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Dear readers,

The Cave by the Beech Fork by Henry S. Spalding was published in 1901.

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K. C. Lee
Story Collector
March 11, 2012

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"HE DREW HIS REVOLVERS AND STEPPED QUICKLY TOWARD THE TWO MEN."

Owen And Martin Visit The Cave

It was far into the night when the boys awoke. The fire had burned low, and the rain which had been falling for an hour began to penetrate their leafy canopy.

"Owen! Owen!" cried Martin, the first to awake, "it's raining."

Owen was stiff from the chilly night air. He rubbed his eyes and stretched his limbs for some minutes before he realized his situation.

"Wake up! wake up!" Martin remonstrated, at the same time throwing a handful of damp leaves into the sleeper's face as an additional inducement. "You had better take me to that wonderful cave," continued he.

"I dreamt about the place," said Owen, who was now fully awake, "and that the two rocks had been turned into dogs."

"You must have been enjoying your dream, for I thought you would never wake up. I was just going to put a little fire into your moccasins," replied Martin.

"That would have brought me in quick time, for a fellow can't sleep and be roasted at the same time. But come, let us start. It's pretty dark, and I'll have to turn Indian to find the cave a night like this."

"Keep your weather-eye open, Bounce," said Martin, turning toward the dog. "Our rifles are damp. If there is a wildcat in the neighborhood, you must do the fighting. Do you hear, old fellow?"

Bounce shook his head as if to say there was no danger while in his company.

After plodding along and elbowing their way through the damp bushes, the boys reached a hill which ran along the bank of the river for many miles, rising at times to the height of some three hundred feet. Carefully they clambered up toward the two giant rocks which could scarcely be discerned in the gloom, Bounce occasionally giving a low growl of alarm as they approached.

Again and again they stopped and listened, but nothing could be seen or heard. They therefore concluded that it was only a fresh trail, and that the animal itself was not near.

"I tell you it's dark," said Martin, who was the first to pass between the two immense rocks into the cavern.

"Dark as a dungeon," replied Owen in a tone of voice that showed he was not exactly pleased with the situation.

"All we need is a little fire to make things look home-like," said Martin, at the same time searching for some dry wood.

As no wood could be found the boys were forced to remain in the dark cave. Crouched together in a dry corner they tried to sleep, but could not. Bounce continued to growl, and, since he never gave a false alarm, they did not feel perfectly at ease. A strange and subdued sound seemed to issue from the crevices of the rocks. Both boys listened, yet neither spoke. Was it the dripping of the water from the damp arches above? What could it be?

"Didn't you hear something?" asked Martin.

"I thought so," replied Owen, "but, when I listened again, I heard nothing except the dripping water."

Here their conversation was interrupted by a low growl from Bounce.

"Something is wrong," said Martin. "I can't sleep here without a fire. Let us look for wood again."

As they groped around in the dark searching for wood, Martin slipped, and at the same time grasped the side of the cave to prevent his falling. The huge rock yielded, and opened like the massive door of some great dungeon, disclosing a lurid light farther in the cave.

"Heavens! what is this?" gasped the boy, losing his hold and letting the rock swing back to its former position.

"A robbers' den," whispered Owen, trembling with fright. "They have not seen us; let us get away as fast as we can."

Fortunately, the dogs did not bark. The boys would have left the place unobserved, had not a man met them at the entrance.

"Who are you?" demanded he, in a gruff voice.

"Two boys; we were overtaken by the night, and had to sleep in the woods. It commenced to rain, and we came here for shelter," said Owen.

"Youngster, don't tell me a lie! Is there no one around here except yourselves?"

"No, sir! No one!"

"How--a--did you come to know about this cave?" asked the man in a milder but hesitating way.

"I found it one day when I was out hunting," answered Owen.

"I found it in the same way," said the man. "The rain drove me in here, too. It isn't a very good place to sleep, still we'll have to hold out here until morning; so just lie down, boys, and try to take a rest."

"No, sir!" said Martin, looking toward the place where the big door had opened. "We are going to leave this cave immediately. It's a robbers' den or it's haunted."

"What! What did you say!" demanded the man, all his former gruffness immediately returning.

"Robber's den! haunted!" stammered Martin, excitedly. "There's a big door to the left. I opened it and saw a light." "You did? You did? You saw a light in there?" growled the man. "Then, boys, you have seen too much to leave here until I let you go. Don't try to run away, or I'll kill both of you!" and he emphasized his threat with an oath, at the same time swinging open the door and ordering the boys to go into the inner part of the cave.

They obeyed tremblingly, and saw the rock door locked behind them.

"Now, boys," said the man, "this isn't a robbers' den. It isn't haunted, either. If you sit down there and keep perfectly quiet, I won't hurt you. But if you don't do as I tell you, you'll get into trouble." With these words he left them, and passing through another door went farther into the cave.

Our two young hunters were so frightened that neither spoke for some time.

By the flickering light of a fire which had been kindled in the center of the chamber they could examine their dingy prison. It was more than eight feet high and twenty feet long, with solid rock walls and incipient stalactites projecting from above. Skins of minks, foxes, raccoons and wildcats were stretched on forked staves the full length of the cave; and from their variety and number one would infer that he was in the rude home of a trapper. Nothing else was visible, not even a rough bench or a bed of straw. No doubt the occupant of this mysterious cave had other apartments connected with this one.

Martin was the first to break the awful silence.

"What a fool I was," gasped he, "for telling him--about that door."

"Well, it's too late to cry about it now," replied Owen. "Are you much frightened?"

"Why--I was so scared--that I thought--I should never recover--my power of speech."

"My heart stopped beating."

"If mine stopped--it is making up for it now. It isn't beating--it's hammering."

"I must confess that I don't feel very brave just at present," said Owen, trying at the same time to force a laugh.

"I only wish we had Bounce in here with us," replied Martin.

"Yes, I am never lonesome in the woods when I have him with me. But, say, Mart! did you notice that when the man left us, he opened another door there to the right, and that there was another light farther in the cave?"

"No; are you sure?"

Owen was about to answer, when the door in question was swung aside, and the man entered, wearing a mask and carrying a bright torch.

"Well, boys," said he, "I see you didn't try to run away. I've been thinking the matter over, and have come to the conclusion that I'll let you go. Of course, you'll have to promise not to say anything about the cave."

"We'll promise that," said Owen.

"And you will have to keep the promise."

"Oh, we'll do that, too," replied Martin.

"Glad to see you so willing; but we'll settle the whole matter in the morning. Don't be afraid, I am not going to hurt you. Lie down and try to rest until I come back. The ground is a little hard, it is true, but it is dry; and there is no danger of catching cold."

He extinguished the few smouldering coals in the middle of the cave, where a fire had previously been kept burning to dry the skins. After again admonishing the boys not to move, he took his torch and departed, leaving them in utter darkness.

The Howards

At the close of the 18th, and the beginning of the 19th century, many Catholics emigrated from Maryland to Kentucky. One of these was a farmer named Zachary Howard. He sought a home where he and his family could enjoy the comforts of their holy religion, and for this end consulted Father Byrne, the resident pastor of Bardstown. Father Byrne had for some time been in quest of a settler who had means sufficient to buy a farm about nine miles east of Bardstown, and to erect a house which could be used as a stopping place for the priest who attended to the spiritual wants of the neighborhood. Such a one he found in Mr. Howard. The good man was overjoyed at the honor to be conferred upon him. Yes, what an honor! to have the Catholic families assemble beneath his humble roof, and the holy sacrifice of the Mass offered in his own dwelling.

As soon as Mr. Howard had occupied his new home, he set to work to improve it. For miles around, except a few scattered clearings, there was one continuous, and in many places impervious forest. The wooded lands bordering on the Beech Fork river, about half a mile from the Howards, were as wild and unbroken as when the Indians fought and hunted in the "Dark and Bloody Ground." The labor of hewing down the large oaks and hickories, or of "clearing," as it was commonly called, was a Herculean one. Mr. Howard, however, was equal to the task before him. Although in his fifty-sixth year, he was as strong and active as a man of thirty. After ten years of hard and patient labor, he was the owner of a large and well stocked farm, with more than one hundred acres of rich land.

Before removing to Kentucky Mr. Howard had freed his four slaves, but they were so attached to him that they remained in his service and continued to call him master. The first among them was "Uncle Pius" (the old negroes were usually called Aunt or Uncle), a venerable and superannuated negro with hair as white as cotton. He was no longer able to endure steady work in the fields; however, he was useful in many ways. The wooden hinges, and wooden latches, and wooden locks; the strong oaken benches, and rustic chairs, with corn-shuck bottoms; the hominy mortar, the linsey and carpet loom; the busy and indispensable spinning-wheel, the miniature wind-mills, which shifted and buzzed incessantly on the top of the corn-crib; the martin-box perched high above the meat-house, inviting the winged travelers to stay and rest: all these were made by the deft hand of Uncle Pius. It was he who tended the kitchen-garden, trained the young tendrils along the new arbor, and propped up the young pear-trees, when they were no longer able to support the fruit which they bore.

The noisiest creature around the house, excepting the guinea-hens, was "Aunt Margaret." Her talkativeness seemed to increase with age. In her own opinion, she was the most important factor of the Howard household, and she often wondered what people would do when she was dead. With all her prating, and babbling, and chatting, Aunt Margaret, like Uncle Pius, did what work she could. Hour after hour found her at the loom. She handled the shuttles adroitly; and few, even among the younger generation, could send them flying forwards and backwards as fast as she.

The last negro worthy of mention was one who bore the distinguished name of George Washington Alexander Hamilton Howard. Washington was in his tenth year. He was a typical negro of the old stamp; as black as charcoal, with a flat nose, large mouth, and thick lips. He did not, however, put much value on personal beauty; and, provided the watermelon crop did not fail, he was the happiest of mortals.

He was indebted to a ruse of Aunt Margaret for his historic and sesquipedalian name. At his baptism she insisted on his being called George Alexander. When the sacrament had been administered she clapped her hands with joy and announced the rest of the name. No amount of persuasion could make her change the monstrous appellation or drop a single syllable. Whenever the boy was wanted she had ample time to call out: "Gawge Wasenton Elexander Hamilton Howard! Come heah quick, chile." Owen was the first to dishonor the historic title. Being something of a wag, he gave him the sobriquet of "Wash." All with the exception of Aunt Margaret approved of the amendment, and the great George Washington Alexander Hamilton Howard was addressed by his monosyllabic name.

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It was an early hour of the morning to which we referred in the last chapter. Mr. Howard arose and taking a long tin horn, which hung from a peg on the wall, blew it three times as a signal for all to arise. The summons was answered by Uncle Pius, who thrust his head out of the half opened door of the cabin where the negroes lived, and exclaimed: "We'se a gittin' up, massar."

In a few minutes all assembled for morning prayers. These were always said in common, according to the pious custom introduced by the early missionary priests of Kentucky, and still practised in many Catholic families.

When prayers were finished the day's work began. A fire was kindled in the big stove of the kitchen, which was soon savory with fried mutton, bacon, and cornbread. Out in the woodyard one of the negroes was busy with his axe, cutting enough firewood for the rest of the day. No part of the farm presented life so noisy and varied as the immediate vicinity of the corn-crib, where thirty-seven fat and hungry hogs were grunting and clamoring for their breakfast. As soon as Mr. Howard mounted to the top of the crib and opened the door, there was a general scramble to get just beneath it, although he always threw the corn fully twenty feet away so as to scatter the hogs and be able to count them. Up from the pond marched the whole family of ducks, led single file by the old black drake. The geese were not slow in coming for their part of the corn, marching in a solid phalanx, with the little yellow goslings in the center, to protect them against the dog Frisk, who seemed to enjoy charging the whole army and routing it by his own unaided efforts.

Then came the chickens, and the turkeys, and the guinea-hens, and the calves, and the heifers; and there was a most harmonious chorus of voices--the grunting, bleating, gobbling, quacking, lowing; all pleasing sounds to the old farmer, who enjoyed the scene, and scattered the corn profusely.

"Didn't see anything of Owen down the lane?" he inquired of the negro workman who was driving the cows in from the clover field.

"No, massar! didn't see nuthin' of 'im down dar."

"I hope he didn't stay out in the woods all night. I thought that he had stopped with Martin and would be home by this time, for he knows that we need him to help us get the wheat in."

"Kindar col' out sure last night; and hadn't it rained the 'simmons (persimmons) would got some frost on thar eye-brows."

"I shouldn't have let Owen go. But he was so anxious to look for those wild turkeys that I thought it better to give him permission."

"If he stayed out last night he'll have frost in his bones sure," said the negro.

"Well, we shall have to wait and see what has happened," replied the farmer. "But look, Mose," he continued, pointing toward a thin column of smoke rising above the tree tops. "I reckon old Bowen has had another fire. I've been watching that smoke for some time; it is too much for one chimney. The poor old fellow has had his corn-crib burned twice in the last three years. I trust that he has not suffered the loss a third time, for he takes it so hard. I thought he would die of grief the last time his crib was burned."

"It do look jus' like a fire's been burnin' up dar, sure," said Mose.

"I don't understand how his corn-crib is set on fire, for he never lets the men smoke around it."

"Smoke around de corn-crib," replied Mose, with a prolonged emphasis, "why, bless de Lord, he don't let 'em smoke nowhar. He's de holdenest on ole fellar to his money ebber I seed; he don't let dem niggars get 'nough to eat."

"How would you like to work for him?" inquired Mr. Howard.

"'Drudder die right heah on de spot," said Mose.

The breakfast horn blew and the two walked slowly toward the house. At the yard gate they met Uncle Pius. He was always delighted when consulted about matters of grave importance, and ventured his opinion on any subject. He had been watching the smoke for some time, engaged in deep speculation.

"Well, Uncle Pius," inquired Mr. Howard, "can you tell from the smoke what has been burning over at Bowen's place?"

"Kindar b'l'eve I kin," replied the old negro. "I suspose it am de old fellar's corn-crib, for de wood am green. You knows it ain't been up long."

"Could you tell from the smoke how much corn was in the crib?" asked the farmer.

"Jest what I'se been a ca'kalatin' on. Dar ain't much corn in dat crib, 'caze corn, it don't make no smoke like dat."

"How do you know?"

"I knows dis way, boss. Once when I'se a dryin' apples in de big stove, an' was a thinkin' 'bout som'in' or uddar, I'se dumped a bushel ob corn in de fire in place of de corn cobs. It made the funnies' sort ob smoke you ebber seed. Dat ain't no corn smoke; dat's wood smoke ober dar at ole Bowen's house."

"Now, we'll see if you are right," said the farmer. "If old Bowen has lost his corn, he'll let every one know it before night."

"Dat he will! Dat he will, sure! Den you'll see I'se ca'kalated right."

Mr. Howard laughed, and went into the house to take his breakfast. He was still anxious about Owen, fearing that some accident had befallen him.

Behind him walked Uncle Pius, muttering to himself: "Dar ain't much corn; dar ain't no corn in dat dar crib. Dar ain't,--ain't,--ain't."

