to do again; and, on more than one occasion—we regret to say it, but candor compels us—they had been seen with very long faces walking reluctantly into the library, whither they were followed by their father, who carried in his hand something that looked very much like an apple-tree switch. But, for all that, they were first-rate fellows—kind, obliging, and good-tempered.

There was a year’s difference in their ages, and a great deal of difference in their tastes, dispositions and habits. Walter, the older, thoroughly enjoyed himself in a quiet way, and thought more of a good book and a pair of slippers than he did of the ball club and debating society. He owned a splendid double-barrel, and was an excellent shot on the wing; but he had been known to sit for hours behind his brush-blind on the banks of the bayou, and watch a flock of canvas-backs, which were sporting about in the water within easy range of his gun, without firing a shot at them. He was studying their habits, he said. Eugene, on the other hand, was a wild, uneasy fellow, and he could not possibly enjoy himself without plenty of noise. He was a capital sailor, and nothing suited him better than to stand at the helm of the Banner (that was the name of the yacht he and his brother owned, and a swift, beautiful little craft she was) while she was bounding over the waves of the bay before a stiff breeze with all her canvas spread. He was an enthusiastic and skilful fisherman, a good shot, and woe to the squirrel or duck that showed its head within range of his Smith & Wesson rifle. It made no difference to him what the “habits” of the game were, so long as he secured a respectable bunch to carry home. He had more than once been capsized in the bay; had broken his arm in an attempt to climb one of the lofty elm trees in the yard; had tumbled over cliffs while searching for sea-gulls’ nests; and had fallen into quick-sands, while stalking pelicans in the swamp, and narrowly escaped with his life; but he was hale and hearty still, and none the worse for his adventures.

Walter and Eugene lived in the state of Louisiana, about forty miles from the thriving village of Bellville, in a large stone house which was so completely concealed by the thick shrubbery and trees that surrounded it, that not even its chimneys could be seen from the road. A gravelled carriage-way led from the gate to the dwelling, and then turning abruptly to the right ran down a steep bank to the boat-house. In front of the boat-house a stone jetty extended out into the water; and at the end of it was anchored a buoy, to which, had you been a visitor at the Gaylord mansion during the summer, you would have seen moored a rakish little schooner that held a high place in the estimation of our young friends. And had you seen that same schooner under way, you would have noticed that a Commodore’s broad pennant floated from her mast-head; for Walter Gaylord was commander of the Columbia Yacht Club, and the Banner was his flagship. At the time our story begins, however, the yachting season was over, and the schooner, being too large to be stowed away in the boat-house, had been hauled into a neighboring bayou and hidden among the bushes, where she would be effectually protected from the fury of the storms that visited the coast during the winter. She had sailed many a race during the previous summer, and the pair of gold-mounted field-glasses which occupied a prominent place on the centre-table in the boy’s room, and which they never neglected to show to visitors, proved that she had been victorious in at least one of them. Her young masters thought that her work for the year was over, but it turned out otherwise. She was destined before the winter was ended, to accomplish something that far surpassed all her former exploits, and to sail in waters and visit countries that none of her crew had ever seen before.

On the floor of the boat-house lay a long narrow object covered with canvas to protect it from the damp and dust. It was a four-oared shell, the property of the Sportsman’s Club. There were people in the village who could say that they had seen the schooner beaten in a fair race, but not one who could say the same of the Spray. Whether her success was owing to the boat itself, or to the muscle and long wind of those who handled the oars, is a question. The club gave all the credit to the boat; and you would have had hard work to make them believe that she did not go faster, and skim more lightly over the waves, ever since that memorable afternoon in August when she wrested the champion colors from the Emma, which everybody imagined to be the swiftest boat about the village. Bayard Bell, the owner and stroke of the Emma, was highly enraged over his defeat. He forthwith challenged the Spray to another trial of speed, and sent to New Orleans for his cousins Will and Seth Bell, who belonged to a boat club there, and who considered themselves crack oarsmen, to come down and train his crew and pull in the race. The contest came off in the presence of the village people and all the students of the Academy, and the Spray walked away from the Emma and her picked crew as easily as though the latter had been standing still. Then Bayard was angrier than ever, and his city cousins, who had expected to win an easy victory over the “country bumpkins,” were astonished. The former declared that the Spray had been rowed in a race for the last time, and Will and Seth said that if they could not beat her by fair means they could by foul, and that when the next season opened the village people would see the champion colors restored to the Emma, to which they rightfully belonged. This threat reached the ears of Walter and his crew, who, knowing what a vindictive, persevering fellow they had to deal with, kept a close watch over their beloved boat, and never allowed a day to pass without spending half an hour in swinging their Indian clubs and dumb-bells.

Outside the boat-house, and turned up against it, was the skiff which Walter and Eugene used when they went hunting on the bay. On the ground near it lay a pile of bushes which were used as a blind to conceal the hunters when they were pulling toward the game. The window of their room looked out upon the bay, and if they discovered a flock of geese or ducks near the shore, it was but the work of a few minutes to launch the skiff, put up the blind, and be off. In this way they had obtained many an excellent dinner.

About a hundred yards further up the bank, to the left of the boat-house, were the stables where Mr. Gaylord kept his riding and some of his farm-horses, and the kennels which afforded shelter to his hounds. Horses and hounds were made much of in those days, and Mr. Gaylord and his brother, Uncle Dick, took as much pride in theirs as any old English huntsman. Walter and Eugene were well provided for in this particular, and their saddle-nags and dogs were the envy of all the young hunters in the parish. Walter rode a large, milk-white charger, which was like his master in more respects than one. He was as steady as a plough-horse, afraid of nothing, was generally very deliberate in his movements, and on ordinary occasions went along at a snail’s pace, his head down, his eyes half-closed, and his ears bobbing back and forth with every step he made. But, after all, there was plenty of spirit in him. Let him once hear the hounds in full cry, or let his rider tighten the reins and give him even the slightest touch with the spur, and the old horse’s head would come up, and he would step off in a way that made it exceedingly difficult for any but a fleet-footed nag to keep pace with him. Eugene’s horse was a different sort of animal altogether. He was a small, light-bodied roan, fiery and vicious, and so restless that he never would stand still long enough for his rider to become fairly seated in the saddle. But the two got along very well together. The horse always wanted his own way, and Eugene was quite willing that he should have it.

There were seven dogs in their pack. Six of them were common deer-hounds—large tan-colored animals, staunch and swift; and when they once opened on a trail, how they would make the woods ring with their music! The other was an Irish greyhound, a present from Uncle Dick. He stood nearly three feet high at the shoulders, and was as fleet as the wind. He was good-natured enough generally, but savage when aroused.

The country about Mr. Gaylord’s plantation was but thinly populated, and wild in the extreme. His nearest neighbor, Mr. Bell, lived three miles away, and the nearest settlement was at Bellville, forty miles distant. Mr. Gaylord’s family had but little intercourse with the family of Mr. Bell. The younger members engaged in a pitched battle occasionally; and their fathers, when they met on the road, merely saluted each other in a dignified manner, and passed without speaking. Mr. Bell did not seem to be on good terms with anybody except a brother who lived in New Orleans (Will’s father and Seth’s), and who was equally unpopular with himself. He had at one time stood high in the community (the village of Bellville was named after him), but of late he had gone down hill rapidly in the estimation of his former associates. There was a mystery surrounding him that none could penetrate. He was engaged in business of some kind, but no one knew what it was. For two years he had been making money rapidly—much faster than he could have made it by cultivating his orange plantation—and the settlers had at last become suspicious, and hinted that he was engaged in some traffic that the authorities would one day put a stop to.

Walter and Eugene were students at the Bellville Academy—or rather they had been until a few weeks ago when the Fire King stepped in and destroyed the buildings, and gave the scholars a long vacation. Our heroes regarded this as a great calamity, and so did every one of the students, for they loved the Academy and all its surroundings. It was no wonder that they held the institution in high esteem, for the faculty were men who understood the nature of boys, and knowing how to combine profit with pleasure, they had made the school a sort of modern Athens, where muscles were cultivated as well as brains. So varied were the exercises and amusements that the most exacting students could not fail to find something to interest them. For the sober, studious ones who preferred quiet sport, there was the yacht club, and also the classes in Geology, Botany, and Natural History, the members of which spent a portion of each school term camping out in the woods with their professors; and for the active boys, who delighted in violent exercises, there were ball clubs, boat clubs, a gymnasium, and boxing and fencing masters. Walter and Eugene were lonesome in their country home, and looked forward with impatience to the coming summer, when the new buildings would be ready for occupation. Uncle Dick, however, hinted that it would be a long time before they, or any of the members of the Sportsman’s Club, would enter the new academy as students; but when the boys asked him what he meant, he poked them in the ribs with his finger, looked very wise, and said nothing.

The house in which Walter and Eugene lived looked like any other ordinary country house on the outside, and on the inside too, for that matter, except in one particular. Away up in the third story, next to the roof, was a room, the like of which, we venture to say, was never seen in any other dwelling. It belonged to Uncle Dick. It was a neat, cosy apartment, and if you had been conducted into it blindfolded, you would have thought, when you were permitted to use your eyes again, that you were in the cabin of some splendid vessel. Indeed, Uncle Dick intended that it should look as much like one as possible. He was an old sailor, cherishing an affection for the blue water that nothing could change, and he had been so long accustomed to life on shipboard that he found it hard work to stay ashore. His cabin reminded him of his ocean home, and it did not require a very great stretch of imagination for him to fancy himself still on board his vessel.

The apartment was just about the size of the cabin of an ordinary merchantman. There were three small windows on one side of it, and under them was a sofa, upon which Uncle Dick took his after-dinner nap as regularly as he did while he was the commander of a whaler. The windows on the other two sides were “bull’s eyes”—round, thick plates of glass enclosed in iron frames and set into the wall. Uncle Dick always kept these bull’s eyes open in fair weather, but as surely as a storm came up he would close and fasten them. One would hardly suppose that a great deal of rain could come in at these small openings, let the tempest be never so furious; but Uncle Dick always thought of the waves he had seen on the ocean. He said he did not want the sea to come rushing into his cabin and spoiling all his fine furniture. When we remind you that the house was three stories high, and tell you that it stood upon the top of a hill at least five hundred yards from the bay, you will know how much probability there was that salt water would ever wash in at those bull’s eyes.

There were no doors in the cabin; at least such doors as we have in our houses. A small ladder on one side of the room led up to a trap-door in the roof (the “deck,” Uncle Dick always called it), and that was the only way one could go in and out of the cabin. There was one door that opened into Uncle Dick’s state-room, but that was not hung on hinges; it worked on a slide.

The old sailor turned up his nose at a bedstead, and always slept in a bunk. His looking-glass was fastened to the wall; his wash-stand was held firmly in its place by screws; his centre-table, on which was always to be found Bowditch’s Navigator, a chart or two, and a telescope, was also screwed fast to the floor, and provided with a raised edge to keep the articles from falling off when the old mansion was rocking and tumbling about in a gale. Walter and Eugene always laughed when they saw this contrivance. The idea that a solid stone house, that had withstood the storms of a quarter of a century, could so far forget itself as to rock about in the wind sufficiently to displace any of Uncle Dick’s furniture, was highly amusing to them. But it was no laughing matter with the old sailor. He was in earnest about it; and if he had been on the point of starting with the mansion on a voyage across the Atlantic, he could not have taken more pains to get everything in his cabin in readiness for the storms he would be likely to meet on the way.

