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2 For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
■ LOST AND FOUND:
Wl OR
THE ROBBER’S CAVE.
i BY FLORIO.
CHATTER I.
■lt was at the close of an agreeable au-
day, in the year 18—, that four
might have been seen riding slow-
in the Northwestern part of the
of Missouri. Two of these, evident
ly!)!’ high rank in society 7, were white—
two were merely black ser-
The elder of the two first-men-
was much the stouter in appearance,
had coal-black hair, which, though
did not seem to be an object of great
His countenance was open, prepos-
and had an air that at once gained
Much exposure had darkened his
and given a mournful cast to
hiifoatures, across which, now and then,
shade of sadness would flit, as
fraSigh the recollection of some event was
ejfjs sorrowful nature. His form was firm
fjßni!. and his muscles were strengthened |
exercise in the open air. He sat
his horse in that careless, graceful i
JBi.cr. only acquired by long habit
Hit his flashing eyes shone with peculiar
whenever a very interesting
of conversation was introduced.
companion was of a lighter moulil I
■ finer proportions. Ua air distingue, i
indicated that he was accustome to !
best society: and an ease ad
in all his movements, combined with |
language and courteous deportment. !
the man whom we would term a i
in the broadest sense to which
is applicable—a commendation j
means contemptible in these degen- j
days. His chestnut hair and eyes, j
■r teeth, and finely-formed no°e, mani-
H a species of manly beauty rarely
e by their servants, one would instant-!
less that they had been upon a hunt
ixpedition. A fine large horse, of a
lack color, erect head, firm step, and
it eye, bore the elder of the two white
—while the younger bestrode a light
[ apparently an animal of much docili
yet having a remarkable degree of
9p. The elder person, whom we shall
Herbert Montagne, first broke the si-
I which had reigned for some time.
fiVe have had fine sport during our ex
on, but my greatest enjoyment was in
k in your company, James. It is a
pure so seldom obtained, that, when it
occur, I feel happy during its entire
[nuance.”
[Thank you, Herbert; but truly I have
(tch pleasure in being with you, as you
Itave in possessing my company. To
presence of my dearest friend and
is always agreeable, and thoughts
> flßim are most acceptable to my mind.”
“Don't forget Marie, James: ’tis treason
speaking, and calculated to sub
- at thority she has acquired over
heart. Thoughts of love and her can
■■occupy your attention.”
not so, Herbert, say not so : ’tis
love Marie with all the fervency of
I am capable, still my friendship for
f w pure as ever; and, as my love
,■ excels common love, so my friend-
V"’ you surpasses the so-called friend
’ : the wodd. Who was it that, at
of his own life, dragged me from
waters of the Missouri, when,
to my own mismanagement, the
*H was overturned I AVho was it that
I Me, by his self-possession and dar
om the insults and, perhaps, violent
*of a desperado J Answer me this,
ten tell me who should have the most
11 in mutual converse?”
JU forget, James, who it was that, by
1 loan, started me so fairly in my bu
-that I have ever since easily main-
I ground, and have a good prospect of
the same as long as l remain a fsan
trader. Bat enough of this. By
tet, let oar friendship he cemented
firmly than ever, and may we be al
re®ly to assist each other as much as
i our power.”
And the two friends bent towards each
other, clasping their hands with the true
grasp of friendship,
“As you say,’’ said James Mauray,
“our luck has been good. I was so for
tunate as to kill one buck, but you num
ber four as the victims of your unerring
aim. I heard the old hunters praising your
shooting very highly.”
A life on the prairies is qualified to teach
a man his dependence upon his rifle, and
this always requires a quick eye and a
steady hand. Practice, both in self-de
fence against Indians, and in slaying game,
has given me a little skill in the use of a
rifle.”
“ I have heard that a man’s best friend
and safest guard on the prairies, is his ri
fle. Is it not so !”
“Certainly.”
“No doubt you prize your rifle highly,
then ?”
“Dearly. I paid high for it, and it has
never failed, in the hour of trial, to send
home its messenger of death.”
