Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 105 — page 20: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

20 _— od ——— ee — stooped, and lifted her in his arms, and for | the first time she realized what a power there was in hisgrasp. He lifted her easily with one hand, and turned to go up the passage. At this moment the sound of voices was heard in the outer cave. It was the three friends, who had ridden hard, to get to the mountain before Meton; but he had taken the shorter path, and was here before them. She tried to scream, but a dusky hand was over her mouth, and a voice hissed in her ear that a whisper would be her death. With the hope of escape came the fear of the grim monster, and she dared not call out. But they would come down. Surely the Indians were caught in their own trap, and would have to fight for her at least. But to her surprise, Meton had a better knowledge of the mysteries of the cave than even the hunter himself. Turning to the left, a sudden turn about a jutting point of rock brought them into a long gallery, ex- tending, apparently, into the bowels of the mountain. A gleam of ferocious joy lighted up the face of the Indian, as he turned about and helped roll a great stone before the opening, which was about three feet high, completely blocking it up. “ He never find it out,” he said, decisive- ly, taking her again in his arms and hurry- ing down the passage. Scarcely had they left the place, when the three came down the slide, to find the place desolate, with the exception of the fawn, who came to Dolf and laid her head against his knee with a pitiful moan. | “What is it, old fellow?” said he, “ Where is Ida ?” “ She is gone,” cried the hunter. “ Car- ried away, too, fer ther’ hes been a fight har’, an’ a rifle hea been fired. Smell the smoke. An’ here is her piece,” he added, picking up the rifle where it had been left in the struggle. The fawn went away to the other end of the room, and came back with a pitiful face. “ What is thet fer?” said Rube, looking mterested. ‘“ Foller the little thing ef she goes away ag’in.” She did go again, and led them to the ~ where the great stone barred the way. e hunter looked at it keenly. | “Ahaf’ he said. “This yer hes been moved. Come, boys, give it a push, all to- gether.” A very little effort pushed the stone aside, and showed them the path they must travel. “T’s that villain Meton,”’ said Rube, as he caught sight of the moccasin-tracks up- on the dusty floor of the passage. “It’s him, an’ no other. Thet feller’s time is Old Rube, the Hunter. eel “ Where do you think it leads to ?” “Can’t tell. Don’t know thet I keer, skurcely. All I know is thet Meton hes gone through har’, an’ thet he hes Miss Ida with him. The little un’ is good blood; hold down the torch. See! here she hed a | squabble with the pesky knave, an’ he tuk | her up to carry her, blame him.” The passage grew wider, and a breath of cool air struck their faces. They knew that they were coming to the outer air, and their hearts beat faster. Each grasped his wea- pon and made ready for the fray. | : the log in an uncertain, irresolute way, looking at the group. All his evil heart overflowed with hatred. How dared they be happy. His rifle was at his back, and taking it down he leveled it at the breast of Ida. Only the eyes of Rube were on him at the moment. With a cry, he flung him- self before her, firing as he sprung. At the same moment the rifle of the Indian ex- ploded ; but, wounded unto death, he reeled blindly, catching at the limbs for support. They came upon the Indians upon a sort | of natural platform, just above the chasm. The three who had followed the varied for- tunes of Meton thus far, turned at bay, with their hatchets in their hands. They were stalwart fellows, and for some minutes a fearful combat raged upon the rocky shelf. The hunter closed with his opponent, and hurled him backward. He fell over the precipice, and was seen no more. Dolf shot one through the head with a pistol, while the second joined Meton in his flight. Over rock and chasm, familiar to them from infancy, the doomed red-men made their way. Sometimes the companion of Meton looked furtively at the white face lying against Meton’s breast, and longed to kill her; but he dared not speak his thoughts. In pity to her woman’s heart her senses were gone, and she lay quiet against the brown breast. Twice the rifle of Rube covered him, and as many times it was lowered, as he feared he might