Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 10, Number 12, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 20 September 1879 — Page 2
THE MAIL
Paper
People.
for the
TERRE HAUTE, SEPT. 30, 1879
TI TAVERN
[Continued from First Page.]\y tliem ander his thum'6, fur he prosecuted mveral in the town court, and bp the influence of hia money had them punished severely for slander.
After thin the people were content to say it was more than pausing strange, and gradually all remembrance of Abner's sudden acq-mition of wealth pasted out of their mindt.
He w&a a man of unaccountable actions, being unbject to alternate fits of melancholy and excitement. During the former he would sometimes wander off by himself to s)me remote portion of the grounds, and remain there the livelong da/. Several persons who had seen him ibu*, vowtd that remorse was eating at hi? vitals.
Then came the inevitable reaction. During hia fit- of excitement be would drink to exce.**, and after destroying much costly furniture, would sink into a stupor from which be would arise at length the silent man, inscrutable to all alike.
He had built Heathcote years before, aod fumiBhedit in princely style wiih furniture brought all the way from New York. In sll the country round about there was no such house as Abner Crawley's.
Edith was his only child, the heiresB of Heathcote. She had been with relatives in Ohio during her father's poverty, but when he became rich he sent for hin daughter, then a young girl of fourteen.
She was now a woman of twenty two, a magnificent creature, tall and graceful as the lily, but with hair that rivalled the glo«sy hue of the raven's wing. She had had master's of all the accomplish men tn, at the Palace, and was a thorough musician, a fljent linguist, and was well versed in the many li'tle things that go to complete a lady's education of the present day.
There was staying at the mansion a cousin of EJith's, Claude Burton by nauie, a li.tihiug youug fellow who had created quite a sensation among the belles of the neighborhood. There was something deceitful in his eyes, and a cold, snake like manner in his very smile that would have told any observing person his true character.
On this sunny afternoon, while Nathan Blake lay lifeless in his house, the two cousins were walking down an avenue of locust trees, evidently earnestly considering xouie subject. "You knew then that it was your father's wish we should marry?" Claude was saying. "I/HIJ ago, but I doubt if you desire such a consummation of his hopes any •more than I do," said the heiress, laughiug. "You are right, cousin do not mistake me I appreciate you fully, but my heirt has already been captivated elsewhere, and I have sworn to have that girl for my wife," aid he scowled savagely as he Bpoke. "And you want my assistance?" Edith asked. "Exactly. In return 1 will do whatever lies in my power." •'L'sten tv me, cousin. I loo have a secret. For many months—many years I might almost «iy—I have loved madly, but of late I have discovered that it is a hopeless passion. We can now help each other if we will. Bring John Blake to my feet, or where I can use my influence over him, and I can then answer for the rest. In return you may fully rely upon me."
She Mid this boldly. There was none of the bluahiug modesty which one would expect to see in a young girl confeffling her love for the first time. Her large black eyes watched his face sharply as she spoke. "John Blake," he murmured. "Yes, John Blake, cousin. Why do you start at the mention of his name? What causes your face to flush? I love John Blake—have loved him with all the strength of my nature,—and yet he returns ii not. He love* another, but she shall not have him. Sooner would I see him lying dead at my feet than in her arms. Nothing shall lake him from me I swear iu As for that girl, she shall vet feel my power I will crush her as I would a worm."
In her passion the girl was really beautiful beyond comparison, but Claude was not watching her face. "Siop, oousin, you have said enough.
