{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_56094/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_56094","id":"gutenberg_56094","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/56094","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Legends -- Pennsylvania"],"text":"------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                          Transcriber\u2019s Note:\n\nThis version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.\nItalics are delimited with the \u2018_\u2019 character as _italic_.\n\nThe illustrations have been re-positioned slightly to avoid falling\nwithin a paragraph.\n\nMinor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please\nsee the transcriber\u2019s note at the end of this text for details regarding\nthe handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.\n\n                                 INDEX\n\n                                  ---\n\n                                                       Page\n             Foreword                                     3\n             Introduction                                 5\n             Tulliallan                                   9\n             At His Bedside                              31\n             The Prostrate Juniper                       40\n             Out of the Ashes                            51\n             Wayside Destiny                             64\n             The Holly Tree                              77\n             The Second Run of the Sap                   96\n             Black Chief\u2019s Daughter                     108\n             The Gorilla                                122\n             The Indian\u2019s Twilight                      135\n             Hugh Gibson\u2019s Captivity                    147\n             Girty\u2019s Notch                              161\n             Poplar George                              175\n             Black Alice Dunbar                         186\n             Abram Antoine, Bad Indian                  199\n             Do You Believe in Ghosts?                  219\n             A Stone\u2019s Throw                            234\n             The Turning of the Belt                    247\n             Riding His Pony                            265\n             The Little Postmistress                    271\n             The Silent Friend                          290\n             The Fountain of Youth                      298\n             Compensations                              310\n             A Misunderstanding                         326\n             A Haunted House                            339\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  OUTPOSTS OF THE ALLEGHENIES. (Photograph by W. H. Rau.)\n  Frontispiece\n]\n\n                           Allegheny Episodes\n\n                   Folk Lore and Legends Collected in\n                   Northern and Western Pennsylvania\n\n                        _By_ HENRY W. SHOEMAKER\n\n                Volume XI Pennsylvania Folk Lore Series\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\u201cThe country east of the Mississippi was inhabited by a very powerful\nnation. * * * Those people called themselves Alligewi. * * * The\nAllegheny River and Mountains have been named after them. * * * The\nLenni-Lenape still call the river Alligewi Sipu, the river of the\nAlligewi, but it is generally known by its Iroquois name\u2013Ohe-Yu\u2013which\nthe French had literally translated into La Belle Riviere, The Beautiful\nRiver, though a branch of it retains the ancient name Allegheny.\u201d\n\n                                                  \u2013John Heckewelder.\n\n                         ALTOONA, PENNSYLVANIA\n                Published by the Altoona Tribune Company\n                                  1922\n                    Copyright: All Rights Reserved.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                               _Foreword_\n\n\nThe author tells me that I was his discoverer, and that without a\ndiscoverer we cannot do anything. Very true; one American author had to\nwrite till he was forty-eight, and then be discovered in Japan. Henry W.\nShoemaker was discovered nearer home, and by a humbler scholar.\n\nIn my last foreword I emphasized the value of folk-lore. Its\nsignificance grows upon me with age. I have now come to regard it as a\nkind of appendix to Scripture. Outside of mere magic, an abuse of\ncorrespondences, as Swedenborg calls it, there is in folk-lore a digest\nof the spiritual insight of the plain people. It also contains actual\nfacts boiled to rags. For instance, in 1919 the dying Horace Traubel saw\nin vision his life-long idol, Walt Whitman, and the apparition was also\nseen by Colonel Cosgrave, who felt a shock when it touched him.\n\nThe flimsy modern paper whereon the scientific account of this is\nprinted will soon perish, and then there will be nothing left but loose\nliterary references and memories to witness that it happened. Any\nskeptic can challenge these, and the apparition will become folk-lore.\nAs it is in its scientific setting in the Journal of the American\nSociety for Psychical Research for 1921, it is a side light on the\nTransfiguration. For if Whitman appeared to Traubel in 1919, and\nSwedenborg appeared to Andrew Jackson Davis in 1844, why should not the\ngreat predecessors of Christ appear also to him?\n\nSuch is the value of folk-lore, and for this reason the Armenian Church\ndid well to attach an appendix of apocrypha to the Holy Gospel. In such\na document as the uncanonical Gospel of \u201cPeter\u201d (this was not one of the\nArmenian selections, but it ought to have been, in spite of the fact\nthat the Mother Church of Syria had suppressed it) the life of Christ is\nseen in a dissolving view, blending with the folk-lore of the time; and\nlet us hope that some day this valuable piece of ancient thought will be\nprinted with the New Testament instead of some of the unimportant matter\nthat too often accompanies it.\n\n                                             ALBERT J. EDMUNDS.\n                             THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY OF PENNSYLVANIA,\n                                        Philadelphia, March 1, 1921.\n\n                             _Introduction_\n\n\nIt is a good thing to make resolves, but a better thing, once having\nmade them, to keep them. On two previous occasions the compiler of the\npresent volume has stated his resolve in prefaces to issue no more books\nof the kind, but has gone ahead and prepared more. Probably the motive\nthat brought into existence the first volume can be urged in extenuation\nfor the eleventh, namely, the desire to preserve the folk-lore of the\nPennsylvania Mountains.\n\nThe contents of the present volume, like its predecessors, were gathered\norally from old people and others, and written down as closely as\npossible to the verbal accounts. In order to escape ill feeling, as in\nthe case with the earlier volumes, some names of persons and places, and\ndates have been changed. This has been done with the greatest\nreluctance, and only where absolutely necessary. The characters are real\npersons, and most of them appear under their rightful names. Many of the\nlegends or incidents run counter to the accepted course of history, but\ntradition is preserved for what it is worth, and the reader can draw his\nown conclusions. While some of these tales end unhappily, the proportion\nis not greater than in life as we know it, and the general ascendency of\nright over wrong shines through the gloomiest passages. Life could not\nexist, or the world go on, unless the majority of events ended\nfortuitously; it is that happy preponderance which makes \u201chope spring\neternal,\u201d and is so often rewarded by a realization of the heart\u2019s\ndesire.\n\nThe various phases of the supernatural in the ensuing pages depicts\nprobably a more normal condition of our relationship with the unseen\nworld than the crude and clumsy mediumship found in the big cities, and\nmay present a rational explanation of life \u201cbehind the dark curtain.\u201d\n\nThere is certainly a spiritual life, and a purely spiritual God, and all\nthe events of the soul are regulated by divine laws, which have only too\nfrequently been confused with the physical life so subject to chance and\nreversion back to chaos.\n\nThe origins of Pennsylvania folk-lore seem to the writer like a happy\nblending of Indian and European elements which would have gradually, had\nbackwoods conditions continued, developed into a definitely\nPennsylvanian mythology. The fact that the writer had so many more\nlegends in form of notes, which otherwise would have been mislaid and\ncome to nothing, prompted him to break his resolve and prepare the\npresent volume. And, for good or ill, he has many more, dealing with\nother parts of the State. What shall be their fate? Are they worthy of\nperpetuation as folk-lore? Apart from the general idea of preserving\nlegendary matter for future generations, there is the added reason that\nthe heroic lines of some of the characters appealed to him, and, to save\nthem from the oblivion of the \u201cforgotten millions,\u201d their careers have\nbeen herein recorded.\n\nProbably one-half of the stories were told to the compiler by one\nlady\u2013Mrs. W. J. Phillips, of Clinton County--who spent some of her\ngirlhood days, many years ago, on the Indian Reservations in\nPennsylvania and southwestern New York.\n\nProfessor J. S. Illick, Chief of the Bureau of Research of the\nPennsylvania Department of Forestry, is due thanks for securing many of\nthe illustrations. Four of the chapters\u2013Nos. IX, XV, XXI, XXII\u2013are\nreprinted from the compiler\u2019s historical brochure, \u201cPenn\u2019s Grandest\nCavern,\u201d and the first chapter, \u201cTulliallan,\u201d was published in the\n\u201cSunbury Daily\u201d; otherwise none of the chapters of this book have\nhitherto appeared in print.\n\nPersons interested in more intimate details concerning the origins and\ncharacters of the various tales will be cheerfully accommodated \u201cfor\nprivate circulation only.\u201d Like James Macpherson of \u201cOssian,\u201d it can be\nsaid \u201cthe sources of information are open to all.\u201d\n\nThe compiler hopes that through this book a more general interest in the\nPennsylvania folk-lore can be created; its predecessors have missed\nachieving this, but there is always that hope springing afresh to\n\u201cGodspeed\u201d the newest volume. No pretense at style of literary\nworkmanship is claimed, and the stories should be read, not as romances\nor short stories, but as a by-product of history\u2013the folk-lore, the\nheart of the Pennsylvania mountain people. With this constantly borne in\nmind, a better understanding and appreciation of the meanings of the\nbook may be arrived at.\n\nThe kindly reception accorded to the previous volumes, and also to\n\u201cNorth Pennsylvania Minstrelsy\u201d by the press and by a small circle of\ninterested readers, if equalled by the present volume will satisfy the\ncompiler, if his ambitions for a wider field of usefulness are not to be\nrealized.\n\nTo those of press and public who have read and commented on the earlier\nvolumes go the compiler\u2019s gratitude, and to them he commends this book,\nthe tales of which have had their origins mostly along the main chain of\nthe Allegheny Mountains and on the western watershed. Sincere thanks are\ndue to Miss Mary E. Morrow, whose intelligence and patience in\ntranscribing the manuscripts of this and the majority of the earlier\nvolumes of the series has had much to do with whatever recognition they\nmay have achieved, and a pleasant memory to the author, as well.\n\n                                                 HENRY W. SHOEMAKER.\n\nDepartment of Forestry,\n  State Capitol, Harrisburg,\n    February 23, 1922.\n\nP. S.\u2013Thanks are also due to Mrs. E. Horace Quinn, late of Bucknell\nUniversity, for her kindness in revising the proofs.\n\n                                                                 9-5-22.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                   I\n                              _Tulliallan_\n\n\n\u201cWhy, yes, you may accompany your Uncle Thomas and myself to select the\nplate which we plan to present to the battleship of the line, \u2018The\nAdmiral Penn,\u2019 which the First Lord, His Grace, Duke of Bedford, has\ngraciously named in honor of your distinguished grandsire,\u201d said Richard\nPenn, pompously, answering a query addressed to him by his young son,\nJohn.\n\nThe youth, who was about eighteen years of age and small and slight,\nseemed delighted, and waited impatiently with his father for Uncle\nThomas\u2019 arrival. Soon a liveried footman announced the arrival of Thomas\nPenn, and the brothers, after embracing, started from the imposing\nmansion in New Street, Spring Gardens (near the Admiralty Arch),\naccompanied by the younger scion and a retinue of secretaries, retainers\nand footmen.\n\nIt so happened that the leading silversmith in the city, James Cox, was\nof the Quaker faith, to which William Penn, the famous founder of\nPennsylvania, and father of Richard and Thomas, belonged, and was\nparticularly pleased to be the recipient of this costly and important\norder. It was an occasion of such importance to him that his wife, sons\nand daughter had come to his place of business to witness the\ntransaction and, perhaps, meet the aristocratic customers.\n\nAs they entered the establishment, the tradesman himself opened the\ndoor, bowing low as the two portly gentlemen, with their plum-colored\ncoats, snuff boxes and walking sticks, entered arm in arm, followed by\nthe diminutive John, in a long, red coat, while the minions of various\ndegrees waited outside, clustered about the gilded chairs.\n\nIt must be understood that these sons of William Penn were not members\nof the Society of Friends, but had assumed the faith of their\ngrandfather, the Admiral, and founder of the family fortunes, and young\nJohn was nominally a member of the same faith.\n\nThe portly and self-important gentlemen were soon absorbed in studying\nthe various designs of silver services, while the restless and\nhalf-interested gaze of young John wandered about the salesroom. It was\nnot long in falling on the slender, demure form of Maria Cox, the\nsilversmith\u2019s only daughter. Clad in her Quaker garb and bonnet, she was\ncertainly a picture of loveliness, almost seventeen years old, with deep\nblue eyes, dark brows and lashes, fair complexion, with features\nexaggerately clearcut, made John Penn\u2019s senses reel in a delirium of\nenthusiasm.\n\nOrdinarily he would have become impatient at the delay in selecting the\nsilver service, for the older gentlemen were slow of decision and he was\na spoiled child, but this time he was lost in admiration and he cared\nnot if they remained in the shop for the balance of the day. John Penn,\nhimself, for a small lad was not unprepossessing; his hair was golden,\nhis eyes expressive and blue, his complexion like a Dresden china\ndoll\u2019s, his form erect and very slim, yet few girls had fancied him, for\nhe was selfish and not inclined to talk.\n\nSeeing that he was not assisting his elders in selecting the silverware,\nMrs. Cox, the wife, and a woman of some tact and breeding, introduced\nconversation with the young man, eventually drawing her daughter into\nit, and it was a case of love quickly on both sides.\n\nWhen, after four hours of selecting and changing and selecting again,\nthe Penns finally accepted a design and placed their order, John had\narranged that he was to dine with the Cox family and see the young\nbeauty frequently. All went well until the day appointed for the visit\nto the home of the silversmith. John Penn presented himself before his\nfather attired in his best red velvet coat with gold facings, white\nsatin knee breeches, pumps with diamond buckles, his face much powdered,\nand sporting a pearl inlaid sword. The elder Penn demanded to know the\ncause of the youth\u2019s magnificence, for ordinarily his Quaker blood\nshowed itself in a distaste for fancy apparel.\n\n\u201cTo dine with Mr. and Mrs. James Cox and their charming daughter, whom I\nmuch admire,\u201d was the calm rejoinder.\n\n\u201cWhat, what,\u201d fairly shouted the father, almost having an apoplectic\nattack on the spot; \u201cdining with common tradespeople! You must be in a\nfrenzy, son; we\u2019ll have you in Bedlam.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t see why you talk that way, father,\u201d said John, retaining his\ncomposure. \u201cAre we so very different? It was only a few generations back\nwhen the Penns were plain rural yeomen, and Madame van der Schoulen, or\nGrandmother Penn, your own mother, was she not the daughter of a Dutch\ntradesman?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t speak that way, lad; the servants may hear, and lose respect,\u201d\nsaid the father.\n\nThe lad had touched a sore subject, and he preferred to let him keep his\nengagement rather than to have an expose on the subject of ancestry.\n\nThe dinner and visit were followed by others, but at home John\u2019s romance\ndid not run smoothly, and he quickly realized that his father and Uncle\nThomas, whose heir he was to be, would never consent to his marriage\nwith the daughter of a silversmith. Consequently, a trip to Gretna Green\nwas executed, and John Penn, aged nineteen, and Maria Cox, seventeen,\nwere duly made man and wife.\n\nWhen Richard Penn and his brother Thomas were apprised of what he had\ndone they locked him in his room, and after night got him to the\nwaterfront and on a ship bound for the French coast. He was carried to\nParis and there carefully watched, but meanwhile supplied with money,\nall that he could spend. Temporarily he forgot all about Maria Cox,\nplunging into the gaieties of the French Capital, gambling and betting\non horse races, the \u201csport of kings\u201d having been only recently\nintroduced in France, until he was deeply in debt. He became very ill,\nand was taken to Geneva to recuperate. There he was followed by\nrepresentatives of his creditors, who threatened to have him jailed for\ndebt\u2013a familiar topic in family talk to him, for his grandfather,\nWilliam Penn, despite his ownership of Pennsylvania, had been arrested\nfor debt many times and was out on bail on a charge of non-payment of\nloans made from his steward at the time of his death.\n\nJohn wrote frantically to his father in London, who turned a deaf ear to\nthe prodigal; not so Uncle Thomas. He replied that he would save the boy\nfrom jail and pay his debts, provided he would divorce his wife and go\nto Pennsylvania for an indefinite period. John was ready to promise\nanything; a representative of the Penn\u2019s financial interests settled all\nthe claims in and out of Paris, and John Penn was free.\n\nWhile waiting at Lille for a ship to take him from Rotterdam to\nPhiladelphia, the young man was advised to come to London for a day to\nsay good-bye to his relatives. The packet was expected in the Thames on\na certain day, but got into a terrific storm and was tossed about the\nNorth Sea and the Channel for a week, and no one was at the dock to meet\nthe dilapidated youth on his arrival at Fleet Street.\n\nAs he passed up the streets in Cheapside, to his surprise he ran into\nthe fair figure of his bride, the deserted Maria Cox-Penn. He was again\nvery much in love, and she ready to forgive. They spent the balance of\nthe day together, enjoying a fish ordinary at a noted restaurant in\nBird-in-Hand Court. Over the meal it was arranged that Maria should\nfollow her husband to America; meanwhile, he would provide a home for\nher over there under an assumed name, until he became of age, when he\nwould defy his family to again tear them asunder.\n\nNone of John Penn\u2019s family had the slightest suspicion of anything out\nof the usual when he presented himself in their midst, and he returned\nquietly to Lille, where he remained until the ship was announced as\nready to take him to America. He arrived in New York during a terrible\ntornado, in November, 1752. At Philadelphia he evinced little interest\nin anything except to take a trip into the interior. As he had plenty of\nmoney, he could accomplish most anything he wanted, and was not watched.\nOn his way to the Susquehanna country he traveled with an armed\nbodyguard, as there were even then renegade Indians and road agents\nabroad. A number of less distinguished travelers and their servants\nwere, for safety\u2019s sake, allowed to accompany the party. Among them was\na man of fifty-five, named Peter Allen, to whom young John took a\nviolent fancy.\n\nIt was not unusual, for Peter Allen was what the Indians recognized as a\n_gentleman_, although he was only a cadet, or what we would call\nnowadays a \u201cpoor relation\u201d of the proud Allen family, the head of which\nwas William Allen, Chief Justice of the Province, a man about Peter\nAllen\u2019s age, and for whom Northampton or Allensville, now Allentown, was\nnamed.\n\nPeter Allen had built a stone house or trading post, which he called\n\u201cTulliallan\u201d after one of the ancestral homes of the Allen family in\nScotland, on the very outpost of civilization, twenty miles west of\nHarris\u2019 Ferry, where all manner of traders, hunters, missionaries,\nexplorers and sometimes Indians congregated, where balls were held with\nIndian princesses as guests of honor, and the description of this place\nfired John Penn\u2019s fancy.\n\nThe idea had flashed through his mind that Maria could harbor there\nunknown until he became of age, and some day, despite the silly family\nopposition, she would become the Governor\u2019s Lady. John Penn went to\nPeter Allen\u2019s, and not only found a refuge for his bride, but liked the\nfrontier life so well that it was as if he had been born in the\nwilderness. Mountains and forests appealed to him, and his latent\ndemocracy found full vent among the diversified types who peopled the\nwilderness.\n\nPeter Allen had three young daughters, Barbara, Nancy and Jessie, whom\nhe wished schooled, and John Penn arranged that Maria should teach them\nand, perhaps, have a select school for other children of the better sort\nalong the Susquehanna. Peter Allen was secretly peeved at his family for\nnot recognizing him more, and lent himself to anything that, while not\ndishonorable, would bend the proud spirit of the Proprietaries and their\nfavorites, one of whom was the aforementioned \u201cCousin Judge\u201d William\nAllen.\n\nJohn Penn returned to Philadelphia, from where he sent a special\nmessenger, a sort of valet, to London, who met and safely escorted Maria\nto America. She landed at Province Island on the Delaware, remaining in\nretirement there for a month, until John could slip away and escort her\npersonally to Peter Allen\u2019s.\n\nThe girl was bright, well-educated and sensible, and found the new life\nto her liking, and her young husband loving and considerate.\n\nIt was in the spring of 1754 when they reached the stone house at the\nfoot of the Fourth or Peter\u2019s Mountain, and during the ensuing year she\ntaught the young Allen girls and three other well-bred children, and was\nvisited frequently by her husband. She assumed the name of Mary Warren,\nher mother\u2019s maiden name, which proved her undoing. All went well until\nrepresentatives of the Penns in London learned that Maria Cox-Penn was\nmissing, and they traced her on shipboard through the name \u201cMary\nWarren,\u201d eventually locating her as the young school-mistress at\n\u201cTulliallan.\u201d\n\nThe next part of this story is a hard one to write, as one hates to make\naccusations against dead and gone worthies who helped to found our\nbeloved Pennsylvania; but, at any rate, without going into whys and\nwherefores, \u201cMary Warren\u201d mysteriously disappeared. Simultaneously went\nJoshua, the friendly Indian who lived at the running spring on the top\nof Peter\u2019s Mountain, and Arvas, or \u201cSilver Heels,\u201d another Indian, whose\ncabin was on the slopes of Third (now called Short) Mountain, near\nClark\u2019s Creek.\n\n[Illustration: VIRGIN WHITE PINES, WARREN COUNTY, 1912]\n\nIt was in the early summer of 1755 when John Penn, accompanied only by\none retainer, John Monkton, a white-bearded veteran of Preston, rode out\nof the gateway of the stockade of John Harris\u2019 trading post, bound for\nPeter Allen\u2019s. His heart was glad and his spirits elated for, moody lad\nthat he was, he dearly loved his wife and her influence over him was\ngood.\n\nOn the very top of the Second Mountain he drew rein, and in the clear\nstillness of the Sunday morning listened to a cheewink poised on the\ntopmost twig of a chestnut sprout, and viewed the scenes below him. In\nan ample clearing at the foot of Fourth Mountain he could see Peter\nAllen\u2019s spacious stone mansion, where his love was probably at that\nminute instructing the little class in the beauties of revealed\nreligion. They would soon be united, and he was so wonderfully happy!\n\nAs the cool morning breeze swayed the twig on which the cheewink\nperched, it sang again and again, \u201cHo-ho-hee, ho-ho-hee, ho-ho-hee!\u201d in\na high key, and with such an ecstasy of joy and youth that all the world\nseemed animated with its gladness, yet Penn\u2019s thought as he rode on was,\n\u201cI wonder where that bird will be next year; what will it have to\nundergo before it can feel the warmth and sunlight of another spring?\u201d\n\nHe hurried his horse so that it stumbled many times going down the\nmountain, and splashed the water all over old Monkton in his anxiety to\nford Clark\u2019s Creek. He lathered his horse forcing him to trot up the\nsteep contrefort which leads to \u201cTulliallan,\u201d though he weighed hardly\nmore than one hundred and twenty pounds. He drew rein before the door;\nno one rushed out to greet him, even the dogs were still. He made his\nescort dismount and pound the heavy brass knocker, fashioned in the form\nof an Indian\u2019s head. After some delay, Peter Allen himself appeared,\nlooking glum and deadly pale.\n\n\u201cWhat is wrong?\u201d cried Penn who was naturally as intuitive as a woman,\nnoting his altered demeanor.\n\n\u201cCan I tell you, sir, in the presence of your bodyguard?\u201d\n\n\u201cOut, out with it, Allen,\u201d shouted Penn, \u201cI must know _now_.\u201d\n\n\u201cMary Warren has been gone a fortnight, we know not whither. She had\ntaken the Berryhill children home after classes, and left them about\nfive o\u2019clock in the evening. She did not return, and we have searched\neverywhere. Strange to relate, George Smithgall, the young serving man\nwhom you left here to look after your apartments, and who accompanied\nMary from London is gone also; draw your own inferences.\u201d\n\nJohn Penn\u2019s fair face was as red as his scarlet cloak. Despite Allen\u2019s\nurging he would not dismount, but turned his horse\u2019s head toward the\nriver. He rode to Queenaskawakee, now called Clark\u2019s Ferry, where there\nwas a famous fording, and, accompanied by his guard, he made the\ncrossing and posted for the Juniata country. Near Raystown Branch he\ncaught up with the company of riflemen and scouts organized by \u201cBlack\nJack,\u201d the Wild Hunter of the Juniata, who was waiting for General\nBraddock\u2019s arrival to enlist in the proposed attack on Fort Duquesne at\nShannopin\u2019s Town, now Pittsburg. Black Jack was no stranger to him,\nhaving often met him at social gatherings at Peter Allen\u2019s, and the\ngreeting between the two men was very friendly. John Penn occupied the\nsame cabin as the Wild Hunter, and he told him his story.\n\n\u201cIt is not news to me,\u201d said Captain Jack. \u201cI heard it before, from\nSmithgall. He went through here last week hunting for Mary.\u201d\n\nDespite this reassuring information, Penn refused to believe anything\nbut that the lovely Quakeress had proved false and eloped with the\nGerman-American serving man. Word came in a few days that the vanguard\nof General Braddock\u2019s army had reached the Loyalhanna, and were encamped\nthere. Captain Jack, with John Penn riding at his side, and followed by\nhis motley crew with their long rifles\u2013Germans, Swiss, Frenchmen,\nDutchmen, Indians, half breeds, Negroes and Spaniards\u2013approached the\nluxurious quarters of General Edward Braddock, late of the Coldstream\nGuards. The portly General, his breast blazing with decorations, wearing\nhis red coat, was seated in a carved armchair in front of a log cabin\nerected for his especial use by his pioneers, who preceded him on the\nmarch. A Sergeant-Major conveyed the news of \u201cThe Wild Hunter\u2019s\u201d\npresence to the General\u2019s Aide, who in turn carried it to the august\npresence.\n\n\u201cI cannot speak to such a fellow, let alone accept him as a brother\nofficer,\u201d said Braddock, irritably. \u201cBesides, his methods of fighting\nare contrary to all discipline, and I want no Pennsylvania troops. Tell\nhim that if he insists I will make him top-sergeant, and place my own\nofficers over his company.\u201d\n\nCaptain Jack was half angry, half amused, when the rebuff was handed to\nhim via the sergeant major.\n\n\u201cMy father was a Spanish gentleman from the Minisink, and my mother a\nwoman of tolerably good Hessian blood. I see no reason for such rank\nexclusiveness.\u201d\n\nQuickly turning his horse\u2019s head, the sturdy borderer ordered his troop\nto proceed eastward.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t act too rashly, Captain,\u201d entreated Penn. \u201cGeneral Braddock is\nignorant of this country and Indian methods of warfare. He may have\norders not to enlist native troops, yet without your aid I fear for the\nsuccess of his expedition. Please let me intercede with him; he will do\nit when he hears that I am your friend.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the devil with him and his kind, the swinish snob,\u201d growled Captain\nJack, while his black eyes flashed a diabolical hatred; his Spanish\ntemper was uncontrollable. That night, when Captain Jack and John Penn\nwere seated at their camp fire at Laurel Run, a messenger, a Major, not\na Sergeant Major, from General Braddock was announced.\n\nSaluting, the officer asked to be allowed to speak with John Penn,\nEsquire. Penn received the officer without rising, and was cooly civil\nthroughout the interview, which consisted principally of reading a\nletter from Braddock, expressing deep regret \u201cthat he had not known that\nthe son of his dear friend, Richard Penn, had been with \u2013-- Jack,\u201d and\noffering Penn the captaincy of _Black Jack\u2019s_ company of scouts, \u201c\u2013--\nJack to be First Lieutenant.\u201d\n\nNaturally, Captain Jack was more enraged than ever, but he said: \u201cTake\nit, John, I\u2019ll withdraw and turn my men, who, you know, are the best\nshots in the Province, over to you. They would go through hell for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever fear,\u201d replied Penn, and, turning to the Major, he said: \u201cTell\nGeneral Braddock, with my compliments, that I decline to accept a\ncommission which he has no authority to tender. As for my companion,\nCaptain Jack (laying emphasis on the Captain) the General had _his_\ndecision earlier in the day. Goodnight, Major.\u201d\n\nThus terminated the \u201cconference\u201d which might have changed the face of\nhistory. As the result of Braddock\u2019s pride and folly, his defeat and\ndeath are a part of history, known by every Pennsylvanian.\n\nJohn Penn was wretchedly unhappy, even though Captain Jack tried to\nconsole him, when he shrewdly inferred that \u201cMary\u201d had been kidnapped by\nemissaries of his relatives, and had not eloped with a vile serving man.\nHis heart was too lacerated to remain longer with the Wild Hunter, now\nthat no active service was to be experienced; so, accompanied by\nMonkton, the veteran of Preston, he set out the next morning for the\nWest Branch of the Susquehanna to the unexplored countries.\n\nAt Waterford Narrows they passed the body of a trader recently killed\nand scalped by Indians.\n\n\u201cMay I draw one of his teeth, sir?\u201d said the old soldier, \u201cand you can\ncarry it in your pocket, for the old people say \u2018The only thing that can\nbreak the enchantment of love is the tooth of a dead man\u2019.\u201d\n\nPenn shook his head and rode on. For a considerable time Penn and Old\nMonkton visited with Dagonando (Rock Pine), a noted Indian Chief in\nBrush Valley (Centre County), for the young man, like the founder of\nPennsylvania, possessed the same irresistible charm over the redmen.\n\nYears afterwards, in Philadelphia, speaking to General Thomas Mifflin,\nDagonando stated that had it not been for his unhappy love affairs, John\nPenn would have been the equal of his grandfather as Governor, and\nprevented the Revolutionary War. But his spirit was crushed; even a mild\nlove affair with Dagonando\u2019s daughter ended with shocking disaster.\nReaching Fort Augusta, Penn became very ill; a \u201cnervous breakdown\u201d his\nailment would be diagnosed today. During his illness he was robbed of\nhis diary. He reached Philadelphia in the fall, and almost immediately\nset sail for England. He remained abroad until 1763, when he returned as\nGovernor of Pennsylvania. He arrived in Philadelphia on October 30, in\nthe midst of the terrific earthquake of that year, and on November 5,\nGeorge Roberts in a letter to Samuel Powell, in describing the new Chief\nMagistrate, says:\n\n\u201cHis Honor, Penn, is a little gentleman, though he may govern equal to\none seven feet high.\u201d\n\nCharles P. Keith has thus summed up Penn\u2019s career from the time of his\nfirst arrival in Pennsylvania: \u201cHe was one of the Commissioners to the\nCongress at Albany in the summer of 1754, and made several journeys to\nthe neighboring colonies. Nevertheless, his trouble made him again\ndespondent; he began to shun company; he would have joined Braddock\u2019s\narmy had any Pennsylvania troops formed part of it, and perhaps have\ndied on the field which that officer\u2019s imprudence made so disastrous.\nSome two months after the defeat he returned to England.\u201d\n\nOn June 6, 1766, a brilliant marriage occurred in Philadelphia. John\nPenn, Lieutenant Governor, aged thirty-seven years, married Anne, the\ndaughter of William Allen, Chief Justice; a strange fate had united the\nrelative of Peter Allen of \u201cTulliallan\u201d to the husband of Maria Cox,\npronounced legally dead after an absence of eleven years in parts\nunknown. Commenting on this alliance, Nevin Moyer, the gifted Historian,\nremarks: \u201cThe marriage was an unpleasant one, on his (Penn\u2019s) account,\nfor he was found very seldom at home.\u201d It was during the wedding that a\nfierce electrical storm occurred, unroofing houses and shattering many\nold trees.\n\nIt was not long after this marriage when a feeling of restlessness\nimpelled him to start another of his many trips to the interior. This\ntime it was given out that he wished to visit Penn\u2019s Valley, the\n\u201cempire\u201d discovered in the central part of the province by Captains\nPotter and Thompson, and named in his honor, and Penn\u2019s Cave, the source\nof the Karoondinha, a beautiful, navigable stream, rechristened \u201cJohn\nPenn\u2019s Creek.\u201d He managed to stop over night, as everyone of any\nconsequence did, at \u201cTulliallan,\u201d and slept in the room with the Scotch\nthistles carved on the woodwork, and saw Peter Allen for the first time\nin twelve years.\n\nA foul crime had recently been committed in the neighborhood. Indian\nJoshua, who used to live at the running spring, had gone to Canada the\nyear of Braddock\u2019s defeat (the year of Mary\u2019s disappearance, Penn always\nreckoned it) and had lately returned to his old abode. He had been shot,\nas a trail of blood from his cabin down the mountain had been followed\nclear to Clark\u2019s Creek, where it was lost. In fact, pitiful wailing had\nbeen heard one night all the way across the valley, but it was supposed\nto be a traveling panther. Arvas, or Silver Heels, had also come back\nfor a time, but, after Joshua\u2019s disappearance, had gone away.\n\n\u201cMaybe he killed his friend,\u201d whispered Allen, looking down guiltily, as\nhe spoke what he knew to be untruthful words.\n\n\u201cIt is all clear to me now, Allen,\u201d said Penn. \u201cI should have believed\nCaptain Jack, when in \u201955 he told me that my late wife was carried off\nto Canada by Indians; the kidnappers came back, and for fear that they\nwould levy hush money on those who had caused my Mary to be stolen,\nmurdered Joshua as a warning.\u201d\n\nAllen did not answer, but Penn said: \u201cYou have kept a public house so\nlong that you have forgotten to be a gentleman, and I do not expect you\nto tell the truth.\u201d\n\nIn 1840 seekers after nestlings of the vultures climbed to the top of\nthe King\u2019s Stool, the dizzy pinnacle of the Third Mountain. There they\nfound the skeleton of an Indian. It was all that was left of Joshua, who\nhad climbed there in his agony and died far above the scenes which he\nloved so dearly. The hunters put the bones in their hunting pouches and\nclimbed down the \u201cneedle,\u201d and buried them decently at the foot of the\nrocks.\n\nThe King\u2019s Stool is named for a similar high point near Lough Foyle,\nIreland, and there are also King\u2019s Stools in Juniata and Perry Counties.\nThe North of Ireland pioneers were glad to recognize scenes similar to\nthe natural wonders of the Green Isle!\n\nA great light had come to John Penn, but he accepted his fate\nphilosophically, just as he had the abuse heaped upon him for his\nvacillating policy towards the Indians. He followed up his vigorous\nattempt to punish the Paxtang perpetrators of the massacres of the\nConestoga Indians at Christmas time, 1763, by promulgating the infamous\nscalp bounty of July, 1764, which bounty, to again quote Professor\nMoyer, paid \u201c$134 for an Indian\u2019s scalp, and $150 for a live Indian, and\n$50 for an Indian female or child\u2019s scalp.\u201d\n\nThere are not enough Indians to make hunting for bounties in\nPennsylvania a paying occupation today, so instead there is a bounty on\nWildcats and foxes, wiping out desirable wild life to satisfy the\npoliticians\u2019 filthy greed.\n\nJohn Penn returned to Philadelphia without visiting Penn\u2019s Valley or\nPenn\u2019s Cave or John Penn\u2019s Creek. He had seen them previously in 1755\nwhen they bore their original Indian names, and his heart was still sad.\nIt was not long after returning that he again started on another\nexpedition up the Susquehanna, traveling by canoe, just as his\ngrandfather, William Penn, had done in his supposedly fabulous trip to\nthe sources of the West Branch at Cherry Tree, in 1700. A stop was made\nat Fisher\u2019s stone house, Fisher\u2019s Ferry. A group of pioneers had heard\nof his coming and gave the little Governor a rousing ovation. He felt\nnearest to being happy when among the frontier people, who understood\nhim, and his trials had, like Byron, made him \u201cthe friend of mountains\u201d;\nhe was still simple at heart. In the kitchen, seated by the inglenook,\nhe heard someone\u2019s incessant coughing in an inner room. He asked the\nlandlord, old Peter Fisher, who was suffering so acutely.\n\n\u201cWhy, sir,\u201d replied Fisher, \u201cit\u2019s an Englishwoman dying.\u201d\n\nIn those days people\u2019s nationalities in Pennsylvania were more sharply\ndefined, and any English-speaking person was always called an\n\u201cEnglishwoman\u201d or an \u201cEnglishman,\u201d as the case might be.\n\n\u201cTell me about her,\u201d said the Governor, with ill-concealed curiosity.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s a strange story, it might give Your Worship offense,\u201d faltered the\nold innkeeper. \u201cThey tell it, sir, though it\u2019s doubtless a lie, that\nYour Excellency cared for this Englishwoman, and your enemies had her\nkidnapped by two Indians and taken to Canada. The Indians were paid for\nkeeping her there until a few years ago, when their remittances suddenly\nstopped and they came home; one, it is said, was murdered soon after.\nArvas, his companion, was accused of the crime, but he stopped here for\na night, a few weeks afterwards, and swore to me that he was guiltless.\nThe Englishwoman finally got away and walked all the way back from a\nplace called Muskoka, but she caught cold and consumption on the way,\nand is on her death-bed now. I knew her in all her youth and beauty at\nPeter Allen\u2019s, where she was always the belle of the balls there; she\nhad been brought up a Quaker, but my, how she could dance. You would not\nknow her now.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want to see her,\u201d said the Governor, rising to his feet.\n\nIt was getting dark, so Fisher lit a rushlight, and led the way. He\nopened the heavy door without rapping. His wife and daughter sat on\nhigh-backed rush-bottomed chairs on either side of the big four-poster\nbed, which had come from the Rhine country. On the bed lay a woman of\nabout forty years, frightfully emaciated by suffering, whose\nexaggeratedly clear-cut features were accentuated in their marble look\nby the pallor of oncoming dissolution. Her wavy, dark hair, parted in\nthe middle, made her face seem even whiter.\n\n\u201cMary, Mary,\u201d said the little Governor, as he ran to her side, seizing\nthe white hands which lay on the flowered coverlet.\n\n\u201cJohn, my darling John,\u201d gasped the dying woman.\n\n\u201cLeave us alone together,\u201d commanded the Governor.\n\nThe women looked at one another as they retired. The thoughts which\ntheir glances carried indicated \u201cwell, after all the story\u2019s true.\u201d\n\nThey had been alone for about ten minutes when Penn ran out of the door\ncalling, \u201cCome quick, someone, I fear she\u2019s going.\u201d\n\nThe household speedily assembled, but in another ten minutes \u201cMary\nWarren,\u201d alias Maria Cox-Penn had yielded up the ghost. She is buried on\nthe brushy African-looking hillside which faces the \u201cdreamy\nSusquehanna,\u201d the Firestone Mountains and the sunset, near where\ntravelers across Broad Mountain pass every day. John Penn returned to\nPhiladelphia and took no more trips to the interior. He divided his time\nbetween his town house, 44 Pine Street, and his country seat\n\u201cLansdowne.\u201d\n\nDuring the Revolution he was on parole. He died childless. February 9,\n1795, and is said to be buried under the floor, near the chancel, in the\nhistoric Christ Church, Philadelphia, which bears the inscription that\nhe was \u201cOne of the Late Proprietors of Pennsylvania.\u201d Most probably his\nbody was later taken to England. His wife, _nee_ Allen, survived him\nuntil 1813.\n\nThe other night in the grand hall of the Historical Society of\nPennsylvania in the Quaker City, a notable reception was given in honor\nof the grand historian-governor, William C. Sproul, fresh from his\nmarvelous restoration of the Colonial Court House at Chester. As he\nstood there, the embodiment of mental and physical grace and strength,\nthe greatest Governor of a generation, receiving the long line of those\nwho came to pay their respects and well wishes, Albert Cook Myers, famed\nhistorian of the Quakers, mentioned that the present Governor of the\nCommonwealth was standing just beneath the portrait of John Penn, one of\nthe last of the Proprietaries. And what a contrast there was! Penn\nlooked so effete and almost feminine with his child-like blonde locks,\nhis pink cheeks, weak, half-closed mouth, his slender form in a red\ncoat, so different from the vigorous living Governor. Penn was also so\ninferior to the other notable portraits which hung about him\u2013the sturdy\nHuguenot, General Henri Bouquet, the deliverer of Fort Duquesne in 1758\nand 1763; the stalwart Scot, General Arthur St. Clair, of Miami fame,\nwho was left to languish on a paltry pension of $180 a year at his\nrough, rocky farm on Laurel Ridge; the courageous-looking Irishman,\nGeneral Edward Hand; and, above all, the bold and dashing eagle face of\nGeneral \u201cMad Anthony\u201d Wayne. Such company for the last of the Penns to\nkeep! Though lacking the manly outlines of his fellows on canvas, who\ncan say that his life had one whit less interest than theirs\u2013probably\nmuch more so, for his spirit had felt the thrill of an undying love,\nwhich in the end surmounted all difficulties and left his heart master\nof the field.\n\nThough his record for statecraft can hardly be written from a favorable\nlight, and few of his sayings or deeds will live, he has joined an\nimmortal coterie led down the ages by Anthony and the beautiful Egyptian\nqueen, by Abelard and Heloise, Dante and Beatrice, Petrarch and Laura,\nAlfieri and the Countess of Albany, and here in Pennsylvania by Hugh H.\nBrackenridge and the pioneer girl, Sabina Wolfe, and Elisha Kent Kane,\nand the spiritualist, Maria Fox. Love is a force that is all-compelling,\nall-absorbing and never dies, and is the biggest thing in life, and the\nstory of John Penn and Maria Cox will be whispered about in the\nbackwoods cabins and wayside inns of the Pennsylvania Mountains long\nafter seemingly greater men and minds have passed to forgetfulness.\n\nBut for a few lines in the writings of Charles P. Keith, H. M. Jenkins,\nNevin W. Moyer and various Penn biographers, such as Albert Cook Myers,\nthe verbal memories of \u2019Squire W. H. Garman, James Till, Mrs. H. E.\nWilvert and other old-time residents of the vicinity of \u201cTulliallan,\u201d\nall would be lost, and the inspiration of a story of overwhelming\naffection unrecorded in the annals of those who love true lovers.\n\n                                   II\n                            _At His Bedside_\n\n\nWhen old Jacob Loy passed away at the age of eighty years, he left a pot\nof gold to be divided equally among his eight children. It was a pot of\nsuch goodly proportions that there was a nice round sum for all, and the\npity of it was after the long years of privation which had collected it,\nthat some of the heirs wasted it quickly on organs, fast horses, cheap\nfinery and stock speculations, for it was before the days of\nplayer-pianos, victrolas and automobiles.\n\nYolande, his youngest daughter, was a really attractive girl, even had\nshe not a share in the pot of gold, and had many suitors. Though farm\nraised and inured to hardships she was naturally refined, with wonderful\ndark eyes and hair, and pallid face\u2013the perfect type of Pennsylvania\nMountain loveliness.\n\nAbove all her admirers she liked best of all Adam Drumheller, a shrewd\nyoung farmer of the neighborhood, and eventually married him. Three\nchildren were born in quick succession, in the small tenant house on his\nfather\u2019s farm in Chest Township, where the young couple had gone to live\nimmediately after their wedding.\n\nShortly after the birth of the last child old Jacob Drumheller died, and\nthe son and his family moved into the big stone farmhouse near the banks\nof the sulphurous Clearfield Creek. It was not long after this\nfortuitous move that the young wife began to show signs of the favorite\nPennsylvania mountain malady\u2013consumption. Whether it was caused by a\ndeep-seated cold or came about from sleeping in rooms with windows\nnailed shut, no one could tell, but the beautiful young woman became\npaler and more wax-like, until she realized that a speedy end was\ninevitable. Many times she found comfort in her misfortune by having her\nhusband promise that in the event of her death he would never remarry.\n\n\u201cNever, never,\u201d he promised. \u201cI could never find your equal again.\u201d\n\nHe was sincere in some respects; it would be hard to find her\ncounterpart, and she had made a will leaving him everything she\npossessed, and he imagined that the pot of gold transformed into a bank\nbalance or Government bonds would be found somewhere among her effects.\n\nBefore ill health had set in he had quizzed her many times, as openly as\nhe dared, on the whereabouts of her share of the pot.\n\n\u201cIt is all safe,\u201d she would say. \u201cIt will be forthcoming some time when\nyou need it more than you do today,\u201d and he was satisfied.\n\nAs she grew paler and weaker Adam began to think more of Alvira Hamel,\nanother comely girl whom he had loved when he railroaded out of\nJohnstown, at Kimmelton, and whom he planned to claim as his own should\nYolande pass away.\n\n[Illustration: SCENE IN SNYDER-MIDDLESWARTH PARK]\n\nPerhaps his thoughts dimly reflected on the dying wife\u2019s sub-conscious\nmind, for she became more insistent every day that he promise never to\nremarry.\n\n\u201cThink of our dear little children,\u201d she kept saying, \u201csentenced to have\na stepmother; I would come back and _haunt_ you if you perpetrate such a\ncruelty to me and mine.\u201d\n\nAdam had little faith in a hereafter, and less in ghosts, so he readily\npromised anything, vowing eternal celebacy cheerfully and profoundly.\n\nWhen Yolande did finally fade away, she died reasonably happy, and at\nleast died bravely. She never shed a tear, for it is against the code of\nthe Pennsylvania Mountain people to do so\u2013perhaps a survival of the\nIndian blood possessed by so many of them.\n\nThree days after the funeral Adam hied himself to Ebensburg to \u201csettle\nup the estate,\u201d but also to look up Alvira Hamel, who was now living\nthere. She seemed glad to see him, and when he broached a possible union\nshe acted as if pleased at everything except to go on to that lonely\nfarm on the polluted Clearfield Creek.\n\nBy promising to sell out when he could and move to Barnesboro or\nSpangler, a light came in her dark eyes, and though he did not visit the\nlawyer in charge of his late wife\u2019s affairs, his day in town was\nsuccessful in arranging for the new alliance with his sweetheart of\nother days.\n\nIn due course of time it was discovered that the equivalent of Yolande\u2019s\nshare of the pot of gold left by old Jacob Loy was not to be found. \u201cShe\nmay have kept it in coin and buried it in the orchard,\u201d was some of the\nvery consoling advice that the lawyer gave.\n\nAt any rate it was not located by the time that Adam and Alvira were\nmarried, but the bridegroom was well to do and could afford to wait.\nAfter a short trip to Pittsburg and Wheeling the newly married couple\ntook up housekeeping in the big brick farmstead above the creek.\n\nThe first night that they were back from the honeymoon\u2013it was just about\nmidnight and Alvira was sleeping peacefully\u2013Adam thought that he heard\nfootsteps on the stairs. He could not be mistaken. Noiselessly the door\nopened, and the form of Yolande glided into the room; she was in her\nshroud, all white, and her face was whiter than the shroud, and her long\nhair never looked blacker.\n\nAlong the whitewashed wall by the bedside was a long row of hooks on\nwhich hung the dead woman\u2019s wardrobe. It had never been disturbed;\nAlvira was going to cut the things up and make new garments out of them\nin the Spring. Adam watched the apparition while she moved over to the\nclothing, counting them, and smoothed and caressed each skirt or waist,\nas if she regretted having had to abandon them for the steady raiment of\nthe shroud.\n\nThen she came over to the bed and sat on it close to Adam, eyeing him\nintently and silently. Just then Alvira got awake, but apparently could\nsee nothing of the ghost, although the room was bright as day, bathed in\nthe full moon\u2019s light.\n\nYolande seemed to remain for a space of about ten minutes, then passed\nthrough the alcove into the room where the children were sleeping and\nstood by their bedside. The next night she was back again, repeating the\nsame performance, the next night, and the next, and still the next, each\nnight remaining longer, until at last she stayed until daybreak. In the\nmorning as the hired men were coming up the boardwalk which led to the\nkitchen door, they would meet Yolande, in her shroud coming from the\nhouse, and passing out of the back gate. On one occasion Alvira was\npumping water on the porch, but made no move as she passed, being\nevidently like so many persons, spiritually blind. The hired men had\nknown Yolande all their lives, and were surprised to see her spooking in\ndaylight, but refrained from saying anything to the new wife.\n\nEvery day for a week after that she appeared on the kitchen porch, or on\nthe boardwalk, in the yard, on the road, and was seen by her former\nhusband many times, and also her night prowling went on as of yore. The\nhired men began to complain; it might make them sick if a ghost was\naround too much; these spooks were supposed to exhale a poison much as\ncopperhead snakes do, and also draw their \u201clife\u201d away, and they\nthreatened to quit if she wasn\u2019t \u201claid.\u201d All of them had seen spooks\nbefore, on occasion, but a daily visitation of the same ghost was more\nthan they cared about.\n\nHad it not been for the excitable hired men, Adam, whose nerves were\nlike iron, could have stood Yolande\u2019s ghost indefinitely. In fact, he\nthought it rather nice of her to come back and see him and the children\n\u201cfor old time\u2019s sake.\u201d But the farm hands must be conserved at any cost,\neven to the extent of laying Yolande\u2019s unquiet spirit.\n\nThe next night when she appeared, he made bold and spoke to her: \u201cWhat\ndo you want, Yolande,\u201d he said softly, so as not to wake the soundly\nsleeping Alvira at his side. \u201cIs there anything I can do for you, dear?\u201d\n\nYolande came very close beside him, and bending down whispered in his\near: \u201cAdam,\u201d said she, \u201chow can you ask me why I am here? You surely\nknow. Did you not, time and time again, promise never to marry again, if\nI died, for the sake of our darling children? Did you not make such a\npromise, and see how quickly you broke it! Where I am now I can hold no\nresentments, so I forgive you for all your transgressions, but I hope\nthat Alvira will be good to our children. I have one request to make:\nAfter I left you, you were keen to find what I did with my share of\ndaddy\u2019s pot of gold. I had it buried in the orchard at my old home,\nunder the Northern Spy, but after we moved here, one time when you went\ndeer hunting to Centre County, I dug it up and brought it over here and\nburied it in the cellar of this house. It is here now. There are just\none hundred and fifty-three twenty dollar gold pieces; that was my\nshare. The children and the money were on my mind, not your broken\npromise and rash marriage, which you will repent, and which I tell you\nagain I forgive you for. I want my children to have that money, every\none of the one hundred and fifty-three twenty dollar gold pieces. I\nburied it a little to the east of the spring in the cellar, about two\nfeet under ground, in a tin cartridge box; Dig it up tomorrow morning,\nand if you find the one hundred and fifty-three coins, and give every\none to the children, I will never come again and upset your hired men.\nWhy I have Myron Shook about half scared to death already, but if you\ndon\u2019t find every single coin I\u2019ll have to come back until you do, or if\nyou hold it back from the children, you will not be able to keep a\nhireling on this place, or any other place to which you move. Many live\nfolks can\u2019t see ghosts; your wife is one of these; she will never worry\nuntil the hired men quit, then she\u2019ll up and have you make sale and move\nto town. Be square and give the children the money, and I\u2019ll not trouble\nyou again.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, Yolande,\u201d answered Adam in gentle tones, \u201cyou are no trouble to me,\nnot in the least. I love to have you visit me at night, and look at the\nchildren, but you are making the hired help terribly uneasy. That part\nyou must quit.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s enough of your drivel, Adam,\u201d spoke Yolande, in a sterner tone\nof voice. \u201cTalk less like a fool, and more like a man. Dig up that money\nin the morning, count it, and give it to the children and I\u2019ll be glad\nnever to see you again.\u201d\n\nTo be reproached by a ghost was too much for Adam, and he lapsed into\nsilence, while Yolande slipped out of the room, over to the bedside of\nthe sleeping children, where she lingered until daylight.\n\nAdam was soon asleep, but was up bright and early the next morning,\nstarting to dress just as the ghost glided out of the door. By six\no\u2019clock he had exhumed Yolande\u2019s share of the pot of gold which was\nburied exactly as her ghostly self had described.\n\nIt was a hard wrench to hand the money over to the children, or rather\nto take it to Ebensburg and start savings accounts in their names. But\nhe did it without a murmur. The cashier, a horse fancier, gave him a\npresent of a new whip, of a special kind that he had made to order at\nPittsburg, so he came home happy and contented.\n\nNight was upon him, and supper over, he retired early, dozing a bit\nbefore the \u201cwitching hour.\u201d As the old Berks County tall clock in the\nentry struck twelve, he began to watch for Yolande\u2019s accustomed\nentrance. But not a shadow appeared. The clock struck the quarter, the\nhalf, three quarters and one o\u2019clock. No Yolande or anything like her\ncame; she was true to her promise, as true as he had been false. It was\nan advantage to be a ghost in some ways. They were honorable creatures.\n\nAdam did not know whether to feel pleased or not. His vanity had been\nnot a little appealed to by a dead wife visiting him nightly; now he was\nsure that it wasn\u2019t for love of him or jealousy, she had been coming\nback, but to see that the children got the money that had been buried in\nthe cellar. And at last she had spoken rather unkindly, so the great\nchange called death had ended her love, and she wasn\u2019t grieving over his\nsecond marriage at all. However, he fell to consoling himself that she\nhad chided him for breaking his word and marrying again; she must have\ncared for him or she would not have said those things. Then the thought\ncame to him that she wasn\u2019t really peeved at anything concerning his\nmarriage to Alvira except that the children had gotten a stepmother. He\nwondered if Alvira would continue to be kind to them. Just as he went to\nsleep he had forgotten both Yolande and Alvira, chuckling over a pretty\nHigh School girl he had seen on the street at the \u2019burg, and whom he had\nwinked at.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  III.\n                        _The Prostrate Juniper_\n\n\nWeguarran was a young warrior of the Wyandots, who lived on the shores\nof Lake Michigan. In the early spring of 1754 he was appointed to the\nbody-guard of old Mozzetuk, a leader of the tribe, on an embassy to\nBethlehem, in Pennsylvania, to prevail on the holy men there, as many\nIndians termed the Moravians, to send a band of Missionaries to the\nWyandot Country, with a view of Christianizing the tribe, and acting as\nadvisors and emissaries between the Wyandots and allied nations with the\nFrench and other white men, who were constantly encroaching on the\nredmen\u2019s territories.\n\nWeguarran the youngest and the handsomest of the escort, was very\nimpressionable, and across Ohio and over the Alleghenies, he made\nfriends with the Indian maidens of the various encampments passed en\nroute.\n\nThe reception at Bethlehem was cordial, but not much hope was held out\nfor an immediate despatch of Missionaries as the Moravians were anxious\nto avoid being drawn into the warlike aspirations of the English and\nFrench, preferring to promote the faith in pacified regions, as very few\nof them were partisans, but if they had a leaning at all, it was toward\nthe French. This was due to the fact that the French always understood\nthe Indians better than the English, were more sympathetic colonizers,\nand while many French Missionaries carried forward the tenets of Rome,\nthere was no religious intolerance, and Missionaries of every faith\nseemed to thrive under their leadership.\n\nWhile at Bethlehem and Nazareth, Weguarran was much favored by the\nIndian maids of those localities, but did not wholly lose his heart\nuntil one afternoon at the cabin of an old Christian Pequot named\nMichaelmas. This old Indian, a native of Connecticut, lived in a log\ncabin on a small clearing near the Lehigh River, where he cultivated a\ngarden of rare plants and trees, and raised tobacco. All his pastimes\nwere unusual; he captured wild pigeons, which he trained to carry\nmessages, believing that they would be more valuable in wartime than\nrunners. He also practiced falconry, owning several hawks of race,\ngoshawks, marsh hawks and duck hawks. The goshawks he used for grouse,\nwood-cocks and quails; the marsh hawks for rabbits, hares and \u2019coons;\nand the duck hawks for wild ducks and other water birds, which fairly\nswarmed on the Lehigh in those days. He was a religious old man, almost\na recluse, strong in his prejudices, and was much enthused by the\nWyandot embassy, giving his waning hopes a new burst of life for an\nIndian renaissance.\n\nHe took a great fancy to the manly and handsome Weguarran, inviting him\nto his cabin, and it was there that the youthful warrior met the old\nman\u2019s lovely daughter, Wulaha. She was an only child, eighteen years of\nage. Her mother belonged to the Original People and was also a\nChristian.\n\nLove progressed very rapidly between Weguarran and Wulaha, and as the\ntime drew near for the embassy to depart, the young girl intimated to\nher lover that he must discuss the subject with old Michaelmas, and\nsecure his approval and consent, after the manner of white Christians.\n\nThe old Pequot was not averse to the union, which would add another\nstrain of Indian blood to the family, but stated that a marriage could\nonly take place on certain conditions. Weguarran, in his conversations\nwith Michaelmas, had told him of his military affiliations with the\nFrench, which had filled the old man\u2019s heart with joy for the hopes of a\nnew order of things that it seemed to kindle. When he asked the hand of\nthe fair Wulaha in marriage, Michaelmas \u201ccame back\u201d with the following\nproposition:\n\n\u201cWeguarran, I am getting old and feeble,\u201d he said. \u201cI may pass away any\ntime, and I could not bear the thought of my squaw being left alone,\nwhich would be the case if you married Wulaha and took her to the\ndistant shores of Lake Michigan. However, there are greater things than\nmy death and my squaw\u2019s loneliness, the future of the red race, now\ncrushed to earth by the Wunnux, as we call the white men, but some day\nto be triumphant. You have told me that within this very year the French\nand Indians are sure to engage the English in a mighty battle which will\ndecide the future history of the Continent. You can marry Wulaha right\nafter that battle, if you are victorious; otherwise you can do as the\nMissionaries tell us the Romans did\u2013fall on your sword. You can never\nreturn here, as I do not want my daughter to marry and continue the race\nof a beaten people. I would far rather have her die single, and have our\nseed perish, for if this victory is not won, doomed is every redman on\nthis Continent. The only wish of the English is to encompass our\nextermination. Wulaha will remain at home until after that battle, when\nyou can come for her and claim her as your own, and we will give her to\nyou with rejoicing.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat you say is surely fair enough, Father Michaelmas,\u201d replied\nWeguarran, \u201cfor I would see no future for Wulaha and myself if the\nEnglish are victorious in this inevitable battle. As soon as it is\nwon\u2013and it will be won, for the high resolve of every Indian warrior is\nto go in to win\u2013I will hurry back to the banks of the Lehigh, never\nstopping to rest, sleep or eat, to tell you of the glad tidings, and\nbear away my beloved Wulaha. I want to ask one special favor of you. I\nhave admired your wonderful cage of trained wild pigeons, which you say\nwill carry messages hundreds of miles. Lend me one of these pigeons, and\nas soon as the victory is won, I will release the bird, and while I am\nspeeding eastward on foot, our feathered friend will fly on ahead and\nend the suspense, and bring joy to yourself, your squaw and Wulaha.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will gladly let you have my best trained pigeon, or hawk, or anything\nI possess, if I can learn of the victory, but in turn I will ask a favor\nof you. I listened with breathless interest to your tales of the\nProstrate Junipers which grow on the shores of the great lakes, which\ncover two thousand square feet, and are hundreds of years old. You\npromised to bring me a scion of one of those curious trees, so that I\nmight plant it in my garden of rare trees and shrubs. Now, here will be\na chance to associate it with the great victory; pluck a stout but small\nscion, and if the victory is won, affix it firmly to one of the pigeon\u2019s\nlegs and let it go. If it comes back without the twig of Juniper I will\nknow that our cause has lost, and while you fall on your sword, I and my\nfamily will jump into the Lehigh.\u201d\n\n\u201cI will gladly do as you say, Father Michaelmas,\u201d said Weguarran, \u201cand\nwill send a twig that will grow, and some day make a noble tree, and in\nyears to come, our people will call it Weguarran\u2019s Victory Tree. The\nfact that it is a Prostrate Tree makes it all the more appropriate, as\nit will represent the English race lying prostrated, crushed by the red\nrace they wronged, and by our kindly and just French allies.