There was one thing that did not look exactly ship-shape, and that was a huge book-case which occupied one side of the cabin. A portion of it was filled with books, and the rest with what Uncle Dick called his “relics.” There were at least a hundred articles of every description in that book-case, and there was not one among them that was not associated in the mind of the old sailor with some exciting event. For example, there was a harpoon, such as whalers use, with a long rope attached, which was laid down in Flemish coil on the bottom of the book-case. Whenever Uncle Dick looked at those articles it recalled to his mind the time when that harpoon was buried in the side of a huge sperm whale, and that rope caught around his leg and he was dragged into the water, and down, down, it seemed to him, almost to the bottom of the ocean. There was a condor of the Andes, stuffed and mounted, and looking so life-like that one almost expected to see it spread its immense wings and come crashing through the glass doors of the book-case. That reminded Uncle Dick of a startling adventure in South America. In the same compartment was a lance, with a bright iron head, and a long, slender shaft, ornamented with a portion of a horse’s tail. That lance had come from the desert of Sahara; and if you could have examined Uncle Dick’s right arm, you would have found, among the flags, ships, anchors and other emblems with which it was decorated, a long, ragged scar from a wound made by that very lance. A little further on hung the bridle, saddle and turban of the Bedouin who had handled the weapon when Uncle Dick received that wound. There were the snow-shoes on which he had travelled over the plains of the Red River of the North, and under them was the Indian canoe that had carried him and a companion from Fort Churchill, one of the most northern posts of the Hudson’s Bay Company, to the Red River settlement. In the next compartment was the Esquimaux sled in which he had traversed many a mile of the ice-fields of Greenland. Further on was the dragoon’s carbine he had shouldered at the breaking out of the Mexican war, and the major’s sword and sash he had worn when he entered the city of Mexico with General Scott. And so we might go on for a whole chapter, and still not notice all the different articles in the book-case. Besides these, there were numerous others scattered about the room. In every corner, hung upon the walls, and suspended from the ceiling, the eye rested on tomahawks, bows and arrows, and scalping-knives from the plains; sharks’ teeth and pearl-oyster shells from the South Pacific; reindeers’ antlers and harpoons from Hudson’s Bay; and relics from Herculaneum and Pompeii, which Uncle Dick had succeeded in smuggling out in spite of the vigilance of the guard. In short, the cabin was a perfect curiosity shop, and was a never-failing source of amusement and instruction to the boys who were permitted to enter it, for at every visit they found something new to admire and wonder at. The Sportsman’s Club regarded the room as their headquarters. They visited it almost every night to listen to the old sailor’s stories; and that was a privilege they prized highly, for it was one that Uncle Dick granted to none except his nephews and their most intimate friends.

CHAPTER II.
A MIDNIGHT ALARM.

Uncle Dick Gaylord was a bluff, hearty old fellow, a sailor on the face of him; no one ever took him for anything else. Walter and Eugene thought he was nice to have in the house—he was so good-natured and obliging, and was always in such excellent spirits. And then, what a laugh he had! It was none of your tittering, affected laughs, but a jolly, heartfelt roar of merriment that fairly shook the rafters, and made everybody else laugh to hear it. He was a man a little below the medium height, with very broad shoulders and muscles like a gold-beater’s. He always wore an immense necktie and collar, and when he walked he rolled about like a skiff in a gale of wind. He applied sea phrases to everything, and had so funny a way of talking and acting that he kept the boys’ jaws and sides aching continually. One thing he did was long remembered by every one of the family.

It was midwinter when he came home from his last voyage, and had his cabin fitted up, and the first night he slept in it a furious storm arose. It was terribly cold, and old Mrs. Gaylord, Uncle Dick’s mother (with the maternal instinct still strong within her), thought of her son away up in the top of the building, and wondered if he did not need tucking up in bed. She seemed to forget that long years had passed since she had packed him away in his crib and knelt at his side while he whispered “Our Father,” and that during those years her little helpless Dick had grown into a bold, resolute man, had roamed in every climate under the sun, and faced death in a thousand terrible shapes. The mother forgot all this. To her the hearty old sea-dog was still her little Dick, and needed looking after. Heedless of the storm, she found her way to the top of the house and into the sailor’s quarters; and after putting extra clothing on the bed, she wrapped the quilts around his feet and tucked the edges into the bunk, to keep them from falling off on the floor—the weary mariner snoring terrifically during the whole proceeding. When she went out she left a lighted lamp on the table, thinking that perhaps he might want something during the night, and that he could not find it conveniently in the dark.

Shortly after Mrs. Gaylord left the room, Uncle Dick awoke with a start, and with one furious kick and an impatient sweep of his arm, undid all the work his thoughtful mother had been so long in performing. He saw and heard something at the same moment. He saw the lamp on the table and heard the howling of the storm. He had spent four years on his last voyage, and having slept but three nights on shore, it was natural that he should imagine himself still on board his vessel. He was out on the floor in an instant.

“Steward!” he yelled, with all the power of his stentorian voice, “haven’t I told you more than once never to leave a lighted lamp about the ship? The first thing you know we’ll be in flames. If you do it again I’ll put you in irons!”

With one vigorous blast from his capacious chest Uncle Dick extinguished the light, and just then a fierce gust of wind swept over the house, shaking the windows, and fairly making the solid stone walls tremble. This gave Uncle Dick additional cause for alarm. Here was a gale on; the ship, no doubt, was in great danger, and the officer of the watch had I not been below to awaken him. He saw the necessity of prompt action. Jerking open the door, he ran through the cabin and sprang up the companion-ladder. When he had ascended about half way to the top he missed his footing in the darkness and fell headlong to the floor. The old sailor had but one explanation for this accident, and that was that the ship had been thrown on her beam-ends. He was on his feet again in a moment, and once more ran up the ladder, shouting lustily for his mates:

“Mr. Jefferson! Mr. Cross!” he yelled. “Where is everybody? We’ll be a wreck in five minutes, and the last man on board seems to be asleep!”

Highly indignant at the gross negligence of his officers, Uncle Dick groped his way with eager haste to the top of the ladder, threw open the door and sprang out upon the roof; but bear in mind, reader, that he did not know that he was on the top of his brother’s house. He was not fairly awake yet, and he thought he was at sea and on board his vessel.

Having gained the roof, Uncle Dick stood for an instant appalled at the scene presented to his gaze. A furious gale was raging, the air was filled with snow and sleet, and the old sailor felt the full force and severity of the tempest in his exposed position, having been in too great a hurry even to put on his hat before he left his state-room. He looked all around for his crew, who ought to have been on deck attending to things, but could not see a single man. He saw something else, however, and that was a range of high hills about a mile distant from the house—a famous place for squirrels and quails, and one of the favorite hunting-grounds of his nephews; but the sailor thought they were the headlands of an unfriendly shore upon which his ship was about to be cast away.

“I’ve sailed the blue water for thirty years without losing a single vessel,” said Uncle Dick, with a groan, “and now I am going to be wrecked at last. I can hear the breakers already. Helm hard a-starboard! Mr. Cross, call all hands. Mr. Jefferson, stand by to put the ship about!”

Uncle Dick shouted out these orders with an earnestness which showed that he was fully alive to the dangers of the situation; but, to his great amazement, he did not hear the accustomed responses, and neither did he see the faithful crew tumbling up from below to execute his commands He was fairly awake now, and a vague idea that things did not look natural began to creep into his mind. He glanced at the hills, toward the place where the man at the wheel ought to have been, at the tall elms which lifted their swaying, leafless branches above his head, and then turned and dived down the companion-ladder. He found his way to his state-room, and after brushing off some of the snow which clung to him, he tumbled into his bunk and settled himself snugly between the sheets. For five minutes all was still; and then a roar of laughter that was plainly heard above the noise of the storm, rang through the state-room.

“I’ve done some queer things in my life,” said the sailor, as if addressing some one near him, “but that was the first time I ever ordered my mate to stand by to put a stone house about.”

Uncle Dick had a keen sense of the ludicrous, and considering the story as altogether too good to be kept to himself, he told it to the family the next morning; and a merrier breakfast party than that which gathered around Mr. Gaylord’s table was never seen anywhere. The members of the household were kept in a broad grin for several days afterward, and even now the old sailor would roar out heartily whenever he thought of it.

This was but one of the many laughable incidents, of which Uncle Dick was the hero, that happened in the mansion during the year; but if we should stop to relate them, we should never begin the story of the Sportsman’s Club’s adventures.

Walker’s room and Eugene’s was in the second story of the house. It was a large, cheerful apartment, nicely furnished, and contained three beds—enough to accommodate all the members of the Club. Any one who had taken a single glance at the room, would have gained a pretty good idea of the tastes and habits of its young masters. The walls were adorned with pictures of hunting scenes, regattas and boat-races, and with flags, pennants and trophies of the chase. In one corner stood a book-case containing a fine library; in another were deposited several pairs of Indian clubs and dumb-bells; and a third seemed to be used as an armory, for it was filled with rifles and shot-guns of all sizes and lengths, each weapon enclosed in a case of strong cloth, to protect it from the dust. Occupying a prominent place over the mantel was the flag which had been the cause of so much hard feeling on the part of Bayard Bell. It was made of blue silk, and in its centre bore the word “Champion!” in gold letters. It was the handiwork of Emma Bell and some of her friends, and had been made at the suggestion of Bayard, who declared that he and his men could pull much faster if they had something besides the championship to work for. Lucy Conklin, the pretty cousin of one of Bayard’s crew, was selected to present the flag to the winning boat. She expected to have the pleasure of giving it to Bayard, who was her favorite; and when Walter Gaylord, with his cap in his hand, and his handsome face flushed with exercise and triumph, stepped upon the tug where she was standing, and approached to receive the colors, Lucy was so surprised and indignant that she forgot the neat little speech she had prepared for the occasion, and handed the flag to the victor without saying a word. The Club thought a great deal of that little piece of blue silk, and were determined to keep it.

It is the night of the first of December, 18—. The boys’ room is brilliantly illuminated by four large lamps suspended from the ceiling, and a cheerful wood fire is burning on the hearth, and around it is gathered a happy party consisting of all the members of the Sportsman’s Club. That broad-shouldered, sturdy-looking fellow who is sitting on one side of the centre-table with a book on his knee, and talking to the old negro who stands with his hand on the door-knob, is Walter Gaylord, the President of the Club. He and his companions have been discussing various plans for their amusement, and having decided to pass the next day in hunting coons, Walter is issuing his orders. “You’re sure the weather will be favorable, are you, Sam?” he asks.

“Yes, sar; sartin ob it,” replies the negro. “It’s snowin’ now, fast. It’s boun’ to snow all night, and to-morrow’ll be just de day for tracking de coon.”

“Well, then, we’ll start as soon after daylight as we can get ready. We shall want a warm breakfast before we go.”

“Yes, sar.”

“And, Sam, we shall want something more to eat at noon, and we can’t very well carry it with us. About half past eleven put the pony into the cart and bring us out a good dinner. Meet us in the swamp at the old bee-tree. Put in plenty of sandwiches, for we shall be hungry. That’s all, Sam.”

The negro disappears, and Walter again picks up his book, while the rest of the Club resume the various occupations in which they had been engaged, and which this conversation had interrupted.

