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& iFamllg Jlctospaycr : Ectootcir to ILiterature, ttir &rte, Science, Eflriculturc, JttecfutnCcs, Education, jForctan atitr lomrstic Sntemgence, Rumour, #c.
BY C. R. HANLEITER,
P © lET^Y.
“ Much yet remains unsung .”
JOY.
From* 11 Romance of the Harem,” by Miss Tardoe.
Joy is a bird !
Catch it as it springs ;
It will return no more
When once it spreads its wings.
Its song is gay, but brief
The voice of sunny weather;
But, ah! the bird and leaf
[ Vanish both together!
Joy is a flower !
Pluck it in its bloom ;
’Twill close its petals up
If darker hours should gloom.
It is a lovely thing,
And formed for sunny weather j
But, ah ! the flower and spring
Vanish both together!
Joy is a child !
Seize it in its mirth ;
For soon its lip will know
The withering taint of earth.
The eye is bright as truth,
’ A type of sunny weather;
Bur, ah ! the smile and youth
Vanish both together!
iIKOULL^NY,
From the Augusta Mirror-
ELLEN,
A TALE OF THE FRONTIER SETTLEMENTS.
BY E . L . W .
Chapter IV.
About noon the next day, a solitary In
dian might be seen quietly reclining beneath
the shade of a large maple, on the eastern
side of the Apalachee, about half a mile be
low the ferry. A light canoe floated upon
the water below him, and a long rifle lay at
bis side. He would have seemed to a ca
sual observer to be asleep; for he sat or
rather leaned at the root of the tree, in that
condition, which has been sometimes des
cribed as being just midway between wak
ing or sleeping—that state of dreamy ab
straction, in which the subject seemed un
mindful it is true, of all external objects,
but is still fully awake to consciousness and
reflection. The only interruption to this
state was manifested alone by an occasional
turn of the head towards the hill behind
him—dowD which from above, a small track
led to the river—as if he expected some
one to come by that way. He remained thus
above two hours, ot maybe longer, when
liis quick and practised ear caught the sound
of a coming horseman. He was on his feet,
rifle in hand, in a moment. The sound con
tinued to increase, until horse and rider were
both revealed, descending the path to the
place where the Indian stood quietly wait
ing his approach. The rider dismounted at
the foot ot the hill, and fastening his horse
securely in the thick cluster of honeysuckles,
beside the path—Herbert Searcy advanced
and addressed the Indian.
“ Chemicko, I find you true to your pro
mise, and here before me. 1 have been un
avoidedly detained, and found some difficul
ty in crossing the Ocone. Apprehensive
that Darnell might have suspected from our
sudden flight yesterday, that we meditated
some design against him, and not knowing
what force he may have used to compel El
len to disclose our meeting, I thought it best
to avoid the main road as much as possible,
lest I should meet some of his emissaries,
on the look out for me. I crossed the river
a mile below the road in a canoe, swimming
my horse by its side, and have come as
straight as I could to this place. But how
long have you been wailing for me 1”
“ Two, tree hours—not long for Indian
wait.”
“ And have you seen no person—no one
on the other side V’
“ No.”
“ I am fearful we acted unwisely in com
ing below the ferry.- Are you sure that by
crossing to a point on the other side, from
which our signal maybe heard, that we can
not be seen from the ferry 1”
“ Riber too much crook for dat—me pad
dle canoe close to ferry—Old Matt no see
BIC. W
“ Very well. Then let us cross over, and
keep a sharp look out. Keep close under
the bank till you come to that point of land
yonder, and then push for the other side as
quickly as possible.”
The Indian obeyed promptly, and the ca
noe was soon lying snugly moored in the
little bay, the spot at which Frank Huddles
ton was first introduced to the reader.
Pausing a moment to listen, Herbert di
rected the Indian to give the preconcerted
signal, and placing his hands to his mouth in
a peculiar manner, Chemicko imitated per
fectly the loud and rapid barking of a dog.
The sound penetrated far into the forest,
until the very hills resounded with the echo.
