Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 285, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 November 1916 — Page 2

TIPPECANOE

Do you believe the spy is as honorable In war as the soldier in the tranches? If you caught a spy plotting against the welfare of our nation, and he pleaded with you to spare his life, at least, would you do itr - ———p, Time: The year 1811. David Larrence, young English weaver, comes to Corydon, Indians territory, intending to kill an old enemy. He meets Patrice O'Bannon and his charming daughter, 'Tolnette, and becomes clerk In Colonel Posey's store. In Job Cranmer and his daughter Lydia, recently come from Britain, David finds congenial acquaintances, but he and Doctor Elliott dislike one another. Elliott wants to marry Toinette and tries to poison her against David. Cranmer mystifies David, who overhears spies planning to meet at night in the courthouse. He hides there. What he hears and the strange adventure which befalls him is told In this installment.

CHAPTER IV—Continued. With the closing of the doors behind him, In the dim light he distinguished at the other end of the room the high platform and desk where, the judges were to sit, when the court had been transferred from old Vincennes. Behind the high-backed desk he would be absolutely concealed from view. He made himself comfortable behind it and settled down to what promised to be a wait of several hours. Above him a square of azure showed through the unfinished roof. The afternoon, was warm. David was more tired than he had realized. He grew drowsy, nodded . . . slept. . . . When he awoke, without raising his —head, hlseara caught-lhe-nmrmur..QL voices that had seemed to run through —his dreams; —£tt~the~Hght—had—fadedfrom the room, a star shone through the unfinished roof high above him. The voices ran on at his ear. He could hear them more plainly now, “Money? Why, I tell you, man, there’s barrels of it waiting at Malden.” The voice was impatient, a guttural harshness checked with an efTort to a whisper; sometimes It rose as though Its owner could with difficulty constrain himself to caution. “Barrels of it, I tell you. Heaps o’ good dollars like maize in the Indian villages.” “But do you think he Is with us?” David could scarcely repress a start at the second voice. The first speaker grunted contemptuously. “And with blood on his head? You’re as sure of him as you are of me.” The voice that answered was one of hearty friendliness. “There, there, Captain Girty, no offense. But you’ll admit that I was sent over to treat with you and you only. And now you propose the name of this man. You must admit, Captain Girty, that there’s a bare chance he would prefer a Yankee to an English commission.” The man addressed as Girty swore Irritably,. “American? He hain’t no more American than I be. You promise him a nice berth with the king’s commission and protection and he’ll take It” “And if he refuses?” “No one’s the wis#r. I’ll cut his throat easy enough.” David thought the husky giggle which accompanied the words would have graced Satan. “Well, we’ll meet him tonight, then. Where do you say he’s to be found?” “We’ll meet at the forge at the corner of Oak lane and Walnut —Israel Butt’s smithy. He slips in and out when he pleases.” “We’ll meet there at midnight?” “Therealiouts. Give me time to git some o’ this liquor. We don’t git good wine every day in the wilderness.” And the backwoodsman chuckled again wheezily. David heard the faint shuffle of the British agent’s steps as the two moved away. The second man must be barefoot, he thought. Then came the justaudible sound of the closing doors and he was alone. He rose and hastened through the growing darkness like a tattered ghost. He had still another —rendezvous- wilE -traitors to keep that night. With a grunt a portly passer-by felt his Impact as he turned the corner; it was Cranmer himself, lingering-qjn the way to his Inn. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed with bluff friendliness. “How are you, young mqn?” He crushed David's cold fingers in a mighty grasp. “My boy,” lie went on sturdily, “I’ve seen, nothing in this town all day long but drunken backwoodsmen. I don’t think they’re folk you can depend on. I Stick to old John Wesley, rest his honest soul! I’m a Methodist, I am, even in a town where there’s none to preach. I’m hurrying back to my daughter, and then we’ll have family prayers together. Won’t you join us?” He beamed on David with the expression of one ready to suffer the Inquisition. But David stared at him -ta-sllence with a strange look and then abruptly turned away. What a fool be had been to, trust these Crnnmers for a moment! He caught himself—Lydia, for aught he really knew, was Innocent of her father’s intrigues. *•••■*•• On the corner of the lanes called Oak and Walnut the blacksmith shop of Israel Butt, a low oarrack of logs, Showed no gleam of light from the interior to the chance passer-by. Dayid, hidden in the dark passageway at • '