That curly-headed, blue-eyed boy standing in front of the fire-place, working upon the lock of his rifle, which is out of order, is Eugene Gaylord, who has probably performed as many exploits, and been the hero of as many school-scrapes, as any fellow of his age in the country. He is a small edition of his Uncle Dick, noisy and good-natured, and seems to be literally brimming over with fun.

There are three other members of the Club, whom we have not yet introduced. They are Phil Perkins, Jasper Babcock and Fred Craven. They live in Bellville, and have come up with their horses and hounds to spend the holidays at the Gaylord mansion. The former (who always answers to the name of “Perk”), although he is quick to learn and has always occupied a respectable position in his class, is not much of a boy for books; but he is quite at home in studying up plans for mischief, and can carry them out, too, as well as his friend Eugene. He is the best gymnast at the Academy, and can hold out a thirty-five pound dumb-bell in each hand. He is a good oarsman, is fond of sailing, and during the regattas always assists Walter and Eugene in handling the Banner. Jasper Babcock (commonly called “Bab”) has more than once demonstrated his ability to beat any boy at the Academy in pulling a single-scull race, and can boast that he owns the swiftest yacht about Bellville. Another accomplishment in which he cannot be beaten is in making a standing high jump. He can place a pole at the height of his chin from the ground, and spring over it with the greatest ease, alighting on the other side like a fallen feather. These two boys are sitting with a board between them, engaged in a game of backgammon. They are both experts and rivals; and although they have been playing for years—almost ever since they first became acquainted—the question of superiority is not yet decided.

Fred Craven, the coxswain of the Spray, and secretary of the Sportsman’s Club, is a year older than Walter and scarcely more than half as large. He is a jolly little fellow, a great favorite with everybody, except Bayard Bell and his crowd, and always answers to the name of “Featherweight.” He is a good bat and short-stop, sails his own yacht, is Vice Commodore of the Academy squadron, and his record as a student is excellent. No one ever suspects him of being in a scrape, and his influence goes a long way toward keeping such wild fellows as Perk and Eugene within bounds. He now sits poring over his Virgil, and, like Walter, is so deeply interested in his book that he does not hear the rattle of the checkers or the conversation kept up by the other members of the Club.

There is another occupant of the room that we must not forget to speak of, for he bears a somewhat important part in our story. It is Rex, the Irish greyhound which lies stretched out on the rug in front of the fire. The dog always sleeps in the same apartment with Walter, who is the only one he acknowledges as his master, and whom he accompanies wherever he goes. He does other things, too, that we shall tell of by and by.

The hours fly rapidly when one is agreeably employed, and it was ten o’clock before the boys knew it. Long before that time Eugene had finished repairing his rifle and getting all his accoutrements ready for the hunt on the morrow, and after trying different plans for his amusement, such as reading, watching the game of backgammon, and teasing Rex, he picked up his flute. He was a good performer, and when he confined himself to music, the Club never grew tired of listening to him; but on this occasion, being possessed with his usual spirit of mischief, he imitated the squealing of pigs, the cackling of hens, the creaking of wagons, and produced other doleful sounds that were enough to drive one distracted. Walter endured it, and so did Perk and Bab. The former, with his feet stretched out straight before him, his chin resting on his breast, his eyebrows elevated, and both hands tightly clasping his book, read on all unmindful of what was going on around him, and the others rattled their pieces and talked and played without paying any heed to the noise; but the nervous little Featherweight, finding it impossible to construe his Latin with such a din ringing in his ears, raised a cry of remonstrance.

“I say! Hold on there!” he exclaimed. “What will you take to leave off torturing that flute and go to bed?”

“Well, Featherweight, seeing it’s you, I won’t charge anything,” replied Eugene. “I have been thinking that we had all better go to bed if we intend to get up at daylight. I’ll stop. I’ll go down and wind up Walter’s alarm-clock, and then I’ll come back and court the embrace of ‘tired Nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep.’”

“H’m! Shakespeare!” exclaimed Perk.

“Young,” corrected Walter, laying down his book.

“Pat him on the back, somebody,” suggested Bab.

“Don’t do it. Put him out of doors,” said Featherweight. “He has violated the rules of the Club by quoting poetry.”

Amid a volley of such exclamations as these Eugene left the room and went out to wind up his brother’s alarm-clock. Now, the only alarm-clock that Walter possessed was his white horse (Tom, he called him), and the way to “wind him up” was to turn him loose in the yard. He would stay around the house all night, and at the first peep of day take his stand under his master’s window and arouse him by his neighing. How he got into the habit, or how he found out which was his window, Walter did not know. There were half a dozen windows on that side of the house, but the horse never made a mistake. And there was no use in trying to sleep when Tom wanted him to get up; for he would keep on repeating his calls until some one answered them. In some respects he was better than an alarm-clock.

In half an hour the Club were in bed and fast asleep—all except Perk and Bab, who still played away as desperately as ever. Perk came out winner at last, but he was a long time in doing it, and it was twelve o’clock before they were ready to retire. While they were undressing Tom began galloping frantically about the yard (he was as watchful as any dog the boys had ever seen), and a moment afterward one of the hounds set up a dismal howl. This was answered by every dog on the plantation; and then arose a chorus of whines and bays and growls that would have done credit to a small menagerie. While Perk and Bab stood looking at each other, a door opened and closed below, a heavy step sounded in the hall, and Mr. Gaylord’s voice rang out above the tumult.

“Hi! hi!” he shouted. “Hunt him up, fellows! Take hold of him!”

Rex jumped to his feet and barked furiously, and this aroused the slumbering members of the Club, who were out on the door in an instant. They did not ask what the matter was, for they had no difficulty in guessing at the cause of the disturbance.

“Bear!” shouted Featherweight.

“Deer!” exclaimed Eugene.

“Who knows but it’s a panther?” said Perk.

“We’ll find out what it is before we go to bed again,” said Walter. “The dogs are close at his heels, are they not?” he added, as the slow, measured baying of the hounds changed to a sharp impatient yelp. “Hurry up, fellows, or we shall miss all the fun.”

These midnight alarms were not new chapters in the experience of the Club. Wild animals were abundant, and it was by no means an uncommon occurrence for the dogs to discover a bear or wildcat prowling about the plantation during the night. Indeed, the boys had seen bears pass through the cornfield in the day-time; and a few weeks previous to the commencement of our story, Walter and Eugene stood on the back porch of the house, and fired their guns at a deer that was feeding at one of the fodder stacks.

The boys hurried on their clothes without loss of time, and catching up their guns and throwing their powder-flasks and shot-pouches over their shoulders, ran down the stairs and out of the house. On the porch they met Mr. Gaylord, who turned and gave them an approving nod.

“What is it?” asked all the boys in a breath.

“O, a bear, I suppose,” replied the gentleman. “The dogs have treed him, and if you want a little sport, we’ll go down and take a look at him.”

There are not many boys in the world who would be willing to go to bed when they knew that a bear had been treed within a quarter of a mile of them. Our heroes were not, by any means. If they could remain up all night for the purpose of capturing a coon, as they had done many a time, they could certainly afford to lose an hour’s sleep when they had a prospect of trying their skill on larger and more valuable game. Mr. Gaylord went into the house after his rifle; Eugene ran to the kitchen to bring a fire-brand; Walter hurried off in search of a couple of axes; and the rest of the club busied themselves in gathering a supply of dry chips with which to kindle a fire. In a few minutes Mr. Gaylord came out again, but he moved much too slowly and deliberately to suit the impatient boys, who set out for the woods at a rapid run, leaving him to follow at his leisure. They found the dogs—probably a score of them in all—gathered about a tall oak that grew just outside the cotton-field. Some of the experienced ones, like Rex, sat at a little distance and looked steadily up into the branches; while the younger ones made desperate attempts to run up the tree, and failing in that, fell to fighting among themselves. A few harshly spoken words, and a flourish or two with the switch Eugene carried in his hand, brought order out of the confusion, and put a stop to the barking and quarrelling.

The first business was to kindle a fire: and by the time this had been done Mr. Gaylord came up. The fire cracked away merrily, the flames arose higher and higher, and presently threw out so bright a light that the hunters could discern the outlines of some dark object crouching in the top of the tree. The boys yelled like young savages at the discovery, and Perk, who carried a long, heavy deer-gun of wonderful range and accuracy, requested his companions to stand back and see how nicely he could lift him out of the tree at the first shot.

“Don’t be in a hurry, boys!” said Mr. Gaylord. “Let me have a good view of him before you shoot. There’s something about him that looks suspicious.”

“I was just thinking so myself,” exclaimed Featherweight, and his voice trembled a little with excitement. “He keeps too still for a bear, and when the fire blazes up so that I can see him quite plainly, I can make out a long, slim body. If I know anything, it is a panther.”

A panther! The boys repeated the word in tones of excitement, cocked their guns rather hurriedly, and their fingers trembled as they rested on the triggers. Mr. Gaylord walked around the tree, looking at the animal from different positions, and several times raised his rifle as if he were about to shoot. Finally he announced that they had certainly treed a panther, adding that he was so effectually protected by the branches that it would be a waste of ammunition to fire at him. They must cut the tree down.

This decision had no sooner been rendered, than the hunters proceeded to act upon it. Walter and Bab pulled off their coats, and stationing themselves on opposite sides of the tree went manfully to work, while the others stood around with their guns in their hands, keeping their eyes fastened on the game, and ready to take the place of the choppers as soon as the latter grew tired. They were all intensely excited—they could not be otherwise, standing as they were under a tree containing a panther, and knowing that he could come down from his perch and make short work with them at any moment. They all thought of the danger, but there was not one among them who had any idea of standing back and allowing the others to do all the work and gain all the applause. A panther was something worth killing in those days. Aside from the honor, there was money to be made by it, for the authorities of the parish paid twenty-five dollars for the scalp of every one of these animals that was killed within its limits.

The choppers were at work upon the tree fully twenty minutes, and during all this time the panther sat upon his perch glaring down at his foes, and never once changing his position. But as the top of the oak began to waver he looked about him uneasily, and when a loud crack announced that it was about to fall, he started up and gathered himself for a spring.

“Shoot away, boys!” cried Mr. Gaylord; “he’s going to run. If we allow him to reach the woods we shall lose him.”

Six guns cracked in quick succession, and bullets and buckshot rattled through the top of the oak, bringing twigs and dead leaves down in a perfect shower. But if any of the missiles struck the panther they failed to reach a vital part, for the animal sprang into the air with all the ease and agility of a squirrel, and alighting among the branches of a tall hickory fully twenty feet distant, quickly disappeared from sight. While the hunters stood looking at him the oak came down with a crash, and in an instant the dogs were tumbling about among the branches, searching everywhere for the game, and seemingly very much astonished at not finding him.

“The fun is over for to-night, boys,” said Mr. Gaylord, who being an old sportsman took matters very coolly. “We’ll go to bed now, and in the morning we’ll put the dogs on his trail and follow him up and finish him.”

The Club exchanged significant glances when they heard this; but said nothing until they reached the house, and then they stopped to hold a consultation.

CHAPTER III.
BAYARD BELL AND HIS CROWD.