“ Admirable 1” exclaimed Herbert, “ El
len must surely have heard that, and will be
here anon, if she comes at all. Now push
ever to yon clump of bushes on the other
side, just above the bend of the river, and
ftvvajt mv call, and watch closely every sound
and object, that I be not interrupted una
wares.’ ’
The order was obeyed, the point designa
ted gained, and canoe and Indian were hid
den from sight. A half an hour passed, and
Searcy was becoming impatient and fearful
lest Ellen should not come, when he caught
a glimpse of her dress through the under
brush, upon the brow of the hill. A mo
ment afterwards the sylph-like form of El
len was seen in the open path leading to the
river. Her step was light and steady, but
anxiety and paleness sat upon her brow.
She never looked more lovely, and yet, liers
was not beauty heightened by the trappings
of fashion—it was the beauty of nature un
adorned—the beauty of a heart, rich in vir
tue’s graces—lending their brightest mani
festations to every varied expression of the
coun’emnce: Herbert Searcy’s heart beat
high with hope, as he flew to her side, and
taking her by the hand, led her to the rude
scat to the water’s edge.
“ Miss Hayward, this pleasure is almost
unexpected. I had began to fear the signal
had not reached you. or having reached you,
you would not heed it. But now that we
have met again, allow me to speak the lan
guage of my heart fully and .”
“ Nay, but Mr. Searcy will pardon the
interruption, when he hears the reason, and
understands my motives. I have met you
here as you requested me, to relate those
circumstances connected with my histcay,
which will explain my situation when you
saw me on yesterday, and which I trust will
justify me fully in the steps I have taken to
day. All this you shall know, ere you take
any course, which you might afterwards re
gret.”
A proud consciousness of maiden proprie
ty elevated her spirit, and beamed from her
eye. There was firmness in her voice, and
a glow upon her cheek, and dignity upon
her brow as she spoke, and Herbert Searcy
felt that he was in the presence of one of
Nature’s children, and who had drawn her
lessons of conduct from a pure and virtuous
heart—a girl untaught in the awkward and
disgusting ceremonies of a vain and foolish
world—artless and confiding—and yet re
strained by those higher and holier influ
ences, which a pure and virtuous heart will
ever throw around the conduct of the indi
vidual who is accustomed to draw the les
sons of practical life from a close and con
stant communion with that heart itself.
“ I honor the feelings by which • you are
governed,” said Searcy, “ and shall wait pa
tiently to hear all that you may be willing
that I should know of your history. But I
request again that you will give me your
entire confidence.”
“ I feel that I ought to do so,” said Ellen,
“ and I shall do so as kindly and as sincere
ly as it has been asked of me, fully assured
that it will never be betrayed. I frankly
confess that our meeting on yesterday has
inspired me with new hopes, in anticipation
of escape from a life of but little actual plea
sure, and which has recently been marked
by some events, to me of deep and poignant
interest.”
She then gave Herbert Searcy a brief his
tory of the events of her life, until she ar
rived at that period with which our story
begins. Entering upon the events which
we have already detailed, she became elo
quent in their relation. Frequently during
the recital, she was deeply agitated by the
contending emotions that swept wildly over
the surface of her feelings—and the listener
beside her, wrapt in deep and profound at
tention, heard with thrilling interest the sto
ry of her wrongs.