By SAMUEL McCOY

(Copyright, 1916. by Bobbfl Merrjl^CoJ_

WHEN SPIES MEET

the rear of the smithy, waited impatiently. A silent figure passed him, unseeing, scratched thrice with the point of a knife on an unseen door, was admitted. The hidden watcher rose and stole on noiseless feet around the corner of the silent shop and felt his way along its wall. No window. Then came the uncertain steps, of still another who sought the door of the rendezvous, stumbllpg along the uneven Hugging. David sank to his knees, and as he did so his fingers encountered an opening In the house waif, level with the flagging. Bending lower, he peered In. A noisome odor assaulted his nostrils. The opening was scarcely two feet square; evidently the aperture through whirh the blacksmith emptied the dirty water from his forge. BuFcoa r querlng his repugnance,-he- lay flatand wriggled Ills shoulders In. A wooden bucket, full of water, stood before the opening, on the inside; this be pushed . noiselessly away and peered in just as the attention of those within was drawn to the late comer at the door. There were four men now within the shop, one unseen by the other three. He now had his first sight of Girty, the last comer. David, his head level with the stone floor of the shop, solved the puzzle of Girty’s noiseless footsteps in the courthouse —not barefooted. Indeed, but shod with the silent moccasins of the Indian. Clad In deerskin trimmed with buckskin tassels; the hunting shirt covering the powerful shoulders and deep chest of a giant, Simon Girty was a man of sixty, seemingly, but his quick, bright eyes, jet black, burned with the cold fire of the lidless serpent’s that never grows old. The two Englishmen were silent before the malevolent challenge of bis gaze; not daring to be first to speak. Girty stood swaying unsteadily in the light of the forge. A stain of the juice of the tobacco was on his cruel lips. “And who’s this bag of bones?” he asked contemptuously of the British agent. “This, Captain Girty, is a gentleman who has preceded me from England on the same mission as myself Mr. Edward Scull.” At the name and at the sight of the third man. who until now had been concealed by .Cranmer’s portly figured David’s teeth set and he trembled convulsively, like a mastiff that sees his enemy. Scull! The weaver who had turned king’s witness, the informer against David’s father! A horrid dryness stuck in David’s throat, and he shoos with an ague. When he lifted his head again, he saw that the three men had seated themselves in front of the smoldering forge; for the night had grown chill. Black shadows hung in all the corners pf the little room and sat heavily upon the shoulders of the three men huddled about the forge. Only the warm, \recl glow of the charcoal set up a little sphere of light and warmth. Girty was muttering drunkenly to himself: “Seven at Blue Licks . . . two on the Maumee . . . scalps than a redskin . . . thet long-ha’red gal . . .” “See here, my fine friend,” said Scull sharply, “never mind your ~scaTps. What- Is it that wo are here for. eh?” Girty roused himself. “Tell him, Cranmer.” ‘The bluff and kindly-faced farmer seemed out of place in that devil’s crew. But he began to speak cheerfully. “Well, Ned, I’m here to make you an offer on the part of the king, God bless him! You have seen my credentials. It was my intention to go direct to the tribes in the cquntry, taking plans of the garrisons with me, but I was to count you with jus before I set out on my trip to the Forth. Our comrade brings word from the great chief of the Shawnees, Tecumseh, that he is desirous of forming a league with his brothers of the South, the Cherokees, the Chickasaws and the Creeks. . , . “You. Ned, are a man whom England needs. I am empowered to say that if yon will enter his majesty’s service you will be generously rewarded. What success can you hope for In this pauper nation? But England is a rlcli and powerful patron. I am a straightforward man, Mr. Scull, and I have no gift of argument, but—” Scull held up a hand, commanding a pause, lie leaned backward and plied the bellows upon the dying fire.

THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER, INP.