A Visit From Father Byrne

Just as Owen entered the yard the dinner-horn blew, so he was forced to go at once to the dining-room. With his best efforts he could not conceal his drowsiness; he appeared somewhat frightened, too, and was naturally questioned about the previous day's hunt. His parents were surprised to find that the two boys had remained in the forest during a rainy October night. When did the rain commence? How long did it last? Was it cold during the night? Was Owen feeling well? The questions came faster than he could answer; they were of such a nature, too, as would likely lead Owen to commit himself and mention something about the cave. Luckily for him, however, the attention of the family was diverted to another subject by a little comedy which was just then enacted in the kitchen, where the negroes were at dinner. Wash, who was facing the road which ran in front of the house, suddenly sprang to his feet, upset his plate, spilt his glass of milk, and yelling as only Wash could yell, rushed from the door.

"Dat nigger am jest as crazy as a June bug," remonstrated Uncle Pius. But he had scarcely uttered the words, when he, too, dropped his knife and fork and followed Wash. The other two negroes joined in the race; and one of them, Mose, tripping his companion, sent him sprawling in the dust. Bounce and Frisk now appeared upon the scene, running far ahead of the others, and shaking their tails in a friendly manner. Bertha and Owen sallied forth from the dining-room, waving their colored handkerchiefs above their heads, while Mr. and Mrs. Howard walked out upon the porch to welcome Father Byrne, whose arrival had caused the uproar.

Thus was Father Byrne received at the home of Mr. Howard. It was impossible to convince the negroes that they were too noisy on such occasions, for in their opinion the one who yelled the loudest gave the most hearty welcome. As the good priest seemed to enjoy their demonstration of affection, Mr. Howard never interfered.

Father Byrne insisted on partaking of the humble family meal, nor would he permit anything special to be prepared for him.

"I see you have a young stranger with you," said he, looking across the table, where a little boy about two years old was propped up in a high chair.

"Not a stranger, Father," replied Mrs. Howard, "not a stranger. He is one of the family--Robin Howard is his name."

"Our children have all left us except Bertha and Owen," spoke up Mr. Howard. "Little Robin had no home, so we concluded to make him our boy."

"Ow'n and me go rid'n on ol' Hickory," interposed this youthful member of the family, whose chief delight it was to be lifted up on the back of old Hickory and to ride down to the water-trough.

"Can you ride alone?" inquired the priest.

"And the ol' duces (geese) went su-su-su-su."

"Why don't you answer the Father's question?" said the wife. "He wants to know whether you can ride alone."

"And the little duces went cry-cry-cry," said Robin, evidently trying to describe his encounter on the previous day with the flock of geese and goslings, in which encounter the little belligerent was evidently worsted, for one of the oldest warriors in the enemy's camp overthrew him with a single blow of his wing, and would no doubt have inflicted serious wounds had not Bertha come to the rescue.

"And what did Robin say?" asked Bertha.

"He cry, too," came the unwilling answer, whereat all laughed except the little soldier who had been vanquished in so inglorious a battle.

"Where is Owen?" asked Father Byrne, seeing that he had not returned to the dining-room.

"Probably he is not feeling well," said his father. "He and Martin Cooper were hunting wild turkeys all day yesterday. Toward evening Bounce trailed a large deer, bringing it near Rapier's Ford, where the two boys waited until they were overtaken by the night, and forced to sleep in the woods."

"Then I am not surprised that he is unwell," replied the priest. "Perhaps he will not be able to ride around to the different houses and let the people know that I am here."

"Then we'll give the work to Robin," said the farmer, with a laugh.

Robin, however, did not respond to the invitation. He did not seem to know that his name had been mentioned, but sat there in deep thought, planning the second and more successful campaign against the "duces."

"Well, Father," said Owen, riding up to the door just at this moment, "I had better be on the way, if I want to visit all the families before night, to let them know that you are here."

"They tell me that you are unwell," was the kind reply.

"Nothing the matter with me! Only a little stiff from sleeping out in the woods last night!"

"Of course, you'll never own up that you are sick," said his mother.

"Why should I own up, when I am not sick," said Owen; "besides, the ride will only do me good."

"If you do not feel strong enough to visit all the houses," said Father Byrne, rising from the table and walking out upon the porch, "return home, and let some of the other boys go in your place."

"Ow'n, dim me ride?" said Robin.

"Won't you come and finish your dinner before starting?" asked his mother.

Owen did not hear either appeal, however, but galloped away, only too anxious to escape from the company and the many questions about his night's experience.

Toward evening many of the Catholics came to the house for confession. Master and slave, old and young departed with the priest's blessing of peace, each holier and happier than when he came.

With patient care Father Byrne taught the older negroes their catechism; they, in turn, were told to teach their children. This was also a duty which he imposed upon the masters of slaves. To encourage the young blacks Father Byrne gave little pictures to those who had learned their prayers the best. It was on such occasions that Aunt Margaret endeavored to show the mental prowess of Wash.

"De Lawd bless dis nigger," she said one day, "if dat Gawge Wasenton Elexander Hamilton Howard ain't got his skull as brim full of brains as ole massar's corn-crib is full ob corn."

"How long did it take him to learn 'Our Father,'" inquired the priest, much amused at the old negress' talk.

"Dat our foddar," continued Aunt Margaret. "Why, bless my soul! I gave him the first susposishin (explanation) of dat dar prayer last Christmas, and dat little nigger he knowed it in less dan t'ree shakes of a sheep's tail."

"How many days?"

"No days, nuffin'. Bless him little soul, if de chile didn't larn dat our foddar in six mon's after I gave him the first susposishuns."

"Call him," said the priest, "and let us see whether he has learned his lesson well."

Washington came, and, standing before the priest with his hat on his head, began to recite the prayer.

"What I tole you do?" exclaimed his preceptress.

Off came the hat.

"Git on you' knees, you little her'tic!" again cried out Aunt Margaret.

Washington obeyed orders, and recited the prayer. He was rewarded by a picture, made thrice acceptable by its bold shades of red.

The Sunday following Father Byrne's arrival was bright and genial. The red-bird chirped among the crimson foliage of the maple; the blue-bird twittered and frolicked on the swaying branches of the plum-tree; round and round flew the barn-martins, as if they divined the coming winter, and wished to enjoy the few remaining days of autumn before departing for their more Southern homes; the swallows, too, with their speed-trimmed wings, darted swiftly through the heavens, glided noiselessly in among the trees, or sailed away again to the blue void beyond. A steady breeze sprang up, making the corn-stalks rustle in the fields, and sending the frost-nipped leaves of the forest whirling to the ground. Then, as the sun rose over the hilltops, the river lifted its white canopy of fog, slowly extended it over the valley, and dispersed it in fleecy clouds.

Along the several roads and footpaths which verged toward Mr. Howard's could be seen the members of Father Byrne's scattered flock hastening on to enjoy the rare privilege of assisting at Holy Mass.

"Good morning, Hez," said the host to Farmer Cooper, who was the first to arrive.

"Good morning, Zach."

"Fine morning."

"Very fine morning, indeed."

"How are you feeling?"

"Tol'ably well."

"How is Mrs. Cooper?"

"She's tol'ably well."

"And all the family?"

"They are all tol'ably well, thank you. And how are you this morning, Zach?"

"I am tol'ably well, thank you."

"And Mrs. Howard?"

"She is tol'ably well, too."

"And the rest of the family?"

"All tol'ably well, tol'ably well."

"How are you getting along with the fall wheat?"

"I reckon we'll be a little late this year," replied Mr. Howard. "It's the first time we've used the field for wheat, and have tried to get out as many stumps as possible. And how is your wheat getting along?"

"Tol'ably well. I reckon if nothing happens I'll have a fine crop next summer."

"What do you think about the fire over at old Bowen's?" asked Mr. Howard.

"I don't know what to think, Zach. This is the third time the poor fellow has lost his corn-crib. Just why the corn-crib should burn every year I don't understand."

"I reckon the negroes must set it on fire. They say he is very cruel toward them."

"I don't believe they burned his crib, Zach--I don't believe it. I tell you, there's something wrong with old Bowen, and some day or other we'll find it out."

While they were discussing the loss which old Bowen had sustained, and its probable cause, the Yates family arrived in the large farm wagon. Then came the Boones and the Blandfords, the Gates and the Craycrofts, and all the other Catholic settlers; and there was such a shaking of hands and exchanging of "good morning," and everybody was "tol'ably well," and was happy to find that his neighbor was "tol'ably well."

After Mass the same good wishes were exchanged, the same subjects of conversation rehearsed. Each one told just how much corn he expected from his summer crop, how much wheat he had planted for the coming season, the quantity of wool which his fold had yielded. The housewives, too, had their little stories to repeat. Each one knew how many sacks of dried apples her neighbor had stored away for the winter, how much apple-jam or peach-leather had been made. This, too, was the time for shy lovers to meet, and there beneath the great oak-tree, in rustic simplicity, many a vow was made and many a promise given.

The children did not accompany their parents home. Most of them remained at Mr. Howard's to be instructed by Father Byrne. When they had been dismissed, with the injunction to return for catechism on the two following days, the priest, accompanied by Owen, rode around to visit the sick who were unable to attend Mass that morning.

Happy Days

On the following morning the children were again assembled at Mr. Howard's for catechism. Those who lived within five miles of the farmer's house returned home at night, while others who were unable to come and go each day, stayed in the immediate neighborhood. Those were happy days for the dear little ones whom Father Byrne gathered around him. Prayers, instructions and lessons finished, the boys scampered off to the river to fish, or played "hide-and-go-seek" in the great hayloft, while the girls spent their happy hours in the grape-vine swings which Mr. Howard had made for them, or wandered out into the woods or into the fields to gather clusters of golden-rods.

No one enjoyed these days more than did Mr. and Mrs. Howard. They deemed it an honor and a privilege to have this troop of innocent children assembled beneath their roof. They insisted, too, on giving them a warm dinner each day, and supplying them with a bountiful repast before their departure. When the crowd began to break up in the afternoon (or rather in the evening, for the country folks of Kentucky never use the word afternoon), Mr. Howard was always there to see the children off safely. He took great delight in bringing their horses to the stile-block, in strapping on the blankets which they generally used instead of saddles, and in seeing them nestled snugly in their places, sometimes as many as four in a row on one horse. Then off they rode, laughing and talking, and saying a dozen goodbyes, and munching the biscuits and jam which Mrs. Howard had distributed among them. If the day was pleasant, the benches were brought out from the chapel beneath a large oak-tree near the house. Here Father Byrne heard the lessons and gave his instructions.

Early in the afternoon of the third day of class Mr. Howard came blustering into the room, and told Father Byrne to dismiss the children at once.

"I reckon, Father," said he, "we're going to have a heavy rain! Better get the children off at once!"

"Why do you think it is going to rain before night?" inquired the priest, with some surprise, walking to the door and surveying the heavens.

"Rain before night!" repeated the farmer. "Your reverence, it will be pouring down in less than two hours. Just look at that sun drawing up water. I tell you, if he keeps that up much longer, he'll have enough rain up in the skies to drown the country." Here Mr. Howard pointed toward the west to the long amber streaks, each one of which in his mind was a mighty pump supplying the rain-clouds from the distant ocean.

"I'll leave the matter to your judgment," said the priest. "It would be well to follow the more prudent course."

"You see, we shouldn't have room for them to stay over night," was the farmer's answer. "So I'll get the horses, and I'll start them at once."

There was a general murmur of disapprobation in the room, for the children disliked to disband so soon.

"Owen! Here, Owen!" yelled the farmer, going to the corner of the yard and calling his son, who was grubbing around the apple-trees in the orchard. "Come and help me to get the horses ready for the children!"

"Wife," he continued, appearing at the kitchen door, "can you get the little things something to eat? I am going to send them home before it rains."

"Why, dear," replied Mrs. Howard, "it has not been an hour since they had their dinner. And what makes you think it is going to rain?"

"The sun has been sucking up water now for some time. Just as soon as the sky is full, it will come pouring down."

"Well, the biscuits and chicken were cooked at dinner time. Aunt Margaret can have them ready in a few minutes," answered the wife, much amused at her husband's solicitude for the children. "Great Jarusulum!" exclaimed the old negress in utter amazement, when ordered to get a lunch ready for the whole class. "Dem chilluns is goin' to eat up dis hole house, I know dey is!" for never in her experience had she seen such quantities of jam, biscuits and chickens disappear. In former years, the catechism class numbered about ten; this season it had more than trebled. Aunt Margaret began to fear that the whole tribe of chickens would become extinct, and when she went out in the morning to scatter food to the younger broods, she uttered words of prophetic warning. "You'se better hop off to de barn and get away from heah," she said, "for when dem chilluns is devou'd youse big brudders and sisters, dey'll be after youse, too."

While the lunch was being prepared, Owen and his father brought the horses to the front of the house. The latter again surveyed the sky, where the amber streaks had grown to twice their size, an evident proof that the sun was drawing up an unusual amount of water. This was a deep-seated conviction of the farmer, of which it was impossible to disabuse him.

"Owen," said he, "take these horses back to the stable."

"Don't you think it is going to rain?" asked Owen, in surprise.

"I don't think anything about it! I know it! It is going to rain pitchforks and millstones in less than an hour," said the farmer, emphatically.

Mr. Howard then stalked into the class-room, and told the children that they would all remain until after the rain--after the rain which would begin in about half an hour. The farmer proved a prophet; the rain came as he predicted, and at the time he predicted. It rained--it poured--it came down in torrents. Four, five, six o'clock, and still it rained, but this was not the only difficulty. The little creeks which crossed the road on either side of the house were swollen into rapid streams, which it was not only dangerous but impossible to ford.

"We shall have to keep the little ones with us," said Mr. Howard to his wife, when he saw that it was getting late and the rain had not in the least abated.

"And where can we stow them all away?"

"That's what I've been thinking about."

"You can send the boys home, and we can make room for the girls," suggested Bertha.

"It wouldn't hurt them to get a little wet, my dear, but I am afraid they cannot cross the creeks," replied the father. "I'll walk down to Cedar Creek. I can judge from it whether or not the fords are dangerous."

Mr. Howard's report was most unfavorable. Not even a strong man could pass to the other side of the stream without the risk of his life; it would be rash to let one of the children start home.

"Well, where can they sleep?" asked the wife.

"You take care of the girls," said the farmer. "I'll see that the boys live until morning."

"Oh, father! You are not going to put them up in the dusty garret!" expostulated Bertha.

"You and your mother see to the girls," said Mr. Howard, with a laugh. "I'll give you the whole house for their accommodation," and with these words he went out on the porch, where Father Byrne was talking with the children.

"What are you going to do with this little troop?" asked the priest.

"I went down to examine the creek, and found that it could not be forded. Even if the rain holds up awhile, which I don't think it will do, it will be impossible for any of the children to go home," replied the farmer.

A general burst of approbation went up from the crowd--the little girls danced, while the boys shouted and threw their hats into the air.

"Have you room for all of them?" inquired the priest

"Room for the girls, I believe."

"Yes," said Bertha, who appeared on the scene; "we can put them all in the dining-room, and have a cover for each."

"Where are the boys going to sleep?" asked Father Byrne, turning to Mr. Howard.

"I have a much better place for them than Bertha has for the girls," answered the farmer, with a laugh.

"Where?"

"In the hayloft."

His words were followed by loud exclamations of joy from the boys, all of whom were delighted at the prospect of sleeping in the big hayloft. They had enjoyed their games of "hide-and-go-seek" there so much during the past days that it had become for them a home.

"I am going to find a good bed!" exclaimed one of the boys.

"So am I! So am I!" cried two others, and off the whole crowd went to burrow like so many rabbits into the heaps of oats and hay.