DAM
to harm one hair of Daisy Cameron's head, and I swear that John Blake •hall know the truth." "What does«thia mean, Claude?" exclaimed the girl in no little wonder. "Are ydu blind, Edith? Can yoa not we that tisy O\meron is the girl whom I have vowed to make ray wife? The truth fe tnhl, now why should we work against each other? Y»i must give up all vour plana of vengeance against Dsiy." '•My dear Claude," return*d Edith with Atnile, "seeing her your wife i« all the vengeance I ask?1 "I do not know how take your words, Edith, but much as I hate Blake once he it in your toils, and I wish him harm longer. There, we are even. Let us shake hands over the compact. It will be comparative!/ ea*y work to eepa rate the lovers, and for the rest each of us mu*t rely upon hia or her individual powers." "i agree* oousin, bat on your life do not a*tempt to harm John Bake under any circumstances, or I ahall prove a thoru in your fle*h in regard ta Daisy Cameron,
Hti«h! here come* Thomas, and he looks ausif a fthing wrong. Anr^r fr«m kui»r( Isu^v0*®*, **•. ,' ii,-,»i, atd i* pro&ably in one of hia tantrums. It it a pity he cannot confine him-^Hto rf-pecubie lippliag, but that he i-t nt 4 stupefy all his good sense u*t if he were a hardened criminal, cyid. Hug to drown conscience. Well, Th "Mwwy J. th, Ho mam nwsent me to tell ynu *n .Vfarws Claude dat he wish** tow *«u tn urn room at oooe. Been at un agio, «brr Loi how de ting* do fly. IT (row & I at ole Tom, but am too fiSjHv it make a big dent in de door, *fr»wi t^ck an' mtJ* "That -4 "Thomas cfta to. t—v* coo* ., ic. walk to ill- ..oase, He rm to see us 1 I have a conviction that it involve* ur fotnre. Come," and
the heiress of Heathcote swept on toward the Palace. "If she only knew the truth," muttered Claude he followed "phew! I should hate to be the one to tell her of the crime John Blake ia accused of. Many thanks, my pretty cousin, but I do not need your help. My rival has been swept from my patn by furtune's wift hand, and I doubt not hut the field is now open for me to win Daisy. What can the old man want with me* I wonder if he wishes to confess some crime, or make me promise to marry my cousin and her money. Whatever I »ay, the girl must not hear of John Blake's crime from my lips. She will suspicion that I have something to do with ii I know ahe will and I don't want to be in range of those black eyea when she learns how death ia likely to rob her of the man she loves, and the gallows at that."
They reached the house and passed up to the library of Abner Crawley. Such a scene as met their eves as they entered. The room was in disorder upon the mantel lay cigars, bottles, and glasses that gave evidence of dissipation.
Upon his knees in front of the fireplace was the owner of Heathcote, his dress disarranged, his hair disheveled, and his face pale and haggard. What was preying upon the conscience of Abner Crawley?
A large tin box lay upon the floor, wide open, and bundles of papers were scattered tround, which he seemed to be hurrying into the fireplace with a savage satisfaction.
So intent was Abner Crawley upon lus work of cremation that he did not notice their presence. Upon one of the papers the signature of Simon Cameron caught the young man's eye, and memory brought to his mind the tragedy associated with that name. "There," cried the strange man as the last bundle of papers was hastily poked into a blare with the firetongs he held, "at least vou will never appear to condemn me."
Then he noticed the presence of Edith and his nephew, and appeared considera bly startled. "Did yoa hear what I said?" he demanded huarse'y, laying his hand on Claude's shoulder, and there was an unnatural glare in his eyes that sent a cold chill through the young man's frame, but be answered with a coolness and effrontery that was refreshing: "Not a word, uncle burning up your old business papers 1 see. You sent for us, I believe."
Abner Crawley eyed him half suspiciously, and then his manner changed. A beaming smile came upon his haggard face, aud his heavy eyes actually twinkled. "You are right, Claude I was burning up old business papers. I wanted to see you for a particular reason. Edith, my daughter, loves you."
Why father," broke from the astonished girl. "Hush, girl I say you love him, and it would please me very much to have you marry. You can find no fault with each other's looks, so what in the deuce would vou grumble about? Consider it settled. "Don't let me see that flash in your eyes again, girl. You hear me Bay, considered it settled. When I choo°e to be in the humor for a wedding, if either of you disppoint me, out you go, bag and baggage, hat is all. You can go now and fight it out by yourselves "What a blessed old venomous serpent that father of yours is, Edith," said Claude after they had left the room. "Yes, he iB developing new traits everv day, but he will find that he is no match for hi-t daughter. You and I understand one another, Claude. Remember what I tol you I would do if you played me false and harmed John Blake because he loves Daisy." "I will remeurber. I have an appointment, and must leave you, cousin mine so good by," and then he walked down the hill. "Ah! I see further than vou think, Claude Burton. You hate John Blake, injure him on your peril," said Edith, watching his retreating figure. "She. will be like a tigress when she hears the newj. Let what will come, John Blake is out of my path without any effort of mine. I think I could guess who murder* old Nathan, but I won't. That i* safe with me," and Claude laughed in his sneering way that told he was well pleased.