Recounting the adventures and love which uim into the lives of David Larrence and Antoinette O Bannon, in the days when pioneers were fighting red savages in the Indiana wilderness

The glow leaped up again, and In 11s momentary glare David caught sight of his face, struck oui ugalnst the surrounding shudows, like u face whit'll some dead master of the brush had painted-dark, cruel, weak, contempBut his reply was never spoken. The cold chill of the stones on which he lay had sunk deeper and deeper into David’s bones. With the grip of desperation, he strove to hold his teeth together, but in spite of himself suddenly there burst from his lips, with the staggering unexpectedness of a thunderclap, a paroxysm of coughing. With a single leap, Girty had reached the spot where David' lay. David’s head had vanished with an even greater speed. But Girty’s only thought was to seize the wooden bucket and dash Its contents on the fire, plunging the room into instant darkness. Dnvid heard the sharp whisper of Scull’s command. “We are watched. Go out at once. Captain Girty, you will be the first. Mr. Cranmer, second, if you please. I will follow. * The thing which David did then was probably his salvation. It occurred to him that his chance of meeting Scull single-handed was greater if he should return to the pitch-dark shop than if he remained in the street. And this he did. When he had crawled soundlessly hack into the smithy, kicking off his shoes outside, he was just In time to see the door opened and the figure of --the—first man. Girty. faintly outlined in the aperture. Unseen, unheard, David stole forward. Then the door opened wider to allow the heavy figure of Cranmer to emerge. And then Scull, the third man, went out. With the quickness of death, David glided at his heels. He had picked up a heavy horseshoe on the floor of the smithy, the weapon that had come to hand. The tail figure was just before him. His arm rose; and even as the heavy weapon hung in the air, Scull pushed open the door of a cabin that stood next the smithy and vanished. David heard the door close again and the heavy wooden bar dropped across It on the inside. For a moment he stood dumfounded. Girty and Cranmer had disappeared. David walked on slowly, brooding over plans for the morning, and found himself at the river, talking to itself in the night. He became aware that he still held something in his hand; and looking down, beheld the horseshoe. He tossed it into the stream and went back to the tavern. For many days after that his ragged, discarded shoes lay unnoticed at the low aperture of Israel’s smithy. David awoke in the morning as fresh as the day. But day brought with it the demand that he take up his new work; and he crossed the square to Colonel Posey’s store, scanning the village sharply ns he went. He hurried to the cabin by the blacksmith’s shop. An honest-faced woman, with a brood of babies clinging to her skirts, answered his knock. “Scull?” she replied to his query, “no, nobuddy by thet name livin’ here. My man is Israel Butt, thar at th’ forge.” She was positive that no such person as Scull lived in the village; her husband was equally at a loss to remember the name; and David, confident as he had been, was foreed to turn away, baffled by their honest perplexity. The man had disappeared as completely as. though he had been swallowed up in the earth. Stupefied, David made his way to Cranmer’s lodgings. He had no idea what he would say to the man, but his steps took him mechanically to the door. And there he received a second shock. Cranmer was gone, his daughter with him! Whither? His question brought the reply that they had said they were going to Vincennes. David’s friend, /John Tipton, the hunter and militiaihan, was there —he would sefidN[obiiuy a letter to warn him and Governor Harrison against Cranmer, Girty and Scull, and telling of their talk of an Indian upx’ising. He returned to his store, wrote the letter, sent it on by post. That done, he could do no more, except wait in patience for Cranmer’s return. CHAPTER V. Young Men and "Maidens. May passed and under the lustrous stars of a June night twinkled the warmer lights of the little village. They shone brightest of ail in the little house of Randolph Buileit, where canines blazed in their silver sconces and lit up a waxen floor. His wife, the grandniece of Lord Cornwallis of England, was holding open house. Above the chatter and laughter a Creole violin lifted the foolish air of the French voyageur, that had floated across the star-glimmering waiters of the river of St. Jerome a hundred" years before. ' Derriere chez-nous 11 ya uniet&ng, Ye, ye inent, Trots canards s’ en vont baignans, Tous du long de la riviere, Legerement ma bergere, Legerement, ye ment! I "Helas! zat was de long tafii agot”