She had proceeded just far enough in the
beginning of her story to fix the attention
of her hearer so completely as to render
him unconscious of all else, save the pre
sence of the beautiful girl before him, and
the great and growing interest he felt in her
fortunes, when the trusty Indian on the oth
er side of the river, saw across the narrow
peninsula on which they stood, and around
which the river swept its bending current,
an object that strongly attracted his atten
tion. It was a light canoe, upon the oppo
site side, snugly moored in a quiet spot,
hidden almost by the thick bushes that grew
rankly up from the water’s edge. He was
certain it was not there when he crossed the
river. How did it get there 1 and who was
the owner 1 where questions with which he
puzzled himself not a little. Determined
to find out, Chemicko gained a position in
which he himself was entirely concealed,
but from which he could command at a sin
gle glance, the whole sweep of the forest on
tbeother side. Herbert and Ellen were com
pletely in view—but no other living object
could be seen. Calling to his aid that pa
tience for which the red man is so remark
able, Chemicko moved not, but kept an eye
glancing rapidly over the whole ground ly
ing between the cauoe and the spot where
Searcy and Ellen were. At last he was suc
cessful, and his astonishment was great,
when he saw the head of a man slowly ele
vated above the trunk of a large tree that
had fallen into the river, aDd which was not
more than thirty steps below the place where
Ellen was engaged at the moment in dwell
ing upon the events of her life. When she
reached that point at which the deep injury
to be done had been threatened by Huddles
ton, and confirmed by Darnell, Herbert
Searcy sprung from his seat, and with up
raised arm, flushed brow, and flashing eye,
called Heaven to witness the justice of the
cause he espoused, and the deep and merit
ed vengeance which he pledged himself to
execute upon her base and villainous perse
cutors.
MADISON, MORGAN COUNTY, GEORGIA, SATURDAY MORNING, JULY 16, 1842.
Just then the muzzle of the rifle was
stealthily thrust above the log behind which
the man had watched the movements of
Herbert and Ellen, and pointed at Searcy’s
breast. Simultaneously the rifle 6f Che
micko, on the opposite side, was raised to
his face—his eye glancingin aline with the
barrel, quickly caught the head of the secret
watcher—another moment his finger sought
the trigger—and another would have sped
the ball to the brain of the victim, and the
victim himself to his long account. But the
head was suddenly withdrawn, and with it
the death-dealing rifle. A rapid movement
upon the part of Herbert, saved the life of
his hidden foe.
When the first burst of indignation which
he felt had found expression in the words
he uttered, lie threw himself before Ellen,
and by that act brought her person precise
ly between the muzzle of the rifle and him
self. Taking her gently by the hand, he
poured forth in eloquent and passionate
terms, the interest she had excited, and the
love, the inexpressible love he bore her.
” Since we met on yesterday,” said he,
“ amew and bright existence has opened its
inviting prospect before me, the cloud which
has heretofore invested my future has been
rent. The vision which has often floated
an unsubstantial shadow before the eye of
imagination, has at length assumed form,
shape and identity, and I find in you the
embodimept of every hope. Crush not this
hope I pray you, by a cold expression of re
gard and thankfulness for my offered protec
tion—and delay not the answer that shall
give me joy unknown before, until we shall
be surrounded by other scenes and other
circumstances. But here, in the deep re
treat of the forest, under the eye of a bright
and smiling Heaven, bless me with the as
surance, Ellen, that I plead not for your
heart in vain.”
With a neck, face and brow all mantled
with the roseate blush of girlhood, Ellen
answered—
“ From my earliest remembrance, 1 have
always regarded the obligation of truth and
sincerity as paramount; and I now feel, that
I should be doing great wrong to you, and
to my own heart, if I were from any false
motive to withhold the expression of my
true feelings. When but a little girl, in the
midst of the sports of childhood, I found
you at my side, ready to add to my pleasures
and do battle in my cause, I loved you as a
child might, for the goodness and valour of
your heart. And now, after the lapse of
years, we meet again under other circum
stances, I find you unchanged in your na
ture, willing to risk all in the cause of that
lost child of other days, and the friendless
and injured maiden of the present —my
heart confesses as true —the love of my
childhood, hallowed by the years that are
passed.”
“My own lost Ellen, now no longer lost
—your voice, like the sound of distant mu
sic, comes to cheer and reanimate my trou
bled heart. How must I ever love you for
the kind and artless avowal of your feelings;
and it shall ever be my pride and glory to
cherish thy guileless spirit in all its native
purity, and guard it unhurt, when called, as
you soon will be, to mingle in the scenes of
a heartless and deceitful world. But you
must not remain here a moment longer.
