Beadle's Half Dime Library No. 24 — page 3: what you’re looking at

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

{ rr ete eet ~~ —_——-—— <-> <—_- —-- - - = « see + - © — --—-- = - - ~~ -— ee -_-—— —— —_-_-_~-_—-—_ --- - — eee ea ee Leo Markham’s head struck the trunk of a | ree, and the fall half-stunned him; yet though | unable to rise, he witnessed the terrible scene | that followed. The thicket’s foli was shoved violently | aside, and from it, with angry growls, stalked a huge reared upon his hind-feet, mouth open, and fore-claws extended—a monster ofthe forest, disturbed in his lair, and turning upon | him who had dared to intrude upon his nap, But he, who in his bear-skin attire, seemed scarcely less brutish than the great monster, drew his gleaming knife, and, with a terrible rushed to the attack. ith terrific force the man and brute came together—clinched, and then began an awful struggle, with the half-stunned soldier as an au- nce Over the snow-clad earth, crashing t h | the thicket, trampling the ground, crushing the | branches, and with savage growls and fierce | cries, the man and the brute struggled in the | deadly combat—struggled until the growls of the monster became weaker and weaker, and | the cries of the madman fiercér and louder. At length the two fell heavily to the ground— | a-fierce moment of combat, and the human be- | ing sprung to his feet, a long, loud, savage shout | of joy bursting from his his huge blood-_ drenched knife raised above his head. | Then Leo Markham, still weak and benumbed, | attempted to prepare for the death-struggle, | which he expected would come, for mad with | blood he feared his captor would turn upon him, | With a t effort he mgs den to raise his | revolver; but ere he could fire there burst from | the madman’s lips a _of demoniac laughter, and with the speed of a deer he bounded away and disappeared in the timber. God! he has forgotten my very ex- istence—now, Leo Markham, if Pin: prize life, you had better strike the back.trail for camp, or you may yet see that devil’s dominions,” So saying, the young soldier shook himself to- | faking as best he could, staggered to his feet, and ing the track they had come and which was plainly marked through the snow, he walked on | with all the s h and speed he could sum- mon. As he proceeded he gained new strength, and | og half an hour came in sight of the camp- re. | A moment more and he threw himself down before the burning logs, his head and face red | with blood, from one of the sharp claws of the | bear in his first blow, and his appearance that of a man who had seen pees terrible. “Well, you met _and punished the slayer of | the guide,” cried Lord Gilbert, hurrying anx- | iously toward him. | ““T met him—it was the Devil himself,” and | Leo Markham fainted away from loss of blood and exhaustion. CHAPTER IV. MORE MYSTERY. Lorp Gilbert was considerable of a surgeon in his way—in early life he had seen rough Ber | vice in India, and more than once felt a y’s knife or bullet seeking his own life, hence he at once set to work to dress the cut in Captain | Markham’s head, and stanch the bleeding, This done, he soon revived the young soldier, | who had fainted from loss of blood, and in an hour’s time Leo Mark was able to give a full account of his st adventure and time- | ly rg hie ey by a wild beast, scarcely more | than the madman. ‘* Now, what is to be done ? Tage Dan lies | over there, under yonder tree, dead—the arrow pierced his heart, and we are without a guide,” said Lord Gilbert. ‘True, and I am not enough of a plainsman to | act as guide—were the snow off the ground, I | could doubtless do well enough; but my limited frontier knowl of trailing ceases at this dif- ficulty—we will have to retrace our steps,” re-_ Treen return—I will not be disappointed of my hunt in these wilds. Will you be wel] en to ride | ga lll be all ht in . yes; rig the morning. | We will thea bury poor Dan and radinin bo the fort for guides—I am anxious to solve this mys- | tery of mad I was a mere chil A few moments lo laid to r conversation and the | , the two dogs of the ex- gs on as sentinels, and Pompey and | ake placing themselves between two large logs they carried into their tent, for the purpose, as the latter remarked: into the cam for he is apes he mad in his powerful clutch.” Diamond Dirk. — ss —- -_—- — —— — + ~~ -— P Jae sarcumvent dem red cusses an’ de big evil,” They were afraid of a shot in the dark, and _ preferred to have an arrow or bullet bury itself rather than their valuable bodies. of day the camp was astir. The snow ceased to fall, t dull, leaden clouds h low in the skies, and the earth was white over hill and valley. Beneath a large tree, with the snow for his winding-sheet, lay the cold form of the guide, a Mr bg Poy deadly danger lurked about the ittle party. Leo Markham, though weak, was seeming] uite well, and Fe ag ae were at once feed e or the burial of the guide, who was soon after consigned to his shallow grave, his blanket wrapped around him. In the bark of the tree at the head of his grave Jules Vernon skillfully carved the name and date of death of the dead man, and the three white men sat down to the breakfast which Pompey had pre They had barely finished when Jake dashed from the timber, where he had gone to catch a loose pony, and his face was ashen with fright as he cried: “Oh, Lordy! oh, Lordy!” “What the devil is the matter, man? Speak out!” cried Lord Gilbert. ‘**T dunno; I dunno.” ‘You do not know? Well, what are you frightened about, you black scamp?” **T see’d a ghost—’fore the Lord I did,” cried the negro. ‘* A ghost! nonsense. You have been