sighed th® wandering fiddler from Vincennes, Michel de Illchardvllle, bending over his bow. Where were now those ancient houses of the Old Po*t—the Cardinals, the Andres, th® Burdaleuux, the Racines, the Laderoux? “Vincennes, and a long time ago!” Now it was Corydon and the present, with all its coursing blood in young veins and its fine forgetfulness of the days gone by. Laughing girls and tall youths went Into the flower-decked hall of the Buileit cabin, or, slipping out again, wandered down two by two in the mystical summer night, beneath the silent sturs, to the bank of Indian creek, hurrying by on its long wuy to the sea. A lonely youth stood in th® shadows and watched the white, glimmering shapes of the maidens, each with her backwoods cavalier, go by. A pang of envy shot through him as he heard their light remarks and lighter laughter. He was as young and strong as they, he thought, wistfully. Was life always to withhold some of its gifts from him? v Mr. O’Bannon, strolling deep in revariaa rtf the past encountered the lonely youth in the starlight and recognized him with an ejaculation of pleasure. ,• ‘ “Ha! David, my old on*., what are you doing here alone? When I was your age never a dance did we have that saw me not in the thick of it. Go up and join them, sober-sides.” David muttered a miserable confession, which the old gentleman would have none of. “No clothes, Indeed! Since when were buckskins not as good as broadcloth here in the woods? No invitation! Fiddlesticks! everyone is welcome with us.” And he dragged the reluctant youth toward the lights and music. The gracious lady of the house received him at the old man’s introduction, with kindly smiles for David’s shyness; but he was acutely ill at ease, nevertheless, among the group of young matrons who clustered at ~Wfs7~ J BTillolt*S"Bide-4fl~-th£lrL_sliks and dainty muslins —treasures In the wilderness —and he was glad to escape

“You, Ned, Are a Man Whom England Needs.”

to the narrow veranda, where a group of older men conversed in quiet tones upon the affairs of the Territory. David stared at their yellow nankeen trousers. Harrison, the governor, who had come from Vincennes to oversee his spring planting, and had tarried for the evening, was among the group. He turned to a young man: “Mr. Blackford,” he said, “I believe that you have the distinction of being graduated from the same college which President Madison attended. I myself was a student at HampdenSidney college; but I remember hearing my father once say that, besides the institution which was the firstborn of all American colleges—his own college of William and Mary there was but one which a Virginian might attend wtihout doing violence to his family traditions; he might, if he had no soul, go to Harvard, or, if he had no stomach, "go to a nutmeg institution at New Haven; but as a Virginian and a gentleman he would go to Princeton.” . .C Blackford laughed. He was a yqpng lawyer who had just arrived in theterritory, the first of the galaxy of young men bred In the eastern colleges who were to achieve distinction in the new country. His face had attracted David Ltfrrence singularly; there was somethihg in the man’s fine, straightforward look that drew him like a brother. And here was an opportunity; he could now gratify through Blackford an ambition-?!? had secietly nourished for some time, to study luyv in the evenings. He was gro /ing restless with no greater occupation than measuring silk nhd calicuts over a store counter. And the law would be a step —one step at least—toward Toinette. “Have you ever met the president, Mr. Blackford?” Harrison went on. “Once only. Governor Harrison. I shall never forget seeing him at our commencement exercises last September ; he was there with his two classmates, Philip aud Judge