\u201d\n\nWeguarran was so inspired by the thought of the pigeon messenger, the\nsprig of Prostrate Juniper, and the impending victory that it assuaged\nhis grief at the parting from Wulaha, sending him away determined to\ngive a good account of himself in all things.\n\nOld Michaelmas selected a handsome cock pigeon, with a dragon\u2019s blood\nred breast\u2013his very best and most intelligent, and surest flyer, named\nWuskawhan, which he placed in a specially built, bottle shaped basket,\nwhich had no lid, yet the top was too small for the bird to escape. In\nthis way it could rise up and peer out, as it was carried along, and not\nbruise its wing coverts or head, as it would if it flew against the top\nof a square basket with a lid.\n\nAfter a touching parting with Wulaha, her mother and father, the young\nwarrior went his way with his precious burden.\n\nThe Indians, even old Mozzetuk, were rapid travellers, and in due time\nthey reached the country of the Prostrate Junipers on the shores of Lake\nMichigan. They arrived in what seemed like an armed camp, for all the\nbraves had been called to arms, which plotted to drive Indians and\nFrench to the uttermost ends of the earth.\n\nWeguarran was quickly mobilized, and a musket in one hand and tomahawk\nin the other, while on his back he bore the sacred pigeon, he marched\ntoward his foes. In the excitement he had not forgotten to slip into his\npouch at his belt a sprig of the Prostrate Juniper, which would be the\nemblem of the English race prostrate under the foot of French and Indian\nallies.\n\nIn due course of time the army of which the picked Wyandot warriors\nformed a part, met their English foemen on Braddock\u2019s Field, completely\nrouting and all but annihilating them. General Braddock himself was shot\nfrom behind by one of his own men in the wild stampede, and the French\nand Indians were completely victorious.\n\nSurveying the gorey scene, every wooded glade lying thick with dead\nredcoats and broken accoutrements, Weguarran carefully opened the\npanther skin pouch at his best, taking out the sprig of Prostrate\nJuniper. Then he lifted the handsome wild pigeon from its bottle-nosed\ncage of oak withes, and with a light leathern string, affixed the little\ntwig, on which the berries still clustered, to the bird\u2019s leg, then\ntossed the feathered messenger up into the air.\n\nThe pigeon quickly rose above the trees, circled a few times, and then\nstarted rapidly for the east, as fast as his broad, strong wings could\ncarry him.\n\nThis done, Weguarran visited his chief, obtaining leave to proceed to\nBethlehem to claim his bride, promising to report back with her on the\nbanks of the Ohio as speedily as possible. The pigeon naturally had a\ngood start, and by the next morning was flying over the palisaded walls\nof John Harris\u2019 Trading Post on the Susquehanna.\n\nA love story was being enacted within those walls, in the shadow of one\nof the huge sheds used in winter to store hides. Keturah Lindsay,\nHarris\u2019 niece, an attractive, curly-haired Scotch girl, was talking with\na young Missionary whom she admired very much, Reverend Charles Pyrleus,\nthe protege of Col. Conrad Weiser.\n\nUnfortunately they had to meet by stealth as his attentions were not\nfavored by the girl\u2019s relatives, who considered him of inferior\nantecedents. They had met in the shed this fair July morning, whether by\ndesign or accident, no one can tell, and were enjoying one another\u2019s\nsociety to the utmost.\n\nIn the midst of their mutual adoration, the dinner gong was sounded at\nthe trading house, and Keturah, fearful of a scolding, reluctantly broke\naway. As she came out into the sunlight, she noticed a handsome wild\npigeon drop down, as if exhausted, on one of the topmost stakes of the\npalisade which surrounded the trading house and sheds.\n\nKeturah, like many frontier girls, always carried a gun, and quickly\ntaking aim, fired, making the feathers fly, knocking the bird off its\nperch, and it seemed to fall to the ground outside the stockade. In a\nminute it rose, and started to fly off towards the east. She had\nreloaded, so fired a second time, but missed.\n\n\u201cHow strange to see a wild pigeon travelling through here at this time\nof year,\u201d she thought, as carrying her smoking firearm, she hurried to\nthe mess room of the big log trading house.\n\nThe messenger pigeon had been grievously hurt, but was determined to go\n\u201chome.\u201d On and on it went, sometimes \u201cdipping\u201d like a swallow, from loss\nof blood, but by sheer will power keeping on the wing. As it neared the\nfoothills of the South Mountains, near the village of Hockersville, with\nold Derry Church down in the vale, it faltered, spun about like a pin\nwheel, and fell with a thud. Gulping and blinking a few times, it spread\nout its wide pinions and lay on its breastbone\u2013stone dead\u2013the twig of\nProstrate Juniper still affixed to one of its carmine feet. There it\nlay, brave in death, until the storms and winds shivered it, and it\nrotted into the ground.\n\nWeguarran was a rapid traveler, and in forced marches came to the shady\nbanks of the Lehigh in three or four days. He was so excited that he\nswam the stream. He brought the first news of the great victory in the\nwest to the surprised Michaelmas and his friends. But where was the\nprized wild pigeon, Wuskawhan? It could not have gone astray, for such a\nbird\u2019s instinct never erred. \u201cCaught by a hawk or shot down by some\ngreedy fool of a Wunnux\u201d was the way in which old Michaelmas explained\nits non-appearance.\n\nThe news spread to the white settlements and to the towns, and there was\nconsternation among all sympathizers with the Crown\u2013with all except a\nfew Moravians who were mum for policy\u2019s sake, and the Indians, whose\nstoical natures alone kept them from disclosing the elation that was in\ntheir hearts.\n\n[Illustration: A MAMMOTH SHORT-LEAF PINE]\n\n\u201cThe English never wanted the Indians civilized,\u201d said Michaelmas,\nboldly. \u201cThey drove the Moravians out of Schadikoke and from the\nHousatonic when they saw the progress they made with our people; were it\nnot for the Quakers in Pennsylvania, they would have had no place to\nharbor; those of us who felt the need of these kind friends followed\nthem in their exile, but we can never forgive that we had to leave the\nConnecticut country of our birth under such circumstances. I am glad\nthat our enemies were beaten and annihilated.\u201d\n\nWeguarran was baptized, and he and the lovely Wulaha were married by one\nof the Moravian preachers, and started for the great lake country, which\nwas to be their permanent home.\n\nMichaelmas and his squaw were too old to make the long journey, but they\nwere happy in their garden of rare trees and plants, the wild pigeons,\nthe hawks of race, and the dreams of an Indian _renaissance_. They lived\nmany years afterwards, and are buried with the other Christian Indians\nat Bethlehem.\n\nOut in the foothills of the South Mountains, overlooking old Derry\nChurch, in the fertile Lebanon Valley among the pines and oaks and tulip\ntrees, a strange seedling appeared in the spring of 1756, different from\nanything that the mountain had known since prehistoric times. Instead of\ngrowing upward and onward as most brave trees do, it spread out wider\nand greater and vaster, until, not like the symbol of the Anglo-Saxon\nprone beneath the heel of French and Indian, it was the symbol of the\nall diffusing power of the English speaking race, which has grafted its\nideals and hopes and practical purposes over the entire American\nContinent. Nourished by the life\u2019s blood of the travelling pigeon that\nbore it there, it had a flying start in the battle of existence, and\ntoday, after all these years, bids fair to last many years longer, to be\nthe arboral marvel and wonder of the Keystone State.\n\nWell may the Boy Scouts of Elizabethtown feel proud to be the honorary\ncustodians of this unique tree with its spread of 2,000 feet, for apart\nfrom its curious appearance and charm, it has within it memories of\nhistory and romance, of white men and red, that make it a veritable\ntreasure trove for the historian and the folk-lorist, and all those who\nlove the great outdoors in this wonderful Pennsylvania of ours!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  IV.\n                           _Out of the Ashes_\n\n\nLast Autumn we were crossing Rea\u2019s Hill one afternoon of alternate\nsunshine and shadow, and as we neared the summit, glanced through\nseveral openings in the trees at the wide expanse of Fulton County\nvalleys and coves behind us, on to the interminable range upon range of\ndark mountains northward. In the valleys here and there were dotted\nsquare stone houses, built of reddish sandstone, with high roofs and\nchimneys, giving a foreign or Scottish air to the scene. Some of these\nisolated structures were deserted, with windows gaping and roofs gone,\npictures of desolation and bygone days.\n\nJust as the crest of the mountain was gained, we came upon a stone house\nin process of demolition, in fact all had been torn away, and the\nsandstone blocks piled neatly by the highway, all but the huge stone\nchimney and a small part of one of the foundation walls. Work of the\nshorers had temporarily ceased for it was a Saturday afternoon. Affixed\nto the chimney was a wooden mantel, painted black, of plain, but antique\ndesign, exposed, and already stained by the elements, and evidently to\nbe abandoned by those in charge of the demolition.\n\nThe house stood on the top of a steep declivity, giving a marvelous view\non four sides, almost strategic enough to have been a miniature\nfortress!\n\nIt was the first time in a dozen years that we had passed the site; in\n1907 the house was standing and tenanted, and pointed out as having been\na temporary resting place of General John Forbes on his eastern march,\nafter the successful conquest of Fort Duquesne, in 1758. Now all is\nchanged, historic memories had not kept the old house inviolate; it was\nto be ruthlessly destroyed, perhaps, like the McClure Log College near\nHarrisburg, to furnish the foundations for a piggery, or some other\nignoble purpose.\n\nAs we passed, a pang of sorrow overcame us at the lowly state to which\nhouse and fireplace had fallen, and we fell to recounting some of the\nincidents of the historic highway, in military and civil history, the\nmost noteworthy road in the Commonwealth. The further, on we traveled,\nthe more we regretted not stopping and trying to salvage the old wooden\nmantel, but one of our good friends suggested that if we did not are to\nreturn for it, we should mention the matter to the excellent and\nefficient Leslie Seylar at McConnellsburg, who knew everyone and\neverything, and could doubtless obtain the historic relic and have it\nshipped to our amateur \u201ccurio shop.\u201d\n\nThe genial Seylar, famed for his temperamental and physical resemblance\nto the lamented \u201cGreat Heart,\u201d was found at his eyrie and amusement\ncentre on top of Cove Mountain, and he gladly consented to securing the\nabandoned mantel. As a result it is now in safe hands, a priceless\nmemento of the golden age of Pennsylvania History.\n\nBut now for the story or the legend of the mantel, alluded to briefly\nlast year in the chapter called the \u201cStar of the Glen,\u201d in this writer\u2019s\n\u201cSouth Mountain Sketches.\u201d The story, as an old occupant of the house\ntold it, and he survived on until early in the Nineteenth Century was,\nthat General Forbes, on this victorious eastern march, was seized many\ntimes with fainting fits. On every occasion his officers and orderlies\nbelieved that the end had come, so closely did he simulate death. But he\nhad always been delicate, at least from his first appearance in\nPennsylvania, though when campaigning with the gallant Marshal Ligonier\nin France, Flanders and on the Rhine, participating in the battles of\nDettingen, Fontenoy and Lauffeld, no such symptoms were noted. Although\nless than fifty years of age when he started towards the west, he was\nregarded, from his illnesses, as an aged person, Sherman Day in his\ninimitable \u201cHistorical Collections\u201d states that there was \u201cmuch\ndissatisfaction in the choice of a leader of the expedition against Fort\nDuquesne, as General Forbes, the commander, was a decrepit old man.\u201d\n\nWhat caused his ill health history has not uncovered at this late date.\nIt has been said that he was an epileptic, like Alexander and other\ngreat generals, or a sufferer from heart trouble or general debility.\nHis military genius outweighed his physical frailties, so that he rose\nsuperior to him, but it must not be forgotten that he was aided by two\nbrilliant officers, Colonel George Washington and Colonel Henry Bouquet.\n\nHis immediate entourage was a remarkable one, even for a soldier of many\nwars. Like a true Scotsman, he carried his own piper with him, Donald\nMacKelvie, said to be a descendant of the mighty MacCrimmons; and his\nbodyguard was also headed by a Highlander, Andrew MacCochran, who had\nbeen a deer stalker on one of the estates owned by the General\u2019s father.\n\nForbes himself, being a younger son, was not a man of property, and\nPittencrief House, his birth-place, was already occupied by an older\nbrother, from whom, so Dr. Burd S. Patterson tells us, all who claim\nrelationship to him are descended.\n\nThe General was carried in a hammock, with frequent stops, from Harris\u2019\nFerry to Fort Duquesne, and back again, borne by four stalwart\nHighlanders, in their picturesque native costumes, wearing the tartan of\nthe Forbes clan. The deerstalker, MacCochran, was the major domo, and\neven above the chief of staff and Brigade Surgeon, gave the orders to\nhalt when the General\u2019s lean weazened face indicated an over-plussage of\nfatigue.\n\nIt was late in the afternoon as the returning army had neared the summit\nof Rea\u2019s Hill; the pipers were playing gaily Blaz Sron, to cheer foot\nsoldiers and wagoners up the steep, rocky, uneven grade, with the\nGeneral in the van. The ascent was a hard one, and the ailing\ncommander-in-chief was shaken about considerably, so much so that\nMacCochran was glad to note the little stone house, where he might give\nhim his much needed rest.\n\nOld Andrew McCreath and his wife, a North of Ireland couple, the former\na noted hunter, occupied the house; their son was serving in the\nPennsylvania Regiment, which formed a part of General Forbes\u2019\nexpeditionary forces. The old folks were by the roadside, having heard\nthe bagpipes at a great distance, eager to see the visitors, and catch a\nglimpse of their hero son. They were surprised and pleased when\nMacCochran signalled the halt in front of their door, which meant that\nthe entire procession would bivouac for the night in the immediate\nvicinity. There were several good springs of mountain water, so all\ncould await the General\u2019s pleasure.\n\nPermission was asked to make the house \u201cgeneral headquarters\u201d for the\nnight, which, of course, was quickly given, as the old couple were\nhonored to have such a distinguished visitor. There was a great couch,\nor what we would today call a \u201cDavenport\u201d in front of the fire, and\nthere the General was laid, the room dark, save for the ruddy glow of\nthe roaring fire, which illuminated every nook and corner, and made it\nat once as cheerful as it was warm and comfortable.\n\nThe General\u2019s eyes were wide open, and he gazed about the room, while\nhis faithful domestics watched him to anticipate every wish. When he was\nill he excluded his Staff, but kept his servants with him, and they,\nwith McCreath and his wife, stood in the corners of the room, back of\nthe couch, waiting for his commands.\n\nThe piper asked if he could liven his master with a \u201cwee tune or two,\u201d\nbut the General shook his head; his sandy locks had become untied, and\nflapped about his bony face; he made a motion with his hand that\nindicated that he wanted to be alone, to try and get some sleep.\nMcCreath and his wife, and their stalwart son, the other bearers of the\nhammock and litters, and the surgeon of the expedition, Major McLanahan,\nwho had slipped into the room, withdrew, leaving the piper and\nMacCochran standing in the corner back of the couch, to aid the General\nshould he become violently ill in his sleep.\n\nThe General dozed, and the bodyguard became very tired, for they had had\na hard march, and sank down on the floor, with their backs to the wall.\nAll was still, save for the tramp, tramp of the sentry outside the\nwindow, or the crackle of some giant bonfire in the general campground,\nor the barking of some camp follower\u2019s dog. The fire had died down a\nlittle, but threw great fitful shadows, like a pall, over the sleeping\nGeneral, and caused an exaggerated shadow of his bold profile to appear\non the wall.\n\nAll at once, without the slightest warning, he jumped to his feet, with\nthe elasticity of a youth, and arms outstretched, seemed to rush towards\nthe fire. He might have tripped over the pile of cord wood, and fallen\nin face foremost, had not the ever watchful piper and MacCochran,\nspringing forward, caught him simultaneously in their strong arms. They\ndid not find him excited, or his mind wandering, like a man suddenly\naroused from slumbers. On the contrary, he was strangely calm. He\nwhispered in MacCochran\u2019s ear:\n\n\u201cAndy, I have seen my lady of Dunkerck. She came out of the ashes\ntowards me. I rushed forward to greet her, and she went back into the\nhearth and was gone.\u201d\n\nThe General would say nothing further, but allowed himself to be laid\nout on the couch once more, and be covered with buffalo robes, and while\nhe lay quiet, he slept no more that night, but every minute or so kept\nlooking into the fire. At daybreak, at the sounding of Surachan on the\npipes, he was able to start, and the balance of the march executed\nwithout incident.\n\nHe reached Philadelphia in safety, but within a short time after\narriving there he passed away unexpectedly, and was buried in historic\nOld Christ Church, where a tablet with the following inscription was\nerected in the Chancel by the Pennsylvania Chapter of the Society of\nColonial Wars: \u201cTo the Memory of Brigadier-General John Forbes, Colonel\nof the 17th Regiment of Foot, born at Pittencrief, Fifeshire, 1710, died\nin Philadelphia, March 11, 1759.\u201d\n\nMacCochran was released from the army, and being enamored of the wild\nmountain country in the interior of Pennsylvania, returned to the\nforests. Later, though nearly fifty years old, he enlisted and served\nthrough the Revolutionary War in Captain Parr\u2019s Riflemen. After peace\nwas declared he bought the little stone house on Rea\u2019s Hill from young\nMcCreath, who had served with him in the Rifle Brigade, and lived there\nalone until he died about 1803. He said that he liked the place for its\nmemories of General Forbes, and he was always fond of telling to his\nmountaineer friends when they dropped in of an evening for a smoke and a\ntoddy, of his hero\u2019s exploits in peace and war, and more than once\nrecounted the tale of the wraith which appeared to the General at the\nfireplace, during his eastward journey from Fort Duquesne.\n\nGeneral Forbes, he said, as noted previously, was a younger son, and had\nentered the army early in life. He had been too busy campaigning to\nmarry, but not always too busy to fall in love. Yet he was a\nserious-minded man, and his romances were always of the better sort, and\nwould have ended happily on one or more occasions but for the exigencies\nof his strenuous campaigns, which moved him from place to place.\n\nOf all his love affairs, the one that hit him the hardest, and lasted\nthe longest, occurred after the victory of Lauffeld, won by Marshal\nLigonier, when, as Lieutenant-Colonel, he was quartered with his\nregiment at Dunkerck, preparatory to embarking for England. Colonel\nForbes\u2019 billet was with one Armand Violet, a rich shipowner, who resided\nin a mediaeval chateau, which his wealth had enabled him to purchase\nfrom some broken-down old family, on the outskirts of the town. It was\nbuilt on a bare, chalky cliff, overlooking the sea, where the waves beat\nover the rocks, and sent the spray against the walls on stormy nights,\nand the wind, banshee-like, moaned incessantly among the parapets.\n\nViolet was away a good deal, and his wife was an invalid, and peculiar,\nbut their one daughter, Amethyst Violet, was a ray of sunshine enough to\nilluminate and radiate the gloomiest fortress-like chateau. She was\nunder eighteen, about the middle height, slimly and trimly built, with\nchestnut brown hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion; her hair was worn\nin puffs over her ears and brushed back from her brows, just as the\ngirls are again wearing it today; she was vivacious and intelligent, and\ndetected in the Colonel, despite his thirty-seven years, a man of\nsuperior personality and charm.\n\nIn the long wait, due to conflicting orders, and the non-arrival of the\ntransport, Forbes and Amethyst became very well acquainted, in fact the\nColonel was very much in love, but would not dream of mentioning his\npassion, as he deemed it folly for a man of his years and experience to\nespouse a mere child. The girl was equally smitten, but more impulsive,\nand less self-contained.\n\nEvery evening the pair were together in the great hall, sitting before\nthe fire in the old hearth, their glances, which often met, indicating\ntheir feelings, but the Colonel confined his talk to descriptions of\nmilitary life, Scotland, its glens and locks and wild game, old legends\nand ballads which he loved to recite. He was particularly fond of\nrepeating the old ballad of Barbara Livingston.\n\nOne night while the wind was howling, and the spray was lashing against\nthe castle walls, and the rain dashed and hissed against the panes, the\ntime to retire had come, and Amethyst, instead of tripping away, sprang\nright into Forbes\u2019 arms, and lay her fluffy head against his bespangled\nbreast.\n\n\u201cYou are the coldest man in the world\u201d she sobbed, looking up with\ntear-dimmed blue eyes. \u201cWhat have you meant all these nights, we two\nalone for hours and hours, your eyes on only the sparks as they swept\nupwards through the \u2018louvre,\u2019 and your thoughts only on battles and\nmountain scenery. I love you more than all the world, and yet you could\nnot see it, or did not care. I can restrain my feelings no longer; tell\nme the truth, for I cannot bear the suspense and live.\u201d\n\nForbes revealed his love by holding her very tight, and covering her\nwet, hot eyelids with kisses. \u201cOh, foolish, darling Amethyst,\u201d he said,\n\u201cI love you just as much as you care for me. I have from the first\nmoment I saw you, and hoped that the transport would never come, but I\nam twice your age, and battered by many hard campaigns, and while I\nthink I could make you happy now, ten years hence I would be an old man,\nand you would despise me.\u201d\n\nAmethyst looked up into his sad, steady eyes, saying, \u201cI don\u2019t care what\nhappens ten years from now; we might both be dead. I love you, and I\nwant you. I will give you a week to decide; if you do not, I will jump\noff the highest parapet into the sea, and you can have yourself all to\nyourself, and prosper if you will with your stern Covenanter\u2019s\nprinciples.\u201d\n\nThe Colonel, though moved, was too prudent a Scot to capitulate. He took\nthe case under advisement, and every night for a week, though chivalrous\nand charming, neglected to set the beautiful girl\u2019s mind at rest. Yet\nwhen he retired to his room, he paced the floor all night, for he knew\nthat the exquisite girl could revive his youth.\n\nThe fatal night arrived. Perhaps the result might have been different if\nAmethyst had reminded her lover of her threat. She was too proud to do\nso, and the Colonel, thinking that she had forgotten her rash words\u2013to\nsome extent at least\u2013was mum, and they parted gaily, Amethyst darting\nout of the hall humming the old love song of Barbara Livingston as light\non foot, and apparently as light-hearted as any carefree child.\n\nShe was never seen again\u2013at least not until Forbes saw her come out of\nthe embers at the fireplace on Rea\u2019s Hill, more than thirteen years\nlater.\n\nWhen the word came that her room in one of the turrets was empty, a\ngeneral search was made, revealing the trap-door to the parapet open. In\nher haste she had omitted dropping it. From that Forbes knew that the\nworst had happened. When MacCochran told it to him, standing pale and\nfrigid by the ancient hearth, he tried to stroke his small military\nmustache, to show his sang-froid, but fell in a swoon on the stone\nfloor, lying unconscious for a week.\n\nThat was the beginning of the fainting fits that plagued him for the\nrest of his life, and the commencement of his distaste of life, which\ncaused him to ask for active service in America, in a new and wild\nenvironment, far from scenes similar to the terrible tragedy of his love\nand pride. And yet, out of the fire, in distant Pennsylvania, had\nappeared the long lost Amethyst Violet, perhaps as a \u201cwarning\u201d of his\nfast approaching end, to open the portals to that better world where\nthey would be together, and all things be as they should.\n\nMacCochran, philosophic and superstitious Scot that he was, had many\nreasons for lingering in the little stone house. Often he said, when he\nsat smoking late at night, the shadows from the dying fire would cast\ndark shapes, much like General Forbes\u2019 bold features, on the walls, and\nhe felt the magnetic spell of his old Master\u2019s presence. Perhaps out of\nthe ashes would emerge Amethyst Violet, or her spirit self, and the\nlovers could be re-united before his eyes in a shadowland.\n\nBut nothing ever happened so fortuitous, and the engraved likenesses of\n\u201cBonnie Prince Charlie\u201d and Madame d\u2019Albany, unhappy lovers also, which\nhung on either side of his Revolutionary rifle, above the mantel, looked\ndown on him as if in sympathy, for his fidelity which had survived the\ngrave. The long looked for visitations never came; perhaps among the\nvaults and cornices and lofts of Old Christ Church, where the General is\nresting, the reunion of the lovers has taken place, but wherever it has,\nthe place is known only to the spirits of Forbes and the fair Amethyst\nViolet; there are no witnesses.\n\nAnd now the present owner of \u201cGeneral Forbes\u2019 Fireplace,\u201d as he calls\nit, is waiting to set it up in some study or hunting lodge, beneath the\nskull and antlers of the extinct Irish elk, from Ballybetag Bog, where\namid forest surroundings, in the dead of night, he can keep vigil like\nMacCochran, after reading \u201cVolumes of Quaint and Forgotten Lore,\u201d and\nmaybe be rewarded by a sight of the true lovers from out of the ashes.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                   V\n                           _Wayside Destiny_\n\nLike many natives of the Pennsylvania Mountains, Ammon Tatnall was a\nbeliever in dreams and ghosts. Even in his less prosperous days, when\nlife was considerable of a struggle, he had time to ponder over the\nlimitless possibilities of the unseen world. Probably his faith in the\nso-called supernatural was founded on a dream he had while clerking in a\nhotel at Port Allegheny, during the active days of the lumber business\nin that part of the Black Forest.\n\nIt seemed that his mother was lying at the point of death, and wanted\nhim to come to her, but as she did not know his whereabouts, was\nsuffering much mental anguish. Just in the midst of the dream the alarm\nclock went off, but he awoke and got up with the impression that his\nvision had been real. In the office he informed the landlord of his\ndream. Like a true mountain man, the proprietor merely asked him to come\nback as soon as he could, such occurrences being not unusual in his\nrange of experience.\n\n[Illustration: AMONG THE VIRGIN HEMLOCKS, BLACK FOREST. (_Photograph by_\nW. T. Clarke.)]\n\nAt home, in the Wyoming Valley, he found conditions exactly as\nreproduced in the dream. His sudden coming proved the turning point in\nhis mother\u2019s illness; she rallied and got well. During her\nconvalescence, for Tatnall remained longer than he had expected, she\ntold him of a story which her mother had told her of the straight\ndreaming of some of their ancestors, pioneers of the North Branch.\n\nThe woman in question, who lived many years before, dreamed one night\nthat her daughter who lived in Connecticut, and who had married just as\nthey left for Wyoming, appeared to her with a baby in her arms. She said\nshe herself was dead and she desired the baby to be given to the\ngrandmother. As a sign of the reality of the vision, she placed her hand\non the wrist of the grandmother, leaving a mark on it that could never\nbe effaced.\n\nThe grandmother took the long journey to Connecticut and found that\neverything had happened as told in the dream. The child grew up, and\nbecame the wife of a well-known Methodist preacher, and was famed\nthroughout Northern Pennsylvania for her good deeds.\n\nTatnall gradually advanced in life, and became agent or traveling\nsalesman for several wholesale lumber concerns. He had gotten his start\nby being polite to the manager of one of the companies who came up from\nPittsburg every week and stopped at the hotel. He made a success as a\nsalesman, and it was a matter of quiet satisfaction to him that in ten\nyears he had sold 160,000,000 feet of lumber. But he had been too busy\nto marry, too busy to have a home; was a driving, pushing machine in the\ninterests of his employers. Sometimes on the trains he met with\nintelligent people, but generally his associates were like himself,\nhuman dynamos, but without his interest in the supernatural.\n\nThere was one railway journey which he took frequently, and on fast\ntrains. His westbound trips carried him through the most mountainous\npart of the country in the late afternoon, but there was generally light\nenough to show the various aspects of the wild, rugged landscape. There\nwas a little abandoned graveyard, all overgrown, with an uneven stone\nwall around it, near where the tracks crossed the river bridge. Standing\namong the lop-sided and battered tombstones, the tips of some of the\nolder ones of brownstone being barely visible, looking as if they were\nsinking into the earth, he would always see the figure of a young woman\nattired completely in grey. The train was always traveling so fast that\nhe counted a different number of stones every time he went by\u2013there were\nprobably a \u201cBaker\u2019s Dozen.\u201d\n\nFor a long time he thought that she must be some particularly devoted\nmourner, a recently bereaved widow, but it did seem a strange\ncoincidence that she should be there on the same days and hour that he\npassed by in the fast train. Once he called his seat-mate\u2019s attention to\nthe figure, but the companion could see nothing, and laughingly said:\n\u201cWhy, you must be seeing a ghost.\u201d\n\nThe word _ghost_ sent a thrill through Tatnall, and after that he said\nno more to anyone, but conceded to himself that the girl in grey was a\nwraith of some kind. Though the train did not pass close to the\ngraveyard, and was always moving rapidly, he fancied that he could\ndiscern the ghost\u2019s type of feature, or imagined he did; at any rate he\nhad an exact mental picture of what he thought she looked like, and\nwould pick her out in a crowd if he ever saw her in hailing distance.\n\nThis had kept up for five years, and he began to feel that it was\ngetting on his nerves; he must either abandon that particular train or\ngo to the graveyard and investigate. He chose the latter course, and one\nafternoon arrived at the nearest station, via a local train. The\ngraveyard was on the opposite side of the river, and there seemed to be\nvery little hurry on the part of the boatman, who lived on the far\nshore, to carry him across. It was late in the fall, after Thanksgiving,\nand the trees were bare of leaves, and shook and rattled their bare\nbranches in the gusts of wind that came out of the east.\n\nHe sat down on an old rotting shell of a dugout by the bank, watching\nthe cold, grey current, for the river was high after many days of fall\nrains. It was a dreary, but imposing scene, the wide, swollen river, the\nwooded banks and hills beyond, and back of him, high rocky mountains,\npartly covered with scrubby growth and dead pines.\n\nFinally, in response to frequent calling, he could see the boat\nlaunched; it looked like a black speck at first, and gradually drew\nnearer to him and beached. The boatman was a tiny man, with a long\ndrooping mustache and goatee, wearing a Grand Army button; he was\npleasant, but inquisitive, though he \u201callowed\u201d Tatnall could have no\nother business than to be a \u201cdrummer\u201d bound for the crossroads store on\nthe opposite bank.\n\nTatnall had remembered a small, dingy store in a hamlet, about half mile\nfrom the little cemetery; he had intended going there as he wanted\ninformation concerning the families who were buried there. Perhaps he\ncould learn all he wanted to know from the riverman, and save the walk\ndown the track to the store, but for some reason held his tongue.\n\nThe boatman\u2019s final remark was that it was strange for anyone to be\nwilling to pay a dollar to be ferried across the river, when most people\nwalked the railroad bridge. It was trespassing on railroad property, and\ndangerous to do it, but it was worth the risk, many travelers thought.\n\nArriving safely across the roily current, Tatnall paid and thanked the\nboatman, and started in the direction of the little country store. In\nfront of the store was a row of mature Ailanthus trees, which seemed\nlike sturdy guards over the old stone structure, which had once been a\ntavern stand. The porch was filled with packing cases and barrels.\n\nAs Tatnall opened the door, he could see a number of habitues seated\nabout on crates and barrels. One of them, a white bearded Civil War\nVeteran, rose up, leaning heavily on his cane, and bid the stranger\nwelcome. Almost before he had a chance to engage in conversation with\nthe regulars, he glanced behind the counter, where he beheld a young\nwoman, who had just emerged from an inner apartment behind the store\nroom.\n\nIn the dim half-light, the dark aquiline face and meagre figure seemed\nstrangely familiar. She was more Oriental than Indian in type, with that\ncurly hair and wonderful nose, those thin lips, and complexion, the deep\npink tone of a wild pigeon\u2019s breast. Where had they met before? For a\nmoment his mind refused to correlate, then like a flash, he realized\nthat she was the counterpart of the girl in grey who haunted the little\ndisused cemetery so regularly. And the way she looked at him was as if\nthey had seen one another before; on her face was a look of mild\nsurprise.\n\nAddressing some pleasantries to her, they were soon engaged in\nconversation, as if they had known each other for years. It was getting\nlate, time to light lamps and fires at home, so the long-winded\ndissertations of the habitues were left off, to be continued after\nsupper. One by one they filed out of the store; if they had any opinion\nof the stranger conversing with Elma Hacker, the store-keeper\u2019s niece,\nit was that he was probably some traveling man, \u201ctalking up\u201d his line of\ngoods.\n\nWhen the last one had gone, and the acquaintance had progressed far\nenough, Tatnall, leaning over the counter, confided bravely the purpose\nof his visit to the remote neighborhood. For five years he had been\nseeing a figure in grey, in the late afternoons, while passing by the\nlittle graveyard in the western express. No one else could see it, yet\nhe was certain that his senses were not deceiving him. Did she know\nanything of this, and could she help him fathom the mystery?\n\nThe dark girl dropped her eyes and was silent for a moment. She was\nhesitating as to whether to disclaim all knowledge, or to be frank and\ndivulge a story which concerned her soul.\n\n\u201cYes, I do know all about it, how very funny! I, too, have had the power\nof seeing that figure in grey, though very few others have ever been\nable to, and many\u2019s the time I\u2019ve been called crazy when I mentioned it.\n\u2018The girl in grey,\u2019 as you call her, strangely enough was an ancestress\nof mine, or rather belonged to my father\u2019s family, and while I have the\nsame name, Elma Hacker, I don\u2019t know whether I was named for her or not,\nas my parents died when I was a little girl.\n\n\u201cIt used to make me feel terrible when I was a little girl and told\nabout seeing the figure. I hated to be regarded as untruthful or\n\u2018dullness,\u2019 but at last my uncle, hearing of it, came to the rescue and\ntold me not to mind what anyone said, that, from the description, he was\nsure I had seen the ghost. He had never had the power to see her, but\nhis father, my grandfather had, and other members of the family.\n\n\u201cIt was a sad and curious story. It all happened in the days of the very\nfirst white settlers in these mountains, when my ancestors kept the\nfirst stopping place for travellers, a Stone fortress-like house, in\nBlack Wolf Gap; the ruins of the foundations are still visible, and\nfolks call it \u2018The Indian Fort.\u2019 The Hackers were friendly with the\nIndians, who often came for square meals, and other favors from the\ngenial pioneer landlord and his wife. The Elma Hacker of those days had\na sweetheart who lived alone on the other side of the Gap; his name was\nAmmon Quicksall, and from all accounts, he was a fine, manly fellow, a\ngreat hunter and fighter.\n\n\u201cHe would often drop in on his beloved on his way home from his hunting\ntrips, at all hours of the day. One one occasion four Indians appeared\nat the tavern, intimating that they were hungry, as Indians generally\nwere. Elma carried a pewter dish containing all the viands the house\nafforded to each, which they sat eating on a long bench outside the\ndoor.\n\n\u201cOne of the Indians was a peculiar, half-witted young wretch who went by\nthe name of Chansops. He came to the public house quite often, being\nsuspected of having a fondness for Elma and for hard cider. She always\ntreated him pleasantly, but kept him at a distance, and never felt fear\nof any kind in his presence. No doubt his feelings were of a volcanic\norder, and under his stoical exterior burned a consuming passion. He was\nmunching his lunch, apparently most interested in his food, when Ammon\nQuicksall and his hunting dogs hove in sight.\n\n\u201cTheir barking and yelping were a signal to Elma, who rushed out of the\nhouse to greet her lover, perhaps showing her feelings a trifle too\nmuch; though she had no reason to imagine she should restrain herself in\nthe presence of the Indians. All the while Chansops was eyeing her with\ngathering rage and fury. When Elma took her lover\u2019s arm\u2013she must have\nbeen a very impulsive girl\u2013and rested her head against his shoulder, it\nwas too much for the irate Indian.\n\n\u201cHe jumped up, firing his pewter dish into the creek which flowed near\nthe house, and danced up and down in sheer fury. His companions tried\nhard to calm him, as they wanted to keep on good terms with the\ninnkeeper\u2019s family, but he was beyond all control. Quicksall and Elma\nwere walking on the path which led along the creek; their backs were\nturned, and they little dreamed of the drama being enacted behind them.\nThe other Indians, realizing that Chansops meant trouble, lay hold of\nhim, but he wrenched himself free with a superhuman strength,\nthreatening to kill anyone who laid hands on him again.\n\n\u201cOld Adam Hacker, Elma\u2019s father, finally heard the commotion and came\nout, and asked in Dutch what the trouble was all about. One of the\nIndians, the oldest and most sensible, replied that it was only Chansops\nhaving a jealous fit because he saw Elma walking off with Quicksall.\nWhile these words were being said, Chansops was edging further away, and\nlooking around furtively, saw that he had a chance to get away, and\nsprang after the retreating couple. Bounding like a deer, he was a few\npaces behind Quicksall in a twinkling of an eye. He had a heavy old\nflint-lock pistol with him, which he drew and fired point blank into the\nyoung lover\u2019s back at two or three paces. With a groan, Quicksall sank\ndown on the ground, dying before Elma could comfort him.\n\n\u201cBefore Adam Hacker or the friendly Indians could reach the scene of the\nhorrid tragedy, Chansops had escaped into the forests, followed by\nQuicksall\u2019s hounds yelping at his heels. He was seen no more. The dogs,\ntired and dejected, re-appeared the next day; evidently they had been\noutraced by the fleet Indian runner.\n\n\u201cIt was a blow from which the bereaved girl could not react. She was\nbrave enough at the time, but she was never the same again. She\ngradually pined away, until she was about my age, she died, and was\nburied not in the little graveyard, but in her father\u2019s yard. That was\ndone because it was feared that the crazy Chansops might return and dig\nup her body, and carry it away to his lodge in the heart of the forest.\nQuicksall was buried in the pioneer cemetery, and that is the place\nwhere Elma Hacker of those days evidently frequents, trying to be near\nher sweetheart\u2019s last resting place, and to reason out the tragedy of\nher unfulfilled existence.\n\n\u201cIt is a very strange story, but odder still, to me, that you, a\nstranger, should have seen the apparition so frequently, when others do\nnot, and been interested enough to have come here to unravel the\nmystery.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a strange story,\u201d said Tatnall, after a pause. He was figuring\nout just what he could say, and not say too much. \u201cThe strangest part is\nthat the figure I have been seeing is the image of yourself, bears the\nsame name, and my name, Ammon Tatnall, has a somewhat similar sound, in\nfact is cousin-german to \u2018Ammon Quicksall.\u2019\u201d\n\nIn the gloom Elma Hacker hung her pretty head still further. She was\nglad that there was no light as she did not want Tatnall to see the hot\npurple flush which she felt was suffusing her dark cheeks.\n\n\u201cThe minute I came into the store,\u201d Tatnall continued, \u201cyou looked\nfamiliar; it did not take me a minute to identify you as the grey lady.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd you,\u201d broke in Elma, \u201cappear just as I always supposed Ammon\nQuicksall looked.\u201d\n\nHow much more intimate the talk would have become, there is no telling,\nbut just then the door was swung open, and in came old Mrs. Becker, a\nneighbor woman, to buy some bread.\n\n\u201cYou must be getting moonstruck, Elma,\u201d she said, \u201cto be here and not\nlight the lamps. Why, it is as dark as Egypt in this room, and you were\nalways so prompt to light them.\u201d\n\nElma bestirred herself to find the matches, and soon the swinging lamps\nwere lit, and the store aglow.\n\nAgain the door was thrown open, and Elma\u2019s uncle came in. He was Adam\nHacker, namesake of the old-time landlord, and proprietor of the store.\nMrs. Becker got her bread and departed, and Elma introduced Tatnall to\nthe storekeeper. Soon she explained to him the stranger\u2019s business, to\nwhich the uncle listened sympathetically. At the conclusion he said:\n\n\u201cIt is really curious, after all these years, to have an Adam Hacker, an\nElma Hacker and an Ammon Tatnall\u2013almost Quicksall\u2013here together; if\nChansops was here it would be as if the past had risen again.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us hope there\u2019ll be no Chansops this time,\u201d said Tatnall. \u201cLet us\nfeel that everything that was unfulfilled and went wrong in those old\ndays is to be righted now.\u201d\n\nIt was a bold statement, but somehow it went unchallenged.\n\n\u201cI believe in destiny, the destiny of wayside cemeteries, of chance and\nopportunity,\u201d he resumed. \u201cIt can be the only road to true happiness\nafter all.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow happy we\u2019d all be,\u201d said Elma demurely, \u201cif through all this we\ncould only lay the ghost of my poor ancestress, the grey lady.\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing that is started is ever left unfinished,\u201d answered Tatnall.\n\u201cAnd we of this generation become unconscious actors in the final scenes\nof a drama that began a couple of centuries ago. In that way the cycle\nof existence is carried out harmoniously, else this world could not go\non if it was merely a jumble of odds and ends, and starts without\nfinishes; as it is, everything that is good, that is worthwhile,\nsometimes comes to a rounded out and completed fulfillment.\u201d\n\nThe moon, which had come out clear, was three parts full, and shed a\nglowing radiance over the rugged landscape. After supper Ammon and Elma\nstrolled out along the white, moon-bathed road. Coming to a cornfield\nthe girl pointed to a great white oak with a plume-like crest which\nstood on a knoll, facing the valley, the river, and the hills beyond;\nthey climbed the high rail fence, and slipping along quietly, seated\nthemselves beneath the giant tree. Of the many chapters of human life\nand destiny enacted beneath the oak\u2019s spreading branches, none was\nstranger than this one. There until the flaming orb had commenced to\nwane in the west, they sat, perfectly content. \u201cOh, how I like to rest\non the earth,\u201d said she. \u201cHow I love to be here, and look at your\nwonderful face,\u201d he whispered, as he stroked the perfect lines of her\nnose, lips, chin and throat.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                   VI\n                            _The Holly Tree_\n\n\nIt was while on a mountain climbing trip in the French Alps, when\nstormstayed at a small inn at Grenoble, that a chance acquaintance\nshowed The Viscount Adare a copy of \u201cThe Travels of Thomas Ashe,\u201d a book\nwhich had recently appeared in London and created a sensation in the\ntourist world. The Viscount had already perused \u201cTravels Beyond the\nAlleghenies,\u201d by the younger Michaux, but the volume by Ashe, so full of\nhuman interest, more than sharpened his old desire to travel in the\nUnited States, now that a stable peace between the young republic and\nthe Mother Country was a matter of some years standing.\n\nThe mountains, as described by both Michaux and Ashe, seemed stupendous\nand inspiring, wild game and mighty forests were everywhere, and a\nglimpse might be caught of the vanishing redmen, without journeying as\nfar west as the Mississippi River.\n\nThomas Ashe excelled in descriptions of the life along the mountain\nhighways, though nothing could be more vivid than Michaux\u2019s pen picture\nof his feast on venison cooked on the coals on the hearth at Statler\u2019s\nstone tavern on the Allegheny summits, near Buckstown. This ancient\nhostelry is, by the way, still standing, though misnamed \u201cThe Shot\nFactory,\u201d by modern chroniclers, much to the disgust of the accurate\nhistorian of Somerset County, George W. Grove.\n\nAll during his trip among the Alps of Savoy, and Dauphiny, The Viscount\nAdare was planning the excursion to Pennsylvania. His love of wild\nscenery was one compelling reason, but perhaps another was Ashe\u2019s\ndescription of his meeting and brief romance with the beautiful Eleanor\nAncketell, daughter of the innkeeper on the Broad Mountain, above Upper\nStrasburg, Franklin County.\n\nIt was well along in August, the twenty-first to be exact, when Ashe\u2019s\nbook was first shown to him, therefore it seemed impracticable to make\nthe journey that year, but the time would soon roll around, and be an\nideal outing for the ensuing summer. From the time of his return to\nLondon, until almost the date set for the departure, The Viscount Adare\nbusied himself reading every book of American travel and adventure that\nhe could lay his hands on, besides accumulating a vast outfit to take\nalong, although the trip was to be on foot, and without even a guide.\n\nNeedless to say, with such an interesting objective, the year passed\nvery rapidly, not that The Viscount had no other interests, for he had\nmany, being a keen sportsman and scientist, as well as a lover of books,\npaintings and the drama.\n\nIt was on the twenty-third of August, a little over a year after his\nfirst acquaintance with the writings of Ashe, that The Viscount embarked\nfor Philadelphia, on the fast sailing ship \u201cOcean Queen.\u201d Very few\nEnglishmen went to America for pleasure in those days as the sting of\nthe Revolution was still a thorn in their sides. Many Britishers did go,\nbut they were mostly of the commoner sort, immigrants, not tourists.\n\nThe Viscount Adare, even before sailing, had his itinerary pretty well\nmapped out. He would tarry a week in Philadelphia to get rid of his \u201csea\nlegs,\u201d then proceed by carriage to Louisbourg, then beginning to be\ncalled Harrisburg, and go from there to Carlisle, Shippensburg, and\nUpper Strasburg, at which last named place he would abandon his\nconveyance, and with pack on back, in true Alpine fashion, start\noverland, traversing the same general direction of Michaux and Ashe\ntowards Pittsburg. At Pittsburg he planned to board a flat boat and\ndescend the Ohio, thence into the Mississippi, proceeding to New\nOrleans, at which city he could set sail for England.\n\nIt was an ambitious trip for a solitary traveler, but as he was known by\nhis Alpinist friends as \u201cThe Guideless Wonder,\u201d some indication may be\ndivined of his resourcefulness.\n\nThe journey across the Atlantic was interesting. A school of whales\nplayed about the ship, coming so close as to create the fear that they\nwould overturn it. The Captain, a shrewd Irishman, was not to be\ndaunted, so he ordered a number of huge barrels or casks thrown\noverboard, which immediately diverted the attention of the saurians,\nwith the result that a smart breeze coming up, they were left far\nastern.\n\nA boat, said to be a pirate, was sighted against the horizon, but\nfortunately made no attempt to come close, heading away towards the\nSummer Islands, where, say the older generation of mountain folks, arise\nall the warm south breezes that often temper wintry or early spring days\nin the Pennsylvania Highlands, with blue sky and fleecy clouds.\n\nThe Viscount Adare was pleased with these trifling adventures, and more\nso with ocean travel, as it was his first long sea voyage, though he had\ncrossed the Channel and the Irish Sea scores of times.\n\nHe debarked in Philadelphia after a voyage lasting nearly six weeks,\nconsequently the green foliage of England was replaced by the vivid\ntints of Autumn on the trees which grew in front of the rows of brick\nhouses near the Front Street Landing Wharf. He had letters to the\nBritish Consul, who was anxious to arrange a week or two of social\nactivity for the distinguished traveler, but The Viscount assured him\nthat he must be on his way.\n\nThe ride in public coaches to Lancaster and Harrisburg was accomplished\nwithout incident. His fellow travelers were anxious to point out the\nvarious places of interest, the fine corn crops, livestock and farm\nbuildings, but the Englishman was so anxious to get to the wilds that\nthis interlude only filled him with impatience.\n\n[Illustration: BARK-PEELERS AT WORK. BLACK FOREST]\n\nHe was impressed not a little by the battlefields of Paoli and\nBrandywine, but most of all by the grove where the harmless Conestoga\nIndians were encamped when surprised and massacred by the brutal Paxtang\nBoys. The word \u201cIndians\u201d thrilled him, and whetted his curiosity, which\nwas somewhat appeased on his arrival at Harrisburg by the sight of five\nIndians in full regalia, lying on the grass under John Harris\u2019 Mulberry\nTree, waiting to be ferried across the river.\n\nHe tarried only one night at Harrisburg, then hiring a private\nconveyance, started down the Cumberland Valley, where he most admired\nthe many groves of tall hardwoods\u2013resting at Carlisle and\nShippensburg\u2013as originally planned. At Carlisle, he was waited on at his\ninn by a German woman, who explained to him that she was none other than\n\u201cMolly Pitcher,\u201d or Molly Ludwig, the intrepid heroine of the Battle of\nMonmouth.\n\nIt was on a bright autumnal morning that, with pack on back, and staff\nin hand, he started for the heights of Cove Mountain, towards the west\ncountry. On the way he passed a small roadside tavern, in front of which\na few years before had played a little yellow-haired boy, with a turkey\nbell suspended around his neck so that he could not get lost. The German\ndrovers who lolled in front of the hostelry were fond of teasing the\nlad, calling him \u201cJimmy mit the bells on,\u201d much to the youngster\u2019s\ndispleasure. His mother was a woman of some intellectual attainments,\nand occasionally would edify the society folk of Mercersburg by reciting\nthe whole of Milton\u2019s \u201cParadise Lost.\u201d\n\nIn time this boy became known as James Buchanan, the only Pennsylvanian\nto occupy the Presidential chair.\n\nThere were many taverns along the road, considering the wildness of the\ncountry, and The Viscount thought how much history and tradition was\nbeing made about their inglenooks and home-garths. The forests of\nchestnuts, yellow pine and rock oak, the grand scenery of distant\nvalleys and coves, interested him more, and the occasional meetings with\nthe mountain people along the way, whom he enjoyed conversing with,\nabout the local folk-lore, game and Indians. On many of the log barns\nand sheds were nailed bear paws, deer horns and wolf hides, and the\nhieroglyphics and signs, to ward off witches, were keenly interesting to\nhis inquiring gaze.\n\nIt was amazing how the road wound in serpentine fashion among the\nmountains; the distance could have been much shortened, he thought.\n\nOne morning a backwoodsman with a black beard that hung almost to his\nfeet, explained to him the \u201cshort cuts,\u201d or paths that went down the\nsteep slopes of the mountains, lessening the distance of the regular\nroads followed by the packers around the elbows of the mountain ravines.\n\nThe Viscount Adare enjoyed these \u201cshort cuts\u201d hugely. They reminded him\nof his Alpining days, and they led him right through the forests, under\nthe giant oaks and pines where he saw many unusual looking birds, such\nas Pileated Woodpeckers and Carolina Paraquets, while occasionally a\nDeer or Gray Fox crossed his path. He had reached the bottom of a ravine\nwhere a stream headed at a big spring, while taking one of these \u201cshort\ncuts,\u201d when he came in sight of a clearing which contained a corn field,\na pasture lot or commons, a log house, log barn, and a smaller log\ncabin, that looked like a smoke-house. Smoke was issuing from an opening\nin the roof of the tiny structure, which might have passed for a child\u2019s\nplay house, modelled after the larger log dwelling. As he neared the\nlittle hut, which reminded him of an Alpine _baracq_, and which stood\nclose to the path, the door opened and two most curious looking figures\nemerged. In old England he had seen sweeps, but these were more\ngrotesque and grimier than any he could recall. As he drew nearer, he\nperceived that while one appeared to be a man, the other was a young\nwoman. Both were entirely unclad, save that the woman\u2019s locks were\ncovered by a homespun cap of the tam o\u2019shanter pattern. Both were\nliterally black, from head to foot.\n\nWhen they saw the traveler, the woman ran back into the cabin, pulling\nthe door shut, while the \u201cJim Crow\u201d man waited in the path until joined\nby the surprised Viscount.\n\n\u201cWhat is all this, my good man,\u201d he queried, \u201cbeen cleaning your chimney\nand fallen through it into a barrel of tar?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d said the grimy mountaineer, smiling, his teeth looking very\nwhite against his swarthy visage. \u201cMy business is to make lamp black,\nand my friend and I have been sweeping down the walls, collecting the\noutput this morning, and boxing it, and had just finished when you\nappeared in sight.\u201d\n\nThe fellow made no attempt to apologize for his outlandish appearance,\nbut stood there in the sunlight like an imp of darkness, chatting with\nthe Englishman.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want to keep your lady friend penned up in there any longer,\u201d\nsaid The Viscount, as he started to move away.\n\n\u201cOh, don\u2019t go,\u201d said the maker of lamp black, \u201cI don\u2019t know why she acts\nthat way; stay and have dinner with us. We never let a stranger go by\nwithout furnishing him with some food.\u201d\n\nOrdinarily, The Viscount Adare, unconventional as he was, would have\nscurried away from such grimy surroundings, but there was something that\nappealed to him about the lamp black maker\u2019s lady, even in her coat of\nebony grime, that made him decide to tarry.\n\n\u201cThanks, I will stay,\u201d he replied, \u201cbut I\u2019ll go to the barn so as to\ngive your \u2018friend,\u2019 as you call her, a chance to come out.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t you bother to do that,\u201d said the black man. \u201cShe is acting\nfoolish today; don\u2019t give her the satisfaction to move a step. She never\nminded showing herself to anybody before.\u201d\n\nThese last words were secretly pleasing to the Viscount, as it showed\nthat the young woman recognized in him a person of superior\nsensibilities, but he hurried to the barn until he knew that she had\nbeen given time to escape to the house. But he could not help hearing\nthe lamp black maker loudly chiding her for modesty, a trait she had\nnever displayed previously. Pretty soon he saw the fellow making trips\nto the spring, carrying water buckets into the house. The Viscount sat\non the doorstep of the barn, watching the juncos flying about among the\nsavin bushes in the clearing, or his eyes feasting on the cornelian red\nfoliage of the sassafras trees on the hill, inwardly speculating if with\nher black disguise washed off, the young woman, whose higher nature he\nhad aroused, would be as good looking as he imagined her to be. He made\na mental picture of her loveliness, ranking her close beside that of\nhigh bred beauties of his own land, of the types depicted by Romney,\nKneller and Lely.\n\nIt was not long before he saw her emerge from the house, all washed and\nscrubbed, with her hair neatly combed, clad in a spick and span\n\u201cbutternut\u201d frock. As she came towards him, he noted that she was a\ntrifle above the average height, and her feet, despite the rough brogans\nshe wore, were very small. He saw, to his amazement, that she was the\ncounterpart of his mental picture, only more radiantly lovely. When she\ndrew near, she asked him, her face lighting up very prettily, as she\nspoke, if he would like to come to the house to rest, that she would\nsoon prepare dinner, and hoped that he would not be too critical of her\nhumble efforts as a cook.\n\nHer eyes seldom met his, but he could see that they were large and\ngrey-brown, with delicately penciled black brows, and black lashes. Her\nface was rather long and sallow, or rather of a pinkish pallor. Her hair\nwas cameo brown, her nose long and straight, the lines of her mouth\ndelicate and refined, with lips unusually thin. He had noticed, as she\ncame towards him, that her slender form swayed a little forward as she\nwalked, reminding him of the mythical maiden Syrinx, daughter of the\nRiver God, whom the jealous-hearted Pan changed into a reed.\n\nThe Viscount Adare was far more disconcerted than his hostess, as he\nfollowed her to the log house. Just as they approached the door she\nwhispered, \u201cI hope that you will forgive the awful exhibition I made of\nmyself.\u201d\n\nIndoors she sat down on one of the courting blocks by the great open\nhearth, where pots of various sizes hung from the cranes. The man, who\nwas still trying to get the lamp black out of his curly hair and beard,\nwas only partially dressed, and looked all the world like pictures of\nthe lascivious Lupercalian Pan himself.\n\nThe Englishman felt strangely at ease in the cabin, watching the\nslender, reed-like girl prepare the meal, and enjoyed the dinner with\nhis humble entertainers.\n\nShortly after the repast another bearded backwoodsman appeared at the\ndoor. The lamp black maker had an appointment to go with him to some\ndistant parts of the Shade Mountains to examine bear pens, and asked to\nbe excused. He would not be back until the next day; it was nothing\nunusual for him to leave his friend alone for a week at a time on\nsimilar excursions.\n\nThe Viscount was in no hurry to go, as never had a woman appealed to him\nas did the lamp black maker\u2019s young assistant. Perhaps it was the\nunconventional character of their first meeting that shocked his love\ninto being; at any rate he was severely smitten; probably John Rolfe was\nno more so, on his first glimpse of the humane Pocohontas.\n\nAfter the two hunters had gone, the young woman sat down on the other\ncourting block, on the opposite of the inglenook, and The Viscount\ndecided to ask her to tell him the story of her life. She colored a\ntrifle, saying that no one had ever been interested in her life\u2019s\nhistory before, therefore, she might not repeat it very well.\n\nShe had been born at sea, of parents coming from the northern part of\nIreland. They had settled first in the Cumberland Valley, then, when she\nwas about a dozen years old, decided to migrate to Kentucky. They had\nnot gotten much further than the covered bridge across the Little\nJuniata, when they were ambushed by robbers, and all the adult members\nof the party, her parents and an uncle, were slain. The children were\ncarried off, being apportioned among the highwaymen. She fell to the lot\nof the leader of the band, Conrad Jacobs, who took more than a fatherly\ninterest in her.\n\nHe was a middle-aged married man, but he openly said that when the girl\nwas big enough, he would chase his wife away and install her in her\nplace. But she was kindly treated by the strange people, even more so\nthan at home, for her mother had been very severe and unreasonable.\n\nWhen she was fifteen she saw signs that the outlaw was going to put his\nplan into effect\u2013to drive his wife out into the forest, like an old\nhorse\u2013and probably would have done so, but for Simon Supersaxo, the lamp\nblack man, who came to the highwayman\u2019s shanty frequently on his hunting\ntrips.\n\nThe robber became jealous of the young Nimrod and threatened to shoot\nhim if he came near the premises again. A threat was as good as a\npromise with such people, so Supersaxo was ready to kill or be killed on\nsight.\n\nHe met the highwayman one evening in front of McCormick\u2019s Tavern, and\ndrawing the bead, shot him dead. He was not arrested, but feted by all\nthe innkeepers for ridding the mountains of a dangerous deterrent to\ntravel, while she, her name was Deborah Conner, went to help keep house\nfor him, along with the outlaw\u2019s widow, but in reality to help make lamp\nblack.\n\nThat was four years before. Since old Mother Jacobs had died and\nDeborah, now nineteen years of age, was being importuned by Supersaxo to\nmarry him.\n\nPrevious to the Englishman\u2019s coming that morning, she had never felt any\nshame at working in the lamp black hut with her employer, or appearing\nbefore passers-by unclad, but now a great light had come to her; she was\nfree to confess that she was changed and humiliated.\n\nThe Viscount looked her over and over, and far into those wonderful\nstone grey eyes that mirrored a refined soul lost in the wilderness.\nThen he made bold to speak:\n\n\u201cDeborah\u201d, he said, \u201csince you have been so frank with me in telling the\nstory of your life, I will freely confess to you that I loved you the\nminute my eyes rested on you, even in your unbecoming homespun cap, and\nlamp black from head to foot. I realize that your being here is but an\naccident, and my coming the instrument to take you away. I will marry\nyou, and strive always to make you happy, if you will come away with me,\nand I will take you to England where, among people of refined tastes,\nyou will shine and always be at peace.\u201d\n\nDeborah opened her thin delicate mouth in surprise, and her eyes became\nlike grey stars. \u201cReally, do you mean that\u201d? she said.\n\n\u201cI mean every word,\u201d replied The Viscount Adare.\n\n\u201cI know that I feel differently towards you than any man I have seen, so\nI must love you, and I will always be happy with you,\u201d resumed the girl.\n\u201cAnd while I owe Simon Supersaxo a deep debt of gratitude for saving me\nfrom being forced into marrying that horrid old road-agent, I owe myself\nmore, and you more still. I will go with you whenever you are ready to\ntake me, no matter what my conscience will tell me later. Though I\u2019ll\nsay to you honestly that I never thought there was any life for me\nfurther than to make lamp black, until you came.\u201d\n\nShe explained to him that at Christmastime the lamp black man always\nwent with a party of companions on a great elk hunt to the distant\nSinnemahoning Country, and if The Viscount would return then, she would\narrange to meet him at a certain place at a certain day and hour, and go\naway with him. \u201cThere is a little clearing or old field on the top of\nthe ridge, beyond this house,\u201d and pointing her slender white hand,\nshowed to him through the open door. \u201cMeet me there on the day before\nChristmas, and I will be free to go away with you rejoicing.