Aunt Margaret heard with utter consternation that her ravenous little guests were to remain until the morrow, thus demanding two extra meals to satisfy the cravings of their inordinate appetites. She groaned piteously when she reflected how many innocent chickens would be sacrificed to accomplish this end, and, following the instincts of self-preservation, she concealed a large ham in the chimney, lest she should die of hunger during the famine which must necessarily follow. Mr. Howard, however, saved the lives of the chickens by killing a sheep, which supplied the children with abundant repast.

Every effort was made by Father Byrne and the Howard family to entertain the children that evening. Father Byrne told them many stories of his missionary life in the almost uninhabitable sections of the State, where he was often forced to sleep in the open forest, with his horse tethered by his side. Once he was pursued by wolves, and was forced to abandon his horse to their fury. At another time, when in imminent danger of losing his life in a rapid current, he saved himself by grasping his horse's tail, and allowing the animal to drag him ashore. The priest interrupted his narratives at times to draw some beautiful and instructive moral for the children--how they should always trust in God, pray to Him in danger and temptation, and remember that their guardian angels watched over them day and night to shield them from all harm.

When Father Byrne had entertained the guests for an hour, Uncle Pius made his appearance with the other negroes, offering to serenade the visitors.

How they clapped their hands with joy at the announcement of such good news! Their eyes were fixed upon the venerable old negro as he tuned his fiddle and directed his assistants. Something was coming, something very funny! The music began. Uncle Pius rolled his large white eyeballs toward heaven in a most mysterious way; he twitched and screwed his face into every distorted shape; he knocked his knees together and struck the floor heavily with his big, broad foot; he whistled, he sang, he screamed, he shouted, until the whole house was in convulsions of laughter.

It was now growing late, and Mr. Howard announced that it was time for children to be in bed. They pleaded for one more song, which was granted. Then followed night prayers in common. Here no distinction was made between slave and master--all knelt to offer homage to God in unison.

"I'm scared," said one of the smallest of the boys, going to the window after prayers and looking out into the dark night.

"I tell you, it's dark outside," rejoined his companion.

"Say, do you think there'll be any ghosts in that barn to-night?" asked the first speaker.

"Don't know! Ghosts like barns, though."

"I ain't going!"

"Neither'm I!"

"Come on, boys!" cried the stentorian voice of Mr. Howard. "Come on! Let us be off to bed."

"John's afraid of ghosts!" said one of the boys.

"I am going to stay with you all night, boys, and leave the lantern burning," answered Mr. Howard.

This seemed to allay John's fears, for no ghosts, thought he, would ever venture where there was the least ray of light.

The barn was reached without accident, and the boys scrambled up the rickety ladder into their novel abode.

"Tom's in my bed."

"No, I ain't."

"I know you are. I know that's the bed I made!"

"What's the matter there, boys?" called out Mr. Howard.

"Tom Scott's in my bed."

"This is my bed, Mr. Howard," answered Tom, who by this time had burrowed deep into the oats, and had no intention of leaving his snug nest.

"Come up here, my little man," said the farmer. "I'll have a bed for you before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'" He then pulled two bundles of oats from the stack, and shoved the little sleeper into his improvised resting-place.

"Is everybody fixed for the night?" asked he. "We have two kinds of beds in this hotel--one of oats and the other of straw. You can have your choice, the cost is the same."

Everybody seemed contented.

"Well, go to sleep, boys! I'll be here with you all night."

Mr. Howard took a seat on an old barrel in front of the crowd. The boys were completely exhausted after their day's romping, and were soon fast asleep. Seeing that his services were no longer needed, the farmer threw himself upon the hay and followed their example.

On the following morning the children were dismissed immediately after breakfast. Father Byrne also took his departure; not, however, until he had encouraged David to prepare well for his coming battle with Goliath.

The Eventful Day

"Do you think you'll win?" asked Bertha, as Owen mounted his horse and started off toward Grundy's farm for the eventful shooting-match.

"I don't know," was the answer. "I have done my part by practicing every day, and you have done yours by making me this gay coat, and by putting a new cord on my powder-horn."

"I only wish that I could do more for you--something that would win the prize."

"If I kill as many robins as I did in my last practice, it will be difficult to beat me," said Owen, taking the rifle which Bertha handed him, and balancing it on the pommel in front of him.

"And did you really bring down twenty birds in twenty shots?" asked Bertha.

"Certainly I did."

"And didn't miss one?"

"Not one! But why do you ask me that question? You heard me tell father all about it when I came home last night."

"I know that I did, Owen, but I wanted to hear you say so again. It makes me feel so much more certain that you are going to win."

"Well, if you are that easily pleased, I can repeat it half a dozen times."

"No! no! once will do! But, oh, me! I do hope you'll win," said Bertha, with a prolonged sigh.

"And so do I." With these words, Owen galloped off, while Bertha continued to repeat: "Oh, me! I hope you'll win! I hope he'll win!"

Owen was joined by Martin Cooper--generous Martin, who had encouraged him so much, who had been of such service to him during the three weeks of practice, and who was now accompanying him to the scene of the long-expected combat.

A large crowd had already assembled, and the preparations were gradually being completed. A rectangular space, measuring seventy by thirty feet, was marked off for the contestants. At one side was a platform for the three judges, and here those who wished to compete registered their names. The whole was enclosed by a temporary fence, strong enough to withstand the pressure of the crowd. This provision was necessary to preserve order, for as many as four thousand persons often assembled on such occasions. Some were so eager to witness these contests that they rode a hundred miles, and considered their two hours' enjoyment sufficient recompense for their two days of traveling.

The target was made of a thick piece of sheet-iron, one yard in diameter, and divided into thirteen rings of equal distance, gradually widening out from the center, called the bull's eye. It was considered a disgrace to go beyond number ten, and the one thus branded was expected to retire from the lists.

As each contestant stepped up to the platform to register his name, cheer upon cheer burst forth from the excited crowd. If he had won honors on a former occasion, his name passed from mouth to mouth, and he was welcomed back with loud and prolonged shouts.

"Hurrah--hurrah! for Poplar Flat!" cried a voice, as a long, gaunt and seedy looking fellow swaggered through the crowd. "Hurrah--hurrah! for Poplar Flat!" echoed a thousand voices. Now Poplar Flat was not the name of the individual thus welcomed. It was a low tract of land about thirty miles from Grundy's farm, and received its name from the fact that it was overgrown with large poplar trees. Its seedy representative was quite a favorite at the shooting-matches, and always answered his admirers by awkward bows, and three times throwing his cap into the air.

When he had retired, a heavy-set, low-statured contestant stalked up to the judge's stand. He carried his rifle with much grace, and registered his name "Green Briar." Green Briar was a rocky and barren locality, which produced nothing but briars, interspersed here and there with patches of sassafras bushes, and where the people, it was said, lived on blackberries and rabbits. The little rifleman, however, was not ashamed of his country, for he turned to the crowd and yelled at the top of his voice:

"Three cheers for Green Briar." Some inquired of him, in jest, if rabbits were plentiful, and if the blackberry crop had failed, while an old chum remarked to those around, "Look out for number one when that fellow raises his rifle."

All was suddenly hushed into silence as a young aspirant stepped into the ranks. Unlike the others, who gloried in their rude and almost wild costumes, he was dressed in what the country folks called "city style." His suit was not made of "home-spun;" he wore a felt hat, and his legs were cased in calf boots; both of which things were considered luxuries in the back woods of Kentucky. This remarkable personage was no other than the son of Old Bowen. It was simply to pose before the admiring crowd, that Charlie Bowen attended the shooting-match, for he had no chance of even a fair record in the contest; and from the way he held his rifle all could see that he was not accustomed to use it.

It was now Owen's turn to register.

"Courage, Owen, courage!" whispered Martin, as Owen left his side with a light but nervous step.

"Hurrah for the boy! hurrah! hurrah!" yelled a corpulent gentleman, who seemed to have an unlimited supply of lung power, and an unlimited stock of suggestions for applause whenever the cheering ceased. The motley crowd swayed to and fro, and seemed eager for applause, so the hurrahs were re-echoed until Owen reached the judges' stand.

Here, however, his youthful hopes were crushed. The oldest of the judges eyed him from beneath his black, overhanging eye-brows, and remarked in a dignified way that the contest was not for boys. Owen was a boy; a boy in age, in build, in appearance; if he entered the lists, he would have to enter as a boy.

"If the shooting-match is only for men," said he, "then, sir, I shall have to wait some time, for I am only fifteen."

"Fifteen!" growled the judge, forgetting his dignity, and again turning his dark eyes upon Owen. "Fifteen! why it would disgrace the whole contest, bring discredit upon the State, and, in fact, knock a hole through the entire 'riggar-mar-rang.'"

While the judge paused for breath after this spontaneous outburst of eloquence, Owen continued:

"Nothing was mentioned about the required age on the different notices posted in the neighborhood."

"Understood! understood!" cried the judge, waving his cane over his head, and then bringing it against the platform with such force that his two assistants started from their seats. "Why, at this rate, every impudent brat that owns a rifle would hand in his name, bullets would be flying around here in every direction, and there would be as many sons of America slain, as perished in the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill. No, boy, you are too young; you cannot enter your name!" The judge was evidently pleased with this last attempt. He resumed his seat and gazed out over the crowd with much complacency.

Owen turned away with a heavy heart, and was about to leave the platform, when the jolly, corpulent gentleman cried out:

"Wait a moment, Judge! Give the boy a chance! Hurrah for the boy! hurrah! hurrah!" The crowd was not slow in joining in the chorus. Encouraged by the prolonged yells, Owen paused, although he could not summon strength enough to face the judge again. The yelling ceased; and while the stern judge deliberated whether he should abide by his iron rule or grant the crowd their wish, an old negro mounted a stump and began:

"Skuze me, Massar Judge, for 'sturbin' ob dis heah congregashun. But let dis niggar tol' you somethin'. Dat's de shootinest little feller ebbar you seed, and dis niggar will chaw his head off if he don't be de fust in de--de--de--" here he paused and racked his memory for a large word with which to end his climax. But the word would not come. So he commenced again:

"Ya! dis niggar hab seen him shootin', an' will chaw his head off if he don't be fust in de--de--de--" still the word refused to come, so the sable orator threw both arms above his head and leaped from the stump. His speech, however, gained the day; it was followed by peals of laughter and bursts of applause, and Owen Howard's name was recorded among the contestants.

Here several men galloped pell mell into the grounds. They had certainly traveled at no moderate speed, for their horses were spattered with foam, and, when the reins were drawn, stood panting like engines. The leader of the party dismounted, and shouldering his long deer-rifle, strode through the crowd with giant-like steps. What a picture of manhood! He did not appear to belong to the present generation, but rather to that race of ancient warriors, who wielded battle-axes, which men of our age can scarcely lift.

His disheveled hair reached his shoulders, his fox-skin cap was plumed with an eagle-feather, his deer-skin coat almost reached his knees, and his belt was made of the skin of a rattle-snake; while his dark moccasins completed his wild but attractive costume. He was pre-eminently the king of marksmen. Old and young elbowed their way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of this wondrous being; and from the time that Coon-Hollow Jim,--for it was he--dismounted, until the judge called for the shooting to begin, his admirers yelled with unabated force.

Killing Goliath With His Own Sword

After the few preparations were completed, Squire Grundy again arose, and in a solemn voice announced the second part of the program.

Hurrah followed hurrah when Coon-Hollow Jim's name was the first to be drawn from the box, and the big giant stepped forth to win a second victory. How gracefully he swung his rifle from his shoulder! How true his aim! How telling was every shot! At one time he brought a robin to the ground before it had risen above the heads of the spectators; at another he let it sail so far away that to kill it seemed impossible. It mattered little which way they flew--to the right or left, up into the air, or directly from him--every shot was equally fatal. The marksman wondered at his own skill, for never before had he made such a record--twenty birds in twenty shots. How the crowd yelled! yelled louder and louder at each successive shot, until, at last, when the twentieth bird was killed, Coon-Hollow Jim was lifted from the ground and carried to the judge's platform.

After such an exhibition of rifle-craft, and such an outburst of wild enthusiasm, the shooting that followed was slow and uninteresting. Any one who failed in a single attempt was forced to retire, since by this failure he forfeited all chance of winning a prize. The man with the owl-like eyes missed the first robin at which he fired; the seedy representative from Poplar Flat shared the same fate, while the noted marksman from Green Briar disappointed his numerous friends by letting the fifth bird escape.

Then came Jerry's turn. The reappearance of the jolly old fiddler at the shooting-match was of itself sufficient to revive the waning enthusiasm of the spectators. "Swing corners," shouted a voice from the crowd. "Balance all," yelled another, for the sight of Jolly Jerry awakened many pleasant recollections of summer picnics and winter dances. He killed the first bird, the second, the third; then the crowd became excited again. The hurrahs were almost as deafening as those which Coon-Hollow Jim received. In fact, the giant marksman became restive in his seat as he saw bird after bird fall before the steady aim of the old trapper. Then there came a silence. It seemed as if every spectator there was suddenly stricken dumb. Every eye was riveted upon an object which was slowly becoming but a small speck in the sky. It was the robin which Jerry had missed--not missed altogether, however, for the bullet had cut several feathers from its wings, so that it flew with great difficulty.

A horseman galloped after it in order to bring it back if it should fall. This would count, provided the bird could be placed in the trap before five minutes had passed. The robin sailed toward the ground, then into the air again; here it fluttered, sailed and fluttered again. Would it fall? Yes--no. It reached the woods, and was safe. Jerry gazed at the crowd as if soliciting sympathy, then turned toward Coon-Hollow Jim, brandished his rifle in the air, and said:

"I'm gettin' old now, an' my han's ain't steady, but there was a time when no man in this hare State could out-shoot Jerry, the trapper."

The men who followed met with but little success. Then came Owen's turn, the last of all. By this time the crowd was beginning to break, and many had already departed, so it was not under very favorable circumstances that our young hero came forth to make a name.

The trap flew open, the bird flew out, the rifle cracked, and down came poor robin red-breast.

"That's the last he'll get," said a tall man with a high voice.

But it wasn't the last. The next bird shared the same fate; so did the next, and the next, and the next, until at last eight had fallen.

The crowd cheered--cheered so lustily that many who had started off turned in their saddles and looked around. Owen all the while was scarcely conscious of the surging crowd around him. He loaded his rifle rapidly, fired rapidly, loaded and fired again.

"Great pos-sim-mons!" exclaimed Coon-Hollow Jim.

"Hurrah! hurrah for the boy!"

"Hurrah for the boy! hurrah for the boy!" re-echoed the frantic crowd.

The excitement spread. The horsemen, who had reined up near the grounds, called to those in front of them. These in turn signaled to the moving groups farther on, until the alarm reached the bands that had first departed. What had happened, the different parties knew not. Certainly it was something extraordinary. So without exception each horseman put spurs to his animal and galloped back. When Owen raised his rifle for the last and crowning shot, a deathlike silence fell upon the spectators. But this silence was of short duration. The robin flew straight into the air, then wheeled around with a graceful curve--a sharp report, and down the bird twirled to the ground.

Martin all the while was standing apart from the crowd, watching Owen's every movement, confident of his power, yet dreading some possible accident. As the twentieth bird flew from the trap, he buried his face in his hands, nor did he dare look up until the wild cheers told that his friend had won.