There is taint and corruption in the air you
breathe, and danger lurks in the path you
tread. Let us now fly. My faithful horse
awaits us on the other side—a couple of
hours, and you will be in Greensboro’, safe
from pursuit. To-morrow I will return to
chastise those devils in human form who
have conspired to blight the fairest flower
that ever bloomed amidst the bowers of
earth. Was it not to-dayyousaid the villain
Huddleston would return 1 O! that it might
be now. Then I should be content.”
’• He is a dangerous man, Herbert, and 1
would rather you would not meet him. I
did not say he would return to-day ; my im
pression is that he will not be here before
to-morrow ; though I have dreaded his ap
pearance, ever since I have been made ac
quainted with his designs. I would go with
you now, freely and cheerfully, never again
to return, but 1 have some relics, the gift of
a dear mother, which I canrtot leave behind
me. A half an hour will suffice for me to
Sathcrthem, and such other valuables asl
esire to take with me. ’ This done, I will
return, prepared to leave forever those
scenes, where I have drank so deeply life’s
bitter waters.”
n Hasten then, dear Ellen—the moments
will move but tardily till you are here again.”
Herbert beckoned Chemicko to come a
cross the river, as Ellen bounded with alight
and joyous heart up the ravine. The Indi
an in passing to the canoe, lost sight of the
man whom he had watched so closely, and
when he looked again he w’as gone. The
man himself as Ellen departed, dropped
stealthily down a few paces, to where the
spring branch falls into the river, and follow
ing its channel, moved upward in its sandy
bed, without noise, and completely hidden
from the eye of the Indian.
The events of the last hour had wrought
an entire change upon the feelings of Ellen
Hayward, visible in the expression of joy
end pleasure that spread over her face, as
she sped rapidly on in the execution of her
design. A mighty load waslifted from her
spirit, and she moved blithely up the path
to the spring, her thoughts full of bright an
ticipation for the future. She paused one
moment at the spring, and contrasted her
present feelings with the feelings of that
sad day, when Darnell first manifested to
her his own abandoned character, and re
vealed to her the lawless and desperate pur
poses of Huddleston, and when she felt for
the first time her utter helplessness, and the
want of some friendly arm to stay the
threatened blow. Now she had found a
protector, a strong arm bared in her defence,
and powerful to rescue.
“ Now I may defy the power of my per
secutors,” she said, musingly. “ The storm
has threatened me, ‘tis true, and I feared I
should have fallen beneath its fury'. The
gathering flood rolled its swelling waters
over my crushed spirit in advance of the ter
rible outbreak which was to wreck forever
my fortune and my hopes. But now that
storm has passed—its fury is spent —its
thunders hushed—and the bright and beau
tiful bow of promise spans its glorious arch
far out upon its retiring skirt. The raging
flood”
“ Still sweeps wildly on, with the gather
ed strength of its long pent up waters!”
fiercely exclaimed Frank Huddleston, as he
leaped from the bushes, and threw his strong
arm around her, and clasped her as with a
gripe of iron. “Now you are mine! I laugh
to scorn the puny threats of your new, he
roic lover. Let him come, and by all the
powers of darkness I swear, he shall drink
deeply of the cup of my wrath. No pow
er from above, around or beneath shall wrest
you from my grasp !”
One piercing shriek of utter despair, as
the fierce eye of Huddleston gleamed upon
her, was the only sound that escaped her
lips. The next moment the ebbing current
of life had ceased to flow, and she was help
less in his hands. Lifting her from the
ground, he bore her rapidly off intothe thick
wood. For a considerable distance he run
with a bounding step, as if he carried but
an infant in his arms.
He had reached the shelter of a deep, ir
regular hollow, some five hundred yards
from the spring, before Ellen manifested any
signs of returning consciousness. This re
treat for which he had aimed, being gained,
Huddleston felt secure from pursuit when
the evidences of returning life were seen.
The pallid face assumed a flush of deepest
crimson, as her opening eyes rested upon
the face before her. A prolonged and bit
ter cry rent the air—and another, and then
another followed in such rapid succession,
that the whole forest rung with the echoing
sound. Her strength also had returned, in
creased by the force of the circumstances
and the despair of her heart, and she strug
gled to free herself from his terrible grasp.