\u201d\n\nThe balance of the visit was passed in pleasant amity, until towards\nnightfall, when The Viscount shouldered his pack and seized his staff,\nand started away, not for Pittsburg, but eastward again. Deborah, her\nslender reed-like figure swaying in the autumn breeze, walked with him\nto the edge of the clearing. She kissed him goodbye among the savin\nbushes, and he kissed her many times in return, until they parted at the\ncarnelian-leafed sassafras trees on the hill, and he commenced the\nascent of the steep face of Chestnut Ridge.\n\nThe trip back to Philadelphia was taken impatiently, but with a\ndifferent kind of impatience; he wanted the entire intervening time\nobliterated, until he could get back to his strange exotic mountain\nlove. In Philadelphia he engaged passage for England the first week in\nJanuary, and wrote letters abroad to complete the arrangements for\ntaking his wife-to-be to his ancestral home. He could never forget the\nlast afternoon in the Quaker City. Christmas was coming, and the spirit\nof this glad festival was in the air, even more so than in \u201cMerrie\nEngland.\u201d He was walking through Chancellor Street when he came upon two\nblind Negro Christmas-singers, former sailors, who had lost their sight\nin the premature explosion of a cannon on the deck of a frigate on the\nDelaware River during the Revolutionary War. He stopped, elegant\ngentleman that he was, listened enraptured to their songs of simple\nfaith: \u201cPraise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf they had so much to be thankful for,\u201d he mused, \u201chow much more have\nI, with lovely Deborah only a few days in the future.\u201d\n\nThen he gave them each five shillings and moved on. A little further\ndown the street, he met an old Negro Woman selling sprigs of holly with\nbright red berries. He bought a sprig. \u201cI\u2019ll take it to Deborah,\u201d he\nsaid to himself.\n\nHe returned to Harrisburg by the stage coach, accompanied by a Negro\nbody-servant well recommended by the British Consul. At Harrisburg he\npurchased four extra good horses. With these and the Negro he retraced\nhis previous journey. He left the Negro and the horses at McCormick\u2019s\nTavern, continuing the balance of the journey on foot, his precious\nsprig of holly, with the bright red berries, fastened on the top of his\nstaff, that had often been decked with the _edelweiss_ and the Alpine\nrose. Deborah had said that she knew all the mountain paths back to\nMcCormick\u2019s, so they could reach there quickly, and be mounted on fast\nhorses almost before her employer missed them.\n\nHis heart was beating fast as he neared his trysting place, the little\nclearing on the ridge, the morning before Christmas. Peering through the\ntrees, he observed that Deborah was not there, but surely she would soon\ncome, the sun was scarcely over the Chestnut Ridge to the east! A grey\nfog hung over the valley, obscuring the little cabin in the cove.\n\nHe waited and waited all day long, but no Deborah appeared. He walked\nall over the top of the ridge to see if there were other clearings, lest\nhe had gotten to the wrong one. There were no others, just as she had\nsaid. Cold beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead; he was\nangry; he was jealous; the day was closing bitterly cold. \u201cThe woman\nthat I want, she will not come.\u201d\n\nFinally as the sun was going down behind the western summits of the\nAlleghenies, he untied the sprig of holly from the end of his\nmountain-staff, and bending over, stuck it in the fast freezing earth, a\nsymbol of his faithless adventure, and started down the mountain,\nstraight towards Deborah Supersaxo\u2019s cabin.\n\nAt the foot of the hill he met her coming towards him\u2013her face was\ndeadly pale, her thin lips white as death\u2013instantly his hate changed to\ntender love again.\n\n\u201cKill me if you wish,\u201d she cried out before he had time to speak, and\nheld out her arms to show her non-resistance, \u201cfor I have been unworthy.\nI broke my faith with you, and was not going to come; I repented at\nleaving Supersaxo, who had been so good to me when I was in distress. I\nwas going to leave you in the lurch. Then, then,\u201d and here tears\ntrickled down her ghastly cheeks, \u201cI was sitting on the courting log by\nthe fire, commending myself for my loyalty, when a few minutes ago one\nof his friends came in to say that the day before yesterday, while\nlooking at somebody\u2019s bear pen near the Karoondinha, it fell in on him\nand broke his neck. I was just coming up the hill to tell you, if you\nwere still waiting, how wicked I had been to you, and how I had been\npunished. Kill me if you wish, I can never be happy any more.\u201d\n\nThe Viscount Adare did not hesitate a moment, but flinging down his\nstaff, he rushed to the girl and caught her in his arms. \u201cDoubly blessed\nare we this night, dear Deborah, for there is now no impediment to our\nhappiness; no misdirected sense of duty can cast a shadow on the joy\nthat lies before us. I want you now more than ever before, after this\nfinal trial, and you must come with me!\u201d\n\n\u201cNever say must again,\u201d said Deborah, sweetly, looking up into his eyes,\n\u201cI am your willing slave; I will go with you to the ends of the earth: I\nwant to redeem this day by years of devotion, years of love.\u201d\n\nPicking up his staff, The Viscount Adare and the mountain girl resumed\ntheir journey, past the now deserted log house and the lamp black shack\nwhere they had first met, up the steep mountain, and off towards\nMcCormick\u2019s Tavern, near where, in a deep pine grove, the Negro\nbody-servant would be waiting with the horses.\n\nThat is all that has been recorded in the mountains concerning the lamp\nblack girl and The Viscount Adare. In England there is an oil painting\nof a certain Viscountess of the name that bears a striking resemblance\nto the one time Deborah Conner.\n\nUp on the ridge, in the little clearing, one or more of the seeds of the\nsprig of holly took root, and grew a fine tree. In order that this story\nmay be localized, it is said that this is one of the points furthest\nnorth of any specimen of the native holly in Pennsylvania. In time it\ndied off, but not before other scions sprang up, and there has always\nbeen a thrifty holly tree on the hill, as if to commemorate a lover\u2019s\ntryst, whose heart when on the point of breaking from hideous despair,\nfound the fullness of his happiness suddenly, and whose story is an\ninspiration to all aching hearts.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  VII\n                      _The Second Run of the Sap_\n\n\nThe selective draft, according to Dr. Jacobs, a very intelligent Seneca\nIndian, residing on the Cornplanter Reservation in Warren County, was\npracticed by Pennsylvania Indians in some of their earlier conflicts,\nnotably in the bloody warfare in the Cherokee country.\n\nIn the war against the Cherokees, there was a popular apathy at home, as\nit was not undertaken to repel an unjust invasion, but for the purpose\nof aggression, after the murder of a number of Cherokees by the Lenape,\nand as such did not appeal to the just and patient tribesmen in general.\n\nIn order to increase the invading armies beyond the limits of the\nvolunteer quotas of warriors and chiefs, who were of patrician\nantecedents, the draft was resorted to, with the result that a\nformidable host departed for the Southland, ravaging the enemy\u2019s\ncountry, and bringing in many prisoners.\n\nThe Cherokees were not completely vanquished, as they were victorious in\nsome of the conflicts, and also made numerous prisoners. Some of these\nwere tortured to death, others were adopted by families that had lost\ntheir sons, while a few escaped and made their way Northward.\n\n[Illustration: THE FALLEN MONARCH, PORTAGE CREEK]\n\nThe war was followed by the usual period of upheaval and reconstruction,\nand the moral code of the redmen suffered as much as did modern\ncivilization as an aftermath of the world war. Many Cherokee prisoners\nwere brought to Pennsylvania and put at menial work, or bartered as\nslaves while others intermarried with the northern tribes, so that\nCherokee blood become a component part of the make-up of the\nPennsylvania aboriginies. The Cherokee legends and history lingered\nwherever a drop of their blood remained, so that the beginnings of some,\nat least, of our Pennsylvania Indian folk-lore hark back to the golden\nage of the Cherokees.\n\nThey certainly have been the martyr-race, the Belgians of the North\nAmerican Indians, even to the time of their brutal expulsion from their\nCarolina homes during the Nineteenth Century by U. S. troops at the\nbehest of selfish land-grabbers, and sentenced to die of exhaustion and\nbroken hearts along the dreary trek to the distant Indian Territory.\n\nAmong the bravest and most enthusiastic of the Pennsylvania invaders was\nthe young warrior In-nan-ga-eh, chief of the draft, who led the drafted\nportion of the army against the Cherokee foemen. He was of noble blood,\nhence himself exempt from the draft, but he was a lover of war and\nglory, and rejoiced to lead his less well-born, and less patriotic\ncompatriots into the thick of battle. Although noble rank automatically\nexempted from the draft, the young scions of nobility enlisted\npractically to a man, holding high commissions, it is true, yet at all\ntimes bold and courageous.\n\nIn-nan-ga-eh was always peculiarly attractive to the female sex. Tall,\nlithe and sinewy, he was a noted runner and hunter, as well as famed for\nhis warlike prowess. At twenty-two he was already the veteran of several\nwars, notably against the Ottawas and the Catawbas, and thirsted for a\nchance to humble his southern rivals, the Cherokees. He wished to make\nit his boast that he had fought and conquered tribes on the four sides\nof the territory where he lived, making what is now the Pennsylvania\ncountry the ruling land, the others all vassal states.\n\nHe was indiscriminate in his love making, having no respect for birth or\ncaste, being different from his reserved and honorable fellow\naristocrats, consequently at his departure for the south, he was mourned\nfor by over a score of maidens of various types and degrees. If he cared\nfor any one of these admirers, it was Liddenah, a very beautiful, kindly\nand talented maiden, the daughter of the noted wise man or sooth-sayer,\nWahlowah, and probably the most remarkable girl in the tribe.\n\nThat she cared for such an unstable and shallow-minded youth to the\nexclusion of others of superior mental gifts and seriousness of purpose,\namply proved the saying that opposites attract, for there could have\nbeen no congeniality of tastes between the pair. Temperamentally they\nseemed utterly unsuited, as Liddenah was artistic and musically\ninclined, and a chronicler of no mean ability, yet she would have given\nher life for him at any stage of the romance. She possessed ample\nself-control, but when he went away her inward sorrow gnawing at her\nheart almost killed her. She may have had a presentiment of what was in\nstore!\n\nDuring invasions of this kind, communication with home was maintained by\nmeans of runners who carried tidings, good or bad, bringing back verbal\nlists of the dead, wounded and missing, some of which they shamefully\ngarbled.\n\nIn-nan-ga-eh was decorated several times for conspicuous bravery, and\nwas reported in the vanguard of every attack, until at length came the\nshocking news of his ambush and capture. Over a score of the most\nbeautiful maidens along the Ohe-yu and Youghiogheny were heartbroken to\ndistraction, but none more so than the lovely and intellectual Liddenah.\nThis was the crowning blow, her lover taken by his cruel foes, being\nperhaps boiled alive, or drawn and quartered. Seated alone in her lodge\nhouse by the banks of The Beautiful River, she pictured all sorts of\nhorrors befalling her beloved, and of his own deep grief at being held\nprisoner so far from his homeland.\n\nIt was a humiliation to be captured, and by a band of Amazons, who\nbegged permission to entrap the fascinating enemy. Finding him bathing\nin a deep pool, they surrounded it, flinging at him slightly poisoned\ndarts, which made him partially overcome by sleep, so that he was only\nable to clamber out on the bank, there to be secured by his fair captors\nand led in dazed triumph to their chief.\n\nThe Chieftain was elated at the capture, and treated the handsome\nprisoner with all the deference due to his rank. Instead of boiling him\nin oil, or flaying him, he was feted and feasted, and the warlike bands\nbecame demoralized by catering to his pleasure.\n\nIt was not long before the chief\u2019s daughter, Inewatah, fell in love with\nhim, and as her illustrious father, Tekineh, had lost a son in the war,\nIn-nan-ga-eh was given the choice of becoming the chief\u2019s adopted son or\nhis son-in-law. He naturally chose the latter, as the wife-to-be was\nboth beautiful and winning.\n\nThe war resulted in defeat for the Cherokees, although the old chief\nescaped to fastnesses further south with his beautiful daughter and\nalien son-in-law. All went well for a year and a half after the peace\nwhen In-nan-ga-eh, began to feel restless and listless for his northern\nmountains, the playground of his youth. He wanted to go on a visit, and\nasked the chief\u2019s permission, giving as his word of honor, his love for\nthe chieftain\u2019s daughter, that he would properly return.\n\nThe Cherokee bride was as heartbroken as Liddenah; she had first asked\nthat she might accompany him on the trip, which was refused, but she\naccepted the inevitable stoically outwardly, but with secret aching\nbosom.\n\nIn-nan-ga-eh was glad to get away; being loved too much was tiresome;\nlife was too enervating in the warm sunshine on Soco Creek; he liked the\ncamp and the hunting lodge; love making, too much of it, palled on him.\nHe wanted to be let alone.\n\nAccompanied by a bodyguard of selected Cherokees, he hurriedly made his\nway to the North. One morning to the surprise and delight of all, he\nappeared at his tribal village by the Ohe-yu, as gay and debonair as\never. As he entered the town almost the first person he saw was\nLiddenah. She looked very beautiful, and he could see at one glance how\nshe loved him, yet perversely he barely nodded as he passed.\n\nWhen he was re-united with his parents, who treated him as one risen\nfrom the dead, his sisters began telling him about the news of the\nsettlement, of his many friends, of Liddenah. Her grief had been very\nsevere, it shocked her mother that she should behave so like a European\nand show her feelings to such an extent. Then the report had come that\nhe had been put to death by slow torture. \u201cBetter that,\u201d Liddenah had\nsaid openly in the market place, \u201cthan to remain the captive of\nbarbarians.\u201d\n\nOnce it was taken for granted that he was dead, Liddenah began to\nreceive the attentions of young braves, as they came back from the South\nladen with scalps and other decorations of their victorious campaign\nagainst the Cherokees. Liddenah gave all to understand that her heart\nwas dead; she was polite and tolerant, but, like the eagle, she could\nlove only once.\n\nThere was one young brave named Quinnemongh who pressed his suit more\nassiduously than the rest, and aided by Liddenah\u2019s mother, was\nsuccessful. The pair were quietly married about a year after\nIn-nan-ga-eh\u2019s capture, or several months before he started for the\nNorth, leaving his Cherokee bride at her father\u2019s home on the Soco.\n\nQuinnemongh was not such a showy individual as In-nan-ga-eh, but his\nbravery was unquestioned, his reliability and honor above reproach. He\nmade Liddenah a very good husband. In turn she seemed to be happy with\nhim, and gradually overcoming her terrible sorrow.\n\nWhen In-nan-ga-eh had passed Liddenah on entering the village, he had\nbarely noticed her because he supposed that he could have her any time\nfor the asking. When he learned that she was the wife of another, he\nsuddenly realized that he wanted her very badly, that she was the cause\nof his journey Northward. The old passion surged through his veins; it\nwas what the bark-peelers call \u201cthe second run of the sap.\u201d\n\nThrough his sisters, who were among Liddenah\u2019s most intimate friends, he\nsought a clandestine meeting with his former sweetheart. They met at the\n\u201cStepping Stones,\u201d a crossing near the headwaters of Cowanshannock, in a\nmossy glade, which had formerly been his favorite trysting place with\nover a score of doting maidens in the ante-bellum days.\n\nLiddenah, inspired by her great love, never looked more beautiful. She\nwas probably a trifle above the average height, gracefully, but solidly\nmade. Her skin was very white, her eyes dark, her hair that of a raven,\nwhile her aquiline nose, high cheek bones and small, fine mouth made her\nresemble a high-bred Jewess more than an Indian squaw, a heritage\nperhaps from a remote Semitic origin beyond the Pacific. She showed\nopenly how happy she was to meet In-nan-ga-eh, until he told her the\nstory of his tragic love, how she had broken his young heart by cruelly\nmarrying another while he languished in a Southern prison camp. In vain\nshe protested that, on all sides came seemingly authentic reports of his\ndeath; he was obdurate in the destiny he had decreed. Quinnemongh must\ndie by his hand, and he would then flee with the widow to the country of\nthe Ottawas. The hot blood surging in his veins, like a second flow of\nsap in a red maple, must be appeased by her submission.\n\nLiddenah was horrified; she came of eminently respectable ancestry, she\nadmired Quinnemongh, her husband, almost to the point of loving him, but\nwhere that affection ended, her all-pervading obsession for In-nan-ga-eh\nbegan and knew no limitations in her being.\n\n\u201cTonight\u201d, said In-nan-ga-eh, scowling dreadfully, \u201cI will surprise the\nvile Quinnemongh in his lodge house, and with one blow of my stone\nwar-hammer crush in his skull, then I will scalp him and meet you at the\nstepping stones, and by the moonlight we will decamp to the far free\ncountry of the Ottawas, his scalp dangling at my belt as proof of my\nhate and my bravery\u201d.\n\nLiddenah gave a reluctant assent to the fiendish program when they\nparted. On her way home through the forest path her conscience smote her\nwith Mosaic insistence\u2013the blood of her ancestors, of the Lost Tribe of\nIsrael, would not permit her to sanction the murder of a good and true\nwarrior. She would immolate herself for her family honor, and for her\nrespect for Quinnemongh.\n\nArriving at the lodge-house she went straight to Quinnemongh and\nconfessed the story of her meeting with the perfidious In-nan-ga-eh, all\nbut the homicidal part. Quinnemongh was not much surprised, as he knew\nof her great love for the ex-Cherokee prisoner, and In-nan-ga-eh\u2019s\ncapricious pride.\n\n\u201cQuinnemongh\u201d, she said, between her sobs, for, like a white girl, she\nwas tearful, \u201cI was to meet In-nan-ga-eh tonight, when the moon is over\nthe tops of the trees, by the stepping stones, and we were to fly\ntogether to the country of the Ottawas. You present yourself there in my\nstead, and tell the false In-nan-ga-eh that I have changed my mind, that\nI am true to my noble husband\u201d.\n\nNeedless to say, Quinnemongh was pleased at this recital, and promised\nto be at the ford at the appointed time. Like most persons under similar\ncircumstances, he was eager to be on his errand, and departed early,\narmed with his favorite scalping knife. Liddenah kissed and embraced\nhim, calling him her \u201chero\u201d, and once he was out of sight, she darted\ninto his cabin and lay down among his blankets and buffalo robes,\ncovering herself, all but the top of her brow, and huddling, all curled\nup, for the autumnal air was chill.\n\nThe moon slowly rose higher and higher until it reached the crowns of\nthe giant rock oaks along the edge of the \u201cIndian fields\u201d. The gaunt\nform of In-nan-ga-eh could now be seen creeping steadily out of the\nforest, bounding across the clearing and, stone axe in hand, entered the\ncabin where he supposed that Quinnemongh was sleeping. A ray of shimmery\nmoonlight shone full on the upturned forehead of his victim. Animated by\na jealous hate, he struck a heavy blow with his axe of dark diorite,\ncrushing in the sleeper\u2019s temples like an eggshell. Leaving the weapon\nimbedded in his victim\u2019s skull, he deftly cut off the long bushy scalp\nwith his sharp knife, and, springing out of the hut, started off on a\ndog-trot towards the stepping stones, waving his bloody, gruesome\nsouvenir.\n\nHe approached the fording with the light of the full moon shining on the\nwaters of the brook; he was exultant and grinding his teeth in lustful\nfury. Who should he see there\u2013not the fair and yielding goddess\nLiddenah, but the stalwart form of the recently butchered and scalped\nQuinnemongh. Believer in ghosts that he was, this was almost too much of\na visitation for him. Pausing a minute to make sure, he rushed forward\nbrandishing the scalp in one hand, his knife, which caught the moon\u2019s\nbeams on its blade in the other.\n\n\u201cWretch\u201d! he shrieked at Quinnemongh, \u201cmust I kill you a second time to\nmake you expiate your sin at marrying Liddenah\u201d?\n\nQuinnemongh, who stood rigid as a statue at the far side of the ford,\nreplied, \u201cYou have not killed me once; how dare you speak of a second\ntime\u201d?\n\n\u201cWhose scalp have I then\u201d? shouted In-nan-ga-eh, as he continued to rush\nforward.\n\n\u201cNot mine surely\u201d, said Quinnemongh, as he felt his comparatively sparse\nlocks.\n\nJust as the men came face to face it dawned on both what had happened,\nand with gleaming knives, they sprang at one another in a death\nstruggle. For half an hour they fought, grappling and stabbing, kicking\nand biting, in the shallow waters of the ford. Neither would go down,\nthough Liddenah\u2019s scalp was forced from In-nan-ga-eh\u2019s hand, and got\nbetween the breasts of the two combatants, who pushed it, greasy and\ngory, up and down as they fought. They literally stabbed one another\nfull of holes, and bit and tore at their faces like wild beasts; they\ncarved the skin off their shoulders and backs, they kicked until their\nshin bones cracked, until finally both, worn out from loss of blood,\nsank into the brook and died.\n\nIn the morning the scalped and mutilated form of Liddenah was discovered\namong the gaudy blankets and decorated buffalo robes; a bloody trail was\nfollowed to the stepping stones, where the two gruesome corpses were\nfound, half submerged in the red, bloody water, in an embrace so\ninextricable, their arms like locked battling stags\u2019 antlers that they\ncould not in the rigidity of death be separated. Foes though they were,\nthe just and patient Indians who found them could do nothing else but\ndig a common grave in the half-frozen earth, close to the stepping\nstones, and there they buried them together, with Liddenah\u2019s soggy scalp\nand their bent and broken knives, their bodies to commingle with earth\nuntil eternity.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  VIII\n                        _Black Chief\u2019s Daughter_\n\n\nIt was the occasion of the annual Strawberry Dance at the Seneca\nReservation, a lovely evening in June, when, after a warm rain, there\nhad been a clear sunset, and the air was sweet with the odor of the\ngrass, and the narrow roads were deep with soft, brown mud and many\npuddles of water.\n\nIn the long, grey frame Council House all was animation and excitement.\nThe grim old Chief, Twenty Canoes, decked out in his headdress of\nfeathers, followed by the musicians with wolf-skin drums filled with\npebbles had arrived, and taken places on the long bench that ran almost\nthe entire length of the great hall. Other older and distinguished\nIndians, Indian guests from the Cornplanter Reservation in Pennsylvania,\nand from the New York Reservations at Tonawanda, and the Geneseo, and a\nfew white visitors, including the Rev. Holt, the Town Missionary and\nAttorney Vreeland, the agent, with their families, completely filled the\nlengthy bench.\n\nThe Indian dancers, male and female, gaily attired, had been gathering\noutside, and now, with the first rattle of the drums, filed into the\nroom and began to dance. As the first loud tattoo was heard, the dancers\ncommenced shaking their shoulders, holding their arms rigid, and the\n\u201cShimmy\u201d of decadent New York and Philadelphia of nearly half a century\nlater, was rendered effectively by its originators, the rhythmic\naborigines. As they danced in single file around the visitors\u2019 bench and\npast the Chief, to the beat of the wolf skin drums, they melodiously\nchanted, first the men, and then the women: \u201cWee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah,\nWanna; Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wee-Wah, Wanna.\u201d At times the women joined in\nthe general song, swelling the volume of the melody, until it drowned\nout the drum-beats. The windows were open and the perfume of lilacs was\nwafted in on the evening breeze, as the swaying files of Indian braves\nand maidens shimmied around and around. Among the white visitors was one\nyoung man who was particularly impressed, as he was there not out of\nidle curiosity, but to study the manners and customs of the last of the\nSenecas, in order to write his doctor\u2019s thesis at the University, the\nsubject being \u201cThe Later History of the Seneca Indians in New York.\u201d\n\nChristian Trubee, for that was his name, had always been interested in\nthe redmen, a natural heritage from pioneer and frontiersman ancestors\nwho had fought the Indians all along the Allegheny Mountains and in the\nOhio River basin. He had lately come to Steamburg, putting up at Pat\nSmith\u2019s \u201clong house,\u201d where he had quickly become acquainted with Simon\nBlack Chief, a handsome Indian youth who picked up a living as a\nmountebank among the frequenters of the ancient hostelry.\n\nSimon was a wonderful runner, and if he could interest the lumber buyers\nand the traveling men, would match himself against a little black mare\nowned by Smith and usually ridden by the landlord\u2019s stepson, for a half\nmile or mile, and generally beat his equine rival. Other times he would\nride the horse at a gallop, without saddle or bridle, over the common\nbetween the hotel and the Erie Railroad Station, picking up\nhandkerchiefs, cigars and quarter dollars off the greensward without\never once losing his equilibrium.\n\nOn the evening in question, he invited the young student to accompany\nhim to the Strawberry Dance at the Council House, and passing by the\none-roomed board shack where he lived, his sister, known as Black\nChief\u2019s Daughter, came out and joined them, so that the trio proceeded\nsingle file to the scene of the festivities. Neither Simon nor his\nsister danced that evening, but sat near their distinguished guest,\nexplaining as best they could the methods and art of the performers, for\nthey were very proud of the Indian dancing and music. As the evening\nprogressed, Christian Trubee found himself admiring the Indian maid at\nhis side more than he did the shimmying hordes on the floor, or the\nquaint picturesqueness of the unique ceremonial.\n\nBlack Chief\u2019s daughter was certainly the best looking girl present,\nalmost more like an American than an Indian in appearance, for her\nprofile was certainly on refined lines, and it was only when looking her\nfull in the face did the racial traits of breadth of the bridge of the\nnose, flatness of lips and deep duskiness of complexion reveal\nthemselves. Her dark eyes were very clear and expressive, her teeth even\nand white, her neck and throat graceful, and her form long, lithe and\nelegant.\n\nChristian Trubee liked her very much, and was entirely absorbed by her\nat the time of the last beat of the drums when, with a loud yell, the\ndance concluded, and the now limp and perspiring Indian dancers crowded\nout of doors into the cool moonlight. On the way back Simon Black Chief\nled the way, his long hair blowing in the breeze, his sister following.\nTrubee did not follow single file, but walked beside the fair damsel.\nShe was as tall as he was, though she wore deerskin shoes without heels.\nWhen they parted, in the long lush grass, before the humble cabin, she\npromised to show him some of the interesting spots on the\nreservation\u2013the grave of Blacksnake, the famous chief and orator, the\nvarious tribal burial places, and a visit to King Jimmerson, who\nalternated with Twenty Canoes as President of the Seneca Nation, to see\nthe silver war crowns of Red Jacket, Blacksnake and The Cornplanter, and\nto Red House to meet Jim Jacobs, the venerable \u201cSeneca Bear Hunter.\u201d\n\nAll of these excursions duly came to pass, about one a day, as the\nweather turned steadily clear, day after day, when the Keewaydin blew,\nand the distant mountains along The Beautiful River wore a purple green,\nand fleecy white clouds tumbled about in the deep blue sky. On these\nexcursions Black Chief\u2019s Daughter seemed to be the equal of her brother\nand Trubee as a pedestrian, was never tired, always cheerful and anxious\nto explain the various points of interest.\n\nAt one of the graveyards she pointed out the last resting place of an\neccentric redman known as \u201cIndian Brown,\u201d with two deep, round holes in\nthe mound, made according to his last wishes, because he had been such a\nbad Indian in life, that when the Devil came down one hole to get him,\nhe would escape by the other!\n\nThe three young people got along famously on the trips and Trubee was\nabsorbing an unusual amount of aboriginal history and lore, and under\nthe most pleasant circumstances. While he never said a word of affection\nor even compliment to Black Chief\u2019s Daughter, he felt himself deeply\nenamored, and often, in his quiet moments, pictured her as his wife.\nOnce or twice came the answering thought, how could he, a man of so much\neducation and refinement, take for life a mate who could not read, and\nwhose English was little better than a baby\u2019s jargon? Where would he\ntake her to? Would she like his life, for surely he could not become a\nsquaw man on the reservation? On the other hand, she was gentle,\nsympathetic and thoughtful, and the blood of regal Indian ancestors gave\nher a refinement that sometimes education does not convey. But he was\nhappy in the moment, as are most persons of adaptability of character.\nHe was at home in any company, or in any circumstances, and had he been\nold enough to enlist, would have made a brilliant record in the Civil\nWar; as it was he was but ten years of age when the conflict ended.\n\n[Illustration: READY FOR THE LOG DRIVE, KETTLE CREEK]\n\nAs the days wore on, each one more delightful than its predecessor,\nSimon Black Chief and his sister vied with one another to plan trips to\npoints of interest. One evening Simon asked his white friend if he had\never seen a wolf-house, the local Indian method of trapping these\nformidable animals.\n\n\u201cWhat was it like, and where was there one?\u201d was Trubee\u2019s instant reply.\n\n\u201cA wolf-house,\u201d said Simon, \"is a walled trap like a white man\u2019s great,\nbig mouse-trap, with a falling door. There is still one preserved over\nat the Ox Bow, at the tall, stone mansion called \u2018Corydon,\u2019 across the\nPennsylvania line.\"\n\nTrubee\u2019s interest was aroused, not only in the wolf-house, but the \u201ctall\nstone mansion\u201d and its possible occupants. Simon explained to him that\nan English gentleman lived there, a son-in-law of one of the heads of\nthe Holland Land Company. He had been a great hunter in his earlier\ndays, following exclusively the methods taught him by the Indians. It\nwas a longer trip than any yet attempted, but Trubee secured Pat Smith\u2019s\nlittle black mare and two other horses, so that the trio departed on\nhorseback for the distant manor house. Black Chief\u2019s Daughter, who rode\nastride, was a skillful and graceful horsewoman, even though her mount\nwas a poor excuse of horseflesh.\n\nThe trip along The Beautiful River was very enjoyable, and at length\nthey came in sight of \u201cCorydon\u201d on the hill, above the river, a great,\nhigh, dark stone structure, ivy grown, standing in a group of original\nwhite pines, some of these venerable monarchs being stag-topped, while\nothers had lost their crests in sundry tempests. There was a private\nrope ferry across the river, but they rode the horses through the\nstream, which was so deep in one place that the animals were forced to\nswim. They rode into the grounds, past the huge stone gate posts, up the\nhill, under the dark pines. As they neared the front door, the portico\ndesigned by the famous Latrobe, several dogs which looked like Scottish\ndeerhounds rushed down from the porch and began to leap about the\nhorses\u2019 throatlatches, barking loudly.\n\nTrubee checked his horse, and asked Simon, who was acquainted with the\nfamily, to dismount and inquire if he might inspect the wolf-house,\nwhich stood on a heathy eminence behind the garden. Once wolves had been\nso plentiful and so bold that five of the monsters had been caught in\nthe trap in the space of three months.\n\nBefore Simon Black Chief could dismount, two figures emerged from the\nhouse, a young man and a young woman. Trubee\u2019s quick glances made mental\npictures of both. The man was about thirty-five years of age, short and\nthickset, with blond hair parted in the middle, a small mustache and\n\u201cBurnsides,\u201d decidedly military in his bearing. The girl was of medium\nheight, possibly twenty years of age, decidedly pretty, with Sudan brown\nhair, hazel eyes, clear cut features, a fair complexion and wearing a\nflowing Mother Hubbard gown of prune-colored brocade.\n\nTrubee rode up to them, bowing, reining his horse, which he turned over\nto Simon and, dismounting, apologized for his intrusion. He explained\nhow the Indian had told him of the curious wolf-house back of the garden\nand how it would help him in his researches to see it. The girl\ngraciously offered to show it to him, but first invited the Indian girl\nto dismount and rest. The young man remained talking to the Indian, but\nthe Seneca maid continued to sit on her horse, rigid and silent as a\nTanagra. On the way to the wolf-house, Christian Trubee introduced\nhimself, and, being able to mention several mutual acquaintances, which\nput him on an easy footing with the fair chatelaine of \u201cCorydon\u201d.\n\nThe charming girl told him that she was Phillis Paddingstowe, the\ndaughter of the lord of the manor, which made Trubee feel like saying\nhow natural it was to find _Phillis_ at _Corydon_! The young\nmilitary-looking man, \u201cthe little Colonel\u201d she called him, was\nLieutenant Colonel Thomas Caslow, who had served with General\nHuidekoper, \u201cthe hero of Gettysburg\u201d in that immortal conflict, and was\nat Corydon for a few days on a trout fishing trip. The old garden\nthrough which they passed on the way to the wolf-house was full of\nboxwood trees, which had been brought from Bartram\u2019s gardens in\nPhiladelphia by wagon to Warren, and up the Ohe-yu in flat boats. They\ngave a spicy, aromatic odor to the summer afternoon atmosphere. The\nwolf-house was falling to decay, but Trubee took out his note book and\nsketched it and recorded its dimensions. It was surprising that wolves\nshould come so close to a habitation, but Phillis stated that when she\nwas a baby they had actually killed and eaten three of her father\u2019s\nfavorite Scotch deerhounds in one night, though they were chained to\nkennels at the rear of the house.\n\nBy the time they had returned from their inspection, Clement\nPaddingstowe, Phillis\u2019 father, had appeared, and supplemented his\ndaughter\u2019s cordial invitation that they stay to tea. Trubee might have\nremained, but Black Chief\u2019s Daughter, though she was again urged by\nPhillis and her father, seemed disinclined to partake of the\nhospitality. They rode down the drive all a changed party. The Indian\ngirl had heard Trubee accept an invitation to return to \u201cCorydon\u201d in the\nnear future, and noted his admiring glances at her fair person; she felt\nfor the first time that she stood no chance against a white girl of\ngentle blood, though her own native antecedents were of as noble\nquality, for was she not Black Chief\u2019s Daughter, and the granddaughter\nof the undefeated warrior, Destroy-Town?\n\nShe was silent and hung her head the whole way back to Steamburg.\nPhillis, though delightfully courteous by nature, seemed a trifle\ndistant to the little Colonel that evening. Simon Black Chief was piqued\nat himself for having brought unhappiness to his sister. Christian\nTrubee was in love with Phillis Paddingstowe. Nevertheless, the young\ncollegian was too much a man of the world not to value the kindnesses\nbestowed on him by Simon and his Sister, their parents and other Indians\nof the reservation, to become suddenly cold and indifferent. Yet, alone,\nhe wondered why he had ever for a minute contemplated marrying an Indian\ngirl, and how slight would be their spiritual intercourse? Yet he was\nhere underrating Black Chief\u2019s Daughter, who was not of the\nearth-earthy, and had called herself to him \u201can imaginative person.\u201d\n\nHe tried to be polite and attentive to the Indian girl, but she noted\nthat on several occasions where she planned trips for certain days, he\ndemurred on account of engagements at \u201cCorydon.\u201d His manner was\ndifferent; the Indian girl, uncannily intuitive, would not be deceived.\nThe summer wore along, and Trubee saw that he could not keep up pleasing\nBlack Chief\u2019s Daughter, a break must come somehow. And the neglected\nmaiden, unknown to him, was reading his every thought, and prepared to\nmake that break first. She had brought some late huckleberries to Pat\nSmith\u2019s wife at the long house, where she was told that Trubee had been\nabsent for three days at \u201cCorydon\u201d; that it was rumored he would marry\nClement Paddingstowe\u2019s daughter in the Fall.\n\nAs she walked along the path between the yellow, half-dead grasses,\nswinging the little iron pot that had contained the berries, she began\nplanning for the dissolution of her unhappy romance. There were many May\napples or mandrakes ripening in the low places, and, stooping, she\nuprooted several plants, half filling the pot with them. Then she left\nthe trail, and started across the meadow toward a group of ancient\nhemlock trees, beneath which was the Cold Spring. Near the spring were\nlarge, flat stones laid up like seats, and the remains of some stone\nhearths where the Indians often roasted corn. She had her flints and\nsteel with her, and gathered enough dry twigs and punk to light a fire.\nThen she sat down on one of the flat stones and, with her hands over her\nface, she reviewed the story of her love for Trubee. He had cared for\nher at first; that was consolation, but she was helpless beside the\nwhite rival; red blood was as nothing beside blue. Then she nervously\ntramped out the fire, as if to start on again. This life was a very\nlittle thing, after all; if her dream had failed in this existence,\nbetter end it, and come back again and fulfill it, even as a flower or\nbird; it was impossible to prevent living again. She began to munch the\nroots of the May apples which she had gathered, and then began to walk\nacross the fields toward the graveyard which contained the tomb of\n\u201cIndian Brown,\u201d the bad man.\n\nAs she came near the road which led to \u201cCorydon\u201d she made an effort to\nrun across it, but in the middle of it a dizziness seized her, then a\nsharp pain, and she staggered and dropped in a heap, the dust rising\nfrom the dry highway as she fell. The sand got in her eyes, nose and\nmouth as she lay on the path, her legs twisting in convulsive spasms.\nThe sun was beginning to sink close to the tops of the long, rolling\nsummits of the western mountains as the form of a horseman came in sight\naway down the long stretch of level road. It was Christian Trubee\nreturning from \u201cCorydon,\u201d flushed with the progress of his love making\nwith the fair and dainty Phillis Paddingstowe. He saw a black object in\nthe road; a wool sack fallen from some wagon, was his first conjecture.\nComing closer, he perceived it to be a human being, a woman, Black\nChief\u2019s Daughter.\n\nHe threw the bridle rein over the little mare\u2019s head and sprang to the\nground. As he caught the limp form of the Indian girl in his arms, she\nhalf opened her eyes and looked up at him.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Trubee, let me be, I pray of you; let me stay here and die; I\nhaven\u2019t anything more to live for since we visited at \u2018Corydon\u2019.\"\n\nThe young man did not know how to answer her, for he was honest always.\nHe lifted her on the saddle behind him, holding the long, lean arms\naround his waist, while her head bobbed on his shoulder, and started the\nlittle trappy black at a trot for the long house. It was supper time as\nhe neared the old hotel. In order to avoid attention, he rode up to the\nkitchen door, at the back of the house. A small, ugly, very black\ncolored boy, with a banjo, from Jamestown, was strumming a Negro melody\nto amuse the cooks.\n\n\u201cGet on this horse quick, boy,\u201d Trubee called to him, as he dismounted\nwith his limp burden, \u201cand bring over Doctor Forrester; Black Chief\u2019s\nDaughter is in a bad way from poison.\u201d\n\nPat Smith\u2019s wife and the other cooks ran out, and, taking in the\nsituation at a glance, carried the almost unconscious but uncomplaining\ngirl into the house where they laid her on a bench in the dance hall,\nall unknown to the guests, munching their huckleberry pie in the nearby\ndining room. The Doctor\u2019s buggy was standing in front of his cottage,\nand putting his horse to a gallop he raced the little Negro back to the\nhotel. It did not take him long, as he was a noted herbalist, to\ndiagnose the case as poison from May apple root, very deadly, but a\ndrastic Indian emetic, administered just in time, preserved her life.\n\nIt was a grisly scene in the bare, cheerless ball room; Black Chief\u2019s\ndaughter, all undressed, lay on a bench, while Old Black Chief, her\nfather, and Taleeka, her mother, Simon, Pat Smith, his wife, his\ndaughter, Sally Ann, Doctors Forrester and Colegrove, and Christian\nTrubee stood near her, or coming and going, most of them holding lighted\ncandles, which cast fretful shadows against the walls and\nclose-shuttered windows of this scene of much former ribald merrymaking.\nAll present knew why the girl had sought to take her life, yet not a\nsingle accusing word was uttered. All wanted to save her\u2013for what? Later\nshe was carried into one of the adjoining guest rooms and put to bed.\n\nSomewhat later Pat Smith\u2019s wife, a motherly woman, met Trubee in the\nhall, saying to him:\n\n\u201cWon\u2019t you please let me whisper to her that you are happy her life is\nsaved, and that you will marry her as soon as she is able?\u201d\n\nThe young man hesitated, then faltered: \u201cI rather you\u2019d not say it just\nnow.\u201d\n\nWhen she was almost to the door he ran after her, saying: \u201cTell her what\nyou suggested, in my presence.\u201d\n\nHe followed her into the room. The landlady bent over the stricken girl\nand gave her the message. Black Chief\u2019s daughter looked up at Trubee,\nand trying to smile, said:\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t do it; all I ask is that everything be as it was before you\ncame to the Reservation.\u201d \u201c said the young man, \"that I return to the\nUniversity, having everything as it was before we went to the Strawberry\ndance, or before you took me to \u2018Corydon\u2019\".\n\n\u201cThat is exactly my meaning\u201d, the girl whispered faintly. \u201cThen all will\nbe well\u201d.\n\n\u201cI think I can gather my things together and make the three o\u2019clock\ntrain east this morning; it is only right that I should go; I have made\neverybody unhappy since I came here.\u201d \u201creplied Black Chief\u2019s daughter,\n\"only me, and then only since the trip to \u2018Corydon\u2019.\"\n\nWith a lingering hand clasp they parted, and Christian Trubee, like one\ndazed by his unsuccessful tilt with Fate, moved off towards his room,\nnot knowing whether to be glad or sorry, but secretly eased in spirit\nfor accepting the only course that would extricate him from his\ntriangular dilemma.\n\nAfter he was gone, Black Chief\u2019s daughter fell into a peaceful slumber\nand did not wake, even when the roaring express train, with its blazing\nheadlight slowed down at Steamburg for its solitary eastbound passenger.\n\n                                   IX\n                             _The Gorilla_\n\n\nIf Sir Rider Haggard was a Pennsylvanian he would doubtless lay the\nscenes of his wonderful mystery stories in Snyder County. It is in that\nruggedly picturesque mountainous county where romance has taken its last\nstand, where the old touches the new, and hosts, goblins and witches and\nmemories of panthers, wolves and Indians linger in cycle after cycle of\nimaginative reminiscences. Every now and then, even in this dull,\nunsympathetic age, when the world, as Artist Shearer puts it, \u201cis\naesthetically dead\u201d, Snyder County is thrilled by some new ghost, witch,\npanther or mystery story. The latest of these in the last days of 1920\nand the first of 1921\u2013the giant gorilla\u2013has thrilled the entire\nCommonwealth by its unique horror.\n\nThe papers have told us how a gigantic man-ape escaped from a carnival\ntrain near Williamsport, and seeking the South, fled over the mountains\nto Snyder County, where it attacked a small boy, breaking his arm, held\nup automobiles, rifled smoke houses and the like, and then appeared in\nSnyder Township, Blair County, still further South, his nocturnal\nramblings in that region proving an effective curfew for the young folks\nof a half-dozen rural communities.\n\nThis story sounds thrillingly interesting, but as gorillas live on\nfruit, and do not eat flesh, the animal in question would have starved\nor frozen to death at the outset of his career in the Alleghenies, and\nthere the \u201cX\u201d, unknown quantity of the real story begins. The newspapers\nhave only printed the most popular versions of the gorilla mystery, only\na fraction of the romance and folk-lore that sprang up mushroom-like\naround the presence of such an alien monster in our highlands. Already\nenough has been whispered about to fill a good sized volume, most of it\nabsolutely untrue, yet some of the tales, if they have not hit the real\nfacts, have come dangerously close to it.\n\nLet the readers judge for themselves. Probably one of the most widely\ncirculated versions among the Snyder County mountaineers, the hardy\ndwellers in the fastnesses of the Shade, Jack\u2019s and White Mountains, is\nthe one about to be related. It is too personal to warrant promiscuous\nnewspapers publication, and even now all names have been changed and\nlocalities altered, but to a Snyder County Mountaineer \u201call things are\nplain\u201d. This is the \u201cauthoritative\u201d, confidential Snyder County version,\nunabridged:\n\nTo begin with, all the mountain people know Hornbostl Pfatteicher, whose\nlog cabin is situated near the heading of Lost Creek, on the borders of\nSnyder and Juniata Counties. He has never been much of a worker, living\nmostly by hunting and fishing, prospering greatly during the days when\nthe State raised the bounty on foxes and wild cats to an outrageously\nextravagant figure\u2013but no one cares; let the hunter\u2019s license fund be\nplundered and the taxpayers be jammed.\n\nHe was also very noticeable during the Spring and Fall forest fires,\nwhich never failed to burn some art of his mountain bailiwick annually.\nHe was opposed to Forester Bartschat, regarding him as too alert and\nintuitive, and made valiant efforts through his political bosses to have\nhim transferred or removed. He was regular in his politics, could always\nhave a hearing at Harrisburg, and though an ardent fisherman, saw no\nharm in the dynamiting or liming of streams, and upheld the right of\n\u201cthe interests\u201d to pollute the waterways with vile filth from paper\nmills and tanneries. In other words he was, and probably is, typical of\nthe professional mountaineer that the politicians, through the nefarious\nbounty laws, have maintained in the forests, to the detriment of\nreforestation and wild life.\n\nHornbostl, about 1915, was in love with a comely mountain girl, Beulah\nFuchspuhr, the belle of Lost Creek Valley, but he was away from home so\nmuch, and so indifferent, and so much in his cups when in the\nneighborhood that she found time to become enamored of a tie-jobber\nnamed Heinie Beery, and ran away with him to Pittsburg.\n\nDuring the flu epidemic, about the time of the Armistice, she was seized\nwith the dreaded malady, and passed away, aged twenty-eight years.\n\nHornbostl was in the last draft, but the Armistice was signed before he\nwas called to the colors, much to the regret of the better element, for\nhe was the sole pro-German in the mountains\u2013a snake in a brood of\neaglets\u2013and all allowed he should have been given a chance to fight his\nbeloved Kaiser. Though his name had a Teutonic flavor, he was only\nremotely of German ancestry, and should have known better than to root\nfor a despotism\u2013he, above all others, whose sole creed was personal\nliberty when it came to interfering with his \u201cvested rights\u201d of hunting\nand fishing out of season, and all other privileges of a lawless\nbackwoodsman.\n\nAfter attending the funeral of his wife in Pittsburg, he took the train\nto Philadelphia, and while there the news of the Armistice was received,\nconsequently his grief was assuaged by this very satisfying information.\nHe boarded on one of the back streets in the southern part of the Quaker\nCity, in a rear room, which looked out on an alley where there were\nstill a number of private stables or mews, occupied for the most part by\nthe horses and carriages of the aristocracy.\n\nHornbostl liked to sit at the window after his day\u2019s work at Hog Island,\nsmoking his stogie and watching the handsome equipages coming and going,\nthe liveried colored coachmen, the long-tailed horses, with their showy\nbrass mounted harness, with jingling trappings, the animated groups of\ngrooms, stable boys and hangers-on. Some of the darkies kept game\nroosters, and these occasionally strutted out into the alley and crowed\nwhen there was bright sunshine and the wind came from the \u201cSummer\nIslands\u201d.\n\nOne afternoon he saw a strange spectacle enacted at the stable opposite\nhis window. A large collection of moth-eaten and dusty stuffed animals\nand birds were unloaded from a dray\u2013stuffed elks, horns and all, several\nbuffalo heads, four timber wolves, with a red bear like they used to\nhave in Snyder County, a golden eagle, with tattered flopping wings and\na great black beast that stood upright like a man were the most\nconspicuous objects. A crowd of mostly Negro children congregated as the\nhalf a hundred mangy specimens of this \u201csilent zoo\u201d became too much for\nHornbostl, and putting his stogie between his teeth, sallied out the\nback door, hatless and in his shirt sleeves, a brawny rural giant who\ntowered above the puny citified crowd.\n\nHe was greatly interested in that huge black beast which stood upright,\nand could not quite classify it, though its hair was like that of a\nblack bear in its summer pelage. He sought out the tall Negro coachman\nwho was in charge of the stable, and asked why a museum was being\nunloaded at that particular moment.\n\n\u201cYer see its jest dis way\u201d, said the darkey, confidentially, \u201cold Major\nOurry have died an\u2019 \u2019is heirs dey didn\u2019t want de stuff about, so dey\nsent \u2019em down to de stable fer me to put in de empty box stalls\u201d.\n\nAs the conversation progressed the Negro intimated that the\naforementioned heirs would be glad to sell any or all of the specimens\nat a reasonable figure.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll give you ten dollars for that big animal that looks like a cross\nbetween a Snyder County black bear and a prize fighter\u201d, said Hornbostl.\n\n\u201cThe _gorilla_, you mean\u201d, interposed the darkey.\n\n\u201cYes, I mean the gorilla\u201d, answered the backwoodsman.\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s yours\u201d, said the Negro with a grin, for he was to get half of the\nproceeds of all sales. He wondered why the uncouth stranger wanted a\nstuffed gorilla, but of all the animals in the collection, he was most\npleased to get rid of that hideous effigy, the man-ape that might come\nto life some dark cold night and raise ructions with the horses.\n\nHornbostl offered five dollars more if the Negro would box the monster,\nand they finally arranged to box it together, and keep it in the stable\nuntil he would be let out at Hog Island. Eventually they got it to the\nfreight station, billed to Meiserville.\n\nAt the time of the purchase it is doubtful if Hornbostl had any definite\nidea of what he was going to do with his \u201cfind\u201d, all that came later.\nHornbostl was glad to return to his mountain home, and sank complacently\nback in his seat on the 11.30 A. M. train for Selim Grove Junction. It\nwas an uneventful trip, for he was an unimaginative person, taking\neverything as a matter of course, though he did notice an unusually\npretty high school girl with a wonderfully refined face and carriage,\nwho got off the train at Dauphin, and followed her with his eyes as she\nwalked along the street back of the station and across the bridge that\nspans Stony Creek, until the moving train shut her from view behind\nFasig\u2019s Tavern. He thought that he had never seen anything quite so\nlovely before; if his late sweetheart who had run away had been one\nquarter as beautiful and elegant she would be worth worrying about.\n\nHe reached Meiserville well after dark, for it was almost the shortest\nday of the year, and put up there for the night. In the morning he\ninquired at the freight office for his consignment, but hardly expected\nit that soon. He had to wait three days before it arrived, but when it\ndid, he secured a team which hauled it to his mountain retreat,\ndepositing the crate in front of his door. After the teamster with his\npair of heavy horses, decked out with jingling bells, departed,\nHornbostl unpacked his treasure, and the huge, grinning man-ape stood\nbefore him, seven feet tall. It was set up on a platform with castors,\nso he ran it into the house, leaving it beside the old-fashioned open\nfireplace, where he used to sit opposite his mother while they both\nsmoked their pipes in the old days.\n\n[Illustration: LAST RAFT IN THE WEST BRANCH OF SUSQUEHANNA]\n\nThat night after supper, when the raftered room was dark, save for one\nsmall glass kerosene lamp, and the fitful light of the embers, the\nmountaineer sat and smoked, trying to conjure up the history of the\nhideous monster facing him across the inglenook. Instead of evolving\nanything interesting or definite, the evil genius of the man-ape, as the\nevening progressed, seemed to take complete possession of him. He became\nfilled with vicious, revengeful thoughts; all the hate in his nature was\ndrawn to the surface as the firelight flashed on the glass eyes and\ngrinning teeth of the monstrous jungle king. All at once the maelstrom\nof nasty thoughts assumed coherent form, and he realized why he had\nbrought the gorilla to Snyder County.\n\nHe had heard since going to Philadelphia that the hated Heinie Beery had\ntaken a tie contract on the Blue Knob, the second highest mountain in\nPennsylvania, somewhere on the line between Blair and Bedford Counties.\nHe wanted to kill his rival, and now would be a chance to do it and\nescape detection. He would dress himself up in the hide, and proceed\noverland to Snyder Township, reconnoitre there, find his victim and\nchoke him to death, which the Negro coachman had told him was the chief\npastime of live gorillas in the African wilds.\n\nSuiting the action to the word, he drew his long knife and began cutting\nthe heavy threads which sewed the hide over the manikin. He soon had the\nhide lying on the deal floor, and a huge white statue of lath and\nplaster of Paris stood before him, like an archaic ghost. He did not\nlike the looks of the manikin, so pounded it to a pulp with an axe to\nlime his kitchen garden. The hide was as stiff as a board, but between\nthe heat of the fire and bear\u2019s grease he had it fairly pliable by\nmorning. By the next night it was in still better shape so he donned it\nand sewed himself in. Physically he was not unlike the man-ape, gross\nabout the abdomen, sloping shouldered and long-armed, while his\nprognathous jaw and retreating forehead were perfect counterparts of the\ngorilla\u2019s physiognomy.\n\nArming himself with a long ironwood staff, he started on his journey\ntowards the Blue Knob country. He had to cross the Christunn Valley in\norder to get into Jack\u2019s Mountain, which he would follow along the\nsummits to Mount Union. It was a dark, starless night, and all went well\nuntil he suddenly came upon the scene of a nocturnal wood chopping\noperation. The wood-cutter, a railroader, had no other chance to lay in\nhis winter\u2019s fuel supply than after dark, and by the light of a lantern\nplaced on a large stump had already stacked up a goodly lot of cordwood.\nHis son, a boy of fourteen, was ranking the wood. At the moment of the\ngorilla-man\u2019s appearance in the clearing the man had gone to the house\nfor a cup of hot coffee, leaving the lad alone at his work. The boy\nheard the heavy footfalls on the chips, and thinking his father was\nreturning, looked up and beheld the most hideous thing that his eyes had\never looked upon. He uttered a shriek of terror, but before he could\nopen his lips a second time the \u201cgorilla\u201d was upon him, slapping his\nmouth until the blood flowed, with one brawny paw, while he wrenched his\narm so severely with the other that he left it limp and broken, hanging\nby his side. Then the monster, looking back over his shoulder, loped off\ninto the deep forest at the foot of Jack\u2019s Mountain.\n\nThe boy, more dead than alive from fright, was found a few minutes later\nby his father, to whom he described his terrible assailant.\n\nAfter that the man-ape was more careful when he traveled, although he\nwas seen by half a dozen persons until he got safely to the vicinity of\n\u201cthe Monarch of Mountains\u201d.\n\nBlue Knob is a weird and impressive eminence around which many legends\ncluster, some of them dating back to Indian days. Its altitude at the\nnew steel forest fire tower is 3,165 feet above tide.\u201cis a beautiful\nword picture of the disappearance of two little tots on the slopes of\nBlue Knob, from the gifted pen of Rev. James A. Sell, of Hollidaysburg.\n\nHeinie Beery was living alone in a small shack on Poplar Run, a stream\nwhich has its heading on the slopes of Blue Knob, not far from the home\nof the mighty hunter, Peter Leighty. Since the loss of his wife he was\ngloomy and taciturn, and refused to live with his choppers and teamsters\nin their big camp further down in the hollow.\n\nWhile searching for Beery, the man-gorilla was seen by several of the\nwoodsmen, and the lonely camp was almost in a panic by this savage\nvisitation. The man-ape was glad that his outlandish appearance struck\nterror to all who saw him, else he might have been captured long before.\nHe watched his chance to get Beery where he wanted him, and in the\ncourse of several days was rewarded. Meanwhile he had to live somehow,\nand at dead of night broke into smoke-houses and cellars, eating raw\neggs and butter when hunger pressed him hard. In some ways it was no fun\nplaying gorilla on an empty stomach.\n\nOne Sunday afternoon Beery, after eating dinner with his crew at their\ncamp near the mouth of the hollow, started on a solitary ramble up the\nravine which led past the small shanty where in the local vernacular, he\n\u201cbached it\u201d towards the top of the vast and mysterious Blue Knob. Little\ndid he know that the man-ape was waiting behind his cabin, and followed\nhim to the summit, which he reached about dusk, and sat on a flat rock\non the brink of a dizzy precipice watching the lights flashing up at\nAltoona and Johnstown, the long trains winding their way around Horse\nShoe Curve. He heard the brush crack behind him, and looking around\nbeheld the hideous monster that he had supposed his workmen had conjured\nup out of brains addled by too much home-brew.\n\nHeinie Beery was a fighting Dutchman, but on this occasion his curly\nblack hair stood straight on end, and his dark florid face became as\nashen as death. He lost his self-control for an instant, and in this\nfatal moment the giant \u201cgorilla\u201d gripped him behind the shoulders and\nsent him careening over the precipice \u201cto take a short cut to Altoona\u201d.\n\nWith a shout of glee the monster turned on his heel, his mission\naccomplished, to return along the mountains and through the forests to\nhis cabin near the sources of Lost Creek. He was seen by a number of\nchildren at Hollidaysburg and Frankstown, late at night, frightening\nthem almost out of their wits; he terrified several parties of\nautomobilists near Yellow Springs; he had all of Snyder Township in an\nuproar before he had passed through it, but he eventually got to Shade\nMountain safe and sound.\n\nOnce on his home mountains, overlooking Lewistown Narrows, a strange\nremorse overcame him; he began to regret his folly, his odd caprice. He\nsat on a high rock near the top of the mountain, much in the attitude of\nRodin\u2019s famous \u201cPenseur\u201d, and began to sob and moan. It was a still\nnight, and the trackwalkers down in the valley heard him and called to\nhim through their megaphones. But the more they called the worse he\ngroaned and shrieked, as if he liked to mystify the lonely railroad men.\nAt length he got up and started along the mountain top, wailing and\nscreaming like a \u201cToken\u201d, until out of hearing of the trackwalkers and\nthe crews of waiting freight trains. He had played a silly game, made a\n_monkey_ of himself and was probably now a murderer in the bargain. He\ncould hardly wait until he got to his cabin to rip off the hideous,\nill-smelling gorilla\u2019s hide, and make a bonfire of it. He hoped that, if\nno evil consequence befell him as a result of his mad prank, he would be\na better man in the future.\n\nHowever, as he neared his cabin, all his good resolves began to ooze out\nof his finger tips. By the time he reached the miserable cabin he\ndecided to stick to his disguise, and continue the adventure to the end,\ncome what may. If he would be shot down like a vile beast, it would only\nbe retribution for Heinie Beery hurled off the crag of Blue Knob,\nwithout a chance to defend himself. The night was long; he would travel\nuntil morning and hide among the rocks until night, picking up what food\nhe could along the way.\n\nIn his northward journey he had many thrilling experiences, such as\ncrossing the covered bridge at Northumberland at midnight, riding on the\ntrucks of a freight train to Jersey Shore and frightening fishermen at\nHagerman\u2019s Run. When last seen he was near the flourishing town of\nWoolrich, frightening old and young, so much so that a young local\nsportsman offered a reward of \u201cfive hundred dollars dead, one thousand\ndollars alive\u201d, putting the Snyder County gorilla in the same category\nwith the Passenger Pigeon as a natural history curiosity.\n\nAnd in this terrible disguise Hornbostl Pfatteicher is expiating his\nsins, black as the satanic form he has assumed, and when his penance is\nover to be shed for the newer and better life.\n\n                                   X\n                        _The Indian\u2019s Twilight_\n\n\nAccording to Daniel Mark, born in 1835, (died 1922), when the aged\nSeneca Indian, Isaac Steel, stood beside the moss-grown stump of the\ngiant \u201cGrandfather Pine\u201d in Sugar Valley, in the early Autumn of 1892,\nhe was silent for a long while, then placing his hands over his eyes,\nuttered these words: \u201cThis is the Indians\u2019 Twilight; it explains many\nthings; I had heard from Billy Dowdy, when he returned to the\nreservation in 1879, that the tree had been cut by Pardee, but as he had\nnot seen the stump, and was apt to be credulous, I had hoped that the\nreport was untrue; the worst has happened.\u201d\n\nThen the venerable Redman turned away, and that same day left the\nsecluded valley, never to return.\n\nThe story of the Grandfather Pine, of Sugar Valley, deserves more than\nthe merely passing mention already accorded it in forestry statistics\nand the like. Apart from being probably the largest white or cork pine\nrecorded in the annals of Pennsylvania sylviculture\u2013breast high it had\nto be deeply notched on both sides, so that a seven foot cross-cut saw\ncould be used on it\u2013it was the sacred tree of the Seneca Indians, and\ndoubtless of the earlier tribes inhabiting the country adjacent to the\nAllegheny Mountains and the West Branch Valley.\n\nIt was a familiar landmark for years, standing as it did near the mouth\nof Chadwick\u2019s Gap, and could be seen towering above its fellows, from\nevery point in Sugar Valley, from Schracktown, Loganton, Eastville and\nCarroll.