From his window Abner Crawley slyly watched them walk down the avenue to the gate. "Wft'k on," he said, rubbing his hands gether like a miser gloating over his hoard. "w*lk on, foolish ones, to your fate. Little do you think, Claude Burton that you are connected with my terrible secret, the last evidences of which lie in charred ashes upon that hearth. At last I am safe." This thr.llinjrlv interesting story will be continued in Ihe Mail next week, introducing the "Black Horse Tav ern," and the "League of Three."
A Bloodless Scalp.
A STIRRING CHAPTER IN THE ANNALS OF FRONTIER LIFE.
"Shoot the dog—shoot him, Ned. or fresh blood will flow before long. It is oot a single dea£h that can^ satisfy vengeance for such a deed but it is the first step towards it. Shoot the red devil, I (IT 1" "I cannot, Dave. He is not in his warpaint, and he may crme to us in peace." "Peace! You are becoming a child, Ned. to think of such a thing. If I had one-naif your provocation the rascal should not advance another step. He comes for no good and I tell you he is one of the fiends who burned your cabin and carried your wife and child awayciptivea"
The speaker* were seated Upon the margin of Platte river, near the junction of 'iall stream kuown as Dwr Creek. men were still young in yean, and were dressed in the style peculiar to the settler* of the far West.
An Indian had appeared not far distant and was boldly approaching them. A rifle was swung across his shoulder*, and he held no weapon in his hands, which was an indication that he wished to he considered as a friend. But when allusion was made to the capture of hia wife and child, Thornton became consid M*bty agitated and he glanced back up a elope at the base of the mountain, where blackened ember* presented a striking contract to the pure enow and the rUng op of smoke told the fact that me home had recently been desolated. "For a single instant did Ned Thornton contemplate this rain end then, turning
towardt he approaching savage, he raised his rifle, as if he would fire. The Indian paused, raised hia hand above his head, Dut exhibited no signs of fear, observing which Dave Carman repeated: "Shoot, Ned, or, by thunder, if yoa don't I will» "No," returned the other, lowering his weapon,
Mlet
him come up. He may
give us some Information with regard to them." "Let him oome up, then, but keep your rifle or your knife ready, for I believe that fellow is no other than the treacherous and bloody Bear Skin, the scourge of this section.
The Indian paused directly in front of the two hunters, and fixing his eyes upon those of Thornton, he remained silent for a moment and then said: "You are a husband and a father. Your home is in ashes, and your loved ones were torn from you last night, and yet you sit here bewailing your own sad fate. How is it with them? Are they not expecting you?" "Yee, my God, yes! But where—where should I go?" "Into tne mountains—into the Indian stronghold—into the very wigwam, where your wife is watchiug, with her infant sleeping upon her bosom—into the very heart of Bear Skiu." UZ •'Are you not the ch»ef you mention?" "No, but I am your friend. Will you follow me?" "Yes, to their rescue, or to deatb. But who are you? I am sure I have heard your voice before," "Very likely but of that hereafter. Come the trail is easily followed in the snow."
Without further words the Indian turned in the direction whence he had come, and the hunters followed him in silence for a time.
Even when they attempted to draw him into conversation he refused to speak{ and his followers were not without suspicion that they were being drawn into a trap but they did not so express themaelves.
For hours they kept on their way. Darkness came on, and tne midnight hour was fast approaching.
Behind them were ragged rocks and icebound trees before them were towering ledges and a roaring cataract of water.
The spot seemed such a one as human foot had seldom trod but such was not the case, for suddenly the party came into view of a small camp-fire, situated between the rocks in such a manner that the reflection could only be seen a short distance.