Huddleston renewing his hold upon the
struggling girl, again bent himself to his
burden, and dashing down a rugged outlet
from the hollow, that led to the stream,
crossing the road west of the house, design
ed to place as many obstacles between him
self and pursuit as possible ; and he hoped
to reach a well known spot, some hundred
yards down this stream, where he felt that
he should be safe. But the fearful know
ledge of the dreadful fate that awaited her
gave to Ellen supernatural strength, and her
violent efforts to get free so impeded his
flight that he was forced to stop. Snatching
from the neck of Ellen the handkerchief
that covered her bosom, he strove to thrust
it into her mouth, that he might stifle the
deafening cry that ever and again pealed up
on his ear, the death knell of his hopes.
The struggle was short. As the first effort
was made, and as a last yet hopeless resort,
Ellen plead with the villain, entreating him,
by all the recollections of his mother, by a
sister’s love, and by her utter helplessness,
to spare her—but with a grim smile resting
a moment upon his dark and terrible brow,
he mocked her in her woe. The gag was
made and applied—a leathern thong was
being tied about her arms, when a rushing
sound was heard, and a powerful voice from
the hill above them arrested the spoiler in
his deed of ruin.
“ Hold, ruffian, hold!” cried Herbert
Searcy, as rushing onward to the rescue,
the fearful scene was displayed before him.
Huddleston paled at the sight of the
avenger—but loosing his hold upon Ellen,
he snatched his rifle from his back on which
it was slung, and raising it to his face, laugh
ed with the malice of a fiend as he defied
him.
“ Come on then, sir, and he that wins
shall wear her.”
The words were followed by the sharp
crack of his rifle. For once in his life,
Frank Huddleston missed his aim, and be
fore the smoke had cleared away to reveal
the effect, he felt the hand of a man strong
and powerful as himself, upon him.
“ The time of reckoning has come at last,
and you shall now reap the reward of your
worse than savage crimes,” said Herbert, as
he gave a tremendous blow to bis enemy,
which sent him reeling forward several feet.
The fight commenced. It was loug and
desperate—equally matched—and influenc
ed as they were by far different, yet equally
powerful motives, they fought with desper
ate energy. Huddleston was cool and col
lected, though taken entirely upon surprise,
and parried with great skill the thick and
heavy blows that were aimed at his defence
less head. Searcy was not less skilful than
the other, and watched with eager eye each
movement, though far more deeply moved
and maddened by the feelings with which he
was agitated. Frequently during the fight
the hand of Huddleston sought the knife
that hung at his belt, but Herbert had yet
as often foiled him in the attempt todrawit.
Ellen, awake to her lover’s peril, had sunk
upon the ground incapable of exeition,
awaiting with featful apprehension the re
sult of the strife.
For one moment the combatants, as if by
mutual consent, paused to breathe, and con
centrate their exhausted energies for the
death struggle. Not a word was spoken—
language could notconvey the deep and bit
ter hate that burned in the bosom of each.
The eye alone revealed its hidden depths,
“ lolling in wrath,” and fiercely bright, as
they looked out from beneath the dark
cloud which had gathered in tempests upon
the brows of both. With a muttering curse,
Huddleston grasped his knife, and the long
blade gleamed above his head. One rapid
glance was enough for Herbert—no time
was given to parly, and couching for the leap,
he sprung at the throat of Huddleston, and
clenching it with his right hand, with his left
he fortunately seized the hand that held the
knife, in time to break the falling blow, and
the ruffian was borne by the force and sud
denness of the spiing, incontinently to the
earth. A cry of joy burst from the lips of
Ellen, only to be succeeded by another of
despair, os the next moment she saw Dar
nell rushing madly up from the creek to the
rescue. One look revealed to him the posi
tion of the parties. His friend and com
panion lay at the mercy of his enemy.
“Ha ! Herbert Searcy!” he exclaimed,
“my suspicions then are all confirmed.