\n\nProfessor Ziegler tells us that the maximum or heavy growth of white\npine was always on the winter side of the inland valleys; the biggest\npines of Sugar Valley, Brush Valley and Penn\u2019s Valley were all along the\nsouthern ridges.\n\nLuther Guiswhite, now a restauranteur in Harrisburg, moving like a\nvoracious caterpillar easterly along the Winter side of Brush Valley,\ngradually destroyed grove after grove of superb original white pines,\nthe Gramley pines, near the mouth of Gramley\u2019s Gap, which Professor\nHenry Meyer helped to \u201ccruise\u201d, being the last to fall before his\nrelentless juggernaut.\n\nArio Pardee\u2019s principal pineries were mostly across the southern ridge\nof Nittany Mountain, of Sugar Valley, on White Deer Creek, but the tract\non which the Grandfather Pine stood ran like a tongue out of Chadwick\u2019s\nGap into Sugar Valley, almost to the bank of Fishing Creek. It is a well\nknown story that after the mammoth pine had been cut, Mike Courtney, the\nlumberman-philanthropist\u2019s woods boss, offered $100 to anyone who could\ntransport it to White Deer Creek, to be floated to the big mill at\nWatsontown, where Pardee sawed 111,000,000 feet of the finest kind of\nwhite pine between 1868 and 1878.\n\nThe logs of this great tree proved too huge to handle, even after being\nsplit asunder by blasting powder, crushing down a number of trucks, and\nwere left to rot where they lay. Measured when prone, the stem was 270\nfeet in length, and considering that the stump was cut breast high, the\ntree was probably close to 276 feet from root to tip. The stump is still\nvisible and well worthy of a visit.\n\nIn addition to boasting of the biggest pine in the Commonwealth, one of\nthe biggest red hemlocks also grew in Sugar Valley, in the centre of\nKleckner\u2019s woods, until it was destroyed by bark peelers in 1898. It\ndwarfed the other original trees in the grove, mostly superb white\nhemlocks, and an idea of its size can be gained when it is stated that\n\u201cbreast high\u201d it had a circumference of 30 feet.\n\nWhen Billy Dowdy, an eccentric Seneca Indian, was in Sugar Valley he\ntold \u2019Squire Mark the story of the Grandfather Pine, then recently\nfelled, and while the Indian did not visit the \u201cfallen monarch\u201d on that\noccasion, he refrained from so doing because he said he could not bear\nthe sight. The greatest disaster that had yet befallen the Indians had\noccurred, one that they might never recover from, and meant their final\nelimination as factors in American history.\n\nDowdy seemed unnerved when he heard the story of the demolition of the\ncolossal pine, and it took several visits to the famous Achenbach\ndistillery to steady his nerves so that he could relate its history to\nhis old and tried friend the \u2019Squire. In the evening, by the fireside,\nshowing emotion that rarely an Indian betrays, he dramatically recited\nthe story of the fallen giant.\n\nLong years ago, in the very earliest days of the world\u2019s history, the\ngreat earth spirit loved the evening star, but it was such an unusual\nand unnatural attachment, and so impossible of consummation that the\ndespairing spirit wished to end the cycle of existence and pass into\noblivion so as to forget his hopeless love. Accordingly, with a blast of\nlightning he opened his side and let his anguish flow away. The great\ngaping wound is what we of today call Penn\u2019s Cave, and the never ending\nstream of anguish is the wonderful shadowy Karoondinha, now renamed John\nPenn\u2019s Creek.\n\nAs time went on fresh hopes entered the subterranean breast of the great\nearth spirit, and new aspirations towards the evening star kindled in\nhis heart of hearts. His thoughts and yearnings were constantly onward\nand upward towards the evening star. He sought to bridge the gulf of\nspace and distance that separated him from the clear pure light of his\ninspiration. He yearned to be near, even if he could not possess the\ncalm and cold constellation so much beyond him. He cried for an answer,\nbut none came, and thought that it was distance that caused the\ncoldness, and certainly such had caused the great disappointment in the\npast.\n\nHis heart was set on reaching the evening star, to have propinquity with\nthe heavens. Out of his strong hopes and deep desires came a tall and\nnoble tree, growing in eastern Sugar Valley, a king among its kindred,\noff there facing the shining, beaming star. This tree would be the\nsymbol of earth\u2019s loftiest and highest aspirations, the bridge between\nthe terrestrial and the celestial bodies. It was earth\u2019s manliest,\nnoblest and cleanest aspiration, standing there erect and immobile, the\nheavy plates of the bark like gilt-bronze armor, the sparse foliage dark\nand like a warrior\u2019s crest.\n\nThe Indians, knowing full well the story of the hopeless romance of the\nearth spirit and the evening star, or _Venus_, as the white men called\nit, venerated the noble tree as the connecting link between two\nmanifestations of sublimity. They only visited its proximity on sacred\noccasions because they knew that the grove over which it dominated was\nthe abode of spirits, like all groves of trees of exceptional size and\nvenerable age.\n\nThe cutting away of most of the bodies of original pines has\ncircumscribed the abode of the spiritual agencies until they are now\nalmost without a lodgement, and must go wailing about cold and homeless\nuntil the end of time, unless spiritual insight can touch our\nmaterialistic age and save the few remaining patches of virgin trees\nstanding in the valley of the Karoondinha, the \u201cStream of the Never\nEnding Love\u201d, now known by the prosaic cognomen of \u201cPenn\u2019s Valley\u201d.\n\nThe Tom Motz tract is no more, the Wilkenblech, the Bowers and the Meyer\ngroves are all but annihilated. Where will the spirits rest when the\nlast original white pine has been ripped into boards at The Forks, now\ncalled Coburn? No wonder that Artist Shearer exclaimed, \u201cThe world is\naesthetically deal!\u201d\n\nThe Indians were greatly dismayed at the incursion of white men into\ntheir mountain fastnesses, so contrary to prophecy and solemn treaties,\nand no power seemed to stem them as they swept like a plague from valley\nto valley, mountain to mountain. The combined military strategy and\nbravery of Lenni-Lenape, Seneca, Cayuga, Tuscarora and Shawnee failed\nbefore their all-conquering advance. How to turn back this white peril\noccupied the mind and heart of every Indian brave and soothsayer.\n\nOne evening just as Venus in the east was shedding her tranquil glory\nover the black outline of the pine covered ranges of the Nittanies, a\nmighty council of warriors and wise men, grave and reverent, assembled\nunder the Grandfather Pine. Hitherto victory, while it had rested with\nthe white invaders, had not been conclusive; there was still hope, and\nthe Indians meant to battle to the end.\n\nIt was during this epochal conclave that a message was breathed out of\nthe dark shaggy pigeon-haunted tops of the mighty tree. Interpreted it\nmeant that the Indian braves and wise men were reminded that this great\npine reached from heaven to earth, and by its means their ancestors used\nto climb up and down between the two regions. In a time of doubt and\nanxiety like this, the multitudes, conferring beneath the tree, were\ninvited to ascend to hold a council with the stars, to exchange views\nand receive advice as to how the insidious white invader could be kept\nin proper bounds, and to preserve the glory and historic dignity of the\nIndian races. The stars, which were the spirits of undefeated warriors\nand hunters and huntresses of exceptional prowess\u2013their light was the\nshimmer of their silvery targets\u2013had always been the allies of the red\nmen.\n\nIn solemn procession the pick of the assemblage of Indian warriors and\nwise men ascended the mighty tree, up, up, up, until their forms became\nas tiny specks, and disappeared in the dark lace-like branches which\nmerged with the swart hues of the evening heavens. They set no time for\ntheir return, for they were going from the finite to the infinite, but\nthey would be back to their beloved hills and valleys in plenty of time,\nand with added courage and skill, to end the regime of the pale faced\nfoes.\n\nEvery wife and mother and sweetheart of a warrior who took this journey\nwas overjoyed at the privilege accorded her loved one, and none\nbegrudged being left behind to face the enemy under impaired leadership,\nor the risk of massacre, as in due course of time the elite would return\nfrom above and rescue them from their cruel tormentors.\n\nEvidently out of space, out of time, was almost the equivalent of \u201cout\nof sight, out of mind\u201d for all who had witnessed the chosen band of\nwarriors and warlocks ascend the pine, even the tiny babes, reached\nmaturity and passed away, and yet they had not returned or sent a\nmessage. The year that the stars fell, in 1833, brought hopes to the\nanxious ones, but never a falling star was found to bring tidings from\nthat bourne above the clouds.\n\nGeneration after generation came and went, and the ablest leaders still\nwere absent counseling with the stars. Evidently there was much to\nlearn, much to overcome, before they were fully fledged to return and\nbattle successfully.\n\nThe succeeding generations of Indian braves fought the white foes as\nbest they could, yet were ever being pushed back, and they were long\nsince banished from Sugar Valley where grew the Grandfather Pine.\nOccasionally those gifted with historic lore and prophecy journeyed to\nthe remote valley to view the pine, but there were no signs of a return\nof the absent Chieftains.\n\nIt was a long and weary wait. Were they really forsaken, or were there\naffairs of great emergency in the realm of the evening star that made\nthem tarry so long? They might be surprised on their return to find\ntheir hunting territories the farms of the white men, their descendants\nbanished to arid reservations on La Belle Riviere and beyond. They had\nleft in the twilight; they would find the Indians\u2019 Twilight everywhere\nover the face of the earth. It was a sad prospect, but they never gave\nup their secret hope that the visitors to strange lands would return,\nand lead a forlorn hope to victory.\n\nThen came upon the scene the great lumberman, Ario Pardee. The bed of\nWhite Deer Creek was \u201cbrushed out\u201d from Schreader Spring to Hightown, to\nfloat the millions of logs that would pile up wealth and fame for this\nmodern Croesus. What was one tree, more or less\u2013none were sacred, and\ninstead of being the abode of spirits, each held the almighty dollar in\nits heart.\n\nPardee himself was a man of dreams and an idealist, _vide_ Lafayette\nCollege, and the portrait of his refined and spiritual face by Eastman\nJohnson, in the rotunda of \u201cOld Pardee\u201d. Yet it was too early a day to\ncare for trees, or to select those to be cut, those to be spared; the\nbiggest tree, or the tree where the buffaloes rubbed themselves, were\nalike before the axe and cross-cut; all must fall, and the\npiratical-looking Blackbeard Courtney was the agent to do it.\n\nPerhaps trees take their revenge, like in the case of the Vicar\u2019s Oak in\nSurrey, as related by the diarest Evelyn\u2013shortly after it was felled one\nof the choppers lost an eye and the other broke a leg. Mike Courtney, it\nis reported, ended his days, not in opulent ease lolling in a barouche\nin Fairmount Park with Hon. Levi Mackey, as had been his wont, but by\ndriving an ox-team in the wilds of West Virginia!\n\nThe Grandfather Pine was brought to earth after two days of chopping by\nan experienced crew of woodsmen; when it fell they say the window lights\nrattled clear across the valley in Logansville (now Loganton). It lay\nthere prone, abject, yet \u201cterrible still in death\u201d, majestic as it\nsprawled in the bed that had been prepared for it, with an open swath of\nforest about that it had maimed and pulled down in its fall.\n\nCrowds flocked from all over the adjacent valleys to see the fallen\nmonarch, like Arabs viewing the lifeless carcass of a mighty lion whose\nroar had filled them with terror but a little while before.\n\nThen came the misfortune that the tree was found to be commercially\nunprofitable to handle, and it was left for the mould and the moss and\nthe shelf-fungi to devour, for little hemlocks to sprout upon.\n\nBilly Dowdy was in the West Branch Valley trying to rediscover the Bald\nEagle Silver Mine\u2013old Uriah Fisher, of the Seventh Cavalry, can tell you\nall about it\u2013when the story was told at \u201cUncle Dave\u201d Cochran\u2019s hotel at\nPine Station that Mike Courtney had conquered the Grandfather Pine. It\nis said that a glass of the best Reish whiskey fell from his nerveless\nfingers when he heard the news. He suddenly lost all interest in the\nsilver mine on the Bald Eagle Mountain, which caused him to be roundly\nberated by his employers, and dropping everything, he made for Sugar\nValley to verify the terrible story. \u2019Squire Mark assured him that it\nwas only too true; he had strolled over to Chadwick\u2019s Gap the previous\nSunday and saw the prostrate Titan with his own eyes.\n\nThe Indians\u2019 twilight had come, for now the picked band of warriors and\nwarlocks must forever linger in the star-belt, unless the earth spirit,\nout of his great love, again heaved such a tree from his inmost creative\nconsciousness.\n\n[Illustration: A FENCE OF WHITE PINE STUMPS, ALLEGHENIES]\n\nSometimes the Indians notice an untoward bright twinkling of the stars,\nthe evening star in particular, and they fancy it to be reassuring\nmessages from their marooned leaders not to give up the faith, that\nsometimes they can return rich in wisdom, fortified in courage, ready to\ndrive the white men into the sea, and over it to the far Summer Islands.\nWhen the stars fell on the thirteenth of November, 1833, it was thought\nthat the starry hosts were coming down en masse to fight their battles,\nbut not a single steller ally ever reported for duty.\n\nOld John Engle, mighty Nimrod of Brungard\u2019s Church (Sugar Valley), on\nthe nights of the Northern Lights, or as the Indians called them, \u201cThe\nDancing Ghosts\u201d, used to hear a strange, weird, unaccountable ringing\necho, like exultant shouting, over in the region of the horizon, beyond\nthe northernmost Allegheny ridges. He would climb the \u201csummer\u201d mountain\nall alone, and sit on the highest summits, thinking that the wolves had\ncome back, for he wanted to hear them plainer. In the Winter of 1859 the\ndistant acclamation continued for four successive nights, and the Aurora\ncovered the entire vault of heaven with a preternatural brilliance.\nGreat bars of intensely bright light shot out from the northern horizon\nand broke in mid-sky, and filled the southern skies with their\nincandescence. The sky was so intensely red that it flared as one great\nsheet of fire, and engulfed the night with an awful and dismal red\nlight. Reflected on the snow, it gave the earth the appearance of being\nclothed in scarlet.\n\nThe superstitious Indians, huddled, cold and half-clad, and half-starved\nin the desert reservations, when they saw the fearful glow over beyond\nLake Erie, and heard the distant cadences, declared that they were the\nsignal fires and the cries for vengeance of the Indian braves imprisoned\nup there in star-land, calling defiance to the white hosts, and\ninspiration to their own depleted legions, the echo of the day of\nreckoning, when the red men would come to their own again, and finding\ntheir lost people, lead them to a new light, out of the Indians\u2019\ntwilight.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                   XI\n                       _Hugh Gibson\u2019s Captivity_\n\n\nAfter the brutal massacre, by the Indians, of the Woolcomber family,\ncame fresh rumors of fresh atrocities in contemplation, consequently it\nwas considered advisable to gather the women and children of the\nsurrounding country within the stockade of Fort Robinson, under a strong\nguard, while the bulk of the able-bodied men went out in companies to\nreap the harvest. Some of the harvesters were on guard part of the time,\nconsequently all the men of the frontier community performed a share of\nthe guard duty.\n\nAmong the most energetic of the guardsmen was young Hugh Gibson, son of\nthe Widow Gibson, a name that has later figured prominently in the\npublic eye in the person of the Secretary of the American Legion at\nBrussels, who endured a trying experience during the period of the\nover-running of the Belgian Paris by the hordes of blood-thirsty Huns,\nas rapacious and merciless as the red men of Colonial Pennsylvania.\n\nHugh Gibson, of Colonial Pennsylvania, was under twenty, slim and dark,\nand very anxious to make a good record as guardian of so many precious\nlives. As days wore on, and no Indian attacks were made, and no fresh\natrocities committed by the blood-loving monster, Cooties, the terror of\nthe lower Juniata Valley, even the punctilious Gibson relaxed a trifle\nin the rigidity of his guardianship.\n\nIt was near the end of the harvest when the majority of the men\nannounced that they would remain away over night at a large clearing on\nBuffalo Creek, as it would be difficult to reach the fort by nightfall\nand be back at work by daybreak the next morning. Hugh Gibson was made\ncaptain of the guard and placed in charge of the safety of the stockade\nfull of refugees.\n\nAll went well with Gibson and his fellow pickets until about midnight,\nwhen the Indians launched a gas attack. The wind being propitious, they\nbuilt a fire, into which they stirred a large number of oak balls, and\nthe fumes suddenly engulfing the garrison, all became very drowsy, with\nthe result that the nimble redskins rushed in on the defenders, who were\ngaping about, thinking that there must be a forest fire somewhere, but\ntoo dazed and semi-conscious to think very succinctly about anything.\n\nWhen the guards saw that it was red men, and not red fire, they roused\nthemselves as best they could, and fought bravely to save the fort and\nits inmates. By throwing firebrands into the stockade, the women and\nchildren, and cattle, were stampeded, and by a common impulse burst open\nthe gates, and dashed past the defenders, headed for the creek, to\nescape the threatened conflagrations. Then the Indians closed in, and in\nthe darkness, amid the crackling of the fire\u2013for a forest fire was now\nin progress, and part of the stockade wall was blazing, amid war whoops\nand shrieks of hatred and agony, the barking of dogs, the bellowing of\ncattle running amuck, rifle shots, the crack of tomahawks on defenseless\nskulls, the midnight air resounded with uncouth and horrible medley.\n\nThe fight continued all night long, until the approach of dawn, and the\ndanger of the forest fire cutting them off made the Indians decamp. They\ndid not stop until in the big beaver meadow at Wildcat Valley, they\npaused long enough to take stock of prisoners, and to count wounded and\nmissing. They had captured an even dozen prisoners, and as the light\ngrew stronger they noticed that they had one male captive, his face\nalmost unrecognizable with soot, and mostly stripped of clothing, who\nproved to be none other than the zealous Hugh Gibson himself.\n\nIt was a strange company that moved in single file towards the\nAlleghenies, eleven women and one man, all tied together with leather\nthongs, like a party of Alpinists, one after another, not descending a\nmonarch of mountains, but descending into captivity, into the valley of\nthe shadow. The Indians were jubilant over the personnel of their\ncaptives. In addition to Hugh Gibson, late captain of the guard, they\nhad taken Elsbeth Henry, daughter of the most influential of the\nsettlers, a girl of rare beauty and charm, who had enjoyed some\neducational advantages among the Moravians at Nazareth, the pioneers of\nwomen\u2019s education in America.\n\nGibson had for a year past, ever since he first appeared in the vicinity\nof Fort Robinson, admired the uncommonly attractive girl, and being\nambitions in many ways, aspired to her hand. She had never treated him\nwith much consideration, except to be polite to him, but she was that to\neveryone, and could not be otherwise, being a happy blend of Huguenot\nand Bohemian ancestry.\n\nThe minute that Gibson saw that Elsbeth was his fellow prisoner he\nforgot the chagrin at being the sole male captive, and congratulated\nhimself in secret on the good fortune that would make him, for a year or\nmore, the daily companion of the object of his admiration. He would\nredeem the humiliation of this capture by staging a sensational double\nescape, and then, after freeing the maiden, she could not fail to love\nhim and agree to become his wife. He was, therefore, the most cheerful\nof prisoners, and whistled and sang Irish songs as he marched along at\nthe tail end of the long line of captives.\n\nIt seemed as if they were being taken on a long journey, and he surmised\nthat the destination was Fort Duquesne, to be delivered over to the\nFrench, where rewards would be paid for each as hostages. He could see\nby the deference paid to Elsbeth Henry that the redmen recognized that\nthey had a prisoner of quality, and as she walked along, away ahead of\nhim, whenever there was a turn in the path, he would note her youthful\nbeauty and charm.\n\nShe was not very tall, but was gracefully and firmly built. Her most\nnoticeable features were the intense blackness of her soft wavy hair,\nand the whiteness of her skin, with minute blue veins showing, gave her\ncomplexion a blue whiteness, the color of mother of pearl almost, and\nGibson, being a somewhat poetical Ulster Scot, compared her to an\nevening sky, with her red lips, like a streak of flame, across the\nmother of pearl firmament, her downcast eyes, like twin stars just\nappearing!\n\nThe further on the party marched the harder it was going to be to\nsuccessfully bring her back in safety to the Juniata country, through a\nhostile Indian territory, for he had not the slightest doubt that he\nwould outwit the clumsy-witted redmen and escape with her. It might be\nbest to strike north or northwest, out of the seat of hostilities, and\nmake a home for his bride-to-be in the wilderness along Lake Erie, and\nnever take her back to her parents. But then there was his mother; how\ncould he desert her? He must go back with Elsbeth, run all risks, once\nhe had escaped and freed her from her inconsiderate captors.\n\nAfter a few days he learned that the permanent camp was to be on the\nPucketa, in what is now Westmoreland County. Cooties was located there,\nand since his unparalleled success in massacring whole families of\nwhites, he was apparently again in favor with the Indian tribal\nChieftains. He was to take charge of the prisoners, and when ready,\nwould lead them to Fort Duquesne, or possibly to some point further up\nLa Belle Riviere, to turn them over to the French, who would hold them\nas hostages.\n\nIt was in the late afternoon when the party filed into Cooties\u2019\nencampment, at the Blue Spring, near the headwaters of the beautiful\nPucketa. Cooties had been apprised of their coming, and had painted his\nface for the occasion, but meanwhile had consumed a lot of rum, and was\nbeastly drunk, so much so that in his efforts to drive the punkis off\nhis face, which seemed to have a predilection for the grease paint, he\nsmeared the moons and stars into an unrecognizable smudge all over his\nsaturnine countenance.\n\nAs he sat there on a huge dark buffalo robe, a rifle lying before him, a\nskull filled with smoking tobacco on one side, and a leather jug of rum\non the other, smoking a long pipe, his head bobbing unsteadily on its\nshort neck, he made a picture never to be forgotten. The slayer of the\nSheridan family was at best an ugly specimen of the Indian race. He was\nshort, squat\u2013Gibson described him as \u201csawed off\u201d; his complexion was\nvery dark, his lips small and thin, his nose was broad and flat, his\neyes full and blood-shot, and his shaven head was covered with a red\ncap, almost like a Turk\u2019s fez.\n\nHe was too intoxicated to indicate his pleasure, if he felt any, at the\narrival of the prisoners. In front of where he sat were the embers of a\ncampfire, as the weather\u2013it was early in March\u2013was still very cold. He\nhad the prisoners lined up in front of him beyond the coals, while he\nsquatted on his rug, eyeing them as carefully as his bleared, inebriated\nvision would permit. Calling to several of his henchmen, he had them\nfetch fresh wood and pile it beside the embers, as if a big bonfire was\nto be started later.\n\nJust as they were in the midst of bringing the wood, a group of six\nstalwart Indians rushed on the scene, literally dragging a rather\ngood-looking, dark-haired white woman of about thirty years, whose face\nshowed every sign of intense terror. From words that he could\nunderstand, and the gestures, Gibson made out that this woman had\nbelonged to another batch of prisoners, but before she could be\ndelivered at Shannopin\u2019s Town had somehow made her escape.\n\nTo deliver a body of prisoners short one of the quota had brought some\ncriticism on Cooties, and he was in an ugly frame of mind when she was\nbrought before him. There was an ash pole near the wood pile, to which\nprisoners were tied while being interrogated, and Cooties ordered that\nthe unfortunate woman should be strapped to it. The Indian warriors,\nneedless to say, made a thorough job and bound her to it securely, hand\nand foot.\n\nThough she saw twelve or more white persons, the bound woman never said\na word, and the captives from Fort Robinson and other places were too\nterror-stricken to address a word to her. They stared at her with that\nlook of dumb helplessness that a flock of sheep assume when peering\nthrough the bars of their fold at a farmer in the act of butchering one\nof their number. Sympathy they may have felt, but to express it in words\nwould have availed nothing.\n\nOnce tied to the tree, Cooties ordered that the wood be piled about her\nfeet. It was ranked until it came almost to her waist. Then the cruel\nwarrior turned to his victim, saying to her in German, \u201cIt\u2019s going to be\na cold night; I think you can warm me up very nicely.\u201d\n\nThen he grinned and looked at each of his other prisoners menacingly.\nSilas Wright in his excellent \u201cHistory of Perry County\u201d thus quotes Hugh\nGibson in describing the scene then enacted: \u201cAll the prisoners in the\nneighborhood were collected to be spectators of the death by torture of\na poor, unhappy woman, a fellow-prisoner who had escaped, and been\nrecaptured. They stripped her naked, tied her to a post and pierced her\nwith red hot irons, the flesh sticking to the irons at every touch. She\nscreamed in the most pitiful manner, and cried for mercy, but the\nruthless barbarians were deaf to her agonizing shrieks and prayers, and\ncontinued their horrid cruelty until death came to her relief.\u201d\n\nAfter this fiendish episode, the Fort Robinson prisoners were sick at\nheart and in body for days, and most of them would have dropped in their\ntracks if they had been compelled to resume the long, tedious western\njourney.\n\nIt appeared that in the foray on Fort Robinson one young Indian had been\nslain; rumor among the Indians had it that he had been shot by mistake\nby a member of his own party. At any rate his parents, who lived near\nCooties\u2019 camp-ground, took his end very hard, and the squaw, who was\nCooties\u2019 sister, demanded the adoption of Hugh Gibson to take the place\nof her lost warrior son. This was a good point for Gibson, although the\nwarrior\u2019s father, Busqueetam, acted very coldly towards him, and he\nfeared he might some day, in a fit of revenge and hate, take his life.\nHowever, the young white man, by making every effort to help his Indian\nfoster parents, who were very feeble and unable to work, won their\nconfidence, and also that of Cooties, who requisitioned him to do all\nsorts of errands and work about the encampment.\n\nOne day Busqueetam was in a terrible state of excitement. His spotted\npony, the only equine in the camp, and the one that he expected to give\nto Cooties to ride with chiefly dignity through the portals of the Fort\nhad strayed off in the night.\n\nMost of the Fort Robinson and other prisoners who had been brought in\nfrom various directions since their arrival, to make a great caravan of\ncaptives to impress the commanders at Shannopin\u2019s Town, like a Roman\ntriumph, were allowed their liberty during the daytime. At night they\nwere all tied together as they lay about the campfire, not far from the\ncharred stump of the ash pole where the poor white woman had been burned\nto death, and where the small Indian dogs were constantly sniffing.\nThere were about twenty-five prisoners, all told, and with these were\ntied about half a dozen guards, and all lay down in a circle about the\nfire, guards and prisoners sleeping at the same time. It was a different\nsystem from that of the whites, for if a prisoner got uneasy or tried to\nget up, he or she would naturally pull on the leather thongs, and rouse\nthe guardians and other prisoners. The thongs were around both wrists,\nso a prisoner was tied to the person on either side.\n\nHugh Gibson managed to have a few words with Elsbeth, when he heard of\nthe horse\u2019s disappearance. Much as he would like to have talked to her,\nfew words passed between them during the captivity. Elsbeth was\nnaturally reserved, and had never known Hugh well before, and he was\nplaying for big stakes, and saw how the Indians resented any hobnobbing\namong their prisoners. He managed to whisper to her that he would\nvolunteer to hunt for Busqueetam\u2019s missing pony, but would return at\nnight and wait for her in the Panther Glade, a dense Rhododendron\nthicket through which they had passed on their way to the campground;\nthat she should gnaw herself free with her teeth, and that done, with\nher natural agility and moccasined feet, could nimbly spring away into\nthe darkness and escape to him. He thought he knew where the pony was\nhiding, and she could ride on the animal to civilization. And now let\nGibson tell the adventure in his own words:\n\n\u201cAt last a favorable opportunity to gain my liberty. Busqueetam lost a\nhorse and sent me to hunt him. After hunting some time, I came home and\ntold him I had discovered his tracks at some considerable distance, and\nthat I thought I would find him; that I would take my gun and provisions\nand would hunt him for three or four days, and if I could kill a deer or\na bear, I would pack home the meat on the horse.\u201d\n\nHugh Gibson, the privileged captive, strolled out of camp with a\nbusiness-like expression on his lean face, and carrying Cooties\u2019\nfavorite rifle. He took a long circle about through the deep forest, and\nat dark was ensconced in the Panther Glade, to wait the fateful moment\nwhen Elsbeth, his beloved, would come to him, and as his promised wife,\nhe would lead her to liberty.\n\nIt was a cold night, and his teeth chattered as he squatted among the\nrhododendrons waiting and listening. The wolves were howling, and he\nwondered if the girl would feel afraid!\n\nAt the usual time the various prisoners and their guards were lashed\ntogether, and lay down for their rest around the embers of the campfire.\nMost of them were short of coverings, so they huddled close together.\nNot so Elsbeth, for Cooties looked after her and provided her with four\nbuffalo robes, which she would have loved dearly to share with her less\nfavored fellow prisoners, but they would not allow it. The Indians made\nthe captives work hard during the day cutting wood, dressing furs and\npounding corn. They did not feed them any too well, as game was scarce\nand ammunition scarcer, so all were tired when they lay down by the\ncampfire\u2019s soothing glow.\n\nOne by one they fell asleep, all but Elsbeth, who, covering her head\nwith the buffalo robes, began to gnaw on the leather thongs as if they\nwere that much caramel, first this side, then the other. She felt like a\nrodent before she was half through, and her pretty pearl-colored teeth\ngrew shorter and blunter before she was done. It was a gigantic task,\nbut she stuck to it bravely, and some time during the \u201cwee, sma\u2019\u201d hours\nhad the delicious sensation of knowing she was free, even though she\nfelt horridly toothless and sore-gummed in her moment of victory.\n\nLike a wild cat she slipped out from under the buffalo robes, wiggled\nalong among the wet leaves and moss, then crawled to her feet and was\noff like a deer towards the Panther Glade, regardless of the howling of\nthe wolves. Hugh Gibson\u2019s quick sense of hearing told him she was\ncoming, and he walked out so that he stood on the path before her, and\nclasped her white shapely arms in heartfelt congratulations.\n\n\u201cNow that we are free,\u201d he said, \u201cI will take you to the pony in three\nhours\u2019 travel. I want to arrange the one final detail to make this\nreunion always memorable for us both. We have shared common hardships\nand perils; we have plotted and planned for freedom together. Let us\nguarantee that our lives shall always be together, for I love you, and\nwant you to be my wife.\u201d\n\nElsbeth drew herself back out of his grasp, and a shudder went through\nher supple little frame. \u201cWhy I have never heard the like of what you\nsay, much as I have appreciated all you have done; ours was only a\ncommon misfortune. I could not care for you that way, even though\nrecognizing your bravery, your foresight and your kindliness.\u201d\n\nFor a moment Hugh Gibson was so angry that he felt like leading her back\nto Cooties, where she would probably have been received with open arms,\nand be burned at the stake, but he finally \u201cpossessed his soul\u201d and\naccepted the inevitable.\n\nThey found the pony by morning, but it took some maneuvering to capture\nthe wily beast, and packed him across the Kittanning Path, where, at\nBurgoon\u2019s Run, they came upon a party of traders headed by George\nMcCord, who had lately come from the Juniata.\n\nMcCord told them the details of the conflict at Fort Robinson, of the\nshocking killing of Widow Gibson, Robert Miller\u2019s daughter, James\nWilson\u2019s wife, John Summerson, and others, on that bloody night of gas,\nforest fires, smoke and surprises.\n\nIt was the turning point in Hugh Gibson\u2019s life; his mother gone, and not\na sign of weakening in Elsbeth Henry\u2019s mother-of-pearl countenance; in\nfact, the indistinct line of her mouth was more like a streak of crimson\nflame than ever. A new light had dawned for him out of these shocking\nmisfortunes; his purpose would be to redeem his inactivity at Fort\nRobinson, his overconfidence, his over self-esteem, by going at once to\nCarlisle to secure a commission in the Royal American Regiment of\nRiflemen. He left Elsbeth in charge of the McCord party who would see\nher back to her distracted parents, while he tramped over the mountains\ntowards Reastown and Fort Littleton, by the shortest route to the\nCumberland Valley.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: BILL BREWER, \u201cHICK\u201d PREACHER]\n\n                                  XII\n                            _Girty\u2019s Notch_\n\n\nThe career of Simon Girty, otherwise spelled Girtee and Gerdes, has\nbecome of sufficient interest to cause the only authoritative biography\nto sell at a prohibitive figure, and outlaw or renegade as he is called,\nthere are postoffices, hotels, streams, caves and rocks which perpetuate\nhis name throughout Pennsylvania.\n\nSimon Gerdes was born in the Cumberland Valley on Yellow Breeches Creek,\nthe son of a Swiss-German father and an Irish mother. This origin\nguaranteed him no high social position, for in the old days, in the\nCumberland Valley, in particular, persons of those racial beginnings\nwere never accepted at par by the proud descendants of Quakers, Virginia\nCavaliers, and above all, by the Ulster Scots. After the world war\nsimilar beginnings have correspondingly lowered in the markets of\nprestige, and a century or more of gradual family aggrandizement has\ngone for nil, the social stratification of pre-Revolutionary days having\ncompletely re-established itself.\n\nUnfortunately for Simon Gerdes, or Girty, as he was generally called, he\nwas possessed of lofty ambitions, he aimed to be a military hero and a\nman of quality, like the dignified and exclusive gentry who rode about\nthe valley on their long-tailed white horses and carried swords, and\nwere accompanied by retainers with long rifles. There must have been\ndecent blood in him somewhere to have brought forth such aspirations,\nbut personally he was never fitted to attain them. He had no chance for\nan education off there in the rude foothills of the Kittochtinnies; he\nwas undersized, swarthy and bushy headed; his hands were hairy, and his\nface almost impossible to keep free of black beard. Analyzed his\nfeatures were not unpleasant; he had deepset, piercing black eyes, a\nprominent aquiline nose, a firm mouth and jaw, and his manner was quick,\nalert and decisive.\n\nSuch was Simon Girty when his martial dreams caused him to leave home\nand proceed to Virginia to enlist in the Rifle Regiment. A half century\nof Quaker rule in Pennsylvania had failed to disturb the tranquility of\nthe relations between whites and Indians, but in the Old Dominion, there\nwas a constant bickering with the redskins along the western frontier.\n\nAs Girty was a sure shot, he was eagerly accepted, and in a short time\nwas raised to the grade of Corporal. Accompanied by a young\nCaptain-lieutenant named Claypoole, he was sent to the Greenbrier River\ncountry to convey a supply train, but owing to the indifference of the\nofficer, the train became strung out, and the vanguard was cut off by\nIndians, and captured, and the rearguard completely routed.\n\nAs Girty happened to be the vidette, the Captain-lieutenant, who was in\nthe rear and should have come up and seen that his train traveled more\ncompactly, had a splendid opportunity to shift the blame. An\ninvestigation was held at Spottsylvania, presided over by a board of\nofficers recently arrived from England, who knew nothing of border\nwarfare, and were sticklers for caste above everything else.\n\nSomeone had to be disciplined, and if a fellow could be punished and a\ngentleman exculpated, why then of course, punish the fellow. This was\nspeedily done, and Girty was taken out before the regiment, stripped of\nhis chevrons, denounced by the Colonel, forced to run the gauntlet,\nIndian style, and drummed out of camp.\n\nGirty, though humiliated and shamed, felt glad that he was not shot; he\nwould have been had he been actually guilty of neglect; he was punished\nas badly as an innocent man dare be punished to shield a guilty\nsuperior. After receiving his dishonorable discharge, Girty sorrowfully\nwended his way back to the parental home on the Yellow Breeches, his\nvisions of glory shattered. He did not tell his parents what had\nhappened, but they knew that something had gone wrong, and pitied him,\nas only poor, lowly people can pity another.\n\nHenry Fielding, a gentleman born and bred, has said: \u201cWhy is it that the\nonly really kindly people are the poor,\u201d and again, \u201cWhy is it that\npersons in high places are always so hard?\u201d\n\nAbout this time Simon Girty found work breaking colts on the estate of\nan eccentric character named Gaspar, known in the Cumberland Valley as\n\u201cFrench Louis,\u201d who resided near the mouth of Dublin Gap, on the same\nside of the trail, but nearer the valley than the present Sulphur\nSprings Hotel. All that remains of his ambitious chateau is the chimney,\nwhich was recently photographed by Professor J. S. Illick, head of the\nresearch bureau of the State Department of Forestry.\n\n\u201cFrench Louis\u201d Gaspar was a Huguenot, a Gascon, and prided himself on a\nresemblance to Henry of Navarre, and wore the same kind of fan-shaped,\ncarefully brushed beard. His wife was also of French origin, a member of\nthe well-known Le Tort family, and a woman of some education and\ncharacter. They had several daughters, all of whom married well, and at\nthe time of Girty\u2019s taking employment, but one was at home\u2013the\nyoungest\u2013Eulalie.\n\nShe was a slim, dark girl, with hair and eyes as black as Girty\u2019s, a\nperfect mate in type and disposition. It is a curious thing while\nunravelling these stories of old time Pennsylvania, that in seeking\ndescriptions of the personal appearance (which is always the most\ninteresting part) of the persons figuring in them at an early day,\nscarcely any blondes are recorded; the black, swarthy Indian-like\nvisages so noticeable to strangers traveling through Pennsylvania today,\nwere also prevalent, commonly met with types of our Colonial period.\n\nEulalie Gaspar could see that there was something on Girty\u2019s mind, and\ntried to be kind to him and encourage him, but she asked no questions,\nand he volunteered no information. If he had not received such a\ncomplete social setback at Spottsylvania, the youth might have aspired\nto the girl\u2019s hand, but he now was keenly aware of the planes of caste,\nrealizing that he stood very low on the ladder of quality.\n\nHe seemed to be improving in spirits under the warm sun of encouragement\nat Chateau Gaspar, as \u201cFrench Louis\u201d liked to call his huge house of\nlogs and stone, for the Huguenot adventurer was much of a Don Quixote,\nand lived largely in a world of his own creation. Eulalie, hot-blooded\nand impulsive, often praised his prowess as a horseman, and otherwise\nsmiled on him.\n\nThere was a great sale of Virginia bred horses being held in the market\nplace at Carlisle, and, of course, \u201cFrench Louis\u201d mounted on a superbly\ncaparisoned, ambling horse, and wearing a hat with a plume, and attended\nby Simon Girty, were among those present.\n\nThe animals ranged from packers and palfreys to fancy saddlers of the\nhigh school type, and although Gaspar had every stall full at home, and\nsome wandering, hobbled about the old fields, he bought six more at\nfancy prices, and it would be an extensive task to return them safely to\nthe stables at the \u201cChateau\u201d.\n\nIt was near the close of the sale when a young Virginian named Conrad\nGist or Geist, one of the sellers of horses, who had been a sergeant in\nGirty\u2019s regiment, and witnessed his degradation at Spottsylvania, came\nup, and in the presence of the crowd, taunted young Simon on being\ncourt-martialed and kicked out of camp.\n\nGirty, though the humiliating words were said among divers of his\nfriends, bit his lips and said nothing at the time. Later in the tap\nroom, when \u201cFrench Louis\u201d was having a final jorum before starting\nhomeward, the Virginian repeated his taunts, and Girty, though half his\nsize, slapped his face. Gist quickly drew a horse pistol from one of the\ndeep pockets of his long riding coat, and tried to shoot the affronted\nyouth. Girty was too quick for him, and in wresting the pistol from his\nhand, it went off, and shot the Virginian through the stomach. He fell\nto the sanded floor, and was soon dead.\n\nOther Virginians present raised an outcry, in which they were upheld by\nthose of similar social status in the fraternity of \u201cgentlemen horse\ndealers\u201d residing at Carlisle. Threats were made to hang Girty to a tree\nand fill him full of bullets. He felt that he was lucky to escape in the\nmelee, and make for the mountains. Public opinion was against him, and a\nreward placed on his head. Armed posses searched for him for weeks,\neventually learning that he was being harbored by a band of escaped\nredemptioners, slaves, and gaol breakers, who had a cabin or shack in\nthe wilds along Shireman\u2019s Creek. It was vacated when the pursuers\nreached it, but they burnt it to the ground, as well as every other roof\nin the wilds that it could be proved he had ever slept under.\n\nBy 1750 he became known as the most notorious outlaw in the Juniata\ncountry, and pursuit becoming too \u201chot\u201d, he decided to migrate west,\nwhich he did, allying himself with the Wyandot Indians. He lived with\nthem a foe to the whites, more cruel and relentless, the Colonial\nRecords state, than his adopted people.\n\nSome of his marauding expeditions took him back to the Susquehanna\ncountry, and he made several daring visits to his parents, on one of\nwhich he learned to his horror and disgust, that Eulalie Gaspar, while\nstaying with one of her married sisters at Carlisle, had met and married\nthe now Captain Claypoole, the author of his degradation, who had come\nthere in connection with the mustering of Colonial troops.\n\nDuring these visits Girty occupied at times a cave facing the\nSusquehanna River, in the Half Fall Hills, directly opposite to Fort\nHalifax, which he could watch from the top of the mountain. The narrow,\ndeep channel of the river, at the end of the Half Fall Hills, so long\nthe terror of the \u201cup river\u201d raftsmen, became known as Girty\u2019s Notch.\nThe sinister reputation of the locality was borne out in later years in\na resort for rivermen called Girty\u2019s Notch Hotel, now a pleasant,\nhomelike retreat for tired and thirsty autoists who draw birch beer\nthrough straws, and gaze at the impressive scenery of river and mountain\nfrom the cool, breezeswept verandas.\n\nBut the most imposing of all is the stone face on the mountain side,\nlooking down on the state road and the river, which shows clearly the\nrugged outlines of the features of the notorious borderer. An excellent\nphotograph of \u201cGirty\u2019s Face\u201d can be seen in the collection of\nstereoscoptic views possessed by the genial \u201cCharley Mitchell\u201d\nproprietor of the Owens House, formerly the old Susquehanna House, at\nLiverpool.\n\nIt was after General Braddock\u2019s defeat in 1755 that Captain, now Major\nClaypoole, decided to settle on one of his parental estates on the\nRedstone River, (now Fayette County) in Western Pennsylvania. Being\nnewly wedded and immensely wealthy for his day, he caused to be erected\na manor house of the showy native red stone, elaborately stuccoed, on a\nbluff overlooking this picturesque winding river. He cleared much land,\nbeing aided by Negro slaves, and a horde of German redemptioners.\n\nWhen General Forbes\u2019 campaign against Fort Duquesne was announced in\n1757, he decided to again try for actual military laurels, though his\npromotion in rank had been rapid for one of his desultory service; so he\njourneyed to Carlisle, and was reassigned to the Virginia Riflemen, with\nthe rank of Lieutenant Colonel of Staff.\n\nHe was undecided what to do with his young wife in his absences, but as\nshe had become interested in improving \u201cRed Clay Hall,\u201d as the new\nestate was called, he decided to leave her there, well guarded by his\narmed Virginia overseers. The Indians had been cleared out of the valley\nfor several years, and were even looked upon as curiosities when they\npassed through the country, consequently all seemed safe on that score.\n\nHowever, while Lieutenant-Colonel Claypoole was at Carlisle, before the\nForbes-Bouquet Army had started westward, an Indian with face blackened\nand painted, in the full regalia of a chief, appeared at the door of\n\u201cRed Clay Hall\u201d and asked to see the lady of the manor, with whom he\nsaid he was acquainted\u2013that she would know him by the name of Suckaweek.\n\nThis was considered peculiar, and he was told to wait outside, until\n\u201cher ladyship\u201d could be informed of his presence. Eulalie Gaspar\nClaypoole, clad in a gown of rose brocade, was in her living room on the\nsecond story of the mansion, an apartment with high ceilings and large\nwindows, which commanded a view of the Red Stone Valley, clear to its\npoint of confluence with the lordly Monongahela. She was seated at an\ninlaid rosewood desk, writing a letter to her husband, when the German\nchief steward entered to inform her of the strange visitor waiting on\nthe lawn, whom she would know by the name of Suckaweek.\n\nTaking the quill pen from her lips, for she had been trying to think of\nsomething to write, the dark beauty directed the steward to admit the\nvisitor at once, and show him into the library. Hurrying to a pier\nglass, she adjusted her elaborate apparel, and taking a rose from a\nvase, placed it carefully in her sable hair, before she descended the\nwinding stairway.\n\n\u201cSuckaweek\u201d (Black Fish), which was a pet name she used to call Girty in\nthe old days, was waiting in the great hall, and the greeting between\nthe ill-assorted pair seemed dignified, yet cordial. They spent the\nbalance of the afternoon between the library and strolling over the\ngrounds, admiring the extensive views, dined together in the state\ndining room, and the last the stewards and servants saw of them, when\ninformed their presence would be no longer required, was the pair\nsitting in easy chairs on either side of the great fireplace, both\nsmoking long pipes of fragrant Virginia tobacco.\n\nIn the morning the Indian and Madame Claypoole were missing, and an\nexpress was sent at once to Carlisle to acquaint the Colonel with this\ndaring abduction of a lady of quality. The news came as a great shock to\nthe young officer, who obtained a leave of absence and a platoon of\nriflemen to engage in the search for his vanished spouse.\n\nThe marriage had seemed a happy one, but in discussing the case with his\nfather-in-law, \u201cFrench Louis,\u201d indiscreetly admitted that his daughter\nhad once seemed a little sweet on Simon Girty, the outlaw. All was clear\nnow, the motive revealed.\n\nIt was the truth, the lovely \u201cLady\u201d Claypoole, as she was styled by the\nmountain folks, had gone off with the seemingly uncouth renegade, Simon\nGirty.\n\nWhy she had done so, she could never tell, but doubtless it was a spark\nof love lain dormant since the old days at Chateau Gaspar, when she had\nseen the young outlaw breaking her father\u2019s unmanageable colts, that\nfurnished the motive for the elopement.\n\nIn the glade, where at an early hour in the morning, Girty and his fair\ncompanion joined his entourage of Indians and white outlaws, Simon, in\nthe presence of all, unsheathed his formidable hunting knife, a relic of\nhis first campaign against the Indians when he belonged to the Virginia\n\u201cLong Knives,\u201d and cut a notch on the stock of his trusty rifle, which\nwas handed to him by his favorite bodyguard, a half Jew, half Indian,\nnamed Mamolen, a native of Heidelberg in Berks County.\n\nAlthough during the past eight years he had personally killed and\nscalped over a hundred Indians and whites, Girty had never, as the other\nfrontiersmen always did, \u201cnicked\u201d his rifle stock.\n\nTurning to Lady Claypoole with a smile, he said: \u201cSome day I will tell\nyou why I have cut this notch; it is a long and curious story.\u201d\n\nIn order to have her safe from capture or molestation, Girty took the\nwoman on a lengthy and perilous journey to Kentucky, \u201cthe dark and\nbloody ground.\u201d To the country of the mysterious Green River, in what is\nnow Edmonson County, land of caves, and sinks, and knobs, and\nsubterranean lakes and streams, amid hardwood groves and limestone, he\nbuilt a substantial log house, where he left her, protected only by the\nfaithful Mamolen, while he returned to fight with the French and Indians\nalong the banks of the Ohe-yu, \u201cThe Beautiful River.\u201d\n\nThe defeat of the allied forces by the British, and the abandonment of\nFort Duquesne, were sore blows to Simon Girty\u2019s plans and hopes, but his\nposition and prestige among the Indians remained undimmed.\n\nClaypoole, though promoted to full Colonel, did not take part in any of\nthe battles, being intermittently off on leave, hunting for his recreant\nwife, and spluttering vengeance against \u201cthat snake, that dog, Girty,\u201d\nas he alternately called him. It seemed as if the earth had swallowed up\nthe lovely object of the outlaw\u2019s wiles, for though Girty himself was\nheard of everywhere, being linked with the most hideous atrocities and\nambushes, no Indian prisoner, even under the most dreadful torture,\ncould reveal the Lady Claypoole\u2019s whereabouts. The reason for that was\nonly two persons in the service knew, one was Mamolen, the other Girty,\nand Mamolen remained behind with the fair runaway.\n\nIt was not until after the final collapse of the French power in 1764,\nand the western country was becoming opened for settlement, that Colonel\nClaypoole received an inkling of Eulalie\u2019s whereabouts. It did not\nexcite his curiosity to see her again, or bring her back, but merely\nfired his determination the more to even his score with Girty. When he\nwas sober and in the sedate atmosphere of his correctly appointed\nlibrary on Grant\u2019s Hill, in the new town of Pittsburg, he realized how\nfoolish it would be to journey to the wilds to kill \u201ca scum of the\nearth,\u201d he a gentleman of many generations of refined ancestry, all for\na \u201cskirt\u201d as he contemptuously alluded to his wife.\n\nBut when in his cups, and that was often, he vowed vengeance against the\ndespoiler of his home, and the things he planned to do when once he had\nhim in his clutches would have won the grand prize at a Spanish\nInquisition.\n\nIf it was Girty\u2019s destiny to notch his rifle once, Nemesis provided that\nColonel Claypoole should also have that rare privilege. At a military\nmuster on the Kentucky side of Big Sandy, during the Revolutionary War,\nSimon Girty boldly ventured to the outskirts of the encampment, to spy\non the strength and armament of the patriot forces, as he had done a\nhundred times before. Colonel Claypoole, riding on the field on his\nshowy, jet black charger, noticed a low-brewed face, whiskered like a\nBolshevik, peering out through a clump of bushes. Recognizing him after\na lapse of over a quarter of a century, he rode at him rashly, parrying\nwith the flat blade of his sabre, the well directed bullet which Girty\nsent at him. Springing from his mount, which he turned loose, and which\nran snorting over the field, with pistol in one hand, sabre in the\nother, he rushed into the thicket, and engaged his foe in deadly combat.\nHe was soon on top of the surprised Girty, and stamping on him, like\nmost persons do with a venomous snake, at the same time shooting and\nstabbing him.\n\nWhen his frightened orderly, leading the recaptured charger, rode up,\nfollowed by a number of excited officers and men, and drew near to the\nthicket, they were just in time to see Colonel Claypoole emerging from\nit, red-faced but calm, carrying a long rifle.\n\n\u201cI see you have put a notch in it already,\u201d said one of his companions,\nas he eagerly wrung his hand.\n\n\u201cSo I perceive,\u201d replied the Colonel, \u201cbut it was hardly necessary, for\nI have only killed a snake.\u201d\n\nThere are some who say that Colonel Claypoole\u2019s victim was not Simon\nGirty at all, but merely a drunken settler who was coming out of the\nbushes after a mid-day nap, and a coincidence that the fellow was armed\nwith a rifle on which there was a single nick. Yet for all intents and\npurposes Colonel Claypoole had killed a good enough Simon Girty, and had\nhis rifle to prove it.\n\nOther reports have it that Simon Girty survived the Revolution, where he\nplayed such a reprehensive part, to marry Catharine Malott, a former\ncaptive among the Indians, in 1784, and was killed in the Battle of the\nThames, in the War of 1812.\n\nC. W. Butterworth in his biography of the Girty family, says that Simon,\nin later life, became totally blind, dying near Amlerstburg, Canada,\nFebruary 18, 1818, was buried on his farm, and a troop of British\nsoldiers from Fort Malden fired a volley at his grave.\n\n                                  XIII\n                            _Poplar George_\n\n\n\u201cI have been reading your legends of the old days in the \u2018North\nAmerican,\u2019\u201d said the delegate to the Grange Convention, stroking his\nlong silky mustache, \u201cand they remind me of many stories that my mother\nused to tell me when I was a little shaver, while we were living on the\nPucketa, in Westmoreland County. There was one story that I used to like\nbest of all. It was not the one about old Pucketa the Indian warrior for\nwhom the run was named, but about a less notable Indian, but more\nesteemed locally, known as \u2018Poplar George.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t nearly as interesting an Indian story as the one that Emerson\nCollins tells, of the time when his mother, as a little girl on the\nQuinneshockeny, went to the spring for a jug of water, finding a lone\nIndian sitting there all by himself, looking as if he was in deep\nthought. As he made no move to molest her, she filled her jug, and then\nscampered back to the house as fast as she could tote the jug there.\n\n\u201cShe was a little shy about telling of her strange experience, but\nfinally, when she mentioned the subject, her mother said, \u2018maybe the\npoor fellow was hungry.\u2019 Quickly spreading a \u2018piece,\u2019 she hurried back\nto the spring, but no Indian was to be found, only a few prints of his\nmocassined feet in the soft earth by the water course. If it hadn\u2019t been\nfor those footprints she would have always felt that she had not seen a\nreal live Indian, but a ghost.\n\n\u201cIt was the last Indian ever heard of on the Quinneshockeny, and he had\nprobably come back to revive old memories of his happy childhood. No,\nPoplar George was hardly like Emerson Collins\u2019 \u2018last Indian,\u2019 as he, my\nmother averred, was part Indian, part ghost. He was also the last Indian\nthat ever visited the Pucketa, which had been a famous stream in its day\nfor redmen, from the time when old Pucketa, himself, came there to spend\nhis last days, after having been driven out from his former hunting\ngrounds at the head of Lost Creek, which runs into the \u2018Blue Juniata\u2019\nabove Mifflintown.\n\n\u201cThe principal part of this story revolves around two large trees that\nused to stand near the Pucketa, one a big tulip or \u2018whitewood\u2019 tree,\nhollow at the butt, so much so that a half grown person could hide in\nit, and a huge water poplar tree, or \u2018cottonwood,\u2019 a rare tree in\nPennsylvania, you know, that stood on lower ground directly in line with\nit, but on the far side of the creek, which ran parallel with the road.\nIt wasn\u2019t much of a road in those days, I\u2019m told, isn\u2019t much of one yet,\nlittle better than a cow path, with grass and dandelions growing between\nthe wagon tracks, and worn foot-path on the creek side of it. Many\u2019s the\ntime I\u2019ve gone along that path to and from school, or to fetch the cows.\n\n[Illustration: AGED FLAX-SPINNER AT WORK, SUGAR VALLEY]\n\n\u201cIn my boyhood there were two big stumps which always arrested my\nattention, the stumps of the \u2018cottonwood\u2019 and the tulip which I have\nalready mentioned. The native poplar stump, which was chopped breast\nhigh for some reason, had been cut before my day, but the tulip tree had\nstood a dead stab for many years, and was not finally cut until my\nbabyhood. I was too young to recall it, and its stump had been sawed off\nalmost level with the ground.\n\n\u201cWhen my mother was old enough to notice things, say along six, or seven\nor eight years of age, both trees was standing, and despite their\nvenerable age, were thrifty and green; the hollow trunk of the tulip did\nnot seem to lessen its vitality. Trees in those days, of all kinds, were\npretty common, and regarded as nuisances; the farmers were still having\n\u2018burning bees\u2019 in the spring and fall when all hands would join in and\ndrag with ox-spans the logs of the trees that had been cut when they\nwere clearing new ground, and making huge bonfires, burn them like a\nmodern section foreman does a pile of old railroad ties, and by the way,\nthe time is going to come soon when tie burners will be as severely\ncondemned as the instigators of the \u2018burning bees\u2019 in the olden days.\n\n\u201cTrees were too plentiful to attract much attention or create affection\nor veneration, but these two trees had a very special human interest.\n\n\u201cLong after the Indians passed out of our country they came back as\nghosts or \u2018familiars,\u2019 just as the wolves, panthers and wild pigeons do,\nso that the stories of folks seeing them after they became extinct,\nwhile not literally true, are in a sense correct. Closely associated\nwith the life of the big cottonwood was an old Indian, mother said; he\nwasn\u2019t a real live Indian, yet not a ghost, was probably a half ghost,\nhalf Indian, if there could be any such thing.\n\n\u201cThe tulip tree was inhabited by a very attractive spirit, an Indian\ngirl, an odd looking one too, for her smooth skin was only a pumpkin\ncolor and her eyes a light blue. They all called her \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 and\nshe was described as slight, winsome and wonderfully pretty. The Indian\nman, because he spent so much time under the cottonwood or water poplar,\nbecame generally known as \u2018Poplar George.\u2019 He would appear in the\nneighborhood early in the spring, in time to gather poke, milkweed,\ndandelion and bracken for the farmer\u2019s wives, and to teach the young\nfolks to fish, to use the bow and arrow, and snare wild pigeons and\ndoves.\n\n\u201cIt was a sure sign of spring when the young people would see him\nsquatting before a very small fire of twigs under the still leafless\nbranches of the ancient poplar tree. He would remain about all summer\nlong, helping with the harvest, so he must have been real flesh and\nblood, in a sense, and in the fall he gathered nuts, and later cut some\ncordwood for those who favored him\u2013but in truth he never liked hard,\ndownright work overly much.\n\n\u201cHe was a creature of the forests and streams. When he went away in the\nfall, after the wild pigeons had left, he always said that he wintered\nsouth, on the Casselman River, where the weather was not so severe, in\nthat wonderful realm of the Pawpaw, the Persimmon and the Red Bud.\n\n\u201cOften when he took the young folks of the neighborhood on fishing\ntrips, and his skill with the angle and fly were unerring, the pretty\nIndian maiden, \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 would turn up, and be with the party all\nday. When asked who she was, he would sometimes say that she was his\ndaughter, other times his niece, or grand-daughter, but when anyone\nasked of \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 she would shake her pretty head, indicating that\nshe only spoke the Indian language. Poplar George could speak Dutch and\na little English.\n\n\u201cNo one knew where Poplar George slept, if it wasn\u2019t in the open, under\nthe cottonwood tree. If he slept in barns, or under haystacks, no one\nhad ever seen him coming or going, but a detail like that, mattered\nnothing as long as he was kindly and harmless, and took good care of the\nchildren.\n\n\u201cHe was a master of woodcraft, much like that old Narragansett Indian\n\u2018Nessmuk,\u2019 who furnished the late George W. Sears with his inspiration\nas well as \u2018nom de plume.\u2019 Poplar George could call the wild birds off\nthe trees, so that they would feed on the ground before him, the\nsquirrels and even the shy chipmunks climbed all over him, and extracted\nnuts from his pockets.\n\n\"The old Indian was an odd person to look at, so my mother said; of\nmedium height, meagre, wrinkled and weazened, tobacco colored, with\nlittle black shoe-button eyes, and a sparse mustache and beard. He\ndressed in rags, and was often bare-footed, yet he never complained of\nthe cold. He was always jolly and cheerful, had always been the same; he\nhad been coming to the Pucketa Valley for several generations before my\nmother\u2019s day; in fact, no one could remember when he hadn\u2019t been there,\nbut that wasn\u2019t saying much, as it was a new country, dating only from\nthe time when Pucketa and his tribesmen had enjoyed it as a hunting\nground for big game.\n\n\"Once when some hunters killed a bear, they were going to nail the paws\non the end of a log barn, but Poplar George begged for them, and invited\nthe children to a feast of \u2018bear paw cutlets\u2019 under the cottonwood tree.\nMy mother sat beside \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 and took a great fancy to her; she was\nable to talk with her in sign language, and Poplar George, seeing how\nwell they got on together, occasionally interpreted for them.\n\n\"Mother managed to learn that \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019\u2019 abode was in a huge hollow\ntulip tree, but that she, too, wintered in the south, but beyond the\nMaryland line. Those were all gloriously care-free, happy days, and my\nmother, in later life, never tired talking about them.\n\n\"Once in the fall when the buckwheat harvest was in progress, millions\nof wild pigeons came in, and mother could never forget the sight of old\nPoplar George sitting on a \u2018stake and rider\u2019 fence, with a handsome cock\npigeon resplendent with its ruddy breast, pearched on one of his wrists,\nwhile it pecked at some buckwheat seeds in his other hand. Beside him\nsat the demure \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 a speckled squab of the year in her lap,\nstroking it, while other pigeons, usually so wild, were feeding in the\nstubble about them, or perched on the stakes of the fence.