Brack«nndge of Pittsburgh. Tn®» | were great cronies while in college, | I believe. One saw them wandering under the elms with their arm® around one another's shoulders, laughing nt some nonsensical ballad about smoking that Mr, Freneau had written.” “Freneau Is our greatest poet," said Harrison. "Surely his beautiful lines on ‘The Indian Burying Ground,’ his exquisite • ode to *The Wild Honeysuckle,’ and that matchless dirge for the dead who fell at Eutaw Springs will U w e forever.” And in his deep and resonant voice, his face shrouded in the , shadows of the veranda, he began to recite that splendid elegy. - For a while no one spoke. Each was thinking of th« shadow of war with England that seemed deepening with the days; of the closer, more terrible shadow of the Indian. Someone began to speak of President Madison’s policy of diplomatic correspondence with England, and his attempts to settle the maritime disputes peaceably. Spier Spencer, the hot-headed —David’s host at the tavern —was -about to reply that it was more intolerable to endure the insults of Britain tl>an to plunge the country into honoiyble war, when his young wife and a bevy of radiant women made a sudden rush from within and the gentlemen were led captive to the great silver punchbowl, where officiated a grinning, ducking, beruffled darky. David was swept into the midst of group of young people; but the chatter in his ears ceased, as far as he was concerned, when he saw Toinette radiant among the rest. Ike Blackford joined them, and when she had heard what the men had been discussing, the girl demanded why the two had not yet joined Spencer’s company of militia. “So you want us to get shot, do you?” teased Blackford. “I know that we’re a worthless pair, but I didn't think we were that bad.” I should think you two great, strong men would be eager to enlist and help drive put these terrible Indians for good." “Well, I’m as ready as the next man to have the Indians leave us in peace,” declared David slowly, “but I’ve never been a soldier and I don’t believe that I’d make a very good one.’’ “PshaWl” cried Toinette indignantly, “you’re just as able to be a soldier as anyone in the territory. You are, you know you are.” “Measure us for our coffins, David,” laughed Blackford, “we may just as well give in to her first as last.” David laughed too. But he was silent, thinking more of Toinette’* words than of Blackford’s. Ike continued his chaffing: “No, we’re neither of ns soldiers. David’s fast becoming the merchant Croesus of the West, and I’m a lawyer, thpugh I’d hate to have the lat® lamented Blackstone hear me say that. He’d roll over. I’ve spent the best years of my young life cooped" up in Judge Ford’s office in Morristown, wrestling with McNally’s “Rules of Evidence” when I should have been shedding a luster over the social life of New Jersey, and I don’t feel as if It would be right for me to throw away all this mighty erudition just to give some red-skinned gentleman • the pleasure of wearing the scalp of a future chief justice at his belt, or even the pleasure of my acquaintance. I expect to have very few clients among our red brethren, very few. Somehow, they seem to prefer retaining a hatchet, rather than a hatchet-faced attorney. Though, for the matter of that, I don’t believe I can blame them. Judge Hurst tells me that In spl“e of all of Governor Harrison’s efforts to put the I'ttle unpleasantries of the frontier to decision by the courts, there hasn’t been one white man hanged for the murder of an Indian since the territory was begun, and that there never will be. "But seriously, Miss O’Bannon”— Blackford went on—“there can’t be so great a necessity for drilling around with a lot of militiamen just now, can there? They make me think of Falstaff’s opinion of his ragged recruits: Til not march through Coventry with them, that’s flat.’ ” “Necessity!” cried Toinette. “Oh, you haven't been here long enough to hear the reports of all tteir cruelties I Haven’t you talked with any of these backwoodsmen whose families have been cut down and massacred and tortured? But I don’t care—go on and practice your old law! Tlm?e’ll be plenty of other lawyers to shoulder a gun. If Jhey get killed there’ll be just that much mor® chance for you to succeed.” Blackford winced. Toinette was so dangerously near angry tears that h® was sorry he had jested as he had. “Well, well,” he replied soothingly. “David and I will try to measure up to your idea of a man If things get any more serious. I’ll promise you that David will knock down dozens of savages with his yardstick and I’ll tie them hand and foot with red tape.” “Y*ou’re both simply hateful. * declared Toinette; and the subject was dropped.

1000 arm 8 a flra’mTmrrm o Don’t you think that David ® and Blackford might render % greater service to their country ® as spies than as plain militia- o men. Watch for an unusual ® turn of events In the next In- o stallmen*. % ooooooooooooo*oQQoooooutfit (TO BBS CONTINUED.)

HELPING OUT

By LOUISE OLIVER.