And Herbert Montagnc cast a glance at
the object of conversation, which his ne
gro servant was carrying. It was a rich-’
ly-mounted piece, rather long, with a large;
bore and percussion lock. It seemed no
less an object of care with the servant, |
than of interest with the master.
“When do you think of taking your
next trip to Santa Fe!” said James Mau-’
ray to his friend.
“I shall start soon. I have made ar
rangements for transporting a larger sup
ply of goods than at any time previous; J
so, if the rndians do not trouble me, I hope
to make a good deal of profit.”
“ Do the Indians olten molest you, on
y*j u i v\ a.y *?*•
“ Yes, I have had several slight skir- j
mislies with them ; but, by the kindness of |
Providence, I have always managed to
beat them off, without loss of life on my |
part.”
“ You have, then, men with you as
guards'!”
“Oh yes, always. Every muleteer also
has his rifle. 1 shall have thirty or forty
sure marksmen with me, this trip, besides
a dozen drivers. It will be a hardy band
of Camanches that will dare attack us.”
“ You have had some experience in In
dian warfare ?”
“ Os course, I have had much intercourse
with them in the last eight or ten years,
and have learned something of their ways.
Caution is the safeguard against them. A
watch set regularly every night, with care!
in tying the horses, so that they cannot
stray, will prevent many accidents.”
“ Then they try to steal your horses ?”
“ Not only horses, but any thing else
they can lay their hands on —especially
blankets, whiskey, powder, lead and guns.
It is on this account that they attack out
ward-bound caravans in preference to those
returning to the United States; but forty
or fifty tnen can defend almost any cara
van from them, except in particular places.
Though attacking in large parties, each
man takes care of himself, and is willing
enough for others to open the way, and re
ceive the bullet of the white man, provided
he can obtain the booty. lie reasons with
himself in this manner: ‘I want that
horse, or that gun, but it is not worth risk
ing my life for. Now, if I can get it with
out danger, by merely killing its owner, I
will do so.’ They will not make an at
tack in an open place, where they know
some of their number will he slain. Am
buscades and bush-fighting are their pecu
liar modes of warfare.”
“ You certainly lead a life of danger,
and must have passed through many stir- j
ring scenes.”
“Aye, some to make the blood dance,
along the veins, as the heart keeps time ‘
with the rattling of guns, intermingled
with the shrill war-whoop of the wild In
dian. But tell me, when is the ‘consum
mation, devoutly to be wished,’ to take
place I”
“ Probably, in two or three months.
You know Marie's uncle has not long been
dead, and her aunt is of the opinion that
the ceremony should not take place until
the middle of winter. She has a notion,
also, that an engagement of a few months
is nothing more than proper.” I hope, by
that time, you will have returned from
Santa-Fe, for I desire your presence at the
ceremony more than that of any other per
son .”
“ I shall have returned ere then, and
will certainly attend, if possible; but we
are not entirely masters even of our own
actions ”
The two travelers now remained silent,
for they saw two strangers approaching
them, likewise on horse-back. As they
passed, giving and receivingthe usual salu-
tation—“ Good morning, gentlemen,"—one
of them seemed to be somewhat embar
rassed, upon meeting the dark, piercing
(eye of Herbert Montagne. After they
were out of ear-shot, Mauray said :
“ Take my word for it, that is the man
you frightened so badly, the day he would
have assaulted me.”
“It is! I have seen him frequently.
He seems to meet me by the merest chance,
yet it looks very much as if 1 accidentally
done on purpose.’ And, what is stranger
still, he always acts in an embarrassed
manner. Why, I can't tell. lam not at
all acquainted with him, yet his counten
ance seems familiar to me.”
“Oh! that is because he has crossed
your path so frequently,” said Mauray.
“No, it is not; there is something be
neath all that, which I cannot discover.”
“ \ ou must be a very close observer.”
“ : Tis true I am. Thrown upon the
world at an early age, and left to my own
resources, I acquired the habit of observ
ing every thing, and it has proved of vast
benefit to me.”