\n\n\"Some of the boys of sixteen years or thereabouts, grown lads they\nseemed to my mother, wanted to be attentive to \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 but she was\nso shy that she never let them get close to her. As it was a respectable\nbackwoods community, and all minded their own business, no further\nefforts were made to have her mingle in society.\n\n\"There was a rich boy, Herbert Hiltzheimer from Philadelphia, whose\nfather was a great land owner, and who sometimes came with his parents\nto stay with their Agent while inspecting their possessions, who, at\nfirst sight of \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 fell violently in love with her. On rainy\ndays he was not allowed out of doors, and sent word to Poplar George\nthat \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019 should go to the Agent\u2019s house, and play with him. Old\nPoplar George replied that he was willing if his niece would consent,\nbut she always ran away into the depths of the forest, and was never\nonce induced to play with him indoors. She did not dislike the city boy,\nonly was very timid, and was afraid to go inside of a house.\n\n\"My mother was made a confidante of by Herbert,who offered her five\ndollars, a collosal sum in those days, if she would induce \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019\nto at least come into the Agent\u2019s yard, and play with him alone. He had\nher name cut on everything, even on the window frames, and wrote verses\nabout her which he carried in his pocket, and sometimes tried to read to\nher.\n\n\"In the fall he was taken back to Philadelphia to school, but said that,\nthe evening before, when he walked up the lane, weeping over his\nmisfortune, he opportunately met the fair Indian maid alone at the tulip\ntree, and actually kissed her. She broke away and ran into the hollow\ntrunk, and while he quickly followed her into the aperture, she had\ndisappeared.\n\n\"The lands on which the cottonwood and the tulip tree stood were a part\nof a farm belonging to \u2019Squire George Garnice, an agreeable, but easy\ngoing old gentleman, who never learned to say \u2018no\u2019 to any one, though\nnot much to his detriment for he was very generally respected.\n\n\"One fall some of the Fiedler boys suggested to him, that he let them go\non his property and cut up a lot of old half-dead good-for-nothing trees\nfor cordwood and of course he assented. The first tree they attacked was\nPoplar George\u2019s favorite, the mighty cottonwood. They were skilled\naxemen, and cut a level stump but too high for these days of\nconservation. Soon the big poplar was down, and the boys were trimming\noff the sweeping branches. Before cutting into stove lengths, they\nhopped across the creek and started on their next victim, the hollow\ntulip tree, the home of \u2018Pale Eyes.\u2019\n\n\"One of the boys, the youngest, Ed, had gotten a new cross-cut saw, and\nbegged them to try it on the tulip. They notched, and then getting down\non their knees, started to saw a low stump, for some reason or other.\nThey had sawed in quite a distance on both edges of the hollow side when\nthey heard a piteous shrieking and wailing down the road, toward the old\n\u2019Squire\u2019s barn.\n\n\"Leaving saw, axes and wedges, they ran to where the cries came from,\nand to their horror, found \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019 lying on the grassy bank beside\nthe road at the orchard, her ankles terribly lacerated, front and back,\nclear in to the bones, and bleeding profusely. On this occasion she was\nable to speak in an intelligible tongue.\n\n\u201c\u2018Run quick to the \u2019Squire\u2019s, and get help,\u2019 she said, in Pennsylvania\nGerman; \u2018I am dying, but I want something to ease this dreadful pain.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe sympathetic boys, without waiting to inquire where she received her\ngrevious hurts, scurried down the road and through the \u2019Squire\u2019s gate.\nThe old gentleman was in his library, drawing up a legal document, when\nthe long, lanky youths, hatless and breathless, burst in on him.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, sir,\u2019 they chorused, \u2018the Indian girl, \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 you know, has\ncut herself, and is dying up the road, and wants help.\u2019\n\n\"The \u2019Squire always kept an old-fashioned remedy chest in his desk, so\nseizing it, and adjusting his curly wig, so that it would not blow off,\nhe ran out after the nimble mountaineers. As they left the gate they saw\nold Poplar George running across the orchard in the direction of the\nwounded girl. Evidently he, too, had heard her cries.\n\n\"When they reached the spot where marks on the greensward showed where\n\u2018Pale Eyes\u2019 had been lying, she was nowhere to be found, neither was\nPoplar George. There were no signs of blood, only a lot of sawdust like\ncomes from the workings of a cross-cut saw.\n\n\"The old \u2019Squire was nonplussed, but consented to accompany the boys to\nthe scene of their wood cutting operations. \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019 was not there\neither, nor Poplar George. The newly formed leaves of the cottonwood\u2013it\nwas in the month of May\u2013although the tree had only been cut and sawed\ninto but an hour before, were scorched and withered.\n\n\"The \u2019Squire showed by his face how heartbroken he was to see the two\npicturesque trees so roughly treated, but he was too kindly and\nforgiving to chide the boys for their sake. As he was standing there,\nlooking at the ruin, a number of school children, among them my mother,\ncame along, for it was during the noon recess, or dinner hour. They saw\nthe butchered trees, and learned of the events of the morning; several\nof them, prosaic backwoods youngsters, though they were, shed bitter\ntears.\n\n\u201c\u2018Dry your eyes,\u2019 the \u2018\u2019Squire urged them, \u2018else your people will think\nthat the teacher licked you.\u2019 Then they all chorused that it was a shame\nto have ruined the retreats of Poplar George and \u2018Pale Eyes.\u2019\n\n\u201cEvidently \u2019Squire Garnice was wise in the lore of mysticism, for he\nshook his head sadly, saying, \u2018Never mind, you\u2019ll never see Poplar\nGeorge nor \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019 again.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt was a dejected company that parted with him at his gate. The old\n\u2019Squire was right, for never more was anything seen or heard of Poplar\nGeorge and the mysterious \u2018Pale Eyes.\u2019 They must have been in some\nunknowable way connected with the lives of those two trees, the\ncottonwood and the tulip\u2013their lives or spirits maybe, and when they\nwere cut into, their spirits went out with them.\n\n\u201cI knew of a wealthy man who had a cedar tree in his yard, that when he\nfell ill, the tree became brown, but retained a little life. Finally it\nwas cut down as an eyesore, and the gentleman died suddenly a few days\nafterward. That tree must have contained a vital part of his spirit.\n\n\u201cBy fall the tulip tree looked as if it had been dead for years, and the\nbark was peeling off. As the wood of the poplar would not burn, and set\nup a fetid odor, the Fieldler boys never bothered to finish cutting down\nthe hollow tulip tree, of which the shy wood sprite, \u2018Pale Eyes,\u2019 had\nbeen the essence.\n\n\"Much of the mystery and charm of that old grass-grown way along the\ngently flowing Pucketa had vanished with its Indian frequenters. But the\nmemory of Poplar George and \u2018Pale Eyes\u2019 will never be forgotten as long\nas any of those children who were lucky enough to know them, remain in\nthis world.\"\n\n                                  XIV\n                          _Black Alice Dunbar_\n\n\nDown in the wilds of the Fourth Gap, latterly used as an artery of\ntravel between Sugar Valley and White Deer Hole Valley, commonly known\nas \u201cWhite Deer Valley,\u201d a forest ranger\u2019s cabin stands on the site of an\nancient Indian encampment, the only clearing in the now dreary drive\nfrom the \u201cDutch End\u201d to the famous Stone Church. Until a dozen years ago\nmuch of the primeval forest remained, clumps of huge, original white\npines stood here and there, in the hollows were hemlock and rhododendron\njungles, while in the fall the flickers chased one another among the\ngorgeous red foliage of the gum trees.\n\nNow much is changed; between \u201cTom\u201d Harter and \u201cCharley\u201d Steele, and\nother lumbermen, including some gum tree contractors, little remains but\nbrush and slash; forest fires have sacrificed the remaining timber, and\nonly among the rocks, near the mouth of the gap, can be seen a few\noriginal yellow pines, shaggy topped in isolated grandeur. Some day the\ntragic Indian history of White Deer Hole Valley will come to its own,\nand present one of the most tragic pages in the narrative of the passing\nof the red man.\n\nIt was into this isolated valley, that terminates in Black Hole Valley,\nand the Susquehanna River, near Montgomery, that numbers of the Monsey\nTribe of the Lenni-Lenape, called by some the Delaware Indians,\nretreated after events subsequent to the Walking Purchase, made them\noutcasts on the face of the earth. It was not long afterwards that\nwarlike parties of their cruel Nemesis, the Senecas, appeared on the\nscene, informing the Monseys that they had sold the country to the\nwhites, and if they stayed, it was at their peril.\n\nEven at that early day white men were not wholly absent; they came in\ngreat numbers after the Senecas had sold the lands of the Lenni-Lenape\nto the \u201cWunnux,\u201d but even coincident with the arrival of the Delawares,\na few white traders and adventurers inhabited the most inaccessible\nvalleys.\n\nAlexander Dunbar, a Scotchman, married to a Monsey woman, arrived in\nWhite Deer Hole Valley with the first contingent of his wife\u2019s\ntribes-people, settling near the confluence of White Deer Hole Creek and\nSouth Creek. Whether he was any relation to the Dunbar family, who have\nlong been so prominent in this valley is unknown, as his family moved\nfurther west, and the last heard of them was when his widow died and was\nburied in the vicinity of Dark Shade Creek, Somerset County.\n\nDunbar was a dark, swarthy complexioned man, more like an Indian than a\nCelt, and dressed in the tribal garb, could easily have passed off as\none of the aboriginies. At one time he evidently intended to remain in\nthe Fourth Gap, as in the centre of the greensward which contained the\nIndian encampment, he erected a log fortress, with four bastions, the\nmost permanent looking structure west of Fort Augusta. In it he aimed to\nlive like a Scottish Laird, with his great hall, the earthen floor,\ncovered with the skins of panthers, wolves and bears, elk and deer\nantlers hanging about, and a huge, open fireplace that burned logs of\ncolossal size, and would have delighted an outlaw like Rob Roy\nMacGregor.\n\nWhen the Seneca Indians penetrated into the valley they were at a loss\nat first to ascertain Alexander Dunbar\u2019s true status. If he was related\nto the prominent Scotch families identified with the Penn Government, he\nwould be let alone, but if a mere friendless adventurer, he would be\ndriven out the same as any one of the \u201cOriginal People.\u201d\n\nDunbar was a silent man, and by his taciturnity won toleration for a\ntime, as he never revealed his true position. When the Senecas became\nreasonably convinced that, no matter who he had been in the Highlands of\nScotland, he was a person of no importance in the mountains of\nPennsylvania, they began a series of prosecutions that finally ended\nwith his murder. This took its first form by capturing all members of\nthe Lenni-Lenape tribe who ventured into the lower end of the valley,\nfor those who had settled further down, and on the banks of the\nSusquehanna and Monsey Creek had moved westward when they learned that\nthey had been \u201c_sold out_.\u201d However, the residents of Dunbar\u2019s\nencampment occasionally ventured down South Creek on hunting and fishing\nexpeditions. When the heads of half a dozen families, and several\nsquaws, young girls and children had been captured, over a dozen in all,\nand put into a stockade near the present village of Spring Garden, and\nrumor had it that they were being ill-treated, Alexander Dunbar,\ncarrying a flag of truce, set off to treat with the Seneca Council, at\nwhat is now Allenwood, with a view to having them paroled.\n\nThe unfortunate man never reached the Senecas\u2019 headquarters, being shot\nfrom ambush, and left to die like a dog on the trail, not far from the\nPanther Spring, above the present John E. Person residence.\n\nWhile the surviving, able bodied Monseys could have risen and started a\nwarfare, they deemed it prudence to remain where they were, and to make\nSugar Valley, and the valleys adjacent to White Deer Creek, their\nprincipal hunting grounds.\n\nWhile Dunbar had lived, squaw man, though he was, he was the leader of\nthe Indians among whom he resided, else they would never have permitted\nhis erecting a pretentious fortress in the midst of their humble tepees\nof hides and poorly constructed log cabins. At his death the leadership\ndevolved on his eighteen-year-old daughter, \u201cBlack Agnes,\u201d his widow\nbeing a poor, inoffensive creature, a typical Indian drudge.\n\n\u201cBlack Agnes\u201d was even darker complexioned than her father, but was\nbetter looking, having fine, clear cut features, expressive dark eyes\nwhich flashed fire, although she was much below medium height, in fact,\nno bigger than a twelve-year-old child. She wore her hair in such a\ntangled way that her eyes, lean cheeks and white throat were half hidden\nby the masses of her sable tresses. She usually attired herself in a\nblue coat and cape, a short tan skirt trimmed with grey squirrel tails,\nand long Indian stockings. She was in miniature a counterpart of Miriam\nDonsdebes, the beautiful heroine of one of the chapters in this writer\u2019s\nbook \u201cSouth Mountain Sketches.\u201d\n\nWhile it may have given the Senecas added cause to repeat their jibe of\n\u201cold women\u201d at the Lenni-Lenapes, for not avenging Dunbar\u2019s death, it\nwas a case of living on sufferance anyway, and foolish to have attacked\nsuperior numbers. The Senecas always had white allies to call on for\narms and ammunition, while from the first, the Delawares were a\nproscribed people, slated to be run off the earth and exterminated.\n\nDuring this lull, following the Scotchman\u2019s murder, which the Senecas\nwould have doubtless have disavowed, an embassy appeared at the Dunbar\nstronghold to ask \u201cBlack Agnes\u2019\u201d hand in marriage with a young Seneca\nwarrior named Shingaegundin, whom the intrepid young girl had never\nseen. While it would have been extremely politic for \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d to\nhave accepted, and allied herself with the powerful tribe that had\nwronged her people, she sent back word firmly declining.\n\nAfter the emissaries departed through the gate of the stockade, she\nturned to her warriors, saying, in the metaphorical language of her\nrace: \u201cThe sky is overcast with dark, blustering clouds,\u201d which means\nthat troublesome times were coming, that they would have war.\n\nThe embassy returned crestfallen to Shingaegundin, who was angry enough\nto have slain them all. Instead, he rallied his braves, and told them\nthat if he could not have \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d willingly, he would take her by\nforce, and if she would not be a happy and complaisant bride, he would\ntie her to a tree and starve her until she ceased to be recalcitrant.\n\nThe bulk of the Monseys having departed from the valleys on both sides\nof the Susquehanna, to join others of their tribe at the headwaters of\nthe Ohe-yu, left the Dunbar clan in the midst of an enemy\u2019s country, so\nthat it would look like an easy victory for Shingaegundin\u2019s punitive\nexpedition.\n\n\u201cBlack Agnes\u201d had that splendid military quality of knowing ahead of\ntime what her adversaries planned to do\u2013whether \u201csecond sight\u201d from her\nScotch blood, or merely a highly developed sense of strategy, matters\nnot. At any rate, she was ready to deal a blow at her unkind enemies.\nTherefore she posted her best marksmen along the rocky face of the South\nMountains, on either side of Fourth Gap. Behind these grey-yellow,\npulpit-shaped rocks, the tribesmen crouched, ready for the oncoming\nSenecas. \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d herself was in personal command inside the\nstockade, where she was surrounded by a courageous bodyguard twice her\nsize. The women, old men and children, were sent to the top of the\nmountain, to about where Zimmerman\u2019s Run heads at the now famous\nZimmerman Mountain-top Hospice. At a signal, consisting of a shot fired\nin the air by \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d herself, the fusillade from the riflemen\nconcealed among the rocks was to begin, to make the Fourth Gap a\nprototype of Killiecrankie.\n\nIn turn the entrance of the Senecas into the defile was to be announced\nby arrow shot into the air by a Monsey scout who was concealed behind\nthe Raven\u2019s Rock, the most extensive point of vantage overlooking the\n\u201cGap.\u201d\n\nWhen \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d saw the graceful arrow speed up into space, she again\nspoke metaphorically, \u201cThe path is already shut up!\u201d which meant that\nhostilities had commenced, the war begun.\n\nThe little war sprite timed her plot to a nicety. When the Senecas were\nwell up in the pass, and surrounded on all sides by the Monseys, whom\nthey imagined all crowded into the stockade, \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d fired her\nshot, and the slaughter began. The Senecas began falling on all sides,\nthanks to the unerring aim of the Monsey riflemen, but they were too\ninured to warfare to break and run, especially when caught in a trap.\n\nShingaegundin, enraged beyond all expression at again being flouted by a\nwoman, and a member of the tribe of \u201cold women,\u201d determined to die\ngamely, and within the stockade which harbored \u201cBlack Agnes.\u201d He seemed\nto bear a charmed life, for while his cohorts fell about him, he plunged\non unhurt. The gate of the stockade was open, and \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d stood\njust within it, directing her warriors, a quaint but captivating little\nfigure, more like a sprite or fairy than one of flesh and blood.\n\n[Illustration: OLD CONESTOGA WAGON, BRUSH VALLEY]\n\nShingaegundin espied her, and knew at a glance that this must be the\nwoman who the wise men of his tribe had selected to be his bride, and\nthe cause of this senseless battle. His was a case of love at first\nsight, the very drollness of her tiny form adding to his passion, and he\nran forward, determined to be killed holding her in his arms and\npressing kisses on her dusky cheeks.\n\nSuch thoughts enhanced his ambition and courage, and he shouted again\nand again to his braves to pick themselves up and come on as he was\ndoing. Dazed with love, he imagined in a blissful moment that he would\nyet have the victory and carry \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d home under his arm like a\nnaughty child.\n\nJust outside the palisade he was met by three of Agnes\u2019 bodyguard, armed\nwith stone hatchets. None of his warriors were near him; shot and\nbleeding, they were writhing on the grass, while some were already in\nthe hands of the Monsey braves, who had come down from their eyries, and\nwere dexterously plying the scalping knives. Few of the mutilated\nSenecas uttered cries, although as the scalps were jerked off, it was\nhard to suppress involuntary sobs of pain.\n\n\u201cBlack Agnes\u201d saw nothing in the long, lank form of Shingaegundin to\nawaken any love; she detested him as belonging to the race that had sold\nher birthright and foully murdered her father, and she called to her\nwarriors: \u201cSuffer no grass to grow on the war-path,\u201d signifying to carry\non the fight with vigor.\n\nShingaegundin was soon down, his skull battered and cracked in a dozen\nplaces. Even when down, his ugly spirit failed to capitulate. Biting and\nscratching and clawing with his nails like a beast, he had to have his\nskull beaten like a copperhead before he stretched out a lifeless,\nmisshapen corpse. As he gave his last convulsive kick the Monsey\nwarriors began streaming through the gates, some holding aloft scalps\ndripping with blood, while others waved about by the scalp locks, the\nsevered heads of their defeated foemen.\n\nNever had such a rout been inflicted on the Senecas; perhaps \u201cBlack\nAgnes\u201d would be a second Jeanne d\u2019Arc, and lead the Lenni-Lenape back to\ntheir former glories and possessions!\n\nThe victorious Monseys became very hilarious, hoisting the scalps on\npoles, they shimmied around \u201cBlack Agnes,\u201d yelling and singing their\nancient war songs, the proudest moment of their bellicose lives.\n\n\u201cBlack Agnes\u201d was calm in triumph, for she knew how transitory is life\nor fame. Biting her thin lips, she drew her scalping knife and bent down\nover the lifeless form of Shingaegundin, to remove his scalp in as\nbusiness-like a manner as if she was skinning a rabbit. Addressing the\ngrinning corpse, she said: \u201cBury it deep in the earth,\u201d meaning that the\nSeneca\u2019s injury would be consigned to oblivion. Then, with rare\ndexterity, she removed the scalp, a difficult task when the skull has\nbeen broken in, in so many places.\n\nHolding aloft the ugly hirsute trophy, she almost allowed herself to\nsmile in her supreme moment of success. Her career was now made; she\nwould rally the widely scattered remnants of the Delawares, and fight\nher way to some part of Pennsylvania where prestige would insure peace\nand uninterrupted happiness. But in these elevated moments comes the\nbolt from the blue.\n\nOne of the panic-stricken Senecas, bolting from the ignominious ambush\nof his fellows, had scrambled up the boulder-strewn side of the\nmountain, taking refuge behind the Raven\u2019s Rock, lately occupied by the\nchief lookout of the Monseys\u2013he who had shot the warning arrow into the\nair. Crouching abject and trembling at first, he began to peer about him\nas the fusillade ceased and smoke of battle cleared. He saw his slain\nand scalped clansmen lying about the greensward, and in the creek, and\nthe awful ignominy meted out to his lion-hearted sachem, Shingaegundin.\nAt his feet lay the bow and quiver full of arrows abandoned by the scout\nwhen he rushed down pell mell to join in the bloody scalping bee.\n\nThe sight of \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d holding aloft his chieftain\u2019s scalp, the\nhorribly mutilated condition of Shingaegundin\u2019s corpse, the shimmying,\nsinging Monseys, waving scalps and severed heads of his brothers and\nfriends, all drew back to his heart what red blood ran in his veins.\n\n\u201cBlack Agnes\u201d stood there so erect and self-confident, like a little\nrobin red-breast, ready for a potpie, he would lay her low and end her\npretensions. Taking careful aim, for he was a noted archer, the Seneca\nlet go the arrow, which sped with the swiftness of a passenger pigeon,\nfinding a place in the heart of the brave girl. The tip came out near\nher backbone, her slender form was pierced through and through. The\nslight flush on her dark cheeks gave way to a deadly pallor, and, facing\nher unseen slayer, \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d Dunbar tumbled to the earth dead.\n\nThe dancing, singing Monseys suddenly became a lodge of sorrow, weeping\nand wailing as if their hearts would break. The Seneca archer could have\nkilled more of them, they were so bewildered, but he decided to run no\nfurther risks, and made off towards his encampment to tell his news,\ngood and bad, to his astounded tribesmen.\n\nWhen it was seen that \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d was no more, and could not be\nrevived, the sorrowful Monseys dug a grave within the stockade. It was a\ndouble death for them, as they knew that they would be hunted to the end\nlike the _Wolf Tribe_ that they were, and they had lost an intrepid and\nbeloved leader.\n\nAccording to the custom, before the interment, \u201cBlack Agnes\u2019\u201d clothing\nwas removed, the braves deciding to take it as a present to the dead\ngirl\u2019s mother, to show how bravely she died. They walled up the grave\nand covered the corpse with rocks so that wolves could not dig it up,\ngraded a nice mound of sod over the top, and, like the white soldiers at\nFort Augusta, fired a volley over her grave.\n\nThat night there was a sorrowing scene enacted at the campground near\nthe big spring at Zimmerman\u2019s Run. The grief-stricken mother wanted to\nrun away into the forest, to let the wild beasts devour her, and was\nrestrained with great difficulty by her tribesmen, who had also lost all\nin life that was worth caring for, peace and security.\n\nWith heavy hearts they started on a long journey for the west, carrying\nthe heart-broken mother Karendonah in a hammock, to the asylum offered\nto them by the Wyandots on the Muskingum. The bereaved woman carried the\nblood-stained, heart-pierced raiment of her heroic daughter as a\npriceless relic, and it was in her arms when she died suddenly on the\nway, in Somerset County, and was buried beside the trail, on the old\nForbes Road. The Monseys, however, took the costume with them as a\nfetich, and for years missionaries and others interested in the tragic\nstory of \u201cBlack Agnes\u201d Dunbar were shown her blue jacket with the hole\nin the breast where the arrow entered.\n\nThat arrow pierced the hearts of all the Monseys, for they became a\ndejected and beaten people in their Ohio sanctuary.\n\nWhile it is true that most of the very old people who lived in the\nvicinity of the Fourth Gap have passed away, it may yet be possible to\nlearn the exact location of the cairn containing the remains of \u201cBlack\nAgnes\u201d and place a suitable marker over it. One thing seems certain, if\nthe tradition of the Lenni-Lenape that persons dying bravely in battle\nreach a higher spiritual plane once their souls are released, her ghost\nwill not have to hunt the hideous, burnt-over slashings that were once\nthe wildly romantic Fourth Gap; it has gone to a realm beyond the\ndestructive commercialism of this dollar-mad age, where beauty finds a\nperpetual reward and recognition.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                   XV\n                      _Abram Antoine, Bad Indian_\n\n\nAbram Antoine, a Cacique of the Stockbridge Tribe of Oneida Indians, had\nnever before while in Pennsylvania been off the watershed of the Ohe-yu,\nor \u201cThe Beautiful River,\u201d called by the white men \u201cAllegheny,\u201d until he\naccepted the position of interpreter to a group of chiefs from the New\nYork and Pennsylvania Indians, to visit \u201cThe Great White Father,\u201d\nGeneral Washington, at Mount Vernon.\n\nWhile the General had not been President for several years, and was\nliving in retirement at his Virginia home, the red Chieftains felt that\nhis influence would be such that he could secure redress for their\nwrongs. Cornplanter had been on many such missions, and come home elated\nby promises, few of which were ever fulfilled in any shape, and none in\ntheir entirety, consequently he declined to accompany the mission on\nwhat he termed a \u201cfool\u2019s errand.\u201d\n\nAbram Antoine, through life in New England, New York and Canada, had\nbecome much of a linguist, speaking English and French with tolerable\nfluency, besides being well versed in the Seneca and other Indian\ntongues. He was a tall, handsome type of redman, powerfully muscled, his\ncareer on \u201cThe Beautiful River,\u201d where he rafted and boated between the\nReservations and Pittsburg, and his service as a ranger for the Holland\nLand Company, had developed his naturally powerful form to that of a\nHercules. Previously he had served in the American Navy, during the\nRevolutionary War, which had instilled in him a lifetime respect for the\nname of Washington. He was eager therefore to act as interpreter on an\noccasion which would bring him into personal contact with the Father of\nhis Country.\n\nThe Indians took the usual overland route, coming down the Boone Road,\nto the West Branch of the Susquehanna at the mouth of Drury\u2019s Run; from\nthere they intended _hiking_ across the mountains to Beech Creek, there\nto get on the main trail leading down the Bald Eagle Valley to Standing\nStone (now Huntingdon), and from thence along the Juniata to Louisbourg,\nthen just beginning to be called Harrisburg. It had been an \u201copen\nwinter\u201d thus far.\n\nAt the West Branch they met an ark loaded with coal, bound for\nBaltimore, in charge of some Germans who had mined it in the vicinity of\nMosquito Creek, Clearfield County, near the site of the later town of\nKarthaus. A friendly conversation was started between the party of\nIndians on shore and the boatmen, with the result that the pilot of the\nark, Christian Arndt, invited the redmen to climb aboard.\n\nThe invitation being accepted with alacrity, the ark was steered close\nto the bank, and the Indians, running out on an uprooted snag which hung\nover the water, all leaped on the deck in safety. It made a jolly party\nfrom that moment on. The time passed happily, and many were the\nadventures and experiences _en route_. No stops of any consequence were\nmade except at the mouth of Mianquank (Young Woman\u2019s Creek), and\nUtchowig (now Lock Haven), until the Isle of Que was reached, where\nother arks and flats and batteaux were moored, and there were so many\npersons of similar pursuits that a visit on dry land was in order.\n\nThere was much conviviality at the public houses of Selin\u2019s Grove, and\nthe Germans amused themselves trying to carry on conversations with the\nnative Pennsylvania Dutchmen, dusky, dark-featured individuals, who saw\nlittle affinity between themselves and the fair, podgy \u201cHigh Germans.\u201d\nIn wrestling and boxing matches, throwing the long ball, running races,\nand lifting heavy weights, the Germans were outclassed by the native\nmountaineers, but they took their defeats philosophically. A shooting\nmatch was held, at which all the Indians except Abram Antoine held\naloof, but his marksmanship was so extraordinary that he managed to tie\nthe score for the up-river team. This was a consolation for the Germans,\nand they left the Isle of Que well satisfied with their treatment.\n\nOther arks left their moorings at the same time, mostly loaded with\ngrain or manufactured lumber from the Christunn and the Karoondinha, and\nthe fleet was augmented by a batteau loaded with buffalo hides, at the\nmouth of the West Mahantango. This was the last consignment of\nPennsylvania bison hides ever taken to Harrisburg, the animals having\nbeen killed at their crossing over the Firestone or Shade Mountains, the\nspring previous.\n\nIt was a picturesque sight to see the fleet of arks and other boats\ncoming down the noble river, the flood bank high, driving up flocks of\nwater birds ahead of them, while aloft like aeroplanes guarding a convoy\nof transports, sailed several majestic American Eagles, ever circling,\never drifting, and then soaring heavenward.\n\nOut from the Juniata came several more arks, consequently the idlers in\nfront of the rivermen\u2019s resorts at \u201cThe Ferry,\u201d as some of the\nold-timers still called Harrisburg, declared that they had never seen a\nflood bring in a larger flotilla at one time. All, however, were anxious\nto get in before the river closed up for the winter.\n\nWhen the up-river ark with its load of Teutons and redmen made its\nmoorings for the night near the John Harris tree, they noticed that all\nthe flags were at half-mast\u2013there were many displayed in those days\u2013and\nthere was a Sunday calm among the crowds lolling along the banks in the\nwintry sunshine.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s dead?\u201d inquired Abram Antoine, as he stepped on the dock; his\nnaval training had made him alert to the language of the flag.\n\n\u201c_General Washington_,\u201d was the awed reply.\n\nThe big Stockbridge Indian\u2019s jaw dropped, his lifetime ambition of\nconversing with the \u201cfirst in the hearts of his countrymen,\u201d and the\npurpose of the mission had been thwarted by a Higher Will.\n\nTurning to the gaudy appareled chief behind him, he conveyed the unhappy\nmessage. The Indians shook their heads so hard that their silver\nearrings rattled, and were more genuinely sorry that Washington was no\nmore than the failure of their quest. All ashore, they held a conclave\nunder the old Mulberry tree, deciding that there was no use to go any\nfurther, but would spend a day or two in the thriving new town,\nLouisbourg or Harrisburg, whichever it was proper to call it, and then\nreturn home. There was no use going to Philadelphia again, and a new\nprophet sat in the chair of the Father of his Country at the Nation\u2019s\nCapitol.\n\nThe party then separated for the present, most of them hurrying to the\nnearest tavern stands to refresh thirsts made deeper by the sharp, fine\nair on the river. Abram Antoine stood undecided, one hand resting on the\ntrunk of the historic Mulberry, a crowd of small boys watching him\nopen-mouthed and wide-eyed, at a respectful distance.\n\nPretty soon he was accosted by a very old, white-bearded Dutchman, with\na strip of soiled gray silk on the lapel of his coat, which indicated\nthat he was a veteran of the Royal American Regiment of Riflemen that\nhad figured at Fort Duquesne in 1758. Abram Antoine had seen many such\nveterans in and about Pittsburg, and held out his hand to the aged\nmilitary man. The old soldier signalled with his cane that the Indian\ncome and sit with him on a nearby bench, which he did, and they passed\nan hour pleasantly together.\n\nThe conversation turned principally to soldiering, and then to firearms,\nand all the ancient makes of rifles were discussed, and their merits and\ndemerits compared. The veteran allowed that the best rifle he had ever\nowned was of Spanish make, the kind carried by the Highlanders in the\ncampaigns of 1758 and 1763; it was of slim barrel, light and easily\nhandled, and unerring if used by a person of tolerable accuracy.\n\nThere was one gunsmith in the alley over yonder, a veteran of the\nRevolution, named Adam Dunwicke, who made a rifle close to the early\nSpanish pattern. It was the best firearm being turned out in the State\nof Pennsylvania. The gunsmith, anyhow, was a man worth knowing, as his\nshop was filled with arms of many makes and periods, and he liked to\ntalk with any one who was an enthusiast on guns.\n\nAbram Antoine was fired by what the veteran told him, and as it was\nstill early in the afternoon, asked if he would escort him thither. It\nwould be fine if he could get an extra good rifle as a souvenir of his\nill-starred trip to Mount Vernon. The old man had too much time on his\nhands as it was, and was only too glad to pilot the redman to the\nworkshop. They made a unique looking pair together, the old soldier,\nbent and hobbling along on his staff, the Indian, tall, erect, and in\nthe prime of life. Their high, aquiline noses, with piercing, deep-set\neyes, were their sole points of physical similarity.\n\nWhen they reached the gunshop, in the dark, narrow alley that ran out\nfrom Front Street, the veteran banged the grimy knocker, and it was\nalmost instantly opened by Dunwicke himself, a sturdy man of medium\nheight, who wore great mustaches, had on a leather apron and his sleeves\nwere rolled up, revealing the brawny biceps of a smith.\n\nStanding by the gunmaker, in the shadowy, narrow entry, was a very\npretty girl in a dark blue dress. She was as tall as the smith, but very\ntrim and slight, and her chestnut brown hair was worn low over her ears,\nthrowing into relief her pallid face, and the rather haunted, tired look\nin her fine grey eyes, the marvelous smooth lines of her chin and\nthroat.\n\nA third figure now emerged from the gloom, a small Negro boy, to whom\nthe girl was handing a letter, with her trembling white hands. As the\nIndian, the veteran and the gunsmith withdrew into the workroom, Abram\ncould hear her saying to the lad, as she closed the door by way of added\nemphasis: \u201cTell him to be sure and come.\u201d\n\nHe could hear the footsteps of the girl as she went upstairs, and\nhenceforth he lost most of his interest in the question of obtaining a\nrifle of the Spanish design. All his _designs_ were elsewhere, and he\nwas glad when the smith suggested they visit another room on the\nopposite side of the entry, to look at several sets of extra large horns\nof the grey moose or elk, which had recently come down on an ark from\nsomewhere up Tiadaghton.\n\nAs they crossed the hallway, Abram Antoine looked up the flight of\nstairs\u2013there were three that he could make out\u2013wondering on which floor\nthe fair apparition retired to; he presumed pretty near the roof, as he\nhad not heard her on the loose laid floor above the workshop.\n\nWhen they returned to the gun shop, the Indian, knowing the smith well\nenough by then, inquired who the lady was whom they had seen in the\nentry.\n\n\u201cOh, I don\u2019t quite know what she is,\u201d he replied. \u201cShe stays upstairs,\nunder the roof; you know that the upper floors of this building are let\nfor lodgers.\u201d\n\nInstantly a life\u2019s story, tragic or unusual, grouped itself about his\nimage of the girl, and his heart was filled with yearning. He was hoping\nagainst hope that she would come down again. He had no excuse to go up,\nbut several times while the smith was chatting with the veteran of the\nRoyal Americans, he managed to wander across the hall, looking up the\nwell towards the grimy skylight, and then took another perfunctory\nglance at the huge antlers standing against the wall. He prolonged his\nstay as long as he could, saying that he liked to watch gunmakers at\nwork, and having ordered and paid for a costly rifle, he felt that his\npresence was justified.\n\nIt was well into the gloaming when \u201cknock, knock, knock\u201d on the front\ndoor resounded through the hollow old building. Abram Antoine\u2019s blood\nran cold; he could have shot the visitor if he was the slender girl\u2019s\nrecalcitrant lover, but fervently hoped that, whoever it was, would have\nthe effect of bringing her downstairs.\n\nTrue enough, before he could get to the door at the smith\u2019s heel, he\nheard the light, familiar footsteps, and the girl, trying to look\nunconcerned, was the first to turn the lock.\n\nIt was only Simon Harper, a big, lean hunter from Linglestown, over by\nthe Blue Mountain, who had come to take delivery of a rifle made to\norder.\n\n\u201cOh, I am so disappointed,\u201d said the girl, as she turned to run\nupstairs.\n\nThe smith was escorting his swarthy customer into the shop. Abram\nAntoine\u2019s opportunity had come, if ever.\n\n\u201cDo you have the letting of the rooms upstairs?\u201d he said, politely, hat\nin hand.\n\nThe girl looked at him; it was probably the first time during the\nafternoon that she had noticed his presence, so pre-occupied she had\nbeen.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d she said, softly; \u201cthe lady lives on the next landing, but I saw\nher going out.\u201d\n\nAbraham was well aware how closely she had been watching that doorway!\n\u201cAre there any vacancies?\u201d\n\nThe girl dropped her head as if in doubt about carrying on the\nconversation further, then replied: \u201cI think there are.\u201d \u201csaid the\nIndian.\n\nWhether it was loneliness or desperation at the non-arrival of the\nperson to whom she had sent the letter, or the tall redman\u2019s superlative\ngood looks and genteel demeanor\u2013for a handsome man can attempt what a\nplain one dare never aspire\u2013at any rate without another word, she turned\nand led the way up the long, steep stairs.\n\nIt was with no sense of surprise that she brought him to the top of the\nhouse, into her own garret, with its two small dormer windows which gave\na view in the direction of the Narrows at Fort Hunter, and the broad,\nmajestic river. There was a narrow bed with a soiled coverlet, a\nportmanteau, a brass candlestick, and two rush-bottomed chairs, and\nnothing else in it. In those days lodgers washed at the well in the back\nyard.\n\nBoth sat down as if they had known each other all their lives; the\nfrigid barrier of reserve of a few minutes earlier had broken down. They\nwere scarcely seated when the ominous \u201cClank, clank, clank,\u201d that the\ngirl had been listening for so intently all afternoon, resounded up the\ndismal vault of the stairway.\n\nCasting a frightened look at the big Indian, as much as to say, \u201cWhat\nwill _he_ say if he finds you here?\u201d she bounded out of the room,\ndescending the steps two or three at a time.\n\nAbram Antoine did not take the hint to retire, if such was meant, and\nsat stolidly in the high-backed, rush-bottomed chair, in the unlighted\nroom. It was only a few minutes until she returned, her face red, all\nout of breath, carrying the same letter which he had seen her hand to\nthe colored boy earlier in the afternoon.\n\n[Illustration: OLD SCHELLSBURG CHURCH, LINCOLN HIGHWAY]\n\n\u201cNot in town, don\u2019t know when he will return,\u201d she was chanting to\nherself, as she came through the open door. She started back, as if\nsurprised to find her new champion _still_ there. Without speaking, she\ndropped down on the bed, facing him, fanning her flushed cheeks with the\nenvelope, although the little room was quite cold.\n\n\u201cI am sorry that your letter was undelivered,\u201d said Abram Antoine, after\na considerable silence. There was another pause, and then the girl,\nstill clutching the fated letter, revealed her story of embarrassment.\n\n\u201cIt isn\u2019t a long story,\u201d she began. \"My name is Ernestine de Kneuse. My\nfather is the well-known miller and land-owner at New Berlinville, in\nBerks County\u2013Solomon de Kneuse. About a year ago a young stranger, Carl\nNitschman, I think a High German, came to the town, stopping at the\n\u2018Three Friends\u2019 Inn, which it was rumored he was to purchase. While\nnegotiating, he naturally met many of the leading people. He was\nhandsome and engaging, and all the girls went wild over him. It gave me\na fiendish pleasure to think that he favored me above the rest, and one\nafternoon I cut my classes at the Select Academy, where I was in my\nthird year, and went walking with him.\n\n\"My father, who belonged to the old school, had a hatred for any one who\nmight even consider going into the liquor business, saw us together and\ntold mother. On reaching home, although I was eighteen and had not had\neven a spanking for several years, and thought I had outgrown it, my\nmother took me to my room and administered a good, sound \u2018scotching\u2019\nwith the rod.\n\n\"Previously they had forbidden the young man the house, and when I\ninformed him how I was treated, he told me if I was disciplined again,\nto run away.\n\n\"Not long afterwards I was kept in at school, and mother accused me of\nmeeting my lover. I told her to go to the school and find out for\nherself, which she did, but nevertheless that evening my mother visited\nme in my room with the strap, and walloped me until I was black and blue\nfrom shoulders to ankles.\n\n\"Meanwhile Carl\u2019s negotiations for the purchase of the tavern had fallen\nthrough, and he was preparing to leave for Reading. Through one of my\ngirl friends who was not so strictly raised, I communicated to him the\nstory of this latest indignity, begging him to take me with him. He\nreplied that he would be traveling about for some time before settling\ndown there, but as soon as he was located, he would send me his address,\nand to come.\n\n\"I recall the morning of his departure, how I crawled out of bed before\ndawn, and pressed my tear-stained face against the window lights as he\nclimbed on the coach at the inn, which was across the street from where\nwe lived, and settling down among his goodly store of bags and boxes,\nwas driven away.\n\n\"Weeks passed, and I eventually got a letter through one of my girl\nfriends whose parents were less strict, that he had gone to Harrisburg,\nand I should join him there. By exercising a great amount of ingenuity,\nI got out of the house, and on the night stage for Reading, during one\nof the terrible Equinoctial rains, making close connections with another\nstage for Harrisburg, and I came to my present abode a month before, but\nhave never once seen Nitschman in the interval.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve now learned that my parents are on my track, and will reach town\ntonight; I have spent my last cent, and my letters to Nitschman receive\nno satisfactory answers. I am now penniless, and cannot pay my lodging,\nhave eaten nothing all day, and have no place to go. I would not return\nfor all the world and subject myself to an irate mother.\u201d\n\nThe Indian was much interested by the recital, and told her that he had\nloved her the minute he laid eyes on her, and would marry her if she\nwould return with him to his home, which adjoined the Cornplanter\nReservation, in Warren County. \u201cI will marry you right away if you will\naccept.\u201d\n\nPressed and harassed on all sides, and hungry as well, Ernestine,\nlooking up into the handsome face of the redman, capitulated. Closing up\nher scanty belongings in the shabby portmanteau, she went down to the\nlandlady and settled her bill in full out of a \u201cDouble Eagle\u201d which\nAbram gave her, and then the pair quickly left the building. The gunshop\nwas locked, and dark, the veteran of the Royal Americans and the smith\nhad forgotten all about their Indian friend and gone their ways\nregardless.\n\nThey soon found the leading hotel stand, where they enjoyed a good\nsupper and learned of a preacher who would marry them.\n\nJust as they were about to leave the tavern the stage from Reading and\nStitestown pulled in, horses and running gear all spattered with mud and\nslush. Among the first to clamber out was old Solomon de Kneuse and his\nwife, but they gave them the slip in the darkness and confusion.\n\nAt the manse, after the ceremony, the clergyman mentioned that his\nbrother was to be a juryman the next day at the trial of Nitschman, the\nhighwayman, who had held up and robbed the aristocratic McAfee family on\nthe road to York Springs. \u201cMay he pay dearly for interfering with\nquality,\u201d he added, seriously.\n\nErnestine hung her head; she understood now why it was she had been\nunable to see her lover since she came to the town; he had been in jail,\nand perhaps she was stung with some tiny feelings of remorse to have\nrenounced him so quickly. However, necessity knows no law, but she\nthought she knew her man.\n\nBefore daybreak the newly married couple were ensconced in the stage\nbound for Northumberland and Williamsport, and in due course of time\nreached their future home, just across the river from Corydon.\n\nNone of the other Indians returned for several weeks. When they did,\nthey were miserable looking objects from drink, and Abram half blamed\nhimself for not looking after them, but love had blinded him to\neverything else. He provided a comfortable home for his bride, and as an\nagent for the Holland Land Company, mingled with respectable people, who\nwere considerate to his wife. Among these were the family of Philip\nTome, that indomitable Indian-looking Nimrod, author of \u201cThirty Years a\nHunter,\u201d whose prowess in the forests of Northern Pennsylvania will\nnever be forgotten while memory of the big game days lasts.\n\nErnestine was really happy, and did not aspire to any different lot.\nThough she was fearless, she hated to be left alone when her husband was\nabsent on inspection trips, and he generally managed to have an Indian\nboy or girl\u2013one of the O\u2019Bails or Logans\u2013remain with her when he was\naway.\n\nIn due time his handsome Spanish-type rifle, with its stock inlaid with\nmother-of-pearl and silver, like the gun of some Moorish Sheik, reached\nhim, and of it he was justly proud, partly because it was the instrument\nof his meeting Ernestine.\n\nOn the first anniversary of their wedding he killed a fine stag with it\non the Kinzua, while hunting with Philip Tome. It was in the fall of the\nsecond year of their marriage that Abram Antoine was called away during\na heavy flood in the Ohe-yu, which flowed in front of their house. Old\nShem, the one-eyed, half-breed ferryman, had difficulty in getting him\nacross in the batteau, so swift was the angry current. He was to be\ngone, as usual, several days.\n\nOn the night when she was expecting him home, Ernestine heard a loud\nknocking at the kitchen door. Opening it she beheld Old Shem standing\noutside, the rain dripping from his hat and clothing.\n\n\u201cMissus Antoine,\u201d he wheezed, \u201cAbram is over to the public house at\nCorydon, a very sick man, and wants you to come to him at once.\u201d\n\nErnestine was horrified, but, jerking down her cloak from the nail on\nwhich it hung, ran out into the storm, and followed the aged ferryman\ndown the steep bank to the landing. The wind was bellowing terribly\namong the almost bear hickories and butternuts along the shore, the\ncurrent was deep, dark and eddying.\n\nWhen one-third the way over, Old Shem looked up, saying: \u201cMissus, it\nhain\u2019t Abram that\u2019s sick; it\u2019s your _other_ man, Mister Nitschman, what\nwants you.\u201d \u201cshouted Ernestine. \u201cI never had any other man. Take me back\nhome at once, you treacherous old snake in the grass.\u201d\n\nJust then a pile of buffalo robes in one end of the deep batteau\nstirred, and the form of a man arose\u2013Carl Nitschman, back from jail.\n\n\u201cTalk sensibly, Ernestine,\u201d he said. \u201cI have come for you, and will\nforgive everything. You know you belong to me; your going off with that\nIndian was all a hasty mistake.\u201d\n\nErnestine glared at him and again ordered the ferryman to take her home.\nInstead he seemed to be trying to reach the Corydon shore the faster.\nJust then Nitschman stepped forward, with arms outstretched, as if to\nseize her.\n\nThe slight and supple Ernestine sprang up on the gunwale, the boat\ntipped; she either fell or jumped into the dark, swirling current. She\nwas gone before an effort could be made to save her, and the two\nfrightened men, white as ghosts, pulled for the light which gleamed\nthrough the storm, in the tavern window at Corydon, with redoubled\nenergy. With a thud the prow hit the muddy bank and slid on shore.\n\nTo their surprise Abram Antoine was standing on the bank. The one-eyed\nferryman began to cry, a strange thing for any one of Indian blood. \u201cI\nwas fetching your wife across to meet you and she fell in the river.\u201d\n\nJust then Nitschman, who had climbed out of the boat, was passing by\nAntoine, who seized him by the collar. \u201cWho is this son of \u2013--?\u201d\ndemanded the six-foot Indian.\n\nIt was then that the ferryman broke down completely and confessed all.\n\nAntoine shook his captive like a rat, and slapped his face many times,\neventually tumbling him into the mud and kicking him like a sack of\nflour. Then, picking up an oar, he beat the ferryman over the head until\nhe yelled for mercy. The noise roused the habitues of the hotel, and as\nthe victims were shouting \u201cmurder,\u201d the local Constable, who ran the\nhotel, placed Abram Antoine under arrest, beginning his fatal brand as\n\u201cBad Indian.\u201d\n\nNitschman did not appear to press the charge next day, and the ferryman\napologized for his part in the affair, so Abram was free, minus his\nbeautiful wife and his reputation.\n\nIt was beginning with that terrible tragedy that he began to find solace\nat the tap room of the public house at Corydon. Philip Tome and even old\nCornplanter himself tried his best to save him, but he became an Indian\nsot, losing his position with the land company, his home and his\nself-respect. All that he held on to, and that because being an Indian\nhe was sentimental, was his Spanish rifle with the inlaid stock. He\nspent more and more of his time in the forests, shunning white people\nand fraternizing only with his own kind. He made a protege out of young\nJim Jacobs, a Seneca hunter of unusual ability, and they spent many\nweeks at a time in the forests.\n\nTo him he confided that before he died he would literally have\nNitschman\u2019s scalp, have the blood atonement against the destroyer of his\nhappiness.\n\nA score of years had to pass before he met the ex-highwayman face to\nface. He had heard of the early exploits of this modern Claude Du Val,\nwho was supposed to have reformed, and his blood boiled that such a\nvillainous wretch could wander about scot free.\n\nIt was in the fall of the year, about 1822 or thereabouts, when the\ngreat county fair was in progress at Morris Hills, one of the leading\ntowns above the New York State line, adjacent to the Indian\nreservations. All manner of persons were attracted by the horse races,\ndisplays of cattle, Indian foot races and lacrosse games, as well as the\nmore questionable side shows and gambling performances.\n\nAbram Antoine\u2019s Indian friends had been sobering him up for weeks, and\nhe presented a pretty good appearance for a man of over sixty, when he\nappeared to challenge all comers in tests of marksmanship with the\nrifle. Never had \u201cThe Chief,\u201d as everybody called him, done better than\nthe afternoon of the first day of the fair. The wild pigeons were flying\nhigh overhead in the clear, blue atmosphere of that fine crisp autumn\nday, but whenever he turned his rifle upwards he brought one down for\nthe edification and applause of the crowd.\n\nJust as he had shot a pigeon, his keen eye noticed a medium-sized,\nfair-haired man, loudly dressed, edging hurriedly through the throng, as\nif trying to get away. Antoine had never seen Nitschman except that\nnight when he had trampled him into the mud, but this fellow\u2019s size and\ngeneral demeanor Corresponded with his mental conception of the one that\nhe had ever afterwards regretted that he had not slain.\n\nMoving with rapid strides through the crowd, pigmies beside his giant\nstature, he blocked his little enemy\u2019s further progress. \u201cNitschman, I\nbelieve you are,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cNo, no; that hain\u2019t my name,\u201d spluttered the short man, coloring to the\nroots of his faded yellow hair.\n\n\u201cYes, it is, Chief,\u201d yelled a young Indian who was standing close by.\n\nThat confirmation was all that Abram Antoine, bad Indian, wanted.\nSwinging his rifle above the crowd, he brought it down with terrific\nforce on the head of his foe, crashing right through his high, flat\nbrimmed beaver hat and shattering the lock.\n\nTo use the language of Jim Jacobs, Nitschman fell to the turf like a\n\u201cwhite steer,\u201d and laid there, weltering in blood, for he was dead.\n\nAll the latent hate and jealousy in the crowd against Indians\nimmediately found vent, and an angry mob literally drove Abram Antoine,\nbad Indian, out of the fair grounds to the town lockup. It was some time\nduring 1823 that he expiated his crime on the gallows.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  XVI\n                      _Do You Believe in Ghosts?_\n\n\nA. D. Karstetter, painstaking local historian, tells us that there was\nno more noteworthy spot in the annals of mountainous Pennsylvania than\nthe old Washington Inn at Logansville. Built after the fashion of an\nancient English hostelry, with its inn-yard surrounded by sheds and\nhorse stables, it presented a most picturesque appearance to discerning\ntravelers. The passage of time had obliterated it, long before the great\nfire on June 24, 1918, swept the town, removing even the landmarks which\nwould have showed where the old-time inn was situated.\n\nMany are the tales, grave or gay, clustered about its memory, far more,\nsays Mr. Karstetter, than were connected with the Logan Hotel, run by\nthe Coles, which was erected at a much later day, just when the old\ncoaching days were passing out, and the new era coming in. All of the\nhistory that grew up about the Washington Inn ante-dated the Civil War,\nwhile that of the Logan Hotel was of the period of that war and later.\nThis gives one a good mental picture of the type of legend interwoven\nwith the annals of the ancient Washington Inn.\n\nA winter rain had set in, just at dusk, as the great lumbering\nfive-horse coach (three wheelers and two leaders) from Hightown entered\nthe straggling outkirts of Logansville. The post boy on the boot blew\nhis long horn vociferously, waking the echoes up Summer Creek, then back\nagain, clear to the \u201cGrandfather Pine\u201d at Chadwick\u2019s Gap.\n\nA whimsical old German, who worked at Jacob Eilert\u2019s pottery, picked up\nhis old tin horn that he used to blow as a boy when wolves or Indians\nwere about, and answered the clarion in cracked, uncertain notes. Lights\nglimmered in cabin windows, and many a tallow dip, fat lamp or rushlight\nwas held aloft to get a good view of the coach as it swirled along\nthrough the mud, and its crowded company. Everybody was standing up,\nbuttoning their coats and gathering together their luggage, as the big,\nclumsy vehicle checked up under the swinging sign, on which was painted\nthe well-loved features of the Father of His Country.\n\nThe old landlord, his wife and the hostlers and stable boys and\nhousehold help were outside to assist the travelers to alight and show\nthem into the comfortable glow of the lobby.\n\n\u201cWhen do you start out in the morning?\u201d all were asking of the\nrosy-cheeked driver, although the hour for continuing the journey west\nfrom Logansville was printed in big letters on the rate card at the\nposting office at Hightown, as \u201cSharp, 6.00 A. M.\u201d\n\nIn the candle-lit lobby, by a blazing fire of maple logs, the travelers\nsurveyed one another, the landlord and their surroundings. They were an\neven dozen in number, nine men and three women. Some of the men were\nhunters and had their Lancaster rifles with them; the others commercial\ntravelers. The women were also engaged in business pursuits.\n\nThe stage was the sole means of penetrating into the back country, and\nthe canals and the Pennsylvania Central Railroad (now known as the Main\nLine) the only methods of crossing the Keystone State in those early\ndays.\n\nA good supper was served\u2013hickory smoked ham and eggs, hot cakes and\nnative grown maple syrup, and plentiful libations of original Murray\n\u201cSugar Valley\u201d whiskey, which put the huntsmen and the drummers in\ncapital humor. After the meal they brought out their pipes and sat in\ngroups about the fire in the great, low-ceilinged room. The three women,\nwho were middle-aged and of stolid appearance, sat together, talking in\nundertones.\n\nAll at once, when the fire suddenly spluttered up, one of the drummers,\na big, black-bearded fellow, said loudly enough so that all could\nhear\u2013he was evidently trying to make the conversation general\u2013\"In the\nmountains they say that it\u2019s a sign of a storm when the fire jumps up\nlike that.\"\n\n\u201cAnd I guess we\u2019re having it,\u201d said another of the travelers, a little\nman with gray side whiskers, dryly.\n\nThen, as wide shadows fell across the floor, another of the men, a\nhunter, ventured the remark: \u201cDo you believe in ghosts?\u201d\n\nThere was a pause, as if no one wanted to take up such a very personal\ntopic before strangers. It was in the days when the Fox sisters were\nelectrifying all of Pennsylvania, including the celebrated Dr. Elisha\nKane, with their mediumship, so that it was as popular a topic then as\nnow, in the days of Sir Oliver Lodge and Mrs. Herbine.\n\nAt length one of the men, also a hunter, from Berks County, broke the\nsilence by asking if any one present had heard the story of the Levan\nghost of Oley Township, in Berks; if not, he would tell it. None had\never heard it, so he told of the young Levan girl who had lost her\nfather, to whom she was particularly attached.\n\nOne evening, while milking, she was seized with a very strong feeling\nthat her father was near, which feeling kept up for a week, growing\nstronger daily. At last one evening she went into her room\u2013the house was\nbuilt all on one floor\u2013and she saw her father, as natural as life,\nseated on an old chest that had come from France, for the Levans were\nHuguenot refugees.\n\nThe girl did not seem to be afraid to see her father, about whom a light\nseemed to radiate, and they conversed some time together, mostly on\nreligious topics. Her mother and sisters, who were in another room,\nheard her talking, and the voice which sounded like that of the\ndeparted, and came to the door, which was ajar.\n\n\u201cWho are you talking to?\u201d the mother inquired.\n\n\u201cTo father\u2013he is here; come in and see him,\u201d replied the girl, calmly.\n\nThe family was afraid to enter, remaining outside until the conversation\nhad finished and the ghost vanished. When the girl rejoined them, the\nside of her face that had been turned to her father was slightly\nscorched or reddened, as if she had been close to a fire. And that\ntenderness of skin remained as long as she lived.\n\nWhile other versions of the story have appeared, this is the way it was\ntold that stormy night in the Washington Inn in the long ago.\n\nThe ice having been broken, one of the women spoke up, saying that the\npart of the story which told of the girl\u2019s face being burned by the\n_aura_ from the ghost interested her most, that over in the Nittany\nValley there was a case in the old Carroll family of a woman who had an\nonly child which she loved to distraction, but which unfortunately died.\nThe mother took on terribly, and during the night when she was sitting\nup with the little corpse, besought it to prove to her that the dead\nlived, if only for just one minute.\n\nIn the midst of her weeping and wailing, and romping about the cold,\ndimly-lit room, the dead child rose up in its little pine box and\nmotioned its sorrowing mother to come to it. The woman ran to the coffin\nand the little one touched her forehead with its finger, which burned\nher like a red-hot poker. Then it sank back with a gasp and a groan, and\nwas dead again. Ever afterwards there was a sore, tender spot on the\nwoman\u2019s forehead where the corpse had touched it.\n\nThen another of the women told how she had been selling Bibles in the\nGreat Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, and one of the wheels of her\ncarriage became dished from the bad roads. She had tried to put up with\na mountaineer who would not take her in, and gave her the choice of\nsleeping in the barn with the team and the driver, or to occupy a room\nin a deserted Negro \u201cquarters\u201d across the road.\n\nAll night long she had been annoyed by her candles being blown out and\nthe door blowing open, though she locked it time and again.\n\nIt was a commonplace sort of a ghost story, and one of the hunters\nyawned at its conclusion. The evening\u2019s reminiscences might have ended\nthen and there if the third woman traveler, the youngest and sturdiest\nof the lot, who thus far had been the quietest, turned to the landlord,\nwho sat smoking in the settle, with a couple of his guests, asking him\nif he remembered the Big Calf.\n\n\u201cWhat do you know about the Big Calf?\u201d he said, quizzically, looking at\nthe woman in order to see if he could recognize her.\n\n\u201cI know as much as you do, I reckon,\u201d she said. \u201cI lived in this town\nfor a year learning millinery with Emilie Knecht.\u201d \u201csaid the landlord.\n\n\u201cI surely am,\u201d responded the woman, \u201cand I knew you well, Jakey\nKleckner, in those days.\u201d \u201csaid the boniface, sitting up very straight.\n\n[Illustration: INTERIOR OF SCHELLSBURG CHURCH]\n\n\u201cLong years ago,\u201d began the business woman, \"when this public house was\nfirst opened, the landlord\u2019s cow gave birth to an unusual calf. At six\nweeks it was as big as most heifers of six months, and it was handsome\nand intelligent, a brown-gray color\u2013\u2018Brown Swiss\u2019 they called the breed.\nAll the drovers and cattle buyers in the mountains wanted that calf for\na show, and her fame spread all over the \u2018five counties.\u2019\n\n\"There were two buyers from out about Greensburg that came in all the\nways to get her, but the price was too steep. They hung around all day,\ndrinking with the landlord in the tap room, and though he took too much\nin this drunken bout, kept enough of his wits with him to refuse to\nlower the price one shilling. The next morning he had to go away on\nimportant business, and in the afternoon the drovers returned, telling\nthe landlord\u2019s wife that they had met her husband on the road, and he\nhad consented to accept a lower figure.\n\n\"The woman replied that while she was sorry her \u2018man\u2019 had shown such\nweakness to change his mind so quickly, when on leaving he had told her\nthat he had been sickened by the importunities of the two strangers the\nday before, yet she claimed, the calf as hers and it would not leave the\npremises for any price, and except over her dead body. She prized it\nespecially since she had also raised the mother, which had recently been\nkilled by a wandering panther.\n\n\"The men departed in an ugly mood. When the boniface returned in the\nevening he was indignant at what his wife told him; he had not met the\ndrovers on the road, and if he had, the calf was not for sale.