Owen was nearly suffocated by the men who pressed around him. "Great pos-sim-mons! don't be a killin' of the feller!" cried Coon-Hollow Jim, who had left the platform and was standing close to the boy's side. With this expostulation he lifted Owen to his shoulder, worked his way through the crowd like an old crusader on the battle-field, and placed his charge on the judge's bench.

Squire Grundy rose to make a speech, but the crowd yelled him down, and demanded that the two heroes of the day should come forward again to test their skill. Owen's heart beat with honest pride as he stepped down from the platform and walked side by side with his giant opponent,--still his wannest friend. Again David and Goliath came forth to battle.

Goliath was the first to fire; he killed his bird, but so did David; he brought down the second, but David also brought down the second; he killed the third, the fourth, the fifth; but David did the same. At each shot the mobile crowd swayed to and fro and reiterated its deafening cheers. Then there came another silence for, alas! Goliath had failed to hit the fluttering mark. The silence was prolonged, for each one seemed to hold his breath as he watched Owen's last attempt. Martin again closed his eyes and hid his face within his hands. He heard the sharp report of Owen's rifle, and then such shouts as he had never listened to before. The yearly shooting-match was over, and Owen Howard had made a record which was never before or afterward equaled.

Our little hero would certainly have been crushed to death had he not been rescued a second time by his giant friend, who again carried him to the platform, piled together the benches of the stand, and high above the heads of both the judge and people placed the youthful victor.

When Owen had received the glittering, long-coveted prize, Coon-Hollow Jim arose and demanded a hearing. He spoke of the years that he had used the rifle, of his many victories in different parts of the State, and concluded by frankly owning that he had met his superior. With this acknowledgment he removed the pistol-strap from his own waist and handed it to Owen, and upon his refusal to take it, despite all protestations, secured the belt around the boy's waist. Coon-Hollow Jim never again appeared at a shooting match.

Years afterward old men were wont to speak of this eventful day, when a youthful hero took the prize from the best marksman in the State.

Brother And Sister

As Owen was fatigued after so many hours of excitement and exertion, he remained in the house the greater part of the following day. This afforded Bertha an excellent occasion of hearing a full account of the shooting match. Owen had scarcely seated himself before the fire-place in the family-room, when his sister brought in her spinning-wheel, and began alternately to work the spindle and ask questions.

"Now, Brother Owen," said she, "do tell me all about yesterday--what happened, how you won--oh, just everything!"

"Buzz-z-z," went the spinning-wheel as if to say, "hurry on, Owen, hurry on, for your sister has many, many questions to ask."

"Did the people like the new cap and coat I made for you?"

Buzz-z-z.

"Did you hit the center of the target every time?"

Buzz-z-z-z.

"How many robins did you kill out of the twenty?"

Buzzz-z-z-z-z.

Buzz-z-z-z-z-z-z-z.

And Bertha talked so fast, and the wheel buzzed so loud, that Owen did not reply.

"Oh, it's just too mean to keep me waiting so long before telling me all about it!" said Bertha.

"I thought that wheel was answering your questions; you both talk at about the same rate," said Owen, playfully, for he saw that his sister was much excited, and wished to tease her by delaying to answer at once.

"Well, I saddled Log after breakfast, and----"

"I know you did," interrupted his sister; "do tell me something new."

"How can I if you stop me as soon as I begin to speak! Well, I saddled my horse, and took my rifle, and--wait, I forgot something! First, I put my powder-horn over my right shoulder"--a pause--"and then I put my bullet-pouch over my left shoulder"--another pause--"and then I took my rifle, and went down and saddled old Log, and started off, and--Oh, you've killed me! Oh! oh! oh!" For Bertha had taken a ball of yarn from a basket near the spinning-wheel, and playfully struck Owen in the head with the harmless missile. After this bold attack, a treaty of peace was signed, and Owen agreed to answer every question seriously and without delays. He was interrupted in his narrative by some one calling in a loud voice from without:

"Halloo! Halloo!"

It was Louis Bowen. Has he heard of Charlie's going to the shooting-match? was the thought which rushed to Owen's mind as he walked to the yard-gate, where the unexpected visitor was waiting astraddle his horse.

"Good-morning, Mr. Bowen," said he, with all the composure he could summon up.

"I hear you were at Grundy's farm yesterday," said the man gruffly, without seeming to notice Owen's morning greetings, "and I would like to know if you saw my son Charlie there. He hasn't returned yet."

"Yes, sir, he was there."

"The scoundrel!" muttered Bowen. "I'll flay him alive! He is getting worse every day. Spends money as fast as I can make it. I'll--I'll kill the wretch!"

"Many men camped on the grounds all night. He may have stayed with them," said Owen.

"I'll drive him from the house when he comes back! If he won't work, let him starve!" continued the father. "My corn-crib burned, my money stolen and squandered! Misfortune and losses on every side! I'll--I'll--but say, boy, you were along the river the night my crib was burned. Did you meet no one?"

"We met Jerry and Stayford the next morning, sir."

"Did you meet no one that night? Where did you stay that night?"

"We slept under the trees until it began to rain, and then--we went up the hill under the bluffs."

The conversation was here interrupted in a most singular manner. Charlie Bowen passed along the road, close to the two speakers. The father and son recognized each other at almost the same instant. Charlie spurred his horse and dashed down the road, while Mr. Bowen uttered a curse and started in pursuit. The scene was ludicrous in the extreme. Owen felt very serious and nervous while listening to the old farmer's threats, but now he forgot his troubles, and, mounting the gate-post to get a better view, watched father and son as they galloped along the dusty road. Still, when he reflected seriously, he could not but commiserate them both.

Returning to the house, Owen continued his lengthy description of the shooting-match, until Bertha's curiosity was entirely satisfied. During the following week, Bertha visited many of the neighbors, and repeated for them the history of her brother's victory. She also wrote an account of the contest for the Lexington paper and sent it by the stage which passed the house every second week.

Mr. Howard was not so enthusiastic over Owen's success. He was not a rigorist; he could not be called a severe man; still, he did not believe in spoiling children by humoring and flattering them. He feared lest the honors which Owen had received would exercise an evil influence upon him for the future, and felt it his duty to check any such influence at the start by keeping him at steady work.

"Owen," said he on the following morning, "you've had a whole day to rest, so get your axe and come with us to the woods. We must get that strip of land along the river cleared before winter."

After breakfast Owen shouldered his axe, whistled for Bounce and Frisk, and followed the workmen to the woods. The smaller trees were left for him to cut, while the men felled the large oaks, hickories and poplars. Day after day the work progressed. The steady stroke of the axe rang out clearly in the crisp, morning air, and the burning brush-piles dispelled the gloom of the autumn evenings. Occasionally some massive poplar of more than a century's growth would crash to the ground with a force that shook the earth for many yards around, tearing huge branches from the surrounding trees, crushing the smaller ones beneath its ponderous weight, and causing the hills on the other side of the river to ring with prolonged reverberations.

Owen enjoyed the work. He wielded his axe with a true and telling stroke. His hands and muscles were gradually hardened, until he could labor the entire day without the least fatigue.

At night when he returned from the woods he improved his mind by constant study and reading. Learning one day that a certain Mr. Rolling, who had come to the Howard's to buy some stock, was the happy owner of a wonderful book called "Robinson Crusoe," Owen was very anxious to make the acquaintance of Robinson, as he had often heard of his adventures on that far-off island. Mr. Rolling readily consented to lend him the book, promising to bring it to him at the first opportunity. The delay, however, was too long for the boy's impetuous nature; after waiting a few days, Owen decided to ride over to the farmer's house to secure the much-coveted volume.

"You have come after poor old 'Robinson Crusoe,' have you?" said Mr. Rolling, when he met the boy at the door.

"Yes, sir. It's a long ride, but I wanted to read that book, and determined to come after it at once."

"You are a funny, funny boy," replied Mr. Rolling. "And now I am sorry to tell you that you will have to ride five miles farther, for friend Foxway hasn't returned it. You see, old 'Robinson Crusoe' is quite a favorite in the neighborhood, and is continually traveling from one place to another."

"The ride isn't long," said Owen; "but perhaps Mr. Foxway has not read the book."

"Only him and his wife there. I reckon they know the whole story by heart. Tell Mr. Foxway that I sent you for the book. Why, it is worth a five-mile ride to get a look at the farmer and his wife."

Mrs. Foxway was certainly a curious little creature, with a withered face and weasel eyes. She received Owen very kindly, invited him into the house, and, when informed of the object of his visit, went at once to get the book. "Robinson Crusoe," however, seemed by no means desirous of making Owen's acquaintance, for Mrs. Foxway, after searching every room in the house, upsetting a table and breaking several pieces of china-ware, finally concluded that old Robinson had run away. She insisted, however, that he could not have gone a great distance, for her husband had him in his hands that very morning, while she was preparing breakfast. She informed Owen that Mr. Foxway would soon be home for dinner, and assured him that her husband was never known to misplace anything, and that if the book had not left the house of its own accord, he would find it the moment he came. She then returned to the kitchen to continue her work, and Owen was left alone.

"Here he is! Here he is!" screeched little weasel-eyes, soon after she had gone into the kitchen.

"Mr. Foxway has returned rather early," mused Owen. "But why should his coming create such excitement?"

"Hiding in the flour barrel! Hiding in the flour barrel!" called out weasel-eyes in the most alarming way.

"Hiding in the flour barrel!" repeated Owen to himself. "Perhaps he did not want to give me that book."

"Ha! ha! All covered with flour!" came the screechy voice from the kitchen.

"If he didn't want to give me the book, why didn't he say so," thought Owen.

"O mister! mister! Come and look at him before I dust him off with the turkey-wing," cried the little woman.

Owen started toward the kitchen expecting to find a wee little man sprinkled with flour, but Mrs. Foxway was the only one there, standing near a barrel, with the turkey-wing duster in her right hand.

"Trying to hide! Nearly covered with flour!" she said, pointing down into the barrel.

Owen looked in the direction indicated and was surprised to find, not the dwarfish farmer, but the book which he had come to get. It had fallen from the kitchen table into the flour barrel, and presented quite a snowy appearance. In one of the pictures where Robinson was sitting in his rude house, with his parrot on his knee, both were entirely embedded in the late mimic snowfall. Friday seemed to have forsaken his tribe, and become a Caucasian, for he was as white as his master. A few strokes of the dusting brush, and everything was restored to its original color and true form--the parrot became a bright green, while Friday, like the jack-daw, shorn of its stolen feathers, resumed his sable hue.

At last Owen had obtained the long-desired book. In its dilapidated condition, it appeared to have passed through as many catastrophies as old Robinson himself, not excepting the shipwreck, for some careless reader had let it fall into a bucket of water, on which account it had lost one of its covers and expanded to wonderful proportions. A whole category of Robinson's admirers had made use of that old-time way of marking the place, (often condemned, but more often practiced,) until almost every page was dog's-eared. Although these marks detracted from the appearance of the book, they by no means lowered it in Owen's estimation. On the contrary, he regarded it in the same light that he would a veteran soldier who had served in many campaigns, and whose reputation was enhanced by the number of wounds he had received.

Mr. Foxway now appeared upon the scene. He was even smaller than his wife--a big, round head, large, oval eyes, and thick duck-legs. He reminded Owen of the little screech-owls which often peered out at him from the dark eaves of the barn. The farmer was more than willing to part with the book, as he intended to return it to Mr. Rolling that afternoon.

Many a pleasant evening did Owen and Bertha spend in "Robinson Crusoe's" company. Moreover, the little screech-owls in the barn were ever afterwards called Mr. and Mrs. Foxway.

One night while Owen sat before the bright fire-place with the interesting volume in his hand he chanced to turn the pages, and there upon a fly-leaf saw some writing and a rough drawing which excited his curiosity. The writing was crude and scarcely legible; the drawing evidently represented a place or scene along the Beech Fork.

"What have you found?" asked Bertha, who noticed Owen's intense interest as he leaned closer to the fire to get a better light.

"Oh, nothing!" he replied with forced indifference.

"Let me see."

"You would not understand it."

"So there is something on that page?"

"Yes, but you could not make it out, for you never saw the----." Here Owen paused.

"The what?" asked Bertha.

Just then the book dropped from Owen's hands. The fly-leaf, which was loose, fell out, was caught by the strong draft of the fire-place, and was carried up the chimney.

"Oh, Bertha!" cried Owen. "There it goes, and it's on fire. It was all about a great secret, a----oh, if I could only tell you! But some day you shall know all about it."

On The Trail Of The Runaway Slave

Early the next morning, when old Bowen discovered that the slave had fled, he called his dogs and started in pursuit. It was easy to follow the trail, as it was still fresh. He urged his horse on as fast as it could go, shouted to the dogs, and cursed the fugitive slave. In his hand he held a long, blacksnake whip to administer punishment. His eyes sparkled with cruel expectation. His hand grasped the whip firmly, while on, on he rode. The hounds increased their speed. The trail was growing fresher. They would overtake the wretch soon. The heartless master plunged the spurs into his horse's sides, for the dogs were out-distancing him. They passed the Howard house. No! They suddenly stopped in front of the yard-gate. They dashed on, ran wildly in several directions, and returned to the gate. Here they barked, jumped into the air, and scratched around a small tree. The trail ended here. Old Bowen rode up to the spot almost maddened with fury, for Zachary Howard, he thought, had given shelter and protection to his fugitive slave. What revenge! What revenge would be his! Now had his day of retaliation come! He would drag the slave out from his place of concealment, would scourge him in Howard's presence--scourge him until the ground was covered with blood, and the more he writhed and cried for mercy, the harder the lash would fall. If Howard pleaded for him, his punishment would be prolonged. Oh! revenge, cruel, terrible revenge! He leaped from his horse, and, grasping his whip firmly, started toward the house. Mr. Howard, who had been disturbed by the noise, came out to meet him.

"Zach Howard!" cried the raging master, "show me where my slave is concealed. You can't deny it, you have hid him. But I'll find him, and whip him here while you look on--whip him until there is not a drop of blood left in his body. I'll whip him and show you that he is my slave, not yours! Where is he? Bring him out. Zach! Bring him out!"

"There is no slave of yours around these premises," replied the astonished farmer.

"A lie! My dogs tracked him to that tree in front of your gate! Those dogs never fail, Zach, never fail!"

"If the slave was tracked to that tree, Mr. Bowen, he can certainly be tracked farther."

"No sir!" growled old Bowen. "He stopped right there, was helped down by some one, carried away and hid. I have been in this business too long to be deceived by a little scheme like that."

"Strange that this could have happened without my knowing anything about it," said Mr. Howard.

"Well, it did happen, Howard. It happened last night, the trail shows it plainly--shows that he came to the tree and climbed it. The trail doesn't start any place near the tree, and this shows that the cussed negro was helped by some one."

"And why do you think he climbed the tree?" asked Mr. Howard.

"To throw me off the track. The stupid fool! I saw through the trick at the first glance."

"I think I can explain the whole affair."

"How?"

"Do you see that poplar?"

"Yes."

"Do you notice that large limb reaching out toward the tree which you say the negro climbed?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"Don't you think that the negro could have climbed from the small tree into the large one?"

"Possibly. But what did he do when he got in the large tree?"

"Don't you notice that from the other side of the poplar there is another long branch extending over my carriage-house?"