fright- ened _ your own shadow, Jake,” said Markham. ‘* No, sah! I don’t hab no shadow when. de sun don’t pas $4 alten a noise, an’ a hoss wen me like lightnin’, an’ on he back was a gal.” ° ae ‘** An Indian, or a white girl, Jake?” “How _ I know, sah? She went flyin’, I tell you, an’ I made tracks fur camp.” Leo Markham was about to reply, when from te septaih of a hill near by came a loud, clear 00. All started, and turned their eyes in the direc- tion from whence came the sound; but they inal With the could see no one, Again was the halloo repeated, and in his rin g voice Leo Markham shouted back in answer. ) ‘‘The Indians are on your trail—strike camp at once, and retreat up Yellowstone, valley, They will not follow you there.” ® voice was clear, = pale gig but the speaker was invisi Who could she be? None knew, none could guess, and in wonder- ment they remained Silent. “Tl have warned you—you have no time to lose—the red-skins are not far away,” again Our guid ide. was Killed last night. Wekn — @ was t. e know not the way,” cried Leo Markham. ‘Then come to this hill, strike my trail—you can easily follow it through the snow, and I will lead you toa plore of safety.” ‘Who are you?” ‘Your guide,” *‘ Are you man or woman?” “Tt matters not, n, for you have no time to lose.’ A short consultation followed, and it was de- oles to. Solow: the strange. guide, aan vehere he or t could they do?” They were without a guide far in the wilder- ee men they caught at a Ww. The ponies were quickly saddled, the tents struck and packed, and then the moved away from encampment, by the grave of Trapper Dan. Leo Markham led the way, and upon. reach- po age ge hia ime, Yates had come, they discerned the tracks of a pon evidently an unshod m ae ustang. The trail had come from the timber where Jake had been to catch the stray pony, and led oO ieee pony an mysterious rider were nowhere to be seen—they had disappeared, leaving behind a well-marked trail. Without hesitation they followed the ag e tracks, and as they went down the hill- side there was wafted to their ears from the plains them the sound of distant firing, and the wild war-cries of the Sioux, Their ie } told the truth—there was d wf pushed on in the and unseen friend, who had promised to lead —_—— ee - een I was out yander, an’ I heerd. had them, and at a rapid pace | ae ee wn 3 et rr ee mm ee ee ee oe ee we ee eS them to safety, and yet who kept so mysteri- ously out of their sight. Each one of the little party had the same py: Sciiab ckg they being led to safety or eath ¢ CHAPTER Ve FATHER AND SON. From the wilds of the American frontier, where the red-skin and coyote alike on the il of the white man, to the pleasant shores of England, the kind reader is rted— to a scene of rare beauty where wealth and cul- tivated tastes have made a lordly home all that Fronting the restless sea stands a grand old hom , where generation after generation of a noble name have sprung into existence, lived their ay 7 © Acmahe and found a resting-place in the family burying-ground, ex- cepting. 8 few brave. spirits who have fallen on the field of battle in foreign lands, ar gone to a deep grave beneath the sea. In a magnificently-furnished chamber of this lordly home, some eighteen years before the opening of this story, were two persons, whose faces and forms were strangely alike, though there was nearly two score of years difference between their ages. The one was a haughty-faced, handsome man of sixty-five, with erect, graceful form, although his hair and beard were snow-white. He was attired in dressing-gown and slippers, sat ina large easy-chair, and upon his face rest- “Ae ae r se ge d-looking, yet respect- ore e roud- ful, stood his youthful counterpart, his son. A little larger framed, perhaps, than his fa- ther, yet strangely like him in face and form. His eyes were k, his features regular, and altogether, clad as he was in the uniform of a cav- ory officer, he was a splendid-looking specimen oF Bore : ou tively refuse to m the Lady Rosie, if? ask , sternly. ‘*T do, father—as I told you, my hand must go with my heart—and my heart is already P to another.” **Nonsense—the Lady Rosine is beautiful, an heiress, of the best blood of England, and you are a fool not to jump at the chance of becom- ing her husband.” ‘“T admit, father, that she is all that ycu say; Ma I am in love toes Berney be and will not reak my pledged w er. “And Farag. oe is—” ‘‘T would prefer not to name her, sir—when I return from India, if I am not killed there, I hope to make her my wife.” ‘‘Of course she is a pauper?” sneeringly said the old nobleman. ‘* She is little better, sir—her father is very poor. “I thought it; but I command you to tell me her name. he ee me officer was silent a moment—then “Do "you remember, father, that. when my acht was wrecked a year ago on the coast below encanta nembalenn de odite heap mete own-—came out alone in a life and me from the ay, and half a ‘““Yes—her father was a reduced gentleman, and I repaid the deed by ge ing doian. as keeper of the light-house on the point below.” ‘True, sir; but the deed the daughter did for me can never be repaid. I love , and she me. the elderly gentleman lov The old man was upon his feet in an instant— ‘* You love the daughter.of Luther Lawton?’ ‘* Yes sir—I confess it frankly.” “* You, the heir to my name, title and estates, make this confession— t you love a poor, un- ‘Hold, father! she is poor, I admit: but her Rg is second to no lady’s in e is um given her every advantage, isin every respeok the of the lovely The young man spoke warmly, yet with per- ou are a fool, boy more, I comm ou never to I een Eomichbooks-co