\n\n\"Shortly after his arrival a German Gypsy, one of the Einsicks, appeared\nin the inn-yard with a big she-bear, a brown one, which he took about\nthe mountains to dance and amuse the crowds at public houses, fairs and\npolitical meetings. The stables were full, but after some arguing the\nlandlord consented to let the bear occupy the box stall where he kept\nthe Big Calf, which he removed to the smoke house.\n\n\"During the night, which was very dark, the covetous drovers returned,\nand, not knowing of the Big Calf\u2019s changed quarters, one of them went\ninto steal it. In the darkness the bear seized him and hugged him almost\nto death. His companion, vexed at his slowness in fetching out the Big\nCalf, called to him, and he made known his predicament.\n\n\"There was no way to free the captive but to begin clubbing the bear,\nwhich set up such a loud growling that it aroused the owner and the\nlandlord, who ran out with pistols, just in time to see the two would-be\ncattle thieves decamping from the inn-yard. They both fired after them,\nbut the scoundrels got off scot free. They never returned.\n\n\"The Big Calf grew into a very handsome cow, and was the pride of the\nmountain community. It was always brought in from pasture at night and\nmilked, lest it share its mother\u2019s fate and be pulled down by a\nPennsylvania lion.\n\n\"One evening, while the landlord\u2019s only daughter, a very pretty,\ngraceful girl, was driving the cow home, she was joined by a handsome,\ndark-complexioned young man, mounted on a superb black horse. He\naccompanied her to the stables, where he watched her milk, and then put\nup for the night at the inn. Next day he became very sick, and several\ndoctors were called in, who bled him, but could not diagnose his\nailment.\n\n\"Meanwhile he proposed marriage to the landlord\u2019s daughter, who nursed\nhim, pretending that he was a young man of quality from Pittsburg, which\nflattered the innkeeper and his daughter mightily.\n\n\"All this while he was trying to learn if the landlord kept any large\nsum of money in the house. It was not long until the girl confided to\nhim that her father had gone into debt buying a farm in Nippenose\nBottom, as he wanted to retire from the tavern business. It was there\nwhere he was when the two dishonest drovers from Greensburg had returned\nand tried to euchre his wife out of the Big Calf.\n\n\"Satisfied that there was no booty in the house, the fellow rose one\nmorning before daybreak, dressed quietly, although the girl was in the\nroom, wrote a note to her which he left on the clothes press, and made\nhis escape. The wording of the letter ran about as follows:\n\n\u201c\u2018Dearest Love:\u2013I am sorry to have left without saying goodbye, but my\nintentions were not sincere, for while I admired your beauty and good\nsense, which none can deny, I was only here to find out where your\nfather kept his money. But since he has none, and has gone into debt, I\nneed remain no longer. I thank you for all the information you gave me,\nand for your kind attentions. Gratefully yours, David Lewis.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe poor girl had been one of the dupes of the celebrated \u2018Lewis the\nRobber,\u2019 or some one impersonating him, as he had many _alter egos_,\nsome more daring than himself, and understudies. If half the stories\ntold of his exploits were true, he would have had to be a hundred years\nold to do them, and get to so many places.\n\n\"At any rate, the pretty girl was frightfully cut up by her misfortune,\nand took to the bed lately vacated by \u2018Lewis.\u2019 She had told all of her\nfriends that she was to marry in a fortnight, and go to live in a big\nhouse on Grant\u2019s Hill, Pittsburg, and it was all terrible and\nhumiliating. Rather than let the real story get out, the girl\u2019s parents\nconnived with her to say that word had been brought that the young\ngentleman, while riding near Standing Stone Town, had been thrown from\nhis horse and killed. Hence when the girl was able to reappear, she was\ndressed in black, as if in mourning for her dashing sweetheart.\n\n\"The first time she came out of doors she went for a walk alone just\nabout dusk, so that not many people would be abroad, towards the lower\npart of the village. She was never seen or heard of again. There was no\nstream or pool big enough for her to drown herself in; a panther could\nhardly have dragged her off and not left signs of a struggle; she might\nhave fallen in a cave or sink, it is true. At all events, it seemed as\nif the earth had swallowed her up. Perhaps Lewis, or whoever he was,\ncame back after her.\n\n\"When I came to Logansville to learn millinery with Emilie Knecht, I\nlived in her house over the store, just across the way from this hotel;\nthe building was burned down afterwards. How such a gifted milliner came\nto settle off here in the mountains I could never tell, but I suppose\nmountain ladies must have nice hats just like those in the valleys.\n\n\"We became good friends, and very confidential, though at that time she\nwas over thirty years of age and I was at least a dozen years younger.\nShe would never tell where she came from, except that it was down\ncountry, and there seemed to be something on her mind which weighed on\nher terribly. Though I think she was the loveliest looking woman I have\never seen, she cared absolutely nothing for the men. As she believed in\nghosts, and so did I, we compared experiences.\n\n\"I told her of a ghostly episode which left a deep impression on my\nchildish nature, which happened when I was six years old. My father\nworked in the mines, and was on \u2018night shift.\u2019 Mother locked the doors\nand we all went to bed. Mother\u2019s room adjoined mine and my sister\u2019s.\nAfter we were in bed for some time, but not yet asleep, a man\u2013he seemed\nto be black\u2013came to the door which led from mother\u2019s room to ours, and\nsmiled at us. He drew back, re-appeared and smiled again, or rather\ngrinned, showing his white teeth; it was a peculiar smile.\n\n\"I wanted to call mother, but sister, who was eight, said I must not\nspeak, I must keep very still.\n\n\"Next morning we asked father what time he came home, and he said \u2018not\nuntil morning.\u2019 We told our experience, but father and mother seemed to\nthink we had only imagined it.\n\n\"But two persons do not imagine the same thing at the same time.\nBesides, we were not afraid. I have often wondered what it was. My\nsister died shortly after that. Could it have been a \u2018warning,\u2019 I\nwonder?\n\n\"The pretty milliner\u2019s story was even more startling and unusual. She\ndeclared that her grandmother\u2019s ghost had come to her bedside every\nnight since she was a small child. She said that she never feared it,\nbut took it as a matter of course. I think that these nightly\nvisitations took a whole lot out of her. I can see her yet running down\nthe steep, narrow stairs in the mornings to the shop where I was\nworking\u2013I was always an early riser\u2013her face looking as if it had been\nwhitewashed, more so perhaps because her hair and eyes were so dark.\n\n\"She was often nervous and irritable, and I laid it all to the vital\nforce which the ghost must be drawing out of her to materialize, but she\nsaid it was only her liver which made her so dauncy. I begged her to let\nme sleep with her, that I did not think that the ghost would come if I\nwas present, and if it did it could draw on some of my vitality, as I\nwas a big, strong, hearty girl. She would not let me sleep with her,\nsaying that she had gotten used to the ghost.\n\n\"One evening Miss Knecht and I were invited to a chicken and waffle\nsupper at the home of old Mrs. Eilert, wife of the potter, whose house\nwas the last one in town. In those days there was quite a distance not\nbuilt up between the potter\u2019s home and the rest of the village. The\nholidays were approaching, and we were getting ready for the Christmas\ntrade, consequently stayed later in the shop than we had expected.\n\n\"As I said before, Mrs. Eilert lived at the extreme end of town. When we\nwere a few squares from home we noticed a woman dressed in mourning who\nseemed to be following us, or at least going in our direction. She was\nan entire stranger to us, and we wondered where she could be going; so\neach house we came to I would look back to see whether she entered. When\nwe were half a square from where we were going, we passed a house which\nstood back pretty far from the road. There was considerable ground to\nthe place, and a high board fence all around. After we passed the gate I\nturned, as before, to see whether this woman would enter. She did not. I\nwatched her until she was past the gate quite a ways. I turned and told\nmy companion she had _not_ entered, and immediately turned to look at\nher again, and she was gone!\n\n\"Where could she have gone in those few seconds in which I was not\nlooking at her? Everywhere there was open space\u2013nowhere for her to hide.\nHad she jumped the fence she could not have gotten out of sight in those\nfew seconds. I have often wondered since what it was.\n\n\"When we reached the Eilert home I noticed that Miss Knecht was in a\nhighly unstrung condition, more so than I had ever seen her before. We\ntold the story, and the old potter smiled grimly, saying: \u2018You surely\nhave seen the ghost of the landlord\u2019s daughter who disappeared, all\ndressed in black, after being jilted by the robber.\u2019\n\n\"Emilie shook her pretty dark curls, muttering that she feared it was\nsomething worse. She was afraid to go home that night, and we spent the\nnight with our friends; yet she would not remain unless given a room by\nherself. In the morning she was in a most despondent mood; she had not\nseen her grandmother\u2013what could it mean?\n\n\"The woman in black must have been her \u2018familiar\u2019 leaving her, warning\nher to that effect, and not the ghost of the landlord\u2019s daughter after\nall, she maintained. I tried to reassure her that she would see her\ngrandmother once she was in her own room, but next morning brought the\ntidings that the faithful spirit was again absent. This continued for a\nweek, my friend becoming more nervous and despondent.\n\n\"One morning she did not come downstairs, so at eight o\u2019clock I went up\nafter her, to see if she were ill. The bed was empty, and had not been\nslept in. I searched the house and found her lying dead on a miserable\ncot in the cellar\u2013beautiful in death\u2013which an elderly Dutchman sometimes\noccupied, when cutting wood and taking care of the garden for us. She\nhad drunk a potion of arsenic that she had bought some months before to\npoison rats which infested the cellar, but her lovely face was not\nmarked.\n\n\u201cI left town shortly afterwards, and have never been back until\ntonight.\u201d\n\nThe burly commercial traveler who had started the general conversation\nstroked his long black beard.\n\n\"I guess it is time for all of us to retire. I don\u2019t think we need to\nask this lady again, \u2019Do you believe in ghosts?\u2018\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  XVII\n                           _A Stone\u2019s Throw_\n\n\nWhen land warrants were allotted to Jacob Marshall and Jacob Mintges, of\nthe Hebrew colony at Schaefferstown, there were elaborate preparations\nmade by these two lifelong friends to migrate to the new country of the\nChristunn. That the warrants were laid side by side made the situation\ndoubly pleasant, a compensation in a measure for any regrets at leaving\nthe banks of the beautiful Milbach. The country was becoming too closely\nsettled, opportunities were circumscribed, and the liberality of the\nProprietary Government should be taken advantage of.\n\nWhen the two groups of pioneers were ready to start for the new home, it\nwas like some scene from the patriarchal days of the Old Testament. The\nlong, lean, gaunt, black-bearded Jews, black-capped, cloaked to their\nheels, and carrying big staffs, led the way, followed by their families\nand possessions of live stock, farming and household utensils. Each head\nof a family had an Indian and Negro servant or two, which added to the\npicturesqueness of the caravans. Dogs, part wolf, herded the flocks of\nsheep, goats and young cattle, while the women rode on mares, the foals\nof which trotted along unsteadily at their sides.\n\nRachel, Jacob Marshall\u2019s handsome daughter, was mounted on a piebald\nfilly; on her back was slung her violin, a genuine Joseph Guarnerius,\nwith which she discoursed sacred music around the campfire in the\nevenings, just as her ancestors may have done on some harp or cruit in\nremote days in Palestine or in the Arabian highlands.\n\nThese German Jews, who came to Pennsylvania in 1702 to re-convert the\nIndians, whom they believed to be the lost tribe of Israel, back to the\nancient faith of Moses, while destined to fail as proselyters, became\none of the potent root sources of the so-called Pennsylvania Dutch, \u201cThe\nBlack Dutch\u201d of the Christunn, Philadelphia, New York and the World.\n\nThe Pennsylvania Dutch are the most adaptable race in the world,\naltering the spelling of their names, their genealogies and traditions\nwith every generation. They find success in all callings and in all\nwalks of life like the true Nomads that they are. A Pennsylvania\nDutchman\u2019s lineage is kaleidoscopic any way\u2013possibly German, Jewish,\nprobably Indian, with sure admixtures of Dutch, Quaker, Swiss,\nScotch-Irish, Greek, Bohemian, Spanish or Huguenot. And there were some\npropagandists shallow enough to try to line them up with Kaiserism in\nthe days just anterior to the World War, and call them \u201cPennsylvania\nGermans.\u201d\n\nTheir very swarthiness and leanness, the intenseness of their black\neyes, gave the lie to any Teutonic affiliations, despite the jargon that\nthey speak. And what a race of giants they have produced\u2013Pershing,\nHoover, Gorgas, Schwab, Replogle, Sproul, the Wanamakers, Newton Diehl\nBaker, Jane Addams\u2013a group as potent as any other in the sublime effort\nof making the world \u201csafe for democracy.\u201d\n\nWhen the pilgrims reached the Karoondinha, they were met by the local\nagents and surveyors of the Proprietors, who escorted them to their new\nestates, which were bounded on the south by the Christunn, now renamed\n\u201cMiddle Creek,\u201d and on the north by the craggy heights of the\nculminating pinnacle of Jack\u2019s Mountain, the famed \u201cHigh Top,\u201d climbed\nby the Pennsylvania Alpine Club, August 24, 1919.\n\nA large gray fox, or Colishay, having led Mintges\u2018 dogs away from the\ncamp, caused this \u201cFather in Israel\u201d to be absent during the critical\nmoments when the line between his property and that of Marshall was\nbeing confirmed by the Proprietary surveyors. When he returned,\nexultingly swinging the fox\u2019s pelt above his head and looking all the\nworld like a lower Fifth Avenue fur jobber, the day was almost spent and\nthe surveyors were gathering up their instruments.\n\nMarshall, who was a kindly and just man, tried to explain to his friend,\nbefore the sun went down, just where the line was blazed. It seemed fair\nenough at the time to Mintges. Later on, when alone one day, he walked\nover the line, comparing it with the warrant, and it did not seem to\nsatisfy him as much. He believed that the surveyors had deviated a rod\nor two all along, to his disadvantage. Doubtless if such was the case,\nit had been due to their haste to get through, for they had a daily\ngrind of similar cases, but Marshall, he thought, should have compelled\nthem to follow the parchment drafts, and not uncertain instruments.\n\nNevertheless, he decided to say nothing to his friend; they had always\nbeen good intimates, why should their relations be jeopardized for a\npaltry rod or two. Mintges confided the mistake to his wife, and later\non to his children. It was unfortunate, but where there were so few\nneighbors it was hardly worth a fight.\n\nAs Mintges grew older the matter began to prey on his mind, to obsess\nhim. It worried him until his head ached, and he could not drive it\naway. Marshall and his heirs were profiting at his expense; it should\nnot be allowed to rest that way.\n\nThe surveyors had placed a great stone at the upper corner of the line,\nat the slope of the mountain, and there Jacob Mintges repaired one\nmoonlight night, armed with a crowbar, and reset the stone two rods on\nthe alleged domain of Jacob Marshall. Mintges was an old man at the\ntime, rabbinical in appearance, and he chuckled and \u201cwashed his hands\u201d\nas he stood and viewed the fruits of his labor. A wrong had been quietly\nrighted; why hadn\u2019t he done it twenty years ago?\n\nIt so happened that Jacob Marshall went out for chestnuts a week or so\nafter Mintges\u2019 performance, and saw the altered position of the stone.\nInstead of hastening to his friend\u2019s house and asking him for a frank\nexplanation, he, not being conscious of any wrong-doing, moved the stone\nback to its original position, to rebuke the presumptuous Mintges. Then\nhe stood admiring his work, while he stroked his long black beard.\n\nA few weeks later Mintges and his sons went to the mountain to brush out\na road on which to haul logs with their oxteams in the winter-time. One\nof the boys, named Lazarus, called his father\u2019s attention to the stone\u2019s\nposition. It made the old man \u201csee red,\u201d and he would not rest until,\nwith the aid of his sons, it was again set where he felt it should\nrightfully be.\n\nAll this produced a coolness, almost a feud, between the two families,\nwhich kept up until Jacob Mintges died at the age of eighty years. Jacob\nMarshall, friend of his youth and companion of his \u201ctrek\u201d to the\nwilderness, did not attend the obsequies.\n\nIt was not many nights afterwards when reports were made on all sides\nthat Mintges\u2019 spook was abroad, walking about the fields and lanes\nadjacent to Jacob Marshall\u2019s home, his arms holding aloft a great block\nof stone. Marshall saw the apparition several times, but shunned it as\nhe had the living Mintges the last years of his life.\n\nWhat he wanted was very plain, for sometimes the night wind wafted the\nmournful words down Marshall\u2019s bedroom chimney (for he always kept his\nwindows nailed shut): \u201cWhere shall I put it; oh, where shall I put it?\u201d\n\nThe ghost began his hauntings in the spring, kept it up all summer,\nfall, winter, then another spring and summer. He had affixed himself to\nthe family, Marshall thought, as he racked his brain to lay the\ntroublesome night prowler.\n\nIt was during the fall of the second year that a big party of moonlight\n\u2019coon hunters went up the lane which led between the Marshall and\nMintges farms, headed for the rocky heights of Jack\u2019s Mountain. In the\nparty was Otto Gleim, the half-witted drunkard of Selin\u2019s Grove, little,\ndumpy, long-armed High German, high-shouldered Otto Gleim, who was left\nat the foot of the mountain to hold one of the lanterns.\n\nGleim was half full on this occasion, as it was in the cider season, and\nhe staggered about under the aged chestnut trees, while his wits\nrevolved in his head with the speed of an electric fan. He felt\nlonesome, sick and uncomfortable. It was a relief to see a great, tall\nfigure, with a long, black beard, approaching him, holding aloft a huge\nstone. It looked like \u201cUncle Jake\u201d Marshall at first; no, it wasn\u2019t\u2013it\nwas no one else but the late \u201cUncle Jake\u201d Mintges, his neighbor.\n\nAs the gaunt figure drew nearer, it began groaning and wailing: \u201cWhere\nshall I put it; oh, where shall I put it?\u201d in tones as melancholy as\nthose of the Great Horned Owl on a New Year\u2019s Eve.\n\n\u201cPut it where it belongs,\u201d spluttered Otto Gleim, the drunkard, with a\ngleam of super-human prescience, and lo and behold, the ghost set the\nstone where it had been for twenty years after the surveyors had placed\nit there. Then the apparition vanished, and Gleim, in a matter-of-fact\nway, sat down on the cornerstone, where he waited until the \u2019coon\nhunters returned.\n\nJake Mintges\u2019 ghost ceased to wander and lament, but instead allied\nitself closely with Jake Marshall\u2019s family as private stock banshee,\nwarning, token or familiar. Whenever a disaster was due to any member he\nwould show his grinning tusks, as much as to say: \u201cNow, make the best of\nwhat is coming; life is short anyway.\u201d\n\nNo doubt his visits of forewarning strengthened the nerves of the family\nto face trouble with a greater degree of equanimity; in all events the\npoor old fellow meant it that way. Old and young, rich and poor, in\ncities or in the wilds, wherever the blood of Jacob Marshall flowed, the\nghost of Mintges was in evidence at the climacteric moments of their\nlives. They were all used to him, and never resented his visits or tried\nin any way to lay him.\n\nThe scene shifts to one of the last to encounter this strange old ghost.\nIt is in a great city, in a high-ceilinged, yet gloomy room, furnished\nin the plush and mahogany of the middle eighties of the last century. A\nvery dark girl, with full pouting lips and black eyes, half closed and\nsullen, yet beautiful in the first flush of youth withal, is seated on\none of the upholstered easy chairs. Standing in the bay window facing\nher is a very tall man, equally dark, his drooping black mustache and\nlong Prince Albert coat making him appear at least ten years older than\nthe twenty-eight which was his correct age.\n\n[Illustration: LOOKING TOWARDS SUMMER CREEK GAP FROM LOGANTON]\n\nOn a centre table, with a top of brown onyx, on which were also several\nbisque ornaments, lay an ancient violin and bow, a veritable Joseph\nGuarnerius. It was made of a curious piece of spruce which, when growing\nin some remote forest of Northern Italy, had been punctured by a \u201cGran\nPico\u201d or large green woodpecker, and the wood stained, giving a unique\nand picturesque touch to this specimen of the skill of the old master of\nCremona.\n\n\u201cI have determined to go home tonight,\u201d said the dark girl, with\ndecision, \u201cand nothing can stop me. When any of our family see the face\nof Jacob Mintges, it means disaster to some one near to us; my mother\nand her old parents, whom I left so suddenly, may be grieving to death;\nI will go to them tonight.\u201d\n\nThe tall man fumbled with his long fingers among the tassels on the back\nof a chair in front of him, as if trying to frame up a decisive answer.\n\u201cThis is what I call base ingratitude,\u201d he faltered at length, in high,\nalmost feminine tones. \u201cJust when I have had your musical talent\ndeveloped, turning you from a common fiddler to a finished artiste, and\nhaving you almost ready to make your stage debut as a popular juvenile,\nyou leave me in the lurch, and all because you imagined you saw a\nghost\u2013_imagined_, I say, for there are no such things.\u201d\n\nThe dark girl sat perfectly still, biting her full red lips, her immoble\nface as if made of ivory.\n\n\u201cWhat are you, anyway?\u201d she finally responded; \u201cnothing but what my\nfather called a mountebank; he hated them, an _actor_, and I owe you\nnothing but contempt for having brought me here to be your plaything\nwhile my youth and good looks last.\u201d\n\nThen, as she got up and started towards a door, the tall man darted\nafter her.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll not let you make a fool of yourself,\u201d he hissed, theatrically.\nCatching her by the wrists, he attempted to detain her.\n\n\u201cSit down; we must have this out.\u201d\n\nShe was almost as tall as he, and very muscular, and the Jewish strain\nin her blood was hot. The pair struggled about the room, until the man\nin his anger seized the old violin and hit her a heavy blow over the\nhead. She sank down on the floor in a limp mass, and the man, picking up\nhis brown Fedora, ran out of the room and down the long flight of stairs\nand out into the street. The girl was not badly hurt, only stunned, and\ncame to herself in about fifteen minutes. She saw that she was alone,\nand the Guarnerius was around her neck.\n\nGathering herself up, her first thought was for the violin, and tying\nthe smallest chips in her handkerchief she went to the inner room and\nbegan to pack a large portmanteau. Then she put on her hat, veil and\ncloak and, locking the apartment door and slipping the key in her grip,\nshe left the house and hurried down town towards the railroad depot.\n\nIt was dark when she reached there, and she quickly boarded a local, to\nwait in the suburbs until the night sleeping car train for Derrstown\nmade its stop there. All went well, and by midnight she was boarding the\nsleeper and was soon afterwards undressed and under the sooty-smelling\nblankets in a lower berth.\n\nShe did not know how long she had been sleeping when the train suddenly\nstopped with a jerk and she was awake. Looking around, she saw a face\npeering through the curtains. It was not the porter, but the leering,\nopen mouth, old Jacob Mintges himself, tusks and all.\n\nTwice now in twenty-four hours he had come to her, for the night\nprevious she had waked just in the gray half light before dawn, and had\nseen him standing grinning by her bedside.\n\nAn inexperienced person might have screamed, but not so Eugenie\nCarlevan, the great-great-granddaughter of Jacob Marshall. When their\neyes met, Mintges quickly withdrew, and the girl, wide awake, began\nthinking over the past years of her life, as the train again started to\nroll on into the night. She had always been fond of music and theatres.\nThe violin given to her on her sixth birthday by her grandfather\nMarshall had become the evil genius of her destiny. Her father had died\nand her mother was too much of a drudge to control her. She had attended\nevery circus, burlesque, minstrel show or dramatic performance that had\ncome to the town where she had lived, since she was thirteen years old.\n\nWhen the young Thespian who called himself Derment Catesby had come to\nSwinefordstown, where she was visiting an aunt, with the \u201cLights\nO\u2019London\u201d Company, she had fallen violently in love with him, had made\nhis acquaintance, and he, struck by her imperious beauty and musical\npredilections, had asked her to go away with him.\n\nShe had joined him a few days later in Sunbury, bringing her precious\nviolin, and traveled with him to the great city. There the actor soon\nsigned up to play in repertoire at a stock company. She liked him well\nenough, despite his vanity and selfishness, for he was very handsome. It\nwas before the days when actors were clean-shaven like every servant,\nand looked much like other people. However much she had loved him, Jacob\nMintges\u2019 ghost had revealed a more pressing duty twice, and she was on\nher way home.\n\nSoon she fell asleep again, and did not wake until the porter\u2019s face\nappeared to notify her that the train was leaving Sunbury. Her mother\nlived with her aged parents out near Hartley Hall, among the high\nmountains; it would be a relief to see those lofty peaks and wide\nexpanse of vision once more, after the cramped outlook of the city. How\npeculiarly sweet the air seemed, with the sun coming up behind the\nfringe of old yellow pines and oaks along the river! What refreshing\nzephyrs were wafted from those newly-ploughed fields. The bluebirds and\nrobins were singing in the maple trees about the station. On a\nside-track stood the little wood-burner engine, with its bulbous stack,\npuffing black smoke, ready to pull its train of tiny cars out to the\nwonderful, wild mountain country, the land of Lick Run Gap, the Lost\nValley, the High Head, Big Buffalo, Winklebleck and Shreiner!\n\nHow well she remembered the first time she had seen that wood-burner, as\na little tot, going on a visit with her father and mother. It was in the\ngolden hour, and deep purple shadows fell from the station roof athwart\nthe golden light on the platform!\n\nAll these thoughts were crowding through her head until the bell on the\nlittle engine reminded her that the L. & T. train was soon to depart.\n\nShe reached home in time for dinner, was received with no enthusiasm,\nfor her mother and grandparents were true mountaineers, and their\nswarthy faces masked their feelings, yet she was made to feel perfectly\nwelcome.\n\nNobody had died, no one was sick, the house hadn\u2019t burned down,\nevidently the trials foretold by Jake Mintges were yet to come.\n\nThat afternoon she showed the broken violin to her grandfather, who took\nit to his workbench in an out-house to repair it, undaunted by the\nseeming endlessness of the reconstruction.\n\nEugenie seemed perfectly contented to be at home, She had had enough of\nthe _bizarre_, and reveled again in the humdrum. Five or six days after\nher return the weekly county paper appeared at the house, with its\nboiler plate front page and patent insides. Some instinct made her open\nthe wrapper as it lay on the kitchen table. On the front page she saw\nthe likeness of a familiar face, the well-known full eyes, oval cheeks,\nrounded chin and drooping mustache, Derment Catesby. Then the headlines\ncaught her eyes, \u201cHandsome Actor Shot to Death by Insanely Jealous\nHusband at Stage Door.\u201d Then she glanced at the date and the hour. It\nwas the night that she had taken the train\u2013the very moment, perhaps,\nthat Jacob Mintges\u2019 grinning face had looked through the curtains of her\nberth. Yes, the murderer had waited a long time, as the victim had\ntarried in the green-room.\n\nEugenie sucked her full lips a moment, then looked hard at the picture\nand the whole article again. Then she turned to her mother and\ngrandparents, who were seated about the stove.\n\n\u201cSay, folks,\u201d she said, coldly, \u201cthere\u2019s the fine gent I went away with\nfrom Swinesfordstown. I got out in time, the very night he was\nmurdered.\u201d\n\nThe mother and the old people half rose in their chairs to look at the\nwood cut.\n\n\u201cHow did you know he was playing you false?\u201d said the old grandfather.\n\n\u201cHow did I know, gran\u2019pap?\u201d she replied. \u201cWhy, the night before, Jake\nMintges came to me, and I knew _something_ was due to go wrong, and home\nwas the place for little me. You see I missed it all by a stone\u2019s\nthrow.\u201d\n\n\"You\u2019re right, \u2018Genie\u2019,\" said the old mountaineer. \u201cMintges never comes\nto us unless he means business.\u201d\n\n                                 XVIII\n                       _The Turning of the Belt_\n\n\nThere are not many memories of Ole Bull in the vicinity of the ruins of\nhis castle today. Fifteen years ago, before the timber was all gone,\nthere were quite a few old people who were living in the Black Forest at\nthe time of his colonization venture, who remembered him well, also a\ncouple of his original colonists, Andriesen and Oleson, but these are no\nmore. One has to go to Renovo or to Austin or Germania to find any\nreminiscences now, and those have suffered through passing from \u201chand to\nmouth\u201d and are scattered and fragmentary. They used to say that the\ngreat violinist was, like his descendants, a believer in spiritualism,\nand on the first snowy night that he occupied his unfinished mansion,\nchancing to look out he saw what seemed to him a tall, white figure\nstanding by the ramparts.\n\nFearing that it was some _skeld_ come to warn him of impending disaster\nto his beloved colony, he rushed out hatless, only to find that it was\nan old hemlock stab, snow encrusted.\n\nDisaster did come, but as far as local tradition goes Ole Bull had no\nwarning of it. The hemlock stab which so disturbed him has been gone\nthese many years, but a smaller one, when encased in snow, has\nfrightened many a superstitious wayfarer along the Kettle Creek road,\nand gone on feeling that he had seen \u201cthe ghost of Ole Bull.\u201d\n\nBut unaccountable and worthy of investigation are the weird strains of\nmusic heard on wild, stormy nights, which seem to emanate from the\ncastle. Belated hunters coming down the deep gorge of Ole Bull Run, back\nof the castle, or travelers along the main highway from Oleona to Cross\nForks, have heard it and refused to be convinced that there is not a\nmusician hidden away somewhere among the crumbling ruins. The \u201coldest\ninhabitants,\u201d sturdy race of trappers, who antedated Ole Bull\u2019s\ncolonists, declare that the ghostly musician was playing just the same\nin the great virtuoso\u2019s time, and that it is the ghost of a French\nfifer, ambushed and killed by Indians when his battalion was marching\nalong the \u201cBoone Road\u201d from Fort Le Boeuf to the memorable and\nill-starred attack on Fort Augusta at Sunbury in 1757.\n\nAt the mention of \u201cBoone Road\u201d another question is opened, as there is\nno historic record of such a military highway between Lake Erie and the\nWest Branch of the Susquehanna River. The afore-mentioned very old\npeople used to say that the road was still visible to them in certain\nplaces; that there could be no doubt of its existence and former\nutilization.\n\nDaniel Boone, if he be the pioneer of that name who first \u201cblazed it\nout,\u201d was a very young man during the \u201cFrench and Indian War,\u201d and his\npresence in that part of the country is a mooted question. Perhaps it\nwas another \u201cBoone,\u201d and a Norseman, for many persons named \u201cBonde\u201d or\n\u201cBoon\u201d were among the first Swedish settlers on the Lanape-Wihittuck, or\nDelaware River, unconsciously pioneering for their famous cousin-German,\nOle Borneman Bull.\n\nIn all events, the French fifer was shot and grievously wounded, and his\ncomrades, in the rout which ensued, were forced to leave him behind.\nAfter refreshing himself at the cold spring, which nearly a century\nlater Ole Bull named \u201cLyso\u201d\u2013the water of light\u2013he crawled up on the\nhill, on which the castle was afterwards partly erected, to reconnoitre\nthe country, but dropping from exhaustion and loss of blood, soon died.\nThe wolves carried away his physical remains, but his spirit rested on\nthe high knoll, to startle Ole Bull and many others, with the strains of\nhis weird, unearthly music.\n\nIt seems a pity that these old legends are passing with the lives of the\naged people, but the coming of Ira Keeney, the grizzled Civil War\nveteran, as caretaker for the handsome Armstrong-Quigley hunting lodge,\non the site of one of the former proposed _fogderier_ Walhalla, has\nawakened anew the world of romance, of dashing exploits in the war under\nSheridan and Rosecrans, of lumbering days, wolves, panthers and wild\npigeons, all of which memories the venerable soldier loves to recount.\n\nYet can these be compared with the legend that Ole Bull, seeing a Bald\nEagle rise from its nest on the top of a tall oak near the banks of\nFreeman\u2019s Run, named the village he planned to locate there Odin, after\nthe supreme deity of the Scandinavian mythology, who took the form of an\neagle on one period of his development. His other settlements or\n_herods_ he called Walhalla, Oleona and New Bergen. Planned at first by\nthe French to be a purely military route for ingress to the West Branch\ncountry, but owing to the repulse at Fort Augusta, very infrequently\ntraversed by them, if at all, it became principally an overland \u201cshort\ncut\u201d for trappers, traders, travelers and settlers, all of whom knew its\nlocation well.\n\nWho could have laid out such an intricate road over high mountains and\nthrough deep valleys, unless a military force, is hard to imagine, even\nif for some strange reason it was never written into \u201chistory.\u201d\n\nAfter the Revolutionary War there was naturally an unsettled state of\naffairs, and many farmers and adventurers turned their thought to the\ncountry west of the Allegheny Mountains and River, as the land of\nopportunity, consequently there was much desultory travel over the Boone\nRoad. Unemployment prevailed everywhere, and hordes of penniless\nex-soldiers, turned adrift by their victorious new nation, traveled\nbackwards and forwards along all the known highways and trails, picking\nup a day\u2019s work as best they could, their precarious mode of living\ngiving them the name of \u201ccider tramps.\u201d A few more reckless and blood\nthirsty than their fellows, claimed that the country which they had\nfreed owed them a living; if there was no work and no pensions, and they\ncould not get it by hook they would take it by crook. In other words,\ncertain ex-service men, became strong-arm men, road agents, or\nhighwaymen, whichever name seems most suitable.\n\nThe Boone Road, in a remote wilderness of gloomy, untrodden forests,\nmade an ideal haunt for footpads, and when not robbing travelers, they\ntook their toll from the wild game, elks, deer, bears, grouse and wild\npigeons which infested the region. Law and order had not penetrated into\nsuch forgotten and forbidding realms, and obscure victims could report\noutrages and protest to a deaf and dumb government. How long it was\nbefore these robbers were curbed is hard to say.\n\nOne story which the backwoods people about Hamesley\u2019s Fork used to tell\ndates back to five years after the close of the Revolution, about 1788.\nJenkin Doane, possibly a member of the same family that produced the\nDoane outlaws in the Welsh Mountains, was one of the notorious\ncharacters along the Boone Road. Like others, he was an ex-soldier, a\nhero of Brandywine and Paoli, but his plight was worse, for just before\npeace was declared, when a premature rumor to that effect had reached\nhis company, lying at Fort Washington, he had assaulted and beaten up an\naristocratic and brutal officer who was the terror of the line. For this\nhe had been sentenced to death, but later his sentence was commuted, and\nfinally, because there were no satisfactory jails for military\nprisoners, he was quietly released, _sans h. d._ and the ability to make\na livelihood.\n\nHe finally became a wagoner and hired out with a party of emigrants\ngoing to Lake Erie, who traveled over the Boone Road. He saw them safely\nto their destination, but on his return journey tarried in the\nmountains, hunting and fishing, until his supplies were gone, when he\nturned \u201croad agent.\u201d He evidently had a low grade of morals at that\ntime, for he robbed old as well as young, women as readily as men. He\nwas fairly successful, considering the comparative lightness of travel\nand the poor class of victims financially.\n\nIn an up-and-down country, where feed and shelter were scarce, he kept\nno horse, but traveled afoot. He had no opportunity to test his heels,\nas he never ran away, all his attacks being followed by speedy\ncapitulation. If a trained force of bailiffs had been sent out to\napprehend him, doubtless he could have been caught, as he had his\nfavorite retreats, where he lingered, waiting for his prey.\n\nThere were not many such places in the depths of the seemingly endless\nforests of giant and gloomy hemlocks and pines, places where the sun\ncould shine and the air radiated dryness and warmth. One of his\nbest-liked haunts was known as the Indian Garden, situated in an open\nglade among the mountains which divide the country of Kettle Creek from\nthat of Drury\u2019s Run.\n\n\u201cArt.\u201d Vallon, one of the oldest hunters on Kettle Creek, who died\nrecently, once described the spot as follows: \u201cMore than sixty years ago\nmy father on a hunting trip showed me a clearing of perhaps half an\nacre, which he told me was called \u2018The Indian Garden.\u2019 I visited it many\ntimes afterwards on my trapping excursions. It impressed me as very\nunusual, being entirely free from undergrowth, except the furze grass\none sees on poor, worked-out land.\n\n\u201cIt was a perfect square of about half an acre, and was surrounded by\nthe deep, primeval forest. There was a fine spring not very far away.\u201d\n\nIt was there that Jenkin Doane and two other reckless characters who had\nserved with Simon Girty and acted as his henchmen lolled for hours in\nthe sun, waiting for victims. It was there that he usually maintained\nhis \u201ccamp fire\u201d and at night slept on the ground in a sleeping bag of\nbuffalo hides.\n\nOne night in the late winter, when there were still patches of snow on\nthe ground, Doane dreamed very vividly of a girl whom he had never seen.\nHe could hardly realize he had been dreaming when he awoke and sat up\nlooking about him, to where his vision was cut off by the interminable\n\u201caisles of the forest.\u201d He seemed to be married to her, at least they\nwere together, and he had the pleasure of saving her life from drowning\nin a deep torrent where she had gone, probably to bathe.\n\nHe had never seen a person of such unusual beauty. Her hair was dark and\ninclined to curl, complexion hectic, her eyes hazel, but the chief charm\nlay in the line of her nose and upper lip. The nose was slightly turned\nup at the end, adding, with the curve of her upper lip, a piquancy to an\nexpression of exceptional loveliness.\n\nAll the day he kept wishing that this charming young woman might\nmaterialize into his life; he could not bring himself to believe but\nthat such a realistic vision must have a living counterpart.\n\nIt was during the morning of the second day, when he had about given up\nhope, that he saw coming towards him, down a steep pitch in the Boone\nRoad\u2013it is part of the Standard Oil Pipe Line now\u2013a young woman on\nhorseback, wearing a red velvet hat and a brown cloak. She was mounted\non a flea-bitten white horse of uncertain age and gait. Close behind her\nrode two elderly Indians, also indifferently mounted, who seemed to be\nher bodyguard, and between them they were leading a heavily-laden\npack-horse.\n\nHe quickly turned his belt, an Indian signal of great antiquity, which\nindicated to his companions that they would make an attack.\n\nJust as the white horse touched fairly level ground he commenced to\nstumble and run sideways, having stepped on a rusty caltrop or \u201ccrow\u2019s\nfoot\u201d which the outlaws had strewn across the trail at that point for\nthat very purpose. Seeing the animal\u2019s plight, the young equestrienne\nquickly stopped him and dismounted. She had been riding astride, and\nDoane noticed the brown woolen stockings which covered her shapely legs,\nher ankle-boots of good make, as she rolled off the horse\u2019s back.\n\nAs she stood before her quivering steed, patting his shoulder, Doane and\nhis companions drew near, covering the three with their army muskets. It\nwas then to his infinite surprise he noticed that the girl in brown,\nwith the red hat, was the heroine of his dream, though in the vision she\nhad been attired in black, but the gown was half off her shoulders and\nback when he drew her out of the water.\n\nIt would have been hard to tell who was most surprised, Doane or the\ngirl. Much as he admired her loveliness, there had been the turning of\nthe belt, which meant there could be no change of purpose; his comrades\nwere already eyeing the well-filled packsaddles.\n\nThe frightened Indians had dismounted, being watched by one of the\noutlaws, while Doane politely yet firmly demanded the whereabouts of her\nmoney. Lifting her cloak and turning her belt, she disclosed two long\ndeerskin pouches, heavy with gold. Unbuckling them, she handed them to\nDoane, while tears began to stream down her cheeks.\n\n\u201cYou may take it, sir,\u201d she sobbed, \"but you are ruining my chances in\nlife. I am partly Indian, Brant\u2019s daughter, grand-daughter of the old\nBrant, and my father had arranged a marriage for me with a young officer\nwhom I met during the war, and I love him dearly. Though I told him of\nmy love, he would not marry me without a dowry of $3,000, and it took my\nfather five long years to gather it together. I would not care if I did\nnot love him so much. I was on my way to his home at the forks of\nSusquehanna, and now you have destroyed all my hopes.\"\n\nThe brigand\u2019s steely heart was for a moment touched. \u201cBrant\u2019s daughter,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cyou Indian people know the turning of the belt, which means\nthat what is decided on at that moment must be carried out; before I saw\nwho you were I resolved to rob you. It must be done, for I have two\npartners who will demand their shares.\u201d\n\n\"You said \u2018before you knew who I was,\u2019\" broke in the girl, her tearful,\npiquant face filled with curiosity. \u201cYou never saw _me_ before.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes, I did,\u201d replied Doane, \u201cin a dream a couple of nights ago.\u201d\n\u201cshe said, as a final appeal.\n\n\u201cI am afraid not,\u201d he answered, as his comrade started to open one of\nthe pouches. Then he paused, saying: \u201cI will not take all. I\u2019d not take\nanything from _you_ except that I have these partners. I will retain\nhalf for them, and let you go on your way with the rest. Your good\nlooks\u2013for you are truly the prettiest thing I ever laid eyes on\u2013will\noutweigh with your lover a paltry fifteen hundred dollars in gold.\u201d\n\u201ccried the girl weeping afresh. \u201cHe does not love me; he only wants the\ngold. I am the one that loves, and am lost and discarded without the\ndowry.\u201d\n\nMeanwhile one of the outlaws had drawn the caltrop from the horse\u2019s\nfrog, and having smeared it with bear\u2019s grease, the animal was walking\nabout in a fairly comfortable manner.\n\n[Illustration: AN ALLEGHENY EPISODE]\n\nThe girl stood looking at Doane. He was young, strong, and had a fairly\ndecent face. How could he be so cruel? Then she looked at his partners,\nlow-browed wretches, who were already muttering at the delay, and she\nrealized there was no hope. Doane gave up his share, and tossed the\nother of the bags of gold to his \u201cpals,\u201d then ordered the girl and her\nescort to proceed. He said that he would accompany her to the river, to\nwhere the danger of meeting other highwaymen would be passed. The girl\ntraveled on foot the entire distance, to ease her horse over the rough,\nuneven trail, walking side by side with the highwayman.\n\nThey parted with civility, and on Doane\u2019s side with deep regret, for the\ndream had inflamed his soul, and the reality was so startlingly lovely\nthat he was deeply smitten. Before he had reached the river he wished\nthat he had shot his grasping companions, rather than endanger this\nbeautiful creature\u2019s future happiness.\n\n\u201cThat was an unlucky turning of the belt,\u201d he said to himself, as he\nretraced his steps towards the Indian Garden.\n\nBrant\u2019s daughter rode with a heavy heart the balance of the journey, for\nshe knew her lover\u2019s nature. The Indian bodyguards were equally\ndowncast, for they had sworn to deliver her safe and sound at the forks\nof the Susquehanna.\n\nWhen she reached the handsome colonial gray stone house, on a headland\noverlooking the \u201cmeeting of the waters,\u201d her lover, a handsome\nupstanding youth, with a sports suit made of his old officer\u2019s buff\nuniform, and surrounded by a pack of his hunting dogs, came out to greet\nher. His manner was not very cordial. With penetrating eyes he saw that\nshe was disturbed over something, so he quickly asked if she suffered\nfrom fatigue after the long overland journey.\n\n\u201cNo, Major,\u201d she replied, \u201cI am not at all tired in body, but I am in\nheart. I cannot postpone the evil moment. On the Boone Road we were\nstopped by three highwaymen, armed, who took from me half of my dowry.\u201d\n\nThe Major\u2019s handsome countenance darkened. \u201cWhy did you not tell them\nyou needed it to get married?\u201d he blurted out angrily. \u201cA pretty wench\nlike you could have honey-foogled them to keep it.\u201d \u201creplied the girl,\nconfidently, \u201cand for that reason the chief of the band, a very pretty\nman, let me keep the one-half, but he had to retain the rest for his\ncompanions.\u201d \u201c \u201cI think I came off well,\u201d she said, hanging her pretty\nhead, her cheeks all crimson flush. She was sitting on the horse, her\nfeet dangling out of the stirrups, her skirts turned up revealing those\nshapely legs, and he had not asked her to dismount.\n\nThe Major drew nearer, with an angry gesture. \u201cI have a mind to smack\nyour face good and hard for your folly,\u201d he stormed. \u201cWhat do you think\nI have been waiting for, a paltry _fifteen hundred dollars_?\u201d\n\nBrant\u2019s daughter turned her belt and handed him the pouch of gold, which\nhe threw down testily. It was quickly picked up by one of his German\nredemptioner servants, who carried it into the house.\n\n\u201cAren\u2019t you going to ask me to come in?\u201d pleaded the now humiliated\nlove-sick girl. \u201cYou can slap me all you want. Punish me any way you\nwill,\u201d offering him her stiff riding crop, \u201conly don\u2019t cast me off.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome down if you wish; I don\u2019t care,\u201d he mumbled in reply. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t\nexert myself enough to whip you, but your hide _ought_ to be tanned for\nyour stupidity.\u201d\n\nCut to the heart, yet still loving abjectly, she slid off the horse and\nmeekly followed the imperious Major into the mansion. During the balance\nof the afternoon, and at supper, and until she begged to be allowed to\nretire, she was reviled and humbled in the presence of his\nredemptioners. He declared that no one man in a thousand, in his station\nof life, would consider marriage with a person of Indian blood; that it\nwas worth twice three thousand dollars, the figure he had originally\nnamed. Nevertheless, he had carefully put the money bag in his strong\nbox, even though saying nothing about setting a date for a marriage.\n\nShe was shown into an unfinished room. There was no bed, only a few\nchairs, and two big walnut chests. Tearful and nervously unstrung, she\ntook off her shoes and, wrapping herself in her cloak, lay down on the\ncold wooden floor. She could have called for blankets, and doubtless\ngotten them, but her pride had rebelled and she resolved to make the\nbest of conditions. She could not sleep, and her mind was tortured with\nher love for the Major, anger at his ungrateful conduct, and an\never-recurring vision of the highwayman on the Boone Road. She heard the\ngreat Irish clock in the hall below strike every hour until one.\n\nSuddenly she got up, her face brightened with a new resolve. Tying her\nshoes together, she threw them them across her shoulder and tiptoed to\nthe door, which she opened softly, and went downstairs. Her Indian\nbodyguards were sleeping on the stone floor in the vestibule, wrapped in\ntheir blankets.\n\n\u201cExundos,\u201d she whispered in the ear of the oldest, \u201cget me out of this;\nI am going to go away.\u201d\n\nThe trusty redskin, who always slept with one eye open, nudged his\ncomrade, Firequill, and made their way to the door. It was locked and\nchained, and the key probably under the Major\u2019s pillow.\n\nExundos was determined to redeem his record. He rushed upstairs to where\na portly German was sleeping in the officer\u2019s antechamber. He knocked\nthe valet senseless with the butt of his horse pistol. Then he sprang\nlike a panther over the prostrate body into the Major\u2019s apartment. In a\nmoment he had gagged him with the caltrop extracted from the horse\u2019s\nfoot, then bound him hand and foot.\n\nThe key was under the pillow. In five minutes the fugitives were on the\nfront lawn, surrounded by the Major\u2019s pack of yelping, snarling hounds.\nGetting by them as best they could, the trio made for the bluffs, found\na dugout in which they crossed the river, and were soon in the shelter\nof the friendly mountains.\n\nIn the morning the Major\u2019s other servants who slept in quarters near the\nstables, found the half-dazed bodyguard with a bloody head, and their\ngagged and helpless master. Once released, the Major decided not to send\na posse after the runaways; he was heavily in debt, and needed that\npouch of fifteen hundred dollars in gold.\n\nBrant\u2019s daughter, after her fortuitous escape, was not completely happy.\nShe had longed for the Major for five years, and had almost gotten him\nas the result of severe privations. It was pretty hard to lose him now.\nShe was going home defeated, to die unwed. Her feelings became desperate\nwhen she reached the Boone Road, with all its haunting memories.\n\nAs she clambered up the steep grades, and the Indian Garden came into\nview, she reached down and turned her belt, the symbol of resolution. No\none was about as she passed the garden, which made her heart sink with\nloneliness for some strong man\u2019s love.\n\nWhen Kettle Creek was reached and crossed near the Cold Spring, she\ndecided to rest awhile. After a meal, which she barely tasted, she told\nthe Indians that she was going for a little walk in the woods.\n\n\u201cI am safe now,\u201d she said, bitterly; \u201cI have no gold.\u201d\n\nPast the Cold Spring she went, on and on up the wild, narrow gorge of\nwhat is now called Ole Bull Run, where a dark and dismal hemlock forest\nof colossal proportions bent over the torrent, keeping out the light of\nday.\n\nWhile she was absent, who should appear at the Cold Spring but Doane,\nwith his colleagues in crime.\n\n\u201cSo he took her after all, with only half the money,\u201d he said, almost\nregretfully, to the Indians.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d replied one of the bodyguard. \u201cHe was very ugly when he\nheard it, wanted to slap her, and she ran away in the night, leaving\nhorses, saddle-bags and gold. Oh, she felt terribly, for she truly loved\nthe monster.\u201d \u201csaid Doane, in surprised tones.\n\nThe Indian pointed up the dark gorge of the run. That moment the outlaw\nthought of his dream, of his rescuing her from an angry torrent.\nMotioning to her guards to follow, he made haste along the edges of the\nstream, slipping often on the moss-grown rocks. Half way to the top of\nthe gigantic mountain, he heard the roar of a cascade. There was a\ngreat, dark, seething pool beneath. Just as Doane came in sight of this\nhe beheld, to his horror, Brant\u2019s daughter, hatless and cloakless,\nplunging in. It was like a Dryad\u2019s immolation!\n\nWith superhuman effort he reached the brink and sprang after her. He\ncaught her, as she rose the first time, by her profuse brown hair, but\nas he lifted her ashore a snag or branch tore her shirtwaist, so that\nher shoulder and back were almost completely bare, just as in the dream.\nAided by the faithful Indians, he laid her tenderly among the moss and\nferns, and poured some rum from a buffalo horn flask down her throat.\nShe revived and opened her pretty hazel eyes quizzically.\n\n\u201cAm I at the Indian Garden?\u201d she said.\n\n\u201cYou are with the one who turned his belt there,\u201d answered Doane; \u201conly\nthis time I don\u2019t want anything for my comrades. I only want you for\nmyself.\u201d \u201csaid Brant\u2019s daughter, having now fully recovered the power of\nspeech. \u201cWhen I came back to the Garden and you were not there, I turned\nmy belt.\u201d \u201csaid Doane, \u201cfor that last resolve has brought us together. I\nshould have known from the beginning my destiny was revealed in that\ndream.\u201d \u201csaid the girl.\n\n\u201cOf course I will, anywhere with you, and never follow the road again,\nor anything not strictly honorable. Wrongdoing, I see now, is caused by\nthe preponderance of the events of life going against us. Where things\ncome our way, and there is joy, one can never aspire to ill. Wrong is\nthe continued disappointment. I could never molest a soul after I saw\nyou, and have lived by hunting ever since. I made my partners return the\npurse of gold; it shall go to your father to buy a farm.\u201d\n\nBrant\u2019s daughter now motioned to him that she felt like sitting up, and\nhe propped her back against an old cork pine, kissing her pretty plump\ncheeks and shoulders many times as he did so. \u201cAnd that scoundrel would\nhave smacked you,\u201d he thought, boiling inwardly. Then taking her cold\nhands in his, he said:\n\n\u201cOut of evil comes good. I do not regret this one robbery, for if I had\nnot taken that gold for my comrades, some one would have robbed me of\nyou!\u201d\n\n[Illustration: SHAWANA]\n\n                                  XIX\n                           _Riding His Pony_\n\n\nWhen Rev. James Martin visited the celebrated Penn\u2019s Cave, in the Spring\nof 1795, it was related that he found a small group of Indians encamped\nthere. That evening, around the campfire, one of the redskins related a\nlegend of one of the curiosities of the watery cave, the flambuoyant\n\u201cIndian Riding Pony\u201d mural-piece which decorates one of the walls.\n\nSpirited as a Remington, it bursts upon the view, creates a lasting\nimpression, then vanishes as the power skiff, the \u201cNita-nee,\u201d draws\nnearer.\n\nAccording to the old Indians, there lived not far from where the\nKaroondinha emerges from the cavern a body of aborigines of the\nSusquehannock tribe who made this delightful lowland their permanent\nabode. While most of their cabins were huddled near together on the\nupper reaches of the stream, there were straggling huts clear to the\nBeaver Dams. The finding of arrow points, beads and pottery along the\ncreek amply attests to this.\n\nAmong the clan was a maiden named Quetajaku, not good to look upon, but\nin no way ugly or deformed. In her youth she was light-hearted and\nsociable, with a gentle disposition. Yet for some reason she was not\nfavored by the young bucks. All her contemporaries found lovers and\nhusbands, but poor Quetajaku was left severely alone. She knew that she\nwas not beautiful, though she was of good size; she was equally certain\nthat she was not a physical monster. She could not understand why she\ncould find no lover, why she was singled out to be a \u201cchauchschisis,\u201d or\nold maid. It hurt her pride as a young girl, it broke her heart\ncompletely when she was older.\n\nGradually she withdrew from the society of her tribal friends, building\nherself a lodge-house on the hill, in what is now the cave orchard.\nThere she led a very introspective life, grieving over the love that\nmight have been. To console herself she imagined that some day a\nhandsome warrior would appear, seek her out, load her with gifts,\noverwhelm her with love and carry her away to some distant region in\ntriumph. He would be handsomer and braver than any youth in the whole\ncountry of the Karoondinha. She would be the most envied of women when\nhe came.\n\nThis poor little fancy saved her from going stark mad; it remedied the\nhorror of her lonely lot. Every time the night wind stirred the rude\nhempen curtain which hung before the door of her cabin, she would\npicture it was the chivalrous stranger knight come to claim her. When it\nwas cold she drew the folds of her buffalo robe tighter about her as if\nit was his arms.\n\nAs time went on she grew happy in her secret lover, whom no other\nwoman\u2019s flame could equal, whom no one could steal away. She was ever\nimagining him saying to her that her looks exactly suited him, that she\nwas his ideal.\n\nBut like the seeker after Eldorado, years passed, and Quetajaku did not\ncome nearer to her spirit lover. But her soul kept up the conceit; every\nnight when she curled herself up to sleep he was the vastness of the\nnight.\n\nOn one occasion an Indian artist named Naganit, an undersized old\nwanderer appeared at the lonely woman\u2019s home. For a living he decorated\npottery, shells and bones, sometimes even painted war pictures on rocks.\nQuetajaku was so kind to him that he built himself a lean-to on the\nslope of the hill, intending to spend the winter.\n\nOn the long winter evenings the old woman confided to the wanderer the\nstory of her unhappy life, of her inward consolation. She said that she\nhad longed to meet an artist who could carry out a certain part of her\ndream which had a right to come true.\n\nWhen she died she had arranged to be buried in a fissure of rocks which\nran horizontally into one of the walls of the \u201cwatery\u201d cave. On the\nopposite wall she would like painted in the most brilliant colors a\nportrait of a handsome young warrior, with arms outstretched, coming\ntowards her.\n\nNaganit said that he understood what she meant exactly, but suggested\nthat the youth be mounted on a pony, a beast which was coming into use\nas a mount for warriors, of which he had lately seen a number in his\ntravels on the Virginia coast, near Chincoteague.\n\nThis idea was pleasing to Quetajaku, who authorized the stranger to\nbegin work at once. She had saved up a little property of various kinds;\nshe promised to bestow all of this on Naganit, except what would be\nnecessary to bury her, if the picture proved satisfactory.\n\nThe artist rigged up a dog-raft with a scaffold on it, and this he poled\ninto the place where the fissure was located, the woman accompanying him\nthe first time, so there would be no mistake. All winter long by\ntorchlight, he labored away. He used only one color, an intensive\nbrick-red made from mixing sumac berries, the pollen of the Turk\u2019s Cap\nLily, a small root and the bark of a tree, as being more permanent than\nthat made from ochers and other ores of stained earth.\n\nMarvelous and vital was the result of this early impressionist; the\npainting had all the action of life. The superb youth in war dress, with\narms outstretched, on the agile war pony, rushing towards the\nforeground, almost in the act of leaping from the rocky panel into life,\nacross the waters of the cave to the arms of his beloved.\n\nIt would make old Quetajaku happy to see it, she who had never known\nlove or beauty. The youth in the mural typified what Naganit would have\nbeen himself were he the chosen, and what the \u201cbachelor maid\u201d would have\npossessed had nature favored her. It was the ideal for two disappointed\nsouls.\n\nBreathlessly the old artist ferried Quetajaku to the scene of his\nendeavors. When they reached the proper spot he held aloft his quavering\ntorch. Quetajaku, in order to see more clearly, held her two hands above\nher eyes. She gave a little cry of exclamation, then turned and looked\nat Naganit intently. Then she dropped her eyes, beginning to cry to\nherself, a rare thing for an Indian to do!\n\nThe artist looked at her fine face, down which the tears were streaming,\nand asked her the cause of her grief\u2013was the picture _such_ a terrible\ndisappointment?\n\nThe woman drew herself together, replying that it was grander than she\nhad anticipated, but the face of Naganit\u2019s, and, strangely enough, the\nface she had dreamed of all her life.\n\n\u201cBut I am not the heroic youth you pictured\u201d, said the artist, sadly. \u201cI\nam sixty years old, stoop-shouldered, and one leg is shorter than the\nother.\u201d \u201c Naganit looked at the Indian woman. She was not hideous; there\nwas even a dignity to her large, plain features, her great, gaunt form.\n\n\u201cI have never received such praise as yours. I always vowed I would love\nthe woman who really understood me and my art. I am yours. Let us think\nno more of funeral decorations, but go to the east, to the land of war\nponies, and ride to endless joy together.\u201d\n\nQuetajaku, overcome by the majesty of his words, leaned against his\nmassive shoulder. In that way he poled his dog-raft against the current\nto the entrance of the cave. There was a glory in the reflection from\nthe setting sun over against the east; night would not close in for an\nhour or two. And towards the darkening east that night two happy\ntravelers could be seen wending their way.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                   XX\n                       _The Little Postmistress_\n\n\nIt was long past dark when Mifflin Sargeant, of the Snow Shoe Land\nCompany, came within sight of the welcoming lights of Stover\u2019s. For\nfourteen miles, through the foothills on the Narrows, he had not seen a\nsign of human habitation, except one deserted hunter\u2019s cabin at Yankee\nGap. There was an air of cheerfulness and life about the building he had\narrived at. Several doors opened simultaneously at the signal of his\napproach, given by a faithful watchdog, throwing the rich glow of the\nfat-lamps and tallow candles across the road.\n\nThe structure, which was very long and two stories high, housed under\nits accommodating roofs a tavern, a boarding house, a farmstead, a\nlumber camp, a general store, and a post office. It was the last outpost\nof civilization in the east end of Brush Valley; beyond were mountains\nand wilderness almost to Youngmanstown. Tom Tunis had not yet erected\nthe substantial structure on the verge of the forest later known as \u201cThe\nForest House.\u201d\n\nA dark-complexioned lad, who later proved to be Reuben Stover, the son\nof the landlord, took the horse by the bridle, assisting the young\nstranger to dismount. He also helped him to unstrap his saddle-bags,\ncarrying them into the house. Sargeant noticed, as he passed across the\nporch, that the walls were closely hung with stags\u2019 horns, which showed\nthe prevalence of these noble animals in the neighborhood.\n\nOld Daddy and Mammy Stover, who ran the quaint caravansery, quickly made\nthe visitor feel at home. It was after the regular supper-time, but a\nfresh repast of bear\u2019s meat and corn bread was cheerfully prepared in\nthe huge stone chimney.\n\nThe young man explained to his hosts that he had ridden that day from\nNew Berlin; he had come from Philadelphia to Harrisburg by train, to\nLiverpool by packet boat, at which last named place his horse had been\nsent on to meet him. He added that he was on his way into the\nAlleghenies, where he had recently purchased an interest in the Snow\nShoe development.