"Yes! yes!"

"Don't you see plainly that he could have climbed on the roof?"

"Yes! What then?"

"The rest of the work was easy."

"How? how?"

"He let himself down from the caves to the rail-fence, and then crawled along."

"You've got the whole trail knit together nicely," said old Bowen, deeply wounded and humiliated because he had failed to connect the facts.

"Ha! ha! I'll get him now! And how I'll lash him!" he continued, with satanic glee, at the same time calling his dogs and starting for the fence, where he hoped to find the lost trail.

"But hold! Mr. Bowen, why are you so cruel with your slaves? If you treated them kindly, they would not run away."

"Zach Howard!" cried old Bowen, "those slaves are mine! They are mine, and I'll whip them as often as I wish--whip them just to hear them yell, if I choose to do so. That's my answer to your question."

"And my answer to you is this," retorted Mr. Howard, in a tone of voice that made Louis Bowen quail before him, "you are a heartless wretch, with whom I'll have nothing in common. Never again cross the threshold of my door, or enter this yard. If you do----"

"No threats are necessary," interrupted Bowen. "I hate and despise you too much for that. Now that you have shown me how and where to find my slave, I have no further use for your company." He wheeled around and started off to find the trail.

Mr. Howard regretted that he had given the information. It was too late, however, to amend matters, so he went into the house, and from one of the upper windows, where he could get a full view of the scene, eagerly watched old Bowen in his vain attempts to follow up the trail. After riding up and down either side of the fence for about an hour, the master grew tired of the fruitless labor, and regretted that he had disposed of Mr. Howard's services so quickly. Still, not having the courage to return and ask for help, he spurred his horse on toward the river, where he hoped to find a new clue to the direction taken by the runaway.

The escaped slave, trembling with fright, watched the whole proceedings from a crevice in the hayloft, and when his master had disappeared he sank back upon the hay exhausted. For days and weeks he suffered from his sore and emaciated back. The negro, Mose, came to him regularly three times a day, bringing him food and applying salve to his wounds.

When asked why he had been whipped, the poor slave would only answer: "He'll kill me if I tell; he'll kill me if I tell." After a month had passed, the wounds were entirely healed, and Mose suggested to his friend that he should start out again and try to make his escape to some more northern State. But the poor wretch was afraid to leave his place of concealment, knowing that if he were caught a worse punishment, even death, would be his fate.

Saving The Message

When Owen had gone some distance from the town, and realized that he was not pursued, he stopped for a few minutes, hoping that Martin would extricate himself from the crowd and overtake him. As he glanced down the road over which he had passed, he descried two horsemen galloping toward him; suspecting the object of their mission, he prepared for a second flight at the least sign of danger. When the two men were within a hundred yards of him, one checked his horse, while the other continued to gallop straight ahead. Not wishing to be surprised, Owen started out at a brisk gait. "Stop there, young fellow! they want to see that message at the court-house!" cried out the man who was nearest to him.

"Go it, Hickory! go it, old fellow!" was Owen's only reply; at the same time he plied the spurs vigorously.

"Stop there! I tell you, stop there!" again cried the man, laying the whip to his horse's side and following in hot pursuit.

Owen glanced behind--the man was gaining on him.

The boy leaned far over on the horse's neck, stroked his mane and said: "Go on, Hickory! don't let him catch us, go on! go on!"

"Say! youngster! If you don't stop there, I'll thrash you when I catch you!" cried the angered pursuer.

"But you won't catch me," thought Owen, for Hickory was now gaining a little, and his young rider knew that he was no mean runner.

The man was evidently not prepared for a long race; he beat his horse cruelly, urging the poor animal on at its utmost speed. Again Owen looked behind--again the man was gaining on him.

He saw that his pursuer was making one mighty effort to overtake him; he plunged his spur deep into the side of his faithful beast. The enraged animal sprang forward: The race was nearly even for a full quarter of a mile. Now Owen gained, and now the angry man behind. Hickory slipped and nearly fell in the soft, muddy road. The man yelled in triumph, gaining twenty yards in a few minutes. Then Hickory was on again--Owen slowly recovered lost ground. The man shouted to frighten him--this, however, had the effect of making him goad his horse the more. He saw the man gradually drop behind, and then abandon the unequal race. Owen pushed on briskly for about a mile, when he too paused to give the horse a much needed rest.

Eight miles of the road still remained to be traveled, and as Owen now felt secure he proceeded slowly, occasionally looking behind to see whether or not the man would continue the pursuit. He had gone about another mile, when to his astonishment the man reappeared riding another horse. Could Hickory stand the race for seven miles? Owen doubted, yet he resolved to save the message or kill the horse. The man on his part regarded the result as only a matter of time, for his horse was fresh, and would sooner or later overtake the wearied animal which he followed.

On went the boy, on came the man. On, on they rode, past the farm houses by the wayside, past the fallow fields and leafless woods which seemed to take wings and fly behind. On, on they sped, now darting down some rough, steep hill, now clambering up the rocky ascent on the opposite side. A settler, cutting wood close to the road, heard the clatter of hoofs, and, dropping his axe, watched with bated breath the onward rush of the boy and man. Little did he dream that the boy was carrying a message of victory and peace; that the man was a veritable Arnold in the hatred of his country. Yet the settler's sympathies were with the boy. He admired, too, the youth's superior horsemanship. How gallantly he bestrode his horse. "Go it, my lad, go it!" he shouted. "You're a fine rider, and I reckon you'll win." On, on they plunged, the boy and man, and the settler was far behind. Another farm house was reached. In front of it a country urchin was swinging on a gate. He climbed to the top of the gate-post to view the race, laughed with delight as he saw the sparks struck from the stony road, and waved his ragged hat in boisterous glee. Past him they fled. A few minutes later, and the urchin was far behind.

But soon old Hickory began to lag. Yard by yard the man drew closer to the boy. Owen saw plainly that the race was over.

"Back! stop there!" cried he, at the same time drawing his pistol. But the man came on.

"Stop! stop there! or I'll wound your horse," said the boy, pointing the pistol toward the advancing enemy.

The man, however, seemed to realize the difficulty of firing with any accuracy under such conditions; he, therefore, lowered his head behind the horse's neck to escape any stray ball, and continued to ride on. Owen was true to his threat, taking deliberate aim he sent a ball through one of the animal's front legs; the horse fell to the ground unable to arise.

Still the pursuit did not end here, for old Hickory began to stagger and reel from one side of the road to the other.

"Poor old Hickory! poor old fellow!" said Owen, stroking the animal's neck and mane.

Hickory turned his head as if to beseech his young master not to urge him farther.

"Poor old fellow!" continued Owen, trying in vain to keep back the tears that gathered in his eyes; for Hickory was a true friend of his, and it pained the boy to make him suffer so.

Hickory stopped--he could go no farther!

Owen dug the spurs deep into his side, crying at the same time: "Poor! poor old Hickory! I have to do it; can't you go? Can't you go, old Hickory?"

The jaded beast made another effort, trembled in every limb, and fell heavily to the ground. The man whose horse had been shot gave a yell and started on a run toward Owen, who quickly extricated himself from the stirrups and ran down the road.

"I'll give you a sound thrashing when I catch you!" cried the man, as both pursuer and pursued rushed along over the rough road. "You see I am gaining on you!" he continued, after a few minutes, "you may as well give up."

Owen didn't think so; at least it was evident from the way he ran that he intended to continue the race as long as he was able to move.

"Say, youngster," resumed the man, "the Salt river is about a quarter of a mile ahead; I'll get you when we come to it."

Owen did not answer, but continued straight on.

"If you stop now I won't whip you," shouted the man.

But his threats and promises were equally fruitless.

"And if you don't stop I'll go back and kill your horse after I have taken your letter from you!"

Owen felt this keenly, yet he remembered the promise he had made before he left his father's house, and for no consideration would he be unfaithful to it. The man continued to yell, to promise, to threaten, while both continued to run; not very fast, it is true, for the man had decided for himself that Owen would be forced to surrender on the bank of the Salt river, which was at no great distance away.

Soon the dreaded river appeared, covered with floating ice. All hope seemed to be lost! The very thought of jumping into the icy stream sent a shudder through the frame of the exhausted boy! The man now began to run at full speed, for he feared that Owen would dart off into the woods. The bank was reached! No time was left for deliberation! The man was only twenty yards away!

"You shall not have it!" cried Owen, facing his pursuer and shaking the letter above his head. With these words he rushed into the water among the cakes of floating ice. As this was a ford and the usual place for crossing, the river was not deep. But the current was swift, and it seemed at any moment that it would sweep him away.

Bravely our little hero pushed his way through the battering ice, while the angry man on the shore cursed him, called him a fool, and swore that he would drown if he did not turn back. If ever Owen prayed fervently it was while he battled with that current and ice; he felt that he should be unable to hold his footing if the current became stronger or deeper. He realized, too, that he was weakening fast--the river seemed an angry whirlpool, rushing round and round and carrying him in its cold and frothy eddy. How chilled he was! His teeth chattered and his whole body trembled! Could he reach the opposite shore; it was not ten feet away? Slowly! slowly! still he reached it--thank God, he was safe!

Yet not safe! for unless he find shelter soon he must surely die of cold. On the top of the hill in front of him stood a large frame house. After ten minutes of intense suffering Owen knocked at the door, and, without waiting for an answer, rushed in. Before him sat an elderly man enjoying his after-dinner smoke, in a bright, warm room. It was Mr. Sims. Owen had accomplished his mission--the letter was safe.

Mr. Sims naturally supposed that Owen had fallen from his horse while attempting to ford the river. He saw that the boy was extremely weak, and ordered him to bed at once. Owen told his story briefly, and handed the official document to the farmer. Before the sun had set, it was placed in the hands of the commanding officer at the little fort near the falls of the Ohio. From Louisville to Pittsburg, from Pittsburg to Washington--at last the message of General Jackson was delivered to the President.

When the man who had followed Owen for nearly eight miles saw that he was foiled in his attempt he hastily retraced his steps to the place where he had abandoned his wounded horse. Here he was joined by Tom the Tinker, who had set out with him from Bardstown, but lagged behind, since he did not wish to be recognized by Owen.

"The rascal of a boy shot this horse just as I was about to overtake him," said the man, as the Tinker came up to him.

"The message--did you get the message?"

"How could I when he shot the horse?"

"My! my!" continued Tom, in tones of despair, "a hundred dollars for the horse! did not get the message! My! my! And all my work for nothing!"

"And I want the fifty dollars you promised me," interrupted the man.

"You do?"

"Yes, I do! Did I not ride my horse half to death before you borrowed that second one from the farmer?"

"But you did not get the message."

"I am going to have that money. I worked hard enough for it. I followed the little devil until--until he jumped into the river."

"And where was his horse?" asked Tom.

"It gave out, too. There it is up there," answered the man, pointing to the place where old Hickory was lying, apparently dead.

"Perhaps the boy was drowned while trying to cross the river," said the Tinker.

"I watched him until he came to Sims'."

"Then he's safe."

"Of course he is. At least, you'll never see that message. I won't be surprised, however, if the boy dies."

"I hope he does," said Tom. "Those Howards have been in my way for fifteen years. You see, they live near me. I hate every one of them!"

"See here! I want my fifty dollars," interrupted the man. "I don't care about your Howards and your neighbors. I want my money."

"I promised you fifty dollars if you caught the boy. I'll give you ten for your work."

"Not a cent less than fifty," demanded the man.

"Say twenty-five and you shall have it," replied Tom.

"If you don't give me fifty dollars we are going to fight here!" growled the angry man, at the same time grasping the reins of the Tinker's horse.

As much as Tom the Tinker loved his money, he was not willing to fight for it; he therefore gave the man the full amount. Then he paid a hundred dollars more for the horse which he had borrowed from his accomplice, and which Owen had shot. He then rode off toward Bardstown, uttering imprecations against the boy who had thwarted him, against the man who had robbed him, against everybody and everything. How was he to regain the money which he had lost? For a long time he sought an answer to this question. He seemed to have solved the difficulty before he reached the town, for he was in the best of spirits. Here he consulted several men on some secret business, and then proceeded at once to the cave on the banks of the Beech Fork.

Late that same evening Martin joined Owen at Mr. Sims'.

"Did you see old Hickory?" inquired Owen, sitting up in the bed where he had been sleeping.

"Yes!"

"How is he? Tell me quick! How is the poor old fellow?"

"First tell me about yourself, and then we'll see about the horse!"

"Nothing the matter with me. I never felt better, although that was a pretty cold bath I took--and now about Hickory."

"Well, Owen, if you must know it," said Martin, in a broken voice, "the old fellow is dead--stiff--shot through the head."

Owen did not answer, but fell back in the bed and wept bitterly.

When he returned home two days later, what was his surprise to find old Hickory eating away contentedly in his stall. It was the horse wounded by Owen that Martin had seen lying in the road, and in the dark had mistaken for Hickory. As it was impossible for the animal to recover, the owner had shot it through the head.

A Day's Sport Along The Beech Fork

Patter, patter, let it pour,
Patter, patter, let it roar;
O'er the housetop let it gush,
Down the hillside let it rush.
'Tis a welcome April shower,
And 'twill wake the sweet May flower.

Thus mused Owen as he sat late one afternoon husking corn, while the pelting rain overhead recalled some old nursery rhymes which he had learned by heart when a mere child. "No, it isn't April yet, and it will be a long time before we have May flowers. It's about the middle of March; I reckon the black-perch ought to bite now. It will be too wet to plow this week; so I'll ask father to let Martin and me go a-fishing." And he worked hard at his task to have the corn shelled before dark.

"Why, father, it's time to fish for black-perch," said he to Mr. Howard, who appeared at the door of the corn crib.

"I reckon it's time for you to have that corn ready for the mill," replied the farmer.

"I'll finish it to-day, take it to the mill to-morrow--and then may Martin and I go fishing on Thursday?" asked Owen.

"What about that field along the river to be plowed?" inquired the farmer. "You are getting to be a big boy now, and must be prepared to do your share of the work on the farm."

"Plow after this heavy rain?"

"Yes, when it is dry enough."

"But it won't be dry this week," argued Owen.

"Well, you may go fishing this week; that is, one day of this week. Then be ready for hard work--no fishing, no hunting for some time."

Mr. Howard was more than willing to let his son enjoy a day along the Beech Fork; still, it was evident from his way of speaking that he intended to keep him busily engaged during the coming month while getting the ground ready for the spring corn.

"Think you can go fishing to-morrow?" asked Owen of Martin on the following day while on his way from the mill.

"I reckon I can. It's too wet to plow, and there's nothing else to be done this time of the year."

"Better find out now."

"Father isn't here. It'll be all right; you can depend on me, and if anything happens to keep me from going I'll ride over and let you know to-night."

"Did you examine those reeds that we cut last fall?" asked Owen.

"No! haven't thought of them since."

"Well, I broke mine, and I'll have to depend on you for one."

"I can easily give you a dozen. We cut at least twenty-four, and half of them belong to you. They are well seasoned, too--been hanging in the barn for six months. I'll bring two along to-morrow, and you can get the others the next time our wagon passes by your house."

The reeds referred to grew in patches along the Beech Fork. The boys generally cut them in the fall to have them dry and seasoned for the spring fishing.

"I must hurry on home and fix the minnow net," said Owen, starting off.

"Good-bye."

"I'll meet you at the creek."