They now approached a small village,
and, on entering it, shaped their course for
the only house of entertainment in the
place. On alighting, they demanded to be
shown a room, and to have supper prepar
ed for them. They were shown into a
very pleasant room.
“Yes,” continued Montagne, resuming
the thread of conversation, “ I have seen
many vicissitudes in life. My history isa
strange one. I will give it you, some fu
ture day.”
After supper, Herbert Montagne took a
little walk in the fresh air. Ou hisreturn,
he saw, at a short distance from the house,
the very person they had met that after
noon, upon noiseliacK, and w ho seemed to
take such an interest in Montagne. The
fellow was anxious to avoid Herbert, and
turned to depart, but a heavy hand grasped
his shoulder, and the words, “ follow me,”
greeted his car. Mechanically, he obeyed.
Montagne turned towards the outskirts of
the village, and, arriving in an open field,
suddenly confronted his companion, and
demanded:
“Who are you!”
“ What is that to you!” was the an
swer. “ 1 have never molested you ; nei
ther am I aware why you have the right to
stop me, and demand my name.”
“Come, sir, no trifling with me : mine is
not a nature to brook it. 1 have met you
frequently, during the last few years, and
it seems as though you had determined to
dog me all my life. What is the meaning
of this !”
“I pursue my course through life as
best suits me. Is it a matter of suspicion
that l chance to meet you, nowand then?”
“Chance, do you call it?—chance, that
wherever I go, there I see you ? Whether
at St. Louis, Cincinnati, New Orleans, or
Independence ? It looks very much like
intention. Tell me, also, what means that
appearance of recognition you ever wear,
during our chance rencontres?”
“You certainly are a close observer, to
perceive things where they do not exist.”
“ Do you think to put me oflf, that way ?
Answer, for I insist upon knowing.”
“ Knowing what ? my occupation ?
That were difficult: ‘For that which 1 do,
I allow not; for what I would, that I do
not; but what I hate, that do I.’ ”
It is needless to follow the conversation
farther. Let it suffice to say, that Herbert
failed in his design of discovering who the
individual was, and what were his purpo
ses. They, however, returned to the house
together.
On the morrow, the two friends set out
for St. Louis, and we will take our leave
of them for a short time, to give the reader
an insight into their history.
Herbert Montagne was, as we have
seen, a Santa-Fe trader, lie had no par
ticular home, nor did he know either his
father or mother. Much mystery hung
over his fotmer life, which he himself could
not unravel, lie was now about to setout
upon anew expedition, with a much larg
er train than any of his previous ones.
James Mauray was a very wealthy
young man, of twenty-five years ol age—
two years the junior of his friend. lie was
the possessor of a lame farm, near St. Lou
is, and the owner of one of the finest boats
that plied between that city and New Or
leans.
On their arrival at St. Louis, Herbert
Montagne left for Independence, to finish
his preparations for trading. James, on
the contrary, hurried to pay his devoirs to
his betrothed. Affectionate was the meet
ing between these two, for their hearts
were filled with pure and mutual love for
each other. James gently saluted her fore
head, and kindly enquired after her wel
fare and that of her aunt, and was rejoiced
to hear of their safety and well-being.
; Marie exulted in his return, and slightly
upbraided him for staying away from her
so long. A gentle earnestness marked
their converse, and love, confidence and
hope, beamed from their eyes. Nothing
like sentimental parade pervaded their in
tercourse. Respect for each other, and an
insight into their respective characters,
made their communion of the mo>t agreea
ble kind. The confidence of two such be
ings, free from the slightest stain of jeal
ousy or envy, could not but be of that soul
subduing character which makes the heart
melt with overflowing love. Taking her
hand in his, he placed himself by her side,
and inquired if every thing advanced pros
perously ! whether there was any cause,
which might create uneasiness or inconve
nience! She thanked him for his solici
tude, and professed her happiness, at that
time, to be as great as could be in the case
of one who had neither father nor mother.
Only one thing she objected to—her aunt’s
opposition to their present union.