You have sought me even here—but I will
now be levenged of all.”
Drawing his knife, he ran furiously for
ward, and brandishing it high above hishead,
poised it a moment to give certainty to the
stroke.
The unexpected crack of a rifle, succeed
ed by a yell of triumph, arrested that blow,
and Chemicko, leaping downward from the
hill above, stood beside the fallen body of
Matt Darnell. The ball had pierced to his
heart, and sent his spiiit all burdened with
crime to the Judgment Bar.
With the assistance of Chemicko, Hud
dleston was bound. Searcy declaring, “ that
be would not rob the law of its victim,”
though he felt it would be doing but an act
of justice to the country, and the cause of
injured innocence, to despatch him on the
spot, as a foul and polluted icptile.
Chapter V.
An hour after the Death of Matt Darnell,
the house on the hill presented a scene of
much bustle and distress. The body of Dar
nell had been brought up, and his widowed
wil? bewailed in no measured terms her
loss, and called down the curses of Heaven
upon his destioyer. The ludiansat unmov
ed by the side of Huddleston, who was
bound and a prisoner. Ellen was moving
rapidly about from place to place, gathering
together whatever of her own that she priz
ed, and Herbert Searcy was assisting her
with the kindest words of encouragement.
Her arrangements were soon made, and
Searcy despatched the Indian ’across the
river to bring his horse up to the ferry,
where he determined to cross, and go from
thence to the nearest house upon the road,.
where they might spend the night free from
any interruption ; for Herbert knew not but
that some of the friends of Huddleston might
come unawares upon them, and attempt his
rescue. To Mrs. Darnell or Haywaid, as
we should properly call her, he spoke kind
ly, taking pains to inform her minutely of
all the circumstances connected with her
husband’s life, and the causes that led to his
death. The sun was down, and the great
twilight hour was fast deepening with the
shades of night when Chemicko returned,
and reported the horse ready upon the other
side. The aunt, as Ellen bade her farewell,
entreated her not to go and leave her in her
distress, without a friend to comfort or assist
her. Ellen wept upon the neck of her aunt,
as the many acts of kindness which she had
received at her hands recurred to her mind,
in connexion with her own former friend
less and destitute situation ; notwithstanding
that aunt had acted in concert with others
to ensnare and ruin her. But this was now
forgotten, or remembered not in anger but
in sorrow; and she kindly took her by the
hand and said :
“ You ask that which I have no power to
grant. To that man (pointing to Herbert)
who has gallantly rescued me from a fate
more cruel than death, I have pledged my
heart, and my life. ’Tis his province to
command, it shall be mine to obey. He
has sought me out in the midst of my lone
ly lot, to bring me again to the home of my
youth and the hearth of my I
must not remain. Farewell, then—l for
give most freely the wrong you would have
done me, believing that you were influenc
ed alone by those who would have used me
to accomplish the worst ends.”
The party were soon in motion. Searcy
offered to Mrs. Hayward his protection, as
suring her that he would make some provi
sion for her future subsistence, as a recom
pense for the trouble she may have experi
enced from his unexpected coming. Dur
ing tis whole time Huddleston sat an un
moved witness of the scene around, and not
a muscle of his face moved until Searcy, in
answer to the enquiry of Ellen as to the
distance they would go before they would
stop for the night, said about a mile, to a
house he had seen that day upon the divid
ing ridge between the Apalachee and Ocone.
VOLUME I, . . NUMBER 10.
Then indeed a grim smile of smothered joy
lit up his dark features for a moment—but it
soon passed away, giving place to a frown of
defiance, as the eye of the warrior Chemi
cho rested upon him.