Old Hickory trotted off with Owen and the sack of meal.

Uncle Pius had taught Owen and Martin how to fish for the black-bass (or black-perch, as they are called in that section of the country) when the boys were quite small. Under his direction they had become expert fishermen. They knew nothing of the various contrivances described by Irving in "The Angler," nor were they equipped like our modern fisherman during his summer vacation--rods of split bamboo, patent reels and landing nets would have appeared useless to them.

When first accompanying Uncle Pius on his fishing expeditions they were surprised to find that he caught a perch every time he had a bite, while they lost minnow after minnow.

"Uncle Pius, you've got a bite, you've got a bite!" they would often exclaim, as his red-cedar float disappeared below the water. The old negro, however, seemed to take no notice of their warning. He remained motionless for a few seconds as if lost in deep thought, then gave a quick jerk to fasten the hook, and landed his prize, much to the admiration and astonishment of his young companions. One day the fish were biting rapidly. Uncle Pius had secured a nice string, while Owen and Martin had made their usual record--bite, bite, bite, but not a fish.

"Uncle Pius," said Owen, "I am getting tired of this. I wish you'd show us how to fish."

"Yes," chimed in Martin, "we've lost a bucketful of minnows and haven't caught one perch."

"Well, Massar Ow'n and Massar Martin," said the grave old negro, laying aside his reed and assuming an air of professional dignity, "dis am an awful good proposishion (he meant occasion) for to larn how to ketch perks, for dey's awful hungry to-day and is bitin' right smart--some days dey bite right scattarin'. I would hab tole you long 'fore dis how to fish, but I know'd you'd say dat you know'd all about fishin' before this old niggar told you. Fust, you must know how to put the minnar on de hook," he continued, taking a large shiner from the bucket and baiting the hook with great care. "Run de hook right fru de lower lip--see dar; den right fru the upper lip--see dar, just a little 'low de eye--see dar; not too deep, or you'll kill the critter--see dar."

Uncle Pius handed the pole to Owen, told him to cast out near a fallen tree, and not to pull until the perch started off with the line. Owen had not to wait long for a bite. His float soon disappeared, and although Uncle Pius yelled "let 'im go, chile," the young fisherman in his excitement jerked with all his force, missed the fish, and entangled his line among the branches overhead.

"You's always a-rushin'," expostulated the old negro.

While Owen climbed the tree to get the line, Martin took his lesson in fishing, and was determined not to pull until Uncle Pius gave the signal.

"How do you know when to pull?" he asked.

"Dar ain't no rule, Massar Martin; it kindar comes natu'al when one knows how."

Soon the cedar float went under. It was evident from the rapidity with which it disappeared that no small perch had bitten. The few brief seconds that followed seemed an hour. Martin trembled with excitement; still he waited for the word to pull.

"Dar's de time!" cried out Uncle Pius, as he saw the line stretch.

"I've got it, and a big one!" yelled Martin in triumph.

"Up here with it," shouted Owen from among the branches overhead.

"Keep the line a-stretchin'!" exclaimed Uncle Pius, "or he's a gonnar."

He had scarcely uttered these words when the fish leaped into the air, shook the hook from its mouth, and disappeared into the water.

"Jes' as I'se sayin'," remarked the old negro. "Now, Massar Martin, you've larned how to ketch perks, and you must larn how to lan' 'em."

"Is there anything to be learned about landing a perch?" inquired Martin, with surprise. "When you catch a catfish there is no danger of its getting off; in fact, you remember that we cut the heads off of several to get out the hooks."

"Dar's an awful 'stonishin' dif'erens 'tween a catfish and a perk," interposed Uncle Pius. "It's hard to keep a perk on, an' it's hard to get a catfish off. If ebbar you let de line slack de perk'll shake de hook from his mouth in free shakes of a sheep's tail."

"Here it goes again," said Martin. "I'll not only catch the first perch that bites, but will land it in a tip-top way."

From his position among the overhanging branches Owen watched Martin's next attempt with interest, while Uncle Pius, conscious of the dignity of his position, gravely directed the movements of his young disciple.

"Nebbar stop," said he. "Jest keep a-pullin' when you got him. Keep a-pullin' slow, an' you'll fetch him, sure's de rain helps young corn."

Martin followed directions carefully, and succeeded in landing the next perch.

"Hurrah!" he yelled in triumph, "that's a fine one, and here goes for another."

Before Owen had time to climb down the tree and bait his hook Martin had secured perch number two.

The two boys went to work in earnest, and, although many a perch escaped from them, in less than an hour they had fully a dozen fish on their string. Uncle Pius watched their progress with evident satisfaction, now yelling to Martin "to keep de line a-pullin'," and to Owen "not to be a-rushin'."

"Massar Martin and Massar Owen," he said to the boys when it was time to go, "you know how to fish for perks, but don't forget dat dis ole niggar larned you."

The first lesson of Uncle Pius was given some two years before our story commenced. On the morning to which we referred in this chapter our two young friends started out, not as tyros, but as experienced fishers.

On reaching the river the boys selected a spot near a fallen sycamore, where the water was about four feet deep, and the bank around was rocky and clear from all underbrush. This would enable them to land the perch without fear of tangling their lines.

On the way to the river, however, they did not notice that a man was following them for more than a mile through the forest, at times close enough to overhear their conversation without any risk of being discovered by them. It was Walter Stayford. He was evidently dogging their footsteps with a purpose. The ground over which he passed was certainly known to him, for even when he lost sight of the boys he followed them as a hound follows a fresh trail.

When the boys came to the river he ensconced himself behind a fallen log, where he could hear every word they uttered. What could be his object in watching them so closely? He certainly did not seek their lives, for he had many a chance to kill them in the depth of the forest. Besides, was not he the man who befriended them during that eventful night in the cave? Had they not shown their gratitude by keeping the secret which they had promised so faithfully to keep? That the cave had been discovered was not their fault. Tom the Tinker and he alone was answerable for this! And at the very thought of the old miser Stayford's face flushed with anger. With difficulty he stifled the curse he was about to utter, as he lay there listening to the boys.

"Now for good luck," said Martin, as he threw his minnow near the branches of the fallen tree.

"And here goes for a three-pounder," chimed in Owen, dropping his minnow on the opposite side of the sycamore.

Five minutes passed. The boys played their minnows up and down the stream, threw them out and pulled them in, vainly hoping to attract a fish.

"No three-pounder yet," said Owen, who, as the reader has seen, had not the patience of his companion.

"No, not yet," replied Martin, still manoeuvering with his line. "Not yet, but they'll come soon. We can't expect the perch to be waiting at the exact spot where we chance to stop."

"And they can't expect us to wait all day for them," rejoined Owen, with a laugh.

"Give them a fair trial--say fifteen minutes more."

"All right," and Owen took out his father's watch, which he had borrowed for the day.

"Look at your bobber!" cried Martin before two minutes had passed.

"Where?"

"It's gone! Pull!"

Owen did pull, but it was too late, for he had lost his minnow.

"That wasn't a perch," said he. "Surely it wasn't a turtle, for they don't bite until warm weather."

"Surely it was a turtle," said Martin. "There it is."

As he spoke a large mossback came to the surface, and calmly surveyed the surroundings, as if to say: "Well, my little boy, that's all you know about turtles biting before warm weather."

"There's a target for us," said Martin. "Let him have a bullet."

As quick as a flash both boys grasped their pistols, which they took pride in wearing whenever they went into the woods or along the river, and fired at the same instant. One ball pierced the turtle's head. It gave several clumsy strokes, then gradually sunk, leaving a bloody streak behind.

From his place of concealment Stayford watched this exhibition of skill. "It is well for me that I am not here to meet those boys in a fair fight with pistols," he thought to himself. "How quick it was done, too. Of course it was that young Owen. He seems to handle a pistol as well as he does a rifle, and the very pistol he won at the shooting-match. How I would like to have one of that make," and Walter Stayford examined the rusty cap and ball revolver which hung at his side.

"Your bullet hit him," said Owen, who thought that in his eagerness to fire rapidly he had shot above the turtle.

"I reckon it's hard to judge," replied Martin.

"I reckon not!" muttered Stayford to himself, for in his opinion only the youthful victor of the shooting-match could have performed such a feat.

"No; I aimed too high," said Owen in response to Martin's doubt.

"That's bad luck, at any rate," Martin grumbled, "we've lost the turtle and frightened away the perch."

"I am willing to give them the full fifteen minutes; they have--have eight minutes left," replied Owen.

"In goes the minnow--and under goes the bobber--and out comes the first--first--first perch!" cried Martin, with excitement, at the same time landing a perch weighing about a pound.

"That must be a straggler," said Owen, "let us see whether he brought a companion along."

He threw in his line at the same place, and almost the same moment, as his float moved slowly off, began to repeat, "I--I--I--have--have--have--ve--a fine one," and when he finished the last word he pulled in a perch twice the size of Martin's.

"Good!" shouted Martin; "I wonder what brought him around."

"Don't know; but now for the fun if we have struck a school of them."

For four hours the boys did not move from the spot. Fish after fish was landed, until a string of forty perch was the reward of their day's effort.

"Only six minnows left," at last said Owen, feeling in the bucket for another bait.

"Wait a moment," interposed Martin, "let us try the new way. An old fisherman told me the other day that he always baited the shiners through the back, because in this position they appeared more natural."

"Now's a good time to try," said Owen, "for we can afford to lose a few minnows. How did he say to fix them?"

"Run the hook under the big fin on the back."

"How's that?" queried Owen, holding up the baited hook.

"It looks all right, but I don't know how it will work," said Martin.

"We'll soon find that out," replied Owen, casting his line into the stream. "At least, it hasn't frightened them away," he continued, after a short pause, "for one is biting now, and--and--and here it is."

"Yes, here the line is," said Martin, "but both perch and minnow are gone. I see that you don't understand the new way of fishing."

"It is much better to bait them through the mouth."

"That's to be proved," argued Martin, "look at this."

Both hooks were then baited in the new way. Bite--jerk--minnow lost--perch gone; it was all over in less than a minute.

"What'd I tell you?" cried Owen.

"Give them more than one chance! Remember how you wished to leave this place in the morning because the fish did not run up and bite immediately."

"There are three minnows left; if you wish to feed the perch with them, do so. I've had enough fishing for one day."

Martin selected the largest of the three minnows in the bucket. It proved to be a chub, fat and slimy; one that would disappear, oyster like, down the throat of a perch. An unfortunate gormand seized it, and was soon placed with the other finny captives.

"That was an accident! You'll not catch another perch!" exclaimed Owen.

"Fine luck you are having, boys," said a voice from behind, while at the same time a hand was laid upon Owen's shoulder. It was Walter Stayford who thus disturbed the boys in their sport. For hours he listened to their conversation, but so engrossed were they with the perch that not one word was uttered which gave Stayford the least satisfaction. Seeing that they would soon leave the place, he emerged from behind the bushes with the intention of questioning them and discovering whether or not any one in the neighborhood was suspected of illicit distilling. He congratulated Owen on the manly fight which he had made to save the war message, and then, from flattery, went on to ask if anything of importance had happened since the news from the battle. With all his prying and talking, however, he learned nothing. Certainly the boys had not heard of Simpson's adventure, nor was Owen aware that Tom the Tinker was the man who had sought to gain possession of the message.

While not altogether satisfactory, and of a negative character, the results of the meagre knowledge which Stayford thus obtained, were not without their importance. The fact that Simpson had been detected in delivering the whisky and had been pursued was not generally known, for, if so, the boys would certainly have heard some of the neighbors speak of it. This was good news. Yet it was just possible that those who were in possession of the secret pretended to know nothing of the matter, so as to facilitate the capture of the men who had sold the whisky. Such were the thoughts which Stayford revolved in his mind as he stood talking to the boys on the river bank. Nothing could now be done but return to the cave and wait for the stage. Jerry was right; no doubt, if any effort was being made to capture the illicit distillers, the men thus engaged were in correspondence with Squire Grundy.

Mr Lane Finds A Solution To His Difficulty

"Here, Bounce! Here Bounce!" called Owen in a loud voice as he rushed from the house, rifle in hand, crossed the barnyard, and ran at full speed toward a strip of woods which joined with the forest. "Here, Bounce!" he continued to call, looking back now and then to see whether the dog was following. But Bounce was in the field with the negro workmen, too far away to hear the voice of his master.

At the edge of the woods Owen found the mangled body of a young lamb. Glancing down a narrow ravine, he saw a wildcat disappear in the thick underbrush not two hundred yards away. This was the marauder for which the boy was looking. It had stolen into the sheep-fold and made off with a lamb in the full light of day.

Owen gave one more anxious look to see whether Bounce was near, then turned and plunged into the woods in pursuit of the bold robber. He shouted as he ran, hoping thereby to frighten the wildcat and force it to climb a tree, when it would be an easy mark for his rifle. But the cat was too experienced a thief to be entrapped so easily. Had Bounce been there he would have driven it into the position Owen wished it. The boy, however, moved too slowly to bring it to bay. For an instant he saw its long, lithe body as the animal leaped upon the trunk of a fallen sycamore, gave a piteous cry and then disappeared again farther down in the ravine.

To run after it or to shout would only terrify it the more. Owen therefore changed his tactics. He left the ravine and walked slowly along the hillside for nearly a mile, pausing every few minutes to examine the tops of the trees, especially those of the tall poplars which seemed to offer a safe hiding place. The pursuit was brought to an abrupt termination by a steep cliff which overlooked the old stage road. A dark object was seen moving among the brush just below him. The boy raised his rifle in readiness to fire, but the undergrowth was so thick that he could not see distinctly. He changed his position and looked again; it was not a wildcat. But what could the object be? A goat? No; there was not one in the neighborhood; besides, the head was more than five feet from the ground. Further inspection showed that the object was a man. Two were there, partly concealed by the bushes. They had masks of rough deer-skin pulled over their faces. This it was that gave the first one the appearance of a goat.

But what were these two men waiting for? Why had they concealed themselves here so close to the road? After a moment's reflection Owen concluded that they intended to rob the stage. They could certainly have chosen no better spot, as it was fully a mile away from the nearest farmhouse and in a place where the stage would necessarily move slowly. The men were well armed; they had posted themselves, too, within ten feet of the road, where they could both spring forward in front of the stage.

Something must be done to give the travelers warning! So thought Owen as he crept away from the cliff. Perhaps the best plan would be to run some distance up the road, wait for the stage, and tell the driver what he had seen. As he paused for a few seconds to deliberate he heard the old stage rumbling down the hillside not a quarter of a mile away. To reach it now and give warning of the danger was impossible, for it was on the opposite side of the ravine. All that he could do was to wait until the stage hove in sight, then yell and fire his rifle to frighten the robbers and let them know that their movements had been watched. On the other hand, he would be perfectly safe; for he could make his escape before the two men had time to climb the steep cliff and pursue him. Owen crawled back to a position where he could watch the bandits without being seen by them.

In the meantime, lumbering slowly along the rough road into the deep ravine, came the old stage, on whose top were two travelers whom Owen recognized as his old friend Coon-Hollow Jim and Squire Grundy. The Squire was gesticulating and talking vociferously in vain endeavors to be heard above the noise of the grinding wheels. Ostensibly he was entertaining the new sheriff; but he was aware of the fact that two lady passengers below were listening to him as he recounted his many deeds of valor in the Indian wars.