“ But she has ever been as kind as a
mother to me, and I cannot slight her, by
opposing her wishes.”
“ Never fear, Marie. All will fall out
as it should, in the due course of time. I
will take care that she does not maintain
her contrariety much longer.”
The object of their remarks now entered.
She was a lady of majestic bearing, and
one who at once might have been the pride
of a city ; nor had she yet lost every trace
of former beauty. Her age might have
been about forty.
James Mauray remained in their compa
ny till a late hour, and appeared to tear
himself, then, from society dear to him as
his life. No one could censure him, in the
was a form of exquisite proportions. Her
dark, blue eye, contrasted beautifully with
the fairness of her skin; her hair was
black as-the raven’s wing; and her Grecian
nose and pearly teeth, combined with a
most bewitching mouth, formed a being of
ravishing loveliness. It seemed as if James
purposely avoided pressing his own upon
those ruby lips of her’s, so like half-blown
roses, lest he should become intoxicated
with their sweetness.
It was about five or six weeks after
Herbert's departure, that James received a
letter from New Orleans, relating to busi
ness of so great urgency, that his immedi
ate presence was necessary. He took a
very affectionate leave of Marie, and took
a passage down in his boat, the “General
Jackson.” While on his way, we will
give the reader the history of Marie and
her aunt. But a subject of so great import
ance deserves a separate chapter.
CHAPTER 11.
Near the city of Marseilles, Fiance. |
there dwelt, twenty-one years prior to the |
opening of our tale, in a noble chateau, j
the aristocratic family of de Montfort. ft
was composed of Mons. and Mad. de Mont
fort, and their child, a boy about four
years old. M. de Montfort, though living
at a little distance from the city, was a ve
ry rich merchant, and sent his ships to all
the ports in the Mediterranean, and to Eng
land and America. Though living in a
fine chateau, and very wealthy, still M. de
Montfort had never visited Paris, nor been
in the royal presence. The whim seized
upon him and his wife to make a visit to
the French capital, and behold some of the
ensigns and appendages of royalty, togeth
er with a thousand other things, only found
there, which would delight their fancy and
gratify their curiosity. Finally, great pre
parations were made for the visit, and ma
ny francs spent in the necessary expenses
incurred. M. de Montfort left his busi
ness in the handsof persons best calculated
to consult his interest, and set his mind at
rest upon that point at once.
It was a bright, sunny morning, when
the huge gates of the chateau opened to
permit the egress of a coach, containing
the entire family. As the turrets of the
building sunk, one by one, out of her
view, Mad. de Montfort sighed and said :
“Ah ! if we should never return !”
“ Indulge in no such gloomy anticipa
tions,” said her husband; “we shall re
: turn perfectly safe, unless Providence or
i ders otherwise.”
In due time, they arrived in Paris. Two
weeks’ sojourn proved to them that all
their pleasure and sight-seeing did not com
pensate for the trouble and inconvenience
!to which they were exposed. According
ly, they determined to set out on their re
turn the following day. Right happy did
they feel, that night, in anticipating the
pleasureof the morrow. But, in the morn
ing, little Henri de Montfort was missing.
Long and unavailing was the search made
for him. The bereaved parents were com
pelled, sorrowfully, to leave the city, with
out their child. Mad. dc Montfort never
fully recovered from this blow, and she ex.
pired, four years after, in giving birth to a
female child, who was called Marie. Her
husband, at the time of her death, was thir
ty-four years of age, and, being thus doubt
ly afflicted, became sa l and morose. He
even went so far as to insult the captain of
one of his ships, and, consequently, not a
great whilt, after, that very ship was
wrecked on a certain coast. Fortunately,
no lives were lost; but, in the vessel, there
was a large amount of specie which M. de
Montfort never recovered, though vigorous
efforts were male to that effect. The
cause of the high words between the em
ployer ami employed was this: for sever
al years past, several of M. de Montfort's
ships had been cast away in rather suspi
cious circumstances, more especially those
most richly laden; and this captain, think
ing his employer had accused him of some
connection with those events, became out
rageously angry. He was insulted in re
turn.