\n\nAfter supper he strolled along the porch to the far end, to the post\noffice, thinking he would send a letter home. A mail had been brought in\nfrom Rebersburg during the afternoon, consequently the post office, and\nnot the tavern stand, was the attraction of the crowd this night.\n\nThe narrow room was poorly lighted by fat-lamps, which cast great,\nfitful shadows, making grotesques out of the oddly-costumed, bearded\nwolf hunters present, who were the principal inhabitants of the\nsurrounding ridges. A few women, hooded and shawled, were noticeable in\nthe throng. In a far corner, leaning against the water bench, was young\nReuben, the hostler, tuning up his wheezy fiddle. As many persons as\npossible hung over the rude counter, across which the mail was being\ndelivered, and where many letters were written in reply. Above this\ncounter were suspended three fat-lamps, attached to grooved poles,\nwhich, by cleverly-devised pulleys, could be lifted to any height\ndesired.\n\n[Illustration: SETH NELSON, JR., AFTER A GOOD DAY\u2019S SPORT]\n\nThe young Philadelphian edged his way through the good-humored concourse\nto ask permission to use the ink; he had brought his favorite quill pen\nand the paper with him. This brought him face to face, across the\ncounter, with the postmistress. He had not been able to see her before,\nas her trim little figure had been wholly obscured by the ponderous\nforms that lined the counter.\n\nInstantly he was charmed by her appearance\u2013it was unusual\u2013by her look of\nneatness and alertness. Their eyes met\u2013it was almost with a smile of\nmutual recognition. When he asked her if he could borrow the ink, which\nwas kept in a large earthen pot of famous Sugar Valley make, she smiled\non him again, and he absorbed the charm of her personality anew.\n\nThough she was below the middle height, her figure was so lithe and\nerect that it fully compensated for the lack of inches. She wore a blue\nhomespun dress, with a neat checked apron over it, the material for\nwhich constituted a luxury, and must have come all the way from\nYoungmanstown or Sunbury. Her profuse masses of soft, wavy, light brown\nhair, on which the hanging lamps above brought out a glint of gold, was\nworn low on her head. Her deepset eyes were a transparent blue, her\nfeatures well developed, and when she turned her face in profile, the\nhigh arch of the nose showed at once mental stability and energy. Her\ncomplexion was pink and white. There seemed to be always that kindly\nsmile playing about the eyes and lips.\n\nWhen she pushed the heavy inkwell towards him he noticed that her hands\nwere very white, the fingers tapering; they were the hands of innate\nrefinement.\n\nAlmost imperceptibly the young man found himself in conversation with\nthe little postmistress. Doubtless she was interested to meet an\nattractive stranger, one from such a distant city as Philadelphia. While\nthey talked, the letter was gradually written, sealed, weighed and paid\nfor\u2013it was before the days of postage stamps, and the postmistress\npolitely waited on her customers.\n\nHe had told her his name\u2013Mifflin Sargeant\u2013and she had given him\nhers\u2013Caroline Hager\u2013and that she was eighteen years of age. He had told\nher about his prospective trip into the wilds of Centre County, of the\nfierce beasts which he had heard still abounded there. The girl informed\nhim that he would not have to go farther west to meet wild animals; that\nwolf hides by the dozen were brought to Stover\u2019s each winter, where they\nwere traded in; that old Stover, a justice of the peace, attested to the\nbounty warrants\u2013in fact, the wolves howled from the hill across the road\non cold nights when the dogs were particularly restless.\n\nHer father was a wolf hunter, and would never allow her to go home\nalone; consequently, when he could not accompany her she remained over\nnight in the dwelling which housed the post office. Panthers, too, were\noccasionally met with in the locality\u2013in the original surveys this\nregion was referred to as \u201cCatland\u201d\u2013also huge red bears and the somewhat\nsmaller black ones.\n\nIf he was going West, she continued in her pretty way, he must not fail\nto visit the great limestone cave near where the Brush Mountains ended.\nShe had a sister married and living not far from it, from whom she had\nheard wonderful tales, though she had never been there herself. It was a\ncave so vast it had not as yet been fully explored; one could travel for\nmiles in it in a boat; the Karoondinha, or John Penn\u2019s Creek, had its\nsource in it; Indians had formerly lived in the dry parts, and wild\nbeasts. Then she lowered her voice to say that it was now haunted by the\nIndians\u2019 spirits.\n\nAnd so they talked until a very late hour, the crowd in the post office\nmelting away, until Jared Hager, the girl\u2019s father, in his wolfskin\ncoat, appeared to escort her home, to the cabin beyond the waterfall\nnear the trail to Dolly Hope\u2019s Valley. She was to have a holiday until\nthe next afternoon.\n\nThe wolf hunter was a courageous-looking man, much darker than his\ndaughter, with a heavy black beard and bushy eyebrows; in fact, she was\nthe only brown-haired, blue-eyed one in the entire family connection. He\nspoke pleasantly with the young stranger, and then they all said good\nnight.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t forget to visit the great cavern,\u201d Caroline called to the youth.\n\n\u201cI surely will,\u201d he answered, \u201cand stop here on my way east to tell you\nall about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s good; we want to see you again,\u201d said the girl, as she\ndisappeared into the gloomy shadows which the shaggy white pines cast\nacross the road.\n\nYoung Stover was playing \u201cGreen Grows the Rushes\u201d on his fiddle in the\ntap-room, and Sargeant sat there listening to him, dreaming and musing\nall the while, his consciousness singularly alert, until the closing\nhour came.\n\nThat night, in the old stained four-poster, in his tiny, cold room, he\nslept not at all. \u201cYet he feared to dream.\u201d Though his thoughts carried\nhim all over the world, the little postmistress was uppermost in every\nfancy. Among the other things, he wished that he had asked her to ride\nwith him to the cave. They could have visited the subterranean marvels\ntogether. He got out of bed and managed to light the fat lamp. By its\nsputtering gleams he wrote her a letter, which came to an abrupt end as\nthe small supply of ink which he carried with him was exhausted. But as\nhe repented of the intense sentences penned to a person who knew him so\nslightly, he arose again before morning and tore it to bits.\n\nThere was a white frost on the buildings and ground when he came\ndownstairs. The autumn air was cold, the atmosphere was a hazy,\nmelancholy gray. There seemed to be a cessation of all the living forces\nof nature, as if waiting for the summons of winter. From the chimney of\nthe old inn came purple smoke, charged with the pungent odor of burning\npine wood.\n\nWith a strange sadness he saddled his horse and resumed his ride towards\nthe west. He thought constantly of Caroline\u2013so much so that after he had\ntraveled ten miles he wanted to turn back; he felt miserable without\nher. If only she were riding beside him, the two bound for Penn\u2019s Valley\nCave, he could be supremely happy. Without her, he did not care to visit\nthe cavern, or anything else; so at Jacobsburg he crossed the Nittany\nMountains, leaving the southerly valleys behind.\n\nHe rode up Nittany Valley to Bellefonte, where he met the agent of the\nSnow Shoe Company. With this gentleman he visited the vast tract being\nopened up to lumbering, mining and colonization. But his thoughts were\nelsewhere; they were across the mountains with the little postmistress\nof Stover\u2019s.\n\nSatisfied that his investment would prove remunerative, he left the\ndevelopment company\u2019s cozy lodge-house, and, with a heart growing\nlighter with each mile, started for the east. It was wonderful how\ndifferently\u2013how vastly more beautiful the country seemed on this return\njourney. He fully appreciated the wistful loveliness of the fast-fading\nautumn foliage, the crispness of the air, the beauty of each stray tuft\nof asters, the last survivors of the wild flowers along the trail. The\nworld was full of joy, everything was in harmony.\n\nAgain it was after nightfall when he reined his horse in front of\nStover\u2019s long, rambling public house. This time two doors opened\nsimultaneously, sending forth golden lights and shadows. One was from\nthe tap-room, where the hostler emerged; the other from the post office,\nbringing little Caroline. There was no mail that night, consequently the\noffice was practically deserted; she had time to come out and greet her\nmuch-admired friend. And let it be said that ever since she had seen him\nher heart was agog with the image of Mifflin Sargeant. She was canny\nenough to appreciate such a man; besides, he was a good-looking youth\nthough perhaps of a less robust type than those most admired in the Red\nHills.\n\nAfter cordial greetings the young man ate supper, after which he\nrepaired to the post office. By that time the last straggler was gone;\nhe had a blissful evening with his fair Caroline. She anticipated his\ncoming, being somewhat of a _psychic_, and had arranged to spend the\nnight with the Stovers. There was no hurry to retire; when they went out\non the porch, preparatory to locking up, the hunter\u2019s moon was sinking\nbehind the western knobs, which rose like the pyramids of Egypt against\nthe sky line.\n\nSargeant lingered around the old house for three days; when he departed\nit was with extreme reluctance. Seeing Caroline again in the future\nappeared like something too good to be true, so down-hearted was he at\nthe parting. But he had arranged to come back the following autumn,\nbringing an extra horse with him, and the two would ride to the\nwonderful cavern in Penn\u2019s Valley and explore to the ends its stygian\ndepths. Meanwhile they would make most of their separation through a\nregular correspondence.\n\nDespite glances, pressure of hands, chance caresses, and evident\nhappiness in one another\u2019s society, not a word of love had passed\nbetween the pair. That was why the pain of parting was so intense. If\nCaroline could have remembered one loving phrase, then she would have\nfelt that she had something tangible on which to hang her hopes. If the\nyoung Philadelphian had unburdened his heart by telling her that he\nloved her, and her alone, and heard her words of affirmation, the world\nout into which he was riding would have seemed less blank.\n\nBut underneath his love, burning like a hot branding iron, was his\nconsciousness of class, his fear of the consequences if he took to the\ngreat city a bride from another sphere. As an only son, he could not\npicture himself deserting his widowed mother and sisters, and living at\nSnow Shoe; there he was sure that Caroline would be happy. Neither could\nhe see permanent peace of mind if he married her and brought her into\nhis exclusive circles in the Quaker City.\n\nAs he was an honorable young man, and his love was real, making her\ntruly and always happy was the solitary consideration. These thoughts\nmarred the parting; they blistered and ravaged his spirit on the whole\ndreary way back to Liverpool. There his colored servant, an antic\ndarkey, was waiting at the old Susquehanna House to ride the horse to\nPhiladelphia.\n\nThe young man boarded the packet, riding on it to Harrisburg, where he\ntook the steam train for home. In one way he was happier than ever\nbefore in his life, for he had found love; in another he was the most\ndejected of men, for his beloved might never be his own.\n\nHe seemed gayer and stronger to his family; evidently the trip into the\nwilderness had done him good. He had begun his letter-writing to\nCaroline promptly. It was his great solace in his heart perplexity. She\nwrote a very good letter, very tender and sympathetic; the handwriting\nwas clear, almost masculine, denoting the bravery of her spirit.\n\nDuring the winter he was called upon through his sisters to mingle much\nwith the society of the city. He met many beautiful and attractive young\nwomen, but for him the die of love had been cast. He was Caroline\u2019s\nirretrievably. Absence made his love firmer, yet the solution of it all\nthe more enigmatical.\n\nThe time passed on apace. Another autumn set in, but on account of\nimportant business matters it was not until December that Sargeant\ndeparted for the wilds of mountainous Pennsylvania. But he could spend\nChristmas with his love.\n\nThis time he sent two horses ahead to Liverpool. When he reached the\nqueer old river town he dropped into an old saddlery shop, where the\ncanal-boat drivers had their harness mended, and purchased a neat side\nsaddle, all studded with brass-headed nails. This he tied on behind his\nservant\u2019s saddle.\n\nThe two horsemen started up the beautiful West Mahantango, crossing the\nShade Mountain to Swinefordstown, thence along the edge of Jack\u2019s\nMountain, by the gently flowing Karoondinha, to Hartley Hall and the\nNarrows, through the Fox Gap and Minnick\u2019s Gap, a slightly shorter route\nto Stover\u2019s.\n\nOn his previous trip he had ridden along the river to Selin\u2019s Grove,\nacross Chestnut Ridge to New Berlin, over Shamokin Ridge to\nYoungmanstown, and from there to the Narrows; he was in no hurry; no\ndearly loved girl was waiting for him in those days.\n\nCaroline, looking prettier than ever\u2013she was a trifle plumper and redder\ncheeked\u2013was at the post office steps to greet him. Despite his avoidance\nof words of love, she was certain of his inmost feelings, and opined\nthat somehow the ultimate result would be well.\n\nSargeant had arranged to arrive on a Saturday evening, so that they\ncould begin their ride to the cave that night after the post office\nclosed, and be there bright and early Sunday morning. For this reason he\nhad traveled by very easy stages from Hartley Hall, that the horses\nmight be fresh for their added journey.\n\nSargeant\u2019s devoted Negro factotum was taken somewhat aback when he saw\nhow attentive the young man was to the girl, and marveled at the\nmountain maid\u2019s rare beauty. Upon instructions from his master, he set\nabout to changing the saddles, placing the brand new lady\u2019s saddle on\nthe horse he had been riding.\n\nIt was not long until the tiny post office was closed for the night, and\nCaroline emerged, wearing a many-caped red riding coat, the hood of\nwhich she threw over her head to keep the wavy, chestnut hair in place.\nShe climbed into the saddle gracefully\u2013she seemed a natural\nhorse-woman\u2013and soon the loving pair were cantering up the road towards\nWolfe\u2019s Store, Rebersburg and the cave.\n\nIt was not quite daybreak when they passed the home of old Jacob\nHarshbarger, the tenant of the \u201ccave farm;\u201d a Creeley rooster was\ncrowing lustily in the barnyard, the unmilked cattle of the ancient\nblack breed shook their shaggy heads lazily; no one was up.\n\nThe young couple had planned to visit the cave, breakfast, and spend the\nday with Caroline\u2019s sister, who lived not far away at Centre Hill, and\nride leisurely back to Stover\u2019s in the late afternoon. It had been a\nvery cold all-night ride, but they had been so happy that it seemed\nbrief and free from all disagreeable physical sensations.\n\nIn those days there was no boat in the cave, and no guides; consequently\nall intending visitors had to bring their own torches. This Caroline had\nseen to, and in her leisure moments for weeks before her lover\u2019s coming,\nhad been arranging a supply of rich pine lights that would see them\nsafely through the gloomy labyrinths.\n\nThey fed their horses and then tied them to the fence of the orchard\nwhich surrounded the entrance to the \u201cdry\u201d cave, which had been recently\nset out. Several big original white pines grew along the road, and would\ngive the horses shelter in case it turned out to be a windy day. The\nyoung couple strolled through the orchard, and down the steep path to\nthe mouth of the \u201cwatery\u201d cave, where they gazed for some minutes at the\nexpanse of greenish water, the high span of the arched roof, the general\nimpressiveness of the scene, so like the stage setting of some elfin\ndrama.\n\nThey sat on the dead grass, near this entrance, eating a light breakfast\nwith relish. Then they wended their way up the hill to the circular\n\u201chole in the ground\u201d which formed the doorway to the \u201cdry\u201d cave. The\ntorches were carefully lit, the supply of fresh ones was tied in a\nbundle about Sargeant\u2019s waist. The burning pine gave forth an aromatic\nodor and a mellow light. They descended through the narrow opening, the\nyoung man going ahead and helping his sweetheart after him. Down the\nspiral passageway they went, until at length they came into a larger\nchamber. Here the torches cast unearthly shadows, bats flitted about;\nsome small animal ran past them into an aperture at a far corner.\nSargeant declared that he believed the elusive creature a fox, and he\nfollowed in the direction in which it had gone.\n\nWhen he came to this opening he peered through it, finding that it led\nto an inner chamber of impressive proportions. He went back, taking\nCaroline by the hand, and led her to the narrow chamber, into which they\nboth entered. Once in the interior room, they were amazed by its size,\nthe height of its roof, the beauty of the stalactite formations. They\nsat down on a fallen stalagmite, holding aloft their torches, absorbed\nby the beauty of the scene.\n\nIn the midst of their musing, a sudden gust of wind blew out their\nlights. They were in utter darkness. The young lover bade his sweetheart\nbe unafraid, while he reached his hand in his pocket for the matches.\nThey were primitive affairs, the few he had, and he could not make them\nlight. He had not counted on the use of the matches, as he thought one\ntorch could be lit from another; consequently had brought so few with\nhim. Finally he lit a match, but the dampness extinguished it before he\ncould ignite his torch.\n\nWhen the last match failed, it seemed as if the couple were in a serious\npredicament. They first shouted at the top of their voices but only\nempty echoes answered them. They fumbled about in the chamber, stumbling\nover rocks and stalagmites, their eyes refusing to become accustomed to\nthe profound blackness. Try as they would, they could not locate the\npassage that led from the room they were in to the outer apartment.\n\nCaroline, little heroine that she was, made no complaint. If she had any\nsecret fears, her lover effectually quenched them by telling her that\nthe presence of the two saddle horses tied to the orchard fence would\nacquaint the Harshbarger family of their presence in the cave.\n\n\u201cSurely,\u201d he went on, \u201cwe will be rescued in a few hours. There\u2019s bound\nto be some member of the household or some hunter see those horses.\u201d\n\nBut the hours passed, and with them came no intimations of rescue. But\nthe two \u201cprisoners\u201d loved one another, time was nothing to them. In the\nouter world, both thought, but neither made bold to say, that they might\nhave to separate\u2013in the cave they were one in purpose, one in love. How\ngloriously happy they were! But they did get a trifle hungry, but that\nwas appeased at first by the remnants of the breakfast provisions, which\nthey luckily still had in a little bundle.\n\nWhen sufficient time had elapsed for night to set in, they fell asleep,\nand in each other\u2019s arms. Caroline\u2019s last conscious moment was to feel\nher lover\u2019s kisses. When they awoke, many hours afterwards, they were\nhungrier than ever, and thirsty. Sargeant fumbled about, locating a\nsmall pool of water, where the two quenched their thirsts. But still\nthey were happy, come what may.\n\nThey would be rescued, that was certain, unless the horses had broken\nloose and run away, but there was small chance of that. They had been\nsecurely tied. It was strange that no one had seen the steeds in so long\na time, with the farmhouse less than a quarter of a mile away\u2013but it was\nat the foot of the hill.\n\nHunger grew apace with every hour. After a while drinking water could\nnot sate it. It throbbed and ached, it became a dull pain that only love\ncould triumph over. Again enough hours elapsed to bring sleep, but it\nwas harder to find repose, though Sargeant\u2019s kisses were marvelous\nrecompense. Caroline never whimpered from lack of food. To be with her\nlover was all she asked. She had prayed for over a year to be with him\nagain. She would be glad to die at his side, even of starvation.\n\nThe young man was content; hunger was less a pain to him than had been\nthe past fourteen months\u2019 separation.\n\nAgain came what they supposed to be morning. They knew that there must\nbe some way out near at hand, as the air was so pure. They shouted, but\nthe dull echoes were their only reward. Strangely enough, they had never\nfelt another cold gust like the one which had blown out their torches.\nCould the shade of one of the old-time Indians who had fought for\npossession of the cave been perpetrator of the trick? suggested lovely\nlittle Caroline. If so, she thought to herself, he had helped her, not\nharmed her, for could there be in the world a sensation half so sweet as\nsinking to rest in her lover\u2019s arms?\n\nMeanwhile the world outside the cavern had been going its way. Shortly\nafter the young equestrian passed the Harshbarger dwelling, all the\nfamily had come out, and, after attending to their farm duties, driven\noff to the Seven Mountains, where the sons of the family maintained a\nhunting camp on Cherry Run, on the other side of High Valley.\n\nThe boys had killed an elk, consequently the guests remained longer than\nexpected, to partake of a grand Christmas feast. They tarried at the\ncamp all of that day, all of the next; it was not until early on the\nmorning of the third day that they started back to the Penn\u2019s Creek\nfarm.\n\nThey had arranged with a neighbor\u2019s boy, Mosey Scull, who lived further\nalong the creek below the farm house, to do the feeding in their\nabsence; it was winter, there was no need to hurry home.\n\nWhen they got home they found Mosey in the act of watering two very\ndejected and dirty looking horses with saddles on their backs.\n\n\u201cWhere did they come from?\u201d shouted the big freight-wagon load in\nunison.\n\n\u201cI found them tied to the fence up at the orchard. By the way they act\nI\u2019d think they hadn\u2019t been watered or fed for several days,\u201d replied the\nboy.\n\n\u201cYou dummy!\u201d said old Harshbarger, in Dutch. \u201cSomebody\u2019s in that cave,\nand got lost, and can\u2019t get out.\u201d\n\nHe jumped from the heavy wagon and ran to a corner of the corncrib,\nwhere he kept a stock of torches. Then he hurried up the steep hill\ntowards the entrance to the \u201cdry\u201d cave. The big man was panting when he\nreached the opening, where he paused a moment to kindle a torch with his\nflints. Then he lowered himself into the aperture, shouting at the top\nof his voice, \u201cHello! Hello! Hello!\u201d\n\nIt was not until he had gotten into the first chamber that the captives\nin the inner room could hear him. Sargeant had been sitting with his\nback propped against the cavern wall, while Caroline, very pale and\nwhite-lipped, was lying across his knees, gazing up into the darkness,\nimagining that she could see his face.\n\nWhen they heard the cheery shouts of their deliverer they did not\ninstantly attempt to scramble to their feet. Instead the young lover\nbent over; his lips touched Caroline\u2019s, who instinctively had raised her\nface to meet his. As his lips touched hers, he whispered:\n\n\u201cI love you, darling, with all my heart. We will be married when we get\nout of here.\u201d\n\nCaroline had time to say: \u201cYou are my only love,\u201d before their lips came\ntogether.\n\nThey were in that position when the flare of Farmer Harshbarger\u2019s torch\nlit up their hiding place. Pretty soon they were on their feet and, with\ntheir rescuer, figuring out just how long they had been in their\nprison\u2013their prison of love.\n\nThey had gone into the cave on the morning of December 24th; it was now\nthe morning of the 27th; in fact almost noon. Christmas had come and\ngone.\n\nCaroline still had enough strength in reserve to enable her to climb up\nthe tortuous passage, though her lover did help her some, as all lovers\nshould.\n\nThe farmer\u2019s wife had some coffee and buckwheat cakes ready when they\narrived at the mansion; which the erstwhile captives of Penn\u2019s Cave sat\ndown to enjoy.\n\nAs they were eating, another of Harshbarger\u2019s sons rode up on horseback.\nHe had been to the post office at Earlysburg. He handed Sargeant a tiny,\nroughly typed newspaper published in Millheim. Across the front page, in\nletters larger than usual, were the words, \u201cMexico Declares War on the\nUnited States.\u201d\n\nSargeant scanned the headline intently, then laid the paper on the\ntable.\n\n\u201cOur country has been drawn into a war with Mexico,\u201d he said, his voice\ntrembling with emotion. \u201cI had hoped it might be avoided. I am First\nLieutenant of the Lafayette Greys; I fear I\u2019ll have to go.\u201d\n\n[Illustration: BIG SNYDER COUNTY WILD CAT]\n\nCaroline lost the color which had come back to her pretty cheeks since\nemerging from the underground dungeon. She reached over, grasping her\nlover\u2019s now clammy hand. Then, noticing that no one was listening, she\nsaid, faintly:\n\n\u201cIt is terrible to have you leave me now; but won\u2019t you marry me before\nyou go? I do love you.\u201d \u201creplied Sargeant, with enthusiasm. \u201cI will have\nmore to fight for, with you at home bearing my name.\u201d\n\nLove had broken the bonds of caste.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                  XXI\n                          _The Silent Friend_\n\n\nEvery one who has hunted in the \u201cSeven Brothers\u2019\u201d, as the Seven\nMountains are called in Central Pennsylvania, has heard of Daniel\nKarstetter, the famous Nimrod. The Seven Mountains comprise the Path\nValley, Short Bald, Thick Head, Sand, Shade and Tussey Mountains. Though\nthree-quarters of a century has passed since he was in his hey-day as a\nslayer of big game, his fame is undiminished. Anecdotes of his prowess\nare related in every hunting camp; by one and all he has been acclaimed\nthe greatest hunter that the Seven Brothers ever produced.\n\nThe great Nimrod, who lived to a very advanced age, was born in 1818 on\nthe banks of Pine Creek, a: the Blue Rock, half a mile below the present\ntown of Coburn. In addition to his hunting prowess, he was interested in\npsychic experiences, and was as prone to discuss his adventures with\nsupernatural agencies as his conflicts with the wild denizens of the\nforests. There was a particular ghost story which he loved dearly to\nrelate.\n\nAccompanied by his younger brother Jacob, he had been attending a dance\none night across the mountains, in the environs of the town of Milroy,\nfor like all the backwoods boys of his time, he was adept in the art of\nterpsichore. The long journey was made on horseback, the lads being\nmounted on stout Conestoga chargers.\n\nThe homeward ride was commenced after midnight, the two brothers riding\nalong the dark trail in single file. In the wide flat on the top of the\n\u201cBig Mountain\u201d Daniel fell into a doze. When he awoke, his mount having\nstumbled on a stone, Jacob was nowhere to be seen. Thinking that his\nbrother had put his horse to trot and gone on ahead, Daniel dismissed\nthe matter of his absence from his mind.\n\nAs he was riding down the steep slope of the mountain, he noticed a\nhorseman waiting for him on the path. When they came abreast the other\nrider fell in beside him, skillfully guiding his horse so that it did\nnot encounter the dense foliage which lined the narrow way. Daniel\nsupposed the party to be his brother, although the unknown kept his\nlynx-skin collar turned up, and his felt cap was pulled down level with\nhis eyes. It was pitchy dark, so to make sure, Daniel called out:\n\n\u201cIs that you, Jacob?\u201d\n\nHis companion did not reply, so the young man repeated his query in\nstill louder tones, but all he heard was the crunching of the horses\u2019\nhoofs on the pebbly road.\n\nDaniel Karstetter, master slayer of panthers, bears and wolves, was no\ncoward, though on this occasion he felt uneasy. Yet he disliked picking\na quarrel with the silent man at his side, who clearly was not his\nbrother, and he feared to put his horse to a gallop on the steep, uneven\nroadway. The trip home never before seemed of such interminable length.\nFor the greater part of the distance Daniel made no attempt to converse\nwith his unsociable comrade. Finally, he heaved a sigh of relief when he\nsaw a light gleaming in the horse stable at the home farm. When he\nreached the barnyard gate he dismounted to let down the bars, while the\nstranger apparently vanished in the gloom.\n\nDaniel led his mount to the horse stable, where he found his brother\nJacob sitting by the old tin lantern, fast asleep. He awakened him and\nasked him when he had gotten home. Jacob stated that his horse had been\nfeeling good, so he let him canter all the way. He had been sleeping,\nbut judged that he had been home at least half an hour. He had met no\nhorseman on the road.\n\nDaniel was convinced that his companion had been a ghost, or, as they\nare called in the \u201cSeven Brothers,\u201d a _gshpook_. But he made no further\ncomment that night.\n\nA year afterwards, in coming back alone from a dance in Stone Valley, he\nwas again joined by the silent horseman, who followed him to his\nbarnyard gate. He gave up going to dances on that account. At least once\na year, or as long as he was able to go out at night, he met the ghostly\nrider. Sometimes, when tramping along on foot after a hunt, or, in later\nyears, coming back from market at Bellefonte in his Jenny Lind, he would\nfind the silent horseman at his side. After the first experience, he\nnever attempted to speak to the night rider, but he became convinced\nthat it meant him no harm.\n\nAs his prowess as a hunter became recognized, he had many jealous rivals\namong the less successful Nimrods. In those old days threats of all\nkinds were freely made. He heard on several occasions that certain\nhunters were setting out to \u201cfix\u201d him. But a man who could wrestle with\npanthers and bears knew no such thing as fear.\n\nOne night, while tramping along in Green\u2019s Valley, he was startled by\nsome one in the path ahead of him shouting out in Pennsylvania German,\n\u201cHands up!\u201d He was on the point of dropping his rifle, when he heard the\nrattle of hoof beats back of him. The silent horseman in an instant was\nby his side, the dark horse pawing the earth with his giant hoofs. There\nwas a crackling of brush in the path ahead, and no more threats of _hend\nuff_.\n\nThe ghostly rider followed Daniel to his barn yard gate, but was gone\nbefore he could utter a word of thanks. As the result of this adventure,\nhe became imbued with the idea that he possessed a charmed life. It gave\nhim added courage in his many encounters with panthers, the fierce red\nbears and lynxes.\n\nApart from his love of hunting the more dangerous animals, Daniel\nenjoyed the sport of deer-stalking. He maintained several licks, one of\nthem in a patch of low ground over the hill from the entrance to the\n\u201cdry\u201d part of Penn\u2019s Cave. At this spot he constructed a blind, or\nplatform, between the two ancient tupelo trees, about twenty feet from\nthe ground, and many were the huge white-faced stags which fell to his\nunerring bullets during the rutting season.\n\nOne cold night, according to an anecdote frequently related by one of\nhis descendants, while perched in his eyrie overlooking the natural\nclearing which constituted the _lick_, and in sight of a path frequented\nby the fiercer beasts, which led to the opening of the \u201cdry\u201d cave, he\nsaw, about midnight, a huge pantheress, followed by a large male of the\nsame species, come out into the open.\n\n\u201cThe pantheress strolled from the path,\u201d so the story went, \"and came\nand laid herself down at the roots of the tupelo trees, while the\npanther remained in the path, and seemed to be listening to some noise\nas yet inaudible to the hunter.\n\n\"Daniel soon heard a distant roaring; it seemed to come from the very\nsummit of the Brush Mountain, and immediately the pantheress answered\nit. The the panther on the path, his jealousy aroused, commenced to roar\nwith a voice so loud that the frightened hunter almost let go his trusty\nrifle and held tighter to the railing of his blind, lest he might tumble\nto the earth. As the voice of the animal that he had heard in the\ndistance gradually approached, the pantheress welcomed him with renewed\nroarings, and the panther, restless, went and came from the path to his\nflirtatious flame, as though he wished her to keep silence, as though to\nsay, \u2018Let him come if he dares; he will find his match\u2019.\n\n\"In about an hour a panther, with mouse-color, or grey coat, stepped out\nof the forest, and stood in the full moonlight on the other side of the\ncleared place, the moonbeams illuminating his form with a glow like\nphosphorescence. The pantheress, eyeing him with admiration, raised\nherself to go to him, but the panther, divining her intent, rushed\nbefore her and marched right at his adversary. With measured step and\nslow, they approached to within a dozen paces of each other, their\nsmooth, round heads high in the air, their bulging yellow eyes gleaming,\ntheir long, tufted tails slowly sweeping down the brittle asters that\ngrew about them. They crouched to the earth\u2013a moment\u2019s pause\u2013and then\nthey bounded with a hellish scream high in the air and rolled on the\nground, locked in their last embrace.\n\n\"The battle was long and fearful, to the amazed and spellbound witness\nof this midnight duel. Even if he had so wished, he could not have taken\nsteady enough aim to fire. But he preferred to watch the combat, while\nthe moonlight lasted. The bones of the two combatants cracked under\ntheir powerful jaws, their talons painted the frosty ground with blood,\nand their outcries, now gutteral, now sharp and loud, told their rage\nand agony.\n\n\"At the beginning of the contest the pantheress crouched herself on her\nbelly, with her eyes fixed upon the gladiators, and all the while the\nbattle raged, manifested by the slow, catlike motion of her tail, the\npleasure she felt at the spectacle. When the scene closed, and all was\nquiet and silent and deathlike on the lick, and the moon had commenced\nto wane, she cautiously approached the battle-ground and, sniffing the\nlifeless bodies of her two lovers, walked leisurely to a nearby oak,\nwhere she stood on her hind feet, sharpening her fore claws on the bark.\n\n\"She glared up ferociously at the hunter in the blind, as if she meant\nto vent her anger by climbing after him. In the moonlight her golden\neyes appeared so terrifying that Daniel dropped his rifle, and it fell\nto the earth with a sickening thud. As he reached after it, the flimsy\nrailing gave way and he fell, literally into the arms of the pantheress.\nAt that moment the rumble of horses\u2019 hoofs, like thunder on some distant\nmountain, was heard. Just as the panther was about to rend the helpless\nNimrod to bits, the unknown rider came into view. Scowling at the\nintruder, mounted on his huge black horse, the brute abandoned its prey\nand ambled off up the hill in the direction of the dry cave.\n\n\"Daniel seized his firearm and sent a bullet after her retreating form,\nbut it apparently went wild of its mark. Meanwhile, before he had time\nto express his gratitude to the strange deliverer, he had vanished.\n\n\"Daniel was dumbfounded. As soon as he had recovered from the\nblood-curdling episodes, he built a small fire near the mammoth\ncarcasses, where he warmed his much benumbed hands. Then he examined the\ndead panthers, but found that their hides were too badly torn to warrant\nskinning.\n\n\"Disgusted at not getting his deer, and being even cheated out of the\npanther pelts, he dragged the ghastly remains of the erstwhile kings of\nthe forest by their tails to the edge of the entrance to the dry cave.\nThere he cut off the long ears in order to collect the bounty, and then\nshoved the carcasses into the opening. They fell with sickening thuds\ninto the chamber beneath, to the evident horror of the pantheress, which\nuttered a couple of piercing screams as the horrid remnants of the\nrecent battle royal landed in her vicinity.\n\n\u201cThen Jacob shouldered his rifle and started out in search of small game\nfor breakfast. That night he went to another of his licks on Elk Creek,\nnear Fulmer\u2019s Sink, where he killed four superb stags,\u201d so the story\nconcludes.\n\nBut to his dying day he always placed the battle of the panthers first\nof all his hunting adventures. And his faith in the unknown horseman as\nhis deliverer and good genius became the absorbing, all-pervading\ninfluence of his life.\n\n                                  XXII\n                        _The Fountain of Youth_\n\n\nOld Chief Wisamek, of the Kittochtinny Indians, had lost his spouse. He\nwas close to sixty years of age, which was old for a redman, especially\none who had led the hard life of a warrior, exposed to all kinds of\nweather, fasts and forced marches. Though he felt terribly lonely and\ndepressed in his state of widowerhood, the thought of discarding the\nfidelity of the eagle, which, if bereaved, never takes a second mate,\nand was the noble bird he worshipped, seemed repugnant to him until he\nhappened to see the fair and buxom maid Annapalpeteu.\n\nHe was rheumatic, walking with difficulty; he tired easily, was fretful,\nall sure signs of increasing age; but what upset him most was the sight\nof his reflection in his favorite pool, a haggard, weazened, wrinkled\nface, with a nose like the beak of an eagle, and glazed eyes as\ncolorless as clay. When he opened his mouth the reflected image seemed\nto be mostly toothless, the lips were blue and thin. He had noticed that\nhe did not need to pluck the hairs from his skull any more to give\nprominence to his warrior\u2019s top-knot; the proud tuft itself was growing\nsparse and weak; to keep it erect he was now compelled to braid it with\nhair from a buffalo\u2019s tail.\n\nBrave warrior that he was, he hated to pay his court to the lovely\nAnnapalpeteu when on all sides he saw stalwart, six-foot youths, masses\nof sinews and muscle, clear-eyed, firm-lipped, always ambitious and\nhigh-spirited, more suited to be her companions.\n\nBut one afternoon he saw his copper-colored love sitting by the side of\nthe Bohundy Creek, beating maize in a wooden trough. Her entire costume\nconsisted of a tight petticoat of blue cloth, hardly reaching to the\nknees, and without any ruffles. Her cheeks and forehead were neatly\ndaubed with red. She seemed very well content with her coadjutor, a\nbright young fellow, who, except for two wild cat hides appropriately\ndistributed, was quite as naked as the ingenuous beauty. That\nAnnapalpeteu had a cavalier was now certain, and immediately it rankled\nwhat flames remained in his jaded body; he must have her at any cost.\n\nDown by the Conadogwinet, across the Broad Mountain, lived Mbison, a\nwise man. Old Wisamek would go there and consult him, perhaps obtain\nfrom him some potion to permanently restore at least a few of the fires\nof his lost youth. Though his will power had been appreciably slackening\nof late years, he acted with alacrity on the idea of visiting the\nsoothsayer. Before sundown he was on his way to the south, accompanied\nby several faithful henchmen. Carrying a long ironwood staff, he moved\non with unwonted agility; it was very dark, and the path difficult to\nfollow, when he finally consented to bivouac for the night. The next\nmorning found him so stiff that he could hardly clamber to his feet. His\nhenchmen assisted him, though they begged him to rest for a day. But his\nwill forced him on; he wanted to be virile and win the beautiful\nAnnapalpeteu.\n\nThe journey, which consumed a week, cost the aged Strephon a world of\neffort. But as he had been indefatigable in his youth, he was determined\nto reach the wise man\u2019s headquarters walking like a warrior, and not\ncarried there on a litter like an old woman. Bravely he forged ahead,\nhis aching joints paining miserably, until at length he came in sight of\nhis Promised Land.\n\nThe soothsayer, who had been apprised of his coming by a dream, was in\nfront of his substantial lodge-house to greet him. Seldom had he\nreceived a more distinguished client than Wisamek, so he welcomed him\nwith marked courtesy and deference.\n\nAfter the first formalities, the old chief, who had restrained himself\nwith difficulty, asked how he could be restored to a youthful condition,\nso that he could rightfully marry a beautiful maiden of eighteen\nsummers. The wise man, who had encountered similar supplicants in the\npast, informed him that the task was a comparatively easy one. It would\ninvolve, however, however, first drinking the waters of the Warm Springs\n(in what is now Perry County), then another journey across mountains.\n\nWisamek shouted for joy when he heard these words, and impatiently\ndemanded where he would have to go to be finally restored to youth.\n\n\u201cAcross many high mountain ranges, across many broad valleys, across\nmany swift streams, through a country covered with dark forests and\nfilled with wild beasts, to the northwest of here, is a wonderful\ncavern. In it rises a deep stream of greenish color, clear as crystal,\nthe fountain of youth. At its heading you will find a very old man,\nGamunk, who knows the formula. Give him this talisman, and he will allow\nyou to bathe in the marvelous waters and be young again.\u201d\n\nWith the final words he handed Wisamek a red bear\u2019s tooth, on which was\ncleverly carved the form of an athletic youth. The old chief\u2019s hands\ntrembled so much that he almost dropped the precious fetich. But he soon\nrecovered his self-control and thanked the wise man. Then he ordered his\nhenchmen to give the soothsayer gifts, which they did, loading him with\nbeads, pottery, wampum and rare furs.\n\nDespite the invitation to remain until he was completely rested, Wisamek\ndetermined to depart at once for the warm springs and the fountain of\nyouth. He drank the warm water copiously, enjoying the beautiful\nsurroundings at the springs. He was so stimulated by his high hope and\nthe mineral waters that he climbed the steep ridges, crossed the\nturbulent streams and put up with the other inconveniences of the long\nmarch much better than might have been the case. During the entire\njourney he sang Indian love songs, strains which had not passed his lips\nin thirty years.\n\nHis followers, gossiping among themselves, declared that he looked\nbetter already. Perhaps he would not have to bathe in the fountain after\nall. He might resume his youth, because he willed it so. Indians were\nstrong believers in the power of mind over matter.\n\nWhen he reached the vicinity of the cave he was fortunate enough to meet\nthe aged Indian who was its guardian. Though his hair was snow white and\nhe said he was so old that he had lost count of the years, Gamunk\u2019s\ncarriage was erect, his complexion smooth, his eyes clear and kindly. He\nwalked along with a swinging stride, very different from Wisamek\u2019s\nmental picture of him. The would-be bridegroom, who handed him the\ntalisman, was quick to impart his mission to his new-found friend.\n\n\u201cIt is true,\u201d he replied, \u201cafter a day and a night\u2019s immersion in the\ncave\u2019s water you will emerge with all the appearance of youth. There is\nabsolutely no doubt of it. Thousands have been here before.\u201d\n\nWith these reassuring words Wisamek again leaped for joy, gyrating like\na young brave at a cantico.\n\nThe party, accompanied by the old guardian, quickly arrived at the\ncave\u2019s main opening, where beneath them lay stretched the calm,\nmirror-like expanse of greenish water.\n\n\u201cCan I begin the bath now?\u201d asked the chief, impatiently. \u201cI am anxious\nto throw off the odious appearance of age.\u201d \u201creplied the old watchman,\nwho took him by the hand, leading to the ledge where it was highest\nabove the water. \u201cJump off here,\u201d he said quietly. Wisamek, who had been\na great swimmer in his youth and was absolutely fearless of the water,\nreplied that he would do so. \u201cBut remember you must remain in the water\nwithout food until this hour tomorrow,\u201d said the guardian.\n\nAs he leaped into the watery depths the chief shouted he would remain\ntwice as long if he could be young again. Wisamek was true to his\ninstructions; there was too much at stake; he dared not falter.\n\nThe next morning his henchmen were at the cave\u2019s mouth to greet his\nreappearance. They were startled to see, climbing up the ledge with\nalacrity, a tall and handsome man, as young looking as themselves. There\nwas a smile on the full, red lips, a twinkle in the clear eye of the\nre-made warrior as he stood among them, physically a prince among men.\n\nThe homeward journey was made with rapidity. Wisamek traveled so fast\nthat he played out his henchmen who were half his age.\n\nAnnapalpeteu, who was seated in front of her parents\u2019 cabin weaving a\ngarment, noticed a youth of great physical beauty approaching, at the\nhead of Chief Wisamek\u2019s clansmen. She wondered who he could be, as he\nwore Wisamek\u2019s headdress of feathers of the osprey or \u201csea eagle.\u201d When\nhe drew near he saluted her, and, not giving her time to answer,\njoyfully shouted: \u201cDon\u2019t you recognize me? I am your good friend\nWisamek, come back to win your love, after a refreshing journey through\nthe distant forests.\u201d\n\nAnnapalpeteu, who was a sensible enough girl to have admired the great\nwarrior for his prowess, even though she had never thought of him\nseriously as a lover, was now instantly smitten by his engaging\nappearance. The henchmen withdrew, leaving the couple together. They\nmade marked progress with their romance; words of love were mentioned\nbefore they parted.\n\nIt was not long before the betrothal was announced, followed shortly by\nthe wedding festival. At the nuptials the bridegroom\u2019s appearance was\nthe marvel of all present. It was hinted that he had been somewhere and\nrenewed his youth, but as the henchmen were sworn to secrecy, how it had\nbeen done was not revealed.\n\nThe young bride seemed radiantly happy. She had every reason to be; the\nother Indian maids whispered from lip to lip, was she not marrying the\ngreatest warrior and hunter of his generation, the handsomest man in a\nhundred tribes? Secretly envied by all of her age, possessing her\nstalwart prize, the fair bride started on her honeymoon, showered with\nacorns and good wishes.\n\nSo far as is known the wedding trip passed off blissfully. There were\nsmiles on the bright faces of both bride and groom when they returned to\ntheir spacious new lodge-house, which the tribe had erected for them in\ntheir absence, by the banks of the sparkling Bohundy. But the course of\nlife did not run smoothly for the pair. Though outwardly Wisamek was the\nhandsomest and most youthful-looking of men, he was still an old man at\nheart. Annapalpeteu was as pleasure-loving as she was beautiful. She\nwanted to dance and sing and mingle with youthful company. She wanted\nher good time in life; her joy of living was at its height, her sense of\nenjoyment at its zenith.\n\n[Illustration: BLACK BEAR, KILLED IN SUGAR VALLEY]\n\nOn the other hand, Wisamek hated all forms of gaieties or youthful\namusements. He wanted to sit about the lodge-house in the sun, telling\nof his warlike triumphs of other days; he wanted to sleep much, he hated\nnoise and excitement.\n\nAnnapalpeteu, dutiful wife that she was, tried to please him, but in due\ncourse of time both husband and wife realized that romance was dying,\nthat they were drifting apart. Wisamek was even more aware of it than\nhis wife. It worried him greatly, his dreams were of an unhappy nature.\nHe pictured the end of the trail, with his wife, Annapalpeteu, in love\nwith some one else of her own age, some one whose heart was young. He\nhad spells of moodiness and irritability, as well as several serious\nquarrels with his wife, whom he accused of caring less for him than\nformerly.\n\nThe relations became so strained that life in the commodious lodge-house\nwas unbearable. At length it occurred to Wisamek that he might again\nvisit the fountain of youth, this time to revive his soul. Perhaps he\nhad not remained in the water long enough to touch the spirit within. He\ninformed his spouse that he was going on a long journey on invitation of\nthe war chief of a distant tribe, and that she must accompany him. He\nwas insanely jealous of her now. He could not bear her out of his sight.\nHe imagined she had a young lover back of every tree, though she was\nhonor personified.\n\nThe trip was made pleasantly enough, as the husband was in better\nspirits than usual. Annapalpeteu enjoyed the waters of the warm springs,\nwould liked to have tarried. He thought he saw the surcease of his\ntroubles ahead of him!\n\nWhen he reached the Beaver Dam Meadows, at the foot of Egg Hill, near\nthe site of the present town of Spring Mills, beautiful level flats\nwhich in those days were a favorite camping ground for the red men, he\nrequested the beautiful Annapalpeteu to remain there for a few days,\nthat he was going through a hostile country, he would not jeopardize her\nsafety. He was going on an important mission that would make her love\nhim more than ever when he returned. In reality no unfriendly Indians\nwere about, but in order to give a look of truth to his story he left\nher in charge of a strong bodyguard.\n\nWisamek\u2019s conduct of late had been so peculiar that his wife was not\nsorry to see her lord and master go away. Handsome though he was, a\nspiritual barrier had arisen between them which grew more insurmountable\nwith each succeeding day. Yet, on this occasion, when he was out of her\nsight, she felt apprehensive about him. She had a strange presentiment\nthat she would never see him again.\n\nWisamek was filled with hopes; his spirits had never been higher, as he\nstrode along, followed by his henchmen. When he reached the top of the\npath which led to the mouth of the enchanted cave he met old Gamunk, the\nguardian. The aged redman expressed surprise at seeing him again.\n\n\u201cI have come for a very peculiar reason,\u201d he said. \u201cThe bath which I\ntook last year outwardly made me young, but only _outwardly_. Within I\nam as withered and joyless as a centenarian. I want to bathe once more,\nto try to revive the old light in my soul.\u201d\n\nGamunk shook his head. \u201cYou may succeed; I hope you will. I never heard\nof any one daring to take a second bath in these waters. The tradition\nof the hereditary guardians, of whom I am the hundredth in direct\nsuccession, has it that it would be fatal to take a second immersion,\nespecially to remain in the water for twenty-four hours.\u201d\n\nThen he asked Wisamek for the talisman which gave him the right to\nbathe. Wisamek drew himself up proudly, and, with a gesture of his hand\nindicating disdain, said he had no talisman, that he would bathe anyhow.\nHe advanced to the brink and plunged in. Until the same hour the next\nday he floated and paddled about the greenish depths, filled with\nexpectancy. For some reason it seemed longer this time than on the\nprevious visit.\n\nAt last, by the light which filtered down through the treetops at the\ncave\u2019s mouth, he knew that the hour had come for him to emerge\u2013emerge as\nChief Wisamek\u2013young in heart as in body. Proudly he grasped the rocky\nledge and swung himself out on dry land. He arose to his feet. His head\nseemed very light and giddy. He fancied he saw visions of his old\nconquests, old loves. There was the sound of music in the air. Was it\nthe martial drums, played to welcome the conqueror, or the wind surging\nthrough the feathery tops of the maple and linden trees at the mouth of\nthe cave? He started to climb the steep path. He seemed to be treading\nthe air. Was it the buoyant steps of youth come again? He seemed to\nfloat rather than walk. The sunlight blinded his eyes. Suddenly he had a\nflash of normal consciousness. He dropped to the ground with a thud like\nan old pine falling. Then all was blackness, silence. Jaybirds\ncomplaining in the treetops alone broke the stillness.\n\nHis bodyguards, who were waiting for him at old Gamunk\u2019s lodge-house,\nclose to where the hotel now stands, became impatient at his\nnon-appearance, as the hour was past. Accompanied by the venerable\nwatchman they started down the path. To their horror they saw the dead\nbody of a hideous, wrinkled old man, all skin and bones, like a\ndesiccated mummy, lying stretched out across it, a few steps from the\nentrance to the cave. When they approached closely they noticed several\nfamiliar tattoo marks on the forehead, which identified the body as that\nof their late master, Wisamek.\n\nFrightened lest they would be accused of his murder, and shocked by his\naltered appearance, the bodyguards turned and took to their heels. They\ndisappeared in the trackless forests to the north and were never seen\nagain.\n\nOld Gamunk, out of pity for the vain-glorious chieftain, buried the\nremains by the path near where he fell. As for poor Annapalpeteu, the\nbeautiful, she waited patiently for many days by the Beaver Dam, but her\nwaiting was in vain. At length, concluding that he had been slain in\nbattle in some valorous encounter, she started for her old home on the\nBohundy.\n\nIt is related that on the way she met and married a warrior of her own\nage, living happily ever afterwards in a comfortable cabin somewhere in\nthe majestic Bower Mountains. In him she found the loving response, the\ncongeniality of pleasures which had been denied the dried, feeble soul\nof Wisamek, who bathed too often in the fountain of youth.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n                                 XXIII\n                            _Compensations_\n\n\nIt seemed that Andrew McMeans and Oscar Wellendorf were born to be\nengaged in rivalry, although judging by their antecedents, the former\nwas in a class beyond, McMeans being well-born, of old Scotch-Irish\nstock, a valuable asset on the Allegheny. Wellendorf, of Pennsylvania\nDutch origin, of people coming from one of the eastern counties, was\nconsequently rated much lower socially, had much more to overcome in the\nway of life\u2019s obstacles. The boys were almost of school age; Wellendorf,\nif anything, was a month or two older. In school in Hickory Valley\nneither was a brilliant scholar, but they were evenly matched, and\nalthough not aspiring to lead their classes, felt a keen rivalry between\none another.\n\nWhen school days were over, and they took to rafting as the most obvious\noccupation in the locality, their rivalries as to who could run a fleet\nquickest to Pittsburg, and come back for another, was the talk of the\nriver. In love it was not different, and despite the talk in McMean\u2019s\nfamily that he should marry Anna McNamor, daughter of his father\u2019s\nlife-long friend, Tabor McNamor, the girl showed an open preference for\nOscar Wellendorf.\n\nThe old Scotch-Irish families were, as the London Times said in\ncommenting on some of the characteristics of the late Senator Quay\n(inherited from his mother, born Stanley) \u201cclannish to degree,\u201d and\nAnna\u2019s \u201cpeople\u201d were equally anxious that she marry one of her own\nstock, and not ally herself with the despised and socially insignificant\n\u201cDutch\u201d. Old Grandmother McClinton called attention to the fact that the\nheadstrong beauty was not without a strain of \u201cDutch\u201d blood herself, for\nher great, great grandmother had been none other than the winsome\nMadelon Ury, a Swiss-Huguenot girl of Berks County, who, when surprised\nin the field hoeing corn by a blood-thirsty Indian, had dropped her hoe\nand taken to her heels. She ran so fast over the soft ground that she\nwould have escaped her moccasined pursuer had she not taken time to\ncross a stone fence. This gave the red man the chance to throw his\ntomahawk, striking her in the neck, and she fell face downward over the\nwall. Just as her foe was overtaking her, Martin McClinton, a sword\nmaker from Lancaster, who was passing along the Shamokin trail en route\nto deliver a sabre to Colonel Conrad Weiser, at Heidelberg, rushed to\nher rescue and shot down the Indian, so that he fell dead across his\nfair victim.\n\nMcClinton extricated the tomahawk from her neck, bound up the wound with\nhis own neckerchief and carried her to her parent\u2019s home, near the\nFalling Springs. He remained until the wound healed, when he married\nher. Later the pair migrated west of the Alleghenies.\n\nMadelon McClinton was very dark, with an oval face and aquiline\nfeatures, possibly having had a strain of Pennsylvania Jewish blood to\naccount for her brunette type of beauty. She always wore a red scarf\nwrapped about her neck, being proud and sensitive of the ugly long white\nscar left by the Indian\u2019s weapon.\n\nThis ancestress, so Grandmother McClinton thought, was responsible for\nAnna\u2019s affinity for the rather prosaic Dutchman Wellendorf. Although the\ngirl was open in her preference for Oscar, she did not make a decision\nas to matrimony for some time. When Wellendorf was absent, she was nicer\nto McMeans than anyone else. However, if Oscar appeared on the scene,\nshe had eyes and ears for no other.\n\nOn one occasion when the two young men started down the river on their\nrafts, proudly standing at the steering oars in the rear, for the\nAllegheny pilots rode at the back of the rafts, whereas those on the\nSusquehanna were always at the front. Anna was at the water\u2019s edge,\nunder a huge buttonwood tree\u2013or, as Wellendorf called it in the breezy\nvernacular of the Pennsylvania Dutch, a \u201cwasserpitcher\u201d\u2013and waved a red\nkerchief impartially at both.\n\nMcMean\u2019s raft on this trip was of \u201cpig iron\u201d, that is unpeeled hemlock\nlogs, as heavy as lead, and became submerged when he had only gotten as\nfar as the mouth of French Creek. He had to run ashore to try and devise\nways and means to save it from sinking altogether, while Wellendorf\nfloated along serenely on his raft of white pine, and was to Pittsburg\nand back home before McMeans ever reached the \u201cSmoky City.\u201d \u201cJohn C.\nFrench tells us, \"White Pine (pinus strobus) was King, and his dusky\nQueen was a beautiful Wild Cherry, lovely as Queen Alliquippa of the\nredmen. Rafting lumber from Warren County began about 1800, and it\nreached its maximum in the decade, 1830 to 1840. The early history of\nWarren County abounds in very interesting incidents, along the larger\nAllegheny River, from rafts of pine lumber assembled to couple up for\nPittsburg fleets.\n\n\"After the purchase of Louisiana, in 1804, the hardy lumbermen decided\nto extend their markets for pine beyond Pittsburg, Wheeling, Cincinnati\nand Louisville\u2013to go, in fact, to New Orleans with pine and cherry\nlumber. So large boats were built in the winter of 1805 and 1806 at many\nmills. Seasoned lumber of the best quality was loaded into the flat\nboats and they untied on April 1, 1806, for the run of two thousand\nmiles, bordered by forests to the river\u2019s edge.\n\n\"It was in defiance to \u2018All Fools\u2019 Day\u2019, but they went through and sold\nboth lumber and boats. For clear pine lumber, $40.00 was the price per\none thousand feet received at New Orleans\u2013just double the Pittsburg\nprice at that date. For three years thereafter the mills of Warren\nCounty sent boats to New Orleans loaded with lumber, and the men\nreturned on foot. Joseph Mead, Abraham Davis and John Watt took boats\nthrough in 1807, coming back via Philadelphia on coastal sailing ships.\n\n\"The pilots and men returned by river boats or on foot, as they best\ncould. The markets along the Ohio from Pittsburg to St. Louis soon took\nall the lumber from the Allegheny mills, and the longer trips were\ngladly discontinued.\n\n\"It was in 1850 that there came the first lumber famine at Pittsburg.\nOwing to the low price of lumber and an unfavorable winter for the\nforest work, few rafts of lumber and board timber went down the\nAllegheny on the spring freshets, but the November floods brought one\nhundred rafts that sold for more favorable prices than had previously\nprevailed. Clear pine lumber sold readily for $18.00 and common pine\nlumber for $9.00 per one thousand feet.\n\n\"The renown of these prices stimulated lumbering on the Allegheny\nheadwaters and the larger creeks. So the demand for lumber was supplied\nand the railroads soon began to bring lumber from many sawmills. The\nboard timber was hewed on four sides, so there were only five inches of\nwane on each of the four corners. These rafts of round-square timber\nwere sold by square feet to Pittsburg sawmills.\n\n\"Rafts of pine boards at headwater mills were made up of platforms, 16\nfeet square and from 18 to 25 courses thick, 9 pins or \u201cgrubs\u201d holding\nboards in place as rafted. Four or five platforms were coupled in tandem\nwith 3 feet \u201ccribs\u201d at each joint, making an elastic piece 73 feet or 92\nfeet long for a 4 or 5 platform piece as the case might be, 10 feet\nwide.\n\n\"At Larrabee or at Millgrove four of these pieces were coupled into a\nWarren fleet, 32 feet wide, 149 feet or 187 feet long.\n\n\"Four Warren pieces or fleets were put together at Warren to make up a\nPittsburg fleet. At Pittsburg four or more Pittsburg fleets were coupled\nto make an Ohio River fleet. Some became very large, often covering\nnearly two acres of surface, containing about 1,500,000 feet of lumber\nat Cincinnatti or at Louisville. They each had a hut for sheltering the\nmen and for cooking their food. They often ran all night on the Ohio. To\nfind where the shore was on a very dark night, the men would throw\npotatoes, judging from the sound how far away the river bank was and of\ntheir safe or dangerous position. These men were of rugged bodies and of\ndaring minds.\n\n\"A small piece, in headwaters and creeks, had an oar or sweep at each\nend of the piece to steer the raft with. Each oar usually had two men to\npull it. An oar-stem was from 28 to 35 feet long, 8\u2033 by 8\u2033, and tapered\nto 4\u2033 by 4\u2033, shaved to round hand-hold near the end toward center of\nraft. The oar blade was 12\u2032, 14\u2032 or 16\u2032 long, and 18\u2033 to 20\u2033 wide, a\npine plank, 4\u2033 thick at the oar-stem socket, and 1\u2033 thick at the\nout-end, tapered its whole length.\n\n\"There were other sizes of stem and blade, but the above indicates the\npower that guided a raft of lumber along the flood-tides, crooked\nstreams, and over a dozen mill dams to the broader river below.\n\n\"From the Allegheny boats or scows, 30 feet long and 11 feet wide,\ncarried loads of baled hay, butter, eggs and other farm produce to the\noil fields of Venango County in the \u201960\u2019s, sold there and took oil in\nbarrels to the refinery at Pittsburg. Then sold the scows to carry coal\nor goods down the Ohio.\n\n\"Mr. Westerman built five boats at Roulette about 1870, 40 feet long and\n12 feet wide, loaded them with lumber and shingles and started for\nPittsburg, but the boats were too long for the dams and broke up at\nBurtville, the first dam.\n\n\"Much of the pine timber of the west half of Potter county was cut in\nsawlogs and sent to mills at Millgrove and Weston\u2019s in log drives down\nthe river and Oswayo Creek into the State of New York. The lumber was\nshipped via the Genesee Valley Canal to Albany and New York City and\nother points on the Hudson River.\n\n\"The first steamboat to steam up the river from Warren was in 1830. It\nwas built by Archibald Tanner, Warren\u2019s first merchant, and David Dick\nand others of Meadville. It was built in Pittsburg; the steamer was\ncalled Allegheny. It went to Olean, returned and went out of commission.\n\n\"The late Major D. W. C. James furnished the incident of the Allegheny\nvoyage. A story was told by James Follett regarding the trip of the\nAllegheny from Warren, which illustrates the lack of speed of steamboats\non the river at that early day.\n\n\"While the steamer was passing the Indian reservation, some twenty odd\nmiles above Warren, the famous chief, Cornplanter, paddled his canoe out\nto the vessel and actually paddled his small craft up stream and around\nthe Allegheny, the old chief giving a vigorous war hoop as he\naccomplished the proud feat.\n\n\"Chief Cornplanter, alias John O\u2019Bail, first took his young men to\nClarion County, about 1795, to learn the method of lumbering, and in\n1796 he built a sawmill on Jenneseedaga Creek, later named Cornplanter\nRun, in Warren County, and rafted lumber down the Allegheny to Pittsburg\nfor many years.\n\n\"Many tributary streams, such as Clarion, Tionesta and Oswayo,\ncontributed rafts each year to make up the fleets that descended the\nAllegheny River from 1796 to 1874, our rafting days.