He was suddenly interrupted by a scream from one of the ladies as the two robbers stepped forward and ordered the driver to dismount and unhitch his horses. It was no small humiliation for the new sheriff and the boastful Squire when told to take their places near the stage driver and hold their hands above their heads. With them were two other men, the women and three children being left undisturbed. One of the bandits placed himself before the five men, and, pistol in hand, threatened to blow out the brains of the first that attempted to escape, while the other forced the mail-bag open and began to examine its contents.

Squire Grundy trembled from head to foot, for he feared that his guard's pistol, which was pointed at his head, might go off at any minute. Coon-Hollow Jim stood sullen and stolid; he felt that he was more than a match for the two robbers, yet in his present position he was powerless.

But where was Owen? Why did he not give the alarm as he had resolved to do? So frightened and bewildered was he that he remained for some time a passive spectator of the scene. Finally he regained his courage and resolved to assist his old friend Coon-Hollow Jim. Yet which should he do? To kill or wound the robber--his mind revolted from such a plan. To shoot the pistol from his hand--this was an easy task, though to hit it in such a way as to make the ball glance off without the least danger to the passengers--this required the perfection of his skill, but this he resolved to do.

Never did Owen's rifle-craft prove more useful to him than at that moment. Conscious of his power, he raised his rifle. His aim was long and true and steady. Then a sharp, clear ring, followed by the deep, loud report of the highwayman's pistol, discharged by the shock of his bullet. For a moment both robbers and passengers were dazed. No one seemed to know what had happened or to have noticed that a rifle had been fired. But the bewilderment was only for a moment.

Mr. Lane, seeing his guard unarmed and helpless, sprang toward him and seized him in his iron grasp. The other bandit, too, was soon overpowered and made a prisoner.

"Hold them tight! Hold them tight! Ropes to bind them! Ropes to bind them!" exclaimed the excited Squire, keeping at a safe distance from the two robbers.

The driver bound the hands of the two prisoners behind them with strong hemp rope.

"The rogues and thieves!" continued the Squire with much indignation. "The country is full of them! It is as dangerous to travel now as when we had the Indians around, forty years ago!"

As soon as the prisoners were secured all fell to praising Mr. Lane for his bravery. For, in their opinion, he had suddenly sprung upon the highwayman, knocked the pistol from his hands and made him a prisoner.

"That's the boldest, bravest deed that I've witnessed in all my wide experience," said the Squire. "To attack an armed robber who holds a pistol at your breast, to overpower him and take him prisoner unaided--that, sir, is something that has never been done before in this State or country. Then to dodge the bullet! Sheriff, how you dodged the bullet when he fired at you is more than I can understand. I predict a unanimous vote for you in the next election--a unanimous vote, sir. For when the people hear of this day's work they'll have no one else for sheriff of Nelson County." The Squire would have talked for half an hour, but the driver interrupted him, and insisted on starting at once.

The two prisoners were made to take seats on the top of the stage, where Mr. Lane, pistol in hand, sat to guard them; and in a few moments the coach and four disappeared over the hill beyond the ravine. The passengers congratulated themselves on their fortunate escape, little dreaming of the part which Owen had played in the capture of the robbers.

Owen, too, was pleased with the turn which events had taken. His first impulse was to call out to the travelers and explain why the pistol had dropped from the bandit's hand; but when he noted their praise for Mr. Lane, and heard Squire Grundy say that his bravery would win for him the vote of every man in the county, Owen determined then and there to let no one know that a shot from his rifle had brought so much honor on his friend.

For an hour or more neither of the prisoners spoke a word. They wore their masks, too, so that Mr. Lane was ignorant of the fact that the fleshy man before him was the jolly fiddler and marksman whom he had met at the famous shooting-match on Grundy's farm.

Within the stage, the Squire was entertaining the passengers with stories of Indian wars. He had often seen Indians dodge bullets, but Mr. Lane, he thought, was the first white man to perform such a feat. The sheriff was elated as he listened to these words of praise from so great and influential a man as Squire Grundy. In the meantime, he carelessly examined the pistol which he held in his hand. Something had struck the upper part of the rusty barrel; the mark looked like one made by a bullet. Was not this the pistol, too, that had fallen from the robber's hand? While the sheriff was thinking over the matter and trying to find some connection between the mark and the surprise of the prisoners, one of the bandits spoke to him.

"I don't wish," said he, "to ask for anything either for myself or my partner. We've been caught robbing a stage, and must serve our term in the penitentiary; but there is another man in this work, and he must come with us."

"That's right," chimed in his companion, from beneath his mask. "Catch that devil of a Tinker, and you can have all three of us. Me and this hare feller was nothin' but rabbits for goin' into this hare work, and we desarve to be caught in our own traps."

"We didn't intend to rob the stage," continued the first speaker.

"That there may be true," interrupted the sheriff, "but I reckon the law won't look at it in that there way."

"I know it won't! I know it won't!" said the prisoner. "Remember, I am not asking for mercy; only listen to what I have to say, and when you have heard all you will believe me."

Here the stage drew up in front of the Grundy home-stead, an old manor, approached by an avenue of silver poplars, and surrounded by a wide veranda. The Squire bade the passengers good-bye, assuring them at the same time that they were perfectly safe in the company of so brave a man as Sheriff Lane.

"What I have to say is this," resumed the prisoner, when the stage was under way again. "We are not highway robbers. For years we've lived in this part of the country, worked and trapped, and injured no one. But a scoundrel and thief, whom we call Tom the Tinker, persuaded us to go into the whisky business. For three years we made whisky in a cave on the bank of the Beech Fork, about six miles from here. Then we were caught; at least, we thought so. Our object in stopping the stage to-day was to see whether any notice had been sent to Squire Grundy or the sheriff about the matter. You notice that we did not attempt to rob the passengers. Instead of finding the letters, we met the Squire and yourself. I did not know at the time that you were sheriff, but, sheriff or not, we had you just where we wanted you until my pistol went off and fell from my hand. How it happened, I don't know. We're your prisoners, and'll be sent up for five years. But we must have Tom the Tinker with us."

"What made you suspect that your plans were discovered?" asked the sheriff.

"We sent six barrels to Bardstown."

"When?"

"The day after the news from New Orleans."

"And the driver was foller'd?"

"Yes."

"And left that there team on the road?"

"Yes; he jumped from the wagon when the men came near him, and made his way back to the cave on foot."

"Where's the wagon?"

"Don't know, sir."

"I've been lookin' for that there wagon for two weeks."

"The wagon belonged to the Tinker," said the prisoner. "He is the cause of our ruin, and he must come to the penitentiary with us."

He then proceeded to give the sheriff an accurate description of the cave, with minute details in regard to the path which led to it. The Tinker must be arrested while actually engaged in making whisky; this would insure him a sentence of ten years in the penitentiary.

Ground plan of Cave.--The heavy line marked h, h, represents the hill running along the Beech Fork, turning abruptly at a and following a small creek.
1. The two giant rocks.
2. Outer chamber.
3. Inner chamber (where the boys spent the night).
4. Passages through which Stayford led the boys.
5. Secret passages which the boys did not see.
6. Secret entrances.
7. The "hold out."

All that day Mr. Lane talked with the prisoner about the capture of Tom the Tinker and the destruction of the illicit distillery. The second prisoner spoke but little. Only after it was quite dark, and the stage approached Louisville, did he remove his mask and make known to his captor who he was. It was a painful task for the good-natured sheriff to hand over the jolly fiddler and marksman to the jail authorities; yet this was his duty, and he did not shrink from it.

"I'll expect to see the Tinker with us before two weeks have passed," said Stayford, as the sheriff turned to leave the jail.

"Yes! bring him on," said Jerry, "and then you can hang all three of us. We is darned fools for bein' caught in our own traps, and desarve to be hanged."

Tom The Tinker

"Good luck to you, my friend!" said Mr. Howard, as he accompanied Mr. Lane to the yard gate and pointed out the path which led down to the river. "But be careful, sir; be careful. Remember that you are dealing with a villain--he is not a murderer; at least, I never heard of his killing any one--but he is cruel--as cruel a man as ever came to this State. I do believe that he would shoot down any one who dared come between him and his money. But remember, too, that he is a coward. He'll not meet you face to face. Once you've captured him, watch him closely, for I fear that he'll attempt to take his own life when he sees that he has fallen into the hands of the law."

"I'm new at this business, as you know, Mr. Howard. Luck has been with me so far, and I hope it will stay. This here is sartin; if I don't capture Tom the Tinker it won't be because I didn't do my part. Good morning, sir!"

"Good morning!"

"If I get the Tinker it will be a good shot for me in the next election for sheriff." With these words Mr. Lane started off on his perilous mission.

The farmer stood and watched him until he disappeared, and then turned and walked slowly toward the house, muttering as he went: "The villain! the villain! If he is not captured this time, then I'll take a hand in the fight!"

Mr. Lane strode along the river bank, pushing his way through the patches of horse-weed which grew quite close to the water's edge. He did not follow the path farther up on the hill, as he did not wish to be observed. He often paused to mark his way, for he thought that it would be necessary for him to retrace his steps at night.

High above his head, on the bare limbs of a sycamore, a restive rain-crow croaked,--its call predicting heavy rains and bad luck. The old marksman raised his rifle with deadly aim toward the rufous-winged prophet, held it there for a single second, then, lowering it again, said, "If I'd only pulled the trigger, my little friend, you'd never bring bad luck to nobody again."

A strange feeling came over him as he drew near the cave, so that he used every means to divert his mind. He spoke to the clattering kingfishers, even though they had no inclination to tarry with him; he gazed at the stupid frogs along the river bank; he watched the tanagers which seemed like balls of fire among the green foliage of the trees. The closer he came to his destination the slower he walked; as a consequence, it was almost mid-day when he stood before the two giant rocks, the guardian genii of that mysterious place.

With his right hand grasping his revolver, he passed cautiously through the narrow entrance. Here he paused and listened, but heard nothing. With difficulty he found the rock door. It seemed but a part of the solid stone wall, with a slight, irregular fracture along the side. It was in a dark corner, too, where the light from without did not penetrate. The sheriff drew from his pocket two keys, if keys they could be called, for they were simply pieces of seasoned hickory about ten inches in length, so shaped as to lift a latch. With the largest of these the door was opened. Through it he went into the chamber where Martin and Owen had been held as prisoners on that eventful October night, and again he paused and listened, but still heard nothing. Only the faintest light from without was admitted here, but enough for Mr. Lane to see that he had not reached the place where whisky was made. The walls were no longer decorated with the skins of wild animals. As no fire had been lighted there for weeks, the air was damp and chilly.

The sheriff suddenly recollected that Stayford had spoken to him of two passages leading from this second room, and had directed him to take the one opposite the rock door. He lit a firebrand which he had brought and walked toward this second entrance. He was convinced by this time that no one was in the cave; besides, Jerry had assured him that neither the Tinker nor Simpson ever remained there during the day.

The whisky still was found, and near it several barrels full of mash. The furnace was warm, and, although the fire beneath it had been extinguished, it was evident that some one had been working there during the previous night. It was equally evident that they would return to complete their labor.

Mr. Lane had intended to examine the cave closely, but not to stay there until dark. His plan was to conceal himself in the woods, watch the men when they entered and then follow them. Now, however, he concluded that it was better to remain in the cave, as he could easily find a hiding place.

At one end of the room in which the whisky was made was a passage leading into the "hold out." The sheriff took from his pocket a second key, unlocked the door, and went into the former dwelling place of Jerry the Trapper. This door could be bolted from within, and so firmly that it was impossible to force an entrance without breaking the solid rock slab of which it was made. Mr. Lane decided to wait here until Simpson and the Tinker returned to the cave, and turned the heavy bolt.

The new occupant then began to examine the contents of his strange abode. At one side hung an iron lamp, with just a little tallow in it. Scattered on the floor were deer-skin leggings and moccasins, caps, and jackets of home-spun, just as Jerry had left them a few days before, when he was preparing for the stage robbery. There were various devices used for cooking utensils. But what interested the sheriff most were the instruments for cutting stone. They were of the very finest material, and had evidently been brought from England. With them the old trapper had cut the two massive doors, and had also opened a way from the side of the cave through which to introduce corn and wood and to roll out the barrels of whisky. Then there was the small window with a single pane of glass; the whole being ingeniously covered by wild grapevines which Jerry had trained along the ledge without.

After Mr. Lane had examined everything in the little room the passing hours became long and tiresome. The little window gradually lost its light, until finally all around was shrouded in darkness. With the night came a protracted vigilance on the part of the sheriff. Mr. Lane sat close to the rock door which he had opened and kept a few inches ajar. At length he heard footsteps at the entrance of the cave. He closed the door, and waited, for he wished to give the Tinker time to begin his work.

When ten minutes had passed he cocked his revolver, threw open the door, and rushed from the "hold out."

All was darkness, everywhere perfect quiet. Not a person! not a sound! For a moment the sheriff stood as if petrified, then turned and groped his way back into the "hold out."

With his flint he lighted a firebrand, then returned to examine the cave. In one of the narrow passages he found a place which seemed to have been recently disturbed; this he examined closely. A large fragment of a stone had fallen away from the mother rock and had crushed down the rough sides. It was this noise, no doubt, which he had heard, and had mistaken for footsteps. Back to the "hold out" he went again. The rest of that night and the following day dragged on slowly, Mr. Lane sleeping but little.

Just as it was growing dusk on the second day, he determined to take a short rest. When he awoke it was quite bright. He sat up, and rubbed his eyes, and wondered what had happened. Could it be possible that he had slept during the entire night? He unbolted the door and went out into the cave. Things had been changed there. Some barrels had been filled and others emptied, and there was a smouldering fire under the simmering still.

The sheriff was not discouraged. As several barrels of mash remained, one or two nights would be required to boil them down. From the amount of work done during the preceding night, he judged that two men at most had been there, and these two would, no doubt, return to finish the work. True, he would have to wait another day, but this seemed little to him now that he felt so sure of capturing the Tinker and his companion. Before the day had passed he ate the last of his provisions, smoked his last pipeful of tobacco; then sought to take another rest, as he felt confident that he would have to stand guard over his prisoners during the greater part of the night.

At one end of the "hold out" there was a ledge of rock protruding so far that it formed a natural bed, where he could rest without being seen, even if any one entered the room. With difficulty the sheriff mounted up into this hard bed, and soon was fast asleep.

He was awakened by an explosion like the crash of an earthquake. He sprang up suddenly, hitting the top of the cave with such force that he fell back half unconscious. As he gradually recovered he heard the sound of voices below.

"What would Jerry say," asked one, "if he knew that we had blasted the rock door into fragments?"

"Jerry is in jail," said the other, with a growl. "Jerry is in jail; I hope he will stay there. All that I want is his money. He never spent any. I wonder where he hid it?"

"What part am I to get?" asked the first speaker, as the two began to search among the old clothes and in crevices in the rocks.

"We'll settle that when we find the money."

"We'll settle it now. How much am I to get?"

"You'll be satisfied with----"

"One-half."

"What, Simpson! You want one-half--a half!"

"Yes, a half."

"But you did not work for it; it came from my corn and my whisky."

"It belongs to Jerry now. If we find it, we take one-half each."

"Wants one-half of it, my! my!"

"Yes, one-half."

"Won't a fourth do?"

"No!"