hurt the unhappy prisoner. The Indian ran out upon the great tree, close to the edge of the cliff, and here the girl was suspended over the precipice, ana that haughty defiance thrown in Charlie’s teeth. “ As you hope for mercy,” cried the hor- ror-stricken young man, “ show it.” “T hope for no mercy—I will not show it. Go back, young white man; the prophetess of the Crows shall cook my venison in the Dacotah lodges. She is not for you.” i Charlie sprung forward, but recoiled as the fiend lifted her high in the air with both hands and made a motion to cast her into the nbyss below. As he raised her, a pair of white hands reached downward and tore her from his grasp. With a cry of unut- terable hate, the Indian looked up to see from whence came this new foe. It was plain at once. A second ledge ran along a fathom above his head, narrow, it is true, but still wide enough to support the hunter, who, creep- ing on his hands and knees, reached a spot just over Meton’s head at the moment he raised her above it. Regardless of danger, a a Rube, pierced by the treacherous bullet, fell, gasping, at the foot of the woman he had saved. “It’s all over,” he said. “ Thet Injin, who is goin’ down ter death in another minnit, hes done it. I hey’ kept my vow, and I ain’t sorry. Iam a man ashes tried ter do his duty all his life. Mayhap I ain’t been right always; I don’t s’pose I have; but it don’t matter if I tried ter do it.” He turned a look upon Meton. The chief had sunk down upon his knee, and held by a limb, while his glazing eyes were upon the party. It was plain that he had not long to live, for the blood was trickling cown from the brown breast, and dropping with a patter upon the bark on which he knelt. The wild man saw his doom, and, fascinated by the dying eyes of the hunter, he looked him in the face. “"T were years ago, Meton, when you done the deed whic made me yer inimy. ’Twan’t a good thing fer either of us. It hes been yer death, and mine too, fer we ain’t neither of us long to live. Yer kin see what it is ter go ag’in’ white men; yer can’t do it—whites was bound to rule. I said [ would kill ye, an’ now I hey’ done it, fer yer going.” The Indian was sinking slowly down- ward, and the other hand now rested on the log. He was evidently in fearful agony, but he would not show it, for Meton was no coward. He kept his eyes fixed upon the face of Rube, and as the last word was spoken, he rose suddenly, made a single step forward, and then, with a great flow of blood from his wounded breast, fell back- ward and was seen no more, “He is gone,” said Ida. “Oh! Rube, it breaks my heart to see you lying there, and all for me.” “T c’u’dn’t be better,” murmured he, feebly. ‘“ I don’t ask nothin’ better than ter die fer you. I promised at thet grave on the prairie thet I w’u’d die, if it were need- ed, fer ye. Yer see I hev’ done it.” Ida knelt at his side, sobbing. Her grief distressed him, and he put out his hand with an appealing gesture. “* Don’t,” he said ; “I don’t like it I’m glad, too, ter know thet I ain’t got ter die the hunter ran quickly back along the ledge and placed the fainting girl in the arms of her lover. Joy seldom kills) She awoke to a con- sciousness of her srtuation, to know that she about up, to my thinkin’. ‘is boand to rub him out. Stands ter rea- son it sh’ud. We can’t hev’ things our own ‘way; no, not at all. Thet Injin were made ‘ter ba rubbed out by me. All right; I'll like a dog, an’ not one ter stand above my body and say, ‘It is a pity he is gone? Don't think I ain't grateful fer yer goodness | —no man c’u’d be more; but it cuts me do it.” The path through which they went was dark and slippery, and inclined upward. They went cautior ly forward, feeling their way by the wall, covered with a slime which had been the gathering of years. “ Dern it,” muttered Rube, “ what a pesky bele.” reclined against his strong breast, and that his heart was beating close to hers. Those es who have suffered much and then received | a heartful of joy, can understand the feel- ings of their hearts. They forgot who were near for a moment, and were only roused by a terrible calamity. / The Indian had remained standing on | ter see yer cry fer me, when I ain’t done nothin’ ter speak of.” “You have given your life forme. Is that nothing ?” “ Thet’s not on the bill,” asserted the dy- ing man. “I promised thet ter yer mother, an’ yer ain’t got nothin’ ter do with thet An’ now, miss, here is my last wish; and, com IJOORS Teor