The men paused upon the verge of a chasm, over which the waters dashed, and here began an observation. But two temporary wigwams were visible, but at the same time the dark outlines of several red Bkins could be distinguished as they lay stretched upon the ground by the side of the fire.
While thus watching a series of piercing shrieks burst from the camp, and the heart of Thornton was fired in an instant, for he recognized the voice to be that of his wife. He was about to rush to her assistance, when the Indian guide caught him ana drew liim further into concealment and whispered: "Dou't be rash, or you will ruin all Lit me direct matters and your wife and child shall be saved."
A wild yell burst from the throats of the savages, who sprang up from the ground and emerged from the huts. The pale light of the fire revealed the form of a woman as she threw her hands above her head and ciied: "Mv child, my child oh, God! save my child!"
Some dark object dashed toward the spot where the two hunters and the Indian were concealed. The cause of the woman's terror soon became apparent. A huge bear had crept into the wigwam, seized the infant with its teeth, and was making off with its prey as food for its cubs. The cries of the little one were heard as the monster bore it along, leaping the chasm and pausing for a single instant within a few feet of the Indian guide. But that instant was enough. A firm hand clutched the child, and a huge knife was buried deep into the heart of the beast, who uttered a howl of rage and pain, released its hold upon its victim, and rolled down the cataract into the depths below.
Now the time had come for desperate aciion. The little one continued its cries, and it was certain the party who held it would be discovered by the savages who came yelling in pursuit. As their numbers were so great an open encounter would have been almost madness, and so the friendly Indian resolved upon a desperate hazard.
He drew the hunters back into the shadow of the rocks, bidding them not to move for their lives, and then boldly stepped forth, holding the babe above his head, exclaiming in the Sioux language: "I've saved it where is the mother?"
Where was the mother? With a true mother's love she had resolved to fallow her darling, even to death. She was in advance of the savages, and in her impetu osity she heeded not the danger that was before her.
She saw the dark object roll down the gulf, and she believed it had carried its victim with it. She tottered upon the brtt'k, but turned aa she heard the rescuer's voice—turned to see her little oue safe, but herself falling. A cry of wild despair burst from her lips, and she believed that the parting hour had come.
But not so. The husband had teen the danger not an instant too noon, and, springing into open view, he caught his wife in his arms, and she was saved. But for what more terrible fate?
The savages had discovered the white man, and he was surrounded. He began a desperate battle, and two of his enemies fell before his terrific bloirw but he was overpowered and bound. In the meantime the mother had clutched her infant to her bosom and fallen Laming upon the snow.
During the brief battle Dave had not showed himself, and the Indian guide had stool with arms folded scran hi* bosom as if an entirely disinterested spectator.
That he was not one of their own number had not been discovered by the redskins, and as the father and his unconscious wife woe born back to the camp, be followed after, cautious but watchful. He knew what the fate of the hunter would be, unless he could be rescued before morning, and that now promised to be a difficult matter, as the savages would be doubly watchful, now they had a captive for torture in their possession. Even tyw some of them could not refrain from dancing and howling in anticipation.
The wife had became conscious again, and she recognised her husband. 8he knew what hu probable fate would be, she would have been certain of it, had she known that be bad dispatched two of the
dusky fiends with his own hands. And she must look on helpless and behold the torture The thought was a horrible one, and earnestly did she pray for the protection of her Father in Heaven, even without the hope that her prayer would be answered. But such was the case. A kind Providence interfered to protect the innooent. even as he had done a thousand times before and will do again.
Mr. Thornton was also, hopeful. _He knew that neither Dave nor the Indian guide had been discovered, or they, too, would be prisoners.
If they had been killed their dripping scalps would be hanging in sight before the chief's wigwam. He could not tell his wife of his nopes, for his words would be over heard, and that would defeat any plans arranged by his friends.
And so he patiently awaited events, unconscious of the fact that the friendly Indian was lying upon the ground, only a few feet from him, with knife whetted and ready for bloody work, only waiting for the moment to begin—unconscious of the fact that Dave had resolved upon desperate measures—unconscious of the fact that the poor wife's prayers in behalf of her babe, her husband and herself were heard, and that Heaven's avenger was near at hand. j- 'v Km ,? CHAPTER II.