"Nor a third?"

"No! no!"

"My! my! my!"

"See, here! Tom! I'm the only man left to help you to do your work. Before I begin I must have the promise of half of Jerry's money. One-half, or you'll not make another drop of whisky in this cave!"

"My! my! my! my!" whined the old miser.

Simpson made no reply. He sat down on one of the benches and looked straight into the Tinker's face.

Tom continued to whimper, but he saw that Simpson was firm, so he assented to his terms.

"Can't help it."

"Now that we have begun to make terms," continued Simpson, "let me tell you what I must have of all the whisky we sell. One-fifth of the profits must be mine."

"One-fifth!" stammered the Tinker.

"Yes, one-fifth."

"One barrel in five!"

"Yes."

"That's more than Jerry got."

"But it is what I must get."

"It's more than Jerry and Stayford got."

"Can't help it."

"It's twice as much as they got."

"But you robbed them; they often told you so, and you know it."

"My! my! my!"

"I'll take one-fifth, and not a cent less!"

"My! my! And now you are robbing me!"

"Remember, Tom, the work is more dangerous than it was when Jerry worked with you. You don't know what moment Sheriff Lane might come in here and put his hand on your shoulder."

The old coward was startled, and glanced anxiously from one side to the other.

Mr. Lane the while was anything but comfortable. They were to examine the "hold out" to find Jerry's money; evidently they would climb up to the place where he was lying. Luckily he had carried his two revolvers with him; these he held in his hands ready for action.

The Tinker continued to groan, and curse, and argue with Simpson; but in the end he was forced to yield.

"Now that we have reached a conclusion, let us wait until morning before we search for the money," suggested Simpson.

"I want to see how much there is. I always thought that Jerry was rich," said Tom.

"I hope he was. But the money can keep until morning; whereas the mash may sour if we don't run it through."

"Just as you say," assented the Tinker. "You are robbing me of half of it anyway, so there won't be much when the sum's divided."

"Robbing you!"

"Yes, robbing me!"

"You're a liar, Tom, I am only insisting on my rights."

"You accused me of robbing Jerry and Stayford, and now you are robbing me."

"The money we are looking for belongs to no one since Jerry is in jail. If we find it I am entitled to one-half."

"Besides, you force me to give you one-fifth of the profits of the whisky--of the whisky I've spent my days and nights in making, into which I have put hundreds of bushels of corn. That's robbing me! That's robbing me!"

"I simply gave you my terms and you agreed to them!"

"I am forced to agree."

"You are not!"

"What can I do?"

"Get some one else."

"And have him betray me?"

"I thought that we had already come to an agreement," said Simpson, with some warmth. "Let me repeat here what I said before. I don't intend to risk my life in selling your whisky without being well paid for it."

"Yes, and you want a price that is little less than robbery."

"Then call it robbery; call it what you will. But remember the price remains."

"One-fifth, my! my! It comes high. But I'll stick to my word, Simpson. You are to get your one-fifth. Come," continued he, "let us get to work at the still; for, as you said, the mash may sour, but Jerry's money will keep."

"What is that?" asked Simpson, as he stumbled over something leaning against the side of the "hold out." "Well! well! If it isn't Jerry's old rifle. Leaning there just as natural as if the old trapper was at home."

"Strange he didn't take it with him," replied the Tinker, as he held up his firebrand to examine the old flint lock.

The sheriff was startled, for it was Mr. Howard's rifle, and his name was engraved in large letters on the muzzle. But the Tinker did not examine it carefully, and the two men soon left the "hold out" to begin work at the still.

When the cave began to brighten in the ruddy light from the fire which our two worthies had set vigorously going, Mr. Lane climbed down from his rocky bed and crept carefully toward the door. There he stood for some time where he could observe the men without running any risk of being seen. What a strange, weird sight! They looked like ghosts as they passed to and from the glowing furnace, and their shadows leaped and danced along the walls. Simpson fed the fire and brought the mash, while the Tinker looked after the still and watched the pipes which conducted off the whisky. The sheriff grew so interested in the work that he almost forgot the object of his coming. Were he to seize the men now he could certainly swear that he had captured Tom the Tinker while the latter was making whisky; yet everything seemed so quiet and peaceable that he could with difficulty force himself to begin his disagreeable task. Still now was the time for action. He drew his revolvers and stepped quickly toward the two men.

Imagine the surprise of Simpson and the Tinker when they beheld the giant sheriff stalking forth from the room which they had examined but a few minutes before, his long arms turned menacingly toward them, and his stentorian voice calling on them to surrender. He seemed to them a huge spectre, not a living man. On he came with giant strides, until his revolvers were pointed into their very faces.

"Who are you?" demanded Tom the Tinker, with a show of courage.

"I reckon it don't matter much who I am," replied the sheriff, "but I know who you are. Louis Bowen, you are my prisoner."

Sealed Forever

"The whole cave has fallen in," exclaimed Owen, as he leaped to the top of the cliff just in front of the place where the two giant rocks had stood.

"See, too, how the rocks are burned and blackened," replied Martin.

"I'm not surprised; I thought the whole world was on fire."

"And I thought that the Day of Judgment had come."

"Look at those trees! how they were crushed by the rocks."

"And the size of that rock!"

"Yes, it is as large as three houses."

"Now I see why the earth shook so much," said Martin. "I couldn't understand how one barrel of powder could make such an earthquake."

"And how do you explain it now?" inquired Owen of his companion.

"Easily enough; the whole cave was but a shell. The earth had been washed from around the rocks, and they were resting one on the other. When one fell, they all fell."

"What you say seems to be true," assented Owen.

"And now I wonder whether the whole cave has fallen in?" inquired Martin.

"Has Jerry's 'hold out' been blown up? That's the first question to answer," said Owen.

"Come," said Martin. "Let us see if we can find the little window."

It was the fourth day after the capture of old Bowen. Martin and Owen had come down to examine the scene of the explosion, and to search for the money which was supposed to be in Jerry's abode; for Mr. Lane had told them of the conversation which he had overheard between Simpson and the Tinker. In fact, the sheriff had promised to accompany them, but had been detained by business connected with his office. If they found the money, the two boys intended to send it on to the old trapper, who had always been friendly to them, and whose misfortune they both lamented.

It was impossible to judge of the position of the "hold out" from the top of the ridge where the boys were standing, so they descended into the ravine to the left of the hill to look for the small glass window. With the exact description which Mr. Lane had given, they did not anticipate any great trouble, yet so ingeniously had Jerry concealed the opening, that they spent an hour without discovering it, although they passed below it many times.

Finally Martin suggested that one of them climb a tree near the cliff. He had scarcely finished the sentence before Owen, springing up to the lower branches of a young ash tree, mounted to the top as nimbly as a squirrel, and a moment later a shout of triumph announced to Martin that the window had been found.

"Can we get up to it?" asked Martin.

"It is best to get down to it," came the reply from the top of the tree. "How long are the ropes which we used to tie our horses."

"They are over ten feet."

"Well, the longest will do. It is about seven feet from the window to the top of the cliff, whereas it is fully fifteen to the bottom, so you see it will be easier to climb down. I'll stay here while you go up on the ridge; then we'll be able to mark the exact spot over the window."

"That's a good scheme. It won't take me long to get up there," and Martin started off at once.

He gained the spot and called out for Owen. No answer came. He looked around to see whether he could have missed the place. No, it could not be; there was the ridge, there the ash tree which Owen had climbed. He waited for some time, then called again: "Owen! Owen!"

He heard the breaking of twigs behind him, and looking around beheld his friend, pale and trembling.

"Owen, what has happened?" he asked.

"I saw a ghost."

"What?"

"A ghost--a bear--something. I don't know what it was."

"Where?"

"In the window--just a moment--then it jumped back again."

"Why, Owen, you are dreaming. You fell asleep."

"No, I saw it. It was ugly, the ugliest thing I ever saw. Its face was covered with hair. It had large black eyes--I tell you, Martin, there was no dream about it."

"Sit down and cool off. Why, I never saw you so excited."

"Have your pistol ready, if it comes after us," said Owen, as he sat down on a log, and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "You had scarcely gone," he continued, "I was looking at the window, thinking of the night we spent in the cave, thinking of what we said about the ghosts when we were left alone in the dark. Then I saw the window slowly open and this ghost, thing, or bear, or whatever it was, looked at me with its two big eyes. You should have seen me get down that tree. I simply fell down; and away I went, looking back every minute to see whether the thing was following me."

"I never saw you frightened before. But I tell you what it is, Owen, I am going to crawl into that window and see what is there."

Owen pleaded with Martin not to go; but the latter was firm in his resolution. As the boys talked Owen's curiosity grew stronger, until finally he consented to stand above the window and keep guard while Martin entered the cave. The rope brought, Martin knotted it in several places, leaving a loop at the end in which to rest his foot, then tied it to a small sapling just above the window.

Martin began his descent slowly, and not without some hesitation. When he reached the end of the rope he gave a scream which made the heart of his companion leap within him. Owen looked over the precipice, and, to his surprise and horror, saw a long, shaggy arm and rough claw slowly dragging Martin into the cave; yet he could not shoot for fear of hurting his companion. Martin the while struggled in vain. He felt the claws of an animal sink deep into his flesh; he felt himself being slowly drawn farther and farther into the window, and a sickly, dizzy feeling came over him. Everything around began to swim. He relaxed his hold on the rope. He heard the report of Owen's revolver. Then he was free, and was falling headlong down the side of the precipice. The thick grapevines protected him from the rocks, and somewhat broke the weight of his fall,--for a moment, even entirely checking his perilous descent; and in that instant's pause he wildly clutched a strong branch, and then fell heavily to the ground.

The boy sprang to his feet, surprised to find that he had sustained no injury.

"Run, Owen! run!" he called out to Owen, who was standing at the edge of the cliff, pistol in hand.

Away the two boys went scudding through the woods like frightened rabbits.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"What was it?"

"A bear."

"That's what I told you. You wouldn't believe me."

"I believe you now."

"Was it a big one?"

"As big as an ox."

"Are you sure it didn't hurt you?"

"I thought it was eating my arm and leg off; but I don't feel it now."

"I thought you were a dead man when I saw you fall."

"The grapevines saved me."

The two boys all the while were saddling their horses and preparing for flight in case the animal followed them. They were suddenly startled by a noise in the opposite direction. It was Mr. Lane, who had finished his work and had come to join them in their sport.

"Halloo, youngsters! tired of the cave?" he asked. "Why, you look scared. What's the matter?"

"There's a bear in the cave," muttered Owen.

"Why, there isn't a bear in this here state, boy."

"Yes there is," stammered Martin. "He's as big as an ox. Both of us saw him."

Mr. Lane sat down and listened to the boys. Now that their giant friend was with them, Martin and Owen were no longer frightened. They succeeded in convincing Mr. Lane that there was really a bear or some other wild animal in the cave; although when Martin bared his leg where the monster had sunk his claws, he found only a light bruise.

The sheriff commanded the boys to follow him, determined that he would have its hide whatever the beast might be.

But how was he to get at the monster? Certainly he could not crawl through the small window, and neither Martin nor Owen would volunteer to go into the den and drive the animal out for him.

While they were consulting about the difficulty, Mose, the runaway slave, suddenly appeared and began asking the pardon of the two boys for frightening them.

It will be remembered that Mose had escaped from old Bowen some months previous, because the latter threatened to kill him. He was the only one of Bowen's slaves who knew of the existence of the cave, as he had assisted his master in hauling the still from Louisville and in putting it in position, and now that his master was dead, he had come to the cave to look for the money which he knew old Bowen had hid somewhere.

It was his intention simply to frighten the two boys. For this purpose he had used an old mask of deer skin, which Jerry had left behind him in the cave. But when he saw how scared the boys really were he repented of his act, for they had always befriended him.

A general laugh followed the explanation.

Mose assured the boys that there was no money in the "hold out."

The four then went to review the scene, the negro acting as guide. He had worked for many days and nights in the cave, and was familiar with all its winding passages. In his opinion not more than a third of it had collapsed, but this in falling had entirely blocked the three entrances. Every hole and cranny on the roof of the cave and along the ridges was examined, but with no success.

"I reckon that old cave is shut up as tight as a fruit can," said the sheriff.

"Yes," replied Owen, "it is sealed forever."

"The 'hold out' isn't sealed," said Martin.

"I'm going to crawl into it and take a last look."

Both boys crept in through the little window. Martin put on the mask which Mose had used, and looked out at Mr. Lane, who was standing below.

"Great pos-sim-mons," ejaculated the old marksman. "That looks just like the old Nick himself. 'Course you boys was scared when you seen such a crittar. I don't call you cowards no more. 'Course you run, and you was right."

While the sheriff amused the two with his remarks, Owen stood gazing at the huge rock which had fallen so as to bar completely the entrance to the cave from the "hold out."

"Martin," said he, in a broken voice, "I never in my life felt sadder or more disappointed than I do just now. We talked about this cave for days and weeks and months. I've thought of it; I've dreamt of it. I've looked forward to the time when we would wander through it with our torches, and tell the visitors of the first night we spent here. Now this is all impossible. The cave on the Beech Fork is sealed forever." On the floor he found a piece of charcoal. With it he wrote on the stone, which barred the way to the cave, the words:

Sealed Forever.

---

On the old stage-road between Louisville and Nashville, near the banks of the Beech Fork, where stood the home of the Howards, can be seen to-day a spacious stone residence. In the attic of this house in the year 18--, a young boy of fifteen--a Howard--found a faded and dusty manuscript with the title, "The Cave by the Beech Fork," by Richard Lane. On the second page he read the following: "Richard Lane, generally called Coon-Hollow Jim, for years held the prize as the best marksman in the State. He was Sheriff of Nelson County for two successive terms, and ended his days as school-teacher in the Beech Fork district. He wrote an account of the famous shooting-matches of Kentucky, as also a history of the wonderful cave of Tom the Tinker. He has also left a description of a trip to New Orleans on the Woodruff."

The boy read the manuscript with intense interest. One scene described there was perfectly familiar to him. Often had he fished from Big Rock, and swam and rowed around Middle Rock. Could these be the huge monsters that thundered down the river bank and crushed the giant oaks on that eventful night? Even during the time of Mr. Lane they bore the names of Big Rock and Little Rock! How strange it all seemed. And the cave, could it be there? And the "hold out"?

He would see that very day whether it could be found. To the cave he went, the manuscript in hand, and with him John Finn, a companion, who shared with him his sports. What appeared to be the sunken roof of the cave was easily traced. In fact it was familiar to the boys as they had often hunted rabbits there in the thick hazel and sassafras bushes. The day passed by and the "holdout" was not found. The boys did not grow disheartened. They returned to the spot with a rope ladder; with this they could descend safely and examine the precipice by sections.

Their patience was at last rewarded. The "hold out" was found. Into it they climbed. The place was dry; the dust was inches deep upon the floor. Not a single object was seen. But there upon the rock could still be read the words:

Sealed Forever.

---

To-day a primitive ladder leads up into the "hold out." It is made of a sycamore trunk, nailed with slats and leaning against the side of the cliff. The "hold out" is a favorite resort for the boys during the fishing season, for here they seek protection from the Spring rains. This, too, is their place of lodging when they fish at night. Gathered here in dusky groups around a blazing camp-fire, they often sit and rehearse the story of Owen Howard and the cave by the Beech Fork. (End)