\n\n\"We must mention the Hotel Boyer, on the Duquesne Way, on the Allegheny\nRiver bank, near the \u201cPoint\u201d at Pittsburg, where the raftsmen and the\nlumbermen foregathered, traded, ate and drank together, after each trip.\nIndians were good pilots, but must be kept sober on the rafts.\n\u2018Bootleggers\u2019 along the river often ran boats out to the rafts and\nrelieved the droughty crews by dispensing bottles of \u2018red-eye\u2019 from the\nlong tops of the boots they wore.\"\n\nOf the big trees in the Allegheny country, Dr. J. T. Rothrock, \u201cFather\nof Pennsylvania Forestry,\u201d has said: \"About 1860, when I was with a crew\nsurveying the line for the Sunbury & Erie Railroad, we had some\ndifficulty in getting away from a certain location. A preliminary line\ncame in conflict with an enormous original white pine tree, and the\ntransitman shouted \u2018cut down that tree\u2019. After it was felled another\nnearby was found to be in the way, and was ordered out. The stump of the\nfirst tree, four feet above the ground measured 6 feet, 3 inches in\ndiameter; of the second tree a trifle over 6 feet. Such was the\nwastefulness of the day.\"\n\nAs soon as Oscar returned he saw Anna forthwith. She was in a\nparticularly pliant mood, and in response to his direct question if she\nwould marry him, replied she would, and the couple boarded the train at\nWarren for Buffalo City, where they were married.\n\nWhen Andrew McMeans came back from his protracted expedition they were\nalready home from their honeymoon, and residing with the elder McNamors\nin the big brick house, overlooking the Bend. Andrew McMeans felt his\njilting deeply; it was the first time that any real disappointment had\ncome in the twenty-one years of his life; he had imagined that, despite\nher predilection for Wellendorf, he would yet win her, and his pride as\nwell as his heart was lacerated. Outwardly he revealed little, but\ninwardly a peculiar melancholy such as he had never felt before overcame\nhim, and like Lincoln, after the death of Ann Rutledge, he realized that\nhe must either \u201cdie or get better.\u201d\n\nAnna seemed happy enough in her new life, and liked to flaunt her\ndevotion to Oscar whenever her rejected lover was about. Ordinarily this\nmight have wounded him still deeper, but he was absorbing fresh\nanxieties, reading Herbert Spencer, whose abominable agnosticism soon\nwrecked his faith, and bereft of love and the solace of immortality, he\nbecame the most wretched of men.\n\nIt was five years after Anna\u2019s elopement, and when she was twenty-one\nyears old, that one morning she started for Endeavor to get the mail and\nmake some purchases at the country store. It was a cold, raw day in the\nearly spring, and the wild pigeons were flying. The beechwoods on both\nsides of the road were alive with gunners, old and young. Some one fired\na shot which hurtled close to the nose of the old roan family horse, a\ntrack horse in his day, and he took the bit in his teeth and ran away\nmadly, with the buggy careening after him. Anna, standing up in the\nvehicle, was sawing on the lines until he crashed into a big ash tree\nand fractured the poor girl\u2019s skull. She was picked up by some of the\nhunters and carried home unconscious the next thing was to get the news\nto her husband. Oscar at that time had just finished a raft on West\nHickory Creek, while his old time rival, McMeans, was completing one on\nEast Hickory, which stream flowed into \u201cThe Beautiful River\u201d, almost\ndirectly opposite to the West Hickory Run.\n\nAbout the moment that Anna received her cruel death stroke, the two\nrafts were being launched simultaneously, with much cheering on both\nbanks, for partisanship ran high among dwellers on either side of the\nriver. Members of the family hurried to the river side to watch for the\nWellendorf raft, to \u201chead him off\u201d before it was too late. It was\nseveral hours after the accident when the two rival rafts, with the\nstalwart young pilots at the sterns, swept around the Bend, traveling\n\u201cnip and tuck\u201d. It promised to be an evenly matched race, barring\naccidents, clear to Pittsburg. The skippers of the contending yachts for\nthe American Cup could not have been more enthused for their races than\nwere Andrew McMeans and Oscar Wellendorf.\n\nIn front of the McNamor homestead several women were to be seen running\nup and down the grassy sward, frantically waving red and green shawls.\nWhat could they mean? They were so vehement that Oscar divined something\nwas wrong, and steered ashore, followed by McMeans, who, noting the\nabsence of Anna from the signaling party, feared that a mishap had\nbefallen her.\n\nBoth young men jumped ashore almost simultaneously, leaving their rafts\nto their helpers. The worst had happened\u2013Anna was in the house with a\nfractured skull, and the doctors said she could not live the night. If\nanything, McMeans turned the paler of the two. The men said little as\nthey followed the women up the boardwalk to the house.\n\nThat night McMeans, who asked to be allowed to remain until the outcome\nof the case, for the river had lost its attractions, was sitting in the\nkitchen with Grandmother McClinton. The raw air had blown itself into a\ngale after sundown, and during the night the fierce wind beat about the\neaves and corners of the house like an avenging fury. The old tall\nclock, made years before by John Vanderslice, of Reading, on top of\nwhich was a stuffed Colishay, or gray fox, with an uncommonly fine\nbrush, was striking twelve. Amid the storm a wailing voice joined in the\ndin, incessantly, so that there was no mistaking it, the Warning of the\nMcClintons.\n\n[Illustration: RUINS OF FORT BARNET. BUILT IN 1740. (Photograph Taken\n1895.)]\n\nThe old grandmother watched McMeans\u2019 face until she saw that he\nunderstood. Then she nodded to him. \"It is strange how that thing has\nfollowed the McClinton family for hundreds of years. In Scotland it was\ntheir \u2018Caointeach\u2019, in Ireland their \u2018Banshee\u2019, in Pennsylvania their\n\u2018Token\u2019 or \u2018Warning\u2019. It never fails.\"\n\nAs McMeans listened to the terrible shrieks of anguish, which sometimes\ndrowned the storm, he shivered with pity for the lost soul out there in\nthe cold, giving the death message, so melancholy and sad, and perhaps\nunwillingly. Anna lay upstairs in her room, facing the river, or\nwindward side of the house, and the Warning was evidently somewhere\nbelow her window, where the water in waves like the sea, was\nover-running the banks.\n\nOn a kitchen chair still lay a red Paisley shawl that had been used to\nsignal to Wellendorf earlier in the day. It seemed ample and warm.\nPicking it up, McMeans went to the kitchen door, which he opened with\nsome effort in the force of the gale, and, walking around the house,\nlaid it on one of the benches at the front door, saying, \u201cPut on this\nshawl, and come around to the leeward side of the house.\u201d\n\nWhen he returned, he said to Grandmother McClinton, \u201cThat Token\u2019s voice\ntouched me somehow tonight. Something tells me she hated her task, is\ncold and miserable. I left the shawl on the front porch and told her to\ncome out of the wind.\u201d\n\nAfter that they both noticed that the unhappy wailings ceased, there was\nnothing that vied with the storm.\n\n\u201cPerhaps you have laid her,\u201d said Grandmother McClinton. \u201cAnna may now\npull through.\u201d\n\nBut these words were barely out of her mouth, when Oscar Wellendorf,\npale as a ghost, appeared in the kitchen to say that Anna had just\npassed away. Andrew felt her death keenly, but he was also satisfied\nthat perhaps he had by an act of kindness, removed the Warning of the\nMcClintons. He was more convinced when a year later Anna\u2019s father joined\nthe majority, then her mother, with no visits from the mournful-voiced\nWarning.\n\nFive years more rolled around, and Andrew McMeans, still unmarried, and\ncherishing steadfastly the memory of his beloved Anna, embarked his\nfleet for Pittsburg. It was a morning in the early spring, the air was\nsoft and warm, and the shad flies were flitting about. He arrived in\nsafety, but was some time collecting his money, as he was dealing with a\nscamp, and meanwhile put up at a boarding house on the river front, near\nthe Hotel Boyer. The afternoon after his arrival he was sitting on the\nporch of his lodgings, gazing out at the rushing, swirling river, which\nran bank full, on a bench similar in all ways to the one on which he had\nlaid the shawl to warm the freezing back of the Warning of the\nMcClintons. Somehow he fell to thinking about that ghost, and its\ndisappearance, and of Anna McNamor; how much he would give if only he\ncould see her again.\n\nHe recalled how the old grandmother had told him that some families\nmarried out of the Warning, while others married into it, much as he had\nheard was the case with the Assembly Ball in Philadelphia. The McClinton\nWarning had evidently clung to the female line, as it had been very much\nin evidence when Anna McNamor\u2019s time had come.\n\nSomething made him look up the street. Coming slowly towards him was a\nslender school girl, with a little green hat perched on her head, the\nliving image of Anna, dead for five years! He almost fell off the bench\nin surprise, to note the same slim oval face, the aquiline features, and\nhazel eyes that he had known and loved so well. She paused for a moment\nin front of the house next door, holding her school books in her arms,\nwhile she looked out at the raging river. The spring breezes blowing her\nshort skirts showed her slim legs encased in light brown worsted\nstockings. Then she went indoors.\n\nIt did not take him long to seek his landlady and learn that she was a\nflesh and blood, sure enough girl, Anna Harbord by name, whose mother,\nwidow of Mike Harbord, an old time riverman, also ran a boarding house.\nIt was not many days before some errand brought the girl to the house\nwhere McMeans was stopping, and matters fortuitously adjusted themselves\nso that he met her.\n\nHe was struck by her similarity to the dead girl, even the tones of her\nvoice, and it seemed strange she should have such a counterpart. She\nappeared friendly disposed towards him from the start, and it was like a\ncompensation sent after all his years of disappointment and loneliness.\nShe was then sixteen years old, and must have been eleven when her\n\u201cdouble\u201d passed away.\n\nAs their acquaintance grew into love, and all seemed so serene, as if it\nwas to be, Andrew McMeans gradually regaining his faith, human and\ndivine, felt he owed his happiness to the Warning of the McClintons\u2019,\nwhose misery he had appeased by taking the cloak out to her, while\nengaged in her disagreeable duty of fortelling the coming dissolution of\nthe unfortunate girl.\n\nMcMeans and Anna Harbord married. They decided to remain in Pittsburg,\nand he became in a few years a successful and respected business man.\n\nIf few persons had been kind to ghosts, certainly he had profited by his\ninterest in the welfare of the \u201cWarning of the McClintons\u201d. The girl\u2019s\nmother informed him that in the early spring, about five years before,\nher daughter had been seized with a cataleptic attack, had laid for days\nunconscious, and when she came out of it, her entire personality, even\nthe color of her eyes, had changed. Could it have been, the young\nhusband often thought, as he sat gazing at his bride with undisguised\nadmiration, some act of the grateful \u201cWarning,\u201d in sending Anna\nMcNamor\u2019s soul to enter the body of this girl in Pittsburg, and\nreserving her for him, safe and sound from Wellendorf and all harm,\nuntil his travels brought her across his path! Human personality, he\nreasoned, is merely a means to an end. The unfinished life of Anna\nMcNamor could not go on, like a flower unfolding, until her fragrance\nhad been spent on the one who needed it most. Then he would shudder at\nthe idea that if the school girl, who stopped to look at the flooded\nriver, had started on again, passing him by, never to see her again. He\nwould feel that he had been dreaming perhaps, until, touching his wife\u2019s\nsoft creamy cheeks, would realize that she was actually there, and his.\n\nThrough her his soul took on new light, and from a vigorous young\nwoodsman, he was slowly but surely passing into an intellectual\nexistence. He had been strangely favored by the mainsprings of destiny,\nand why should he not give the world all that was best in him. Life,\nruthless though it seems, has always compensations, and if we live\nrightly and truly, the debt will be owing us, whereas most of us through\nmistakes and misdeeds, have a great volume of retribution coming in an\ninevitable sequence.\n\n                                  XXIV\n                          _A Misunderstanding_\n\n\nIt was the night before Christmas in the little mountain church near\nWolfe\u2019s Store. The small, low-roofed, raftered chapel was illumined as\nbrightly as coal oil lamps in the early stage of their development could\ndo it; a hemlock tree, decked out with candles and tinsel stood to one\nside of the altar, an almost red-hot ten-plate stove on the other, while\nthe chancel and rafters were twined and garlanded with ground pine and\nilex, or winter berries. In one of the rear pews sat a very good looking\nyoung couple, a former school teacher revisiting the valley, and his\nfavorite pupil. Lambert Girtin and Elsie Vanneman were their names.\n\nThe young man, who was a veteran of the Civil War, possessed the right\nto wear the Congressional medal, and while teaching at the little red\nschool house on the pike near the road leading to Gramley\u2019s Gap, had\nnoticed and admired the fair Elsie, so different from the rest of his\nflock. She was the daughter of a prosperous lumberman, a jobber in\nhardwoods, and her mother was above the average in intelligence and\nbreeding, yet Elsie in all ways transcended even her parents.\n\nShe had seemed like a mere child when he left her at the close of the\nterm the previous Christmas, but he could not evict her image from his\nsoul. It was mainly to see her, though he would have admitted this to no\none, that induced him to revisit the remote valley during the following\nholiday season. The long drive in the stage through drifted roads had\nseemed nothing to him, he was so elated at the thought of reviving old\nmemories at the sight of this most beloved of pupils.\n\nIn order not to arouse any one\u2019s suspicions, he did no more than to\ninquire how she was at the general store and boarding house where he\nstopped.\n\n\u201cYou would never know her,\u201d exclaimed old Mother Wolfe, the landlady.\n\u201cWhy, she\u2019s a regular young lady, grown a head taller,\u201d making a gesture\nwith her hand to denote her increased stature.\n\nOn Christmas Eve there was to be the usual entertainment at the Union\nChurch, and Lambert Girtin posted himself outside the entrance to wait\nfor the object of his dreams. The snow was drifted deep, and it was\nbitterly cold, yet social events were so rare in the mountains that\nalmost every one braved the icy blasts to be present. It was not long\nbefore he was rewarded by a sight of Elsie Vanneman. It _was_ remarkable\nhow tall she\u2019d grown! As he expressed it to himself, \u201cAn opening bud\nbecame a rose full-blown\u201d in one short year!\n\nShe of course recognized him, and greeted him warmly, and they entered\nthe church together. Inside by the lamplight he had a better chance to\nstudy her appearance more in detail than by the cold starlight on the\nchurch steps. She had grown until she was above the middle height, yet\nhad literally taken her figure and her grace with her. She was slender,\nyet shapely, dainty and graceful in the extreme. Her violet eyes were\neven more deeply pensive than of yore, her cheeks were pink and white,\nher lips red and slightly full. Her hair was a golden or coppery brown,\nand shone like those precious metals in the reflected light of the lamps\nand the stove; the slight upward turn of her nose still remained.\n\nHow demure, earnest and sincere she was! In the intervening year he had\nnever seen her like in Bellefonte, Altoona or Pittsburg. She seemed to\nbe happy to be with him again, minus the restraint existing between a\npupil and teacher. Instinctively their fingers touched, and they held\nhands during most of the evening.\n\nTowards the end of the sermon, which was long and loud, and gave the\nyoung couple plenty of opportunity to advance their love making\nunnoticed, Girtin whispered to her: \u201cHave you an escort home, dear\nElsie?\u201d\n\nThe answer was a hesitating \u201cYes.\u201d\n\nThe young man felt his heart give a jolt, then almost stop throbbing,\nand an instant hatred of some unknown rival made his blood boil\nfuriously. How could she act that way? She had, even as his pupil, been\nindifferent to all of the opposite sex except him, and during the period\nof their separation her sprightly letters had borne evidence of tender\nsentiments, to the utter exclusion of all others. Had he not believed in\nher, he would not have taken that long journey back into the mountains,\nthat many might have been glad to quit for good. Her beauty and her\ngrace had haunted him, and he had determined to wed her, until this sign\nof duplicity had been sprung on him. Of course she did not know he was\ncoming, and had made the fatal arrangements before; yet, if she cared\nfor him as he did for her, she would not be making engagements with the\nboys, especially at her tender age.\n\nHe tried to console himself by noticing a shade of regret flit over her\nblushing face after she said the fateful words, but until the close of\nservices he was ill at ease and scarcely opened his mouth. At the\nbenediction he managed to stammer \u201cGood evening,\u201d and was out of the\nchurch in the frosty starlight night before any one else.\n\nWith long strides he walked up the snowy road ahead of the crowd who had\nfollowed him. The sky was very clear, and the North Star, \u201cThe Three\nKings,\u201d or Jacob\u2019s Rake, Job\u2019s Coffin, and other familiar\nconstellations, were glimmering on the drifted snow. Instead of\nobserving the stars, had he looked back he would have seen that the\n\u201cescort\u201d she referred to was none other than a girl friend, Katie Moyer,\nand both, Elsie in particular, would have been only too happy to have a\nsturdy male companion to see them through the snow banks.\n\nAs a result of his disappearance, Elsie was as unhappy and silent as\nGirtin had been, as she floundered about in the drifts. Despite her\ngentle, sunny nature, she was decidedly out of sorts when she reached\nhome at the big white house near the Salt Spring. She gave monosyllabic\nanswers to her parents in response to their queries as to how she had\nenjoyed the long-looked for Christmas entertainment. She did not sleep\nat all that night, but tossed about the bed, keeping her friend awake,\nand on Christmas Day was in a rebellious mood. Her mother reminded her\nhow ungrateful she was to be so tearful and sullen in the face of so\nmany blessings and gifts.\n\nThere was no stage or sleigh out of the valley on Christmas Day, else\nGirtin would have departed. He moped about all day, telling those who\nasked the matter that he was ill. Elsie, knowing that he was still in\nthe valley, hoped up to bedtime that he would at least come to pay her a\nbrief Christmas call, but supper over, and no signs of him, she was\nuncivil to her mother to such a degree that her friend openly said that\nshe was ashamed of her.\n\nThough Katie and she were rooming together, it did not deter her mother,\ngoaded by the remarks of the younger children to visit her room while\nthey were undressing, saying \u201cthat she deserved a good dose of the gad,\u201d\nand, ordering her to lay face downward on the bed, administered a good,\nold-fashioned spanking with the flax-paddle. After this humiliating\nchastisement in the presence of her friend, the unhappy girl cried and\nsobbed until morning.\n\nIt was a wretched ending for what might have been a memorable Christmas\nfor Lambert Girtin and Elsie Vanneman.\n\nThe next morning the young man managed to hire a cutter and was driven\nto Bellefonte, leaving the valley with deep regrets. Through friends in\nthe valley he learned afterwards that Elsie had gone as a missionary to\nChina.\n\nLife ran smoothly in some ways for Lambert Girtin, for he became\nuniformly successful as a business man. The oil excitement was at its\nheight, and he was sent by a large general supply house in Pittsburg to\nopen a store in Pithole City, \u201cthe Magic City,\u201d to the success of which\nhe contributed so much that he was given an interest in the concern.\n\nAt heart he was not happy. He could never focus his attentions on any\nwoman for long, as in the background he always saw the slender form, the\nblushing face, the pansy-like eyes and the copper-brown, wavy hair of\nhis mountain sweetheart, Elsie Vanneman. Her loveliness haunted him, and\nall others paled beside her. He was in easy circumstances to marry;\nfriends less opulent were taking wives and building showy homes with\nMansard roofs, along the outskirts of the muddy main thoroughfare of\nPithole City, where landscape gardening often consisted of charred,\nblackened pine stumps and abandoned oil derricks.\n\nSometimes, in his spiritual loneliness, he betook himself to strange\ncompanions. One of these was a Chinese laundryman, a prototype of Bret\nHarte\u2019s then popular \u201cHeathen Chinee,\u201d who seemed to be a learned\nindividual, despite his odd appearance. Girtin, who had read of the\nexploits of the Fox sisters and other exponents of early spiritualism,\nwas unprepared for the learning and insight possessed by this\nundistinguished Celestial.\n\nDrawn to him at first because he could possibly tell about conditions in\nChina, where Elsie was supposed to be, he became gradually more and more\nabsorbed by the laundryman\u2019s philosophic speculations. The fellow\nconfided at length that he was married, and had five children at\nTien-Tsin, to whom he was deeply attached. He would have died of a\nbroken heart to be so far away from them but for the power he had\ndeveloped by concentrating on the image of his native mountains, which\nyearning was reciprocated, and at night he claimed that his spirit was\ndrawn out of his body and \u201chopped\u201d half the span of the globe to the\nside of his loved ones. There must be something after all in the old\nScotch quotation, \u201cOh, for my strength, once more to see the hills.\u201d\n\nGirtin expressed a strong desire to be initiated into these compelling\nmysteries. In order to cultivate his psychic sense, the Chinaman induced\nhim to smoke opium, which, while repellent to Girtin, he undertook in\norder to reach his desired object. If he had been a man of any mental\nequilibrium, he would have secured a leave of absence from business and\ngone to China and claimed the fair Elsie, if she was still unmarried. He\nwould not do that because he was still tortured by the memory of her\npreferring another at the moment when his hopes had been highest, yet he\nwanted to see her, hoping that he could do so without her knowing it.\n\nThe results attained were beyond his expectations. He quickly mastered\nhis soul and \u201chopped\u201d to the interior of China. Elsie was there,\nsurrounded by her classes; at twenty-one more wondrously lovely and\nbeautiful than when he had parted from her that frosty night, with the\nDipper and Jacob\u2019s Rake shining so clearly in the heavens.\n\nThough there were many missionaries and foreign officials who would have\ncourted her, her dignity and quiet reserve were impenetrable. Was she so\nbecause of the love for the youth who was to escort her home from church\nthat night, or did she cherish the memory of her whilom schoolmaster\nadmirer? These were the thoughts that annoyed him by day, the \u201chang\nover\u201d of his spiritual adventures at night.\n\nThe opium and the intense mental concentration were taking a lot out of\nhim. He became sallow and irritable, and neglected many business\nopportunities. One of the head partners of the firm in Pittsburg was\ngoing to Pithole City \u201cto have it out with him,\u201d as the mountain folks\nwould say. Before he could reach the scene word was telegraphed that\nLambert Girtin, frightfully altered in appearance, was found dead one\nmorning in a bunk back of the Charley Wah Laundry at Pithole.\n\nHe had no relatives in the town, and his sisters, who could not come on,\ntelegraphed to bury him in the new Mount Moriah Cemetery, now all\novergrown and abandoned, like Pithole itself! There could be no doubt as\nto his death, as Bill Brewer, just coming into fame as the \u201cHick\nPreacher,\u201d officiated at the obsequies. So Lambert Girtin was quickly\nforgotten in most all quarters. If he was remembered for a time, it was\nin the remote valley in which he had taught school, and where news of\nhis early demise occasioned profound regret.\n\nYears passed, and Elsie Vanneman, after giving some of the best years of\nher life to missionary activities in various parts of China, resigned\nher position, in consequence of a shattered nervous system, caused by\noverwork during a great earthquake, where she ministered to thousands of\nrefugees, and started for home. Her parents had died while she was in\nthe \u201cCelestial Kingdom,\u201d but she had a number of brothers and sisters\nwho were glad to welcome her, and with whom she planned a round of\nvisits.\n\nShe was only thirty when she returned, a trifle paler and a few small\nlines around her mouth, but otherwise a picture of saintliness and\nloveliness. One of the first bits of news she heard on reaching the\nvalley was of the ignominious end of Lambert Girtin in a Chinese\nlaundryman\u2019s shack\u2013\"a promising career cut short,\" all allowed.\n\nIt was shocking to Elsie, as she had dreamed of this young man nearly\nevery night from a certain period of her stay in China. She was on the\nstreet during the great quake, and as the earth cracked and swallowed\ncountless victims, she fancied she saw a European, the counterpart of\nGirtin, plunged into the deadly abyss. She had come home with the\nintention of learning definite news of him, and if he was not the\nearthquake victim, and still lived, perhaps to renew their old-time\ninterests.\n\nShe had been so upset by his failure to call, or even to write, after\nthe Christmas eve at the little country church, that she had never\ncommunicated with him again. Her dreams had been most vividly realistic,\nas if he had been really near to her in China, and she could not make\nherself believe that he was dead in Pithole City, Pennsylvania.\n\nOwing to this piece of bad news, she did not remain as long in the\nvalley as she had planned, and almost from the day of her arrival had\npined to be back in the Far East. The valley seemed dull, anyway;\nsaw-mills were making it as treeless as China; she hated to see Luther\nGuisewhite destroy those giant original white pines, which reared their\nblack-topped spiral heads along the foot of the mountains on the winter\nside; the wild pigeons no longer darkened the sky with their impressive\nflights, the flying squirrels were being shot out in Fulmer\u2019s Sink, near\nher old home; her parents were gone\u2013everything was different.\n\nUnsettled and dissatisfied, especially after a visit to the girl who had\naccompanied her home on the eventful Christmas Eve, now the mother of\neight handsome children, she decided to return to China. The vast herds\nof buffaloes that had impeded the progress of her train on her first\njourney westward were gone. The Indians who occasionally furnished a\ntouch of color to the prairie landscape, likewise had disappeared.\nCivilization was spreading through the Great West.\n\nShe timed her arrival in San Francisco so as to be there shortly after\nthe arrival of a ship from China, so as to go back on its return\njourney. She would have several days to wait in the City of the Golden\nGate but it was quaint and picturesque, the time would pass quickly.\n\nOne evening\u2013she was not afraid, as she knew the language and customs of\nthe Celestials\u2013she decided to take a stroll through the famous Chinese\nQuarter. As she was walking along, her head down, her mind abstracted\nand noticing little, some one touched her on the arm. Looking around, as\nif to resent a familiarity, to her bewilderment she beheld her long-lost\nfriend, Lambert Girtin.\n\n\u201cLambert Girtin!\u201d she said, in amazed tones.\n\n\u201cElsie Vanneman\u2013it is surely you?\u201d he replied.\n\n\u201cOf all people, after all these years! I had been hearing that you died\nfive years ago in the oil regions somewhere; what _are_ you doing?\u201d\n\nThe ex-schoolmaster took hold of both of her hands, there in the\ncrowded, moving throngs of Chinatown, saying: \u201cI came in from China\ntoday, after what I thought was a hopeless search for you. Years ago,\nafter our separation, a Chinaman showed me how to visit China in my\ndreams, and be close to you. It took a whole lot of mental\nconcentration, was pulling me down physically. I kept it up too long,\nfor one night I dreamed I was in a terrible earthquake. It was so vivid\nthat my physical as well as my spiritual being was translated to China,\nand I found myself there penniless. But, search as I may, I could not\nfind you. If I died in the oil regions, it must have been another\nphysical self, shed as a snake does his skin, for the Lambert Girtin who\nstands before you is fully alive, and resolved never to part from you\nagain.\u201d\n\n[Illustration:\n\n  JESSE LOGAN, PENNSYLVANIA INDIAN CHIEF\n  (Photograph Taken 1915 by P. C. Hockenberry)\n]\n\nOld memories came to Elsie Vanneman, conquering her fears, and her face\nflushed as in schoolgirl days: \"You speak of our \u2018separation\u2019\u2013pray, tell\nme more about it; why did you leave me so abruptly and run away that\nChristmas Eve after meeting? I could never understand why you did not\neven come to wish me a \u2018Merry Christmas\u2019 the next day. Why didn\u2019t you\never write me a line? What did I do to merit such neglect?\"\n\n\u201cWhat did _you_ do?\u201d replied Girtin, drawing her aside from the passing\nstream of pig-tailed humanity into a shadowy doorway. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t seem\nvery serious now, but it hurt me a whole lot at the time. You told me\nyou had an engagement with some one to see you in from church, and I was\nangry and jealous, for I had been imagining that your thoughts had only\nbeen of me, that you cared for no one else.\u201d \u201creplied the girl with\nalacrity.\n\nGirtin turned as pale as death; his sufferings, mental and physical, his\nwanderings, physical and actual, his wasted years, all had been caused\nby a misunderstanding. He was at a loss for words for some time, but he\nheld on to Elsie\u2019s hands, looking into her beautiful, ethereal face, the\nvari-colored light of a Chinese lantern shining down on her coppery-gold\nhair.\n\n\u201cDo you care for me at all, _now_?\u201d he said, at length.\n\n\u201cYes, I think I do; I must, or I would not have came back all the way\nfrom China to hunt _you_,\u201d she answered.\n\n\u201cThen we have both suffered,\u201d he said, sadly. \u201cWhat shall we do now?\u201d\n\u201cshe said.\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s where I want to go,\u201d he replied, \u201cif I can ever live down that\ndying story in Pithole City.\u201d \u201csaid Elsie. \"There was a case in our\nvalley of a soldier reported as killed at Gettysburg; they sent his body\nhome, began paying his widow a pension; she married a former sweetheart,\nand then, worse than \u2018Enoch Arden,\u2019 he appeared as if from the grave. He\nhad no explanations to make, and our mountain people asked no questions,\nall having faith in supernatural things. Neither will I ask any of you.\nI have seen too much in the east to make me disbelieve anything, or that\nwe can die two or three times under stress of circumstances, shedding\nour physical selves\u2013to use your words\u2013as snakes do their skins. I am\nonly happy I did not marry some one else, as I was tempted to do when I\nimagined you were engulfed in the earthquake.\"\n\nThat night in Chinatown for once a misunderstanding ended happily.\n\n                                  XXV\n                           _A Haunted House_\n\n\nWhen Billy Cloyd prospered in the lumber and milling business, he\ndetermined to erect a mansion overlooking the arrowy waters of the\nSinnemahoning that would reflect not only his success, but the social\nstatus of his family as well. Accordingly Williamsport architects who\nmade a specialty of erecting houses for the wealthy lumbermen of that\ncommunity were commissioned to prepare plans for what was to be the\ngrandest private dwelling on the outposts of civilization, a structure\nwhich would outdo the already famous club house built for the use of the\nstockholders of the Philadelphia Land Company at Snow Shoe, or the\noffices of the agents of the Queen of Spain at Reveltown and Scootac.\n\nThe result was a large, square house, along Colonial lines, with a\nspacious doorway, above which was a transom of antique colored glass\nbrought all the way from the home of one of his ancestors at Old\nCarlisle. Windows were numerous, commanding views up and down the\nbeautiful, billowy stream, then teeming with fish and aquatic bird life.\n\nThe surrounding mountains were covered with virgin pine forests, while\nthe great hemlocks, oaks and birches hung over the water\u2019s edge. There\nwas a clearing in which the mansion stood, the chief feature of which\nwas an old-fashioned garden of carefully laid design, with plenty of\ncolumbine, called by the mountain folks \u201cchurch bells,\u201d and eglantine,\nwith boxwoods from the \u201cQuaker City,\u201d purchased from the heirs of\n\u201cEaglesfield.\u201d\n\nThe dark forest came to the back of the garden, and stood black in the\ngorge of Mill Creek near the projected flouring and fulling mills, to\nthe east of the mansion; the ever-busy saw-mill, the chief symbol of the\nprosperity of Castlecloyd, as the domain was called, was situated near\nthe mouth of the creek. There was barely a distance of two hundred yards\nfrom the sloping banks of the Sinnemahoning to where the forest and the\nsteep mountains began, consequently the mansion, mills, workshops,\nstables and mill hands\u2019 and woodsmen\u2019s houses were all close together.\n\nAlong the water\u2019s edge carpenters were steadily at work building arks\nand flats which carried the products of the mills to the terminus of the\nrailroad at Lock Haven, or to Sunbury or Harrisburg.\n\nNow all is changed. The view from the portico and the lawn of\nCastlecloyd is upon a stream flowing with a liquid the color and texture\nof ink, frowning with fine yellow bubbles; not, a living fish has been\nseen, according to the present occupant of the premises, the venerable\nSeth Nelson, Jr., since 1899, when the paper mill at Austin sent down\nits first installment of vile pollution. Then the fish leaped on the\nshore in frightful agony, dying out of water, but away from the\ninsidious poisoning of the acids.\n\nThe water birds are gone; they cannot drink the polluted water, and give\nthe region a wide berth. Instead of cooling zephyrs, when the wind blows\noff the creek towards the house, there comes a stench worse than a\nweek-old battlefield in Flanders.\n\nNo forests of virgin timber are to be seen, if you strain your eyes\nlooking up or down stream, nothing but charred, brown wastes, the\naftermath of killing forest fires which followed the lumbering\noperations. Here and there on some inaccessible cliff a lone original\nwhite pine or hemlock has its eyrie, but even there the fires are\nfinding them, and they are all scorched and shaky at the butts, and go\ndown easily in sharp gales. Altar Rock, famed in song and story, still\nhas one pine standing on its top, but it is dead, and will soon share\nthe fate of its mate, which was blown down over twenty years ago.\n\nThe entire scene is one of loneliness and desolation, yet a quiet,\npeaceful home for the octogenarian hunter Nelson and his devoted and\nequally aged sister. How different all this from what it was in the\nhey-day of prosperous Billy Cloyd! The hum of the mills, the busy teams\nof horses and ox-spans bringing in the logs, the carpenters and boatmen,\nthe large family of the successful woodsman, their guests, and the\nhunters and surveyors who often made the house their headquarters.\n\nIt was at the time that the line of the Sunbury and Erie Railroad was\nbeing surveyed from Rattlesnake, now Whetham, to Erie, and one surveying\ncrew was quartered at Castlecloyd. A few weeks earlier Dr. J. T.\nRothrock had stopped there, but was now further west, camping with Mike\nLong, the wolf hunter, in the midst of a great deer and pigeon country\nin Elk County.\n\nThose were days of reckless waste of our natural resources, according to\nthe good Doctor. One of the surveyors, so as not to have to curve his\nline, ordered that three giant original white pines be cut. All the\nstumps were measured by Dr. Rothrock and averaged considerably over six\nfeet in diameter. They were, of course, left to rot in the woods,\nthousands of feet of lumber of priceless value today!\n\nPhilip L. Webster, who died a few years ago in Littletown, now Bradford,\nwas also a member of one of these surveying parties on Elk Creek, a\nbranch of the Clarion River; on one occasion he saw four elks together,\nin a swale.\n\nAs \u201cBuffalo Bill\u201d had been the professional hunter for the Northern\nPacific engineering crews, Jim Jacobs, \u201cThe Seneca Bear Hunter,\u201d was\nattached to Mr. Webster\u2019s organization in the same capacity. Instead of\nbison roasts, Jacobs was to furnish fresh elk steaks, and he kept the\nsurveyors, axmen and chain-carriers supplied with plenty of it all\nsummer long.\n\nThe members of the party billeted at Castlecloyd were composed of young\nPhiladelphia gentlemen, sons of prospective stockholders in the new\nrailroad, finely educated, traveled youths, whose love of adventure had\nbeen fired by the deeds of their colleagues, the Brothers Kane. One of\nthem stood out more brilliantly than the rest for his scholarly\nattainments and poetic nature. He was young Wayne Stewardson, scion of a\ndistinguished Quaker house of that name, and probably connected with the\nfamily who owned the lands on Kettle Creek, once occupied by Ole Bull.\n\nThe young man had been educated at the university in his native city,\nand in Europe. His early upbringing had been in great cities, and his\nsentimental tastes came out in a peculiar admiration of spires,\nchimneys, towers, stacks, vanes, arched roofs, corbels and crockets. He\nwould wander for hours just at evening watching the skyline in the\nchanging light, peopling the growing shadows with all manner of\ngrotesque shapes and chimeras. His love of shadowland was so great that\nhe fell naturally to cutting charming silhouettes of his friends, his\nlikeness of the lovelorn and ill-fated Dr. E. K. Kane being highly\nprized.\n\nHis visit to the Sinnemahoning Country was his first induction into the\nheart of nature, and his admiration of man\u2019s handicraft as exemplified\nin minarets and high gables softened to a deep reverence for the spiral,\ncolumnar forms of the giant pines as they serrated the skyline of the\nAllegheny summits.\n\nThere was a bench between two red maple trees, on the bank of the\nSinnemahoning, just in front of Castlecloyd, where he would sit after\nsupper, watching the crimson sunset reflected in the stream, with the\ndusky shapes of the ancient trees athwart, and the sky gradually\nbecoming less of rose and more of mother-of-pearl, behind the sentinel\npines on the comb of the mountains beyond Birch Island. It was more\nbeautiful than anything he had ever seen in cities, in its sheer\nferocious wildness.\n\nOne evening, on hearing a woman\u2019s voice humming an old tune, he looked\naround, beholding Cloyd\u2019s pretty daughter sitting, watching the\nafterglow from the portal of the classic doorway. Her knees were\ncrossed, revealing pretty, plump little legs, encased in blue cotton\nstockings. His first thought at seeing her was to recall Poe\u2019s youthful\nlines, \u201cHelen Thy Beauty is to Me.\u201d Previously he had not noticed her\nmuch, except that she seemed more than ordinarily good-looking and\nrefined, for the drudge\u2019s life she was living. Now that, like himself,\nshe was a person who took notice of her surroundings, she must be\ndifferent, he thought, and have a soul more in keeping with her lovely\nappearance.\n\nWhen she saw that he had observed her, instead of jumping up and running\ninto the house and slamming the door, like some crude backwoods girl\nmight have done, she came forward and stood leaning against one of the\nred maples, and chatted pleasantly about the wonderful scenery.\n\nIt was a blissful experience for Stewardson, and as he had hardly spoken\nto a girl for a month, was in a particularly susceptible mood. He\nstudied her appearance minutely. She was probably a trifle under the\nmiddle height, very delicately made, with chestnut hair and eyes of\nwondrous golden amber. Her skin was transparently white, and the\ndelicate peach-blow color in her cheeks was too hectic to betoken good\nhealth. But the outstanding feature was the nose, the most beautiful\nnose he had ever seen, the bridge slightly aquiline, yet a sudden\nshortness at the tip that transcended the retrousse. She was modest and\nsimple, reticence being her chief trait, as she told about the deer\nwhich often took harbor in the stream, in front of where they were, when\npursued by dogs.\n\nShe said that she had been christened Marie Asterie, but was generally\ncalled by her second name, though the first was shorter and easier to\npronounce.\n\nJust as they were becoming nicely acquainted, a young woodsman, whom she\nintroduced as Oscar Garis, put in an appearance, and the two walked away\ntogether, leaving Stewardson still meditating on the bench. Evidently\nthey were lovers, thought the young surveyor, and when he looked out on\nSinnemahoning, the light was gone\u2013the water ran dark and menacing.\n\nThough he had noticed the girl\u2019s unusual nose the first time he saw her,\nhe had been too busy to become well acquainted, but he recalled that she\noccupied a small interior room, just off where he slept, in the\nsecond-floor lobby. He had seen her go upstairs to retire every night,\nbut proximity had meant nothing to him, so deeply had he been imbued\nwith ideas of class. Tonight it would be different.\n\nHe walked around a while longer, watching the bats flit hither and\nthither, and listening to the plaintive calling of the whippoorwills,\nthen he went indoors and joined his fellow surveyors in the lobby. He\nkept watching the clock and watching the door for Asterie to return,\namusing himself trying to cut her marvellous profile, the like of which\nKing Henry VIII or King Arthur may have admired, for she was evidently a\n\u201cthrow back\u201d to some archaic type. It was always the rule for the men to\nremain downstairs until the women had retired, and on this occasion they\nwere all yawning but Stewardson, waiting for Asterie, who was the last\nto come in, close to ten o\u2019clock.\n\nGaris seemed indifferent to her, but it was the negligence of bad\nmanners rather than lack of interest. This gave Stewardson a chance to\nlight her fat lamp for her, and she closed the door and went upstairs.\nWhen the young surveyor and his companion ascended the stairs, he noted\nthe rays of light from her room, streaming from the crack beneath her\ndoor. The night after the lights were out, and his friends asleep, he\ndrew his mattress nearly to her door, repeating to himself the lines of\nHorace\u2019s Ode X, in Book III:\n\n            \u201cO Lyce, didst thou like Tanais,\n            Wed to some savage, what a pity \u2019tis\n            For me to lie on such a night as this\n                Before your door,\n            My feet exposed where haunting north winds hiss,\n                And angry roar.\u201d\n\nThe concluding lines of which were:\n\n            \u201cO thou as hard as oak no storm can break,\n            As pitiless as Mauritanian snake,\n            Not thus forever can I lie and quake,\n                Nor thus remain\n            Before thy threshold, for thy love\u2019s sweet sake,\n                Soaked by the rain.\u201d\n\nBut it wasn\u2019t a terrible night, only a fairly chilly one in early June,\nwith all the stars out, and Asterie\u2019s worst offense was that she was\n\u201ckeeping company\u201d with another!\n\nThe young man could not sleep all night and wondered if the girl was\nsimilarly afflicted, as the light continued to burn; or maybe she was\nonly like many mountain people, and slept with a night-light, for no\nsound came from her tiny apartment. After that night his pleasures at\nCastlecloyd were ended. He loved the fair and fragile girl, whom he\nhated to see working so hard, so patient and so misunderstood. He\ndreaded the thought of her inevitable marriage to Garis, a rough, common\nfellow of no refinement. He could not think of courting her himself as\nhis family had never in ten generations been declasse. There was nothing\nto do but to sigh in vain, and watch that light coming from beneath her\ndoor. And on nights when the wind howled, and the rain beat about the\nroof, or some particularly hard gust sent a few cold drops pattering\nthrough a crack in the shingles, on his face, he found consolation by\nreciting to himself the lament of Horace in his Ode X. But he did\npresent her with her silhouette, which she blushingly accepted, and on\nseveral occasions when she sang at the organ, complimented her on her\nsweet contralto voice.\n\nIn the autumn when the red maples had cast the last of their leaves, and\nthe pines and hemlocks looked the blacker in contrast, Stewardson\u2019s\nparticular work was done, and he prepared to return to Philadelphia.\nJohn Smoke, aged Seneca, professional hunter of the outfit, agreed to\ntake him and one of his chums to Rattlesnake in a birchbark canoe. Seth\nIredell Nelson, another hunter, would take two more of the young men in\nanother canoe. Asterie was on the leaf-strewn bank to see them depart,\ndressed in her best pink denham frock, and cherry colored peach-basket\nstraw bonnet. It made him resentful to watch Garis put his arm on her\nshoulder as the canoes shoved away, to the tune of old Smoke\u2019s Seneca\nchant.\n\nBilly Cloyd himself was not present; he excused himself as not feeling\nwell, and Went upstairs shortly after breakfast. On the journey old\nSmoke confided to his passengers the cause of the landlord\u2019s backward\nconduct. A black calf had been born the night before; whenever one\nappeared in the family it brought bad luck; that had been a belief with\nCloyd\u2019s people even in the remote days when they lived in the \u201cold\ncountry.\u201d\n\nThen the aged Indian told the legend of how the redmen came to the\nAmerican continent. They had been driven eastward by famines until they\ncame to a great sea, across which they found a narrow strip of land,\nwhich they crossed. They came to a country teeming with game, and made\nthemselves at home, wandering great distances to enjoy the chase and\nvisit the natural wonders.\n\nLater they decided to revisit their old home, but the sea had washed\nover the strip of land, and their canoes were not stout enough to breast\nthe angry waves.\n\nStewardson listened to this and other old tales in a half-abstracted\nway; his thoughts were back with Asterie Cloyd; she with that wonderful,\nimpossible-to-silhouette nose, her sweet voice, and quiet, restful\nmanner. He did not marry any of the stately Junoesque beauties whom he\nknew, upon returning to Philadelphia, but became critical of the fair\nsex, and shunned their company whenever possible. About two years later\nthe Civil War broke out, and being intimately acquainted with the Kane\nfamily, he hurried to Harrisburg, and the genial \u201cColonel Tom\u201d gave him\na commission in his 1st Rifle Regiment, soon to win deathless fame under\nthe name of \u201cBucktails.\u201d\n\nOne evening in camp Colonel Kane and Captain Stewardson were sitting\nbefore their tents, stroking their long fair beards, for it was the aim\nof every young soldier to be the most shaggily hirsute. The Colonel was\ntelling of his memorable trip on rafts from McKean County to Harrisburg\nwith his recruits and how he spent a night with a man named Garis, who\nhad acted like a copperhead, and though an expert rifleman, declined to\nenlist. \u201cYet he had ample cause to be out of sorts\u201d continued the\nColonel. \u201cHe had lately buried his wife, who, from all accounts, was an\nexceptionally pretty girl, one of Billy Cloyd\u2019s daughters.\u201d\n\nIf he had watched Stewardson\u2019s face carefully, he would have seen it\ngrowing paler, even in the camp fire\u2019s ruddy glow, beneath that mighty\nbeard.\n\n\u201cCloyd, who before the girl\u2019s marriage, had lost his wife,\u201d continued\nColonel Kane, \"went up Bennett\u2019s Branch, to take out spars, and started\nto clear a farm on the mountain top, and build an even more ambitious\nmansion. Garis told me that the old man had recently sold the whole\nproperty, including the timber, to William E. Dodge of New York, who\nintends naming it after the President, the \u2018Lincoln Farm\u2019, and using it\nfor a private summer resort.\"\n\nCaptain Stewardson did not care to hear more; as soon as he could\nconsistently excuse himself from his commanding officer, he did so, and\nwandered off among the pines, inwardly moaning.\n\nIn the early part of 1864, as the result of wounds, he was given an\nindefinite sick leave, but instead of going home, he resolved to visit\nAsterie\u2019s grave.\n\nThe railroad was completed to Renovo, and the ties were down, ready for\nthe rails, almost to Erie. A mail carrier on horseback travelled from\nRenovo to the backwoods settlements of Sinnemahoning and Driftwood, and\nhiring an extra horse, the now Major Stewardson arranged to accompany\nhim. They had not ridden far through the snowy road when the mail man,\nWallis Gakle, began telling about the Haunted House, Billy Cloyd\u2019s old\nplace that they would pass. \u201cNobody\u2019s lived there,\u201d he said, \u201csince\nOscar Garis moved out in the summer of \u201961, after burying that pretty\nwife of his. They say he worked her to death, making her do all the\ncooking for all the lumber and mill crews, and was always after her to\ndo more; he literally hounded the poor little child to death.\u201d\n\nThen he went on to tell how towards nightfall people were afraid to go\npast the deserted house for the awful screaming and yelling, like a\nwoman in torment, that came from the upper rooms. Travellers never went\non that side of the creek, unless in parties of four or five together,\npreferring to follow the right-of-way of the railroad across the creek,\nbut even there they could hear the shrieks and moaning. Some were even\nhinting that Garis, who had gone to live with his late father-in-law on\nthe Clarion, had in a fit of temper murdered his wife. At the time it\nwas said that she had died of lung trouble.\n\nAll this was interesting to the young soldier, and he next inquired\nwhere the poor girl was buried.\n\n\u201cShe\u2019s lying on the hillside, overlooking the meeting of the First Fork\nand the Driftwood Branch, a beautiful spot, but it\u2019s cold and bleak\nunder the pines when the country is covered with snow.\u201d\n\nJust beyond the present town of Westport, Gakle and Stewardson fell in\nwith two hunters tramping along on snowshoes with their dogs, headed for\nthe panther country. They were the veteran Nimrod Jake Hamersley and a\nyoung hunter named Art Vallon.\n\n\u201cGlad to meet you, gentlemen,\u201d said old Jake, half joking; \u201cwe wanted a\nlittle bolstering up before passing the haunted house.\u201d \u201csaid Gakle, \u201cI\nam never afraid, but my horse rears like one of the deil\u2019s own buckies\nwhen he hears those dreadful screams. I always try to get by before\ndark, for they say the racket is a lot worse after sundown.\u201d\n\nAs the party wended its way along the narrow trail by the river\u2019s edge,\nall manner of hunting and ghost stories were recounted. All were in an\neerie frame of mind, as with the rays of the setting sun shining in\ntheir faces, they neared the deserted Castlecloyd. The deep woods\nscreened the clearings and gardens, but long before they came in view a\nmelancholy wailing, like a woman tortured by fiends, echoed through the\naisles of the primeval forest.\n\n\u201cI guess we\u2019ll have to face it,\u201d said the mail carrier, \"but four man\nsized men, and a like number of varmint hounds ought to be able to\n\u2018rassle\u2019 any spook.\"\n\nAs they neared the house, the setting sun tinted to the brilliancy of\nthe stained glass of some mediaeval cathedral the vari-coloured lights\nabove the classic portal. They noticed that the door stood open. From an\nupper room came the doleful groans and lamentations.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s those tracks?\u201d said the keen-eyed young Vallon, who had run on\nahead with the dogs.\n\nComing up the bank from the ice-bound Sinnemahoning, crossing the trail,\nand entering the mansion by the front door, were huge round footmarks\nlike those of some mammoth cat. \u201cPainter, painter\u201d they all cried, as\nthey looked at them, while the dogs, knowing well the ferocity of the\nPennsylvania Lion, slunk about their master\u2019s feet.\n\nAll wanted to go indoors, and no one cared to mind the horses. They tied\nthe jaded beasts to the red maple trees, on either side of Major\nStewardson\u2019s one-time favorite resting place. Gakle had an old-time,\nflint-lock horse pistol that had been carried by David Lewis, the\nRobber, when he was wounded on the First Fork; Stewardson had his army\npistol, while the two hunters had their flint-lock Lancaster rifles.\n\nThey followed the tracks into the lobby, and by the snow and mud left on\nthe floor, to the staircase, which they ascended. Stewardson\u2019s eyes fell\non the green-painted door of the little room once occupied by his\nbeloved, which was ajar. He rushed forward, pistol in hand, and pushed\nit wide open.\n\nOn the bed, a small affair of the four poster type which he had never\nviewed before, the scene of the fair Asterie\u2019s vigils, stood a great\nlithe, lean pantheress, clawing the counterpane and mattress with all\nfour feet, and beating her fluffy tail with a regular rhythm against the\nheadboard. In her mouth was a huge rat, bleeding, which she had lately\ncaptured.\n\nBefore he could recover from his amazement and shoot, the greycoated\nmonster sprang over the foot-board, and through the window, carrying the\nsash with her. The other men appeared just in time to see the brute\u2019s\nlong tail disappearing through the casement.\n\nQuickly turning, they seized the dogs by their collars and pushed them\ndown the narrow winding stairs. Outside, in the fading light, the spoor\ncould be seen at the side of the house where the lioness bounded over\nthe lawn, and down the bank, and crossed the stream on the ice.\n\nThe dogs took up the scent, and were away, the hunters following gamely.\nThe baying of the hounds echoed and re-echoed through the narrow valley;\nby their volume the quarry was not far ahead. The snow was deep and very\nsoft in the woods, and it was getting very dark. Perhaps the chase would\nhave to be abandoned, and the panther or spook, whichever it was, got\naway after all.\n\nSoon the barking of the dogs indicated that the beast had been run to\ncover. It was just at dark when the hunters saw the pantheress crouched\nin a rock oak at the forks, on the steep, stony face of the Keating\nMountain, with the dogs leaping up frantically, the monster feline\nhissing and growling savagely.\n\nJake Hamersley was selected to give the death shot, \u201ctaking\u201d the brute\nbetween the eyes. She fell with a thud, and with a few convulsive kicks,\nexpired on the snow. Major Stewardson built a military campfire while\nHamersley and Vallon carefully skinned the carcass, and fed the flesh to\nthe dogs. The Nimrods offered the hide to the young Major as a trophy,\nbut he declined with thanks. He could not bear to have such a\nremembrance of a creature that had disported itself so recently on his\nloved one\u2019s little four poster bed. Perhaps it had partaken of her\nspirit, from absorbing the environment where she had pined away to\ndeath.\n\nHe only wanted to visit her grave, above the meeting of the waters, to\ndrop there a few tears, a part of the boundless water of life. His heart\nwould always be a Haunted House.\n\nIt was verging on the \u201cwitching hour,\u201d and an ugly winter drizzle had\nbegun to fall, as the triumphant hunters ascended the soggy bank, and\nstood before the portals of Castlecloyd, undecided as to whether they\nshould bivouac there until morning. Major Stewardson was muttering to\nhimself the concluding lines of that Ode of Horace,\n\n            \u201cNot thus forever can I lie and quake,\n                Nor thus remain,\n            Before thy threshold for thy love\u2019s sweet sake,\n                Soaked by the rain.\u201d\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration]\n\n------------------------------------------------------------------------\n\n                           Transcriber\u2019s Note\n\nCompound words that are hyphenated on a line or page break retain the\nhyphen if warranted by the preponderance of mid-line instances of the\nsame word elsewhere. Where hyphenation is inconsistent in mid-line\noccurrences, the text is given here as printed.\n\nThere are numerous instances of commas appearing as full stops, which we\nattribute to the printing process (vi.6, vii.31, 16.5, 26.1, 30.25,\n46.2, 108.4, 114.30, 115.23, 121.18, 292.11, 350.27).\n\nErrors deemed most likely to be the printer\u2019s have been corrected, and\nare noted below. Where the apparent error occurs in quoted text, we\ndefer to the text as printed.\n\nThe references are to the page and line in the original.\n\n  v.5      to issue no [no ]more books                    Removed.\n\n  vii.28   the meanings of the book may be arrived at[.]  Added.\n\n  34.7     but the brid[g]egroom was well to do           Removed.\n\n  37.29    [\u201c]That\u2019s enough of your drivel, Adam,\u201d        Added.\n\n  40.11    betwe[e]n the Wyandots and allied nations      Inserted.\n\n  40.15    the handsomest of the es[oc/co]rt              Transposed.\n\n  44.22    The [The ]fact that it is a Prostrate Tree     Removed.\n\n  46.7     Surveying the [gorey] scene                    _sic_\n\n  47.19    fall to the ground outside the st[a/o]ckade.   Replaced.\n\n  47.27    had been gr[i]eviously hurt                    Inserted.\n\n  49.7     I am glad that our enemies were beaten and     Added.\n           annihilated.[\u201d]\n\n  52.19    we sh[a/o]uld mention                          Replaced.\n\n  53.22    was a decrepit old man.[\u201d]                     Added.\n\n  55.18    make the house \u201cgeneral hea[r/d]quarters\u201d      Replaced.\n\n  58.20    the exigencies of his strenuous c[o/a]mpaigns  Replaced.\n\n  58.28    which his wea[l]th had enabled him to purchase Inserted.\n\n  65.6     [s/S] said she herself was dead                Replaced.\n\n  65.23    that in ten years he [r/h]ad sold              Replaced.\n\n  71.7     The Elma Hacker of those days had a            Replaced.\n           swee[a/t]heart\n\n  72.14    to keep on good terms with the in[n]keeper\u2019s   Inserted.\n           family\n\n  82.9     about their inglenooks and home-garths[,/.]    Replaced.\n\n  83.22    by a homespun cap of the tam o\u2019shant[t/e]r     Replaced.\n           pattern\n\n  83.27    until joined by the surp[r]ised Viscount.      Inserted.\n\n  91.25    a few days in the future.[\u201d]                   Added.\n\n  105.19   the sleeper\u2019s temples like an eg[g]shell       Inserted.\n\n  106.22   was forced from In-nan-[ag/ga]-eh\u2019s            Transposed.\n           In-nan-ga-eh\u2019s hand\n\n  107.13   their bodies to com[m]ingle> with earth until  Inserted.\n           eternity.\n\n  110.8    losing his equilibr[i]um                       Inserted.\n\n  114.10   to leap about th[t/e] horses\u2019 throatlatches    Replaced.\n\n  116.10   she was again urged by Phillis and her father, Inserted.\n           se[e]med disinclined\n\n  117.16   prepared to make that break first[.]           Added.\n\n  124.15   have maintained in the fore[t]sts              Removed.\n\n  131.31   Meanwhile he had to live some[w]how            Removed.\n\n  135.10   I had heard from[ from] Billy Dowdy            Redundant.\n\n  140.3    \u201cThe world is aesthetically dead[\u201d!/\u201d]         Transposed.\n\n  145.1    Som[e]times the Indians notice                 Inserted.\n\n  149.24   into the valley of the shadow[,/.]             Replaced.\n\n  153.6    a big bonfire was to be started later[,/.]     Replaced.\n\n  153.11   whose face showed every sign[s] of intense     Removed.\n           terror.\n\n  153.12   From words that he could understand, and the   Removed.\n           g[r]estures\n\n  161.6    there are postoff[i]ces, hotels, streams,      Inserted.\n           caves and rocks\n\n  161.22   Unfortun[at]ely for Simon Gerdes               Inserted.\n\n  165.17   mounted on a superbly c[om/a]parisoned,        Replaced.\n           ambling horse\n\n  173.4    he realized how foolish it would be to[ to]    Redundant.\n           journey\n\n  175.3    in the \u2018North American[\u2019]\u201d                     Added.\n\n  177.30   are in a sense correct[,].                     Removed.\n\n  179.8    other times his n[ei/ie]ce                     Transposed.\n\n  180.30   [pearched] on one of his wrists                _sic_\n\n  181.28a  made a confidante of by Herbert [( /,] who     Replaced.\n           offered her five dollars\n\n  181.28b  a [collosal] sum in those days                 _sic_\n\n  182.24   too high for these days of conservation[.]     Added.\n\n  183.19   she received her [grevious] hurts              _sic_\n\n  188.1    the centre of the greensw[o/a]rd               Replaced.\n\n  191.9    he would take[ take] her by force              Redundant\n\n  194.29   with rare dex[i]terity                         Removed.\n\n  195.18   his lion-hear[t]ed sachem                      Inserted.\n\n  199.22   with tolerable fluen[e/c]y                     Replaced.\n\n  200.26   invited the redmen to climb ab[r]oard          Removed.\n\n  213.19   was called away[ away] during a heavy flood    Redundant.\n\n  219.10   The passage of time had obli[t]erated it       Inserted.\n\n  237.7    but where there[ there] were so few neighbors  Redundant.\n\n  238.1    while [t]he stroked his long black beard       Removed.\n\n  239.22   in tones as melanc[oh/ho]ly                    Transposed.\n\n  245.28   Some instinct mad[e] her open the wrapper      Added.\n\n  246.15   \u201cSay, folks,\u201d she said, coldly,[,]             Removed.\n\n  250.2    the supreme d[ie/ei]ty of the Scandinavian     Transposed.\n           mythology\n\n  253.4    \u201cIt> was a perfect square                      Added.\n\n  256.6    her tearful, piqua[i]nt face                   Removed.\n\n  257.22   for they had sworn to de[il/li]ver her         Transposed.\n\n  259.6    \u201conly don\u2019t cast me off[.]\u201d                    Added.\n\n  269.10   the face of N[i/a]ganit\u2019s                      Replaced.\n\n  269.18   N[i/a]ganit looked at the Indian woman.        Replaced.\n\n  287.15   when he r[e]ached the opening                  Inserted.\n\n  291.15   it did not en[c]ounter the dense foliage       Inserted.\n\n  295.26   now [gutteral], now sharp and loud             _sic_\n\n  296.5    approached the battle-g[r]ound                 Inserted.\n\n  296.28   As soon as he had recovered from the           Added.\n           blood-curdling episodes, [he ]built\n\n  298.23   the proud tuft[s] itself was growing sparse    Removed.\n           and weak\n\n  299.14   That Annapalpete[a]u had a cavalier            Removed.\n\n  300.2    he wanted to be v[e/i]rile and win             Replaced.\n\n  300.3    the beautiful Annapalp[a/e]teu.                Replaced.\n\n  307.3    [\u201c]I have come                                 Added.\n\n  310.4    to be engaged in riva[rl/lr]y                  Transposed.\n\n  312.13   On one occa[is/si]on when the two young men    Transposed.\n           started\n\n  312.20   vernacular of the Pennsl[y]vania Dutch         Inserted.\n\n  315.6    [Cincinnatti] or at Louisville                 _sic_\n\n  317.8    rafted lumber down the Alle[hg/gh]eny          Transposed.\n\n  335.30   after the ar[r]ival of a ship from China       Inserted.\n\n  319.17   and carried home [unconscious the] next thing  _sic_\n           was\n\n  320.2    with the stalwart young pilots a[t] the sterns Added.\n\n  320.11   franti[c]ally waving red and green shawls.     Inserted.\n\n  320.15   the absence of Anna from the signaling part[y] Added.\n\n  320.20   and the do[c]tors said she could not live      Inserted.\n\n  320.25   until the out[c]ome of the case                Inserted.\n\n  321.7    The old grandmother watched McMeans[\u2019] face    Added.\n\n  331.21   in his spir[i]tual loneliness                  Inserted.\n\n  334.4    Years pass[s]ed                                Removed.\n\n  338.21   to use [y]our words                            Added.","title":"Allegheny Episodes: Folk Lore and Legends Collected in Northern and Western Pennsylvania","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":88739}