Alan Pierpont, bending over a bed of coreopsis, straightened at the sound of a voice. “I came,” It said, “to see if yon would mind if I tuke Nancy for a ride.” Gretchen Van Doon, light haired and blue-eyed as her Dutch name implied, smiled the inquiry. “No, fairy godmother, I wouldn’t. Moreover, I don’t suppose It would do much good for me to object If you and Nancy have made up your minds to *67 Eh, kiddle?” as a little girl of seven run around the house from the street. “But —since you call me ‘fairy godmother’ —I’ll have to dress her. Her hair ribbons, for instunce, won’t do. You see, you put on one red one and one blue this morning, and I’d like to get the mate of either one.” Alan smoothed the hair over his temple as he did when perplexed. "Well, does It make any difference? Do they have to match? I was thinking when 1 put them on that they were like my bed of oriental popples and blue larkspur.” A quick look of sympathy came over Gretchen’s face. The artist and his little girl were at once the despair and amusement of Kentboro, for little Nancy came forth in some of the queerest rigging that ever adorned a child. “Come on,” purred Nancy, so the two disappeared into the house. “I’d like to paint her among the poppies and larkspur,” he thought. There was a sound of a motor stopping at the front of the house und a man came around into the garden. “Walter!” cried the man among the flowers. “How do you do, Alan?” greeted the other cordially enough, coming up “Yes. I do my own gardening,” said Alan simply. “I’m glad to see you. Won’t you come into the house?” “It is pleasant out here. Can’t we sit down on this bench under the tree?” asked the newcomer. “I can’t stay long anyway and, needless to say, came on business.” "I suppose it’s the same old story,” said Alau wearily as they sat down. “Pretty much. Alau —see here—you’ve been acting the tomfool long enough. The business has grown and father’s getting old. There’s too muen for me to inunage and the big profits are going to strangers. You can’t make a decent living daubing.” Alan did not answer. “If you’re thinking of the other,” went on his brother, “that can be arranged. Of course you can’t bring the girl you married with you, but there s money enough in the family to take care of that as long as there’s a court in the land.” “Stop I” cried Alan. “I don’t care to hear any mere. I’ve been happy for years, and now you -come to spoil It.” Gretchen and Nancy appeared Just then nt the back door. “I think we have everything. Goodby,” called Gretchen smilingly from the door. “Will you come here a minute — dear?” asked A4an. Gretchen obeyed, but she was puzzled. Had she heard aright? Had he really called her “dear?” “Walter, I want you to meet my wife. This is my brother, Walter Pierpont.” Gretchen held out her hand mechanically and managed to smile. She was too much puzzled to protest-; besides, something tense and pleading in Alan’s face helped her to play. the part. “I am verV glad to meet you, ,r she smiled. “We would like to have you stay but —” she turned to Alan rather helplessly—“we are going on a little trip today. Is that right—dear?” “Thank you. I didn’t come to stay. I came—on business purely and that seems to* be concluded,” said Walter as he took his leave. The two stood in the garden until the sound of the car died away. Then Alan said: “Thank you, Miss Gretchen! I had to do it. He came to me with a dastardly proposition, not knowing Nancy’s mother was dead. If I had told they would never let me alohe until I went back to a world I hate. Besides, they would take Nancy away from me. You don’t mind, do you ?” “No, I don’t mind,” said Gretchen. “As nearly as I can make out that isn’t very much different from matching up Nancy’s hair ribbons. It all comes in the line of duty.” Later on, Alan painted Gretchen’a picture among the flowers, and It sold 1 fdr a top-notch price. The letter -with a check came one day when Alan had begun to despair. Gretchen came Into the garden. “I came to borrow Nancy, ’ she said. “We’re going for a ride.” “I’ve good news?’ he cried. “The picture sold for a thousand dollars! You are certainly my good fairy. But tlie name on t|ie check is my father’s I Walter will see the picture and say instantly, ‘That, Is Alan’s wife!”’ “It doesn’t matter,” said Gretchen flushing. “I don’t care—if you don’t!” “But Ido care! I want It to be really true, dear!” ' “I sort of have the habit of doing whatever you ask," laughed Gretchen. 4 “If you really think you want me—l might—” “You darling!” cried Alan, as h« gathered her into his arms. (Copyright, 1916, by the McClure NeOrsoaJ per Syndicate.) %'J ■ *