The fiarcest animal will defend or avenge its mate. Even the serpent has been known to seek out the destroyer of its companion for the purpose of revenge. In this case Bruin had well nigh deprived a mother of her child for the sake of her own young cubs, but had herself fallen a victim. But the bear was not without her companion, and one ready to avenge her death. But of this anon.
It was the first impulse of Dave to spring forward to the assistance of his friend but an instant's reflection told him how useless it would be, and he resolved to keep himself concealed, if possible, and try Bome other course.
For some time he watched^ creeping close to the camp but no plan which promised success suggested itself to his mind. The savages, or a portion of them, were on the watch, and ne would be detected if he attempted to approach the front of the wigwam, where Mrs. Thornton and her child were kept. He might poesibly crawl to the rear Dut in so doing he would be heard and discovered if not especially cautious. To remove the mother and child, together with Ned, would be utterly impossible in such a manner. But something must be done, and that SOOD for morning was just beginning to dawn. The savages were drowsy—most of them sleeping and now was the time for action.
Slowly he crept forward until he was in the rear of the lodge which contained the captives. Afire was burning just beyond. He could leap forward, seizing two burning brands, and huil them among the dry leaves which covered the lodges. Instantly they would be in flames, and the panic would begin. Then he would use his rifle and knife. If he could only release Thornton—and the Indian guide was near to lend a helping hand—there was some hope of success.
He leaped forward to carry out his PlanS* .1 During all this time the friendly Indian had not been idle. He had prostrated himself upon the ground as near Mr. Thornton as possible, while several savages took their places near him. .To wait for these to sleep was his object, and it was some time before he could work with safety.
Then he began working for the weapons of his foes. Several knives were drawn from the beits, aud tossed beyond the immediate reach of the owners, and then two rifles were secured for the use of himself and Thornton, when he should be set free, for the weapon of the latter had been taken from him, and the Indian believed that he could handle a second piece effectively, in connection with his own.
During all this time not the slightest suspicion seemed to be aroused that there wa« a secret enemy in camp.
Now came a more difficult task, which was the cutting of the thongs which bound the legs and arms of Thornton. Beside the prisoner was seated a guard, and he did not seem inclined to sleep by his appearance. The only way appeared to be to spring upon the guard, and after dispatching him, cut the prisoner loose, and then fight for life. The only promise of success, however, would be the suddenness of the attack and the confusion of their enemies.
Just as he was about to commence the attack the Indian saw Dave Carman spring from behind one of the lodges, seize the fire brands and hurl them among the combustible matter. He comprehended the meaning of this in an instant, and almost as quickly wa9 Thornton set free and a weapon placed in his hands.
The flames started up, three rifle shots rang out upon the still air, three savages uttered fierce howls and fell forward on their faces, and then one general cry came from the others, who sprang forth to ism their enemies.
Of course they believed they had now to encounter the pale-faces, but they had another foe to meet which they had not dreamed of. The old he-bear had probably found its mate dead, and with the natural instinct of the beast knew that the red strangers who had encroached upon his territory hsd been the cause of that death, and he had come to seek revenge. At all events, he was there, for scarcely had the yells of the savages burst forth when his terrific bowlings were beard in response.
He stood for & mommt on the rock, directly by the side of the camp, and then, with a roar that seemed to make the very mountains tremble, he made the spring.
Directly among the savages he alighted, and most desperately did he commence his work of death.
The Indians were panic-strioken. Many of them had lost their knives, and they rushed about with frantic shrieks in search o£ them.
After a time the monster was dupatcn* ed, but not until he had done terrible execution.
In the meantime, tlie hunters and friendly Indian had not been idle. The mother and child were removed beyond danger from the bear, for it was felt that he would be no respector of persons, and then the battle was continued— three men and a bear against a doaen savages.
The contest was finally ended. One Indian beside the chief still stood erect, but be had dropped his weapons, thrown up his hands, and asked for quarter I
The chief had been seised and dliiirm* ed, for it was the wish of the hunters to tain him alive.