The members of the Club had one and all made up their minds that the panther should be killed in the morning if he could be found, and they had resolved, too, that Mr. Gaylord and Uncle Dick should have no hand in the business. They had won glory enough already. Mr. Gaylord had lived in the country from early boyhood, and had trapped and shot scores of panthers, while Uncle Dick had more than once tried his skill on lions, tigers and elephants. The Club, however, could not boast of any such exploits. They had shot any number of turkeys, had eaten many a dinner of venison that they had brought home from the woods, and had been in at the death of more than one bear; but not one of them, before that night, had even levelled his gun at a panther. Now they had a capital opportunity to exhibit themselves, and they were determined to show the old Nimrods in the village that some folks could do things as well as others.

“We’ll never have another chance like this,” whispered Bab, excitedly, “and we must improve it. I know that panther has some of our bullets in him, and that he can’t travel far to-night. Go and put your alarm-clock in the stable, Walter.”

“What for? Don’t we want to get up early in the morning?”

“Certainly. But if the horse awakens us by neighing under our window, won’t he arouse your father and Uncle Dick also? If they know when we go out they will want to go with us, and that will knock all our fun in the head. Trust me—I will have you out of bed at four o’clock.”

Walter whistled for his horse, and the rest of the Club went up stairs. Tom followed his master to the barn like a dog, and after Walter had put him in his stall, he returned to his room and tumbled into bed. He did not intend to go to sleep at all that night, but before he knew it he was dreaming of panthers, wild-cats, and all sorts of savage animals. It seemed to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when some one seized him by the shoulder. He glanced at the clock and saw that Bab had been true to his promise, for the hands pointed to five minutes past four. While the boys were dressing they stepped about the room very carefully, for fear of awaking Mr. Gaylord, who always slept with one eye and both ears open; and taking their boots in their hands they crept cautiously down the stairs, followed by Rex, who seemed to know what was going on and to understand the necessity of making as little noise as possible. As they stepped upon the porch their hounds came up; and if some one had told them what their masters’ arrangements were, and why they were leaving the house in so stealthy a manner, they could not have behaved more sensibly.

It did not take them long to walk to the barn and saddle their horses; and in ten minutes more they were sitting around the fire, which was still burning brightly near the stump of the oak, comparing notes and waiting impatiently for daylight. It came at last, and as soon as they could see to ride through the woods, they led their hounds to the tree and showed them the limb on which the panther had been sitting. They did this so that the dogs might know what game they were expected to follow. If their masters had simply ordered them into the woods, they would have opened on the first trail they found, and it might have been that of a rabbit or coon. But now they understood that the boys wanted them to follow the panther; and they were so well trained that if a bear or deer had run through the woods in plain sight, they would not have paid the least attention to it. They smelt at the limb and began circling about the tree in search of the trail. They worked faithfully for a quarter of an hour, and then a long, deep-toned bay echoed through the woods, telling the young hunters that their efforts had been successful.

“Hurrah!” shouted Eugene. “To horse, my brave boys, and away! Hi! hi! Hunt ’em up, there!”

If you have never followed the hounds we cannot convey to you even the slightest idea of the melody that filled the forest when that pack of high-flyers opened in full chorus on the trail, or the excitement that thrilled the hunters as they flew over the ground, leaping fences, ditches and logs, each boy urging his horse forward at the top of his speed, in the hope of distancing his companions, and being the first to come up with the hounds when they brought the panther to bay. Walter’s nag took the lead at once, and with a few of his long bounds brought his rider to the place where the dogs had struck the trail. He saw the prints of the panther’s great feet in the snow, and every track was marked with blood.

“The chase will not be a long one,” exclaimed Featherweight, dashing up beside Walter and reining in his horse for a moment to glance at the trail, “for he is too badly wounded to travel far. Now, every man for himself, and three cheers and a tiger for the winner.”

Once more the boys put spurs to their horses and went galloping through the woods at break-neck speed.

If you have ever ridden with experienced hunters, you will, perhaps, have some idea of the manner in which Walter and his party intended to conduct the chase; if you have not, a word of explanation may be necessary. To begin with, they had no intention of following directly after the dogs, or attempting to keep up with them, for that would have been useless. They settled it in their minds beforehand which point in the woods the game would run for, and then “cut across lots,” and tried to reach that point before him.

Wild animals have ways and habits of their own that a man who has often hunted them understands. If he knows the country he can tell within fifty yards where a deer or a bear will run when pursued by the dogs, and each of the Club thought he knew just the place the panther would make for when their hounds opened on his trail. While they were sitting beside the fire waiting for daylight, Eugene said that if the trail ran toward the swamps, he would ride for a certain ford in the bayou. That was the point at which deer always crossed in going to and from the swamp, and he thought it very probable that the panther would cross there also. Walter did not agree with his brother, and intended to look elsewhere for the game. There was a huge poplar tree about two miles from the plantation, that went by the name of “the panther’s den;” and he was sure he would find him there. Featherweight thought the animal would make the best of his way to a certain canebrake where Uncle Dick had killed three or panthers during the previous winter, and the others thought he would go somewhere else. In short, they had all made up their minds what they were going to do, and each fellow thought his place was the best. They agreed that the first one who discovered the panther should announce the fact to the others by blowing four long blasts on his hunting-horn.

In less than two minutes after the hounds opened on the trail, the hunters had scattered in all directions, and each boy was drawing a bee-line for the place where he expected to find the panther. For a long time Walter thought he was right in his calculations, for the music of the hounds told him that they were running in the same direction in which he was going; but presently the baying began to grow fainter and fainter, and finally died away in the distance. Then Walter knew that he was wrong, but still he kept on, determined to visit and examine the “old panther’s den,” when suddenly he heard the notes of a horn away off in the swamp. He listened and counted four long blasts. It was Bab’s horn, and judging by the way that young gentleman rolled out the signals, he was very much excited about something. Walter faced about at once, and, guided by the music of the horn which continued to ring out at short intervals, finally came within sight of a dense brier thicket in the lower end of his father’s cornfield. There were several trees in the thicket, and the hounds were running about among them, gazing up into the branches and baying loudly. Bab was the only one of the Club in sight. He sat on his horse just outside the fence, looking up at a cottonwood that stood a little apart from the others, and following the direction of his gaze, what was Walter’s amazement to see two immense panthers crouching among the branches!

“Are we not in luck?” exclaimed Bab—“two panther-skins to show as trophies of our skill, and fifty dollars to put into our pockets? This is grand sport. I never was more excited in my life.”

Walter thought it very likely. He did not see how any boy could possibly be more excited than his friend was at that moment. There was not a particle of color in his face; his voice trembled when he spoke, and the hand in which he held his rifle shook like a leaf.

“Humph!” said Walter; “are you not counting your young poultry a little too early in the season? Those skins, that you intend to exhibit with so much pride, are very animated skins just now, and the bone and muscle in them may carry them safely out of our reach in spite of all our efforts to prevent it. Have you never heard old Coulte talk about panther-hunting?” (Coulte was a Creole who lived away off in the swamp. He was a famous hunter, and had killed more panthers, bears, and deer than any two other men in the parish.) “He says,” continued Walter, “that ‘ven ze Frenchman hunts ze paintare ze shport is fine, magnifique; but when ze paintare hunts the Frenchman, Ah! oui! zare is ze very mischief to pay!’ Suppose those panthers should show a disposition to jump down from that tree and come at us; what then?”

“Ah! oui!” said Bab, with a regular French shrug of his shoulders. “By the time they touched the ground I would be a long way from here. That’s our fellow,” he said, pointing to the nearest panther. “I caught sight of him just now as he was ascending the tree, and noticed that he could scarcely raise his fore-legs. He is badly wounded.”

“Where did the other come from?”

“I don’t know; he was in the tree when I came here. No doubt the dogs started him up in the woods, and he ran with the other to keep him company. Now, we don’t want to take any unfair advantage of the rest of the Club, and I propose that we wait until they come up.”

Of course Walter agreed to this—not simply for the reason Bab had given, but because he thought it best to have a strong force at hand before troubling those panthers. The other hunters were not a great way off. Led by the sound of Bab’s horn, they came up one after the other; and when Eugene, who was the last, made his appearance, they gathered around Walter to hold a council of war. Their arrangements were all made in a few minutes, and after throwing down a portion of the fence, they leaped their horses into the cornfield, and rode toward the thicket. They surrounded the cottonwood, and at a word from Walter, five guns were pointed toward its branches, the sights covering the wounded panther’s head.

“One—two—three!” counted Walter, slowly.

The guns belched forth their contents at the same instant, and through the smoke that wreathed above their heads the hunters caught just one glimpse of a limp, lifeless body falling to the ground. One enemy was disposed of, and the fate of the other was sealed a moment afterward, for Perk fired the second barrel of his deer-killer, and fifteen buckshot found a lodgment in the panther’s head. Two more guns cracked while he was falling through the air, and if he was not dead when he left the branch on which he had been crouching, he certainly was before he touched the ground. The work was easily done, but there was not one of the young hunters who did not draw a long breath of relief when he saw that it was over. They knew that panther-hunters do not often bag their game with as little trouble and danger as they had in securing theirs.

“Well, Walter, we’ve done it after all, haven’t we?” exclaimed Bab, highly elated and excited. “Three cheers for the Sportsman’s Club one and all!”

When the cheer had been given, the boys dismounted to examine their prizes. The one they had cut out of the tree the night before was an immense animal for one of its species, and his teeth and claws were frightful to see. The other, although not nearly as large, was still an ugly-looking fellow, and, no doubt, before he received their bullets and buckshot in his head, would have whipped them all in a fair fight, if he had seen fit to descend from his tree and give them battle.

“Now, the next thing to be done,” said Eugene, “is to go to the house for a wagon.”

“One of us can do that,” replied Walter, “and the rest had better stay here and watch the game.”

“Do you think there is any danger of their running away?” asked Perk.

“No; but there may be danger that some one will run away with them if we don’t keep our eyes open,” returned Walter, who was gazing intently toward the woods. “There are other hunters coming, if my ears do not deceive me.”

After listening a moment, the boys all heard the noise that had attracted Walter’s attention. It was the baying of hounds. The sound came faintly to their ears at first, but grew louder and louder every moment, indicating that the chase was tending toward the cornfield.

“Now isn’t that provoking?” cried Eugene. “Pull off your coats, boys, and get ready for a fight; for if we don’t have one in less than ten minutes, I shall miss my guess.”

“We can tell more about that when we see the hunters,” said Featherweight.

“O, I know who they are,” replied Eugene. “I have heard those hounds before, and I am certain that they belong to Bayard Bell and his crowd.”

The other members of the Club thought so too, and they wished that Bayard had stayed away half an hour longer, and given them time to remove their game to a place of safety.

Every section has some laws of its own that are not written in books; and this is especially true of a new country, concerning the sharing of the proceeds of a hunt. For example, a hunter sets out on the trail of a deer that has travelled all night. A second hunter strikes the trail in advance of him, and follows up the game and kills it. The first man, if he comes up before the game is removed, and can prove that he was on the trail at an earlier hour than his rival, can claim half the deer, although he may have been miles away when it was killed. Game was so abundant at the time of which we write, that there was seldom any difficulty in regard to the division of the spoils. If the successful hunter was generous, the other let him off very easily, perhaps taking only a few steaks for his next morning’s breakfast; but if he showed a disposition to be stingy, his rival always insisted on his rights, and got them, too. In this case the Club thought they saw a chance for trouble. Every one in that region knew that there was a standing reward of twenty-five dollars offered for the scalp of every panther killed in the parish, and they were afraid that the hunters who were then approaching might endeavor to establish a claim to a portion of the money. That was something they did not intend to allow. They found the trail first, followed up the panther, and finding him in company with another, killed them both, before any one, except Mr. Gaylord, knew that they were in the neighborhood. They hurriedly discussed the matter while they were awaiting the approach of the rival hunters, and resolved that they would stand up for their rights.

The noise of the chase continued to grow louder every moment, and presently a pack of hounds, perhaps a dozen of them in all, emerged from the woods, and leaping the fence came close upon the young hunters before they discovered them. Then they ceased their baying, smelt of the panthers, and tried to scrape an acquaintance with Rex and the rest of the Club’s hounds; but their advances not being very graciously received, they ran back to the fence to await the arrival of their masters. They came at length, and when the foremost horseman appeared in sight, our heroes exchanged significant glances and drew a little closer together, while Eugene rested his gun against the nearest tree and began to pull off his overcoat. “It is just as I expected,” said he, in great disgust. “We’ll see fun now, for Bayard and his crowd are mean enough for anything.”

As Eugene spoke, a magnificent coal-black charger arose in the air, and, sailing over the fence like a bird, came toward the thicket at a rapid gallop. He carried on his back a dark sullen-looking boy about seventeen years of age, who wore a military cloak and cap, heavy horseman’s boots and gauntlet gloves, and carried a light rifle slung over his shoulder by a broad strap. This was Bayard Bell, Walter’s rival in everything except his studies. Close behind him came four other boys—Will and Seth Bell, Henry Chase and Leonard Wilson—all finely mounted, neatly dressed, and armed with shot-guns and rifles. These five boys had a society of their own, something like the Sportman’s Club, and somehow they were always opposing the members of the Club, and were invariably worsted by them. They had claimed to be the champion oarsmen of the Academy, and in the attempt to establish that claim, had been so badly beaten that their friends were ashamed of them. Bayard and Henry Chase had been candidates for the position of Commodore and Vice-Commodore of the Academy squadron; but Walter and Featherweight had carried off the honors. Bayard also wanted to be president of one of the literary societies of the institution, and had worked hard for certain academic honors that he thought he ought to have; but rattle-brained Eugene Gaylord had snatched one of the prizes from his grasp, and the studious little Featherweight had walked off with the other. As Bayard and his friends had been confident of success in every one of these instances, their failures were sore disappointments to them. They looked upon their defeats as direct insults, and declared that they would never forget them. They had generally tried to treat the Club with civility as long as they remained at the Academy, but now that they were out from under the eyes of their professors and away from the rest of the students, they thought they had no reason to conceal the real state of their feelings.

The attention of the new-comers was so fully occupied in guiding their horses through the thicket and over the rough, uneven ground, that they did not discover the members of the Club until they had dashed into the very midst of them; and then they checked their horses so suddenly that every one of them was thrown back upon his haunches. The encounter was plainly unexpected, and very much of a surprise to them. They gazed first at our heroes and then at the panthers, and taking in the position of affairs at a glance, looked inquiringly at one another, as if to ask: “What shall we do about it?” Bayard must have been able to read the thoughts that were passing in the minds of his friends, or else he received some sign from them indicative of their desires, for he immediately assumed a swaggering, bullying air, which told the Club plainly enough what was coming.

“Well,” he snarled (he always talked in a snappish sort of way, as if he were angry about something), “Who’s work is this? Who killed these panthers?”

“We did,” replied Eugene.

“You!” echoed Bayard. He looked at the young hunters in amazement, and then smiled derisively. “You can’t crowd any such story as that down our throats,” said he, at length. “Your father and your uncle Dick killed them, and you’re watching them while they go after a wagon to haul them home. That’s the way the thing stands.”

“You are nice-looking fellows to kill two panthers, are you not?” said Seth, with a sneer. “You would run crying home to your mammas if you saw the track of one.”

“Have it your own way,” replied Walter, good-naturedly. “We killed them without help from anybody, but there’s no law that I know of that compels you to believe it.”

“They’re done for, anyhow,” said Bayard, “and we are saved considerable trouble and hard riding. We’ve been following them for more than an hour—we found their trail down there on the banks of the bayou—and we would have got them if we’d had to follow them clear to New York. If you can prove that you shot them you will take a few dollars out of our pockets.”

Bayard and his men dismounted and proceeded to examine the animals very closely. They looked at their teeth, lifted their paws, guessed at their weight, and finally Bayard drew a hunting-knife from his boot, and after trying the edge on his thumb, walked up to one of the panthers and took hold of his ear.

“Hold on, there!” exclaimed Eugene. “What are you about?”

“What am I about?” repeated Bayard, as though he regarded the question as a very strange one; “I am going to take this animal’s scalp—that’s all. It is worth twenty-five dollars to us. We don’t care for the money, but we have rights here, and we intend to enforce them. You can take the other scalp—it belongs to you, or to whoever killed the panthers—and, as we are not disposed to be mean, we will give you both the skins.”

“Now, let me tell you something,” said Perk. “Keep away from there.”

“Eh!” ejaculated Bayard, opening his eyes to their widest extent. “Doesn’t half the fifty dollars these scalps are worth belong to us? It does, and we’re going to have it.”

Perk very deliberately pulled off his overcoat and threw it across his saddle, and Bayard put up his knife and stepped back. Perk coolly seated himself on the head of the largest panther, crossed his legs over the other, and placed his hat beside him on the ground. When the Club witnessed these movements, they told themselves that if they had belonged to Bayard’s party, knowing their friend as well as they did, the offer of double the value of the panthers’ scalps would not have induced them to interfere with him then.

CHAPTER IV.
WILD-HOG HUNTING.

“Well, this beats anything I ever heard of,” said Will Bell, angrily. “I shouldn’t wonder if we had to fight for our share.”

“That would be a bad job for you,” said Bab. “Now, Bayard, let me ask you a question: when did you start the trail of these animals?”

“At daylight,” was the prompt reply; “and you couldn’t have found it any sooner than that, I guess. They were around our house all night, both of them.”

“That’s a—good morning,” said Featherweight.

“It’s a truth, and I can prove it,” shouted Bayard, glaring savagely at Featherweight. “Get away from there, Phil Perkins.”

“Now, Bayard, if you will listen to me a moment I will tell you something,” answered Perk. “I won’t budge an inch.”

Bayard hesitated a moment as if undecided how to act, and then made a sign to his men, who unslung their guns, and after hanging them upon the horns of their saddles, pulled off their coats and came up around their leader, while the Club moved up to support Perk. A collision seemed imminent, and Walter, who did not believe in fighting, tried to reason with his rival.

“Look here, Bayard,” said he; “when you first came up you told us that you had followed the trail of these two panthers for more than an hour, and that you found it on the bank of the bayou.”

“So I did, and I’ll stick to it.”

“And a moment ago you declared that you discovered it at daylight, somewhere near your house.”

“Eh!” exclaimed Bayard, who could not help seeing that he had contradicted himself. “I mean—you see—that’s the truth, too.”

“Your stories don’t agree,” continued Walter. “The facts of the case are that these two animals did not come together until this morning. The larger one was prowling about our house until midnight, and our dogs treed him. We cut the tree down, but he escaped; and at the first peep of day we put our hounds on his track, and followed him up and killed him. You struck the trail behind us, and consequently are not entitled to a share of the reward.”

This proved to Bayard’s satisfaction that the Club understood the matter quite as well as he did. He and his men had been out coon-hunting, most likely (their reputation as hunters did not warrant the supposition that they were in search of larger game), and having stumbled upon the trail of the panthers they had followed it up out of curiosity, and not with any intention of attacking the animals if they had overtaken them. When they found the Club alone with their prizes, they thought it would be a good plan to pay off some of their old scores by robbing them of a portion of their game. They were noted bullies and fighting characters, and they thought the knowledge of this fact would awe the young hunters into submission to any demands they might make upon them; but they had reckoned without their host. Walter saw that what he had said made Bayard and his friends very angry, and he was glad that he was not alone.

“I see just how it is!” exclaimed Seth Bell, in a voice choked with passion. “You have beaten us at so many things that you have got it into your heads that you can ride over us rough-shod at any time you please; but you will find that you can’t do it. We’ve got things fixed for one of you, if you only knew it, and in less than two days—”

“Hold on, Seth,” interrupted Bayard; “you’re talking too much. Get away from there, Perkins.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d as soon sit here as anywhere else,” was the reply. “If you had any claim we wouldn’t say a word. It isn’t the twenty-five dollars we care for. If you were in need of it we would give it to you gladly; but you might as well understand, first as last, that you can’t bully us out of our rights. If you don’t get anything to eat until we surrender one of these scalps to you, you’ll be hungry—that’s a fact.”

This speech was delivered with the utmost good nature, but the Club knew, and so did Bayard and his men, that it was quite useless to argue the matter further. The actions of the latter indicated that they did not intend to waste any more time in words, but had made up their minds to try what virtue there was in their muscles; for they took off their caps, rolled up their sleeves, and made other preparations to attack the Club and drive them from the field. “Come on, fellows,” exclaimed Bayard; “and every time you put in a blow think of that boat-race, and of the election that was carried against us by fraud.”

“I really believe there’s going to be a skirmish here,” said Perk, rising to his feet and drawing himself up to his full height. “Now let me tell you something: I am going to take the two biggest of you and knock your heads together. Pitch in.”

Bayard and his men, not in the least intimidated by this threat, took Perk at his word. They set up a yell and sprang forward like a lot of young savages; but before they had made many steps they were suddenly checked by an unlooked-for incident that happened just then. A score of hounds in full cry burst from the woods, and leaping the fence came dashing into the thicket, following the trail of the panthers. A half-dozen horsemen, two of whom were Mr. Gaylord and Uncle Dick, and the rest negroes, followed close at their heels, and at the sight of them the ardor of Bayard and his men cooled directly. They paused in their headlong rush, and, acting with a common impulse, caught up their coats, retreated quickly to their horses, and mounted with all possible haste. When they found themselves safe in their saddles their courage returned, and while the others contented themselves with shaking their fists at the members of the Club, Seth stopped to say a parting word to them.

“You haven’t seen the last of us, my young friends!” he exclaimed, in a very savage tone of voice. “In less than two days one of you will find himself——”

Just then Bayard’s heavy glove came across Seth’s mouth with a sounding whack, and the latter’s horse starting off with the others carried him out of sight, to the great disappointment of the Club, who had listened eagerly to his words, hoping to obtain some clue to the plans Bayard had laid against them. They found out in due time what those plans were, and in a way that one of their number, at least, did not like.

“What’s the matter here, boys?” cried Uncle Dick, reining in his horse with a jerk. “You did not come to blows with those—well, I declare!”

Uncle Dick did not finish what he had to say. He glanced down at the game and opened his eyes in amazement, and so did Mr. Gaylord; and for a few seconds neither of them spoke. Eugene, however, was very talkative, and while his father and uncle were examining the panthers, he entertained them with a glowing description of the manner in which the Club had accomplished their destruction and told what had passed between them and Bayard.

“I wouldn’t have anything to do with those fellows,” said Mr. Gaylord, when Eugene had finished his story. “I would keep out of sight and hearing of them as much as I possibly could. They are a hard lot, and as you have been unfortunate enough to incur their enmity, they will seek every opportunity to be revenged upon you. Bob,” he added, turning to one of the negroes, “put these animals on your mule, and take them to the house. Come, boys, you have done enough for one day.”

The Club mounted their horses, and, accompanied by Mr. Gaylord and Uncle Dick, rode toward the house, the negroes and the hounds bringing up the rear. The panthers were left on the floor of the gin-house, and two of the negroes were instructed how to remove and stretch the skins so that they could be preserved; for Uncle Dick, who was very proud of the exploit the boys had performed, although he had had but little to say about it, declared that they ought to have something to remember that morning’s hunt by, and announced that it was his intention to send the skins to a taxidermist in New Orleans, and have them stuffed and mounted.

After Uncle Dick left the gin-house, the boys stood for a long time holding their horses by the bridle, watching the operation of skinning the panthers, and wondering what they should do next. It was not yet twelve o’clock, and there was a whole afternoon before them to be passed in some way. Eugene, who did not care much what he did so long as he was in motion, suggested that hunting wild-turkeys was fine sport; but as the snow that had fallen the night before had already disappeared, and the chances of tracking turkeys on the bare ground were slim indeed, the Club said they would rather not attempt it. Featherweight reminded them of the ’coon-hunt they had decided upon the night before; but Walter declared that it was not to be thought of. After killing two panthers, and defying Bayard Bell and his crowd of fellows, ’coon-hunting would be very tame sport. They must have something more exciting.

“Well, den, I tells you what you kin do, Marse Walter,” said one of the negroes, looking up from his work; “you ’members dem wild hogs that wasn’t druv up last fall kase we couldn’t cotch ’em?”

“Yes!” cried the boys in concert.

“I knows right whar they uses,”[1] continued the negro.

[1] In the South and West this word is used in the same sense as frequent. If a hunter says that wild animals “use” any particular portion of the woods, he means that they are generally to be found there.

“Now, that’s the very idea!” said Perk, excitedly. “There’s plenty of sport in wild-hog hunting, and I move that we start out at once. Where shall we go to find the hogs, uncle?”

“You knows whar de ole bee-tree is?” replied the negro. “It’s holler, you know. Well, dar dey is—fo’ on ’em—mighty big fellers, too, an’ savage, kase I seed ’em yesterday when I went out fur to fotch up the mules.”

“Let’s be off, fellows,” repeated Perk, impatiently.

“Wouldn’t it be better to wait until to-morrow and make a day of it?” asked Walter. “We’ll get some of the darkies to help us, and take the cart along to haul the game home in.”

“But what shall we do this afternoon?” asked Perk. “That’s the question now before the house.”

“As far as you are individually concerned,” replied Bab, “I will promise you that the time shall not hang heavily on your hands. I’ll beat you at playing backgammon.”

The majority of the Club were in favor of Walter’s proposition, and, after some remonstrance from Eugene, who couldn’t see how in the world he was going to pass the rest of the day, as he was not much of a backgammon player, and had no new book to read, it was finally adopted. The boys then, suddenly remembering that they had eaten no breakfast and that they were very hungry, put their horses in the stable and walked toward the house. Sam speedily served them up a cold lunch, and at three o’clock they were summoned to dinner, to which they did ample justice.

Bab kept his promise to Perk, and during the whole of the afternoon, and until late at night, made things exceedingly lively for that young gentleman, beating him at every game of backgammon. Walter and Featherweight passed the time with reading and studying; and Eugene, after he had made all the necessary preparations for the hog-hunt on the morrow, went up to the “cabin,” as Uncle Dick’s room was always called, and, finding the old sailor absent, took possession of his sofa and went to sleep.

There were no panthers to prowl about and disturb their rest that night, and the young hunters did not know that anything unusual happened on the plantation. But, for all that, something unusual did happen, and if the boys had witnessed it, they would have been much more excited and alarmed than they had been at any time during the day or previous night. About eight o’clock two horsemen, one wearing a cloak and riding a white horse, and the other wearing an overcoat and mounted on a bay horse, galloped down the road and drew rein in front of the gate which opened into the carriage-way leading to Mr. Gaylord’s dwelling. There they stopped and held a long and earnest consultation, after which they opened the gate and were on the point of riding toward the house, when two men suddenly sprang from the thick bushes that grew on each side of the carriage-way, and while one caught the bridle of the white horse and held fast to it, the other seized his rider and pulled him to the ground. A few gruff words were addressed to the other horseman, who sat motionless in his saddle for a moment, then faced about and tore down the road as if all the wolves in the parish were close at his heels, followed by the white horse, which was riderless; and before the sound of their hoofs had died away, the men had disappeared as quickly as they had come, taking their prisoner with them, and the carriage-way was once more silent and deserted.

The Club, little dreaming that such a proceeding as this had taken place almost within sight of their window, slept soundly all night, and bright and early the next morning might have been seen with their overcoats, comforters and gloves on, walking up and down the back porch of the house, waiting for their horses to be brought out. In front of the door stood a light two-wheeled cart, which, besides two large baskets of eatables, contained the four negroes who were to assist the boys in securing the wild hogs—three of them curled up among the straw on the bottom of the vehicle, and the other sitting on the driver’s seat holding the reins over a very old and infirm pony, which stood with his head down and his eyes closed, as if fast asleep. Gathered about the foot of the steps that led to the porch were the hounds, some lying down, others walking restlessly about, and all of them showing by unmistakable signs that they were impatient at the delay. Conspicuous among them stood Rex, who was the Club’s main dependence that day—as indeed he was every day—the other hounds not being considered of much service in wild-hog hunting.

“Cuff,” said Eugene, addressing himself to the driver of the cart, “you might as well go ahead, and when you pass the stables hurry up those horses. We’re tired of waiting for them. Let’s sing something, fellows.”

Perk, Bab and Featherweight pulled their mufflers down from their faces and moved up closer to Eugene, who coughed once or twice and sang in a clear soprano voice:—

“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky

Proclaim it a hunting morning;

Before the sun rises away we’ll fly,

Dull sleep and a downy bed scorning.

To horse, my brave boys, and away!

Bright Phœbus the hills is adorning;

The face of all nature looks gay;

’Tis a beautiful scent-laying morning.

Hark! hark! forward!

Tan-ta-ra! tan-ta-ra! tan-ta-ra!”

The song was not exactly appropriate to the occasion. The sky was not cloudy, but perfectly clear; and instead of a “southerly wind” there was a keen north wind blowing, which was so searching that the boys were glad to pull their comforters up around their faces again as soon as the song was finished, and walked up and down the porch beating their hands together to keep them warm. But, for all that, it was well sung and worth listening to; for these four boys understood music and delighted in it. Eugene was a good soprano, Featherweight carried the alto, Bab sang a fine tenor, and Perk’s bass was something better than common. Walter was the only one of the Club who had no music in his soul. He generally joined in the singing, and always made a discord; but on this particular morning he held his peace, having something else to think about. He had drawn back into the doorway to get out of the wind, and stood with one hand in his pocket, and the other holding a newspaper, at which his right eye, which was the only part of his face that could be seen over his muffler, was looking intently. When the song was finished he uttered an exclamation, and without stopping to explain read as follows:—

“Lafitte Redivivus.—A gang of desperate smugglers have taken up their abode among the dark bayous and pestilent swamps of that portion of Louisiana bordering on the Gulf coast. They are composed of Chinamen, Malays, Portuguese and Creoles, and are led by two Americans. The New Orleans Collector of Customs expects soon to accomplish their detection, although he has thus far been unable to gain the slightest clue to their haunts, or to the manner in which their nefarious trade is carried on.”

“What do you think of that?” asked Walter, turning toward his companions to observe the effect the reading of this article would have upon them. He expected them to be astonished, and their actions indicated that they certainly were.

“I’ll tell you what I think about it,” said Perk, who was the first to speak. “I don’t doubt the existence of such a band, for some of the settlers have suspected it for a long time, and the presence of the revenue cutters along the coast shows that the government suspects it also; and I think that if we had got into a fight with those boys yesterday, we would have whipped three of the relatives of the ringleader of this organization.”

The arrival of the horses at this moment put a stop to the conversation; but when the young hunters had mounted and ridden into the lane that ran across the cornfield toward the swamp, it was resumed, and the matter discussed most thoroughly. But at the end of an hour, after each boy had expressed an opinion and brought forward his arguments to establish it, they knew no more about the smugglers than they did when they began the debate. Their horses, however, had made better use of their time, for while the discussion was in progress they had accomplished the four miles that lay between the house and the swamp, and brought their riders within a short distance of the old bee-tree. There the Club dismounted to await the arrival of the cart and the negroes, and to decide upon the plan of the hunt. They dropped the smugglers now, and talked about nothing but wild hogs.

At the time of which we write farming was carried on on an extensive scale at the South. Mr. Gaylord had more than three thousand acres under cultivation. He owned two hundred working mules and horses, double that number of young cattle which ran loose in the swamp, and two thousand hogs. These hogs were not managed as Northern farmers manage theirs. They were allowed to roam at will in the woods from one year’s end to another’s—all except those he intended to fatten, which were penned up during the latter part of the autumn and fed until just before the holidays, when they were slaughtered. Those that were permitted to run at large fared sumptuously on beech-nuts, acorns, and hickory-nuts. Mr. Gaylord’s neighbors all owned immense droves, which also ran loose in the swamp, and, of course, it was necessary to have some way of distinguishing them, so that each planter would know his property when he saw it; consequently the hogs were all marked—that is, their ears were cut in different ways. Mr. Gaylord marked his by cutting the left ear entirely off; so whenever he found a one-eared hog in the woods, he was pretty certain that it belonged to him.

Catching these hogs was as much of a jubilee with Southern boys as a corn-husking is with you fellows who live in the North. A planter set a certain day for the business, and needing all the help he could get, sent invitations to his neighbors, who responded by coming themselves and bringing some of their negroes. The most of the hogs, being tame and gentle, could be driven anywhere, and before night they would be confined in pens previously made for their reception; but there were always some wild ones among them that would take to their heels and seek refuge in the deepest parts of the swamp. Then came the fun. These hogs must be secured, and that could be done only by catching them with dogs and tying them—an undertaking in which there was plenty of excitement, but which was sometimes attended with considerable danger, as you will presently see. The hogs of which Walter and his friends were now in pursuit, had escaped from Mr. Gaylord’s drove during the previous autumn, and had remained at large in spite of all the efforts made to capture them.

In a few minutes the cart came up, and after a short consultation with the driver the plan of the attack was decided upon. The pony was tied to a sapling, the boys and negroes formed themselves into a line, and, after sending the dogs on in advance, began to move toward the old bee-tree, gradually lengthening the line as they approached it, in order to surround the game. The dogs did not give tongue and run about among the bushes, as they usually did, but, led by Rex, walked straight ahead, as if they understood the matter in hand as well as their masters did, and moved so slowly that the boys easily kept them in sight. They had gone perhaps half a mile in this order, when the hounds suddenly uttered a simultaneous yelp, which was followed by a loud grunt and a violent commotion in the bushes directly in advance of them. The game was started, and now the hunt began in earnest.

CHAPTER V.
PERK IN A PREDICAMENT.

There are times when nothing in the world does one so much good as giving vent to half a dozen terrific yells in quick succession, and we have always thought that the occasion of a hog hunt is one of them. When the sport first begins, and you hear the game, which is to you invisible, crashing through the bushes on all sides of you; when you see your eager dogs flying over the ground like “coursers in the race” (we never could understand how any healthy boy can live without at least one good dog); when your horse, hearing the sounds of the chase, pricks up his ears and fairly trembles under the saddle with impatience; when you feel your muscles growing rigid, and your heart swelling within you with excitement;—in circumstances like these, is there anything that lets off the surplus steam so easily and completely as a few good yells given with your whole soul? It is one of the very best things in the world for the health—at least the Club thought so; and if you could have heard the yells they gave on that particular morning, you would have said that they were blessed with extraordinary lungs.

In less time than it takes to tell it, after the hounds gave them notice that the game had been discovered, the young hunters had scattered in all directions, and Walter found himself being carried through the bushes with a rapidity that endangered not only his clothing but his skin, also. His white charger, Tom, had engaged in wild-hog hunting so often that he well understood his business, which was to follow Rex wherever he went, and keep as close to his heels as possible; and Walter had nothing to do but to lie flat along his neck, to avoid being swept out of the saddle by the branches of the trees, shut his eyes and hold on like grim death. This was not the most comfortable position in the world, for the horse, which entered into the sport with as much eagerness as though he possessed the soul to appreciate it, was not at all careful in picking his way. He went like the wind, dodging around this stump, jumping over that, plunging through thickets of briers and cane that seemed almost impassable, and finally, without any word from his rider, suddenly stopped.

Walter looked up and found himself in a clear space about ten feet in diameter, in which the bushes had been beaten down and trampled upon until they presented the appearance of having been cut with a scythe. Near the middle of this clear spot stood the faithful Rex, holding by the ear the largest wild hog it was ever Walter’s fortune to put eyes on. His attention was first attracted by a wound on the greyhound’s shoulder, from which the blood was flowing profusely, and then his eyes wandered to the enormous tusks that had made that wound.

These tusks are two teeth in the lower jaw, one on each side, sometimes represented as growing above the snout, as you see them in the pictures in your geography and natural history. You may have regarded these pictures as exaggerations, but if you could have seen the hog Rex caught that morning you would have had reason to think differently. His tusks were five inches in length. These teeth are not used in chewing the food, but in fighting; and they are dangerous weapons. A wild hog does not bite his enemy, as one might suppose; but strikes and wounds him with his tusks; and wherever they touch they cut like a knife.

A wild hog is the wildest thing that ever lived, not even excepting a deer or turkey. He inhabits the darkest nooks in the woods, and, like some other wild animals, feeds at night and sleeps in the day time. He has one peculiarity: no matter how tight a place he gets into or how badly he is hurt, he never squeals. More than that, a dog which has often hunted wild hogs seems to fall into their habits, for during the hunt he seldom growls or barks.

Walter was highly enraged when he found that Rex was wounded, and told himself that if he had had his double-barrel in his hands he would have put an end to that hog’s existence then and there. But he was entirely unarmed, and not possessing the courage to attack such a monster with empty hands, he sat quietly in his saddle and watched the contest. He had seen Rex in many a battle before that, and he saw him in some desperate scrapes afterward, but he never knew him to fight with greater determination than he exhibited that morning. Have you ever seen an ant carrying off a grain of corn? If you have, you will gain some idea of the great odds Rex had to contend with when we tell you that there was as much difference in size between him and the hog, as between the ant and the kernel of corn. He looked altogether too small to engage so large an enemy; but his wound had enraged him, and when he once got his blood up, he feared nothing.

The hog was no coward, either. He had evidently made up his mind to win the battle, and his movements were much more rapid than you would suppose so large a mountain of flesh capable of. He struck at Rex repeatedly, and tried hard to bring him within reach of those terrible tusks, one fair blow from which would have ended the battle in an instant and left Walter to sing:

“No dog to love, none to caress.”

But Rex understood all that quite as well as his master did. He sustained his high reputation even in that emergency, holding fast to the hog’s ear, keeping out of reach of the deadly teeth, and now and then giving his antagonist a shake that brought him to his knees. It was genuine science against Kentucky science—main strength and awkwardness. Neither of the combatants uttered a sound; both fought in silence and with the energy of desperation.

Walter had watched the contest perhaps two or three minutes, not yet having made up his mind what he ought to do, when he heard a crashing in the bushes on the opposite side of the clearing, and presently a large iron-gray horse appeared and stopped as his own had done. On his back he bore an object that was almost covered up by a broad-brimmed planter’s hat; and the removal of that hat revealed the flushed face and black head of Phil Perkins. He gazed about him for a moment with a bewildered air, and when his eyes rested on the greyhound and his huge antagonist, he straightened up and prepared for action. His first move was to throw back his head and give utterance to a yell that would have done credit to a Choctaw brave in his war-paint, and his second to spring off his horse and run to the hound’s assistance. He stopped for a moment to push back his sleeves and settle his hat firmly on his head, and before Walter could tell what he was going to do, he caught the hog by his hind legs and with one vigorous twist lifted him from the ground and threw him on his side. Holding him down with one hand, he fumbled in his pockets with the other, and finally drew out a piece of rope, with which he proceeded to confine the hog’s feet.

Now, Perkins was quite as famous for his reckless courage as for his strength, and when he appeared on the scene Walter knew that something was going to happen to that hog; but he little thought his friend would attack him with empty hands. “Perk!” he exclaimed, in great alarm, “get away from there. Don’t you know you are in danger?”

“No, I reckon not,” was Perk’s reply. “If I can’t manage any hog that ever ran wild in Louisiana, when once I get a good hold of him, I will make you a present of my horse.”

“But, Perk, you’ve got hold of a varmint now. That fellow is as big as two common hogs.”

“No difference if he is as big as four. I am man enough for him.”

At this moment, just as Walter was about to dismount to go to Perk’s assistance, Cuff, one of the negroes, hurried up breathless and excited. “Marse Walter!” he exclaimed, “I’se mighty glad I’se found you. Marse ’Gene say come dar right away. We got one cotched, but we needs help mighty bad.”

Thinking that his brother might be in trouble (Walter told himself that that boy could not be easy unless he was in some sort of difficulty), and not doubting that Perk, with the greyhound’s help, would be able to manage his captive, Walter put spurs to his horse and followed Cuff, who led the way to a ravine about a quarter of a mile distant, and there he found the mate to the hog Rex had caught. He was almost as large, quite as furious, and as fully determined to have things all his own way. Eugene had thrown a rope around one of his hind legs and fastened it to the nearest tree. He was assisted by Bab, the four negroes, and six hounds; but the hog seemed in a fair way to whip them all.

These hounds were unlike Rex in more respects than one. Not possessing one quarter of his courage, they were out of place in a rough-and-tumble fight—they could not be depended upon. When Eugene shouted to them they would catch the hog and pull him to the ground, and the negroes would run up to throw their ropes over his head and around his legs; but he fought so desperately that the hounds would let go their hold, and then there would be a scattering that would have been amusing had the struggle been unattended with danger. The hog seemed to care nothing for the dogs. He tried hard to reach his human enemies, and the only thing that protected them from his fury was the rope—a piece of clothes-line—with which he was tied to the tree. But even that would not long avail them, for, to Walter’s intense horror, he saw that some of the strands had parted.

“Eugene! Bab!” he cried, in a voice which he could scarcely raise above a whisper, “that rope is breaking. Run for your lives!”

The words were scarcely spoken when the hog made a savage lunge at Eugene, who happened to be nearest him, and the rope, no longer strong enough to sustain his weight, parted with a loud snap. Eugene’s face grew as pale as death. He stood for an instant as if paralyzed, and then turned and took to his heels, but before he had made a half dozen steps a root caught his foot, and he fell heavily to the ground.

A cry of horror burst from all who witnessed the peril of the unlucky young hunter, and Bab stood motionless, while Walter sat in his saddle looking fixedly at his brother without possessing the power to move hand or foot. There was but one thing he could do, and that was to encourage the hounds to catch the hog. That might delay him until Eugene could reach his horse, and then he would be safe. As soon as he had recovered the use of his tongue he set up a shout, and the dogs being well trained and accustomed to obedience, seized the hog and pulled him to the ground.

“Now, then, run in and catch him—all of us,” cried Walter, throwing himself from his saddle. “Be in a hurry, and if you once get a good hold of him, hang on with all the strength you’ve got.”

But before Bab or any of the negroes had time to move, the hog scrambled to his feet, and shaking off the dogs as easily as a giant would shake off so many school-boys, again started after Eugene. So quickly had all this been done that his intended victim had not yet arisen from the ground, and before he could think twice the hog charged upon him like a runaway locomotive. O! if Rex had only been there, or if Walter had had his trusty double-barrel in his hands!

The only weapon he could find was a short club which happened to be lying near him on the ground, which, even had he been within striking distance of the hog, would no more have checked him in his headlong rush than a straw would stem the current of Niagara; still he caught it up and sprang forward, determined to save his brother or share in his peril, when, just in the nick of time—not one single instant too soon—help arrived, and from a source from which he least expected it. He heard a yell of delight from Bab, a gray streak flashed before his eyes, and just as Eugene put up his arm to ward off the blow from those terrible tusks, which were now almost within an inch of his face, the hog was jerked backward and thrown struggling on the ground. It was out of his power to hurt anybody then, for Rex the infallible had him.

“Hurrah!” shouted Eugene, jumping to his feet, “he’s our hog now. Shake him up a little, old fellow, to pay him for the scare he gave me.”

Rex did shake him up, not only a little but a great deal; and in five minutes more the hog was secured, his feet having been fastened together so that he could not get up, and his mouth tied with ropes to prevent him from using his teeth. But even then Walter could not help trembling. What would have become of his brother if Rex had been one minute later? His timely arrival had saved Eugene from death, or at least from horrible mutilation, and do you wonder that he threw his arms around that greyhound’s neck and actually hugged him? Eugene did not seem to mind it in the least. With him the danger being out of sight, was out of mind. The fight was over; he had come out of it without serious injury; and if there had been another wild hog about he would have been the first to start after it.

“I am all right, Walter, don’t look so sober,” said he, rolling up his sleeve to examine his arm, which had been pretty severely bruised by his fall. “Now, then, where are Perk and Featherweight?”

“I haven’t seen Featherweight,” replied Walter, “but I left Perk and Rex attending to the mate of this hog. We’ll go and meet him. Bring up the cart, Cuff, and take care of the game.”

The three hunters mounted their horses and rode back to find Perk. As they were considerably wearied by their recent exertions, they allowed their horses to walk leisurely along, and they were probably a quarter of an hour in reaching the spot where Walter had first discovered Rex and his huge antagonist. They saw no signs of Perk, and neither did they hear anything of him; and they concluded that he had tied his hog and sat down to wait for them. They soon learned, however, that their friend was not taking matters quite so easily as they had imagined, and that there were things in the world against which even Perk, with all his strength, activity and courage could not prevail; for, when they reached the clearest space in the thicket of briers and cane where Walter had left him, they saw a sight that filled them with amazement and alarm. It was nothing less than a fight between Perk and the hog. The young hunter was holding his antagonist by both hind feet, and the hog was kicking and struggling and trying hard to get at Perk to strike him. The latter’s face was white with terror, the perspiration was streaming from his forehead, and the boys saw that it was with the greatest difficulty that he could retain his hold. He looked up when he heard them approaching, but was too exhausted to speak.

Perk in a Predicament.