Loss quickly followed loss, until M. de
Montfort found himself comparatively a
poor mail. His commercial name was de
stroyed, and he became bankrupt. The
only possessions left him, were his chateau
and the neighboring lands. About two
years after the loss of his wife, it became
necessary for him to proceed to the city of
Montpelier, upon business. On his return,
after a few days’ absence, he made a call
upon his sister, dwelling near the river
Rhone, at its mouth. His actions, whilst
there, seemed, by their incongruity, to de
note some aberration of minJ. Os this, in
deed, his brother-in-law did not have the
least doubtasU f u V"wTaiit |
night. A sojourn of two days seemed to
weary him much, for he determined to set
out for home late in the evening of the
second day. In vain did Mons. Legare
endeavor to persuade him of the folly of
such a course.
“ For, - ’ said he, “the river is now swol
len, and you will be obliged to cross it in a
small, open boat—an attempt incurring the
greatest hazard. I even doubt the proba
bility of your hiring a person willing to
venture upon so dangerous a service, even
though you offer a large reward.”
All was useless. He had determined to
go, and would not change this determina
tion. Mons. Legare watched his brother
in-law anxiously, after he left the shore,
for a person had been hired to take him
across. As he feared, when Mons. de
Montfort reache 1 the middle of the stream,
his boat was whirled away towards the
open sea by the force of the current, and
gradually swallowed up in the gloomy pall
of darkness. M. de Montfort, by his own
infatuation, had rushed into destruction.
The following day, the boat was found,
bottom upwards, upon the sea-shore, and
the dead body of the boatman had also
floated ashore during the night.
Marie was now an orphan. Her aunt
took her for the pui pose of rearing her -
the more especially as she had never been
blessed with offspring. Mons. Legare
moved his residence to a city in the North
of France, when Marie was about four
yearsold. Becoming wearied of that place,
he determine 1 to emigrate to the United
States. First, he sold all of his own and
Marie’s possessions, and then had the pri
ces paid in specie, for by’ this means he
would be enabled to transport it all, with
out any danger of carrying money that
would fail to pass in the New World. His
choice of a residence was St. Ixmis, in the
State of Missouri.
For thirteen years, they lived happily
and contentedly. At the end of that pe
riod, M. Legare died. Madame Legare
and Marie were now alone upon the earth;
not exactly alone, either. Marie had, for
some time, been engaged to James Mau
ray, who had wooed and won her. Their
marriage, as has been before stated, was
put off', on account of the death of M. Le
gare, who expired from an attack of apo
plexy, as he was rising from the dinner
table.
[To be eontimie<l.]
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
SONNET FOR JULY.
The radiant Suinmfr in her pride sweeps on.
Heightening the beanty of the growing year,
Which, like a maiden, when—forever gone
Her happy girlhood days—doth hot appear
The lovelier for their flight. Now the glad earth
Repays with bounteous increase human fare,
The hills and vales to golden stores give birth,
And shining fruits tho grateful orchards bear;
But fiercely beams the high Midsummer Sun,
And hot and arid is the breath of Day,
That the pour laborer, ere his task is dime.
Grows faint arel weary : anti the noisy play
Os school-boys ceaseth, and the birds’ sweet song,
Anti brigh f (lowers droop while the alow hours the
heat j roiotig! W\ V. - Richards.
Fur Richard*’ Weekly Gazette, j
DAVY JONES’ DUEL.
BV TIM WHETSTONE.
It was one of those sultry evenings in ]
the month of August, when all nature l
seems to be groaning under the scorching
rays of old father Sol, that the citizens of,
the village of L were thrown into con
siderable excitement, by the announcement |
of a duel, and the death of one of their in
habitants. It seemed, upon an investiga
tion, that two young men from the vicini
ty, who had been educated in all the sim
plicity ami honesty of country life, had
procured situations in the village—one as
a clerk in a dry goods establishment, and
the other as a I ar-keeper in Uncle Billy
Lane's tavern. In the course of time, a
rank and “ green-eyed jealousy'’ sprung up !
between these country lads, owing, proba
bly, to the fact that Davy Jones, the bar
la village lass to suit the taste of Tom
Sikes, the clerk. This affair was a pro
lific source of mutual backbiting and con
tinual threats, which at last terminated in
a personal rencontre, in which Billy Sikes
had the worst end of the bargain. The
idea of being whipped by a bar-keeper, and
being forced to cry aloud Enough.,’ ‘■'nough ,’
‘pull him off,’ • my eye is out,’ was peculiar
ly grating to the sensitive feelings of Billy,
and induced him to adopt the only alterna
tive of revenge common among gentlemen
—a duel. Accordingly, a little billet was
penned to Davy, demanding an honorable
satisfaction. When it was handed in, Da
vy evinced considerable merriment, as he
thought Billy wanted him to come over
and drink porter, or take a friendly colla
tion of some kind, and bury the hatchet:
as for the word ‘duel,’ it did not belong to
Davy’s vocabulary, and if it did, and not
mean ‘cullin’ meat and choppin’ bread,’ he
had no use for it. The object of the note
was carefully explained to Davy by the
bearer; and the reader can easily imagine
Davy’s consternation, if he ever saw a
1 hemmed’ hare on a frosty morning.
1 Well, by Jucks,’ said Davy, ‘I don’t
believe in any sich way of fightin’. My
daddy always told me to cut nobody with ;
a knife, nor shoot any man ; and then I j
was readin’ in this old book t'other day,’
(raising Prince’s Digest.) ‘that any man
who font a duel, I spose like Bill Sikes
wants me to fight, will have to go to the
Penitentiary at Milledgeville, and war spot
ted breeches, and eat bread and water fora
long heap of years. So and now I shan’t
fight any sich a way, but with fist and
skull : I’ll be kittle-slapped if I do—and
that’s jest as good as if I had ’cr swore it.’
‘But,’ said the bearer of the note, ‘Davy,
you do not understand the serious and dis
graceful consequences which will necessa
rily follow your declension. You will, if
you persist in refusing Mr. Sikes an hon
orable fight, be posted to-morrow morning
on the court-house door, as a coward and
scoundrel.’
‘l'll be snap-dashed,’ said Davy, ‘if 1
am a gwine to make myself a target for
Bill Sikes to shoot at. I don’t want to kill
him; but I’ll tell you, sirree, if he don't
quit sending me sich foolish papers, I’ll
catch him by the nap of the neck, and I’ll
run these killers of ugliness [showing his
thumbs,] clear through his squash; and
then, by Hoky, he'll wish he had never
seed me and this paper, or Caroline Wig
giuton nother. Now that's a fact.’
The bearer, Dr. Hooker, finding Davy
|>erfectly incorrigible in reference to the
meeting, retired, and icported to Billy the j
progress of affairs, which enraged him to
such a pitch, that at one time a serious idea
was entertained of placing him nnder the
control of a bedoon bit and double-reined
bridle. The Doctor succeeded, however,
in calming him, and concluded again to
make an attempt upon Davy. According
ly he repaired alt alone to Davy’s room a
second time. He found him in a deep
meditative mood, evidently reflecting upon
what had transpired.
, ‘Well, Davy,’ said the Doctor, -Billy
says nothing short of a fight will do him,
or he will post you at 2 o’clock, I’. M. I
would advise you to fight ‘, to lie postal
and submit, would he worse than death
and I am convinced from your expertness
in shooting, that you will kill him.’
‘But,’ said Davy, how ’ll I keep from
Milledgeville if I shoot him? and then the
old man will give me ‘Jessie.’ I don't
like sich a way, Doctor, but I'll he oon
sarned if Billy Sikes is gwine to put me
on a door for all the girls to laugh at. I'll
level old ‘Nel’ at him, and let you know
I'll make him wish he had n't seen me. and
her too.’
1 But,’said the Doctor, ‘Davy, f would
. tight fairly. To shoot him without giving
him an equal and fair chance, won 1 1 be
cowardly, and it would be murder, and ihe
penalty death. You can easily fight, and
; run to South Carolina; it is near—and you
i will escape all law. I will be your sec
-1 ond and surgeon, and see you safely out.’
1 ‘Well,’ said Davy, ‘Doctor, 1 don't want
to fight, but if nothing else will do, f reck
lon I must do it; but I had rather have old
, ‘ Net’ than any of them to shoot with. F
can blaze him with her first pop. and then
I reckon he'll let me rest.’
‘Yes, Davy,’ said the Doctor, ‘you would
probably kill him with ‘Ncl;’ but equality
is the principle in all such meetings, and
you must fight with pistols.’
Davy rather objected to yielding old
1 Nel, but as he had implicit confidence in
the Doctor, he acceded all the arrangements
to him. The Doctor, finding Davy deter
: mined to meet danger in any form, saw at
i once the impropriety of letting the affair
pass off with powiltj and shot, he theie-
seconds, Sic., and let Billy into the whole
secret, who was, by the by, very glad of
it, when he saw Davy’s ‘dander’ was up.
The day of meeting was arranged ; the
point was in the rear of the jail, under the
declivity of a hill, and the Doctor was sec
ond and surgeon for both parties.
On the evening on which the duel was
announced, Davy and the Doctor might
have been seen sliding and creeping along
in the rear of the village inn, approaching
the jail. When they arrived, the opposite
party was there, and the verdant corn,
which but a few hours previous had be
decked the place with its shade, was laid
low, to make way for the combatants.—
The ground was ‘stepped off,’ (measured)
—ten feet—each man put at his post, arm
ed with a large horseman’s pistol. Between
the words one and three, the parlies were
to fire. The Doctor repaired a short dis
tance from the assailants, made a pathetic
speech, and began giving the word in a
very deliberate tone. Davy, at this junc
ture, was in a state of great trepidation,
but seemed resolved to kill or be killed.—
At the word three, Davy pulled trigger, and
boo! boo! went his pistol, with its huge
load. Billy remained unhurt, and began
| taking a very deliberate aim, when Davy
| hallooed— 1 I'll be consumed if lam gwine
to stand here, and be shot down like a oxen.’
VV ith this, he made at Billy, pistol inhandf
and when near him, let drive at his head,
which he fortunately inisscJ. Billy snap
ped, and took to his legs; but by the time
ly intervention of the lookers-on and the
Doctor, they were again put to their places,
and Billy took his fire. Davy had become
a little composed by this lime, and folded
his arms and took it like a man. Billy let
slip and missed. After he bad shot, he
proposed a compromise, but Davy said—
‘ No: he had been murderously shot ut ; his
life was in danger of being sasiinateil; he
come here to die, and he intended to kill Bill
Bikes, and next shoot he wonhl plump him
right in the forehead; he would eat snake*
if he didn't.’
Firrding no compromise in Davy, the
pistols were again loaded and the combat
ants put at their places. Davy stood fear
less and firm as a stately oak ; his eyes
sparkled with courage, as he stood viewing
Billy’s thick sides. The word was again
given. Davy raised his pistol, and cut
loose at the word two. Billy fell at the
crack, giving vent to the most piteous la
mentations : ‘l'm dead—l’m dead —oh f
save me—oh! my bead—my heal—my
poor head?’
Davy stood terror-stricken, surveying
• the scene. The blood was trickling over
! the snow-white linen of Billy; the Docto:
I was trying to stop its current, but all to no
; purpose; and Billy was still uttering the
| most terrible groans. Davy stood with his
! hair dishevelled, his coat off, and his face
| buried in his handkerchief, sobbing and af
frighted. At length he drew near, an 2
! said, ‘Billy, I want to make friends afore
yon die.’ But just as be was in the act of
| offering his hand, the Doctor looked, and es
i pied someone rapidly approaching through
‘i the corn. In a moment, he exclaimed -