The river was crossed. On the other aide
Herbert found liis horse. He mounted, and
drawing Ellen up behind him, moved np
the hill, leaving Huddleston in charge of the
Indian, to follow on foot, A ride of fifteen
minutes brought them to the house that bad
been mentioned by Herbert. It was a low,
wooden building, made of unhewn logs,
covered with boards, with a large wooden
chimney at one end, in which, as the party
rode up, a fire was burning. The house in
the common parlance of this day would be
known os a “ Log Cabin,” but the string of
the latch was pulled in, and - Herbert Sear
cy knocked roundly at the door for admit
tance. The door was not opened, until the
inquiry was made—
“ Who knocks 1”
“ One who seeks a shelter of yonr friend
ly roof, for himself and others, and who is
willing to make yon such compensation 84
yoa may demand,” answered Herbert.
Just then the voice of a woman was heard
within, protesting against the admission of
strangers at all—unprovided as they were
for their accommodation,
“ I have a lady under my care,” replied
Herbert, “ whom I doubt not you know,
and whom I am sure you will rejoice to en
tertain.”
Atthat moment the Indian and hisprisoner
came up. The party were permitted to en
ter the house, and an explanation ensued
for Ellen and Huddleston were both known
by. the man and his wife. A close observer
would have noticed some signs of meaning
import pass between Huddleston and the
man of the house, but they were unobserv
ed, unless indeed the quick eye of Cbemicko
detected them. If so, there was no visable
effect produced upon his stoical countenance.
A hasty meal was produced by the Wo
man, of which all partook. After supper,
Searcy asked the man what arrangement
could be made for the safe keeping of his
prisoner during the night. He mentioned
another house in the yard, as being the on
ly one besides that they were in, and they
went out together to examine it. It was a
cabin of the kind we have described, yet
much smaller, and without a fastening to
the door. Herbert thought it would do;
but himself or the Indian would have to
watch during the night. They returned to
the other house, Chemicko was called out
and consulted by Searcy. He shook bis
head, sayin§:
“ Me no know much, l>out it—me no like
tiust Guilford—me see him make sign—roe
watch Huddleston—you watch him in
bouse.”
“ Very well, I’ll do that, though I hope
you are too suspicious; but if any thing
should be attempted, you have only to call,
and I will be with you in a moment. You
had better take your place at the door, and
as there is no other, any person to enter
must pass by you—and I should dislike to
be the man, Chemicko, who should make
such an attempt as that.”
“ Chemicko’s eye keen—his ear quick,
and his arm strong,” replied the Indian.
“ Me no friad to watch.”
Arrangements were made accordingly
for the night. A fire was kindled upon the
hearth of the house appropriated to the In
dian and his prisoner. Ellen and the wife
of Guilford, retired to a small apartment
cut off from the main room, at the farther
end, by a partition of boards, and which con
tained the only bed in the house. Searcy
and Guilford occupied the other room; a
pallet was spread before the fire for their
accommodation whenever they should de
sire to avail themselves of it. They sat be
fore the fire and conversed together for a
long time. The hint the Indian had -given
to Searcy, as to the signs between Guilford
and the prisoner, induced him to use every
means to draw him out, so that he might as
certain the connexion, if any, existing be
tween him and Huddleston.’ AH that he
could learn was that he was acquainted with
Huddleston—knew him for a desperate
and lawless man, and one that would stop
at nothing in the accomplishment of his pur
poses. He spoke of his character freely,
and said that he had no doubt the punish
ment he would receive would be justly mer
ited by the crimes he had committed. Her
bert thought the Indian was certainly mis
taken—this man could not be an associate
of such men as Darnell and Huddleston.
With this reflection he threw himself upon
the pallet, still intending to remain awake
and watchful. But the fatigue of the day
had been such as to demand rest, and ere
he was aware of it he was sleeping sound
ly-
The Indian was right in his conjectures
when he believed signs hsd passed between
Guilford and Huddleston. As soon as they
met, and during the explanation given by
Searcy of the situation of the parties, seve
ral signs were given by Guilford to the pri
soner, calculated to inspire him with the
hope of escape. The man was one of the
friends of Huddleston, and deeply implica
ted in some of his crimes, and though less
abandoned and lawless, was yet enough so
to attempt any act or use any stratagem to
effect his escape. He was artful and cun
ning, and not entirely deficient in courage
and boldness. He bad completely blinded
the eves of Searcv as to his true character.