Walter and his companions, comprehending the state of affairs at a glance, threw themselves from their horses and hurried to Perk’s assistance; but knowing that if he could not manage the hog they had no business with him, they shouted lustily for Rex. The faithful animal was always on hand when he was wanted, and before they had spoken his name the second time he came dashing through the bushes and seized the hog, just as Perk, completely exhausted, released his hold and sank to the ground. The hog fought desperately with his new enemies, but Rex was more than a match for him, and in a few minutes the boys had him securely bound. After that they tied up his mouth, and then turned their attention to Perk, who lay where he had fallen, panting loudly and utterly unable to move or speak. They carried him out of the thicket and laid him upon their overcoats, which they spread at the foot of a tree, and while Walter supported his head and Bab fanned him with his hat, Eugene ran to the bayou and presently returned with a cup of water.

“I’m clean done out,” panted Perk, when he had drained the cup. “Now, listen to me a moment and I’ll tell you something; that was the hardest fight I ever had. Just look at that,” he added, extending his hands, which were so badly cramped that he could not open them.

It was fully half an hour before Perk’s face resumed its natural color, and then he told his companions how he had got into the predicament in which they found him. As he had a somewhat roundabout way of getting at it, we will tell the story in our own words; and in order that you may fully understand it, we must give you a little insight into Rex’s character.

The greyhound had but two faults in the world: He was a constitutional thief, and he always kept as close to Walter as he could. He was master of all the hounds on the plantation, and if he caught any of them in the act of appropriating articles that did not belong to them, he did not hesitate to thrash them soundly; and yet, at the same time, he stole more than all the other dogs put together. He would sneak into the kitchen when he thought no one was observing his movements, and purloin any eatables that happened to be within his reach; and as for hens’ nests, the Club used to say that he would have nosed out one on top of the house, and conjured up some plan to rob it. Walter tried every way he could think of to make an honest dog of him, and to induce him to abandon this bad habit. He fed him until he refused to eat any more, thinking that he would certainly have no inclination to steal for at least an hour or two; but in less than ten minutes he would hear a rumpus in the kitchen, and see Rex retreating toward the barn followed by a shower of stove-wood. The habit could not be broken up—it was constitutional.

The other habit was almost as annoying on some occasions as the first. Rex kept close at his master’s side night and day. He would sleep in his room if he left his door open, and if he did not, Rex would jump up on the wood-shed, thence on to the kitchen, from which he could easily reach the upper porch, that ran entirely around the main building, and so go in at the window. It made no difference to him whether the window was open or not, for he had been known to jump through the sash. He was regular in his attendance at church, and whenever Walter went visiting, Rex always went too. He seemed to take it for granted that he was welcome wherever his master was, and if any one thought differently, and attempted to drive him out of the house, he would stand his ground, and show his teeth in the most threatening manner. As it was well known throughout the settlement that Rex always used those teeth on anything that he got angry at, he was generally allowed to have his own way.

It was this habit that had saved Eugene’s life, and placed Perk in his dangerous predicament. While Walter remained with him, Rex clung to the game manfully; but when he went away to assist Eugene, Rex went too, leaving Perk to manage the hog as best he could. The latter, having great confidence in his endurance and power of muscle, did not at first feel at all uneasy; but it was not long before he discovered that a hog, weighing three hundred and fifty pounds, was an ugly customer to handle. He held the animal by his hind legs, which he had lifted from the ground, and it required the outlay of every particle of strength he possessed to retain his hold. He could not manage the hog with one hand, and, of course, while both his hands were employed he could not tie him.

Bear in mind, now, that this was no tame hog, that would have run away if Perk had released him. He was wild, savage and angry; and if he could have reached his enemy the career of one of the Sportsman’s Club would have been brought to a sudden close. The hog would have attacked him at once, and Perk would have been easily overcome.

The young hunter became alarmed when he saw what a scrape he had got into, and began shouting for help; but the rest of the Club were too far away to hear him, and finding that he was wasting his breath to no purpose, he did the only thing he could do—he held fast to save his life. Walter was gone fully three-quarters of an hour, and during all this time Perk clung to that savage beast, afraid to let go, and almost unable to hold on. His companions arrived just in time to save him; a moment more would have sealed his fate. Perk had a high opinion of a hog’s strength and endurance now, and wound up his story by declaring that he would a heap sooner face a bear.

“I believe I own more property now than I did this morning,” said Walter, when Perk ceased speaking. “I think I heard you say that if you couldn’t tie any hog that ever ran wild in Louisiana, you would make me a present of your horse. I consider the animal mine, but you may use him until you can provide yourself with another. Can any one tell what has become of Featherweight?”

No one could. Eugene said that when the hounds first discovered the wild hogs, he and the missing member were riding side by side; and that the last time he saw Featherweight he was galloping through the bushes at the top of his speed. Every one wondered what had become of him. There was plenty of room in the swamp for him to get lost, but still it was not likely that such a misfortune had befallen him, for Featherweight had hunted over the ground so often that he knew it like a book. Bab suggested that it would be a good plan for some one to sound a horn, and Eugene did so; but no response came. Again and again the horn was blown, and finally they heard an answer, but it was not such as they expected. It was the shrill neigh of a horse which rang through the swamps at short intervals, and came nearer and nearer every moment. The Club began to look at one another rather anxiously; and when at last a riderless pony—Featherweight’s pony—burst from the bushes and galloped up to the place where their own horses were standing, the boys were really alarmed. Something had certainly happened to their friend; but whether he had been thrown from his horse or had met with some more serious trouble, they had no means of judging.

“We must start in search of him at once,” said Walter. “Cuff,” he added, addressing himself to the negro who at that moment drove up with the cart in which lay the two wild hogs, securely bound; “tie that horse behind your wagon, take him to the house with you, and tell father that Fred Craven is missing, and that we are looking for him. If we are not at home before dark he will know what detains us.”

The boys did not reach home before dark. It was long after midnight when they entered their room and sat down before the fire to dry their clothes, which were covered with mud; and they did not bring Featherweight with them, and neither had he come home during their absence. Bright and early the next morning they renewed their search, accompanied by Mr. Gaylord, Uncle Dick, and some of the negroes. As they were riding through the quarters they met the old servant whose duty it was to feed and take care of the hounds, and he told them that Featherweight’s dog had come home during the night all cut to pieces, and so weak from loss of blood that he could scarcely stand. He declared that the mischief had been done by a wild hog, and expressed the fear that Featherweight might have been injured also. The boys were greatly terrified by this piece of news. They went to the kennels to look at the hound, which had been wrapped up in blankets and tended as carefully as though he were a human being, and then set out for the woods.

They rode all that day, and not only did they fail to find Featherweight, but they did not see anybody until about three o’clock in the afternoon. Then Walter and Perk, who had separated from the others, came suddenly upon some one they did not expect to see. It was Wilson, but at first they did not know him. His hands and face were as black as a negro’s, his clothing was torn and covered with soot, and, taken altogether, he was the worst-looking boy they had ever seen. They saw at a glance that he had been in close quarters somewhere.

CHAPTER VI.
BAYARD’S PLANS.

An angrier boy than Bayard Bell was, when he leaped his horse over the fence and rode away from the thicket, which had so nearly been the scene of a desperate conflict between his followers and the members of the Sportsman’s Club, was never seen anywhere. He told himself over and over again that Walter Gaylord had insulted him (although how he had done so, it would have puzzled a sensible boy to determine), and declared that he had done it for the last time, and that he had put up with his meanness just as long as he could. Although Perk had said, almost in so many words, that he was willing and even eager to fight, and Bab, Eugene and Featherweight had shown by their actions that they were ready to stand by their friend to the last, Bayard did not waste a thought upon them, but laid all the blame upon Walter, who had conducted himself like a young gentleman during the whole interview, and kept himself in the back-ground as much as possible. The reason for this was, that Bayard had long ago learned to hate Walter most cordially; and the cause of this hatred was the latter’s popularity among the students at the Academy. Bayard, like many a boy of our acquaintance, desired to be first in everything. He wanted the students to look up to him and treat him with respect, and yet he was not willing to make any exertions to bring about this state of affairs. Besides being stingy and unaccommodating, he showed his tyrannical disposition at every opportunity, and then wondered why he had so few friends. Walter, on the other hand, was modest and unassuming, never tried to push himself forward, was always polite to his companions, and would put himself to any amount of trouble to do a favor for one of them. The result was that, with the exception of a few congenial spirits whom Bayard had gathered about him, the boys all liked him, and showed it by every means in their power. The more Bayard thought of it the angrier he became.

“They’re conceited upstarts, the whole lot of them,” said he, turning around in his saddle to face his companions, who were galloping along behind him. “It’s lucky for them that Mr. Gaylord and those niggers came up just as they did, for I was going to punch some of them.”

“Perhaps it is fortunate for us that the fight didn’t come off,” said Leonard Wilson, who, if he had no other qualities, was at least honest. “Did you hear what Perkins said about knocking our heads together?”

“O, he wouldn’t have done it,” said Will Bell, with a sneer; “he couldn’t. He’s a regular milk-sop, and so are they all.”

“Well, if they are, I don’t know it,” said Wilson.

“No, nor nobody else,” chimed in Henry Chase. “That Phil Perkins is a perfect lion, and Walter Gaylord isn’t a bit behind him. What a lovely muscle Walter showed on the day we pulled that boat-race! Why, it was as large as the boxing-master’s. And what long wind he has! And can’t he pick up his feet, though, when he is running the bases?”

Bayard looked sharply at Chase, and made no reply. He had commenced by abusing and threatening the Sportsman’s Club, and expected to be assisted in it by his men; but here was Chase praising his rival up to the skies, and Wilson nodding his head approvingly, as much as to say that he fully agreed with his companion, and that every word he uttered was the truth. Bayard was very much disgusted at this, and showed it by facing about in his saddle, and maintaining a sullen silence for the next quarter of an hour. The deep scowl on his forehead indicated that he was thinking busily, and his thoughts dwelt quite as much upon two of the boys who were galloping along the muddy lane behind him, as they did upon the members of the Sportsman’s Club. At last he seemed to have decided upon something, for he straightened up, and began to look about him.

“Fellows,” said he, “we are but a short distance from the bayou, and I propose that we ride over there, water our horses, and eat our lunch. I’m hungry.”

“So am I,” replied Will; “but I’d rather go home. I can’t see any fun in sitting down in the mud, and eating cold bread and meat, when there are a comfortable room and a warm dinner awaiting us only three miles away.”

Bayard paid no more attention to his cousin’s words than if they had not been spoken at all, but turned his horse out of the lane into the bushes, and rode toward the bayou. His companions hesitated a little, and then followed after him; and in a few minutes more they were sitting on the banks of the stream discussing their sandwiches, and gazing into the water, as if they saw something there that interested them very much. No one spoke, for Bayard was in the sulks, and that threw a gloom over them all.

If Bayard was hungry his actions did not show it, for he ate but a very few mouthfuls of his sandwich, and finally, with an exclamation of impatience, threw it into the water. The movement attracted the attention of his cousins, and that seemed to be just what Bayard wanted, for he began to make some mysterious signs to them, at the same time nodding his head toward the bushes, indicating a desire to say a word to them in private.

Will and Seth must have understood him, for they winked significantly, and went on eating their sandwiches, while Bayard, after yawning and stretching his arms, arose to his feet and walked up the bayou out of sight. As soon as he thought he could do so without exciting suspicion, Will followed him; and shortly afterward Seth also disappeared. Wilson and Chase gazed after him curiously, and as soon as the sound of his footsteps had died away, turned and looked at one another. “What’s up?” asked the latter.