Bat be laughed in scorn when be saw the action of his only remaining warrior, and exclaimed
"I would sooner die than yield like a coward!" "And die yotl shall," replied Thorton. "Not by tne hand of the despised palefaces or the redskin dog who has betrayed us and brought them here I"
As the chief said this he made a desperate effort, and threw off the grasp of the hunters. Then he dashed off.
It so happened that all the rifles were unloaded, and he could not thus be brought down, but he had met an enemy bis superior in every way in the Indian guide.
A powerful hand clutched him, and his course was checked. The chief saw that his fate was sealed, and be struggled towards the cataract, determined to perish in the rushing waters, rather than yield to the white man. His foe gjderstogd his intention, and exclaimed "Oh, I will gratify you. DoWfl yOu shall go." "And you shall remain behind, beeause I would not suffer you to share my grave. But you shall remain scalpless!"
As the chief uttered the«e words, he clutched a knife which was in the belt of his enemy, swung it over his head, caught the hair of the Indian, struck a violent blow, and then whirled the scalp above his head, with a yell of delight. But the next instant he was whirling down the
Ee
recipice, willing to meet death because had, at the last moment, triumphed over a treacherous redskin. "Are you hurt cried Thornton, as^ he sprang to the side of the friendly Indian, who stood erect upon the edge of the chasm. "Not much—a little scratchy upon the forehead," replied he, as he wiped away the perspiration from his brow. "But that fellow took your scalp?" "Yes—but a bloodless one —only an Indian wig which I sometimes wear as a disguise." "Then you are not an Indian?" "No." "I suspected as much. But who are you "My name is Kit Carson."
It was, indeed, this great hunter, who had sent such valuable aid in saving the Thornton family, and long they lived to remember him with the deepest gratitude and love.
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Read What the Rev. W. W. Waltlcn Says: BEDFORD, Livingston co., Mo..)
June 26. 1875. j"
A. KIEFKH: Dear Sir—I look upon pittmt medicines as nostrums sent abroad merely for ilie purpose ot making money as a general thing. I nave been a subject to iyspepslaor indigestion, and liver ooiuplnhit for years, and for rtve mootns the past wiuter wan not able to get out or at tend to any business whatever. 1 tried several remedies, but with little benefit. Finally I concluded to test the virtue of your Taraxine. and feel proud to say have received great benefit, and believe it to be the brat remedy of the kind In use: and can, withont hesitation, recommend it to all like sufferers.
Respectfully, W. W. WALDEN.
Liver Complaint. Sick Headache
How it Effects Derangement of the Whole System. HOMER, 111., June 1, Wi.
MR. A. KIEFRR—Dear Sir: I have been afflicted for the last four years with de* rangement of the liver, causing dyspepsia, headache, nausea, and general derangement of the whole system. I have tried a reat many preparations, but found no reief until I tried oue bottle of your Taraxine. which has permanently cured me. I also found it to D9 good for ague. I commend it to all who suffer with derangement of the liver Very truly yoars,
REV. THOMAS WHITLOCK.
FOR SALE BY ALL DRUGGISTS.
A. KIEFER
PROPRIETOR,
INDIANAPOLIS.
PRAIRIE CITY
COOK STOVES
CHEAPEST TO BUY
-AND—
BEST TO USE.
PLAIN, HEAVfY
-AND-
DURABLE STOVES,
,\TvRBMARKABLYf
LOW PBICES.
IFULLY WARRANTED
-TO-
Git® Satisfaction in Baking, Not to Fire Crack
—AND TO—
Use Fuel Economically.
ID
Da. Terr hss me* eeeded In combining tn theae pilla ttMberato* foro tnugonlstk puHUeeoCaSTBHUTHUie, PuaoATim, and a Pcaurrxo Toxic.
buying the stoves made here yon
Patronize Hoinc Industry
A a a a
E E A I S
Without trouble or delay, and
AT VERY LITTLE COST
Tslf
ASK FOR THE
2W
digestive ormna,
regolsr ssd hmXtiiy pro-
1
Prairie City.
BUY NO OTHER!
For Sale, wholesale and retail, by
Towiiley Bros.,
North aide Main at., bet. Fifth and Sixth: