' 'a 
 
 Lawrence E». Lynch 
 V286m (E. M . Van Defter) 
 
 A Mountain Mystery 
 0r 
 
 The Outlaws of the Rockies 
 
 
 LAWRENC 
 
 IE. M. Va 
 
 Author of “Under Fates f v 
 Hand," “The Last stroke, \ 
 y Three," "A Slender Ct 
 
 “Dangerous Ground," -out 0 t 
 “The Romance of a Bomb 
 
 “ 1 fa* /• ^ Thr ° 
 
 Madeline Payne," Etc., Etc, 
 
 The JJ iiseen 
 'Shadowed 
 ^ ^ Coterie" 
 ut °f a Labyrinth" 
 
 Thrower" 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY; 
 
 In the “ outpost” town of Caledonia, in the year of eighteen 
 hundred and seventy-four, the inhabitants turned night into 
 day, and day into night. 
 
 Nearly all that happened in this facetiously named town, 
 for a town it had .grown to be within less time than it has 
 taken to erect one of our great public buildings, happened, in 
 Caledonia parlance, “ between two days.” It’ might, also, be 
 added that about all that occurred here was more or less bad, 
 for somebody; for Caledonia, founded, sustained and inhabited 
 by adventurers, miners, gamblers, freebooters, the purgings 
 of the East, was, in point of morals, manners, law and order, 
 all that a thriving Eastern town should not and would not be. 
 
 Murders were very common happenings in Caledonia; 
 they created only a ripple, a momentary stir in that hardened 
 community. 
 
 The robbery of a stage-coach, the discovery of a new mine 
 among the mountains to the westward ; the opening of a new 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE OUTLAWS OF THE ROCKIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 BETW r EE2s TWO DAYS. 
 
12 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 gambling hell, the advent of a new star at “ Mack's” Varieties, 
 was of far greater and more lasting interest. 
 
 Of these four last-named happenings, the two first were of 
 frequent occurrence, and the third came about sufficiently often, 
 while the last came to pass at rarer intervals, and, in the 
 opinion of many Caledonians, was the most interesting event 
 of all. 
 
 But, common as murders had become, the murder of Duke 
 Selwyn shook Caledonia to its very centre, for it was an un- 
 common murder, and Duke Selwyn was an uncommon man. 
 
 Stella Aubrey, represented on the bills at Mack's Varieties 
 as the “ champion danseuse” and La Belle Florine y similarly 
 advertised as the “ charming serio-comique,” waited, at three 
 o'clock in the morning, on the corner just outside the entrance 
 to the “ Varieties”, for Billy Piper, w T ho was lighting a cigar 
 at the bar within, and when he rejoined them took their way 
 across the muddy street homeward. 
 
 “ Let's cut over to the Delmonico,” suggested Stella Aubrey, 
 “and get something warm.” 
 
 “ I am warm enough,” replied La Belle Florine, petulantly, 
 “ and I am too sleepy to open my mouth. Come along home. 
 I believe you could eat all the time, Aubrey.” 
 
 Aubrey was silenced, and Billy Piper was sure to agree 
 with Florine. So they kept straight on down the street, and 
 toward the big barn-like building known as the Theatrical 
 Boarding-house Their way lay past a new “ block,” fresh 
 with paint, where here and there a light glimmered through 
 the upper panes, behind which lurked the “Tiger”, and over 
 a stretch of common, where the workmen had begun to ex- 
 cavate, leaving little mounds of earth flung dangerously near 
 the footpath. The Caledonians in this vicinity had not yet 
 
BETWEEN TWO DAYS. 
 
 13 
 
 awakened to the need of sidewalks, and half-dug cellars 
 yawned as traps for the unsteady of foot. 
 
 “ What’s that?” said Stella Aubrey sharply, as they came 
 abreast of the first heap of earth. “ Listen, Billy !” 
 
 They all stopped instinctively, and, almost at the instant, 
 the sound was repeated — low, but painfully distinct; some- 
 thing between a gurgle and a groan. 
 
 “ Oh !” cried Florine, “ it’s right here at our feet somewhere ! 
 I daren’t move !” 
 
 The man peered about him through the morning dark- 
 ness. 
 
 “ Can’t be any one’s tumbled into these holes,” he said, be- 
 ginning to fumble in his pockets. “ Not a match ! Stand 
 still, girls.” And he began to go slowly forward, putting out 
 a foot, and moving it from side to side with great caution be- 
 fore setting it firmly down. “ I say, hello 1 what’s the mat- 
 ter? Anybody hurt ?” 
 
 There was no answer, and Billy halted. 
 
 “ It sounded like somebody in distress,” he said doubtfully. 
 
 “ It ivas somebody in distress,” affirmed Stella positively. 
 “ It was awful ! The first was worse than the other. We 
 can never go home till we find out what’s the matter, Billy. 
 Hark !” 
 
 Some one was approaching on horseback; the animal was 
 walking, and was only a few paces away. They could see a 
 ray of light at the saddle-bow. 
 
 “Halt,” called Billy Piper, “ you with your bull’s eve; give 
 us a light, won’t you? Something’s wrong here.” 
 
 The horse was reined close to the path, and the light of the 
 bull’s eye was turned full upon them. 
 
 *' What’s the matter ?” asked a clear voice ; “ any one hurt? 
 
14 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEBY. 
 
 Whoa, Nick !” — this last to the horse, which had cavorted 
 close to Florine that she drew back with a scream. 
 
 “ WeVe heard groans,” said Billy Piper, coming forward. 
 “Why, it’s you, Mag ! Just let me take your lamp.” 
 
 The rider leaned forward, with the lantern held toward 
 him, then drew back quickly as a third groan, faint, but dis- 
 tinctly heard by each, sounded very near them. The grasp 
 upon the bridle must have tightened involuntarily, for the 
 animal reared and bounded into the street. But the lantern 
 did not fall from the rider's hand. Instead, they heard two 
 or three stinging blows from a riding-whip, and then the horse 
 came meekly back to the group in the footpath, and, in an in- 
 stant, the rider sprang from the saddle and stood beside them, 
 lantern in hand. 
 
 “ Steady, Nick!” she said, releasing the bridle, and then, 
 without a word to the others, went straight toward the first 
 heap of earth. 
 
 “It sounded here,” she said, turning on the full light of 
 the small bulks eye lantern, and flashing it about her. 
 
 Nothing was visible near the mound, and she passed it, and 
 the next one, and looked down into the cellar. Instinctively 
 the others followed. At the cellar’s edge they saw her pause 
 and bend low. And then, after one brief glance, she sprang 
 downward and disappeared. 
 
 Coming quickly to the cellar, Billy Piper looked down. 
 He could see a long dark figure outstretched upon the damp 
 sand, and the woman he had addressed as Mag, kneeling be- 
 side it, her back toward him. In a moment she arose and 
 came forward, lifting the lantern high, and showing them, 
 thus, a strong, handsome, pallid face, and two burning black 
 eyes* 
 
“Halt!” called Billy Piper, “you with your bull's-eye; give us alight." 
 
 Page 18. 
 
 15 
 
16 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MY&TUBY. 
 
 The hand that held the lantern shook, and the voice was 
 not quite firm that said : 
 
 "I* Duke Selwyn— dead.” 
 
 “Duke Selwyn !” 
 
 “Dead!” 
 
 “We heard his last groan. He’s been shot, I think.” 
 
 She moved along the cellar wall until she came to an easy 
 place of exit, an incline of earth up which she bounded. 
 
 “Some one must go back to Mack’s,” began Billy Piper. 
 “Are you sure it’s Selwyn?” 
 
 “Too sure' You run to Mack’s; I’ll stay here.” 
 
 “Oh,” whispered Florine, “Billy, what shall we do?” 
 
 “Go home,” said the strange woman sternly. “ You can’t 
 mend trouble: you only make it.” 
 
 The two girls, too thoroughly alarmed to venture upon a 
 retort, obeyed a word and a gesture from Billy Piper, and 
 went, trembling, away from the spot, and toward the board- 
 ing-house at the outer edge of the common. As soon as they 
 had turned their faces thither, Billy Piper said : 
 
 “ Now I’m off for Mack’s: there’ll be plenty of help there.” 
 And he ran swiftly away. 
 
 For a moment the woman he had addressed as Mag stood 
 moveless beside the cellar. Then, as at first, she flashed her 
 lantern about the place and sprang downward. There, alone 
 in the darkness, she knelt once more beside the dead man, and 
 her right hand worked swiftly while the left held aloft the 
 bull’s-eye. 
 
 A dark silk handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket ; 
 she drew this out quickly, and spread it beside her with a deft 
 movement. Then she lifted the dead hand, and drew a flash- 
 ing diamond from the little finger, putting it upon the bit of 
 
DUKE SELWYN. 
 
 17 
 
 silk at her side. This done she put the bull's-eye down, as if 
 she had seen enough and could now work without its aid. 
 Rapidly, with both hands, she detaches a heavy chain from 
 the waistcoat, and draws a gold watch from its pocket. These 
 she puts beside the ring, and then snatches out a scarf pin, 
 that glistens with three small diamonds like tiny eyes. In 
 another moment they are hastily wrapped in the handkerchief, 
 and thrust within the loose folds of her blouse-like waist. 
 Then, drawing a sharp, quick breath, she takes up the bull's- 
 eye, and hastens out from the cellar. 
 
 Not a moment too soon, for lanterns are flashing and moving 
 .toward her. She hears approaching voices, and knows that 
 only the sheltering piles of earth have shut from sight the 
 movements of her lantern. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DUKE SELWYN. 
 
 Billy Piper, the stage manager and general comedian of the 
 “Varieties”, arrived at that temple of amusement breathless 
 and flushed with excitement. A dozen men were lounging 
 about the saloon, and, through a double door at one side, twice 
 as many more might have been seen sitting and standing about 
 the gaming tables, for Mack's attractions were various indeed, 
 and his “Varieties'* meant not only theatre, concert-hall and 
 beer graden, combined, but gambling, fisticuffs, and cock 
 fighting, each in its season. 
 
 Piper's entrance interrupted an uproarious burst of hilarity; 
 
18 
 
 MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 for Mack himself, the deity of the place, had relieved the 
 sleepy and more than half tipsy barkeeeper, and, being in one 
 of his genial moods, was putting new life into things. 
 
 He had just uttered one of those coarse sallies for which 
 he was famous, at the expense of some one too weak or toa 
 unpopular to dare venture a retort, and was standing behind 
 
 *aani oip 'joq^oun aoyu quo ‘iyomb iaoA puy \nqpo oip jo 
 oSpo oqj ?n oon[d ,ioq raoy oaoui aou ‘qnods pu pip oqs piq 
 •paqonoaddn ioq; sn q§;q oio-sjjnq aoq poyq 2 nj^[ mpunoj^ 
 
 •suaepin^ uezop n jjnq iq popjSq ‘uorauioo oiy spanAi 
 -opSuiiaanq snAY ‘pnoq apqj jn ijanaS Suiqoanai qonj^[ qpAi 
 f u 9 iu jo punq n pun ‘anq oqj uodn poipnopn poop sajyoq 
 pun S0ssn[S oiy ‘popesop oaoA\. soppy SuuunS oqj peuioui n uj 
 •Xnjd [noj qpAV pui pnq uAAvpg oqn(j pty paoAV oiy uo possnd 
 tuooa aouui eip in 0110 ouios pun ‘iiAvop poAY sossnj-Q -raoq; 
 uodn jpj qsnq n pun ‘iyaoouis siq posso.idxo aouunra sijj 
 
 ,/ouojn ‘ipoq oq^ qyAV oioiy 
 pio s^Snjy — noif jo omos ‘Suop omoo aoyoq pjioj^ *uiMpg 
 oqn(j syi sins Snj ^ uinpmoj\[ pan ‘o§n spuooos uooyq oaeiy 
 uAvop sanjpo avou oiy jo 0110 ui §u;i[ unur n Avns / f [p^V„ 
 
 ({ m o §n sopiaiui 
 
 i^uoAVj oqn(j A\ns j qoofqns ^nq^ uo sqoiy aoSSiu anoi jo 
 eixoa,, ‘Suiueqanp Avoaq siq ‘qonj\[ pins ^‘aodrj ‘oaaq qoorq,, 
 
 «\ NAAVrag axna„ jmilX » » 
 
 ai °^ a m°s 9 n n a 
 
 poyiq snq euo omog,, \10Su0ss0tu oq^ popnd a jaopanj\[ ? , 
 
 •ijdanqs poqno oq ,^^1113 ‘ dn ^RAVo 
 
 o p0ii0ddnq pnq Suny 
 
 -ouios pqj ooun j§ n p A\ns oq pun i oounapio siq opnra ipig; 
 uoqAV ‘saaiuopno siq yn o) anqirauj opnyyn an ui f poj 0 AVO[ 
 aeqp oqj ‘pojnAop ouo oq^ ‘punq aoqjp ui ssnjS n qqAi ‘anq siq 
 
20 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 Hack still foremost, dropped down and gathered about the body* 
 "It is Selwyn !” exclaimed Mack, after one glance. And 
 then he bent nearer and lifted the fnllen head. “Shot!” he 
 added hoarsely; “shot in the bach!” 
 
 They were very quiet as they crowded about him, almost 
 filling the half-dug cellar; they were waiting to hear Mack 
 speak again r which he did in a moment, rising and standing 
 erect among them. 
 
 “Fellows, is there a man among us that objects to coming 
 back to the Theatre as escort to this dead man? Fm going 
 to take him there, and Fve something to say to you all.” 
 They were more than willing to go back, and they signified 
 as much by word and action. There was no one among them 
 who cared to gainsay Mack; and, obedient to his orders, two 
 men rushed to the Theatre, where they wrenched oft* one of 
 the double doors that separated the gambling room from the 
 saloon proper, and carried it hurriedly back to the cellar. 
 
 They were a rough body of men — profane, reckless, some 
 of them more than half intoxicated — but they were ve^y silent 
 and orderly as they moved slowly back to the Theatre, walk- 
 ing before, behind, and on either side of the extemporized 
 bier. Every man among them who had known Duke Selwyn 
 had either feared or respected him, and they were now filled 
 with awe and startled expectation. 
 
 “Take him through and put the boards on the long table,” 
 Mack commanded, as he turned, upon the threshold of the 
 saloon, and moved aside to let the men who bore the body 
 enter, noting with quick, keen glances every man as he 
 passed. The last to come were Mountain Mag and Billy 
 Piper, side by side. 
 
 “ Fm glad you’re with us, Mag ; you’re worth all thesa 
 
DURE SELWYN. 
 
 21 
 
 \ fellows,” said Mack, his voice relaxing its sharp tone as he 
 I addressed her. Then advancing toward the inner room he 
 
 P ° 
 
 called: “ Don’t touch him, men ; leave him just as he lies; it’s 
 a bullet in the back of the neck that did for him. He’s past 
 help, but we’ve got something to do before we die.” 
 
 Mountain Mag, standing white-faced and seemingly dazed 
 in the doorway, made a sudden movement, and Billy Piper 
 touched her upon the arm. 
 
 “Give me the glim, Mag,” he whispered, “and Pll go look 
 after Nick. You’d better take a drop at the bar.” 
 
 Scarcely heeding him, Mag let him take the lantern from 
 her hand. Her eyes were fixed upon the men about the long 
 table; she was straining her ears to catch every word, but she 
 did not leave her place near the entrance. 
 
 For some moments the men stood close about the table, 
 looking down upon the dead, those in the outer circle lifting 
 themselves on tiptoe, peering under arms, pressing against the 
 foremost ones, in their eflorts to see the still face, and long, 
 moveless figure. 
 
 It was a fine figure as it lay there ; contrasting strangely 
 with many of those active ones around it— tall, lithe, muscu- 
 lar, clad in garments of fashionable cut and faultless taste. 
 He wore a long, loose outer coat of some fine, light material, 
 but the head was bare. The face was that of a man of thirty, 
 he might even be a little older; no one in Caledonia was suf- 
 ficiently familiar with Duke Selwyn to know his age. It was 
 an aristocratic face, a refined face, a strong face, but not 
 strictly correct in its outline. He had often been called a 
 [ fine-looking man, seldom a handsome one. Peifect regularity 
 of feature rarely accompanies a nature so strong, original, and 
 self-poised as had been that of Duke Selwyn. 
 
22 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 A mass of fine, fair hair was brushed lightly back from a 
 forehead high, broad and white ; eyes that had been keenly 
 blue were dimly seen through half closed lids; the nose was 
 large, slightly Roman, and as clear cut as a cameo; the mouth 
 was thin-lipped and fine; the chin firm to obstinacy. The 
 large, white hands betokened the strength of the man; the 
 broad, high brow told of courage and intelligence. An hour 
 ago, he stood in the throng that had gathered to admire and 
 applaud the beauty of Aileen Lome, the star of the Theatre, 
 a man among men, himself almost as popular, as much the 
 target of admiring glances as she. Half an hour later, he had 
 emerged from the Cafe , — another attachment of Mack’s won- 
 derful Theatre — with the queen of the evening upon his arm, 
 and had exchanged a word and a jest with Mack himself as 
 he passed on with his fair companion, and now — . 
 
 “ Boys,” said Mack, taking off' his hat, and almost to a man 
 Che others followed his example; “ boys, listen to me! Half 
 an hour ago I saw Duke Selwyn alive and hearty. He passed 
 me with Miss Lome. They had been taking supper in the 
 restaurant there, and he was escorting her home'. He had to 
 go from this door,” pointing to the chief entrance, “past 
 the new block and across the common to the boarding-house — 
 a bee line almost, and a distance of say sixty rod. And be- 
 tween this door and the door of the boarding-house, he was 
 shot down by some fiend, some coward — shot in the back ! 
 Every man that was here when Billy Piper came in with the 
 news is here now, and I’m glad to see it. Do you know why 
 I ask you to stay ?” 
 
 They were all silent for a moment, seemingly puzzled by 
 this unexpected question. Then a red- shir ted fellow spoke. 
 
 “ I’m Mamed if we do, Mack. Is it Regulators you want ?” 
 
DUKE SELWYH* 
 
 “You've said it, Blowey. Listen : When Selwyn passed 
 me at the door of the restaurant, I came straight into the 
 saloon and took a look at things. You know I make it my 
 business to notice who is in my place at all times.” 
 
 “I should remark,” interpolated some one who evidently 
 had good reason for confirming Mack's statement. “ Ye're 
 shoutin' now, Mack.” 
 
 “ Well, I'm not done shouting; so don't interrupt me. I 
 was saying that you were all here, at the table or around the 
 bar ; you were here when Duke Selwyn went past my door 
 alive; you have been here every moment since, until we all 
 went out together. Consequently, wherever else suspicion 
 may fall, it cannot fall upon one of you — of us. And so we 
 are the men, above all others, to join hands and try to hit 
 upon the one who did it.” 
 
 There was a murmur among his auditors, and through it 
 he heard some one say : 
 
 “Who was he, any how?” 
 
 “Who's that?” asked Mack, sharply. 
 
 There was a little stir at the opposite end of the table, and 
 then the men fell back, and a roughly-dressed, bearded fellow 
 stood out from among them. 
 
 “ I'm the feller that piped,” he said, giving a careless hitch 
 to a belt from which two long pistols protruded. “I've just 
 struck the settlement, and am askin' fur information.'' 
 
 “ Well, I'll give it to you. I see some others here that may 
 not have known Duke Selwyn and perhaps none of you knew 
 him as well as I did. Duke Selwyn was a square man ; he 
 never went back on his friends, nor turned a shoulder to his 
 emies. He was a gentleman, and spent his money like one* 
 is pockets were never empty, and he always had a dollar for 
 
24 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTJEEY. 
 
 a friend. He wasn’t so tough and rough as some of us; he 
 passed half of his time in the States, and he always brought 
 back with him a bit of the breath of God’s country. He was 
 a heavy owner in the mining lands, and you may bet that no 
 man in his employ ever got left or grumbled. He was square 
 with everybody; he played fair, he drank fair. I didn’t think | 
 he had an enemy in the country. You’ll see more men sw min- 
 ing here before sundown to-morrow, eager to lend a hand and 
 hunt down his murderer, than would ever turn out if all of 
 us went under. But, just the same, there’s some one, not a 
 mile away this minute, who put that bullet in his back.” 
 
 It was a long speech for Mack, for he was a man of deeds 
 rather than of words, and it seemed to have made an impres- 
 sion. 
 
 Mountain Mag had advanced, and she now stood midway I 
 between Billy Piper and the stranger who had asked for in- J 
 formation, the latter having drawn back a little from the cir- 
 cle about the table. 
 
 1 
 
 “ Now, men,” pursued Mack, “ I want to knowhow you 
 stand. If there’s one among you that ain’t willing to hunt 
 down this assassin, in the best way he can, with money, or 
 time, or brains, I want him to walk out o’ that door quick, 
 and he needn’t come back ; I shan’t want his patronage. Duke 
 Selwyn was my friend; he’s laid down many a dollar on this 
 very table, and he’s carried as many more away from it. I’m 
 going to see justice done him, and I want my friends to stand 
 by me.” 
 
 “We will, Mack! We will,” they said; “Count us in — 
 call the roll — organize — show us a trail ; we’ll pull the rope !” 
 
 Mack’s eyes were traveling swiftly from face to face. Yo 
 man made a movement to leave the place, although each knew 
 
m 
 
 ’x-m 
 
 
 ‘Fin the feller that piped T - -Page 23, 
 
 
26 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 that Mack meant what he said, and at last his glance rested 
 upon the rough-looking, bearded stranger. 
 
 “ I say,” he called across the table, “step up here, Mister.” 
 The stranger gave no sign that he heard ; he seemed to be 
 deeply interested in the woman standing near him. Billy 
 Piper touched him upon the arm. 
 
 “Go around there,” he said. “Mack wants to take your 
 measure, stranger.” 
 
 “ Does he ?” said the new-comer, withdrawing his eyes from 
 the face of Mountain Mag. “ Well, let him slide around here 
 and take it ; Pve no objections.” He spoke with good-natured 
 fearlessness, and made no movement. 
 
 To the surprise of all, Mack did not resent this rather un- 
 usual disrespect. Instead he left his place and approached 
 the stranger. 
 
 “Who are you, pardener?” he asked. 
 
 “I shouldn’t mind being called Podunk,” said the stranger 
 coolly, “although tain’t my name.” 
 
 “ One name’s as good as another,” replied Mack graciously. 
 “ The point is to know something about what you are. You’re 
 the only out an’ out stranger amongst us.” 
 
 “ Wal,” casting a quizzical look about him, “ I guess I 
 ain’t none the worse for that.” 
 
 “You heard what I said just now,” said Mack, ignoring 
 this retort, “ and you didn’t make a move. If you mean to 
 make one of us, you ought to show your hand.” 
 
 “That’s so,” said a burly fellow near them. “ That’s square 
 talk.” 
 
 “I’m will in’ to show both hands,” said the self-styled Podunk 
 composedly, “ only it strikes me as you’re wastin’ time. Ye 
 kin call me Podunk and imagine I’m party near seeh a fel- 
 
DUKE SELWYN. 
 
 27 
 
 ler as the rest of ye— I guess I’m purty square— and for the 
 rest, ye’ll have plenty of time to find out, fer I’ve looked 
 things over here and I’ve concluded to stay. There’s one 
 thing I may as well teli ye, though, fer ye’il find it out the 
 first row that comes up : I can’t bear to fight, and I’m a con- 
 stitooshunal coward. But I’m some on polly ticks, diploo- 
 maticks, an’ Jawin’. I’m full of ability in them directions, 
 an’ my judgment tells me ye’d better get down to business. 
 That dead feller there ain’t goin’ to git up an’ tell who killed 
 him, an’ I’d try some kind o’ trick purty soon as ’ud lead to 
 sumthin’, if I was running this ere. I’d begin to investergate, 
 I would.” y 
 
 The fellow’s harangue had tickled the fancy of the rough 
 men about him, and they now greeted it with characteristic 
 signs of approval. 
 
 “ Bully for Podunk !” “ Give us your flipper !” “ Come 
 
 out and take somethin’,” came from one and another. But 
 Podunk drew himself up with much dignity. 
 
 “ This yer gentleman’s the boss here, my friends,” he said, 
 bowing toward Mack. “Let him pcrceed. We kin drink 
 an’ scrape acquaintance later. The point now’s to organize, 
 an’ find out how this thing begun. I sh’d say — but of course 
 I’m only suggestin’, — send for the Coroner, perviden he’s got 
 any head on him.” 
 
 The wisdom of Podunk’s suggestion was evidcn t . Caledonia 
 was declared to possess a Coroner with a head, and a very 
 good one, on him, and a messenger was sent to rouse him. 
 Meanwhile the crowd gathered about the bar in the outer 
 room, and listened to Billy Piper’s story of the discovery of 
 the dead or dying man. 
 
 When it was told there was a buzz of comment, and then 
 the voice of Podunk was heard addre^iijg Mack. 
 
28 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 “ It ’pears to me/ J he said, “ that the next thing to do is to 
 send for his nighest friends, if he’s got any, and see what 
 they’ve got ter say. May’ be it’ill turn out that lie had some 
 secret enemy.” 
 
 “Phil Dalton’s the one to go for,” said one of the men. 
 
 “You’re right, Joe,” cried Mack. “Billy, go to the St. 
 Charles and rout up Dalton.” 
 
 As Billy Piper turned to comply with this request, he paused 
 beside Mountain Mag, who had seated herself a little aloof 
 from the men. 
 
 “ I left your horse at the side door,” he said, and as she 
 nodded, he passed on and out of the saloon. 
 
 “Mag,” said Mack, beckoning her forward, “Billy says 
 you went into the cellar first. Was he quite dead ?” 
 
 Mag nodded, but did not rise. “He was quite dead,” she 
 said calmly. “He had just breathed his last.” 
 
 “You were passing, Billy says, — did you see or hear any- 
 thing?” 
 
 “Not a sound. As for seeing, even my lantern could 
 scarcely show me the road. I’ve waited to learn what you 
 were going to do, Mack. I s’pose you’ll want me when the % 
 Coroner begins?” m 
 
 “ Of course.” S 
 
 “Well, that can’t be until morning; so I guess I’ll get Nick 
 off the street, I was riding the town looking for — ” J 
 
 “Cool Hank?” suggested Mack, with a knowing smile. 
 
 “No; I wanted Monckton. He’s been away from the 
 ranch for three days.” 
 
 “Well, you don’t think of riding out to the ranch now, I 
 hope, Mag?” 
 
 “Oh, no I I’ll stable Nick, and stay in town as long as I’m 
 
mountain: mag. 
 
 29 
 
 wanted. I wish you’d fix me some brandy and water Mack. 
 I feel very queer.” 
 
 “Yes, indeed/’ said Mack, “and no wonder; such a shock 
 as this !” 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Fountain mag. 
 
 Mountain Mag was a familiar figure to the habitues of 
 “ Mack’s/’ but she was an object of interest, and some curiosity, 
 to the stranger who had chosen to be called Podunk. And 
 small marvel, for Mag was by no means the typical frontier 
 female. She was a character among the Caledonians, and well 
 she deserved her prestige. 
 
 Mag was a tall, finely formed, muscular young woman, with 
 firm, handsome features, much sunburned ; fearless, flashing 
 black eyes ; and tawny hair, that was drawn to the top of her 
 head and coiled there underneath a Spanish sombrero. She 
 was dressed in some coarse blue stuff*, with loosely fitting waist, 
 and a skirt that hung in heavy folds, terminating at the tops 
 of the cavalry boots which covered a pair of shapely feet. 
 
 Such was Mountain Mag as she stood at Mack’s bar, drink- 
 ing her brandy and water, apparently unconscious that she 
 was an uncommon figure. Whatever else she may have been, 
 let our story develop. 
 
 As she lowered the glass from her lips and was about to turn 
 from the bar, a small door at the side of the room opened, and 
 a little sleepy old man came toward her. His scant grey locks 
 
30 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 were in disorder, and he looked as if he had just tumbled into 
 his clothes. In fact, he seemed to be still hitching himself 
 into them as he advanced. At sight of Mag, his dull eyes 
 brightened, and without seeming to notice tfhe others, he came 
 slowly toward her, rubbing his hands. 
 
 “Oh, Mag!” he said eagerly, “it’s good luck to see you 
 standing there. You’re not often seen nowadays. How do, 
 Mag; how do?” 
 
 Mountain Mag took the dirty hand which he extended and 
 shook it cordially. 
 
 “How are you, Pop?” she said; “you look hearty. Have 
 something?” 
 
 The old man signified his willingness, and drained off a 
 glass of brandy in a trice. 
 
 “Fill it again, Mack,” said Mag authoritively. “Pop 
 can’t afford to lose his sleep without a stimulant. Here.” 
 And she threw a piece of money down before the pro- 
 prietor. 
 
 But Mack pushed it toward her with a quick hand. 
 
 “Drinks are free to-night, Mag; put it up,” he said. 
 
 For answer Mag pushed the coin towards the old man. 
 
 “Put it in your pocket, Pop,” she said. “Drinks may not 
 be free after sun up.” 
 
 Mack laughed at this sally, and filled the old man a second 
 glass. 
 
 “Come, gentlemen,” he said, “here’s brandy for all, free 
 as water. Let’s drink confusion and speedy death to Duke 
 Selwyn’s murderer.” 
 
 They all crowded about the bar, Podunk foremost, to re- 
 spond to the invitation. 
 
 **Hold on l” cried one of the men; “Mag mustn’t be out 
 
MOUNTAIN MAC*. 
 
 SI 
 
 of this toast. Here, Mag. 9 ’ He turned with a brimming 
 draught in his hand. 
 
 But while they were filling their glasses the Mountain Maid 
 had disappeared. 
 
 After drinking their sombre toast, the men gradually drew 
 apart, dividing into little groups by mutual consent and 
 natural selection. Mack was silent and seemed trying to ar- 
 }ange some plan, or put into shape some set of ideas, for he 
 jotted down a few lines in a dirty memorandum book from 
 time to time, and scratched his head thoughtfully between 
 notes. 
 
 At first the man Podunk made one of a group of excited 
 talkers who gathered about the stove, but after a time it came 
 about, without seeming intent, that he and the old man called 
 Pop found themselves seated side by side upon a short bench 
 near one of the windows, and some distance from the rest. 
 
 Podunk had lighted a short ugly pipe, and he now proffered 
 his companion a black and strong cigar. Pop was mellowed 
 by Mag’s generous potions of brandy, the cigar served to 
 make him still more comfortable, and for some moments they 
 talked upon the all-absorbing topic. Podunk related graphic- 
 ally the facts concerning the finding of the murdered man; 
 then he asked carelessly : 
 
 “ Who’s that rum gal who seemed sich a friend o’ yourn,-— 
 that Mag?” 
 
 The old man removed his cigar from his mouth and lowered 
 his voice. 
 
 “ You’re right in calling Mag my friend,” he said gravely. 
 “I think she is my friend — my only friend in this cursed 
 place. Who is she? You must be a stranger here not to 
 
 know.” 
 
32 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ So I be,” promptly replied Podunk, “ but I am willin’ to 
 get acquainted.” 
 
 The old man replaced his cigar and took two or three long 
 puffs. When he removed it and spoke again, he seemed to 
 have fallen into a retrospective mood. 
 
 “ I’ve been a year and a half in this hole/’ he said slowly ; 
 “ a year and a half. Caledonia may be agood place for miners, 
 speculators, and gamblers, but it’s a hard town on a broken 
 down old actor like me. I wasn’t always a Variety hanger- 
 on, let me tell you, Mister. I was a legitimate comedian 
 once, and not so long ago, either. I drew a good salary, 
 drank good wine, and smoked good cigars. But I struck 
 bad luck, and I tell you it had to press me pretty hard before 
 it brought me here.” 
 
 “ Company busted?” queried his listener. 
 
 “No,- sir. That couldn’t have done it; there’s always a 
 place for a good actor who attends to his business. No, sir; 
 it was drink ; drink and cards- — they’ve ruined many a bet- 
 ter man than me.” 
 
 “ I shouldn’t wonder if yer was right,” admitted Podunk 
 in a tone that caused the old man to turn and scrutinize him 
 sharply. But the genius was looking absently at the toe of 
 his boot; and the old man, glad to have found a listener who 
 did not seem anxious to run away from him, went on. 
 
 “Mack’s a hard one on his people, especially on them that 
 he can manage to do without, and I don’t have none o’ the 
 best of times. lie runs the boarding-house down yonder, and 
 sends all hands there to pay half their earnings to his old wo- 
 man. I tried it when 1 was fresh here — I had quite a run 
 for a week or so. But the old man’s down on his luck ; I’m 
 only Old Utility now. I sleep on a bunk in the lumber-room, 
 
MOtNTAIiSf MA&. 
 
 33 
 
 and I eat anything that aint wanted in the restaurant yonder, 
 I\n nothing any more only poor old Pop, broken down 
 comedian.” 
 
 He sighed and let his chin fall into his hands, a very picture 
 of dejection. 
 
 “ Have something to drink?” suggested Podunk. 
 
 The old man made a gesture of assent, and showed signs of 
 returning animation. They drank together at the bar, and 
 then Podunk led his companion back to their place by the 
 window. 
 
 “Chirk up, Pop” he said hopefully; “maybe ye’ll find me 
 as good a triend as yer Mountain gal.” 
 
 The liquor had already served to cheer the old man, and he 
 replied with animation. 
 
 “Oh, Mag! There’s a girl for ye.” 
 
 “Spin a yarn about her, can’t ye?” Podunk said insinuat- 
 ingly. “ I’m kind o’ curus an’ interested in the gal.” 
 
 Pop’s eyes lighted up. 
 
 “ I can’t say anything but good of Mag,” he said. “And 
 anybody else might tell ye as much about her as I can — any 
 old Caledonian, I mean. Mag’s a native of these parts. She 
 was born among the mountains out yonder, and is more at 
 home with her weapons, and in the saddle, than half these 
 fellows here, for she grew up to the life, while they, most of 
 them, are Eastern born, and didn’t have her early training. 
 Mag’s father, Michael Drood his name was, was a pioneer 
 California digger. His wife ran away from him when that 
 girl was only a year old. A bad lot Mag’s mother was.” 
 
 “ I should say !” 
 
 “Drood was a rough, uneducated fellow, with no notion 
 of a woman’s needs ; but he had a heart, and he nursed Mag 
 
A MOUOTAIH MYBTEJfclf, 
 
 right through her babyhood, and did his best by her accofch i 
 ing to his ideas of duty. He carried her with him into his | 
 mine, on his journeys. Whether he hunted, fished, or fought, I 
 Mag was there. As she grew up, he taught her to ride, to \ 
 shoot, to hunt, to swim. I suppose he ceased to realize that 
 she was not a boy. Few Western boys get such a hardy i 
 training. Well, old Drood was killed by an explosion nearly 
 two years ago. He left quite a fortune in mining property, a 
 cattle ranch, and cash. But Mag sticks to the old life. She 
 don’t know any'other, and she can manage her ranch as well 
 as the best ranchman in the country.” 
 
 “Well, I swan !” ejaculated Podunk. “She’d be a bonanza 
 to some man who wanted a wife an’ a ranch, now wouldn’t 
 she?” 
 
 “ I guess there’s only one man would stand much of a show 
 with Mag,” said Pop, lowering his voice; “and he — ” 
 
 He stopped suddenly, for there was a general stir in the 
 saloon, and Billy Piper, breathless and agitated, was standing 
 before the bar. 
 
 “ Dalton can’t be found,” he said. 
 
 “What!” cried a chorus of voices. 
 
 “Dalton is not at the St. Charles — his room is empty— his 
 bed hasn’t been slept in at all !” ®| 
 
 Mack came swiftly out from behind the bar, and clutching 
 the messenger by the shoulder swung him half around. 
 
 “Do you mean to say,” he thundered, “that Mr. Philip 
 Dalton is missing f’ 
 
 “ That’s the size of it,” replied Billy coolly. 
 
 For a moment not a man, among the twenty or more who 
 had gathered around him, spoke. Then Mack withdrew his 
 hand, and beckoned to a tall, dark man who stood a little aloof 
 
 
STRANGE PROCEEDINGS. 
 
 35 
 
 from the rest. The man advanced, and Mack led him through 
 the open door into the gambling room, where the body of 
 Duke Selwyn lay. 
 
 “ Who’s that black feller, Pop ?” whispered Podunk. 
 “Hist/- cautioned the old man; “that’s Doe Connolley.” 
 And then he put a dirty hand to his mouth, and whispered 
 from behind it : — “ Captain of the Regulators” 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 STRANGE PROCEEDINGS. 
 
 When Mountain Mag left the saloon, she went swiftly 
 around the big, low building that served so many ends, and 
 hastily untied the halter by which Billy Piper had secured her 
 
 horse. 
 
 “ Softly, Nick,” she whispered, as the animal gave signs of 
 restlessness. “Softly; you’ll soon have your breakfast now.” 
 
 She patted his glossy coat, and then drew the bridle across 
 her arm. The handsome and well trained animal rubbed his 
 nose against her shoulder, and walked beside her into the 
 street. She paused for a moment to listen to any sound that 
 might indicate an observer near, and then, hearing nothing, 
 took her way past the Theatre, and in the direction of the new 
 buildings midway between Mack’s and the scene of the mur- 
 der. 
 
 It was within an hour of daylight, yet the glimmering rays 
 that found their way to the street, gave evidence that there 
 
36 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTJEBY. 
 
 was life within the walls. Mag led her horse forward until 
 sh was opposite a dark stairway, that seemed to divide the 
 bar.i-iike structure, and then tossing the bridle across his neck 
 she said ; 
 
 “Steady now, Nick; steady.” 
 
 The stairway was dark, and narrow, and steep, but she 
 mounted it without hesitation, and knocked at a heavy door 
 at the top. 
 
 Presently a small, upper panel of the door swung open, and 
 a rough face peered out. 
 
 “What’s wanted?” demanded the owner of the face sharply. 
 And then, as Mag came close to the door, she heard a sup- 
 plementary, “Well, I swan !” 
 
 “Is Monckton here, Joe?” she asked quietly. 
 
 The head in the opening turned to the right and left, and 
 seemed to consider. 
 
 “Do you want him?” he asked. 
 
 “ Of course. That is, I want to speak with him. I’m in a 
 hurry too, Joe.” 
 
 “All right!” The head disappeared, and the panel shut 
 with a click. 
 
 Mag leaned against the wall, drew a long sigh, and waited, 4 
 In a moment the door opened, almost noiselessly, and a tall, 
 broad-shouldered, swarthy man came out. 
 
 “Mag,” he said eagerly, “,what is it? Do you want me?” 
 
 There was something almost wistful in his voice, but the f 
 girl did not heed it. 
 
 “ If I wanted you within the past two days, Monk, I might ^ 
 have remained in want. You have overstayed your time with 1 
 a vengeance. Yes, I want you to do something for me — to i 
 give me an hour of your time. Then you may come back and 
 
 
STRANGE PROCEEDINGS* 
 
 37 
 
 lose the rest of your wages, if you are not already broke.” 
 The man flushed and bit his under lip, but he did not speak 
 and after a moment of silence Mag asked : 
 
 “Is Hank in there?” 
 
 “No.” The answer was almost sullen. “So it’s Cool 
 Hank you’re anxious about, is it?” 
 j “Yes, it’s Hank. Has he been here to-night?” 
 
 “ Not as I know of.” 
 
 “How long have you been here?” 
 
 “All night, nearly.” 
 
 “Monk,” — Mag laid a hand upon his arm, and lowered 
 her voice as she drew close to him — -“ I want you to go the 
 rounds and find out where Hank is, if he is anywhere in town. 
 Do you understand me? I wish to know where he has passec? 
 the nights 
 
 “Do you want to see him?” 
 
 “ No. And you must not tell him that I am in town, or 
 that I sent you. I will be here at the foot of the stairs in 
 half an hour. Can you go the rounds so soon?” 
 
 . “ Yes.” 
 
 “And will you?” 
 
 | “Will I? You know I will.” 
 
 “Don’t lose a moment, then.” She moved toward the head 
 of the stairway. “In half an hour, Monk.” 
 
 | “ Mag,” — the man followed her and began to descend the 
 stairs at her side — “somethin’s gone wrong; what is it?” 
 
 | The girl did not speak until they had reached the street and 
 she stood again beside the horse. 
 
 J “I’m not so sure**of that” she said, as she swung herself 
 into the saddle, “but — somebody has killed — Duke Sehvyn.” 
 | “ By Heaven!” — He checked himself, for there was no one to 
 
 8 
 
38 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 hear him. With the last word still upon her lips. Mountain Mag 
 had shaken her rein and dashed away. 
 
 “Well, I declare!” ejaculated Monckton, as he turned 
 his face toward Mack’s, “if that girl ain’t too queer for 
 comfort !” 
 
 Meantime, Mountain Mag guided her galloping horse in 
 and out among the short, irregular street, an if anxious to 
 elude any possible follower, and finally emerged by the way 
 ot a narrow alley, upon the outskirts of the town, with all 
 its dingy habitations at her back and a broad sweep of 
 prairie before her. Here she checked her horse to look and 
 listen. 
 
 Satisfied with the stillness around her, she next took from 
 the horn of her saddle, her dark lantern, and pushing up the 
 slide, bent down, and by the light which it shed surveyed the 
 ground at her feet. 
 
 A narrow trail or footpath led from the alley across the 
 prairie toward tl>e southwest. She reined her horse into this> 
 shut the lantern with a click, and uttered alow chirrup which 
 sent the animal in a swift gallop along the trail. 
 
 For more than a mile Mag kept her horse speeding onward; 
 then she checked him, and, aided by her lantern, again looked 
 about her. A glimmer of water to the right reflected the lan- 
 tern’s ray, and as if she had found what she sought, the girl 
 slipped from the saddle. 
 
 “ Steady Nick,” she said, and the horse stood montionless, 
 while with the lantern shedding its rays before her she ad- 
 vanced toward the body of water, less than four rods from the 
 trail. It was only a sink-hole, not sixty yards in circum- 
 ference, and bounded on all sides by a broad margin ofblack 
 mud. 
 
STRANGE PROCEEDINGS. 
 
 39 
 
 Mag set the lantern down at her feet , taking care to avoid 
 the mud, and thrusting her hand into her bosom, drew out 
 the handkerchief containing the watch and jewels she had 
 taken from the body of Duke Sel wyn. She tightened the knots, 
 weighed the bundle in her hand, and lifting her arm deliber- 
 ately, as if aiming at some definite spot, threw the handker- 
 chief out into the pool. It fell with a dull splash. The girl 
 littered a sigh of relief, and returned to her horse, which she 
 mounted and headed townward. 
 
 Back over the trail she urged him, again at a swift gallop 
 but she did not re-enter the narrow alley. Instead, upon 
 reaching the edge of the town, she made a wide detour , walk- 
 ing her horse slowly, and coming into town at last upon the 
 side opposite the mouth of the alley, and through the street 
 which ran between Mack’s boarding-house and the scene of 
 the last tragedy. 
 
 All about her the atmosphere was changing from black to 
 grey ; daylight was fast approaching. 
 
 At the boarding-house, Mag turned her horse’s head and 
 walked him past the cellars, and on to the place where she 
 had lately parted from the man Monckton. He was there 
 before her, and came out from the dark stairway and laid a 
 hand upon her horse’s neck. 
 
 “Well, Monk?” 
 
 “I didn’t find him, Mag. He ain’t been in any of the all- 
 night places.” 
 
 §/ “ Are you sure ?” 
 
 “ As sure as I could be by asking. I don’t believe Hank’s 
 fmeen seen in town since yesterday mornin’.” 
 
 Mag sighed and dropped from her saddle. 
 
 “ Monk,” she said, “I wish you’d take Nick and see that 
 
40 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTJESY. 
 
 he has breakfast and a rub down ; a good one, mind. When 
 you leave him, go to Mack’s and see what’s going on. ' 
 
 “I’ve been already.” 
 
 “ Well?” 
 
 “ The Coroner’s there, and a bit of excitement was brewin' 
 when I came out.” 
 
 “ How?” 
 
 “ Why, it seems there was a stranger amongst the boys, and 
 they had all agreed to stop till the Coroner came/ 
 
 “Yes, yes !” 
 
 “Well, this feller had been gassin’ with old Pop, and they 
 wa* standin’ at the bar drinkin’ together when the Coroner 
 eome. When they kind o’ straightened out, and Mack went 
 to call the roll, Mr. Koplunk — ” 
 
 “Pod unk.” 
 
 “Podunk, then, was missin’, and of course Mack was mad.” 
 “Of course. Well, Monk, tell Mack that I’ve gone to get 
 a little sleep, and that he needn’t look for me till the regular 
 business of the inquest begins. I won’t come until then.” 
 
 “ All right, Mag ; I’ll see that they don’t bother ye. I’ll 
 come for you myself. Jog along, Nick.” 
 
 He led the horse away, and Mag stood where he had left 
 her until horse and man had passed out of sight around the 
 nearest corner. She had taken the dark lantern from the 
 saddle-bow, and still held it in her hand. 
 
 It was the quietest hour of the twenty-four in that unquiet 
 town, where nobody rose early. All who had not retired 
 during the hours of darkness were now doing so, and such as 
 had not yet sought their morning couch were lounging sleepily 
 in the most comfortable place at their command. The grey 
 morning fog was slowly brightening, but Mag knew it was 
 
STRANGE PROCEEDINGS. 
 
 41 
 
 the hour of all others in which one might pace the streets of 
 Tfie entire town unnoticed and unchallenged. 
 
 She turned therefore, with the lantern in her hand, and 
 walked swiftly toward the cellars. 
 
 As she moved away from the stairway a shadowy figure 
 appeared at the entrance, and looked out after her. As she 
 disappeared in the grey fog, the watcher chuckled softly, and 
 stealthily followed. 
 
 The girl walked straight to the cellar’s edge, passed between 
 the two mounds nearest the boarding house, as she had done 
 when stopped by Billy Piper, and, as on the former occasion, 
 flashed the light of the lantern before her as she went. 
 
 Again she dropped into the cellar, and approached the spot 
 where the body of Duke Selwyn had lain. Holding the lan- 
 tern close to the ground, and bending low to scan the space it 
 illuminated, she walked slowly about the small cellar. Twice 
 she paced around it, walking in a circle, and turning the eye 
 of the lantern from side to side. Then she stopped, and stood 
 in the center of her circle, as if to consider something. 
 
 A voice close at hand startled her. 
 
 “ Ye’ve jest missed it/’ the voice said, “but ye come mighty 
 close. Jest give me the illumynator.” 
 
 Before she could recover from her surprise the lantern was 
 caught out of her hand, and held aloft so that it lighted both 
 their faces, and Mag saw the grinning visage of the man 
 Pod lin k. 
 
 “ Pll be hanged if ye ain’t smarter than that hull gang o’ 
 Mack’s,” the man said. “Ye see, great minds flow in the 
 same channels; that is they does ef ye was lookin’ fer this.” 
 
 He made a stride forward, and turned the bull’s-eye upon 
 an object half buried in the soft sand. Mag involuntarily 
 
42 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 followed his movement with her eyes, and then sprang toward 
 the object, which had at first escaped her notice. iSut uodunk 
 was before her. 
 
 “ I reckon that’s the thing as did the business/' he said, ' 
 holding out for her inspection a small pistol, ivory handled, 
 silver mounted, and of unique workmanship. ••That ought 
 ter help out jestice, oughtn’t it ? Jest look at tne jimcrack!” / 
 He rubbed the muddy weapon vigorously against a leg of j 
 his trousers, and again held it out to Mag, at the same time / 
 letting the light of the bull’s-eye play across ner race. 
 
 The girl took the weapon, looked at it keemv. and her face, | 
 relaxing a little, seemed less startled and eager. 
 
 “ ’Tain’t jest what ye expected ter see, is it?” Podunk said 
 cheerfully. “I swan, I’m flustered. I’d line to hear what $ 
 that gang at Mack’s ’ll say when they feast rneir eyes on 
 that ” ' £ \ 
 
 Mag threw back her head, and suddenly found her tongue. I 
 “How long have you been following mef" she asked | 
 sharply. 
 
 “ Ain’t been follerin 1 ye. What do ye take me fur? I got 
 tired o’ the society at Mack’s, so when the Coroner came 1 
 jest slipped out, an’ thought I’d do a little prospectm 7 on my 
 own account. ’Pears you was took with the same notion !” f 
 Mag dropped her eyes, and turned the pistoi siowlv over in 
 her hand, 
 
 “Yes,” she said, “I remembered we were a little careless 
 when the body was removed. No one thought of looking for 
 traces of the murderer. What do you mean to do with this?” 
 “Wall, I guess we was jint discoverers. What would you 
 say?” 
 
 Mag looked up quickly. 
 
 . 
 
44 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 “Do you want to take this back to Mack’s?” she asked. 
 
 “I ain’t particular about it.” 
 
 “If you want them to have it, you’d better take it; I 
 shan’t. You can tell them that we met here, if you like.” 
 
 “There ain’t any reason why I sh’d tell anything you don’t 
 want told, young woman. I’m a disinterested party, and as 
 much your friend as anybody’s.” 
 
 The girl hesitated a moment and then asked ; 
 
 “Do you mean that you’ll hold your tongue about my be- 
 ing here, if I ask you to ?” 
 
 “ I’ll hold my clapper, ef I promise to, now you bet.” 
 
 “I’m going to try you, just to see what you’re made of. I 
 don’t want Mack, nor any one, to know I came back here. 
 Will you keep it mum?” 
 
 “Now, you’re talkin’ square! I’ll keep it mum, sure 
 enough.” 
 
 “Even from the Coroner?” 
 
 Podunk laughed softly. 
 
 “You jest watch me; I’ll fix the Coroner.” He put out 
 his hand and touched the pistol. “Jest give me that a minit.” 
 
 Mag released her hold upon the weapon, and Podunk tossed 
 it back upon the ground in the place where it had laid the 
 moment before. 
 
 “Thar,” he said, “that’s comfortable. The Coroner and 
 his band’ll be here before many minits; they’re just waitin’ 
 for the peep o’day. They’ll find it thar, I reckon. Taint 
 likely any one else’ll git here first. You km go your way, 
 Miss, an’ I’ll go mine. We’ll meet at the inquest, an’ if I kin 
 do anything more fur ye, jest call on Podunk. Now, let’s get 
 out o’ this, and make ourselves scarce.” 
 
 He led the way toward the outlet, and Mag followed him. 
 
STRANGE PKOCEEMNGS. 
 
 45 
 
 “Podunk,” she said, when they were out of the cellar, “ I’m 
 ■ obliged to you. Mountain Mag remembers favors, and repays 
 them when she can.” 
 
 “Hist!” said Podunk; “no more talkin’. Good bye, ga iP 
 
 t Don’t be uneasy.” 
 
 He motioned her to go to the left, while he turned and dis- 
 appeared behind one of the mounds in the opposite direction. 
 Mag stood looking after him, and it seemed as if she were 
 about to follow, but some second thought prevailed. She 
 hurried away from the mounds, and went by the shortest route 
 to the St. Charles. 
 
 For a few moments all was silent in and about the cellars.* 
 Then the form of Podunk came stealthily back by the way it 
 had gone, and stole forward until it stood at the spot Mag had 
 quitted. 
 
 f “ She won’t come back, then,” he muttered. “So much 
 the better for her.” 
 
 He did not descend into the cellar, but moved stealthily to 
 and fro among the mounds, like an Indian scout who scents 
 danger; watching by turns the road taken by Mag, and the 
 path leading to Mack’s. Daylight was almost upon him when 
 he dropped into the cellar and began a series of hurried ma- 
 noeuvres which changed him into another individual. 
 
 He pulled off the old slouch hat which had adorned his 
 shaggy head, and with it came a wig, that left him with short, 
 close-cropped, brown hair. Next the bushy whiskers wei'e re- 
 moved, and hat, wig and whiskers were stowed into capacious 
 pockets with which his bagging garments seemed lined. Then 
 r in a trice he took from within his loose blue shirt a flat par- 
 
 t cel, which, upon being shaken out, proved to be a long, thin, 
 soft rubber coat* This he pulled on over his rough garments, 
 
46 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 and buttoned close about bis throat. It fell almost to his 
 heels, and covered him completely. This done he fitted on a ) 
 silken skull cap, and the metamorphose was complete. 
 
 He clambered out of the cellar again, and looked and 
 listened. • 1 
 
 “They’re coming/’ he muttered. “I thought it was time.” ^ 
 
 ■ Still he watched and waited, until the party of men, with ; 
 the Coroner at their head, were all abreast of the row of build- ; 
 ings which contained the gambling house. Then he ran j 
 around the cellar, passing in the rear of it, and disappeared ! 
 behind the row, just as the Coroner and his escort came within | 
 sight of the dellar from the front. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 BARBARA. 
 
 The St. Charles was the only hotel of pretensions in Cal- 
 edonia, and for its “pretensions” the luckless guest paid 
 dearly. 
 
 Nevertheless, in the times of which we write, it was always 
 thronged, and there was seldom a day when some applicant 
 did not turn away from its highly varnished counter, and the 
 huge mirror that reflected everything within its range, with 
 the discouraging announcement, and gratuitous advice, ringing 
 in his ear: 
 
 “Chuck full. Better try the Astor, or some of the board- 
 ing-houses,” 1 
 
BARB AKA. 
 
 But many and motley as were the comers and goers at the 
 8t. Charles, it never yet sheltered, for so much as an hour, so 
 fair and stately a presence as that of the young girl who ap- 
 peared in the dining room, at eight o’clock in the morning— 
 an astonishingly early hour to the Caledonians — and looked 
 her surprise at its emptiness. 
 
 She had arrived late on the day before, and secured a room 
 for herself and companion after some difficulty, and at her re- 
 quest the clerk had inscribed upon the register her name, Bar- 
 bara Wray, and that of her companion, Miss Susan Collins. 
 
 A lovely creature was Barbara Wray, a girl just budding 
 into womanhood; low voiced, graceful, high bred; carrying 
 herself with just a touch of haughtiness. Her pale oval face 
 looked a trifle worn and anxious ; the firm red lips were closed 
 tightly, as if ,to keep back some turbulent feeling that was 
 seeking expression; the soft brown eyes, that just matched the 
 hair rippling above a low, broad forehead, looked as if not long 
 since they had been shedding tears. 
 
 That Barbara Wray was a lady by birth and breeding, was 
 as evident at that the young woman who entered the long 
 dining room at her side, was not, and could not be. It was 
 evident to the half awakened clerk, who hastened to show her 
 the way, and evident to the head waiter, who flew to conduct 
 her to a table by the cheeriest window. What wonder, then, 
 if each returned to his post inwardly asking himself what had 
 brought this richly-dressed, dainty-mannered girl to Caledonia 
 — a frontier town, a paradise for miners, gamblers, and all 
 manner of adventurers. 
 
 The young woman who seated herself opposite Miss Wray, 
 and looked about her with a long slow stare which she took 
 
 no pains to conceal, might be characterized by the word showy. 
 
48 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 She was short, and plump, and decidedly blonde ; her small 
 blue eyes were very quick and eager, and her abundant and 
 elaborately dressed hair was of that impossible yellow tinge 
 which is acquired by bleaching locks that are by nature red. 
 She was slowly dressed in some cheap stuff, and every fold 
 and ribbon upon her person seemed adjusted for effect. 
 
 “I declare,” exclaimed this young woman, when the waiter 
 had bustled away to bully* the cook and order an uneatable 
 breakfast; “I declare, if this ain’t just too funny. AVhy, I 
 counted on seeing no end of gold diggers and what not at their 
 breakfasts. Have they eaten and gone, do you suppose? or 
 ain’t they up yet! ” 
 
 “ They are not up,” answered her companion, “ if one may 
 judge from appearances. I think we have risen at an un- 
 fashionably early hour.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t wonder,” said Miss Susan, “such trampings 
 up and down as I heard all night long. Some of the people 
 must be just about going to sleep now. I couldn’t sleep ; I 
 am too anxious to see things.” 
 
 Miss Wray made no reply. She did not seem to note what 
 her companion was saying. 
 
 “ I think,” she said, “ that it will not be wrong to ask the 
 gentleman who was introduced by Mr. Follingsbee, to break- 
 fast with us. I — I — am so anxious to know what can be 
 done — ” She broke off abruptly and beckoned to a waiter 
 who had just entered the room, tying on his apron as he came. 
 
 “Will you say to the clerk that I shall be glad if he will 
 
 send to the room of Mr. the gentleman who came with 
 
 us in the stage yesterday, and ask if he will please join us at 
 breakfast, or, if he is not up, speak with us at his convenience 
 in the parlor*” 
 
BARBARA. 
 
 49 
 
 The negro grinned, and bowed, and went to deliver the 
 message. 
 
 “ Upon my word/ 5 broke out Miss Susan, when the man 
 was gone, “if that ain’t real funny! You don’t know his 
 name, do you? nor I, either. Wasn’t it in the letter?” 
 
 “Mr. Follingsbee’s letter was most hastily written. I pre- 
 sume he did not notice the oversight, or thought the gentle- 
 man would make his name known.” 
 
 “I don’t suppose it ever struck him . He seemed kind of 
 slow and pokey, anyway. Are you going out this morning, 
 Miss Wray ?” 
 
 “I hardly know:I have formed no plans. In fact I don’t 
 know what to do.” 
 
 “ I think it is mighty strange the way we are fixed. Where 
 do you suppose your father can have gone ?” 
 
 “Miss Collins” — the girl’s voice was a trifle unsteady — “I 
 beg you not to broach that subject. I am full of forebodings, 
 and need all my fortitude. I shall be worse than helpless if 
 I lose my courage.” 
 
 “Oh, my, Miss Wray, I did’n’t mean to hurt you; excuse 
 me,” Susan said eagerly. “I am so thoughtless; I dare say 
 it’ll all turn out right. Your father may come in on this 
 very morning’s stage.” You know that splendid looking gen- 
 tleman said it was probable.” 
 
 “We will not discuss him either, if you please. Ah, here 
 is our breakfast.” 
 
 Evidently Miss Susan Collins was somewhat overawed by 
 the young lady opposite. She flushed, and a resentful look 
 shone for a moment from her blue eyes, but she lowered them 
 quickly and began to eat and drink without an effort to resume 
 
 the conversation. 
 
 4 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 SO 
 
 Their silence was broken soon by the clerk, who approached 
 the table with a look of perplexity upon his face. 
 
 “The gentleman is not in his room,” he said, in a low tone, 
 and the start with which Miss Wray received this announce- 
 ment did not pass unnoticed. “ He is not in the house.” Then 
 as the young lady ventured no comment, he asked: “May I 
 trouble you to tell me his name, Miss?” 
 
 “His name?” Miss Wray lifted two surprised eyes to his 
 face. “Is it not upon the register?” 
 
 “You see, Miss,” explained the clerk, “ he did not put down 
 his name at first, and after I had registered for you I called 
 his attention to it. He went to the desk, and while he wrote, 
 something called my attention. I put down his room number 
 very hastily, and he was standing at the desk when I turned 
 away. You were the last arrivals, and as I did not look at 
 the register again I have but just found out that there is no 
 name opposite his number.” 
 
 “No name!” 
 
 “No, Miss; only a blur, as if lie had purposely drawn a 
 blotter across the fresh ink and so obliterated the letters.” 
 Miss Wray’s pale face grew a shade paler. “ I am sorry,” 
 she said, “but I cannot help you. We met the gentleman 
 upon the train, and he proffered his assistance. If he men- 
 tioned his name, I have forgotten it.” 
 
 “He had an in-trod uo — ” began Miss Collins eagerly; but 
 Miss Wray interrupted her by a significant glance. 
 
 “He remarked, I think, that he had business here of a com- 
 mercial nature. Probably he will return soon,” she said. 
 “Will you tell me when the coach from the mountains is 
 due?” 
 
 “ Itfs due now, Miss. But there’s no depending on the 
 
51 
 
 Rockville coaches. What with the bad and the stage 
 
 robbers, they’re uncertain things.” 
 
 “ Are the coaches robbed often, then ?” asked Miss Wray 
 anxiously. 
 
 “ Pretty often of late. They are unsafe things to travel by.” 
 “But there is no other way of reaching Rockville, is there?” 
 “None so near, and none more safe. But you, surely, are 
 not going on to Rockville, Miss? Caledonia is bad enough, 
 but it’s Paradise compared to the mountains. Since the mines 
 have been pushed westward, we’ve got rid of some of our scum, 
 but it’s all up there. Drinking and fighting is their steady 
 business, and it’s a dull day when there isn’t a man killed. 
 Murders don’t happen here every day, for we’ve got a plucky 
 band of Regulators looking after things; but we had one last 
 night, the worst — ” 
 
 “ Charlie !” bawled the head waiter, “Connolley wants you 
 in the office.” 
 
 “Connolley.” The talkative clerk started and turned to 
 go, then looking back he said in a low tone over his shoulder, 
 “ He’s the Chief of the Regulators.” 
 
 When Barbara Wray rose from an almost untouched break- 
 fast, and went slowly up the long, steep flight of stairs that 
 led to the “Parlor floor”, it was with a heavy heart. There 
 was very little stir about the house as yet, so they could hear 
 the hum of voices as they passed the open door of the office, 
 where Charlie and the Chief of the Regulators formed the 
 centre of a small and animated group of men. But there were 
 no loungers about the entrance or in the narrow halls; and 
 while Miss Wray mounted the stairs slowly, her companion 
 walked to the open door and looked out upon the street. 
 
 Half way up the stairs Miss Wray became aware, without 
 
52 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 lifting her eyes, that' some one was standing at the top of the 4 
 flight, waiting there for her to pass, and she hastened her steps, 
 still without glancing up. As she arrived at the top, a quick % 
 exclamation caused her to turn and look at the man who had 
 uttered it. Then she gave a low cry, and put out both her 
 hands. 
 
 “Philip Dalton! Oh, how glad I am!” 
 
 Philip Dalton, a broad-shouldered, fine-looking man, with 
 a grave face, and quiet dignified bearing, took the two small 
 hands in his own big brown ones, and looked at her without 
 speaking. 
 
 “Oh,” said Miss Wray again, “I am so glad to see you; so 
 thankful! Oh, Mr. Dalton, have you seen papa? Do you 
 know where he is?” 
 
 “Miss Wray! I am greatly surprised! How came you 
 here, of all places in the universe?” 
 
 “I came yesterday. I followed papa’s instructions, expect- 
 ing him to meet me here — and — I have not found him.” 
 
 Philip Dalton glanced about him, and then made a step to- 
 ward the open door of the parlor just behind them. 
 
 “Come into the parlor, Miss Wray,” he said. “We can 
 talk there at our ease.” He led her across the threshold and 
 closed the door. “ I am surprised, I am sorry to see you here, 
 alone—” 
 
 “ I am not alone, Mr. Dalton — not quite. I have a com- 
 panion such as she is, and I expected to have my father’s pro- 
 tection. He was to have met me here.” 
 
 “ Do you mean that your father has been here, in Caledonia, 
 recently, Miss Wray?” 
 
 “ Papa left home three months ago,” the girl said tremu- 
 lously. “ He came here direct. He wrote me very often for 
 
 yggj 
 
BA KB ABA. 
 
 m 
 
 the first two or three weeks, and then came a letter informing 
 me that he was about to set out for Rockville. I did not hear 
 from him again for weeks, and was almost beside myself, when 
 a letter came — a very brief one — in which he said that he was 
 ill in Caledonia, and asked me to come to him, as he could 
 not bear the journey home. I secured a companion and came. 
 I arrived yesterday — and — he is not here.” 
 
 (} She checked herself abruptly ; there was a look upon Philip 
 Dalton’s face that made her heart beat fast with fear. “Oh, 
 she cried, all her composure forsaking her, “tell me what has 
 happened to papa ! I cannot bear this suspense!” 
 
 He arose and walked across the room, then came slowly 
 back and stood before her. 
 
 “Miss Wray,” he said gently, “this is no time for evasions. 
 I do not understand your trouble, I don’t know how to advise 
 you, but I have been in Caledonia two months, making during 
 the time two trips to Rockville, and neither here or there 
 have I seen or heard of Mr. Wray.” 
 
 Barbara Wray clasped her hands and rose slowly to her 
 feet. Her eyes were full of horror, her face ghastly. 
 
 “ Oh,” she cried, seeming to address an unseen presence 
 rather than the man before her, “ some terrible tiling has hap- 
 pened him! All my forebodings have come true! My poor 
 father has met with treachery at the hands of some one ! 
 Then suddenly her pallor left her; her face glowed and her 
 brown eyes flashed upon him full of strength and purpose. 
 “Tell me how to act,” she said. “Something must be 
 done. I am here in this wretched place alone, it seems; but 
 I will never leave it in this uncertainty. Tell me what to 
 do.” 
 
 While they stood thus face to face, the door was flung opea, 
 
54 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 and Susan Collins rushed in, her eyes almost starting from 
 their sockets. 
 
 “Miss Wray,” she cried, “the awfullest thing has happened ! 
 it’s just too awful! That handsome man whom you met last 
 night, that Mr. Selwyn, has been .murdered!” 
 
 She seemed not to have noticed the presence of a third per- 
 son ; but having unburdened herself of her dreadful bit of 
 news, she stopped abruptly and gave Mr. Dalton her full at- 
 tention. 
 
 The effect of her announcement must have been satisfactory 
 to herself. She had certainly produced an effect, and a pro- 
 found one. All the light and fire went out of Barbara’s face, 
 and Philip Dalton glared upon her like a man transfixed by 
 some object of horror. 
 
 “Selwyn murdered!” he gasped at last. “Young woman, 
 what do you mean?” 
 
 And then, as he slowly turned his head as if to put a ques- 
 tion to Barbara Wray, he saw that she had fainted. 
 
 
 
 | 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 , ; 
 
 jB W 
 
 PODUNK REMONSTRATES. 
 
 “Quick,” he cried, springing to the side of the prostrate girl 
 and lifting her head gently ; “call for water, and do what you 
 can for this lady.” 
 
 Susan came promptly forward, a look half of regret and 
 half of resentment upon her face. 
 
“Miss Wray, the awfullest thing has happened! It’s just too awful!" 
 
 — Page 54, 
 
 55 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 &6 
 
 “I’ll open a window,” she said coolly; “that’ll revive her.” 
 She suited the action to the word, and let in a draft of crisp 
 morning air. “ She’s coming to already,” she said, going back 
 tnd bending over the fainting girl. “ There won’t be any need 
 )f water, but I guess, if I were you, I’d carry her to the sofa, 
 i reckon she’ll be just as comfortable there when she comes to.” 
 
 In spite of his anxiety, Philip Dalton could not repress a 
 anile; but he acted upon her suggestion, and lifting her slender 
 form in his strong arms, placed it tenderly upon the sofa. 
 
 “There,” said Susan, who seemed quite equal to the emer- 
 gency ; “ now if you’ll just stand back, I’ll fan her a bit. See; 
 she’s beginning to come around.” 
 
 He moved away from the sofa, and noticing the door open, 
 as Susan, in making her hasty entrance, had left it, went for- 
 ward to close it. Hearing heavy feet upon the stairs, he looked 
 out. 
 
 There was a sharp ejaculation, and then an oath, as the two 
 men who were ascending the stairs caught sight of him, and 
 he lifted his hand with a gesture of warning. 
 
 “Hello! Dalton,” called a gruff voice. “Blast my eyes if 
 it ain't him.” 
 
 The two men were now at the top of the stairs, and Dalton 
 stepped out upon the landing and closed the door behind him. 
 
 “Softly, Connolley,” he said; “ a lady has faipted in there. 
 Don’t alarm her afresh.” 
 
 “A lady?” exclaimed the clerk, who was just behind Con- 
 nolley. “ Why, it must be the young lady who just came up 
 from breakfast.” 
 
 “ It is,” Dalton replied briefly. And then, seeing the eye 
 of the Chief of the Regulators fixed upon him with k$e« 
 scrutiny he said j “ What is it, Connolley 
 
PODUNK REMONSTRATES * 
 
 57 
 
 “You’re wanted down at Mack's,” said Connolley shortly. 
 “I!” In his momentary concern for Miss Wray, he had 
 forgotten the cause of her sudden illness, and now it flashed 
 back upon his memory. But, still mindful of her, he only 
 added: “What for?” 
 
 Connolley’s eyes were searching his face, and his look was 
 sombre. 
 
 i “ You’ll know soon enough,” the Regulator said gloomily. 
 “Where have you been all the morning?” 
 
 “In my bed, of course,” replied Dalton promptly. “What 
 has happened, Connolley ? It must be something important 
 to take me away from my breakfast.” 
 
 “Bother your breakfast ! You’ve had as much breakfast 
 as I have.” 
 
 “All right, Captain. Come down stairs and say your say.” 
 Without waiting fora reply Dalton stepped quietly past the 
 two men and went down stairs. 
 
 “Confound you, Connolley,” muttered Charlie in the ear 
 of the Regulator, “that don’t look much like guilt! I don’t 
 believe Phil Dalton knows what has happened.” 
 
 “ Save your breath, Tenderfoot,” growled Connolley, hurry* 
 ing after Dalton. “We’ll know, blamed soon.” 
 
 Dalton, without looking back, passed into the office, where 
 several men were now lounging, none of them habitues of the 
 house, but all, as he noted with some inward surprise, with 
 one exception, members of the Regulators. The exception 
 was apparantly the most unconcerned man among them ; and 
 the only one who did not manifest tokens of interest, or in- 
 dignation upon the appearance of Dalton. 
 
 “W there’s Anything that I dislike more’n another,” he was 
 sayiug-as Dalton appeared in the doorway, “it’s havin’ oneV 
 
58 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 them little guns pin ted at me. One time, when I was diggin 5 
 in Gaily wharf canyon — well, I ? ll be sizzled !” 
 
 One of his listeners, who stood with his face toward the 
 door through which Dalton came, had uttered a sharp sound 
 not unlike the quick, single chirp of a small wood bird, and 
 instantly every eye was withdrawn from Podunk and turned 
 toward the door; seeing which Podunk looked too. 
 
 Dalton, who knew the sound to be a signal of the Regula- 
 tors, stopped and glanced about him; and noting that Con- 
 nolley was close behind, and the attention of all concentrated 
 upon himself, he waited- to give them the first word. 
 
 “ Hello !” cried the Captain of the Regulators, as his eyes 
 fell upon Podunk, “you’ve turned up too, have you?” 
 
 “ I ain’t never been lost, as I knows of,” retorted Podunk 
 with a grin. 
 
 “Oh, you didn’t sneak out of Mack’s when nobody was 
 lookin’, did ye?” 
 
 “ Not as I knows of. I ivallced out, when I got ready to. 
 Don’t know as there is any law agin it.” 
 
 “ Didn’t you hear the word passed, that every man was to 
 stay there till the Coroner come ?” demanded Connolley. 
 
 Podunk scratched his head and seemed making a conscien- 
 tious effort to remember something. 
 
 “’Pears to me I did, come to think of it,” he said, as if not 
 quite certain. 
 
 “ Then why in thunder didn’t you stay ?” roared Connolley. 
 
 “ ’Cause I thought I’d stayed long enough. If Pd known 
 how much store ye set by me, I might o’ tarried. Did ye 
 miss me dreadfully, boss ?” 
 
 Connolley muttered an oath ; and turned his back upon the 
 unconcerned fellow. 
 
PODUNK REMONSTRATES. 
 
 59 
 
 “Dalton,” he said, with a touch of something like courtesy 
 in his manner, “I ’spose you know what’s happened?” 
 
 “You are in error, Connolley. What has happened? 
 Something wrong at Mack’s, I think you said.” 
 
 The Regulators looked from one to the other, and while 
 they hesitated, the clerk came close to Dalton and said in a low 
 tone. 
 
 “ Dalton, somebody has shot Duke Selwyn.” 
 
 “Shot him! when? where? Is that why you want me at 
 Mack’s, Connolley ? How did it happen ? Is he seriously 
 hurt?” 
 
 “ Hurt !” It was Podunk who took up the word. * “ No, he 
 ain’t hurt; he’s dead.” 
 
 “ At Mack’s?” questioned Dalton, his eyes now fixed upon 
 Podunk. 
 
 “ Yes,” broke in Charlie, the clerk ; “ they’ve carried him 
 to Mack’s. Oh, you needn’t glower at me, Connolley. Dal- 
 ton’s going to have fair warning and fair play. You and 
 your Regulators are organized to hunt stage robbers ; you 
 don’t constitute a judge and a jury. You and Mack have put 
 your heads together, and mean to accuse Dalton ; but you ain’t 
 the men that’ll conduct the inquiry ; Mitchell knows his busi- 
 ness, I reckon. Dalton, these men,” running his eye from 
 one to the other, “ seven of them, have come here to escort you 
 to Mack’s, and confront you with the body ; they wanted to 
 make it a surprise.” 
 
 Dalton’s face was very pale but his voice was quite calm 
 when he said : “Charlie, you’re a good fellow. As for these 
 gentleman, I’m greatly obliged to them.” 
 
 “ Now, Mr. Charlie,” cried Podunk, coming toward them, 
 “you’re a well-meanin’ chap, and I ain’t going to lay it up 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEHYo 
 
 agin you, but you’ve told one confounded lie. You’ve counted 
 one nose too many. I didn’t come here to act as body guard, 
 and I ain’t agoin’ to. If this ere gentleman likes my looks, 
 and wants my society, all right ; I go. If not , all right ; I 
 don’t go.” 
 
 “See here, stranger,” said Connolley wrathfully, “I begin 
 to think you’ll need a good deal of watchin’.” 
 
 “That’s what my mother alius said,” replied Podunk 
 promptly; “and ’tain’t for me to dispute either one of ye.” 
 Connolley was a rough man, none too sympathetic, and in- 
 clined to cling doggedly to his own opinions ; but he was 
 honest, he meant to be just, and had been chosen Chief of the 
 Regulators because of his untiring zeal in any cause he might 
 espouse, and of his lion-like courage. He saw that his men 
 were amused at the cool drollery of the eccentric Podunk, 
 and he was himself impressed by the manner of Dalton. 
 
 “Mr. Dalton,” he said slowly, “you know me and my men; 
 they don’t generally bite before they bark. It’s understood 
 at Mack’s, and amongst us, that you and Selwyn had hot 
 words last night, and that you left the place early, in a rage. 
 Selwyn and Aileen Lome went from Mack’s together, after 
 the performance ; and half an hour later, Selwyn was found 
 dead in one of Smith’s cellars. Mack sent Piper for you 
 almost immediately, and you ivasn’t to be found. Now, as 
 Charlie here says, we ain’t neither judge nor jury, but we’re 
 about the only perlice that Caledonia, has got, and it’s our 
 business to see that ye appear before Mitchell, an’ tell what 
 ye know about this affair. The inquest ’ll open up in half an 
 hour, and it’ll probably be a long one.” 
 
 Philip Dalton was not slow of apprehension, and he saw 
 his position clearly, even before Connolley had ended his 
 
 IS 
 
PODTJNK REMONSTRATES. 
 
 61 
 
 harangue. He was already a suspected man ; in twenty-four 
 hours he might be a man accused ; and he knew what that 
 would mean in Caledonia. Keenly alive to his situation, he 
 was still outwardly as calm as if nothing had occurred to ruffle 
 his composure. 
 
 “I’m glad to hear you talk so reasonably, Connolley,” he 
 said ; “ and I am ready to go with you. If Duke Selwyn has 
 met with foul play, you can’ t be more anxious than I am to 
 see justice done. Come, we have wasted time enough.” 
 
 “Look here, Dalton,” broke in the friendly clerk, “ are you 
 going to set out for a siege like this without a mouthful of 
 breakfast to hold you up ? I guess Mitchell can wait ; if he 
 can’t — ” 
 
 “Charlie,” interrupted Dalton, “I appreciate your thought- 
 fulness; but I am anxious to^see for myself how it has fared 
 with poor Selwyn. I can get a bite at Mack’s, you know. 
 But wait a moment, Connolley ; I must speak to the lady 
 upstairs.” _ 
 
 The little band of Regulators had gathered in a group about 
 the entrance, and they stared at one another, amazed at his 
 coolness, when he turned abruptly, went out into the hall 
 and up the stairs. 
 
 He found Susan Collins standing just outside the parlor-door, 
 straining her ear to catch a word from below; and as she was 
 about to reenter the parlor, he detained her. 
 
 “My good girl,” he said, “just stand here a moment and 
 keep an eye on those men down stairs, won’t you? I want 
 to speak with Miss Wray without interruption.” 
 
 Before the girl could frame a reply he brushed past her, en* 
 tered the parlor, and closed the door. 
 
 “ Well, of all the cheek!” muttered Susan, And staightwajf 
 
62 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERYo 
 
 she dropped upon one knee, and applied her eye to the key- 
 hole. She could see that Miss Wray sat in a low chair beside 
 the window, and that Philip Dalton stood near, bending to- 
 ward her, speaking rapidly. Then the eye was withdrawn, 
 and an ear glued to the small opening. For some moments 
 she remained in this position, and then, a movement below 
 attracting her attention, she attempted a difficult feat ; her face 
 was toward the stairway, and while she listened she also 
 watched. 
 
 Possibly this double effort was somewhat confusing, or her 
 interest for the moment may have centered in what was pass- 
 ing before her eyes. Be this as it may, while she looked she 
 forgot to listen, and, the parlor door opening suddenly, she 
 found herself confronted by Philip Dalton and Barbara Wray, 
 in the very act and attitude of an eavesdropper. 
 
 “So,” ejaculated Dalton, his face showing the contempt he 
 felt, “you were listening !” 
 
 The girl colored scarlet and scrambled to her feet, her eyes 
 instinctively seeking the face of Miss Wray. But that young 
 lady favored her with one scornful glance, and turned to 
 Philip Dalton. 
 
 “ Good-by, Mr. Dalton,” she said, extending her hand. 
 “ Seeing how you can bear trials has given me strength to face 
 my own. Whatever comes of this, you are sure of my friend- 
 ship and sympathy, and I am glad to know that you are 
 near me.” 
 
 Fie held her hand for a moment, bowed gravely over it, 
 and, without a word, hurried down the stairs. 
 
 He found Connolley in the hall below, and two or three of 
 his men grouped in the doorway. 
 
 “Patience, Connolley,” he said, and passing through the 
 

 PODtJNK REMONSTRATES . 
 
 63 
 
 group about the door approached the desk, where the clerk 
 was making a pretense of writing. “ Charlie/* he said, in a 
 low tone, “ the lady upstairs is- an old acquaintance. She is 
 in trouble, and alone. If you can render her any service, in 
 case I do not come back, you will be amply repaid.** 
 
 Charlie looked up, and as their eyes met he extended his 
 hand. 
 
 “ There you are, Dalton,** lie said. “ 1*11 stand by you, and 
 the young lady may command me. 1*11 go and place myself 
 at her disposal immediately, if you wish.** 
 
 “Do so, Charlie, and thank you. Now, Connolley.** 
 While they were speaking, the man Podunk was leaning 
 against the office desk, apparently wrapped in meditation ; and 
 as they moved toward the entrance Connolley called put : 
 
 “ Say you, Podunk, ain*t you coming along ?** 
 
 “ I don*t know,** said Podunk shifting his position care- 
 lessly. “ The society*ll be purty good here after you*re gone. 
 Don*t you be so anxious about me ; you ain*t my mother. 1*11 
 be there afore I*m wanted, you hear me.** 
 
 When Philip Dalton passed down the stairs, Barbara Wray 
 walked to the window, and leaning her forehead against the 
 pane stood motionless until she had seen him go down the 
 street, 'walking firmly and with head erect, while Connolley 
 and the Regulators followed shamefacedly at his heels. When 
 they were out of sight she turned and confronted her com- 
 panion. 
 
 “ Miss Collins,** she said firmly, “ if you will name a sum 
 that will indemnify you for your time and expense in coming 
 here with me, I will pay it, and pay your passage home. I 
 have no further need of your services.** 
 
64 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “I’d like to know why — ” began the girl. 
 
 Barbara put up a hand to check her speech. 
 
 “ You cannot remain with me/’ she said decidedly. “You 
 have convinced me of you unfitness. We will not discuss the 
 matter. Be so good as to secure another room and take your 
 baggage from mine. I will remain here until it is done.” 
 
 She turned and reseated herself by the window, but she 
 was not to have the last word. Susan, who was standing at 
 bay in the centre of the room, turned and flounced to the door. 
 
 “ Oh, I’ll go fast enough,” she said in a voice that was husky 
 with rage. “ I ain’t anxious to stay with you, anyway. I 
 only wanted to get here, and I’ve done it. That’s all I care 
 about. I didn’t mean to hang around you long. I’m as glad 
 to be quit as you are.” 
 
 When the Regulators, with the man whom they already con- 
 sidered their prisoner, had passed out of sight, and Charlie 
 and Podunk were quite alone in the office, the latter broke 
 out. 
 
 “Wall, if there’s anything on this earth that’s mean, it’s 
 shootin’ a man in the back. I tell ye I wouldn’t like to be in 
 that fellow’s shoes. You just bet I wouldn’t walk off ahead 
 of a gang like that.” 
 
 “What would you do?” asked Charlie carelessly. 
 
 “ I’d jest whip out my two Colt’s, shut my eyes and shoot 
 ’em off, and then leg it for the mountains.” 
 
 “ Umph !” sniffed Charlie, “you’d raise thunder, wouldn’t 
 you ? But you are taking it for granted that Dalton is guilty.” 
 
 “Great snakes ! don’t you s’pose he is?” 
 
 “No, sir, I don’t, and I won’t! He’s in a bad box, not a 
 doubt of it ; but he never shot Selwyn any more that I did. 
 
TOmmC HEMOHSTHAl^. 
 
 65 
 
 He^s a whiter man than Duke Selwyn ever was !” 
 
 “ Wal, I’ll be sizzled ! How opinions do differ, don’t they! 
 Why, down there” — nodding in the direction of Mack V - 
 “ they carry the notion that the dead feller was about th^only 
 pure-blooded white man that ever struck the territory.” 
 
 a May the mischief take ’em!” cried Charlie in a rage. 
 “Mack, indeed! Duke Selwyn was his backer, and the 
 backer of half the gambling hells in Caledonia, that’s what he 
 was. He was too fine a gentleman to dirty his hands with 
 the pasteboards, and he kept his operations hidden, but 1 
 know the man. Back in the States he was a boss gambler.” 
 Charlie checked himself suddenly and looked suspiciously 
 at Podunk. But that genius met his gaze with a face of per- 
 fect candor, and only said in a low tone, as if to himself : 
 
 “ Wal, I’ll be sizzled!” Then after a moment’s silence he 
 suddenly asked : “ Say, what makes them Regulators call you 
 Tenderfoot f* 
 
 Charlie flushed, but replied promptly : “ Because I’ve not 
 been here long enough to have become as hard as a brickbat. 
 I can’t drink so much, nor swear so fluently, as the rest. I’ve 
 got a little respect left for women, and decency, and I haven’t 
 killed a man yet. There !” — flinging himself out of his chair 
 with an angry jerk, for Dalton’s misfortunes had put him 
 thoroughly out of temper— “ I’m going to look after the young 
 lady. You can go back to Mack’s, and tell them what I have 
 said, if you w T ant to.” 
 
 Podunk yawned and stretched himself. 
 
 “ Thank’ee,” he said coolly, “ mebbe I will.” 
 
 He moved toward the outer door, while Charlie, without so 
 much as a glance in his direction, went out of the office and 
 fcp the stairs. 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTEEY. 
 
 “Podunk,” said that genius to himself as he turned' his 
 face toward Mack’s, “I shouldn’t wonder if that feller 
 would do.” 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 RUNNING THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 At midnight, of the same twenty-four hours that were Duke 
 Selwyn’s last on earth, a low-bodied, heavy-wheeled, rattling 
 stage-coach was rapidly crossing a level stretch of land that 
 lay at the foot of the last and lowest mountain range to the 
 west of Caledonia. It was eastward bound, and carried four 
 inside passengers, while a fifth, muftled to the chin to keep 
 out the chill mountain wind/sat erect upon the box beside the 
 driver. 
 
 It was the Rockville stage, carrying the mail, and a moderate 
 K treasure” belonging to one of the miners within. It had 
 had a good passage thus far, and the occupants of the inside 
 were congratulating themselves. 
 
 “We ain’t so far from Caledonia as we might be,” sagely 
 remarked one of the four — a “ bust up” miner, journeying 
 homeward with just enough money in his pocket to pay his 
 passage. 
 
 “We’re further than 1 wish we was,” grumbled the miner 
 who escorted his treasure eastward. “ I don’t believe in hol- 
 lain’ till we are out of the woods.” 
 
 The two remaining passengers, “ tourists” from the East, 
 
BUNNING THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 67 
 
 who had visited Rockville to see what they might, and witfe 
 a view to speculation should a favorable opportunity offer, but 
 who were returning from their tour very much as they came 
 — roused themselves from recumbent attitudes, and one of 
 them asked : 
 
 “How far are we now from Caledonia?” 
 
 “ Fifteen miles, I reckon,” said the broken-down miner j 
 “ maybe eighteen.” 
 
 “We're just this side of Death Pass,” said the miner with 
 the treasure, “ and I wish we were t'other side.” 
 
 “ So do I,” said the tourist who had not before spoken. “I 
 remember the place when we came west — an ugly road even 
 by daylight.” 
 
 “ But it's near town,” said the other tourist. “ It can't be 
 more than ten miles.” 
 
 “ Twelve,” corrected the impoverished miner. 
 
 “ I wish it was only two,” muttered his luckier neighbor, 
 y I'd rather meet a stage robber anywhere along the line than in 
 Death Pass.” 
 
 “ Why ?” asked the other. 
 
 “ Why ! 'Cause it's the most perfect ambush ; and the worst 
 things have happened there.” 
 
 “ What has happened there ?” asked one of the tourists. 
 
 “Robberies and murder, and once, when the route was first 
 laid, a woman was carried off to the mountains and held for 
 ransom.” 
 
 “Pooh !” said the miner who had nothing to lose, “there 
 ain't been a robber in the Pass for three months. It's back 
 there, higher up, that you need to look out. I tell you we've 
 been mighty lucky to git down the mountains. with our ap* 
 
 petites all hunkey.” 
 
68 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEHY. 
 
 u Hello !” exclaimed the younger of the tourists, as tha 
 stage came to a sudden halt, “what are we stopping for 
 driver?” 
 
 “ Nothin’,” replied the driver, as he clambered down from 
 his box, “only I want to look over the tacklin’ a bit. We’re 
 cornin’ to a rough piece of road, and I don’t want to take any 
 chances if there should be a little strain on any of the gearin’.” 
 “Umph!” grunted the anxious miner, “that means we’re 
 cornin’ to Death Pass.” 
 
 “ Why, yes,” said the driver, flashing his lantern about 
 among the wheels, “ that’s what we’re cornin’ to, sure as you’re 
 alive. Ain’t afeard, are ye?” 
 
 To this the miner returned an indignant denial, and leaned 
 out of the opposite window to peer through the gloom at the 
 outside passenger, who had dropped lightly to the ground, and 
 new stood stretching his limbs and swinging his arms as if he 
 enjoyed the exercise. There was a feeble, rapidly waning 
 moon, and they could dimly distinguish each other’s forms 
 through the darkness. 
 
 “I wish we could have a little more moon,” said the miner. 
 “ Or fewer clouds,” responded the tall outside passenger. 
 And then, as the driver passed him and began to examine the 
 harness, he came. close to the window and said in a low tone: 
 “I hope you are well armed, gentlemen?” 
 
 There was a chorus of responses in the affirmative, while 
 one of the tourists asked anxiously : 
 
 “Do you anticipate trouble, sir?” 
 
 “Oh, no ; but we are approaching the scene of previous at- 
 tacks, and a wise man is on his guard, you know. I think 
 we are safe enough but in case of attack don’t be slow to use 
 your weapons. All ready, driver? So am X,” 
 
POBUNK REMONSTRATES. 
 
 69 
 
 He mounted to his place with a quick, springing movement 
 that caused the driver to say : “ Well, you are tolerable lim- 
 ber;” and in a moment they were again under way. 
 
 “Yes,” said the outside passenger, “Ihn accustomed to use 
 my legs.” 
 
 “And how about your arms?” 
 
 “I don’t think they are quite paralyzed. Hello! how 
 suddenly one comes upon the timber.” 
 
 They were making a descent into a narrow gorge, and at 
 its foot was the belt of timber through which, for two miles, 
 the road wound in and out. ^ 
 
 “Yes,” said the driver, shutting up his lantern and putting 
 it between his knees, “ we’re almost into the Pass.” 
 
 “Why do you shut your lantern here ? ^ This road is rough 
 enough to need illumination.” 
 
 “You see,” said the driver in a half whisper, “if the stage 
 stoppers should happen to give us a surprise party, the lantern 
 would show. ’em just where to shoot. I don’t want to be hit — 
 do you ?” 
 
 “Not exactly; but it would tell us where to shoot, too, 
 wouldn’t it ?” 
 
 The driver leaned forward and touched up one of his 
 horses. 
 
 “ I never seen a young feller, full of vim and with a pistol 
 in his pocket, that didn’t talk big about shootin’ before he got 
 a chance,” he said dryly. “ But they hardly ever come to 
 
 time.” 
 
 “Well,” said his passenger good naturedly, “that don’t ap- 
 ply to me. I haven’t a pistol in my pocket.” 
 
 “What! You travel these roads and ain’t got a pistol?” 
 “ Not in my pocket.” 
 
70 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEEY. 
 
 “ Oh, it’s in yer sachel. Well, that’s Tenderfoot all over S 
 But I reckon it wouldn’t matter much. If we should meet 
 die foot pads, you just take my advice and fling up your fists 
 when they tell you to.” 
 
 “I will,” said his listener quietly , “and what would 
 you do ?” 
 
 “Oh, I know what Td do. Don’t you worry about me. 
 
 I’d take care of myself to the best of my ability. But I guess 
 we’re safe for this time. We are pretty well on our way 
 through the Pass, and I don’t see nothing ahead. It ain’t be- 
 cause I’m blind either. I can peek a good ways through the 
 dark ; it’s all in the trainin’.” 
 
 He did not turn his head as he spoke. He was bending 
 slightly forward, whip, and reinswell in hand, and his feet 
 firmly braced, and he could not see that the young man by his 
 side was also leaning forward, and that his two keen eyes were 
 peering into the darkness. Suddenly the coach swung around 
 a slight curve, and they came in sight of an opening in the 
 timber. The road across it was narrow and hedged about by 
 rocks and underbrush, but there were no trees for the space 
 of a few rods, and, as if to aid their vision, the moon showed 
 half her face beneath a veil of cloud. i 
 
 Suddenly the driver drew himself erect, and, tightening the 
 reins, chirruped to his horses. At the same moment the young 
 man bent down, and catching one hand in the rail at the side 
 of the box, swung himself half round like an acrobat, so that 
 his head was close to the window nearest him. 
 
 “Quick!” -said he, in a sharp whisper, “out with your 
 weapons!*” And then, as the horses plunged forward at a 
 gallop, he swung himself back and sat erect beside the driver. 
 The hand by which he had supported himself slipped into a 
 
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 n 
 
 pocket of his loose top coat and came out again, and he sat 
 moveless, gazing straight ahead. 
 
 A few more plunges of the horses, a few more revolutions 
 of the wheels, and then both driver and passenger could plainly 
 distinguish a number of dark, moveless forms drawn up on 
 either side of the road. 
 
 Still the driver held tight his reins, and said never a w r ord. 
 When they were almost abreast of the sentinel-like figures, a 
 loud, clear voice called out. 
 
 “ Halt, or we fire !” 
 
 Instantly the driver uttered a loud yell, and the long whip, 
 held ready in his hand, fell furiously upon the backs of the 
 already galloping horses. 
 
 “Halt!” cried the voice again. 
 
 Again the whip fell, the driver shouted to' the now frantic 
 beasts, and the coach was opposite the double line of men™ 
 was dashing, rumbling and swaying down the Pass! 
 
 And now the young man upon the box starts into action, 
 just as a third command rings out, accompanied by a pistol 
 shot that whizzes close to the driver's head. As they whirl 
 past the shadowy forms, he lifts two steady hands, each hold- 
 ing a revolver, and fires two shots at the figures nearest him. 
 Then, as they dash on, he turns upon the seat, throws himself 
 across* the top of the coach, and send s s two more balls back 
 among the enemy. 
 
 These two last shots are followed by a scream and a groan ; 
 there is no sound of pursuit, and the coach dashes on around 
 a second curve. They have run the gauntlet, and escaped 
 from the robbers; but now the horses, maddened and terrified* 
 iiave broken from the control of the driver] They are run^ 
 fling away ! 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 n 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN OVATION TO A TENDERFOOT. 
 
 Barbara Wray had resumed her seat by the parlor window. 
 Charlie the clerk, bent upon his chivalrous errand, had just 
 set foot upon the top stair, and Podunk had taken one step in 
 the direction of the Varieties, when the Rockville stage rattled 
 up to the door of the St. Charles. 
 
 It was mud-bespattered, and bore traces of recent mishap. 
 There had been a breakdown, and a serious one, if an observer 
 might judge from the splintered panels, broken springs, and 
 sundry temporary repairs to vehicle and harness in the shape 
 of knots of rope, lashings of leather, and bits of string. As 
 if this were not enough to fix the attention of all Caledonia, 
 the foam-flecked, panting horses were driven to the door by a 
 handsome young man, dressed in the garments of civilization, 
 and wearing gloves , while the lawful Jehu of the stage sat be- 
 side him with his arm in a sling. 
 
 The sight of the stage arrested the footsteps of Podunk, who 
 stared at the indifferent young man upon the box. And the 
 sound of its rattling wheels caused Charlie to turn at the head 
 of the stairs, and rush down, three steps at a time. 
 
 The street had seemed almost deserted, but no sooner did 
 the stage appear than it came to life, and before the young 
 man upon the box had fairly set his feet upon terra Jirma , 
 the vehicle was surrounded, and a fusillade of questions was 
 poured out upon the driver. 
 
As they dash on he sends two more balls back among ttie enemy 1 
 
 ■Page 71. 
 
 73 
 
T4 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 The young man, who had thrown aside the reins, moved 
 a little away from the crowd, turned back the collar of his grey 
 top coat, and lifted his hat from his head to pass a handker- 
 chief across his brow. As he did this his* eyes were turned 
 toward the house, and lifted in a sweeping glance, and this 
 glance encountered another, that of a pale faced, lovely girl, 
 who, meeting his gaze, flushed and quickly drew back from 
 the window. 
 
 “ Hello ! Timotheus,” called Charlie, running down the 
 steps and elbowing his way through the crowd, “ what’s hap- 
 • pened to you ?” 
 
 The miners and the two tourists had scrambled out, and 
 were being eagerly scrutinized by the lookers on, but the 
 driver still sat upon his box, wearing a look of grave impor- 
 tance. The appearance of Charlie and his question seemed to 
 afford him the fitting opportunity for which he had waited, 
 and he turned toward the crowd, waving his uninjured hand 
 above his head and bringing it down until it pointed directly 
 to the young man who had lately vacated one half the stage 
 box. ■ 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said he loftily, “ allow me to pint out to ye 
 the only man I know of that ain’t afraid of stage robbers.” ; 
 And with this severe hit at his inside passengers, the driver ; 
 let himself slowly and carefully down to the ground. 
 
 Barbara Wray, had drawn back from the window but she 
 could still see the movement of the arm, and she impulsively 
 bent forward again to discover the man indicated. It was easy 
 to identify the redoubtable personage, for every eye was turned 
 toward him; and then there was a tumult of voices, eager 
 questions, and rapid answers. She could hear enough to as- 
 sure her that the stage had been attacked, and that the hand- 
 
AN OVATION TO A TENDERFOOT. 
 
 T8 
 
 some, careless-looking stranger had been the hero of the oc- 
 casion. 
 
 The driver was not disposed to be communicative, and hur- 
 ried away to care for his lame and bruised arm, while some 
 one led otf the tired horses. But the crowd remained gathered 
 about the unlucky miner, who seemed to have ample leisure, 
 and from him they heard the story of the attack. 
 
 “It’s my opinion/’ said the- narrator, in conclusion, “that 
 we could a-walloped them critters like a book, if Tim u’d 
 given us a show. There ain’t a minit’s doubt but that the 
 young feller hit two of ’em where it hurt ; an’ if Tim had 
 stopped the coach — but no, he jist laid on the whip, and the 
 first Thing we knew we was flyin’ down the Pass, and the 
 horses was runnin’ away. The next thing we knowed, over 
 we went. When we picked ourselves up, the young feller 
 was as handy as ever. He helped Tim and the rest of us 
 with a good will, and then took the ribbons like an old stager.” 
 
 “Hurrah for the stranger,” shouted an enthusiast in the 
 crowd. And, “ Where is he?” “ Let’s see him-!” was the cry. 
 
 The young man had quietly secured his small valise, and 
 gone with Charlie into the office; and into this sanctuary the 
 lion hunters followed him. 
 
 “You’d better go out, sir,” the clerk said in a low tone. 
 “They’re bent on having a look at you.” 
 
 The young man laughed and turned toward the entrance ; 
 seeing which, the crowd fell back and greeted him with another 
 cheer, as he stood in the doorway, three or four steps above 
 them. 
 
 He lifted his hat from his head with a careless, graceful 
 gesture, and there was a twinkle of humor in his dark, hand- 
 some eyes as he looked down upon them. 
 
*76 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 He was tall and finely formed, and in every movement 
 there spoke the man of the world, and the natural leader. 
 There was dignity and ease in all that he did ; and an habit- 
 ual gravity impressed upon every feature, save the eyes, where 
 laughter sometimes lurked, even when the mouth was severe. 
 Indeed, those eyes were so changeful, so full of expression, 
 that they spoke when the lips were mute, and mirrored, when 
 not controlled by a powerful will, Jus every mood. His 
 features were dark, and almost faultless in their regu- 
 larity; and there clung about him such an air of distinc- 
 tion, there was, between himself and the men before him, 
 so marked a contrast in dress and bearing, as called forth 
 a smile from Charlie, who stood at a window, an interested 
 observer. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said the stranger, m a slow musical voice, 
 “ your appreciation is gratifying, but misplaced. You should 
 bestow it upon the driver, who brought us through so gal- 
 lantly. My shots were fired at random. If the fellows had 
 succeededin stopping the coach, I presume I should have thrown 
 up my hands like any other Tenderfoot. However, walk in, 
 gentlemen, and tell our friend Charlie, here, the name of your 
 favorite beverage.” 
 
 There was a yell of approval from the crowd, and a look 
 of disappointment, almost disgust, upon the fair face of the 
 unseen listener at the window above. The speaker withdrew 
 into the office, the crowd poured in after him, and Charlie be- 
 came active behind the bar. 
 
 While the crowd was drinking the health of the liberal 
 stranger, Podunk elbowed his way to the spot where he stood, 
 and extended a hand. 
 
 « Stranger, shake !” he said affably. “ I like your style 
 
AN INQUISITIVE JURYMAN. 
 
 7 ? 
 
 sizzle me if I don’t ! If you wasn’t so darned slick you might 
 pass for a regular out and outer. Shake.” 
 
 At the first word the young man gave an almost impercepti- 
 ble start, and then a look of swift intelligence passed from eye 
 to eye, and their hands met with a significant pressure. 
 
 And now the inside passengers came in for their share of 
 attention from the children of nature, who were swift to ap- 
 plaud the strong and torment the weak, and the two. tourists 
 were glad to purchase immunity from their jests at the expense 
 of a round of drinks each. At the second round, and while 
 they were gathered about the unlucky tourists with much "noise 
 and hilarity, the stranger and Podunk stood for a moment 
 aloof from the rest. 
 
 “Dick,” said the stranger in an undertone, “what have you 
 struck .?” 
 
 “ Trouble,” answered Podunk in the same cautious manner. 
 “ There’s an inquest just opened at Mack’s Varieties that I 
 want you to attend. There’s work here for somebody.” 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AN INQUISITIVE JURYMAN. 
 
 Whatever else Caledonia lacked, and she lackd many things 
 that were numbered among the necessities of civilization, she 
 possessed an honest and efficient coroner. 
 
 It had occurred to many to wonder how such a man as 
 Doctor Mitchell came to bestow himself and his talents upon 
 this frontier town. He was grave, reserved, studious ; there 
 
78 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 was in him no indication of the spirit of the adventurer, none 
 of the enthusiasm of the frontiersman, who pushes always 
 westward and sees ever upon the distant horizon the long- 
 sought for new land, flowing with milk and honey. 
 
 He came when Caledonia was in its incipiency, and the I 
 mines near the town were promising fortunes to the industri- 
 ous seeker. But he did not so much as visit the mines until he 
 had built for himself a primitive cottage — with office in front, 
 and kitchen, bedroom and hall in the rear — and hung out the 
 tin sign, brought with him from the East, and showing proof 
 of much service and exposure to the weather, upon which was 
 inscribed : 
 
 DOCTOR JOHN MITCHELL, 
 PHYSICIAN & SURGEON. 
 
 But whatever the motive which brought him to Caledonia, 
 Doctor J ohn Mitchell had made for himself a place among ! 
 the Caledonians. He might almost be said to be the only in- 
 habitant of that turbulent town who had commanded the re- 
 spectful consideration of all classes, for, while there were a 
 hundred hands ready and apt at setting blood a flowing, there 1 
 was but one man who could successfully dress a dangerous I 
 wound, or carry a miner through a fever; and that one was ! 
 Doctor Mitchell. 
 
 Added to this, he had no curiosity, and, seemingly, no 
 prejudices. He never asked questions, except in his official j 
 capacity, and never proffered advice. He never drank in the 
 saloons, nor played cards in the gambling houses ; but he had 
 no criticism for those who did. Indeed his tall gaunt form 
 and iron grey head was occasionally seen behind some gam- 
 bler’s chair, or serenely overlooking a saloon fight. Once he 
 

 
 :k, what have you struck?” ‘‘Troublcr answered Poduuk.— Page T 
 
80 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 had been known to witness, with perfect equanimity, a knife 
 contest between two miners who had been mutually cheating 
 at cards, and mutually discovered; and to refuse to interfere 
 until one of the two was hors de combat , when he promptly 
 and silently dressed the wounds, and then with equal silence 
 and promptitude left this place. 
 
 The Doctor’s eccentricities were well known to all Cale- 
 donia, and they invested him with peculiar interest. But 
 whatever may have been his motive for adopting so neutral, 
 and, to his townsmen, satisfactory a line of conduct, it assur- 
 edly did not originate in an excess of caution, for he had 
 more than once proved, upon occasion, that he feared no man. 
 
 But neutral as he may have been in his private character^ 
 he showed himself sufficiently active and efficient as Coroner 
 to Caledonia ; and he had taken the reins at Mack’s, and set 
 all things moving at an early hour. 
 
 To select a jury, however, was a work of time ; and, in spite 
 of Connolley’s announcement to the contrary, the jury was 
 not yet chosen at ten o’clock. When it was complete it num- 
 bered among its members Podunk and the elder of the lately ; 
 arrived tourists, who, with the rest of Caledonia, had flocked 
 to Mack’s. ; 
 
 The first official act of Doctor Mitchell was to order a dis- 
 continuance of proceedings at the bar ; and with better grace 
 than might have been anticipated, Mack prepared and sus- 
 pended before his shrine this placard : 
 
 N B. No drinks to be had at this bar during the proceed- 
 ings of the Coroner’s inquest MACK. 
 
 Before calling his first witness, Doctor Mitchell addressed 
 the jurymen. 
 
AN INQUISITIVE JURYMAN, 
 
 81 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” he said, “ this inquiry must be a thorough 
 one, and therefore will of necessity be long, perhaps tedious. 
 Some of you are more or less strangers, and should it seem to 
 you that you can obtain more light, and clearer ideas, upon 
 any feature of the subject in hand by putting such questions 
 to the witnesses as I may omit, because of my better knowledge 
 or for any other reason, you are at liberty to interrogate—* 
 first, of course, making your wishes known to me.” 
 
 “D’ye mean,” queried Podunk with the air of a candid and 
 well-meaning individual, /bent upon doing his duty and un- 
 derstanding his position, “ that we kin cross question the wit* 
 nesses when we don’t quite see the pint ?” 
 
 “You can question the witnesses, when I have done with 
 them, if yen choose.” 
 
 “Thaniree,” said Podunk with fervor. 
 
 The Regulators, with Connolly in command, were at hand, 
 and busied themselves in keeping the promiscuous crowd back, 
 as far as possible, from the inner room, where the body of 
 Duke Selwyn still lay outstretched upon the gaming table, 
 and where the Coroner, his jury, and the more important wit- 
 nesses were seated. 
 
 Billy Piper was the first witness called, and he told how he, 
 in company with the two girls, La Belle Florine and Stella 
 Aubrey, had heard Selwyn’s dying groans ; and, afterwards, 
 aided by Mountain Mag’s lantern, found the body in the 
 cellar. He told his story simply, and in so clear a manner 
 that the Coroner scarcely found room for a question; and 
 having ascertained, as nearly as Billy could guess, the precise 
 time when they left Mack’s and arrived opposite the cellars, 
 the first witness was dismissed. 
 
 Stella Aubrey then came forward, and her story was much 
 
82 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 the same. She was a tired, hollow-eyed young woman, as 
 seen divested of her stage rouge and tinsel, and she seemed 
 little troubled as to what those about her might think of her 
 daylight ensemble She was carelessly, even shabbily dressed, 
 and she told her story languidly, as if anxious to get it over. 
 
 “When Margaret Drood went into the cellar,” said the 
 Coroner slowly, “what did you do?” 
 
 “I went to the edge of the cellar and looked down.” 
 
 “And you saw— what?” 
 
 “ I saw the body of a man lying in the cellar, and Mountain 
 Mag kneeling beside it.” 
 
 “ Could you recognize the body ?” 
 
 “ No ; but I heard Mag say that it was Duke Selwyn.” 
 
 “ When Margaret Drood came out of the cellar, who was 
 the first to leave the place ?” 
 
 “I think that Florine and I went toward the boarding- 
 house a minute, perhaps, before Billy Piper started.” 
 
 “And Miss Drood remained by the cellar alone? 
 
 ' “ If she was not alone we thought her so.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by that ?” 
 
 “It was very dark, and some one might have been concealed 
 near the cellars.” 
 
 The jury ^changed glances, and nods of approval : here 
 was an exemplary witness. 
 
 “ Have you the least reason for thinking that some one 
 might have been concealed near the cellars ?” 
 
 “No, sir.” 
 
 “ Is there any gentleman of the jury who wishes to question 
 this witness?” the Coroner asked. 
 
 The jurymen glanced each at his neighbor, and Fodunk 
 glanced in turn at them all. Then, seeing that no one mani- 
 
AN INQUISITIVE JURYMAN. 
 
 83 
 
 it? steel a desire to speak, he crossed one knee over the other, 
 clasped his two hands about them both, cleared his throat, and 
 said : 
 
 “ Td like to ask the lady a question or two, if ycr Honor 
 pleases.” 
 
 “ Proceed,” said the Coroner. 
 
 “When you heard the second groan, Miss,” began Podunk 
 slowly, and with an apparent effort to speak with a propriety 
 befitting the occasion, “ who of you was first ter notice that 
 some one was coinin’ a horseback?” 
 
 “ I think it was Piper,” replied the witness. 
 
 “Wal, now, when this young lady ye call Mountain Mag 
 rode up, which way was her horse headed?” 
 
 “Sir?” 
 
 “Which way did she come from?” 
 
 “ Oh ! She was riding toward the East.” 
 
 “Coming from this direction?” pointing westward. 
 
 “Yes, sir.” 
 
 The witness began to manifest a little impatience, but the 
 Coroner was looking with some curiosity at the inquiring juror, 
 who hastened to say: 
 
 “Now, young woman, will you jest tell as near as ye can 
 recollect, what was said and done after Mr. Piper hailed the 
 young woman on the horse?” 
 
 “ Mag rode close to the path, and inquired what was the 
 matter, and if any one was hurt ; and Billy asked for her lan- 
 tern, and she gave it to him.” 
 
 “What did she say when she gave him the lantern?” 
 “Nothing. Just then we all heard another groan*” 
 
 “Aid then she give him the lantern, eh?” 
 
 The witness started slightly. 
 
84 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 IS* 
 
 u Come to think ; Fm wrong/’ she said. % Mag didn't give : 
 liim the lantern. Just as we heard the groan, her horse cav- 
 orted almost into the middle of the road. Mag laid on the whip 
 and brought him back, jumped off, and went toward the cellar.” 
 
 "Stop,” said Podunk quickly. "Did she go straight to the 
 cellar the first thing, or did she look around a bit?” 
 
 The witness seemed to consider. "She went straight to the 
 fellar,” she finally said. “ I remember, now, Mag said, ‘It , 
 sounded this way / and went straight to the cellar.” 
 
 “ What did she do then ?” 
 
 “ She jumped down, and went and looked at the body. We 
 could see her bending over it. Then she turned around, and 
 said, c It’s Duke Selwyn.’ ” 
 
 "Thank’ee, Miss,” said Podunk politely, "I ain’t got no 
 more to say.” 
 
 And while Stella Aubrey retired to her seat, he settled back 
 in his chair with the air of a man who has done a good thing, 
 and is conscious of it. 
 
 Throughout the dialogue the keen eyes of the Coroner had 
 rested upon his face, and Mack and several of the Regulators 
 had looked their impatience at what they considered an un- ! 
 necessary and irrelevant bit of by-play, indulged in, on the 
 part of Podunk, for his own personal satisfaction. But the 
 Coroner made no comment upon the questions put ; and La 
 Belle Florine took the stand. 
 
 Florine was younger than the Aubrey, full of pertness, and 
 manifestly eager to be an effective witness. She told her story, 
 the same in all essentials as that told by Piper and Stella 
 Aubrey before her, in an inaccurate and discursive manner; 
 and the Coroner found it necessary to bring her back to the 
 
 point by frequent sharp reminders. 
 
AST INQUISITIVE JtmYMAK 
 
 SS 
 
 Acting upon the hint given by Podunk, or, perhaps to pre^ 
 vent that worthy from repeating his former questions, the 
 Coroner led her up to the moment where she had walked away 
 from the cellars, terrified and clinging to her chin pan ion’s arm. 
 And then, as before, lie addressed the jury: 
 
 “ Have you any questions to put to the witness, gentlemen?” 
 As before they looked at one another, and shook their heads. 
 And, this ceremony concluded, Pod link again began to inter- 
 rogate. 
 
 “When you and the other gal got home to your boarding- 
 house, Miss,” he asked gravely, “ what did you do?” 
 
 “Aubrey went straight to our room, but I w r asn’t sleepy} 
 so I stopped at Miss Lome’s door to tell her the news.” 
 “Now, who,” queried Podunk, “is Miss what-d’ye-call* 
 her ?” 
 
 “Aileen Lome. She’s our lady ballad singer— she’s sitting 
 over there by Mountain Mag.” 
 
 Many heads were turned, and twice as many eyes stared at 
 the two young women, so strikingly unlike, seated at a dvs* 
 tant window^, side by side. But Podunk did not remove his 
 eyes from the witness. 
 
 “What made ye so anxious to wake up that young lady to 
 tell her bad news, eh?” he questioned. 
 
 “I didn’t wake her up; she had just come in ahead of us; 
 Drike Selwyn walked home with her. And I wanted to know 
 what she would say.” 
 
 “ Wal, what did she say ?” 
 
 “Nothing, at first. She just sat down and looked at me.” 
 “Wal, goon.” 
 
 “She seemed to think I was joking, and didn’t pay much 
 attention to me. So I told her to go to the window, and 
 
86 
 
 A MOUNTAIN I YSTERT. 
 
 wateh the cellars. We both went and stood by the window 
 till we saw them coming from here with lanterns 5 that seemed 
 to convince her.” 
 
 “And then, what did she say?” 
 
 “ She said it was horrible, or something of that sort ; and 
 she looked awfully pale, and seemed all of a tremble. Then, 
 all at once, she turned on me, and ordered me out of the 
 room.” 
 
 “ Thank’ee, Miss,” again said Podunk; and nodded to in- 
 form the Coroner that lie had done. 
 
 There was a buzz of comment as the witness retired. Evi- 
 dently Podunk was regarded as an inquisitive trill er; but 
 contrary to the expectation of some, the Coroner made no 
 remark upon his questions, and for a moment was busy jot- 
 ting down memoranda in a small note book. Then he looked 
 up and said : 
 
 “Let Margaret Drood come forward.” 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MOUNTAIN MAG TESTIFIES. 
 
 While Billy Piper was telling his story, the handsome 
 stranger who had been the hero of the stage-coach episode, 
 sauntered carelessly into the outer saloon, accompanied by the 
 clerk of the St. Charles. During the examination of the suc- 
 ceeding witnesses, the two had been slowly making theii way 
 toward the inner room. Some of the men who had been pre* 
 
MOUNTAIN MAG- TESTIFIES, 8? 
 
 eent during the scene at the hotel readily fell back, and al- 
 lowed the stranger to pass, and finally he secured standing 
 room in the inner apartment, with a full view of Coroner, 
 jury, and witnesses. 
 
 When Coroner Mitchell pronounced the name of Mountain 
 Mag, this gentlemanly spectator happened, possibly by acci- 
 dent/to be glancing at Pod link ; and the latter shot him a 
 quick look, and by an almost imperceptible signal bade him 
 pay close attention to the coming witness. 
 
 The stranger’s hand went up to his mouth, as if to conceal a 
 yawn ; and then, as Mag advanced, he slowly turned his gaze 
 towards her, scrutinizing her face and dress with an appear- 
 ance of surprise and languid interest. 
 
 “Margaret,” said the Coroner, speaking as if to an acquaint- 
 ance for whom he felt much kindness, “will you tell us in 
 your own way, how you happened to discover the body of 
 Duke Selwyn ?” 
 
 Mag bowed to the Coroner, and for a moment her eyes rested 
 upon the face of Podunk. Then she began, speaking slowly, 
 and with perfect composure. 
 
 “Three days ago,” she said, “Monckton, who looks after 
 my ranch, came to town, promising to return immediately, 
 but he didn’t, and I was kept busy until late last night. I 
 was a good deal put out about Monckton ; so, after everything 
 was secured for the night, I made up my mind to look him 
 up. I saddled Nick, and started on the trail. It was late— 
 I don’t know just what time — and I was leading Monck’s 
 horse. ITo had footed it in, but I wasn’t sure of his being 
 sober enough to walk back. It’s ten miles from the ranch to 
 town, arid Monck’s horse acted bad from the first, so I didn’t 
 jet on very fast After a while, when I thought he was 
 
u 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 quieted down, he broke away from me, and tore off across the 
 prairie. I followed, and felt sure of catching him, for he 
 would run in circles, and seemed only bent on a little sport 
 But I hadn’t a lariat, and lie bad been idle and was full of mis- 
 chief. After I had wasted a good deal of time chasing him, 
 and just as the moon was going down, and it was getting too 
 dark to see much, he turned and made straight for the ranch; 
 and then I came on into town.” 
 
 Podunk was seated beside the tourist juror, and while the 
 latter listened, and looked gravely wise, Podunk whispered 
 from time to time a word or two behind his hand. 
 
 “When I got into town,” went on Mag, “I went to most 
 of the places at the South End, inquiring for Monck. I had 
 aimed to get here in time to look in at the performance, but 
 the lights were out in the Theatre; so I turned the corner and 
 was riding slowly along, wondering where I had better go 
 next, when Billy Piper called me, and I stopped, as he has 
 said.” 
 
 “Then you agree with him and the others? You heard a 
 groan as you were about to dismount?” 
 
 “Yes, I had checked my horse just opposite the opening 
 between the two dirt piles. It sounded beyond them ; and I 
 naturally went straight ahead until the cellar stopped me.” 
 “Was there no sign of life? no movement after you were in 
 the cellar?” 
 
 “No, but the body was quite warm. He had just breathed 
 his last.” 
 
 “ And you saw nothing, heard nothing, to indicate that the 
 murderer or some one else might be in the vicinity?” 
 
 “I didn’t hear anything, and I only saw Billy Piper and 
 the two girls*” 
 
MOUNTAIN MAG TESTIFIES, 
 
 89 
 
 * And yon told them they had better go home?” 
 
 “Yes. They were of no use there; and I was not afraid.” 
 “What did you do while Piper was gone?” 
 
 “ Nothing.” 
 
 “ Did you approach the body, or examine it again ?” 
 
 “No” 
 
 “ And you came back here with the escort?” 
 
 / “Yes” 
 
 “ That is all, I believe.” 
 
 “ I would like to ask,” broke out the grave visaged Tourist, 
 u I would now like to ask the lady if she knows what time the 
 moon went down last night, or this morning?” 
 
 " Mag looked disconcerted.' “No,” she said, “ I don’t.” 
 
 “ How far from town were you when the led horse galloped 
 toward home ?” 
 
 “About five miles ; half way, I guess.” 
 
 “Is the trail a good one?” 
 
 “ Very fair now.” 
 
 “Do you usually ride fast?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ Then how does it happen, if you were only five miles from 
 town at one o'clock — for at that hour the moon went down- — 
 that being a rapid rider, you did not arrive here until nearly 
 or quite three o’clock ?” 
 
 For a moment Mag stood silent, her eyes fixed upon the 
 face of the questioner, her own face inscrutable. Then she 
 
 said: 
 
 “I suppose I should have said that, as I was running over 
 the prairies, my horse seemed to go lame, and so I rode him quite 
 slow. After a while he appeared to be getting worse, and then 
 I got down and looked at his feet. I found a pebble in one 
 
90 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 of his hoofs, and after I took that out he came on all right. 
 I don’t carry a watch and didn’t keep close track of the time.” 
 Some smiles, nods, and expressive glances were exchanged 
 among the listeners. It was evident that Mag was a favorite; 
 and the juror retired into himself, with a bow of dismissal. 
 But again Podunk took up the word. 
 
 “ When you came here with the rest, how long did ye stay ?” 
 he asked. 
 
 Mag started slightly, but promptly replied: 
 
 “I don’t know exactly; I went out after a while to look 
 for Monckton.” 
 
 “ Did ye find him ?” 
 
 “Yes; at Doty’s.” 
 
 “ What did ye say to him?” 
 
 “I said he had better go home, before he lost all his money.” 
 “ Did he go ?” 
 
 “Yes. I told him he could feed my horse and rub her 
 well, and then ride her home slowly.” 
 
 “ Didn’t ye tell him about the murder ?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Didn’t he kind o’ want to stay an’ hear the inquest?” 
 
 “ He didn’t say so. Murders are pretty common here.” 
 “Wal, young woman, I won’t hinder ye much longer, I 
 heard a young man, Piper, say ye was the first to recognize 
 the body — that ye recognized it the minit ye put yer eyes on 
 it. Did ye know the man?” 
 
 “ If P hadn’t,” said Mag, dryly, “1 couldn’t have recognized 
 him.” 
 
 Again there was a ripple of amusement at the expense of 
 Podunk ; but he, in no way abashed, persisted in his ques- 
 tioning. 
 
MOUNTAIN MAG TESTIFIES. 
 
 9i 
 
 f ‘ I mean,” he said, " was you acquaintances; or did you jest 
 know him by sight ?” 
 
 "We were acquainted. That is, he had paid a visit to my 
 ranch — nearly all strangers who come to Caledonia do— and 
 I used to see him often about the streets here.” 
 
 "Thank’ee, Mam/’ said Podunk; and leaned back in his 
 chair, looking as if, for the time, all his troubles were over. 
 
 Mountain Mag fixed her steady gaze upon him for a mo^ 
 ment, as if trying to read his motive and meaning. Then she 
 turned slowly away. 
 
 "Doc,’ T whispered Mack, who was seated conveniently near 
 the Coroner, " I’d stop that fellows mouth, if I were you.” 
 
 "Mack,” replied Doctor Mitchell, without looking up from 
 his note book, "if you say so, I’ll resign in your favor. But 
 until I do, i’m the Coroner.” 
 
 Again he consulted his notes, and wrinkled his brow in 
 seeming perplexity. Then he turned to the jury. 
 
 "Gentlemen,” he said, "it seems to me necessary to make 
 some inquiries that will cause a delay. There are some per- 
 sons whose names I now have on my list, who must have a 
 hearing. We will call one more witness, and then adjourn 
 until half-past one o’clock. Miss Lome, will you come for- 
 ward?” 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTIFY. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 AILEEN. 
 
 The stir and evident curiosity which followed this call 
 for Aileen Lorne, was proof that something unusually inter- 
 esting in the way of testimony was anticipated, or else that the 
 young lady herself was the object of special interest. And 
 this, indeed, was the case. 
 
 Aileen Lorne had been but eight weeks in Caledonia, and 
 although during that time she had appeared almost nightly be- 
 hind the footlights at MaclPs, she was seldom seen abroad by 
 daylight. It was known to all present who had seen her on 
 the stage, that, outside of the Theatre, she made, and desired 
 to make, no acquaintances. 
 
 Mountain Mag, Stella Aubrey, and La Belle Florine were 
 familiar figures to all save the latest comers; but Aileen 
 Lorne, as she advanced quietly toward the Coroner, was, by 
 iier beauty and her grace, as well as by the fact of her newness 
 and exclusiveness, an object of more than ordinary interest to 
 all. She was simply dressed, but in the best of taste, and her 
 manner was extremely unaffected, self possessed and lady- 
 like. 
 
 As she sat in her remote corner, her face had been concealed 
 by a dark veil. This she removed as she stood before the 
 Coroner, revealing a lovely face, lighted by dark, mournful 
 eyes, and a pure, pale complexion, with no hint of color ex 
 
AILEEN. 
 
 93 
 
 cept where it glowed in two deeply roseate lips. This rare 
 face was crowned with hair of the palest gold, making alto- 
 gether a combination strangely, strikingly beautiful. 
 
 Doctor Mitchell was, perhaps, the only male resident of 
 Caledonia who had not seen Aileen Lome upon the stage; 
 and he now gazed upon her with profound surprise, not un- 
 mixed with admiration. She was as different in look, in 
 dress, in bearing, from the other goddesses who presided atf 
 Mack’s, as is the full moon from a tallow dip; and there were 
 others beside Doctor Mitchell, who, seeing her thus, indulged 
 in this or a similar reflection. As she stood quietly before 
 him, with her dark eyes fixed upon his face, the Coroner 
 seemed to collect his thoughts, and addressed her. 
 
 “You are Aileen Lome?” 
 
 “Yes;” in a low, clear, steady voice. 
 
 “ Is that your real name ?” 
 
 “It is the only name by which I am known, upon the stage 
 or off it.” 
 
 “ Well, perhaps it is sufficient. You knew Duke Selywn ?” 
 “I did.” 
 
 “ How long had you known him ?” 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and her eyes searched his facej 
 then — * 
 
 “I made his acquaintance after I came to Caledonia; I 
 think that was nearly eight weeks ago,” she said. 
 
 “During this time have you seen him often?” 
 
 “Yes; frequently.” 
 
 “Where?” 
 
 “ At the Theatre, almost always ?” 
 
 “ Almost? — please name the exceptions.” 
 
 “1 have taken supper with him three times, in the Cafe at« 
 
94 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 tached to this place, and on each occasion he has walked with 
 me to my boarding-house.” 
 
 “And was last night one of these occasions?” 
 
 Aileen’s pale face became even paler. 
 
 “It was,” she said sadly. 
 
 “Miss Lome, was anything ever said or hinted by Mr. 
 Selwynthat would induce you to think that he had an enemy ?” 
 The pale face was half averted. She dropped her eyes, and 
 remained so long silent that the Coroner repeated the question. 
 “Mr. Selwyn seldom alluded to his personal affairs in my hear- 
 ing,” she said slowly. “ I do not think that he had an enemy.” 
 “ Miss Lome, this is an evasion. I ask you if he said any 
 word, or if you knew of any circumstance, that might give you 
 reason to think he had an enemy?” 
 
 His voice was stern. Before he had ceased speaking, the 
 girl lifted her head and fixed her dark eyes upon his face. 
 When he paused for her reply, she answered firmly : 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ Miss Lome are you aware that Mr. Selwyn and Mr. Dalton 
 exchanged angry words in one of the boxes last night ?” 
 
 “ I heard something of the sort said in the dressing-room, but 
 I paid little attention to the gossip.” 
 
 “ Did you know that Mr. Dalton left the Theatre immediately 
 after, and at an unusually early hour ?” 
 
 “I saw Mr.* Dalton, at or near ten o’clock, in one of the 
 boxes. Rb bade me good-night, and said he was going home.” 
 “ Is that all he said ?” 
 
 “ All that I can recall.” 
 
 “ And when did you see Mr. Dalton next ?” 
 
 “ Within this hour. I saw him where he now sits.” 
 
 She turned half around, and her eyes rested for a moment 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 i*6 
 
 upon Philip Dalton’s face. He was watching her intently, and 
 as their eyes met he bowed, as if to acquiesce in her statement, 
 “During your supper in the Cafe, or your walk home after- 
 ward, did Mr. Selwyn mention Dalton’s name, Miss Lome?” 
 “He may have done so, in a casual way.” 
 
 “Did he not speak of him angrily — with resentment?” 
 “Pie certainly did not. Mr. Selwyn was in excellent 
 spirits; I never saw him more — complacent.” 
 
 “He did not mention their quarrel, then?” 
 
 “If he did, it was to treat it as a jest.” 
 
 “Miss Lome, when did you last see Duke Selwyn?” 
 
 She was silent a moment, and seemed to consider. 
 
 “At the foot of the boarding-house steps. He lifted his hat 
 eo me, and was out of my sight in the darkness almost instantly.” 
 “ And where were you ?” 
 
 “ Standing at the top of the steps, in the doorway.” 
 
 “Did you meet any one on your walk from the theatre?” 
 “ No one.” 
 
 “ Did any one pass you as you stood talking upon the steps ?” 
 “ I saw no one.” 
 
 “Did you hear anything?” 
 
 “ No, sir.” 
 
 “ Plow long did you remain in the door after Mr. Selwyn 
 left you ?” 
 
 “Not a moment.” 
 
 “ Where did you go ?” 
 
 “ Straight to my room.” 
 
 “Did you hear no report of firearms?” 
 
 “None.” 
 
 “ And yet it was very near.” 
 u True.” 
 
AILBBtf. 
 
 §1 
 
 u Miss Lome,” — the Coroner hesitated over this question^ 
 *upon what terms did you stand with Mr. Selwyn ?” 
 
 “Sir !” 
 
 “Was Mr. Selwyn in any sense of the word a suitor of 
 yours ?” 
 
 “ Mr. Selwyn, sir, was a man of the world; I never sup-* 
 posed him susceptible. He chose to flatter me for his own 
 amusement, and I chose to permit it.” 
 
 “ Then” — again he hesitated over his question— “ you did 
 not hold him in special regard ?” 
 
 There was an indignant flash in her eyes as she answered 
 firmly : “ I did not” 
 
 All eyes were fixed upon her as she spoke, and so there was 
 none to note the quick look that crossed the face of Philip 
 Dalton, and left it a shade less somber. 
 
 “ At present, Miss Lome,” said the Coroner, “ you are dis- 
 missed. I may wish to call you again, this afternoon. You 
 will attend ?” 
 
 She bowed haughtily, pulled down her veil, and withdrew. 
 “ Gentlemen of the jury,” said the Coroner, “ I wish you to 
 go in a body to the St. Charles Hotel, and to remain there 
 until we open our investigation this afternoon.” 
 
 At this moment, Connolley, the Regulator Chieftain, en- 
 tered the room, and elbowed his way to the side of the Coroner. 
 
 “ I must see ye alone, Mitchell,” he whispered excitedly. 
 K Pve found what’ll hang our fine friend over there.” 
 
 “ You weren’t sent after a rope, Connolley,” said the Coroner 
 shortly. 
 
 : ‘ He turned impatiently and came forcibly in contact wfffit 
 the person of Podunk, who had become separated from his 
 fellow -jurymen, and seemed endeavoring to join their ranks. 
 
98 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Consarn ye !” he began wrath fully, and then checked 
 himself, seeming to see the Coroner for the first time. i( I 
 didn’t know it was yer Honor,” he muttered; “ excuse me.’*. 
 
 As the crowd pushed and jostled its way out of the saloon^ 
 the good-looking stranger stationed himself beside one of the 
 windows, and watched them pass. 
 
 Among the last to come from the inner room, owing to their 
 positions at its further side, was Philip Dalton and Aileen 
 Lome. He had not been near enough to speak with her 
 during the morning, but he was walking close beside her now, 
 and talking in low, eager tones. 
 
 He brushed past the stranger without seeing him ; walked 
 with Aileen to the outer door; lifted his hat, as she turned 
 aw T ay, and then strode briskly toward the hotel. He did not 
 once look back, and so could not know that the stranger was 
 close at his heels. 
 
 Upon reaching the hotel, he avoided the office, already over- 
 run with an eager and talkative crowd, and went straight up 
 stairs to his room. Footsteps ascended the stairs close behind 
 him ; but yet he did not look back. At the door of his apart- 
 ment, however, he turned sharply, confronting the man who ; 
 was still at his heels. 
 
 As their eyes met, a glad exclamation broke from his lips. 
 And then a pair of strong hands seized him; pushed him 
 within his own room, and half way across it; closed and bolted 
 the door. 
 
 “ Van Vernet!” cried Dalton, with outstretched hands, and 
 eager brightening eyes. “ In the name of wonder how came 
 ^otthere?” 
 
 
“ r !WO OF A KIND.” 99 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 “ TWO OF A KIND.” 
 
 “I came,” said the stranger, with a mellow laugh, “ pretty 
 much as you did, by way of the stairs.” 
 
 “ But here — -in Caledonia— when— ” 
 
 “This morning, then; and upon the top of the Rockville 
 coach. And, after you, Pm probably the most interesting live 
 man in town at this moment.” 
 
 “ Interesting !” — a shadow fell upon Dalton’s face. “ You 
 say next to me ; do you know, then—” 
 
 “I know that you’re in trouble, Dalton. I heard a breath 
 of it before I left this house, and I was present at the pre- 
 liminaries this morning. I know that there’s been a man 
 killed; that you had quarrelled with him; and that some of 
 these fellows are inclined to suspect you.” That the speaker 
 was not prepared to share in these suspicions was evident from 
 his tone. “ But it can’t amount to anything. The inquiry is 
 only begun. It will end in the discovery of the criminal.” 
 “I’m not sure of that. There’s plenty of prejudice in the 
 crowd ; and if they turn their attention to me, they won’t 
 guard the other side. While they are worrying me, the other 
 Mlew wi 11 escape.” 
 
 “And I’m not so sure of that . I fancy there’s a man to 
 the fore, down there, who won’t be influenced by prejudice, 
 and who will see to the bottom of things.” 
 
 “Who is that?” 
 
 a Fm not at liberty to tell just now ; and we can’t aflbrd tf> 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEBY. 
 
 hold a long conference. I landed here, as I have said, only 
 this morning; and the first thing I am told is, that I will do 
 well to go to the inquest at Mack's. Nothing surprises a de- 
 tective, you know — at least nothing in that line — and the ad- 
 vice was good. But it did startle me a little to hear your 
 name tossed about among these fellows, and I wasn't. prepared 
 to believe that the Dalton they discussed was the Dalton I 
 knew, until I saw you at Mack's. I kept myself out of your 
 sight as well as I could, for I didn't care about surprising you 
 there. And I only want to say now, that in case this business 
 does become serious you may depend upon Van Vernet." 
 
 “Thank you, Vernet; you are the man of all others whom 
 I would wish at hand in time of need." 
 
 “Well, being at hand, I intend to stay until this affair ter- 
 minates. And now I am going. There is some one else I 
 must have a word with, before the afternoon investigation 
 opens. It will be wise for us not to be seen in conversation. 
 There is no one here who knows me in my true character, and 
 at present it is best so." 
 
 He turned toward the door, but Dalton's quick hand de- 
 tained him. 
 
 “ Stop, Vernet," he said. “ God forgive me, I had almost for- 
 gotten the troubles of another. Did you know Stephen Wray?" 
 
 “ What, old Wray, the millionaire?" 
 
 “ Yes." 
 
 “ I can't say that I knew him ; of course all New York 
 knows cf lu3 wealth, and his many schemes for money getting." 
 
 “And his daughter — did you know her?" 
 
 “ No." 
 
 “ Well, Miss Wray is liere, in this house, alone," 
 
 “Impossible!" 
 
“TWO OF A KIND.” 
 
 101 
 
 - “I met her accidentally in the hall this morning. I could 
 hardly believe my eyes ; and I had not ten minutes to con- 
 verse with her before I was dragged away to that horrible 
 inquest. From what I could gather, Wray must have been 
 speculating in the mines hereabouts, through some inter- 
 mediate party. Three months ago he came to Caledonia. 
 She had a few letters from him, and then they ceased. She 
 had been half frantic about him, and a short time ago re- 
 ceived a letter which informed her that he was here, too ill 
 to travel, and begging her to secure a companion and come 
 to him at once. She arrived yesterday.” 
 
 “And her father?” questioned Vernet. 
 
 “He is not here. I am sure of it. I have been in Caledonia 
 two months, and he hasn’t been here. Miss Wray is almost 
 distracted. I left her recovering from a swoon.” 
 
 Vernet was silent for a moment. 
 
 “It’s a strange business,” he said. “I can’t fancy Stephen 
 Wray asking his daughter to such a place as this.” And 
 then a recollection of a lovely face seen through a window 
 flashed upon him, and he said: “You say she is here in this 
 house?” 
 
 “Yes; and sorely in need' of a friend. Vernet — ” He hesi- 
 tated, and scanned the face of the detective anxiously. 
 
 “I comprehend,” said Vernet, smiling. “You wrant to en- 
 list me with a proviso-. If you are. not otherwise occupied, 
 you will be that friend. If you cannot serve the lady I may 
 be your deputy.” 
 
 “Will you?” 
 
 “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I refused. I seem to be 
 getting into business with a vengeance; shouldn’t wonder d 
 the matter that brought me here would have to stand aside .’ 1 
 
102 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 '‘I’ve been thinking,” said Dalton, with a half smile, “what 
 that could be.” 
 
 “I don’t mind telling you, Dalton. You’re sure not to be 
 one of them. I’m here to hunt stage robbers.” 
 
 “What! Alone?” 
 
 “Yes, alone — at present. Hark!” 
 
 There was a faint sound at the door, such as might have 
 been made by a person passing and brushing against it. 
 Vernet went quickly toward it and bent his head. 
 
 Then he turned to Dalton and whispered: “Stand back.” 
 Dalton moved quickly and lightly in the direction indi- 
 cated, taking a position where he could not be seen by any 
 one outside the door, which Vernet then softly opened. 
 
 - It was Podunk who stood without. 
 
 “Come into this next room a minute,” whispered Podunk. 
 ‘Tve got something to tell you.” 
 
 V ernet nodded, and then drew back and partly closed the 
 door. 
 
 “Excuse me a minute, Dalton,” he said, “and open the 
 door when I knock.” 
 
 Dalton bowed assent, and Vernet went out. Podunk was 
 standing before the door of the room next to that occupied 
 by Dalton. As Vernet came toward him, he pushed it open. 
 “Come in,” he whispered. 
 
 When they were both within, he closed and locked the 
 door. This done ,he silently extended his hand ta Vernet, 
 who shook it warmly, saying: 
 
 “I can hardly believe that my friend Dick Stanhope is 
 hidden under all that hair and flannel. Dick, you never 
 wore a more perfect disguise.” 
 
 “Oh, this is nothing difficult. Van,” laughed the other. 
 “I’m perfectly at home in it,” 
 
‘TWO OF A KIND.” 
 
 103 
 
 “Judging from your performances at the inquest this 
 morning, I should think you were. I always said the stage 
 lost a ‘bright particular’ when you turned yourself into a 
 detective. What are you calling yourself, Dick?” 
 “Podunk.” 
 
 “Podunk! Well, that’s original — likd yourself. But 
 what’s on your mind, old man?” 
 
 “This Dalton, Van. I suspected from the first that lie 
 might be the Dalton of whom I have heard you speak. Am 
 I rigijt?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “And if I know you, and I guess I do, you $iean to see 
 him through this scrape, eh?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Vernet, emphatically. 
 
 “Good; and I’m with you. Well, I’ve made a small dis- 
 covery, and looked you up to give you the benefit of it.” 
 “What is it?” 
 
 “Just as we were dispersing, that fire-eater ,Connolley, 
 came puffing up to the Coroner, and put something into his 
 hand. From the few words I caught, I judge that they have 
 been searching Dalton’s room — that precious rascal, Mack, 
 put them up to it — and that it was done without the Coro- 
 ner's knowledge or advice. The thing, whatever it may be, 
 was rolled up in a dirty handkerchief, and looked as if it 
 might have been a pistol.” 
 
 “That needs to be looked after at once,” said Vernet. “It 
 they have searched his room, he must know it before he goes 
 into the Coroner’s presence again.” 
 
 “Of course. But don’t bring me into it. I’m going to 
 help Dalton all I can, but for the present I can work better 
 
104 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 -“Dick,” said Vernet, quickly, “you don’t think it possible 
 that Dalton could have shot that man?” 
 
 “Why, it might be possible. I’m not prepared to believe 
 it probable, though. Such a man as Selwyn must have made 
 an enemy, now and then, of a different stripe from Dalton. 
 But I’m convinced of one thing: Unless Dalton has friends 
 to back him, he won’t get fair play in this community.” 
 “Yes, he will, said Vernet, grimly. “I’ll see that he does” 
 “And I’ll back you. Here’s my hand on it. Now, Van, 
 you’d better return to Dalton, and see if anything’s missing 
 from his room. Don’t stay there a great while, for some of 
 those Regulators will be coming up soon. They mean to 
 keep a sharp eye on him. I’ll wait for you here a few min- 
 utes, but it can’t be long — I’m a juryman, you know.” 
 When Vernet was again in Dalton’s room, he saw by the 
 look upon his face that something, had disturbed him. 
 “What is it?” he asked, quickly. 
 
 “I have just thought to look about me,” replied Dalton, 
 “and I believe they have been overhauling mv room.” 
 
 “I think so, too,” said Vernet. “Is anything misplaced?” 
 “I was about to see — ” He stopped abruptly, went toward 
 the bed, and pulled back the pillows. Then Vernet saw him 
 start and heard him mutter: “Strange fatality!” 
 
 “Have you missed anything?” 
 
 “Yes; a small pistol that I kept under my pillow.” 
 
 “Oh! Well, I was about to tell you that your room has 
 been searched. Forewarned, forearmed, you know. Now I 
 must leave you, for the house is full of eyes. I will see you 
 again to-night. And, remember, Dalton, you have friends 
 at court, whatever comes.” 
 
 “Vernet,” said Dalton, earnestly, “I don’t like the idea of 
 
“TWO OF A KIND.” 
 
 105 
 
 taking your time and thoughts away from your own affairs.” 
 
 “Well, when we are once fairly embarked, won’t this be 
 my own affair?” 
 
 “I know you are generous enough to make it so, and I’m 
 almost selfish enough to take you at your word.” 
 
 “However you take me, you won’t shake me off until 
 things look brighter. Besides, there’s Miss Wray. Of 
 course, you don't want me to desert her?” 
 
 “No,” said Dalton, quickly. 
 
 “Then, perhaps, I cam kill two birds with one stone. At 
 any rate, I’ll try. Now, I must go. It will soon be time 
 to attend upon the Coroner.” 
 
 “Well, old man!” said Stanhope when Vernet came back 
 
 to him. 
 
 “Dick, I’m awfully glad to have you here,” said Vernet. 
 
 “This don’t look very cloudy for the stage robbers does 
 it?” queried the self-styled Podunk, seating himself on the 
 side of the bed. 
 
 “That’s a fact, my boy. But I can’t let Dalton suffer. 
 I'd see every stage between here and the Pacific robbed 
 
 first.” 
 
 “So would I, if you say the word, Van. I’m afraid they’re 
 going to work up a case against Dalton.” 
 
 “Yes; bfit I don’t believe he ever shot that man. If I 
 know a gentleman, and a man of honor, Philip Dalton is 
 one. -Tve seen hinrtried.” 
 
 “-Well, I shouldn’t wonder if you see him tried again,” 
 said Podunk, with a grimace. “Sit down, Van;* we can talk 
 a little while.” 
 
 “But you — won’t they miss you from that precious jury?” 
 “Oh, that’s all right. They are in two rooms, with a doot 
 
106 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 between ; if they don’t see me in one, they’ll think me in the 
 other. I’ll take the chances.” 
 
 “ Where’s the Coroner?” 
 
 "Closeted with Mack and Connolley.” 
 
 “And who is Connolley?” 
 
 “Captain Connolley, of the Caledonia Regulators.” 
 
 “The mischief!” 
 
 “I echo your sentiments. They mean well, but they’ll do 
 more harm than good to Caledonia, if I may judge from the 
 samples I’ve seen of their wisdom and prowess.” 
 
 “Dick,” said the other, “how did you happen to know the 
 lay of these two rooms, and that this one was empty?” 
 Podunk laughed softly and shrugged his shoulder. 
 
 “The fact is,” said he, “I’ve got a claim on this room,” 
 “How?” 
 
 “This room,” continued Podunk, “was taken yesterday 
 by a man who came in the coach from the East. He paid a 
 week in advance, but he v s disappeared.” 
 
 Verriet eyed him steadily for a moment, and theu a smile 
 crossed his face. 
 
 “I think you told them downstairs that you had been here 
 several days,” he said. 
 
 “Precisely; wouldn’t do to say I came yesterday, because 
 the only man who came by the stage was the missing fellow. 
 He came with a couple of ladies.” 
 
 “With Miss Wray?” 
 
 “Oh! so you’ve heard of Mis's Wray?” 
 
 “Dalton told me a little.” 
 
 ~ “Dalton! Does he know her?” 
 
 “Yes.” And Vernet recounted what Philip Dalton had 
 just told him. 
 
‘TWO OF A KIND.” 
 
 107 
 
 “Well,” was Podunk’s comment, “if things don't come 
 (around strangely! You remelmber old Follingsbee, the 
 lawyer?” 
 
 “I should think so,” replied Vernet, with a grimace. 
 
 “While I was in Washington, about that business of 
 Wre^all’s — I went, you must know, just after getting your 
 first letter — I got a line from Mr. Follingsbee, asking me to 
 call upon him the instant I returned to the city, and I did so. 
 He said that a client of his, Mr. Stephen Wray, in fact, was 
 ill in Caledonia. In short, he told me all about old Wray’s 
 speculations out here — I won't bother you with the details 
 now — but a party, who was interested with him in big min- 
 ing schemes, had wired him from Omaha to come on at 
 once. He told of his long absence; of his daughter's concern 
 for his safety; and, finally, how she had received a letter bid- 
 ding her secure a companion and come to Caledonia, as he 
 - Wray — was too ill to travel, and could not get well with- 
 out her. He had even fixed the date upon which she was to 
 start. Follingsbee thought, at first, that he must accompany 
 Miss Wray, for to let her travel alone was out of the ques- 
 tion, although she was bent upon coming at any risk. Just 
 at this crisis, and while he was -almost wild over his perplexi- 
 ties, — for his business would go to the dogs wihen he left 
 it, he was sure — he meets Ainsworth on the street, and learns 
 from him that I contemplate a trip West, and am to set out 
 about the time fixed for Miss Wray’s departure. So he asks 
 me plump if I will act as escort to the young lady and her 
 companion. Of course I was delighted, and consented 
 promptly, when, that very afternoon, along comes your sec- 
 ond letter, in which you tell me that the P. C. Overland Mail 
 and Express people advise extra caution, as a rumor has 
 
108 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 got afloat among the mines and mountains that they have 
 sent East for detectives. Then I see that it won’t do to come 
 here propria per sona. So I rush around to Follingsbee’s 
 office; catch him just as he is setting out to inform the young- 
 lady that she is to travel to Caledonia under the protection 
 of Richard Stanhope, Esq., and tell him that it cannot be. 
 As he don’t know the nature of my business, but gives me 
 credit for knowing it myself, pretty generally, he hardly 
 understands how to arrange matters. After considerable 
 talk, we settle it thus: He is to write the ladies, advising 
 
 them that a middle aged gentleman of his acquaintance will 
 see them safely to the end of their journey. I am to look 
 after their comfort in the most unobtrusive manner possible ; 
 and, leaving them in the hands of Mr. Wray, vanish like a 
 fairy godmother or something of that sort. 
 
 “But Fate set her face against me. While I am on my 
 way to the rendezvous, made up as a very mild and middle 
 aged gentleman, I am intercepted; an old woman tumbles 
 down before an omnibus, and I lose five minutes in rescuing 
 her, and telling her which way she wants to go. I take a 
 hack and get spilled out, owing to a collision with another 
 omnibus. Then I am stopped at the corner by a procession, 
 and finally arrive, get my ticket, and hear the call, 'all 
 aboard.’ I run, and I meet Follingsbee coming out of the 
 car, looking doleful. I stop him, and have to introduce my- 
 self. He tarries, at the risk of his neck, long enough to tell 
 me that they are on the west side of the coach, that Miss 
 Wray is dressed in brown, and that her companion is a pink- 
 faced girl in ribbons. There are a good many brown ladies, 
 but the pink-faced girl in ribbons is unmistakable. I hasten 
 to present myself and do it in such a blundering fashion 
 
“TWO OF A KIND. 
 
 109 
 
 that I omit to give myself a name. The sight of Miss Wray 
 pricks my conscience a little, and I regret the necessity I 
 am under of deceiving her as to my identity — she is so 
 lovely, so gentle-mannered, so quiet and sad. But presently 
 I experience a revulsion of feeling, and thank Heaven that I 
 did not appear in j>roj>ria persona , for the pink female is 
 loud-voiced, garrulous and overflowing with curiosity. Had 
 she known a name by which to address me, it would have 
 been common to every passenger in the coach before we 
 were an hour out. It would have been trumpeted up and 
 down the stately halls of this magnificent hostelry, instanter. 
 I cannot converse with Miss Wray without setting her pink 
 companion in motion, and I see that her loud talk and gen- 
 eral lack of breeding distresses the lady. So I leave them to 
 themselves for the most part, only coming forward when I 
 can make myself useful.” 
 
 He stops for a moment, and looks at Vernet, but that 
 young man only says “Well?” And Podunk resumes. 
 
 “When we leave the railway and take to the stage, I ride 
 outside ; and when we arrive before this door, the ladies are 
 very tired. I say to Miss Wray that I will find her father at 
 once, and she waits impatiently in the parlor. Soon I am 
 forced to come back and tell her that Mr. Wray is not in the 
 house. And then I cheerfully volunteer to go out and look 
 him up. Of course I advise her to go at once to her room, 
 and of course she does not heed my advice. I must here do 
 justice to my instincts as a detective, and say that already I 
 was beginning to smell something Totten in Denmark and 
 although I was disappointed, I was not much surprised, after 
 inquiring at all the places where roomers or boarders of a 
 accent quality are ever taken, to find that no one knew of 
 
110 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 such a man as Stephen Wray. It was late in the evening 
 before I had finished my rounds, and I came back dreading 
 my interview with Miss Wray, and wishing it over. In the 
 hali I met the pink female. She told me that Miss Wray had 
 retired; that she had met in the parlor a gentleman from the 
 States, who informed her that Mr. Wray was not in Cale- 
 donia; and that, after a talk with him, she had retired at once 
 to her room, half distracted with grief. The pink damsel 
 added that, not to disappoint me, she had ‘waited up’ to 
 explain matters. I wanted to hear more of this gentleman 
 from the States, but would not venture to question Miss 
 Ribbons.” 
 
 “I suppose,” said Vernet, thoughtfully, “that it must have 
 been Dalton." 
 
 “Likely. Well, something had to be done, I said to my- 
 self: Mr. Wray must be found. So by way of a beginning, 
 I determined to overhaul the town, and see what I could 
 gather. Accordingly I got myself up as you see, and struck 
 out.” 
 
 “But how in the name of mischief did you get on that 
 jury, and why?” 
 
 “I didn’t. That was sprung on me. You see, I was at 
 Mack’s when the news of the murder came; and I went with 
 the crowd that brought in the body. This Mountain Mag 
 came with it. I wanted to watch her, and in trying to do so 
 I became a little too conspicuous, and the Coroner gobbled 
 me. 
 
 “Why were you interested in Mountain Mag?” 
 
 “Well, 1 thought she had something on her mind; and I 
 guess now I was righth. She didn’t tell quite all she knew 
 this morning.” 
 
‘TWO OF A, KIND/* 
 
 111 
 
 “She is not the only one.” 
 
 “Eh!” 
 
 “There was another witness who kept back more than she 
 told.” 
 
 “Oh! then you saw it, too?” 
 
 “Saw what?” 
 
 “Well, something not quite candid on the part of Miss 
 Lome.” 
 
 “I thought so.” 
 
 “Van,” said Podunk, turning upon his friend with sudden 
 eagerness, “what do you think of the Coroner?” 
 
 “He seems to understand his business.” 
 
 “Yes, yes! but we want something more than that. We 
 want his ear, if we find that we can trust him. We've got to 
 introduce a lever in favor of Dalton. One or the other of 
 ns may yet have to reveal our identity to him.” 
 
 Vernet remained for a few moments silent and thought- 
 ful. Finally he said: 
 
 “We must be guided by circumstances, Dick. If they 
 make out a case against Dalton, he must have at least one 
 visible friend. If I have to come to the front, there will be 
 all the more need for keeping you out of sight.” 
 
 “I see,” said the other, starting up. “We must separate 
 now, Van. Where is your room?” 
 
 “On this hall, lower down.” 
 
 “I have a piece of luggage here that I wish you would 
 take possession of, as soon as you can. It's this square va- 
 lise with a canvas skin.” 
 
 “Very good.” 
 
 “Get it, take it to your room, and remove the canvas the 
 first thing. It will be past recognition then; and I'll manage 
 to find it, and you, in due time.” 
 
112 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. j 
 
 I 
 
 “Wliat are you going to do about Miss Wray, Dick? j. 
 Won’t she rather expect to see her elderly traveling com- i 
 panion?” ' 
 
 ‘‘Well. I can’t be in two characters at once. For the pres- 
 ent I must be Podunk; perhaps this evening I may manage 
 to reappear in the role of age and respectability. But I must 
 gee back to duty. Say — you stand pretty well with your 
 stage-coach traveling companions— couldn’t you drop a hint j 
 to my fellow juryman?” 
 
 “Of what nature ” 
 
 “I think we may want that man Monckton to appear as 
 witness. If I drop you a hint — ” 
 
 “I’ll take it, Dick.” 
 
 “Well, I’ll manage to get a word with you between this 
 and daylight to-morrow, until then” — 
 
 “We are strangers.” 
 
 “That’s the word. Open the door, and if the coast is clear, 
 I’ll rejoin that learned body below.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DALTON AND THE CORbNER. 
 
 Either some new idea had inspired Podunk to hasten pro- 
 ceedings, or he had bethought himself of a simpler method 
 of setting the Tourist in motion, and used it to save his 
 friend trouble, or prevent possible mistakes. 
 
 When the jury returned in solemn march to Mack’s, Po- 
 dunk continued to walk beside the Tourist, 
 
 “I tell ye, sir,” he said, admiringly, “ye made some mighty 
 
DALTON AND THE CORONER. 
 
 113 
 
 I 
 
 
 good pints when ye put them questions to that gal. I seen 
 the Coroner lookin , at ye, as if he thought ye’d struck some- 
 thin’. Lord, but ye brought that moon business in jest too 
 easy!" 
 
 The Tourist accepted the praise, and calmly ignored the 
 fact that his questions had been shrewdly suggested by a 
 whispered remark from Podunk. 
 
 “It beats all nater," Podunk went on, “the idees some folks 
 ketch onto, without' half tryink Now, there’s that slim Ten- 
 derfoot what fit the stage robbers; he thinks he knows a 
 thing or two." 
 
 “About what?" questioned the Tourist, languidly. 
 
 “Why, when I was gittin’ a drink out of the waterin’-pot 
 behind the door in the office, he was a talkin’ to the clerk. 
 I didn’t ketch the hull drift of it, ’cause I didn’t like to listen, 
 but I heard him say that if he was on that jury, he’d have 
 that feller Munk, that Mounting Mag said she was lookin’ 
 after, put up ter testify." 
 
 “Hum!" said the Tourist, absently, “I almost think it’s 
 £oing to rain." 
 
 Podunk said no more, but when they were mustering 
 again in Mack’s gambling room, he had the satisfaction of 
 seeing the juror in conference with the Coroner; and the 
 Coroner, in his turn, in conference with Oonnolley. 
 
 “Good!" he muttered to himself; “the bait takes." 
 
 During the noon intermission, the Coroner had mapped 
 out for himself a line of inquiry, and he began to work vigo- 
 rously. It had been the expectation of many, and the hope 
 as well, that Philip Dalton would be the next tO' come under 
 the Coroner’s scrutiny; but Doctor Mitchell had planned 
 otherwise, and a number and variety of witnesses were 
 called, who testified to the doings and whereabouts of 
 
114 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Selwyn duning the twenty-four hours previous to his death. 
 
 At this point, and following the dismissal of his last wit- 
 ness, the Coroner pondered over his notes, and seemed for a 
 time undecided. He glanced toward Philip Dalton, who was 
 sitting in the rear of the room, and who looked, now* that the 
 crisis was at hand, grave, as befitted the occasion, but per- 
 fectly self-possessed and calm. Not far from him sat Van 
 Vernet, wearing the look of a disinterested spectator, and 
 exchanging an occasional word with the person nearest him, 
 who happened to- be our old man of the Theatre, Pop. But 
 he did not so much as glance toward Dalton, who, in his 
 turn, seemed equally unaware of the other's nearness. 
 
 “James Waddell will take the stand," said the Coroner, 
 finally. 
 
 James Waddell came promptly forward. He was a thin, 
 red-visaged young man, with a shock of light hair, and a 
 scant yellow mustache. 
 
 In answer to the usual interrogations, he said that he was 
 a resident of Caledonia, and “partner in the Gold Horn," a 
 saloon at the south end of the town. Pie had been in one of 
 the boxes of the Theatre on the night previous, and had 
 overheard a quarrel between Duke Selwyn and Philip Dal- 
 ton. 
 
 There was a stir among the listeners, indicative of a grow- 
 ing interest. 
 
 “Mr. Waddell," said the Coroner, gravely, “will you tell 
 us, in your own way, how you came to be a listener, and 
 what you heard?" 
 
 Mr. Waddell bowed, and began his narrative. 
 
 “I came late last night," he said, “and asked for a box 
 first thing. I noticed when I came in that there was a party 
 in the next box, but they were very quiet and I did not pay 
 
DALTON AND THE CORONER. 
 
 115 
 
 much attention to what was doing around me. After a time 
 Aileen Lome came on the stage, and began to sing. When 
 the song ended, the Marony boys came out with their tumb- 
 ling act. The fiddles were playing soft, and I could hear loud 
 words in the next box. I knew Selwyn's voice, and he was 
 saying, 'I'm not the man to turn back, and you have no 
 right to interfere/ Til take the right/ the other said; 'your 
 course is infamous/ I couldn’t hear every word — some- 
 times I lost a whole sentence — but the next thing I heard 
 Selwyn say was: 'Then you are going to let this business 
 
 make us enemies ?' Dalton answered Tm going to compel 
 you to stop/ I couldn't catch the rest of the sentence, but I 
 heard Selwyn say tauntingly, 'How?' And then the other 
 said something about 'this very night.' Whatever it was, 
 it made Selwyn laugh, arid he said something about rash- 
 ness . The fiddles struck up louder just h'ere, and I couldn't 
 catch the words any more; but the talk seemed to grow 
 hotter, until all at once the music lulled, and I heard these 
 words, 'To-night will be your last. To-morrow it will be 
 out of your power — ' There the music broke in again, and 
 in a moment I heard the door close with a bang, and it was 
 still in the box. Afterward I heard Selwyn ask for Miss 
 Lome. When Miss Lome came, she brought Rose Clarke 
 with her. They were very quiet, and Rose seemed to do 
 most of the talking. No; I didn't see Selwyn in the box. 
 I didn't see him afterward." 
 
 When the witness had finished, the Coroner called sharply 
 for Philip Dalton. 
 
 Dalton had heard the testimony of Waddell with perfect 
 composure; and he How arose, and came forward as calmly 
 as if he were entering the dining room of the St. Charles. 
 
116 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 If he felt the unpleasantness of his position, or realized its 
 danger, the men crowding about, who had already more 
 than half condemned him, would never read it in his counte- 
 nance, or hear it in the tones of his voice. He was face to 
 face with the inevitable, and lie would not be conquered 
 by it. 
 
 ‘‘Mr. Dalton/’ began the Coroner, “you have heard the 
 testimony of this last witness?” Dalton bowed gravely. 
 “Have you anything to say of a contradictory nature?” 
 
 “Nothing.” 
 
 “Then you admit that you had a difference with Mr. Sel- 
 wyn in box 19, last night?” 
 
 “I admit it.” 
 
 “And you used the language quoted by the witness ?” 
 
 “It is very probable.” 
 
 “Mr. Dalton, are you willing to enlighten us further as to 
 the nature of your quarrel with Mr. Selwyn?” 
 
 “By no means. You have made it plain to me that I am 
 under suspicion.. Upon that ground, I decline to enter into 
 details.” 
 
 “May you not be able to say something that will throw 
 light upon this subject and at the same time tend to exoner- 
 ate yourself?” 
 
 “I shall say nothing concerning my difference with Mr. 
 Selwyn.” 
 
 “But you admit the ‘difference’?” 
 
 “I have already admitted it.” 
 
 *‘And that you used,, in addressing him, the language 
 imputed to you by the last witness?” 
 
 “I neither admit nor deny. I do not recall the precise 
 words used by me. I presume your witness heard all tnat 
 
 lie has related.” 
 
DALTON AND THE CORONER. 
 
 m 
 
 “Mr. Dalton, where did you go upon leaving box 19?” 
 
 ‘To another box — number 22, I think/' 
 
 “Were you alone?" 
 
 “At first— yes. Afterward, I talked with Miss Lome for 
 about five minutes. Then I bade her good night, and said 
 that I was in a dull mood, and was going home." 
 
 “Di-d you not tell Miss Lome that you had quarreled 
 with Sdwyn?" 
 
 “Certainly not." 
 
 The Coroner thrust a hand deep down into a pocket of 
 his coat, and drawing out a small pistol, ivory handled and 
 silver mounted, presented it to Dalton. 
 
 “Is that your pistol?" he asked, quietly. • 
 
 Dalton tobk the weapon and turned it over in his hand. 
 
 “It looks like one that I own," he said. 
 
 “Do you own more than one?" 
 
 “No; I never owned its mate." 
 
 “Then it lias a mate?" 
 
 “I suppose so. These weapons are usually made in 
 couples, I believe." 
 
 “But why, in purchasing this pistol, then, did you not 
 secure its fellow?" 
 
 “Doctor, you are presuming the weapon to be mine." 
 
 “Is it yours?" 
 
 “If I had lost my pistol, I should say that this were it. But 
 unless some person has been so premature as to enter my 
 room, in my absence, and bring away my property, I cannot 
 craim this weapon." 
 
 The Coroner, looking slightly annoyed, reached out his 
 hand for the weapon, and Dalton returned it to him with a 
 Tow. 
 
 “Perhaps," said the Coroner, drawing another pistol from 
 
118 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 another pocket, “perhaps this is yours?” 
 
 Again Dalton took the weapon, and this time a startled 
 look crossed his face. But he recovered himself almost im- 
 mediately, and again turned the pistol about in his hand. 
 It was apparently a facsimile of the first, but unlike in that 
 it was encrusted with yellow clay. 
 
 “It appears to match the other,” he said, still examining 
 the pistol, “but I cannot venture to claim it since there^gems 
 to be so many of this peculiar pattern and workmanship.” 
 “The other pistol, you perhaps observed, w^as loaded,” 
 said the Coroner. “And this is empty. Mr. Dalton, in what 
 condition did you leave your pistol?” 
 
 “The one resembling this?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “If you mean, was it loaded? it was.” 
 
 “When you left the Theatre last night, where did you go?” 
 “To my hotel.” 
 
 “Did you see, or converse, with any one?” 
 
 “I saw the night clerk behind the desk, as I crossed the 
 office. I did not converse with him, or with any one.” 
 
 “Did you retire at once?” 
 
 “Not immediately.” 
 
 “What did you do?” 
 
 “I w.ent directly to my room, and after a time wrote some 
 
 letters.” 
 
 “Have you posted those letters?” 
 
 “No, I have destroyed them.” 
 
 “And why?” 
 
 “Because I had reconsidered matters and determined riot 
 
 to send them.” 
 
 “At what time, after writing your letter, did you leave 
 your room last night?” 
 
DALTON AND THE CORONER. 
 
 119 
 
 “After writing, I retired. I did not leave my room.” 
 
 “Did you remain all night in your room?” 
 
 “I did.” 
 
 “At what hour did you retire?” 
 
 “It was near midnight, I should judge.” 
 
 “When you were in the Theatre last night, were you 
 armed?” 
 
 “I was.” 
 
 “Is it our custom to carry weaons?” 
 
 “Not in general; when I came to Caledonia, I adopted 
 the custom of the country.” 
 
 “Then why, in leaving the hotel this morning, did you 
 ignore that custom, and leave your weapon behind?” 
 
 “I did not.” 
 
 “Eh?” 
 
 “If I were to walk the streets of Caledonia considering 
 
 o 
 
 myself armed and yet carrying only that small single- 
 ban eled toy, I should indeed deserve the title sometimes 
 bestowed upon the unsophisticated Eastern traveler. A 
 man can't be said to be armed with only one shat in hi-s belt.” 
 There was a little stir, and sundry . glances of approbation 
 were exchanged. Dalton's last speech had msfde a favorable 
 impression up’on the natives. 
 
 “And yet,” ^ald the Coroner, sharply, “you left this same 
 ‘to;/ under your pillow, presumably as a weapon qf defense.” 
 “Trite; for years it was the only weapon in my possession. 
 During my tong residence in hotels and furnished rooms 
 in the East, I had formed the habit of sleeping with the 
 pistol under my pillow. I considered it ample protection. 
 When I came to* Rome, I armed myself after the manner of 
 ' the Romans; but I continued the habit of sleeping with the 
 little pistol under my head.” 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTJUK X. 
 
 12 0 
 
 “Then if you were going about at night, you would nor 
 consider yourself armed, with only this pistol?^ 
 
 “Decidedly not.” 
 
 “How were you armed last night at the Theatre?” 
 
 “With a six shooter, in my pistol pocket.” 
 
 “Are you thus armed now?” 
 
 “I am.” 
 
 “Will you let me see the weapon?” 
 
 Dalton drew his pistol, and presented it to the Coroner, 
 who took it and examined it narrowly. 
 
 “May I retain this weapon, Mr. Dalton?” 
 
 “No, sir. You have no right to do so; there is no law in 
 force against carrying firearms here.” 
 
 “But, under the circumstances — ” 
 
 “I may be under suspicion, sir; I am not under arrest.” 
 (He extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation the 
 revolver was returned. 
 
 Again the Coroner consulted his memoranda, and then 
 lie asked: 
 
 “How long have you known Mr. Selwyn?” 
 
 “I first knew Marmaduke Selwyn eight years ago. We 
 were fellow students; we left school together, and saw con- 
 
 siderable of each other the following winter in New York.” ■ 
 “And were you friends during that time?” 
 
 “Very good friends.” 
 
 “How long did this continue?” 
 
 “I went abroad within the year, and we did not thereafter 
 meet until last winter — again in New York.” 
 
 “Under what circumstances?” 
 
 “We met as old acquaintances, but saw comparatively 
 3 : :tje of each other until I game West.” 
 
 “And what induced you to come West?” 
 
 
DALTON AND THE CORONER. 
 
 121 
 
 “A variety of motives. I was recovering from a fever, 
 contracted during a journey to the Southern states, and mv 
 physician advised me to try pioneer life, and mountain air. 
 Besides I wanted to see the country, and learn something 
 about mountain mining— I am interested in mineralogy ai\d 
 metals — and, lastly, Selwyn’s representations had led me to 
 think there was a chance here for profitable investments.” 
 
 “I see. Did any correspondence pass between Selwyn and 
 yourself?” 
 
 “One 6r two business letters only. Selwyn, after return- 
 ing here from his last trip East, wrote to inform me of the 
 business chances, and advised me to come out.” 
 
 “During your stay here you two have seemed great friends 
 and been much together. Have you at times disagreed, as 
 you did last night?” 
 
 “No. The affair of last night was our first and only 
 -rupture” 
 
 “Have you any reason for thinking Selwyn had an enemy 
 here?” 
 
 “None whatever. I believe Mr. Selwyn to have been 
 popular with nearly all classes — phenomenally so.” 
 
 “Mr. Dalton this examination has not been all that I 
 «ould wish and I shall take the liberty of questioning you 
 again ; for the present, you are dismissed.” 
 
 Dalton bowed and quietly returned to his seat, so far as 
 the eye could judge the most collected and untroubled man 
 in the room. 
 
 The examination had been anything but satisfactory to 
 many there present. To those who knew that the mud- 
 encrusted pistol had been found in the cellar, near the body 
 of the murdered man — and these comprised the greater part 
 of the of ©alton, and the iu^ompmhen- 
 
122 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 sible reticence of the Coroner, were disappointing and mys- 
 terious. They had looked to see Dalton confronted with 
 the announcement that the mud-spotted pistol, the com- 
 panion to the one which they all believed to be his own, 
 had been the death-dealing weapon. And they had expected 
 to see it work a change in the demeanor of the suspected 
 man. Connolley and Mack openly showed their displeasure. 
 
 As for the two detectives, the one a juryman and the other 
 sitting among the spectators, the episode of the two pistols 
 had startled both. They could not grasp the new situation, 
 nor guess to what it would lead. That the first pistol was 
 actually Dalton's, taken from his room, they felt tolerably 
 sure. It was a weapon of unique workmanship, not at all 
 likely to have many duplicates; and that its fac-simiie should 
 have been found so near the body of Selwyn was sufficient 
 to cause one of them great uneasiness. 
 
 While the Coroner again consulted his memoranda, and 
 the crowd began to stir restlessly and exchange sharp whis- 
 pers, there seemed to be more than the usual movement 
 about the outer doorway; and the heads of those nearest 
 were turned to gaze curiously at some one or something 
 upon the threshold. 
 
 The Coroner also raised his head and turned his eyes in 
 that direction. Just at that moment a tall Regulator, who 
 had been posted by Connolley as a sort of guard at the en- 
 trance, came pushing his way through the crowd, and with 
 a broad grin upon his countenance presented to the Coroner 
 an oblong pink card, gilt edged and bearing upon its surface 
 in huge gilt letters this name: Miss Rosabella Saint Leger. 
 
 The Coroner took the pink card, read the name, frowned 
 mightily, and then noted in the corner the penciled word 
 “over,” strongly emphasized by two black marks under- 
 
A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 12^ 
 
 neath. Over, accordingly, he turned the card, and read on 
 the side thus presented these high sounding and melodra- 
 matic words, none too well written,. in a fine cramped hand: 
 “Honured Sir . If you wil but permit me to apeer before 
 you, and will grashusly receave my testamony, you may hear 
 of something to your advantaig * 'concurning the misteraous 
 murder of lasteave. ROSABELLA S. LA 
 
 In spite of the absurdity of the message, the Coroner's 
 frown deepened, and changed to a look of perplexity. For 
 a moment he hesitated, then turned and said to the jury: 
 “A new witness has volunteered something in the way of 
 testimony. I think w<e must hear her.” Then to the Regu- 
 lator who had presented the card: “Bring forward the — 
 
 pc: son.” 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 In another moment, “Miss Rosabella Saint Leger” was 
 courtesying before him; and she was none other than our 
 former acquaintance, and Barbara Wray’s late companion, 
 Susan Collins. 
 
 She was pinker than ever, and the ribbons by which Stan- 
 hope had identified her, were in profusion and all a-flutter, 
 
 Her attire was brilliant, and truly wonderful in its complica- 
 
124 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 tion of arrangement and its variety of color. Evidently, \ 
 Miss Collins, or Rosabella Saint Leger, was bent upon con- 
 quest, and fully expected to create a sensation. Before the 
 inquiry was over she had succeeded in her undertaking, in - 
 more senses than one. 
 
 For a moment the Coroner scrutinized her attentively, and 
 then said, somewhat impatiently: 
 
 “You call yourself Miss Saint Leger, do you?” 
 
 Miss Saint Leger bowed and smiled blandly. Evidently 
 she had slept in curl papers, for her head was now covered 
 with bright hued ringlets, many in number and enormous in 
 size, and every motion set them bobbing and swaying. 
 
 “I do,” she answered, with a little, affected lisp; “Mith 
 Rothabella Thaint Leger.” 
 
 “What do you know’ about this murder, Miss?” 
 
 The volunteer witness bridled and tossed back her curls. 
 She had her own ideas concerning the duties of a witness, 
 and evidently had rehearsed her story. 
 
 “I came,” she began, “from New York, and arrived in 
 Caledonia yesterday. I traveled in company with a young 
 lady who was coming to this western town, she said, to meet 
 her father. We traveled all the way in company, and of 
 course I thupposed a nice old gentleman would meet us at 
 the hotel steps. If I hadn’t thupposed so, I shouldn’t never 
 have come with her.” 
 
 “Young woman, you came here to testify about this mur- 
 der, didn’t you?” said the Coroner, testily. 
 
 “Yeth, thir. I am coming to that, only I thought I ought 
 to explain my position.” 
 
 “Well, don’t waste words.” 
 
 “When we arrived at the St. Charles Hotel,” went on the* 
 witness, withdrawing her eyes from the unsympathetic coun- 
 
A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 125 
 
 tenance of the Coroner, and letting them rove from face to 
 face among her auditors, as if in search of a more congenial 
 spirit, “there wath no one to meet Miss Wray, if that ith really 
 her name. There wathn’t a soul that she knew, until last 
 evening” — Miss Saint Leger did not attend closely to her 
 lisp, — “and then we was in the parlor. I was looking out of 
 the window, and she was walking up and down the floor. The 
 parlor door was open, and all at once I heard some one say, 
 ‘Miss Wray, is it possible!’ And I turned around, and there 
 was a splendid-lookin’ gentleman standin’ in the door. I 
 s’pose he was going through the hall after supper. I don’t 
 s pose there could have been any appointment between 
 them — ” 
 
 “You may spare us your suppositions,” broke in the Coro- 
 ner. “Tell only what you know.” 
 
 “Well, there he wath; and he held out his hand to Miss 
 Wray, and seemed mightily pleased to see her. And she al- 
 most screamed out: ‘Mr. Selwyn/' and was going on to say 
 more, when she noticed he was looking at me , and she turned 
 around short and ordered me out of the room. I ain’t one of 
 the kind to stay where I ain’t wanted, and I went, although 
 the gentleman murmured something about its being unnec- 
 essary, in a very polite manner.” 
 
 “Stop; you are sure that the lady called him Selwyn?” 
 “Oh, my! yes.” 
 
 “Did you ever see Mr. Selwyn?” 
 
 “Why; I saw him then\” 
 
 “Describe him.” 
 
 “He was tall, and blonde, and he had a diamond ring on 
 his finger.” 
 
 “How long did Selwyn and the lady converse?” 
 
 “Oh, half an hour, I should think.” 
 
120 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “Do you know anything about their conversation?’’ 
 
 Miss Saint Leger bridled and fluttered her curls.' 
 
 “Well, I didn’t want to go off up stairs alone, so I walked 
 about in the hall; and when X passed the parlor door I could 
 hear enough to be sure they was quarreling, or at least she 
 was. He seemed to be sort of pleading like. And once, when 
 a man was coming up the hall, and I stepped back close to the 
 parlor door to let him pass, and sort of made believe I was 
 going in, for I was awful afraid he’d speak to me, I heard 
 Miss Wray say: ‘It would be a relief even to know you were | 
 dead! Just then something made a noise below, and the 
 next words I caught seemed to be in answer to something he 
 had said; ‘You shall not,’ she was saying; ‘I am not so utter- 
 ly alone. There is at least one man here whom I can trust. 
 You shall explain to him — soon — to-night, and — ’ I didn’t 
 hear the last word, for of course I wouldn’t listen.” 
 
 “No ; of course not f echoed the Coroner, contemptuous- 
 ly. “Are you now staying at the St. Charles, Miss?” 
 
 At this moment his attention was arrested by the move- 
 ment of a man who had slowly made his way from his place 
 among the spectators, and now stood very near the witness, 
 and almost behind her. It was Van Vernet, and his straight, 
 well-clad form, among the rough-garbed, stolid men about 1 
 him, was sufficiently striking to have at once attracted the 
 attention of the Coroner, even if he had not ’hailed him by 
 that almost imperceptible sign. 
 
 When the newly-fledged Miss Saint Leger made her way j 
 to the front, Van Vernet had turned his eye for one moment 
 toward Philip Dalton, and had read in his face the first sign 
 of uneasiness. Turning next a momentary glance toward 
 Stanhope, he saw that he, too, was not pleased at the sight of I 
 the pink-faced witness. And then the thought flashed upon 
 
A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 127 
 
 his mind that this could be no other than '‘Miss Ribbons,” 
 the companion of Miss Wray. 
 
 At the first mention of Barbara Wray, the anxiety in Dal- 
 ton's face deepened; and Podunk shot Vernet a glance 
 which he readily interpreted as a danger signal. And when 
 the name of Duke Selwyn was brought forward, his mind 
 was again illuminated. The man with whom Miss Wray had 
 conversed before retiring last night, was not Dalton, as he 
 had supposed, but Selwyn. tie remembered perfectly now. 
 Dalton had said that he saw Miss Wray in the morning, and 
 for only ten minutes. Then he arose from his place, and be- 
 gan to make his way toward the Coroner. He had resolved 
 to act, and was inwardly rejoiced that his first experiment 
 had been a success. He had secured to himself the attention 
 of the Coroner, which was all that he desired for the time. 
 
 When he had exchanged quick glances with the stranger, 
 the Coroner again turned toward the witness. 
 
 "What was your motive in coming here to-day?” he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 The girl started and looked surprised at the question. “I 
 thought it was my duty, thir,” she said, after a moment’s 
 hesitation. 
 
 "Did you inform Miss Wray of your intentions?” 
 
 "No, thir. I was afraid it would have a bad effect upon her.” 
 
 "And for what reason?” 
 
 "Why, when I heard, this morning, that Mr. Selwyn had 
 been shot, and rushed into the parlor to tell her the news, as 
 one naturally would, she — fainted.” 
 
 Again V ernet’s eyes went quickly to Dalton’s face, and he 
 read there a corroboration of this surprising statement. 
 
 At that instant the witness suddenly pointed to Dalton, 
 
128 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “That man/’ she said, “was talking with her when she 
 fainted; ask him.” 
 
 The Coroner turned quickly toward Dalton. 
 
 “Is that true?” he asked. 
 
 “I met Miss Wray near the door of the parlor, this morn - 
 ing*,” replied Dalton. “I was greatly surprised to see her. 
 Miss Wray is a lady of delicacy and refinement, and the 
 daughter of a wealthy New Yorker. She told me that her 
 father came to this place three months ago; that she had 
 ceased to hear from him and became greatly alarmed con- 
 cerning him. Lately she received a letter, which she supposed 
 was written by him, and which bade her procure a compan- 
 ion and join him here. She engaged that person” — here he 
 pointed, in his turn, at Miss Saint Leger — “and reached Cal- 
 edonia yesterday, only to learn that her father was not to be 
 found. She had told me this much, and was deeply agitated, 
 as was but natural, w^hen that young woman rushed in and 
 cried out that some one had been murdered. Miss Wray’s 
 faint was caused by her anxiety concerning her father, and 
 by her fatigued state, rather than by the young womans wild 
 words. A little later, when I went up from the office to the 
 parlor to ask after Miss Wray, that young woman was caught 
 with her ear to the key hole. She is a spy, and I believe her 
 capable of falsehood. Miss Wray, no doubt, has dismissed 
 her, and she takes this method of revenging herself.” 
 
 “It’s no such thing!” said the irate damsel. “Much I care 
 wdiat he had to say to her!” 
 
 “Hold your tongue, Miss,” said the Coroner, sternly. 
 
 For the first time during the examination Coroner Mitch- 
 ell w^as really at a loss ; undecided how to act. Not that he al- 
 lowed his indecision to manifest itself in his countenance; on 
 the contrary he put on a most forbidding frown and appeared 
 
A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 129 
 
 to be arranging his notes, while in reality he was marshalling 
 his ideas. He had no prejudice against Philip Dalton, but he 
 knew his constituency, and that they would brook nothing 
 that looked like favoritism, or sympathy, unpopularly be- 
 stowed. He strictly fulfilled, in his public character, all the 
 requirements of Caledonia, generally managing to have his 
 own way in the end, and solacing himself always by holding, 
 for his own private benefit, deeply rooted and very decided 
 private opinions. If he wished to create a prejudice against 
 Philip Dalton, he knew that an attempt to favor him by fee- 
 bly following up the evidence was the surest way to do it. 
 And he knewq equally well, that rough handling on his part 
 was likely to turn the tide of sympathy in Dalton's favor. 
 
 Pie realized now, as well as if they had put it into words, 
 that the crowd about him expected him to produce Miss 
 Wray; and that to disappoint them would be to render that 
 young lady an object of suspicion, and to cause her, perhaps, 
 serious annoyance. Pie thought of all this, and his decision 
 w r as made. Looking up, his eyes encountered those of Ver- 
 net, and he said : 
 
 “Is there any one present who knows Miss Wray and who 
 will take a message to her?" 
 
 Instantly Vernet came forward. 
 
 “I will wait upon the lady," he said. 
 
 The Coroner tore a leaf fisom his note-book and wrote 
 some w^ords upon it. 
 
 “Take this," he said; and as Vernet extended his band, 
 another glance of intelligence was exchanged. 
 
 When Vernet was outside the building, he quickened his 
 pace, and hurried on with the folded paper in his hand, until 
 he came to the corner which he must turn to reach the hotel. 
 Here he looked back, and being assured that he was not :ol- 
 
a Mountain mystery. 
 
 130 
 
 lowed, nor observed, quickly unfolded the bit of paper and 
 read these words: 
 
 ■‘If you can convince these people that the lady is too ill to 
 appear to-day, I will postpone further proceedings until to- 
 morrow. 
 
 Vernet’s eyes lighted up, and he smiled as lie hurried to- 
 ward the St. Charles. Rightly thinking that her anxiety must 
 l ender Miss Wray too restless to remain quietly in her room, 
 Vernet passed the office, which was deserted, save for the 
 presence of Charlie, and hurried up the stairs. The parlor 
 door was closed, and he opened it softly; so softly, indeed, 
 that the sound did not reach the ear of the lady who sat in a 
 low chair near the window, with her head bowed upon the 
 table beside v her. 
 
 * "Miss Wray.” 
 
 She started, lifted her head, and then rose quickly. As 
 quickly Van Vernet stepped across the threshold and closed 
 the door. For a moment they regarded each other in silence 
 — the woman all that is lovely, gracious, refined in woman- 
 hood ; the man a perfect specimen of manly grace and vigor. 
 
 Barbara recognized at once the hero of the morning; and 
 Van Vernet mentally assured himself that hers was the love- 
 liest face he had ever seen. 
 
 "I did not mean to startle you, Miss Wray,” he said, com - 
 ing toward her and speaking in a low tone. "I have brought 
 you a message from Mr. Dalton.” 
 
 "From Mr. Dalton?” 
 
 "Yes. We are old friends, and, as you perhaps know, lie 
 is at present in a little trouble, which, I think, will be but 
 temporary.” 
 
A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 131 
 
 “I know — he has told me.” 
 
 “Oh! then you will understand what I am about to say. 
 Mr. Dalton has been on the witness stand this afternoon, and 
 some unpleasant bits of circumstantial evidence have been 
 brought forward against him. Fearing that for a few days 
 he might not be in a position to render you much service, he 
 thought it best to tell me of your presence here, and the na- 
 ture of your trouble. It is at his request that I offer my serv- 
 ices, and it is my own earnest wish that you accept them/’ 
 
 In the eyes of a woman, especially such a woman as Bar- 
 bara Wray, a deed of valor is a patent of nobility; and to 
 Barbara, his defense of the stage-coach seemed a most valor- 
 ous deed. It never occurred to her to doubt his sincerity — 
 there was too much respectful sympathy in his eye, his atti- 
 tude, and the tones of his voice ; and she had never learned 
 to distrust her fellow mortals. 
 
 “I am not in a position to refuse your kindness,’' she -said, 
 simply . “Will you tell me to whom I am indebted?” 
 
 Vernet smiled, and then looked grave. 
 
 “To any but a lady, Miss Wray, I should feel justified in 
 introducing myself by a name not my own, as my business 
 here is of a private nature, and there are strong reasons why 
 I should conceal my identity. My name is Vernet.” 
 
 Her eye brightened, and she took a step forward. 
 
 “Vernet,” she said; “not — surely not Van Vernet, the 
 brave detective?” 
 
 “Perhaps not quite that; but Van Vernet and a detective 
 I certainly am.” 
 
 “Oh!” she cried, her countenance brightening, “I might 
 have known it! I have heard you described. One could 
 hardly live in New York without hearing of you ,and your 
 
132 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 friend, Stanhope. And Mr. Dalton has sent you to me! Oh, 
 how I thank him !” 
 
 : ‘So do I,” said Vernet, gallantly. “And now, Miss Wray, 
 time presses. Will you trust me for a few 1 hours, without re- 
 quiring too many explanations? 
 
 " "Yes; oh, yes!” 
 
 "Then, believe me, I am going to devote myself to the task 
 of finding your father, and of extricating Dalton from his 
 present difficulties. To begin, I ask you to go to your room, 
 and ring at on'ce for a servant — ’fortunately this modern edi- 
 fice has the convenience of the worst assortment of tinkling 
 bells that I ever heard. When some one comes — which will 
 be in half an hour, probably — say that you are indisposed, 
 and ask that a doctor be called at once. There is but one doc- 
 tor in town, and he is the Coroner.” 
 
 “Oh!” she exclaimed; "but why do thfe?” 
 
 "I will explain. You had a companion when you arrived 
 here, whom you have dismissed. And yesterday you met 
 and talked with some one in this room — some one other than 
 Philip Dalton.” 
 
 "Yes,” she said, hesitatingly. 
 
 "Well, this malicious young woman has just appeared*be- 
 fore the Coroner, and declared that this man 'was Duke Sel- 
 wyn; and so, of course, it becomes the duty of the Coroner 
 to summon you to appear before him.” 
 
 "'/appear before the Coroner? Oh, I cannot!” 
 
 "Miss Wray,” said Vernet, gravely, "I think I had better 
 tell you that the person who was your companion, has said 
 that you quarreled with Selwyn. As you must be aware, this 
 is a wild community, ruled by impulse rather than by law and 
 justice; and the popular sentiment, after hearing this miser- 
 able woman’s story, is against you,” 
 
A VOLUNTEER WITNESS. 
 
 133 
 
 “ Against me /” Miss Wray drew herself up proudly. 
 
 “I think/’ went on Vernet, “that the Coroner is a kindly- 
 disposed person; that he means to be just. Here is the note 
 which he gave me, when I volunteered, upon his call for a 
 messenger, to come to you.” 
 
 He put the note into her hand, and she read it slowly, once 
 and again. 
 
 “Mr. Vernet,” she said, “does this mean that I must ap- 
 pear before the Coroner, if not to-day, to-morrow?” 
 
 “I fear so.” 
 
 “And what does he wish to hear from my lips?” 
 
 “Your version of your interview with Selwyn, if there was 
 such interview; and I had ventured to hope that if you must 
 go among those people, you might say something that 
 would be of benefit to Mr. Dalton.” 
 
 She looked up quickly. 
 
 “Could I say anything that would benefit him?” 
 
 “If you could say that you knew him to be a gentleman 
 above reproach, and believed him incapable of a bloody or 
 base deed, it might be something.” 
 
 “I could say that, and more.” 
 
 “I think I should tell you — for very slight things weigh 
 with these sensation-hungry people — -that your late compan- 
 ion has ventured to intimate that you may not be so much in- 
 terested in finding your father as in seeing some one else.” 
 
 “Stop!” she said sharply. “I know the woman now, and 
 1 think that I understand.” Her head was proudly lifted, 
 and there was a new firmness about her lips. “What do you 
 advise?” she said. 
 
 “It was my first impression that you would be too much 
 startled to think of going before those people now — that you 
 might not have the courage — that you needed time to collect 
 
184 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 your thoughts. I believe that was the Coroner’s idea, too.” 
 “And now you think otherwise?” 
 
 “I think that I understand your courage and spirit.” 
 
 “And do you advise me to go now?” 
 
 “It is not necessary that you should. You have until to- 
 morrow. By sending for Doctor Mitchell, as I have sug- 
 gested, you would have an opportunity to tell him your story, 
 and by so doing your ordeal will be less trying, perhaps, to- 
 morrow.” 
 
 “And by so doing, too, I shall give these people, already 
 prejudiced against me, the chance to say, and think, that I 
 was forewarned; that I have pr epared my story. Is it not so ?” 
 “Yes; that might happen.” 
 
 “Is there any reason, then, why you advise me to wait, 
 other than that I may have time to gain courage, and grow 
 accustomed to the thought of the disagreeable task?” 
 
 “Only this : There was a second person who came here in 
 
 your company ; and that woman quoted some words which, 
 she alleges, you addressed to Selwyn. Her object seemed to 
 be a desire to create, in the minds of some of her hearers, an 
 impression against you ; an idea that this man — who, by the 
 way, cannot be found — may have been merely your tool; and 
 that he — ” 
 
 “I see!” she cried. “I understand perfectly. Oh, this is 
 infamous! That girl will say that I came here to meet Mar- 
 maduke Selwyn; that I quarreled with him, threatened him; 
 that the stranger was my tool, and that I — incited him — to 
 murder!” 
 
 “She has not gone so far as that yet, but I think she has 
 given sufficient proof of what was in her mind.” 
 
 “Then she must not have the opportunity to further malign 
 rne, Come, Mr. Vernet, I am going to let the Coroner and 
 
BARBARA AT “COURT/ 
 
 155 
 
 the Caledonians hear what /have to say of Marmaduke Sel- 
 wyn and Philip Dalton/ 
 
 “But, Miss Wray, you will be cautious? You will say no 
 more than is necessary ?” 
 
 “I will say no more than is true . Wait here, Mr. Vernet; 
 I will join you in one moment” 
 
 She crossed the room with a quick, firm step, and went 
 out, a crimson flush in either fair cheek, and a bright, pur- 
 poseful gleam in her brown eyes. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 BARBARA AT “COURT." 
 
 During Vernet’s absence, the Coroner, too wise to permit 
 the assembled crowd to relapse into disorder, or turn their at- 
 tention upon Uach other, began slowly to cross-question Miss 
 Rosabella Saint Leger — not with the hope of gaining fresh 
 information, but simply to keep the attention of his audience. 
 
 He gained from her a garbled description of the dress and 
 appearance of Duke Selwyn, and trapped her into an admis- 
 sion chat she had listened at the door. Then, to gain more 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 time, he made a pretence of note-taking, and afterwards held 
 an animated dialogue with Mack and Connolley — in which, 
 on the part of all three, there was much earnestness, and no 
 pretence whatever. 
 
 This discussion was broken in upon by the appearance of 
 Vernet and Miss Wray. And strangely out of place they 
 looked, as he led her, her hand resting upon his arm, through 
 that motley crowd. A passage way was promptly opened for 
 them ; and the Coroner, after one glance, arose to receive the 
 lady, while Mack himself hastened to place for her a chair. 
 
 Fortunately for her comfort and composure, he so placed 
 it that her back was toward the long table where Duke Sel- 
 wyn’s body still lay outstretched, covered, now, with a dark, 
 pall-like cloth. In passing the line of eager, staring men, she 
 had kept her eyes downcast, and she did not know that death, 
 in its most ghastly form, was so near her. 
 
 When he had placed her in the chair, Vernet, keeping his 
 station at her side, said to the Coroner: 
 
 ‘T found^Miss Wray more than willing to come, sir, and 
 she only asks that you will be as brief as possible, and spare 
 her any unnecessary effort. She is, as you must see, much 
 worn with anxiety and fatigue.” 
 
 The Coroner bowed; and Mack, observing that the stran- 
 ger evidently meant to stand his ground, motioned to some 
 one on the outer edge of the aisle, and a chair, passed over 
 the heads of the witnesses, was placed at Vernet’s disposal, 
 lie took it, with admirable sangfroid, bowed his thanks to 
 Mack, who was inwardly wondering what interest he could 
 have in this affair, and depositing it beside that occupied by 
 Miss Wray, coolly seated himself. 
 
 “If Miss Wray is ready,” said the Coroner, giving no sign 
 
BARBARA AT “COURT. 
 
 137 
 
 that he was inwardly delighted with the nonchalance of the 
 young and prepossessing stranger, “we will proceed. 1 ' 
 
 “I am ready, sir,” answered the lady, in a low, musical 
 voice, and fixing her dark eyes, now quite calm and steady, 
 upon his face. 
 
 “I will begin by asking you if you know that young wom- 
 an?” said Coroner Mitchell, pointing a long forefinger at 
 Miss Saint Leger, who, by his direction, was seated near, and 
 directly under his eye. 
 
 Miss Wray cast one glance upon the girl, who flushed and 
 shook her ringlets, and then her eyes returned to the Coro- 
 ner’s face. 
 
 “I do,” she said, quietly. 
 
 “Who is she?” 
 
 “She introduced herself to me as a Miss Susan Collins.” 
 
 “Under what circumstances?” 
 
 “I had advertised for a traveling companion and she an- 
 swered the advertisement.” 
 
 “Then she did not introduce herself to you as Miss Rosa- 
 bella Saint Leger?” 
 
 “Certainly not.” 
 
 “Miss Wray, do you know what that young woman has 
 been telling myself and this jury?” 
 
 “Something concerning an interview with Mr. Selwyn, I 
 understand.” 
 
 “'Yes. Then you knew Marmaduke Selwyn?” 
 
 “I did.” 
 
 “Will you tell us what passed between yourself and Mr. 
 Selwyn last night?” 
 
 “Willingly; but to make it clear, I must first tell what 
 brought me to this place.” 
 
 “Do so ” 
 
138 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Iii her low, clear voice, and in the graceful, simple manner 
 so natural to her, Barbara Wray told her story. Told how 
 Marmaduke Selwyn had appeared in New York, during the 
 previous winter; and how, in some manner unknown to her- 
 self, he bad made the acquaintance of her father. How, grad- 
 ually, he became a visitor at their house, and interested Mr. 
 Wray in his schemes of mining and land speculations -among 
 the mountains and valleys of the West. She told how, when 
 Selwyn set out for the West, her father had empoweerd him 
 to make certain purchases and investments in his interest and 
 had given a half promise to visit the mining country. And, 
 finally, how, after receiving two or three urgent letters from 
 Selwyn — representing their prospective gains as promising 
 to be enormous, and the business such as needed the personal 
 supervision of Mr. Wray, and, at last, a telegram more flat- 
 tering and urgent than either, sent from the railway terminus 
 by Selwyn, who had made the journey thus far East for that 
 sole purpose — Mr. Wray had decided to visit Caledonia. At 
 this point in her narrative, the young lady ceased speaking, 
 her voice was tremulous and her lip quivered. 
 
 After a moment's silence, the Coroner resumed his inquiry, 
 “And your father set out for this place alone, Miss Wray ?*' 
 “He did.” » 
 
 “You can, if it becomes necessary, name the precise day 
 and date?” 
 
 “I can. 
 
 Here Vernet shot him a quick glance of approval; his good 
 opinion of Coroner Mitchell was rapidly growing. That he 
 had not asked then and there, in the presence of all Caledo- 
 nia, the precise day when the missing man left his home, lie 
 considered, on the part of the Coroner, almost a stroke of 
 genius. 
 
BARBARA AT “COURT.” 
 
 139 
 
 “And have you — ” the Coroner checked himself quickly 
 and changed the form of the question. “And did you hear 
 from Mr. Wray after he left New York?” 
 
 “Yes. I received three or four letters, all written within 
 less than two weeks after his arrival in Caledonia ; and then 
 another, the fifth, I think — which told me he was about to 
 set out, by stage, for Rockville.” 
 
 “And when did you hear from him again?” 
 
 “I — I did not hear from him again, until I received the 
 letter which told me that he was here in Caledonia, too ill to 
 travel further, and begged that I would come to him.” 
 
 “Miss Wray, did not your father, in asking you to come to 
 him, suggest the propriety of some escort other than this 
 young person here?” 
 
 “My father’s letter,” she replied, sadly, “bore evidences of 
 having been written with difficulty; he said only that which 
 must be said; and he, no doubt, trusted to my judgment, and 
 that of our friends. Our family lawyer is a Mr. Follingsbee, 
 and in a postscript my fatner had written: ‘Let Follingsbee 
 arrange for your safe and comfortable journey/ ” 
 
 “And did this gentleman, your lawyer, permit you to set 
 out on such a journey alone?” At the word “alone,” Miss 
 Saint Leger sniffed and tossed her curls. 
 
 “By no means; Mr. Follingsbee at first intended to come 
 with me, but he found this would be almost impossible. At 
 the last moment, for I was determined to go even if I went 
 alone, he learned that a gentleman, an acquaintance, was 
 traveling West; and he wrote to tell me that, as it seemed he 
 could do no better, he would place us in the care of this gen- 
 tleman. At the hour of our departure, Mr. Follingsbee ap- 
 peared at our house, and accompanied us to the railway sta- 
 
140 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 tion. He said that his friend, who had been detained by busi- 
 ness, would meet us there.” 
 
 “And did he?” ~ • 1 
 
 “Yes; at the last moment. The train was about to start, 
 and Mr. Follingsbee was leaving us in despair, when they 
 met as one was quitting, the other entering, the coach. Mr. 
 Follingsbee had only time to tell him that we were in the 
 cc aeh, and he sought us out at once.” 
 
 “'Where is this gentleman now?” 
 
 “I do not know,” she replied; and then told how he had 
 gone out to search for her father, and how, in the morning, 
 she had learned from the clerk that the. stranger was not to 
 be found* 
 
 “At wthat hour did you see him last?” v 
 
 “It was dark, or almost dark, when the stage arrived. The 
 gentleman left us in the parlor soon after, and went to make 
 inquiries for me. It was soon after this, and while I was 
 walking about the parlor, half distracted between fear and 
 suspense, that Mr. Selwyn, in passing, saw me and came in.” 
 “Oh, and will you tell us, Miss Wray, just what was said 
 by Mr. Selwyn and yourself?” 
 
 “I hardly know. Think of my position, sir. I was half 
 crazed with anxiety; and suddenly the man through whose ! 
 influence my father came to this place only to disappear so 
 strangely, was before me. I remember that my first words 
 were a demand to know where my father was.” She paused 
 a moment, and seemed thinking. “Yes, she said,” I remem- 
 ber. Fie did not reply, but looked, instead, at Miss Collins. 
 In my excitement I interpreted his glance as meaning that 
 he did not desire her presence, and I asked her to leave the 
 room. I anticipated — I hardly know what.” 
 
BARBARA AT “COURT.” 
 
 141 
 
 “Did Selwyn proffer his hand, and did you refuse to take 
 it?" 
 
 “I do not recollect — it is probable. I was not thinking of 
 ceremonies. He may have proffered his hand; if so, I am 
 sure I did not extend mine. I only looked him in the face, 
 and asked again for news of my father.” 
 
 “And he?” 
 
 “He appeared to be astonished at my question, and said 
 that he did not know that Mr. Wray was in the Western 
 world. He made an attempt to explain — to tell me about 
 some letters; but I would not listen. It was he who had pre- 
 vailed upon my father to meet him here; I could think of 
 nothing else. I accused him of treachery; of intentional 
 wrong. I said he could find my father if he would ; that he 
 knew my father brought with him a large sum of money ; and 
 I don’t know how much more. I believed, in the frenzy of 
 the moment, that he had concocted some scheme to enrich 
 himself by robbery, detention, or in some way that I could 
 not explain.” 
 
 “And what did he say to this?” 
 
 “What could he say, but deny, remonstrate, and finally 
 leave me, remarking that he would try to talk with me again, 
 when I was calmer.” 
 
 “Miss Wray, did you make use of any such words as these: 
 ‘It would be a relief even to know that you were dead?’ ” 
 
 “I?” She started, and then -almost smiled. “I remem- 
 ber,” she said; “I spoke of my father, and I used some such 
 words, but I did not use the pronoun you .” 
 
 “I see,” said the Coroner, dryly, casting a contemptuous 
 glance toward Miss Rosabella Saint Leger. “And later,” he 
 resumed, “did you say something about one ‘person whom 
 
142 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 you could trust/ and who should see him, call him to ac- 
 count, even that night ?” 
 
 “Yes. I think I said something like that.” 
 
 “May I ask to whom you referred ?” 
 
 “I referred to the gentleman who was our escort. I relied 
 upon the promise given by Mr. Follingsbee that I should find 
 him in every way trustworthy and ready to serve me.” 
 
 “Do you know the nature of his business in Caledonia?'' 
 
 “I do not." 
 
 Van Vernet stirred uneasily. He dreaded the next ques- I 
 tion, for he feared that it would reveal the fact that Miss | 
 Wray was ignorant of the name of her escort. But at that mo- f 
 ment there occurred a lucky diversion. 
 
 An anxious-faced, mud-bespattered Regulator pushed his 
 way through the crowd, and beckoned to Connolley. And 
 Connolley, after a moment’s whispered conversation, came 
 back with darkening visage, and whispered in his turn to the 
 Coroner. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A WITNESS WANTED. 
 
 It was late, for the time occupied in the examination of the 
 witnesses had occupied all of the earlier afternoon hours ; and 
 after a few moments’ conference with Connolley the Coroner 
 turned, advanced a step so that he stood close beside Vernet, 
 and then, without seeming to notice his nearness to the latter, 
 
A WITNESS WANTED. 
 
 143 
 
 t>cnt forward and addressed himself, in a low tone, to Mack. 
 
 ‘There’s an important witness missing,” he said, with the 
 decided air of a man not to be turned from his purpose, an 1 
 who knows more than he chooses to tell. “There’s skulldug- 
 gery afoot somewhere, and'this jury’s going to get to the in- 
 side of it before they give in a verdict. You’d better make 
 vour announcement now; I’m going to adjourn.” 
 
 “But,” began Mack, in the same cautious tone, “it won’t 
 do, Doc’—” 
 
 “It shall do !” The Coroner’s face was black with rising 
 wrath, and his eyes flashed a look into those of the remon- 
 strator that served to silence him. “Don’t make a mistake, 
 Mack. Say your say, and do your best to keep the town quiet 
 to-night, or you may regret it.” Then he turned once more 
 toward the crowd. 
 
 “My friends, Mack and Connolley have a word to say, I 
 believe.” 
 
 He spoke crisply, and with a frown upon his face, which 
 caused some one near Podunk to whisper to his neighbor: 
 “Something’s happened; Old Mitchell’s badly riled.” 
 
 Having made his announcement, Coroner Mitchell 
 stepped back, and Mack arose, rubbing one huge hand over 
 the top of a very bald head, and looking uneasy. 
 
 “I want to remark,” he began, “that this place, in all its 
 departments, will be closed to-night. The body of Mr. Selwyn 
 will be laid out in my Theatre, and unless further develop- 
 ments make a change in our programme, the funeral will be 
 held here ; the time will be made known to-morrow. There 
 will be no liquors sold at this bar, and I particularly request 
 that there’ll be no noise about this place, and no crowd out- 
 side. The doors will be closed immediately.” 
 
 Mack’s speech created a marked sensation; but no sooner 
 
144 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 had he ceased than Connolley stepped into view, and the 
 audience was instantly hushed. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” began Connolley, “I want to say to ye that 
 it will be decent and right to keep an orderly town to-night; 
 and I want the Regulators to be on hand here, as soon as the 
 place is cleared o’ this aujence; and if there’s a dozen good 
 citizens that are willin’ to act with us in tryin’ to keep peace 
 and quiet to-night, we’d like to ha vzthem stop, too. But wc 
 don’t want no crowd, and we ain’t got no explanation to 
 make to anybody.” 
 
 Connolley, in his turn, stepped back, and then the tall form 
 of the Coroner confronted audience and jury by turns. 
 
 “Citizens of Caledonia,” he said, “and gentlemen of the 
 jury, we have reached a point in our investigation where we 
 must crave your patience, and exert our own. I have learned 
 during the day that there is another witness, and I think an 
 important one, to be heard before we shall dare attempt to 
 pronounce upon this case. The testimony of this witness may 
 throw a new light upon the subject of Duke Selwyn’s death. 
 Our examination has already developed singular complica- 
 tions, and I especially advise you all to withhold your judg- 
 ment until the jury have formed theirs. We will resume, if 
 our witnesses can be found, to-morrow morning, at ten 
 o’clock.” He finished with a gesture, unceremonious but sig- 
 nificant; it meant dismissal, and the audience slowly, reluc- 
 tantly, with much confusion, and many exchanges of gratui- 
 tous opinions, began to disperse. 
 
 A few halted at the bar to see if Mack “meant business,” 
 where they were speedily assured that he did. Thereupon 
 they crowded out into the street, setting their faces toward 
 other houses of good cheer; and that night at Doty’s, the 
 
A WITNESS WANTED. 
 
 145 
 
 Gold Horn, the Alhambra, and in other dens with grandiose 
 names, a rich harvest was reaped, much vile liquor was dis- 
 posed of, and the case of Duke Selwyn was discussed until 
 morning. 
 
 While the crowd in the outer room was slowly lessening, 
 those who were seated in the inner room began to move, and 
 converse one with another. Mack and Connolley, withdraw- 
 ing from the others, whispered earnestly. The jury began to 
 exchange low-toned comments, and to emphasize them with 
 expressive nods and winks — all but Podunk, who, sitting 
 with his elbows upon his knees, seemed taking a languid sur- 
 vey of everything, and to find nothing of interest. He saw 
 that Vernet was monopolizing the attention of Miss Wray, 
 and gradually leading her toward the entrance; that Dalton 
 had made his way to the side of Aileen Lome, and was talk- 
 ing earnestly; and that Miss Rosabella Saint Leger had fall- 
 en into the ruthless hands of Aubrey, Florine, and Kit Dun- 
 can. He saw Mountain Mag, standing with erect head and 
 folded arms within hearing of the group about Miss Saint Le- 
 ger, seeming to see and hear nothing, and to wait impatient- 
 ly the movements of the crowd. He saw that the Coroner had 
 not stirred from his place, but was standing there erect and 
 watchful, speaking to no one, and wearing a look of severe 
 impartiality. Then, as if quite satisfied with his careless sur- 
 vey, Podunk sank back in his chair, and serenely waited. 
 
 After a few moments' conference, Mack and Connolley 
 hurried to the outer room, and became active in hastening 
 the steps of the laggards. Still Podunk remained in his place 
 and the Coroner remained in his. Presently the way was 
 clear. They saw Vernet lead Miss Wray to the door; saw 
 
 Mag, still with folded a ms and preoccupied manner^ go 
 
 slovdv 
 
 out behind thetns* 
 
 saw Atfoen Lomeapd <RbiBp Dal- 
 
146 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 ton, as on the previous day, walk together to the street cor- 
 ner, and there separate; saw the other witnesses going their 
 respective ways — and then the Coroner called sharply: 
 
 “ Close the doors, Ma-ck.” 
 
 It was done ; and Regulators and jury, Mack and the Cor- 
 oner, were shut in — the crowd, yet lingering about the place* 
 was shut out. Then the Coroner turned, and his tone became 
 at once mildly urgent. 
 
 “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the waiting and wonder- 
 ing jurymen, “I ask, as a favor to me and to all connected 
 with this affair, that you do not go upon the street to-night; 
 that you keep as much as possible together, and talk with no 
 one outside of yourselves. I have already arranged that you 
 have your suppers at the St. Charles, but you can’t sleep 
 there; and I think that we can do no better than to come 
 back here, and let Mack make you as comfortable as he can 
 for the night. As for the rest of you, Connolley must arrange 
 matters. Gentlemen of the jury, do you agree to this?” 
 
 One or two grumbled out an objection, but the majority 
 assented, and Podunk roused himself enough to say: 
 
 “ ’Tall looks purfeckly reglar to me. I guess, with a pipe 
 and a little somethin’ moist, and mebbe a keard or two, we 
 kin manage to waller through.” 
 
 This view of the case seemed to make its impression upon 
 the demurring jurors, and the assent became unanimous. 
 
 After some consultation, it was decided that the Regula- 
 tors, such as remained there on duty, would occupy the outer 
 saloon ; and that the Theatre should be at the disposal of the 
 jurymen. 
 
 This being decided, the Coroner beckoned Mack and Con- 
 nolley aside, and said to them: 
 
 “I am going to the hotel with these fellows, and shall see 
 
A WITNESS WANTED, 
 
 147 
 
 what I can pick up there. I don’t think it is w*ell for us three 
 to be seen in council too often. I wish, after we go, that you 
 and Connolley would separate and keep apart. I think it 
 would be wise for one of you to take a look about town and 
 see what the popular feeling is — the other, of course, should 
 stay here. But as you both seem to have something on your 
 minds, and as I want to get the benefit of it — as privately as 
 possible — I wish you would come to the St. Charles, say at 
 nine o’clock?” 
 
 “I don’t see,” broke in Mack, “why we can’t go around to 
 my office and have it out now.” 
 
 “And let all Caledonia see that we are holding a council 
 of war! Pshaw! Mack, you know better than to suggest 
 such a thing. We want as little appearance of mystery as 
 possible. They know their business at the St. Charles; we 
 can talk there without having it advertised.” 
 
 “But why can’t we come earlier,- then?” persisted Mack; 
 “why—” 
 
 “Look here, Mack,” exclaimed the Coroner, impatiently, 
 “I should like to manage my own business in my own way, 
 but since you persist, I’ll tell you. I want to learn what I 
 can about that missing stranger who came with Miss Wray, 
 and I want time to work in. We'shall have to look that mat-' 
 ter up; and I may be able to tell you something about it 
 when you come. Is it agreed?” 
 
 “I’ll be there,” said Connolley, promptly. 
 
 “And I,” said Mack, but he said it reluctantly; and as the 
 Coroner turned away, he muttered, “but I’m blamed if I can 
 see what he wants of Cool Hank!” 
 
148 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 Very little was said by Vernet and Barbara Wray during 
 their walk back to the St. Charles. But when they were 
 again in the little parlor, she turned toward him, saying: 
 
 ‘‘May I ask you a few questions, Mr. ?” She hesitated, 
 
 and a half smile flitted across her face. “Will you furnish me 
 a name by which it is safe to address you?” 
 
 “You may ask any number of questions, Miss. Wray,” he 
 said, with an answering smile. “And — ” he put a card into 
 her hand, — “that will give you the information you desire.” 
 She took the card and read the printed name, GEO. MOR- 
 GAN, and underneath the business formula, “with, Ham- 
 mond & Wall, Importers, N. Y.” 
 
 “Pm a commercial traveller,” Vernet explained, as he 
 placed a chair for her, “taking a vacation.” 
 
 “I see,” she said, seating herself and bestowing upon him 
 a look of grave intelligence. “Have you attended this trial— 
 is trial the word? — from the beginning?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Will you tell me about it?” 
 
 “Willingly; it is best that you should know.” He began at 
 the beginning, and briefly sketched the doings of the morn- 
 ing, telling how, after the inquiry had adjourned, he had met 
 and talked with Dalton, but he did not mention Stanhope's 
 part in the affair. He told, generously, how Dalton had coni' 
 
A FRIEND IN NEED. 
 
 149 
 
 mended Miss Wray to his care, and then gave an account of 
 the proceedings of the afternoon. 
 
 “Do you not think,” she said, after a moment's reflection, 
 “that this Coroner is disposed to be friendly?” 
 
 “ Toward whom ?” 
 
 “ Toward you— myself — Mr. Dalton.” 
 
 “ Yes ; I think so. I like his face, I mean to have an in- 
 terview with him — to-night, if possible. I fancy that our de- 
 sire for a meeting is mutual.” 
 
 “ And Mr. Dalton — -he cannot be guilty?” 
 
 “I do not believe him guilty,” 
 
 “It’s a horrible accusation ; and it would seem they have 
 some evidence, circumstantial of course, against him. Those 
 pistols — such a hideous coincidence ! What do you think the 
 explanation can be ?” 
 
 “ I have hardly arranged ray ideas. I believe Dalton might 
 tell more, if he would. It’s a queer case. Miss Wray, I 
 think you are to be congratulated ; I dreaded your appearance 
 before the Coroner, but everything went well. You have the 
 sympathy of these rough Caledonians. If you should need 
 their help, the way is opened.” 
 
 “ Their help ! You mean in the search for my father? Oh, 
 what a terrible place this is, where men disappear, or are shot 
 down in the street; where life is so lightly esteemed. I am 
 distressed, too, about that man, Mr, Follingsbee’s friend, who 
 came here with us. Has he , too, really disappeared ?” 
 
 Vernet, who had been standing before her, walked to the 
 door, saw that it was close shut, and then, returning, seated 
 himself near her. 
 
 u Miss Wray,” he said, in a low tone, “what I am. about 
 mj is a mere suggestion, but draw all the comfort you can 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTEKY. 
 
 iSO 
 
 
 from it. I do not think you will be subject to cross-questions, -j 
 brft if you are, remember this is only a supposable case. I 
 know Mr. Follingsbee, and I don’t believe he is the man to ; 
 do a careless thing, especially in such a matter as this. Now, 
 don’t you think it would seem like recklessness to send you on - 
 such a journey with an unreliable escort ?” 
 
 “Oh, I cannot censure Mr. Follingsbee. I am sure he 
 thought the gentleman could be relied upon.” 
 
 “ So am I. And I am equally sure that where you were | 
 concerned, Mr. Follingsbe would not make a mistake.” 
 
 “ I don’t understand you.” 
 
 “ Has it ever occurred to you that Mr. Follingsbee may have j 
 secretly shared your anxiety concerning your father, and that he 
 may have sent you here in the care — unknown to yourself— 
 of, say, a gentleman of my own profession ?” 
 
 “ Oh !” she cried breathlessly, “ surely, surely, it could not 
 have been you f’ 
 
 “ Unhappily, no. I have been in this Western world nearly 
 a month, Miss Wray.” 
 
 “ But,” she demurred, “ why need Mr. Follingsbee conceal 
 from me the identity of such a person, if this suggestion were 
 true?” 
 
 “ You forget — ” here the thought of the gorgeous curls 
 caused him to smile again — “ you forget that you had for a 
 companion, Miss Susan Collins Saint Leger.” 
 
 “ True,” she admitted, and smiled in her turn, the smile 
 passing swiftly to give place to a wistful glance from under 
 her dark lashes. “If I could only think it were true that 
 some one was looking for my father; that this stranger were 
 Vhat you say ! If I dared to hope it !” 
 
 4< I advise you to think it, to hope it; but not to say or to 
 
 Uni it.” I 
 
A FBIEND IK KEED, 
 
 151 
 
 “You advise it! Would you think this? Have you a 
 reason ?” 
 
 “ I advise you — nay, I implore you — ask me, on this sub- 
 ject, no questions. Yes, if I were you, I would believe that 
 the stranger who vanished last night, is safe ; is perfectly able 
 to take care of himself ; and that he has not forgotten you and 
 your interests.” 
 
 For a moment their eyes met — hers questioning, his assur* 
 ing. Then she held out a small white hand. 
 
 u Thank you,” she said softly ; “ already I begin to feel 
 less desolate, less alone.” 
 
 He held her hand in his own firm clasp for a moment, re- 
 leasing it as a sound at the door caused her to turn her head. 
 Some one had tried the knob, then seemed to hesitate; and 
 while they both looked, and Vernet half rose from his chair, 
 the door slowly opened, and Mountain Mag appeared upon 
 the threshold. 
 
 She stopped at sight of the pair near the window, and a 
 crimson flush mounted to her cheek. But Vernet, with the 
 instinct of a true gentleman, came promptly to the rescue. 
 
 “ Miss Drood,” he said, going toward her, “ pray come in. 
 I hope you have not quite forgotten me.” Then he turned to 
 Barbara. “ Miss Wray,” he said courteously, “this is Miss 
 Drood. I have had the pleasure of visiting her ranch and 
 partaking of her hospitality.” 
 
 Barbara bowed with grave courtesy, but Mag’s embarrass- 
 ment continued. 
 
 “ I came — ” she began ; “ I mean, I wanted — to speak with 
 this lady — if she will let me.” 
 
 Barbara’s eyes went instinctively to Vernet’s face, and the 
 
 glance that met hers was reassuring. 
 
152 
 
 A MOUNTAIN* MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Certainly, Miss Drood,” she said quickly. “ Will you 
 not be seated ?” 
 
 Vernet moved forward the chair lie had lately occupied, and 
 then said lightly, as he turned toward the door, “While you 
 converse I will look up our friend Dalton. For the present, 
 ladies, I leave you.” 
 
 For a moment after the door had closed behind him, Moun- 
 tain Mag stood irresolute and reddening under the gaze of 
 Miss Wray. Then she took a step forward and hesitatingly 
 said : 
 
 “Miss Wray, I know Fve surprised you— Fm a rough 
 woman, and I don’t understand how to say things right, but 
 I heard your story down there, and it made my heart ache. 
 I begun to realize what an awful thing it must be for you to 
 be here, alone, and in such trouble. You’re not used to our 
 life. I’m not a fit companion for you ; I’m too ignorant, and 
 my ways ain’t what they ought to be. But I’m an honest 
 girl, and nobody in Caledonia’ll respect you less for associating 
 with me, whatever people in your world may think of my un~ 
 coiitlmess. If there was any one here more fit to be a friend 
 to you, I shouldn’t have ventured ; but there ain’t. And so, 
 Miss Wray, I ask you to come to my house and make it your 
 home while you stay here. It’s a plain, rough place, but it’s 
 fitter for you than this-*-and you alone. And you’d be more 
 than welcome.” 
 
 During this long, and, to Mag, painful speech, she had kept 
 her eyes — and very handsome, earnest ones they were — fixed 
 full upon Barbara’s face. The latter, with a woman’s unerring 
 instinct, read her truth and sincerity in them. When Mag 
 ceased speaking, Barbara arose slowly and came close to her,, 
 her own eyes humid. 
 
podunk’s opinion. 
 
 153 
 
 €f Miss Drood,” she said, “ is it possible ? Do you mean 
 
 this r 
 
 “Yes,” said Mag simply, “I mean it. Honestly, Miss 
 Wray, I think it’s the best you can do ; and Dll try very hard 
 to make you comfortable. I’ve got a good, motherly old 
 woman for a housekeeper, and she’ll do her best tqo.” 
 
 For a moment Barbara stood before her silent, with eyes 
 downcast, and trembling lips. Suddenly, she looked up, held 
 out her hand, and, as Mag took it in her warm, firm grasp, 
 her splendid self-control forsook her. She uttered a choking 
 sob, and in a moment was weeping on Mountain Mag’s shoul- 
 der, with Mountain Mag’s strong arm about her slender waist. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 podunk’s opinion. 
 
 The gentlemen of the Coroner’s jury, having nothing 
 urgent or agreeable to draw them away from the bread and 
 cheese of the St. Charles, lingered over their meal, and made 
 much of it. But the Coroner, who had found opportunity to 
 whisper a word in the ear of Podunk, and another in the ear 
 of the Clerk, left them after a hearty meal, and passed out into 
 the office* 
 
 “ About that room, Charlie ?” he said to the clerk. 
 
 “ All ready, sir.” 
 
 “ Well, go ahead.” 
 
 The Herk took a lamp from the shelf behind him* saying, as 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 M 
 
 he lighted it, “ You’ll want a little Caledonia gas.” He led 
 the way up the stairs, and into a large room, almost opposite 
 the twin rooms where Dalton and Vernet had met. It was 
 newly furnished, with the usual necessities of a hotel sleeping 
 apartment, and as Charlie set the lamp upon a small stand, he 
 said : “ Anything wanted here ?” 
 
 “ Yes; an extra chair or two.” 
 
 “ All right, Doctor.” He vanished and was back in a mo- 
 ment, with two chairs. 
 
 “Now,” said Doctor Mitchell, “go down, Charlie, and 
 contrive to get that fellow in the red shirt that’s with the 
 jury—” 
 
 “ Podunk ?” queried Charlie, with a grin. 
 
 “ Yes, Podunk — what a name ! Bring him up here, Charlie, 
 and do it quietly. If Mack and Connolley come before I see 
 you again, let me know, but don't show them up. Wait ; 
 where does that good-looking fellow room — the one who came 
 for the young lady ?” 
 
 “You mean Morgan ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know his name — what’s his room ?” 
 
 “Last one on this hall, this side.” 
 
 “ All right ; now for Podunk.” 
 
 Charlie nodded and hurried away, to return in a moment 
 with Podunk, solemn and expectant, at his heels. 
 
 “ Oh ! you are on hand,” said the Doctor, motioning him 
 to enter; “ come in. You may go, Charlie.” 
 
 Charlie grinned and vanished, and Podunk sidled into the 
 room. 
 
 “ Shut the door,” said the Doctor curtly. 
 
 Podunk obeyed with due meekness* 
 
 u Sit down,” 
 
podunk’s opxxiox. 
 
 tm 
 
 Podunk sat down on the edge of a chair, and rested hi? 
 hands upon his knees. 
 
 “ How long have you been in Caledonia ?” asked the Doctor 
 abruptly. 
 
 “Couple o’ days,” replied Podunk promptly, 
 
 “Where did you come from ?” 
 
 “Red Valley diggings.” 
 c Umpli ! What brought you here?” 
 
 “ Wal, I came mostly on a danged old yaller mustang, but 
 the critter flopped me off to’rds the last,— when I s’posed he 
 was tired out, and had got over watchin’ for tricks. So I 
 hoofed it in.” 
 
 “ Umph ! I meant, what’s your business here ?” 
 
 “ Oh ! — prospectin’.” 
 
 “ It’s my opinion,” said the Doctor, fixing his keen eyes 
 upon Podunk, “ it’s my opinion that you’r a card sharp.” 
 
 “ Z” that so ?” queried Podunk serenely. 
 
 “Your hands don’t look as if you had done much 
 digging.” 
 
 “ Don’t?” said Podunk. 
 
 “ Didn’t you tell them down at Machfs that you were a 
 miner ?” 
 
 “ I disrem ember.” 
 
 “ Well™” in spite of himself Doctor Mitchell smiled at the 
 fellow’s coolness — “I don’t think you are very dull, anyway. 
 Will you answer a few fair questions fairly ?” 
 
 “ Fair’s the word, or not at all.” 
 
 “ When I gave you permission to question the witnesses to- 
 day,” began the Doctor slowly, “ you did it in a manner which 
 convinced me that you had a reason for what you said. I 
 want you to tell me what that reason was.” 
 
156 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Podunk suddenly drew himself up ; and hitched his chair 
 nearer that of the Coroner. 
 
 “ Now /” he exclaimed, “ you’re talkin’ about somethin’ that 
 consarns ye I I don’t take kindly to folks that git too inter- 
 ested in my private affairs, but I’m with ye on this jury busi- 
 ness. Ye’re right, Mister Coroner. -I didn’t ask them ques- 
 tions just to hear myself talk, though, — ” with a grin — “ that 
 peared to be the general opinion.” 
 
 “ Yes,” assented Doctor Mitchell, smiling also. “Yow 
 what was your motive?” 
 
 “ Wal,” began Podunk, lowering his voice and assuming 
 an air of exceeding candor, “ I may as well spit it out, I s’pose, 
 seein’ we’ve got so fur. This inornin’ I had a kind of a s’pi- 
 cion that one of yer witnesses wasn’t tell in’ quite all she knew. 
 But I guess, maybe, I v r as mistook.” 
 
 “ Who was this witness?” 
 
 “Between you an’ me, an’ without mean in’ to speak agin 
 the gal, it was Mounting Mag, as ye call her.” 
 
 “Margaret Drood? I thought as much.” 
 
 “ Eh?” 
 
 “I fancied I saw r your purpose. Why do you think she 
 knows more than she told ?” 
 
 “Wal,” said Podunk, with an air of great reluctance, “she 
 didn’t exactly tell the truth. Ye see, I was with the gang at 
 Mack’s when the news of the murder come, and I went along 
 with the crowd after the body.” 
 
 “Yes, yes.” 
 
 “I couldn’t help noticin’ Mounting Mag — she’s kind o’ un- 
 common, ye see. When she set out, I wanted to foller her, 
 but I couldn’ ’thout bein’ noticed. So 1 lopped around until 
 about the time you came, and then slipped out to git a breath, 
 
“It's my opinion,” said the Doctor, “that you're a card sharp '"—Page 155 . 
 
 157 
 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 and stretch myself. I never did like a corpse, and I kind o* 
 wanted to git away from it.” 
 c ‘l understand,” said the Doctor dryly. 
 
 “ I didn’t expect to see nobody, and I wasn’t goin’ nowhere 
 in particldar ; but ye know it’s kind o’ natural ter want ter 
 go back to a place where anything’s happened. And so 1 
 kind o’ naturally went prospectin’ along, slow like, to’ard them 
 cellars.” 
 
 “ Of course !” 
 
 “ As I was cornin’ to them stores on the road, I seen a man 
 come out of a stairway, and look up and down the street. I’d 
 dodged up pretty close to the wall myself, and he didn’t ’pear 
 to see me. So when he walked off t’other way, with his hands 
 in his pockets, I follered along until I seen him stop short, 
 and kind o’ seem to listen. Then he sort o’ turned his head, 
 and, bein’ just in front of the doorway he had come out of, 1 
 dodged into it. In a minit I could hear him cornin’ back, an’ 
 I crept up two or three stairs, where I knew he couldn’t see 
 me. Wal, sir, I’ll be sizzled if that feller didn’t come smack 
 inter that stairway, and set himself down onto the bottom 
 step, an’ there I was, cooped !” 
 
 Here Podunk, evidently believing in effective climax, paused 
 and waited for comment. 
 
 u Go on,” said the Doctor sharply. 
 
 “ Wal, he sot there a good while, I thought, pokin’ his head 
 out now an’ then, and seemin’ to listen for somethin’. Once 
 or twice he got up, an’ stood in the doorway. Then he’d set 
 down agin, and kind o’ fidget, till I begun to want to jump 
 over his head an’ run. I s’pose I had as good a right to set 
 there, now I come to think, as he had ; but that idea didn’t 
 strike me then, an’ I didn’t want any argyment— I’m naterally 
 
f»Ol>TJNK: ? S OPINION. 
 
 m 
 
 a peaceful person. So I sot still ; an* bime’by 1 heard some- 
 thin* that sounded like horse’s hoofs, an* the feller got up 
 and went clean outside. Then 1 got kind o* cur’us to know 
 what was up. It was well on toward daylight, and a person 
 could see a little, at short range. I was in the dark stairway, 
 and felt purty safe; so I jest crept down an* got close to the 
 door, an* listened. They didn’t talk loud by no means, but 
 there wasn’t more*n six feet between us, and I could hear purty 
 well. The person on the horse slid off, an* then I seed who 
 it was.** 
 
 “ Who was it ?” 
 
 “ Mounting Mag.” 
 
 The Doctor started, and fixed his keen eyes upon the face 
 of Podunk. “ Well ?** he said sharply. 
 
 “ I didn*t hear much, but what I heard was different from 
 Mag*s story this mornin*. ( Wal, Munk?* she says to him ; 
 and then he says, kind o* cringin* like, ‘ I didn’t find him, 
 Mag; he ain’t been in the all-night places.* Then she says, 
 i Be ye sure f And he answers, c Sure’s askin’ could make 
 me ; I don't believe Hank's been in town sence yisterday' " 
 
 “Stop!” broke in the Doctor, “ are you positive that ha 
 said Hank ?" 
 
 “ Sartin.” 
 
 “ Go on.” 
 
 “ That’s about all of it. She told him to take hfer horse and 
 give him a rub down, and then go an* see what was doin’ at 
 Mack’s. He said he had been thar ; that the Coroner had 
 jest come, and there was a rumpus about a feller named Po- 
 dunk, that had turned up missin*. That made me kind o* 
 anxious to git back. And when they left, which was immegiate, 
 I got away from thar.” 
 
HO 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY,, 
 
 “What inferences did you draw from this conversation ?” 
 « Huh?” 
 
 “ What did you think about it?” 
 
 “Nothin’ pertickiler, till I heard Mounting Mag testify. 
 Then I kind o’ took a tumble.” 
 
 “Wasn’t it you who put that idea about the moon, and the 
 time, into that juror’s head ? I saw you whispering to him-.” 
 “ Wal, maybe it was.” 
 
 “Why didn’t you put those questions yourself?” 
 
 “ Ye see/’ said Podunk with a confiding smile, “ I’m kind 
 nr diffydent, and I thought I was gettin’ most too conspicuous.” 
 “Now that I consider,” went on the Doctor, “it was this 
 same juror who suggested Monckton as a desirable witness. 
 May be you had a hand in that, too?” 
 
 “ Mebbe,” assented Podunk. 
 
 “I want to ask you what you think of this?” 
 
 “ This what ?”. 
 
 “This interview which you heard.” 
 
 “Oh ! Wal, I think if Mounting Mag told the truth, she 
 didn’t tell it all. If she met this here Munkin at Doty’s, as 
 she says, she must a met him twice: an’ the question comes 
 up, why twice?” 
 
 “ How do you answer it ?” 
 
 “I don’t answer it — not much ! But if she had sent that 
 Munkin after the other feller, Hank, the first time, and went 
 the second time to see if he was found, t’would make that 
 much clear. Now I want ter ask sumthin’. Who’s this Hank?” 
 “ Cool Hank, or Hank Dutton. He’s said to be a friend 
 ©f Mag’s.” 
 
 “Oh!” 
 
 u Pm going to tell you something, and I have a reason for 
 
16i 
 
 Podunk’s opiniqk. 
 
 it. I learned to-day that Cool Hank Dutton and Duke Selwyu 
 quarreled fiercely three days ago.” 
 
 “Oh !” said Podunk again, but he did not show the alert 
 interest the Doctor had expected. “ I don’t know but I’d 
 better a kept still,” he resumed, after a musing silence. “If 
 I’d a heard all the witnesses afore I let out, I never should 
 have begun.” 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 “ Why ! ’Cause now it looks to me like a clear case.” 
 
 “ Against whom ?” 
 
 “ Why, that good-lookin’, high-toned feller, Dalton. Mebbe 
 he won’t alius be so high-toned, eh ?” 
 
 “Why have you decided against him?” 
 
 “ Land o’ Moses ! didn’t he as much as say he was the 
 owner of them two pistils? An’ then his quarrel in’, an’ not 
 bein’ found when* he woz wanted.” 
 
 The Doctor made no reply. He was beginning to think lie 
 had overrated the. native shrewdness of his eccentric juror 
 Finally he said : 
 
 “We should not attach too much weight to circums tan tial 
 evidence.” 
 
 “ No,” replied Podunk dubiously, “ but ye don’t find an 
 eye witness to a murder only now an’ then. I guess the gin- 
 eral opinion is that Dalton’s the man ; an’ if he is—” He 
 paused here and jerked his head suggestively. 
 
 “Podunk,” asked the Doctor suddenly, “do you believe in 
 mob law ?” 
 
 “ Do you mean hustlin’ and lynchin’ ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ JVo, sir ; I don’t. 1 I ain’t got no use for ’em. I’m agin 
 ’em every time I” 
 
~ MOUNTAIN MYSTELY. 
 
 “Do you intend to stay in Caledonia?” 
 
 “I guess Fll stop a spell.” 
 
 “ How would you like to join the Regulators ?” 
 
 “ Me! Lord love ye, Doctor, 1 ain’t no fighter, an’ that’s f 
 fact. My talents don’t run to’rds it ; they run,” — grinning 
 broadly — “ right the other way.” ~ 
 
 “ So ? You carry your talent in your legs, do you ? Well, 
 you’re not alone in that.” Here the Doctor arose, walked to 
 the door, opened it, and looked out quickly. His ear had a 
 caught a low musical whistle, and as he looked, a bar of an 
 opera tune was wafted into the room, and he saw that Vernet 
 was passing his door. 
 
 At the sound of the opening door, Vernet turned his head; J 
 and then, as he caught the eye of Doctor Mitchell, halted sud* 
 denly and ceased his musical effort. 
 
 “Wait one moment,” said the Doctor; and leaving the door 
 ajar he turned to Pddunk. 
 
 “ I’d like to talk with you again,” he said ; “ and you’ll ob- ^ 
 lige me by not speaking to the others about this meeting of \ 
 ours. You understand?” 
 
 “ I reckon I do, Doctor. Much obleeged to ye. Ye can 
 count on Podunk.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell looked out to see that no one was in the ^ 
 upper hall, and then held open the door for Podunk’s exit. ; 
 As he stood thus, he faced the west. Vernet was below, to | 
 the right ; and Podunk, passing out, went a few paces to the J 
 left and then turned an abrupt angle. As Podunk thus passed 1 
 from sight, the Doctor, looking down the hall, saw that Vernet 
 had retreated a few paces toward his own door. But what 
 lie did not see ; was the signal that had just been exchanged by 
 lire two. 
 
THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. 
 
 198 
 
 - Thinking that he had not been understood, and not wishing 
 to raise his voice, the Doctor, leaving his door wide open, took 
 two quick strides and was six feet away from his room, with 
 his back toward it and his eyes fixed upon Vernet. At that 
 instant the latter saw, across his shoulder, a flash of red around 
 the angle and in at the open door; and he knew that whoever 
 the Doctor’s next visitor might be, he would have Pod unk 
 for audience. 
 
 “ Will you come into my room ?” Doctor Mitchell was 
 saying courteously. “ I think we had better understand each 
 other.” 
 
 “ By all means,” returned Vernet, rejoiced at a situation 
 which would make Stanhope one at their councils. “ Thank 
 you, Doctor.” 
 
 In a moment they were within the room, face to face, aisd 
 with locked door. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. 
 
 * Doctor Mitchell,” began Vernet, “I do not know your 
 exact position in this business, but since I know that I can 
 trust you I mean to make mine plain to you. I am here as 
 the friend of Philip Dalton, and it was as such that I signaled 
 
 you to-day.” 
 
 “ I presumed as much,” said the Doctor with a grave bow, 
 “ I foresee that he will need a friend, many friends perhaps 
 and before I take too much of your time, I would like ioagifc 
 
164 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEJUY. 
 
 have you any prejudices against Mr. Dalton ?— any doubts ^ 
 concerning liis innocence?” 
 
 “ Prejudices I certainly have none, sir* As for mv doubts, ; 
 and opinions, that is another matter. Personally, I like Dal- ^ 
 toil. If I am compelled to declare him guilty, it will be re- 
 luctantly, and with regret. I intend to do all that lies in my 
 power to prove to myself, and to all Caledonia, that he is in- : 
 nocent.” 
 
 “ That will become my business, too. But before I propose \ 
 an alliance, I owe you a word of explanation. I have been in ; 
 Caledonia more or less for three weeks, and I have managed \ 
 to pick up considerable information, so that I do know some- ; 
 thing of you — ” 
 
 “ I wonder/’ interrupted Doctor Mitchell, gravely scrutiniz- 
 ing his vis a visy “why I have not chanced to see you in all 
 that time.” 
 
 “ You have seen me, and I you ; but my business made a ’ 
 disguise necessary, hence — ” 
 
 “ A disguise !” 
 
 “ Yes ; I am a detective.” 
 
 “ Upon my word !” ejaculated the Doctor, “ I never should 
 have thought it.” 
 
 “Nevertheless it is true. My name is Vcrnet, and my 
 business here — ” 
 
 “ Concerns the Overland Mail and Stage people, doesn’t 
 it?” interrupted the Doctor quickly. 
 
 “ Beally !” It was now Vernet’s turn to look surprised. 
 
 “ Oh, I’m not a wizard, nor simply a good guesser,” went 
 on the Doctor. “ I have been looking for you. It was I, in 
 truth, who first called the attention of the Company to the 
 fact that a srood detective was needed here. And I had to re** 
 
THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. 
 
 165 
 
 peat the advice more than once. I did it very privately, you 
 may be sure; Caledonia has its prejudices.” 
 
 “I am finding that out. Veil, I tell you frankly, sir, 
 that hunting stage robbers will absorb very little of my at- 
 tention until Philip Dalton is extricated from his present 
 difficulty.” 
 
 “I shouldn’t wonder if you would find the lines running 
 closer than you think, Mr. Vernet. Sit down; we can talk 
 a little, although my object in addressing you just now was 
 simply to arrange for an interview later.” 
 
 Vernet seated himself opposite and very near the Doctor, 
 and for a moment contemplated him so earnestly that he finally 
 ejaculated : 
 
 "Well, what is it?” 
 
 " I am wondering/’ Vernet said, with one of his rare smiles, 
 " if I do not owe it to myself and to you to give some proof 
 of my identity.” 
 
 " Proof? nonsense ! Don’t I tell you that I have been daily 
 on the watch for you. I wonder that I did not guess you out 
 at first. It was only, if you will permit me to say it, your 
 general air of superiority, of aristocracy, that misled me. I 
 set you down for a man of fashion — ■” 
 
 “ Thanks,” laughed Vernet. 
 
 "Some rich man’s only son,” went on the Doctor, a twinkle 
 of fun in his eye; " or maybe an English nabob.” 
 
 "Oh! a thousand thanks!” 
 
 " I’ve had my eye on all new comers for sometime, 
 you see — and here the Doctor, who never laughed out- 
 right, gave utterance to a chuckle of amusement — " and per- 
 haps you’ll be pleased to hear that I had finally lighted 
 upon that queer fellow, Podunk, as the looked-for detective,. 
 
166 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEK^. 
 
 I really gave him credit— at first — for considerable shrewdk 
 ness.” 
 
 Vernet was, indeed, pleased with this statement • his amuse- 
 ment, the Doctor thought, was almost in excess of the cause. 
 But after a while he managed to ejaculate, inquiringly: 
 
 “ You say ‘at first f ” 
 
 “ Yes. I must do myself the justice to declare that I had 
 abandoned that notion before you made yourself known. The 
 fellow struck me this morning as shrewder than he seemed ; \ 
 
 but upon trial, he don’t come up to my standard. He’s one 
 of these queer Yankee mixtures — sharp on one side, and dull * 
 on the other. lie lacks perception. He wouldn’t be worth 
 much at following a clue. He jumps at new ideas too easily.” 
 
 “ Really !” ejaculated Vernet, who found it difficult to utter 
 even that. He knew that Podunk was even then sprawling 
 under the bed, there being no other place of hiding in the 
 room, and mentally saw him quaking and half strangling with 
 merriment. lie even fancied lie could hear a suppressed 
 “snicker”, but at that instant a light tap at the door called 
 the Doctor’s attention. Motioning Vernet to remain silent, 
 he arose and asked : 
 
 “ Who’s there ?” 
 
 “ Charlie,” answered the voice of the Clerk. 
 
 Instantly the Doctor turned the key, opened the door, and 
 thrust his head out cautiously. 
 
 “Well, Charlie?” he whispered. 
 
 “ Mack and Con no! ley are below, sir.” 
 
 “Have they inquired for me?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ All right ; I’ll be down in a moment. Keep out of their 
 way, boy, so they can’t ask any questions.” 
 
THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. 
 
 167 
 
 “ All right, Doctor.” He withdrew/ and Doctor Mitchell 
 closed and relocked the door. 
 
 “ Mack and Connolleyare below,' 7 he said slowly. “ They 
 don’t like the way I am conducting this business, and have 
 come to labor with me.” He paused and scanned the face of 
 Vernet narrowly. “ I wish,” lie said hesitatingly, I wish 
 you could be present at the interview — present, yet invisible.” 
 “ The very thing,” said Vernet eagerly. “I don’t under- 
 stand those men. Shall we manage it?” 
 
 “I don’t see how we can,” said the Doctor, running his 
 (^yes about the room. 
 
 “ Leave that to me. Just go out and lock the door on the 
 outside. Go down slowly, and bring them back with you ; 
 unlock the door and usher them in. They won’t think of 
 looking about the room, if you handle the key. I’ll manage 
 the thing while you’re gone.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I’m to lock you in, eh ?” 
 
 “ Precisely.” 
 
 “ Well,” with a humorous twinkle of his grey eyes, “ if you 
 intend to get under that bed I give you Sarah Gamp’s advice: 
 ‘take his pill'er.’ ” 
 
 “ All right, Doctor. Just make a little noise at the door, 
 to warn me of your approach ; that’s I ask.” 
 
 When he was gone, and the door locked, Vernet quickly 
 moved the light stand and placed the lamp where its rays 
 could not fall upon the bed, and then arranged the chairs be- 
 tween the bed and the light. This done, he pulled off his 
 perfectly fitting coat ; dof Uv turned it wrong side out ; donned 
 it again, and then, -d roping lightly upon the floor, rolled him- 
 self quickly under the bed. 
 
 “Crowd along, old man,” he whispered to the living ob 
 
168 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 stacle that stopped his progress. “ Here’s comfort for two.” 
 
 “ The deuce it is/’ grumbled Podunk. “ You needn’t come : 
 like a cyclone ; you’ve filled my eyes and mouth full of dust.” 
 
 “1 shut mine/’ retorted Vernet; “ you’d better do like- 
 wise. What do you think of this business, Dick?” 
 
 “ I think that I shall sneeze out of turn, and give us all away.” 
 
 “ For Heaven’s sake, don’t ! Here, get yourself settled as 
 well as you can. I’ve a suspicion that Mack’s an enemy to , 
 Dalton for some reason ; I think he means mischief.” 
 
 “ So do I,” said the other. “ Lord, this bed’s too low for * 
 comfort.” 
 
 u But none too low for safety; hush 1” 
 
 There was a noise outside, a fumbling at the lock, and then 
 the door opened and Doctor Mitchell entered, followed by 
 Mack and Connolley. 
 
 “ Here we are,” said the Doctor, as he turned and locked ■ 
 the door; “ sit down, gentlemen.” lie seated himself in one J 
 of the chairs, as Vernet had placed it, with his face toward 
 the bed, and the two men took the places opposite him. The j 
 Doctor’s face was in the shadow, while theirs was directly in i 
 the light. Reassured by the adroitness of Vernet’s manage- | 
 ment, the Doctor tilted back his chair, drew a breath of relief, < 
 and said: 
 
 “ Now then, Mack, what’s on your mind ?” 
 
 “ Doc,” began Mack with a round oath and an air of bluster, | 
 “ I want to know what you’re driving at ?” 
 
 “ Make it clearer, Mack.” 
 
 “ What do you mean by letting Dalton off so easily? By 
 George ! it looks as if you were t lying to acquit him, instead J 
 of proving him guilty.” 
 
 i( Oh 1” said the Doctor softly, as if to himself, “ sits the 
 
 •• . 
 
THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. 
 
 169 
 
 wind thus !” Then in a tone of mild remonstrance : “ Mack 
 you know that I don’t like interference, and I’d tell any men 
 but you and Connolley to go about their business. But I hate 
 to see you dissatisfied, for I know that it’s your friendship 
 for Selwyn that so stimulates your zeal. Tell me what you 
 find wrong and I’ll try to make things plain.” 
 
 “ Wrong!” Mack’s tone was not quite so aggressive now, 
 and his countenance relaxed a little. “ Why, you must see, 
 Doc, that there’s enough testimony to hang Dalton twice over; 
 and yet you dismissed that jury just because some paltry wit- 
 ness wasn’t on hand ! I tell you the boys are hot 1” 
 
 “ What boys? Yours, Connolley?” 
 
 Connolley shook his head. 
 
 “Of course not,” cried Mack. “I mean the others— 
 Selwyn’s friends; half of Caledonia.” 
 
 “ Oh,” said the Doctor with suspicious mildness, “only half? 
 Look here, Mack, you mix vour phrases horribly. In the first 
 place, I didn’t dismiss my jury ; I only adjourned it. In the 
 second place, testimony cannot convict; it requires evidence . 
 There’s been more testimony than evidence in thi-scase.” 
 
 “ I don’t see the difference,” growled Mack. 
 
 “Perhaps; but I intend to make my jury see the difference, 
 and understand it too, before they pronounce upon the case. 
 Now let us reason. Connolley, do you share Mack’s feelings?” 
 “Yes,” replied Connolley, after some hesitation ; “I want 
 to see fair play, but it looks as if there was a clear case against 
 Dalton.” 
 
 “ Looks so ? exactly. There it is, Connolley. Now do you 
 call it fair play not to give a suspected man every chance to 
 prove himself, or be proved, innocent?” 
 
 “ Why, no.” 
 
170 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 " And do you call it fair, or wise, to neglect every clue that 
 may fasten the guilt upon another, simply, because 'we have 
 some strong circumstantial evidence against Dalton? If it ap- 
 pears that Selwyn had another enemy, that they also had 
 quarreled, and that this second enemy, too, is a fit subject , 
 for suspicion — isn’t it fair to give Dalton the benefit of the 
 doubt ?” 
 
 " Of course it is,” said Connolley quickly. 
 
 "But,” said Mack excitedly, " there’s no such case, no such 
 person !” 
 
 " How do you know that, Mack ?” The Doctor’s voice was 
 still mildly remonstrati ve. 
 
 " How do i know ! Good Lord, do you want to clear that 
 
 assassin f” 
 
 " Certainly; if he is innocent.” 
 
 cc But he ain't innocent; he can’t be.” 
 
 “ Can you prove that ?” 
 
 " Prove it! Why, ain’t it already proved ?” 
 
 " Look here, Doc, the mischief fly away with your law 
 terms, your ifs and ands, you know and I know that Dalton’s 
 guilty/’ 
 
 "You know it ?” 
 
 "Yes,” said Mack doggedly. 
 
 " Did you see Dalton shoot Selwyn?” 
 
 " No,” — -with an impatient gesture—" of course not. 
 
 " Can you produce a witness, one who can't be impeached ; 
 who did ?” 
 
 “ Bah— no !” * 
 
 " Then 1 advise you not to say that you know Dalton’s 
 guilty. If 1 should catch you up on that assertion, put you 
 
 

 
 171 
 
172 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 on the witness stand, and call up Connolley to say that he 
 heard you state this, you wouldn’t cut much of a figure.” 
 
 Mack was silent but his brow was wrathful. 
 
 “Now, gentlemen,” went on the Doctor, still speaking like 
 one who wishes to conciliate, although his words were not of 
 a strictly conciliatory nature, “ if you have a rational criti- 
 cism, or a practical suggestion to make, in Heaven’s name out 
 with it ! I’m always open to reason , and will be thankful for 
 any helpful hint.” 
 
 Mack was silent; and after a moment’s hesitation Con- 
 nolley said : 
 
 “I don’t want to find fault, Doctor. You’ve alius done 
 
 sively, and letting his eyes rest for a moment upon Mack. 
 
 “ Me, an’ the boys, have done all that we could, and all 
 that you’ve told us to, in this business, ain’t we ?” 
 
 “Yes,” assented the Doctor. And then added so gently 
 that it did not sound, to Connolley, at least, like criticism, 
 “ and a little more.” 
 
 “Well, we mean to stick by you, and we don’t want to 
 grumble, but we don’t quite see what you’re up to, and we 
 thought it wouldn’t do any harm to ask what ye intend to do.” 
 
 The Doctor leaned toward his questioner, and lifted a lean, 
 brown forefinger. 
 
 “Do you mean,” he asked, with a faint return of his official 
 manner, “ do you mean, How am I going to conduct this in- 
 quiry, or to continue it ?” 
 
 44 Well,” straightening himself and thrusting his hands deep 
 
 the right thing by us all, and I don’t blieve you’ve got an 
 enemy in Caledonia.” 
 
 “I don’t know about that,” murmured the Doctor pen- 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 
THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES. 
 
 17 $ 
 
 down into his pockets, “ I’ll enlighten yoirboth. I’m going to 
 hear all the evidence that I can get; and before I let the jury 
 take the case, Fll be sure that they understand it. I’m going 
 to bar out all personal spite and prejudice, come from what 
 quarter it may ; or, if I can’t keep it out, Fll take care to show 
 it up for what it’s worth. In the meantime, I depend upon 
 you and your men, Connollev, to keep things quiet. As for 
 the dissatisfied half of Caledonia that Mack talks of, he knows, 
 and I know, that he can control them , if he will. Selwyn’s 
 friends and Mack’s friends are identical. Lastly, I’m going 
 to advise you both, and everybody else, not to be in too great 
 a hurry to pronounce Dalton guilty. If he’s proven guilty, 
 very good. If he’s not guilty, I’m going to see him through, 
 and I expect the Regulators to back me.” 
 
 Mack started up, and was about to speak, but Connolley 
 was before him. 
 
 “ Doctor, I dare say you mean the fair thing,” he said, “but 
 I’m afraid it won’t work. The fact is the boys are wild about 
 this postponing business. They think there’s evidence enough 
 against Dalton, and their blood’s up. If you wouldn’t mind 
 making it a little clearer what you’re waitin’ for — ” 
 
 “ Clearer !” broke in Mack. “ When it turns out that that 
 red-shirted fellow who asked so many fool questions about 
 Mountain Mag, lias put it into somebody’s head that Monck- 
 ton ought to be examined, and when they find that the thing’s 
 only done to make delay, it won’t be any better for Dalton’s 
 neck, now I tell you.”. 
 
 Mack, thoroughly enraged, was standing bristling before 
 die Doctor, who slowly withdrew his hands from his pockets 
 and slowly arose 
 
 '‘Mack,” he said, in a low tone that was yet so full of force 
 
174 
 
 A MOUNTAIN M YSTERY. 
 
 'f 
 
 and meaning that it caused his listeners, visible and invisible, 
 to start and wait eagerly for his next words — “Mack, Fve | 
 been inclined, for some time past, to drop you a word of ad- | 
 vice, and I’ll do it now. If you study your own interest, you 
 will give your attention exclusively to your Theatrical business, J 
 and keep clear of mobs and indignation meetings. It’s well -■$ 
 understood that you are down on Dalton ; but I advise you to 
 be careful. If there is any attempt at mobbing or lynching, 
 
 I shall hold you responsible. If you would turn your atten- 3 
 tion to hunting out some of the outlaws that harbor in and 
 about Caledonia, it would be better for you, and safer. I’ve 
 been here long enough to know you better than you tliinh , and 
 I warn you. You will do well not to interfere in this busi- 
 ness — it might hurt you in the end.” 
 
 Mack’s face was white with rage, but without a second 
 glance toward him, the Doctor turned quickly to Connolley. 
 
 “Connolley,” he said, with abated severity, “you’re an 
 honest man, I believe, and you mean to do your duty. But 
 have a care how you listen to the advice of others — of out- 
 siders. Remember, it’s you , not Mack, who is Captain of the 
 Regulators And remember this, too: While you, urged on 
 by outside influence, are giving all your attention to this case, | 
 remember that a stage has been attacked only twelve miles ;| 
 from this town; that last night a man disappeared from the 1 
 St. Charles and can’t be found ; that we have among us a 
 young lady whose father disappeared from our very midst ; I 
 that even among your own band there is a man missing. Do 
 you think this is a time to encourage mob law? Wait; let 
 me finish. Since you and your Regulators have been in an- 1 
 tlxnlty here, all these things have happened; and six times the 
 stages have been stopped and robbed. Every time you have 
 
THE BEGINNING OF HOSTILITIES* 
 
 175 
 
 attempted a raid, it lias failed. Hadvti you better study out 
 the reason ? I wouldn’t like to see you superseded here, but 
 these things have been noticed ; and peacable citizens, who 
 are trying to do honest business, are getting restless. I 
 wouldn’t like to see this town in the hands of the military, but 
 it may come to that.” 
 
 Connolley was upon his feet in an instant, his face white 
 and earnest. 
 
 “ Doctor,” he said firmly, “ before I go out of this room, 
 I’m going to know what you mean.” 
 
 “Ask Mack,” said the Doctor grimly. But Mack, white to 
 the lips and evidently trying to master some strong emotion, 
 had turned toward the door. 
 
 “ No,” persisted the Regulator Chieftain, “I ask you.” 
 
 “ Well, then, listen. It is more than suspected that the 
 stage robbers have confederates in Caledonia; and that they 
 are protected by some influential person. I am not at liberty 
 to say more, and you ought to do your own detective work. 
 ‘ A word to the wise/ you know. Are you going, Mack?” 
 “Yes; I’m going,” answered Mack from the doorway. 
 “ I’m blessed if I know what you’re driving at, and I didn’t 
 come here to be bullied. If your remarks have been meant 
 to intimidate me , they’ve fallen short o’ the mark. I’ll ’tend 
 to my own business, and you* ’tend -to yours.” 
 
 “I’ll certainly do so,” replied the Doctor, now perfectly 
 tranquil, “and I’ll see that you keep your word. Are you 
 going, too, Commiley? Well, keep your eyes open, and do 
 your thinking. I'll light you — that hall lamp’s out, of 
 course.” 
 
 Made was already outside, and the Doctor took up the lamp 
 and followed Connolley — a bit of courtesy less for the benefit 
 
176 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 of Mack and the Regulator than to give the concealed detective 
 an opportunity to emerge from his undignified retreat. 
 
 As soon as they were outside, Vernet whispered to his 
 friend : 
 
 “ Better come out, Dick, and make yourself known. It’s 
 got to happen.” 
 
 “Not yet,” answered Stanhope; “I’m not quite ready.- 
 I’m doing well enough in my present character. Go ahead, 
 you and the Doctor. He’s reliable. I’ll come into the game 
 later.” 
 
 “ Are you going to stay here ?” 
 
 “ Yes. You can get me out sotne way.” 
 
 “All right, old man.” Vernet was already scrambling out 
 from his hiding place, and he had just regained his feet, and 
 was drawing off his reversed outer garment, when Doctor 
 Mitchell reentered the room. 
 
 “ Well,” said the Doctor, as he set the lamp down upon the 
 stand. 
 
 “ Well,” echoed Vernet. 
 
 “ I suppose you understand that war is now inevitable ?” 
 
 “ It appears so. Do you think that Mack is really so dan* 
 gerous ?” 
 
 “ I can’t begin to tell you what I think now . I’ve got to 
 show myself outside. Do you know my place?” 
 
 “Your house?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “I think so — an isolated cottage down at the south 
 end?” 
 
 “It’s very good of you to call it a cottage. 0 am ym cpe 
 there to-morrow morning* $ay at eight a?. clock?” 
 
 “Yes. 1 ' 
 
A MIDNIGHT EXPLORATION. 
 
 17 ? 
 
 “Then do so. Now, I must leave you. Shall I go first?” 
 
 “ Perhaps it will be as well.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell nodded and went quietly out. After listen- 
 ing a moment, and then closing the door, V ernet said : 
 
 “Come out, Dick.” 
 
 Stanhope came slowly from his hiding place, and shook the 
 dust from his person. 
 
 “Look out, Van,” he said, “and see if the way is clear. 
 I can’t stop to talk. I must mix myself up with that iury 
 again.” 
 
 Ten minutes later, as Vernet descended the stairs, he heard 
 voices in the lower hall, and saw Podtmk standing sheepishly 
 before the Coroner and Connolley, while Charlie held a lamp 
 "and pointed to a dusky corner behind the stairs. 
 
 “ I found him curled up there,” the Clerk was saying, “ and 
 snoring like a pig.” 
 
 “I’d like to know where he got his liquor,” said Connolley. 
 
 Podunk hiccoughed, swayed, and began to stammer forth a 
 very drunken excuse; and Vernet, smiling at his ruse, and 
 satisfied that it would be successful, passed on. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A MIDNIGHT EXPLORATION. 
 
 That night, at an unusally early hour, there was compara- 
 tive stillness at Mack’s. 
 
 The Regulators, such of them as had not been picketed 
 elsewhere by their Chief, were provided with blankets and 
 “shake-downs,” in the main saloon. The jurors were pa?* 
 
ITS 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 mitted to occupy the long narrow hall which Mack had fitted 
 up as a theatre, and to divide ils space among themselves as 
 they saw fit. The corpse of Duke Sehvyn lay in solitude, in 
 the closed gambling room, into which one of Regulators took 
 an occasional hurried look, and where ail the lamps were 
 brightly burning. 
 
 The occasion was not such as to induce hilarity, and conse- 
 quent wakefulness. Most of the men had been on duty all 
 day; and some on the alert, at Maclds or elsewhere, all the 
 night previous; and so, one by one, they rolled themselves 
 up in their blankets, or arranged their couches, and dropped 
 asleep. 
 
 Podunk, who had been faithful to his role, had staggered 
 to the place between two good natured jurors. He had an- 
 swered their queries as to where lie got his whiskey, by draw- 
 ing from his breast a flat bottle, and seeming to drink from 
 it, with great pretense of slyness, and had coiled himself up 
 on a hard bench, and was soon, or seemed to be, sleeping the 
 sleep of intoxication. 
 
 During the earlier hours of the night, four or five sat about 
 a table, trying to become wakeful and enthusiastic over agame 
 of cards. But the company was ill assorted; the game drag- 
 ged; one man dropped out, and then another. Finally the 
 cards were abandoned, pipes were laid aside, and one by one 
 the jurors, too, settled themselves to slumber. 
 
 A. little before midnight there was scarcely a sound to be 
 heard about the place save the occasional gusts of wind, 
 whistling about the corner without, and the inharmonious nasal 
 notes issuing from the dilated nostrils or open mouths of the 
 sleepers. 
 
 At about this time, Podunk, who had been uncomfortably 
 
A MIDNIGHT EXPLORATION. 
 
 179 
 
 \ couched upon three chairs, at some distance from his brethren, 
 s 'stirred restlessly, yawned, stretched out his arms, and finally 
 rolled heavily to the floor. Here ho lay for a full moment, 
 gazing stupidly about him, and waiting to see if any one had 
 been aroused by the noise of his fall. One of the nearest men 
 muttered some indistinct words, and gathered his blanket 
 closer about him; but there was no other sign of wakefulness, 
 and Pod unk got up as slowly and unsteadily as might be ex- 
 pected in a tipsy man. 
 
 He was too shrewd to attempt the thing he had in his mind 
 with any appearance of secrecy, nor did lie move with perfect 
 silence. He had determined to make himself better acquainted 
 with the interior of Mack’s establisment, and it was one of 
 his maxims that the boldest course is usually the safest. 
 
 He moved across the hall slowly and with every appearence 
 of sleepy drunkenness. If a slumberer had awakened at any 
 moment, lie would have seen a man with unsteady gait, and 
 stupid countenance, shuffling aimlessly about; and it would 
 never have occurred to him that there was method or purpose 
 in his halting progress. And yet Pod unk was moving straight 
 toward his object, and making no unnecessary noise. 
 
 In this manner he made his way from the Theatre proper, 
 out into the saloon where the Regulators were in possession. 
 They were all asleep; and Connolley, rolled in a blanket, lay 
 stretched before the outer door, which was locked and 
 barred. 
 
 Here Podunk paused for a momentary survey, and then he 
 perpetrated one of those bold strokes, so peculiar to himself, 
 which lifted his professional talent into absolute genius, and 
 made him the uniformly successful detective that he was. He 
 
 crossed the saloon, and standing beside the sleeping Chieftain 
 
180 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 touched him roughly with one extended foot; while at the 
 same moment he drew from his red shirt the flat black bottle, 
 now almost empty. ^ 
 
 Connolley wakened suddenly, and lifted his head. Seeing 
 Podunk steadying himself, and clutching his bottle, he 
 growled : 
 
 “What d’ye want?” 
 
 “Ter git out,” whispered Podunk, with great show of mys- 
 tery. “Open door, Mazhur.” 
 
 Connolley sat up, casting the blanket from about his shoulders. 
 
 “Go back, you tipsy fool,” he sharply said. “You can’t 
 go out.” 
 
 “All’ll, Mazliur,” whispered Podunk, “mils’ git out — want 
 ’er filler-up.” And he waved the bottle before the Regula- 
 tor’s face. 
 
 “Bah!” said Connolley, “’taint empty.” 
 
 Podunk held up the bottle, shook it, and looked as if per- 
 plexed by the Regulator’s argument. Then his countenance 
 lighted up, he quickly uncorked the bottle, swallowed its con- 
 tents at a gulp, and turned upon Connolley in triumph. 
 
 “’Tis zempty-now, Mazliur,” he said solemnly. 
 
 “Well,” retorted Connolley with a grin, “even if it is, 
 you! re full; so it’s all right. Go back and settle down; if 
 you don’t I’ll settle ye.” 
 
 He drew the blanket about his shoulders, and resumed his 
 former recumbent attitude. 
 
 For a moment Podunk regarded him with tipsy disapproval. 
 Then he drew himself up with absurd dignity. 
 
 “Mazhur,” he said slowly and emphasizing each word with 
 a lurch as he retreated backward, “ Mazhur — I — I’m — dish— 
 dish — ap— pinted — in — yer !” 
 
162 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 “ Git away!” said Connolley, with a wave of the hand. 
 
 Podunk, seemingly quenched, went stumbling back to the 
 inner room, where he sat down upon the nearest bench, and 
 looked the picture of sleepy dejection. 
 
 In all his undertakings and disguises, this perfect comedian^ 
 c abated not one jot of Ids character.” And in this, as in the 
 case with all perfect actors, lay the secret of his success. For 
 some time he remained seated upon the bench, his chin sunk 
 upon his breast, and his hand, with the bottle which it still 
 clutched, half hidden in the folds of his shirt, as .if he had 
 fallen asleep in the act of concealing it. 
 
 He was sitting thus when Connolley, impelled by some 
 second thought, came to the door and looked in; and he re- 
 mained there for many moments after the Regulator, reassured J 
 had again couched himself before the outer door, and had fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 Then again, and with his former precautions, Podunk set 
 out upon his tour of inspection, and this time he made the 
 survey of Mack’s premises undiscovered, and disturbing no 
 one. 
 
 The building known as Mack’s Theatre, and which served 
 such varied uses, was built upon a corner, where two of Cale- 
 donia’s principal streets crossed each other. It covered, to^ 
 gether with the high, tight board fence which enclosed it upon 
 two sides, a large plot of ground, and it was this expansive- 
 ness which first caused our friend Podunk to wonder, and to 
 wish to i n vestigate. 
 
 Without following each movement of the disguised detec- 
 tive in his rambling tour about the big building — for these,, 
 movements from first to last were erratic, and in perfect keep^ 
 ing with his tipsy role — we will take a brief survey of Mack’s 
 
A MIDNIGHT EXPLORATION, 
 
 183 
 
 domain, in order the better to understand what is to occur in 
 and about it. 
 
 Standing with its broad front facing eastward, and on one 
 side — that on which was situated the saloon and gaming room 
 and Mack’s office— facing the south, and both bordering upon 
 the two in tersecti ng streets — Mack’s was ad mirably fitted for the 
 purpose which it served. The long, narrow room which was 
 the Theatre proper, lay between the saloon and the apartments 
 in the rear of it, and the wing in which was situated the Cafe , 
 with its kitchens. 
 
 On the north, the premises were bounded by an unusually 
 high and very tight board fence, which began at the rear cor- 
 ner of the Cafe , and extended around the west side of the ob- 
 long enclosure, terminating at Mack’s office. 
 
 The stage was situated at the back of the long Theatre, with 
 small and roughly finished dressing rooms above and below it. 
 These dressing rooms, and the stage itself, were approached, 
 first, through the saloon; next,. through along narrow pas- 
 sage, used also as a lumber room, from which steps narrow 
 and steep led down to the rooms below, up to the stage, and 
 still up, to the rooms above. Overhead in the Theatre was a 
 low gallery, lined with dingy i( boxes”; and over the saloon 
 and gaming room was an extra bar, and a long apartment, 
 open toward the stage, furnished with tables and chairs, and 
 dignified by the name of Parlor. 
 
 Owing to the position of the Theatre, flanked as it was by 
 saloon and offices on one side and Cafe and kitchens on the 
 other, it was lighted by windows only at each end — -or it 
 might be said at one end and that the front, for the windows 
 in the rear of the stage were shut off from the auditorium, and 
 only Served it as partial ventilators* Such other light and 
 
184 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ventilation as the auditorium received, reached it from above , 
 through slits of windows so high up and so narrow that they | 
 could not serve as outlooks, but only as places, to admit air 
 and light. 
 
 I 
 
 Our friend, Podunk, who looked for a reason for everything J 
 that struck him as peculiar, pondered a little over these win- 1 
 dows. 
 
 u Queer arrangement,” he said to himself. “ Can’t look out 
 without climbing on a chair ; couldn’t get out if the house was 4 
 on fire. I don’t believe they’re a foot wide.” 
 
 He passed on to the rear of the gallery, opened a door, 
 and was in a narrow passage leading to the upper dressing | 
 rooms. He found nothing to interest him here, but noted I 
 
 that the one window in the small room was narrow like the 1 
 
 I 
 
 others, but lower down, because the ceiling itself was within | 
 reach of his hand. 
 
 “ A fine sweat box for Mack’s fairies,” he muttered, going 1 
 to this narrow window and looking out. 
 
 The moon, which was now fast waning, was partly obscured | 
 by a cloud. But this passed quickly, and objects close at 
 hand became dimly visible. 
 
 “ Caution seems to be the rule here,” he muttered. “ Bars, | 
 as if it was a jail, and — — ” He started, pressed his face § 
 
 close to the window, and peered down into the enclosure ; 
 at the back of the Theatre. Then, after" a long survey, he 
 opened the window, which was fastened only by a slender 
 spring, and thrust his head out as far as three upright iron 
 bars would let him. He could only press his forehead between 
 the bars, and soon withdrew his head with a dissatisfied 
 sniff. 
 
 He lighted the email lamp, which be had brought from tte 
 
l MacVs saloon, 
 i 5 Gambling-room, 
 
 / Mack’s private office. 
 
 ) Theatre. 
 fj Stage. 
 
 I p Cafe. 
 
 \l Kitchen. 
 
 Hi Isolated room. 
 
 Outside gate. 
 
 |i : Inside gate. 
 
 * "Passage to dressing-poea* and iamber-room. 
 
 T Public dining-room. 
 
 1, 2 Entrances to saloon. 
 
 3, 5 Doors connecting saloon and Theatre. 
 4 Door to passage. 
 
 6 Stairway to gallery and boxes, 
 
 7, 7, 7, 7 Doors to Mack’s office. 
 
 8 Unused entrance to Theatre. 
 
 9 Path from kitchen to isolated room, 
 
 10 Inner fence. 
 
 H Outer fence. 
 
 18 G 
 
1S6 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 fc.pper bar, letting it disclose only so nmcli light as would 
 serve to show his way, and went into the next room, which 
 was in every respect like the other. There was the same 
 single window, with its* strong iron bars; and Pod link 
 opened this also and looked out as before. As he was about ] 
 to close the window, the moon shone more clearly, and he ; 
 could see distinctly every object within the enclosure. HeJ 
 looked, and then looked again, as if doubting his own eyes, 
 clutching a bar with either hand and pressing his face be- J 
 tween them. 
 
 ~j 
 
 “Upon my soul,” he muttered, “that certainly means some- J 
 thing !” 
 
 Pie now saw that the high fence surrounding the west and 
 north sides of the place was not its only safeguard. Inside, 
 less than three feet from the first, was a second fence , just 
 enough lower than the other to be invisible from the outside, 
 but guarded at the top with sharply pointed spikes. He also 
 saw, at the corner nearest him, a small building, half hidden 
 by the projecting corner, and so low that its roof and chimney 
 could not be seen from the alley which bounded the place on 
 the sides, where they might otherwise have been visible, per- 
 haps, above the fence. 
 
 “ I ? d like to know what that is,” mused the explorer. “ It 
 can’t belong to the culinary department, and by the chimney 
 it ? s evidently intended for human occupation. Mack sleeps 
 in his office, and his people, with the exception of Pop, sleep 
 at the Boarding-house. I must see the other side.” 
 
 He went back into the gallery, softly placed a small table 
 under one of the high, narrow windows, and clambered up. 
 The Cafe and kitchens underneath consisted of but one story, 
 and these high windows, visible of course beyond the paling* 
 
THE WfiOHG- MAN. 
 
 187 
 
 Were not barred like those in the rear of the stage. Podunk 
 opened the window softly, and thrust out his head; looked for 
 a moment in the direction of the detached room, and then drew 
 it in again. 
 
 “ It’s half underground/’ he muttered, “and it only touches 
 the main building at the corner. They can’t connect by any 
 door, and the entrance must be on the west side. Umph ! It 
 isn’t one o’clock yet; I’m going to get down there somehow.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE WRONG MAN. 
 
 Podunk closed the window, replaced the table, and, taking 
 up his lamp, went- again into the close passage, from which a 
 narrow staircase led down to the stage. Here, as above, lie 
 found all the windows opening to the west closely barred, and 
 those facing northward too high for sight and too small for 
 egress. Below, underneath the stage, he found only half win- 
 dows to the west, and these well barred, while on the north 
 side there was no opening. 
 
 Here again Podunk paused and pondered. 
 
 “Let’s see,” he muttered ; “there’s absolutely no connec- 
 tion between the Theatre and Cafe, and there’s no way of 
 getting outside from the stage or dressing rooms. If there’s 
 any entrance to that very private room down there, for it can’t 
 be more than a room, it must be — of course it is — through 
 Mack’s office.” 
 
188 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Satisfied with his researches below, he again mounted the nar- £ 
 row stairs and cautiously entered the lumber room. 
 
 The sound of heavy breathing, near at hand, caused him to 
 halt and hold the lamp high over his head. Then he smiled : 
 and hastily lowered it. He was standing in the sleeping;, 
 apartment of Old Pop, the broken down actor, who lay in the -; 
 long, lane-like room where Mack’s stage carpenter bestowed 
 all his superfluities, upon an improvised pallet which was 
 ragged, and dirty, and none too warm or soft. At the end of 
 this portion of the lumber room, which formed an L, shutting 
 in two sides of the gaming room, was a window, uncurtained, 
 and through which the explorer could see the outlines of the 
 buildings across the street. 
 
 “ I must wait,” he muttered ; u the moon will soon be gone/’ 
 
 He looked about him, and finding a box upon which he 
 could sit, he extinguished the light, lest Pop should waken 
 and discover him too soon. So much had happened since his 
 arrival in Caledonia that he had found no time for medita- 
 tion, and he was not sorry for this opportunity, although he 
 might have preferred a more comfortable resting place. But 
 he had early learned the value of patience, and so he sat con- 
 tentedly, thinking, and waiting for greater darkness. 
 
 He had resolved to make an attempt to see and talk with 
 Vernet before daylight. He thought he knew how to reach 
 him without discovery. So, when he believed the time had 
 come, he again lighted the lamp, and, once assured that Pop 
 was sleeping soundly, began to look about him. After peer- 
 ing around for some moments, he discovered a coil of rope 
 which he thought fit for his purpose. It was so slender as to 
 be almost a cord, but was strongly twined, and of considerable 
 length. 
 
THE WRONG MAN. 
 
 t89 
 
 "It will do/’ he muttered, and began to wind it about his 
 Waist, turning round and round as it uncoiled its length. 
 Then he took up the lamp again, and once more drew forth 
 the convenient black bottle. “Now for it,” he said to him- 
 self, and going to the side of the' sleeping man, laid a hand 
 upon his shoulder. 
 
 Pop gaped, opened his eyes, and started up amazed. 
 
 “Hish, daddy,” whispered Fodunk. 
 
 The old man rubbed his eyes and looked again. 
 
 “Easy, daddy,” Podunk again whispered. 
 
 “ Easy yourself,” grumbled the old man, who now recog- 
 nized his recent acquaintance. “How did you get here ?” 
 
 Podunk sat down on the side of the couch, and taking the 
 bottle from under his arm presented it to the old man. 
 
 “Have some, daddy ?” he said insinuatingly. 
 
 Pop’s dull eyes brightened. He clutched at the bottle and 
 raised it to his lips. Then his arm dropped, and he turned 
 a disgusted countenance upon Podunk. 
 
 “It’s empty,” he growled. 
 
 “‘Taint my fault, Pop,” replied Podunk, taking possession 
 of the bottle and carressing it. “ 1 want ter fill it bad enough, 
 but I can’t git out.” 
 
 » j 
 
 “ Umph,” grunted Pop. 
 
 They were both silent for a moment and then Podunk 
 whispered : 
 
 “ Aint that a winder, daddy?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Look a here, now, ’spose I git out that winder, an* go to 
 the crib up the street an’ git this filled — eh?” 
 
 Pop shook his head. 
 
 “Come, Poppy,” persisted his tempteiy “’twouldn’t take a 
 
290 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 minit* Lor, now, I might a taken advantage of ye, and got 
 out ’thout yer knowin’ it; an’ liere ye’re goin’ back on me this 
 way.” 
 
 “ You couldn’t,” said Pop withagrin. “ You couldn’t crowd 
 past me, and get overall this rubbish, and open that window, 
 without waking me, to save your life — not even if you was 
 sober.” 
 
 Pod link, who knew that all this was true, chose to ignore 
 the argument, and only said: “Wal, ain't I sober?” 
 
 “I guess not,” replied the old man dryly; “not very.” 
 “Anyhow, dad, Pm sober enough to git you an’ me a 
 rousin’ drink, if you’ll keep an eye out while I’m gone.” 
 
 But Pop shook his head. “It wouldn’t do,” he said; and 
 then cast a contemplative eye upon the bottle. “ I ’spose,” he 
 began hesitatingly, “you wouldn’t want me to go an’ you keep 
 an eye open ?” 
 
 “I dunno — ” Podunk was secretly delighted with this sug- 
 gestion — “I — I’m fraid ye’d stay too long.” 
 
 “No,” said Pop, brightening at the prospect of a first pull 
 the bottle, “no; I’ll come right back.” 
 
 “I s’ pose,” said Pod uuk, still appearing to hesitate, “a feller 
 rou Id leave the winder open?” 
 
 “Yes,” assented Pop eagerly. 
 
 “This is a danged skittish place ter be 'waitin’ in. Say, if 
 I sit’d hear any fuss, and think best to get back inter the Thea- 
 tre, ye’d drink fair, wouldn’t ye?” 
 
 “Yes, yes,” Pop was growing every moment more thirst* 
 and impatient. 
 
 “Wal,” said Podunk, reluctantly handing over the bottle, 
 “there ye air, an’ there’s the money. Good whiskey, daddy* 
 ana wag yer legs fast. I’m mighty dry.” 
 
 ■ 
 
W&ON& MAK. 
 
 m 
 
 Pop concealed the bottle about his person, and, clutching 
 the money, moved toward the window. 
 
 “You’d better leave it up,” lie whispered ; u it makes a good 
 deal of noise. Just wait here, and be on the lookout to help 
 me in.” 
 
 Podunk raised the window with all possible caution; but in 
 spite of his efforts to avoid noise it creaked dismally. For a 
 few moments both listened intently, and then Pop began to 
 scramble out. 
 
 “I’m all right,” lie whispered as he dropped to the ground. 
 
 And Podunk heard him move away in the darkness. He 
 listened for a moment, and then, satisfied with the silence, he 
 dropped, in his turn, from the window, and began to grope his 
 way through the darkness, which had now grown dense, to- 
 ward the west end of the building. 
 
 He had passed Mack’s office, and knew that he had reached 
 the corner, more by feeling than by sight, when he heard a 
 movement close beside him, and some one whispered, almost 
 in his ear: 
 
 “Is that you, Joe?” At the same moment he felt a hand 
 touch the coil of rope wound about his body. “Oh, you’ve 
 got the rope,” (he voice went on. “Is it all right?” 
 
 “All right,” whispered Podunk, who now began to com- 
 prehend that here was a case of mistaken identity. 
 
 “YJal,” whispered the voice, “let’s be moving. The horses 
 ire there, and the boys all ready. 1 t’s time we had that blamed 
 
 old Coroner out and on the zig-zag.” 
 
 Podunk, who felt sure that his unknown companion was 
 quite alone, and who was about to extricate himself from his 
 present difficulty by the shortest ami i-a^est route, now uu- 
 doubled the fist which was all ready fora blow, and suddenly 
 
192 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 changed his tactics. The Coroner named could mean rom 
 other than Doctor Mitchell, and Podunk decided at onqe to 
 learn what was in store for him. 
 
 “Go on,”. he whispered. 
 
 “Keep close to the fence,” whispered back the unknown. 
 “Stop; git hold o’ me somewhere. I know every inch of the 
 way.” 
 
 Podunk obediently laid a hand upon his sleeve, and they 
 walked away from the corner, keeping their faces westward. 
 They passed the few scattered buildings that lay between Mack’s 
 and the open prairie; and when they left the last behind, his 
 conductor, who seemed a voluble fellow, said: 
 
 “It’s a deuce of a long way round, but the old Cock would 
 have it so; an’ I guess it’s jest as safe. You know the 
 racket?” 
 
 “Why, yes,” began Podunk; but the other went on whis- 
 pering : 
 
 “Ye’d better undo that rope, and git it ready. I sh’d say, 
 from the feel, there was enough an’ more too. I don’t b’leve, 
 myself, that there’s any need o’ tyin’ him, but Baldy says tie: 
 so tie it’ll be.” 
 
 “You bet!” ventured Podunk fervently. 
 
 “Ye see the way the thing’s fixed, now, one of us gits off 
 easy. S’pose ye make it me, Joe? I’m blamed if I want 
 ter cavort all over the prairie to-night. Say you’ll go with 
 the crowd, and let me stay and see that the way keeps clear 
 —eh?” I 
 
 “All right,” whispered Podunk; “I aint particular.” 
 
 “Good for you! Here’s our horses. You’d best loosen yer 
 rope, an’ be ready to hand it over.” 
 
 Podunk halted and began to uncoil the rope from about his 
 
 
THE WRONG MAN. 
 
 193 
 
 body. When he thought it about half reeled off, he drew a 
 knife and cut it, leaving the remaining half still around his 
 waist. At that moment his companion said : 
 
 “ Hist ! some' one’s follerin’ us.” 
 
 Instantly surmising that this some one was, probably, the 
 bona fide “Joe,” Podunk threw the rope toward his compan- 
 ion, and whispered back : 
 
 “ Hold this and lay low; I’ll settle him.” 
 
 Then, without waiting for a reply, he hurried in tiie direc- 
 tion of the person who was tearing over the prairie at a brisk 
 run. When the fellow was so near that he could hear his 
 panting breath, Podunk, now fully determined to play the 
 part of “ Joe” to the end, threw himself at full length upon 
 the ground. As he had hoped and expected, the runner 
 - stumbled and fell over his prostrate body. In a moment Po- 
 dunk was astride the luckless tumbler, who felt something 
 cold pressed against the back of his neck as he lay face down- 
 ward. 
 
 “Stir or speak and you’re a dead man,” whispered Podunk 
 sharply. “Stand back, boys,” addressing an imaginary band. 
 “Bill, help with the rope.” While he spoke, lie w T as rapidly 
 uncoiling the rope from about his waist, keeping up, all the 
 time, a constant movement and pressure of his feet and knees 
 against the body and legs of his prisoner, intended to convey 
 to the mind of that unfortunate the impression that he was* 
 being handled by several ruffians. The fellow was either 
 drunk&or an arrant coward, for he lay like one half stupified, 
 quak?ng and trembling at every movement of his active assail- 
 I ant. 
 
 “ Tie his hands behind him,” suiting each action to the 
 Word. “ Now, tie his feet ; and a gag.” Here he sacrificed 
 
184 
 
 A MOUNT ATX MYStEftY. 
 
 a huge red Dandannu, which effectual iy stopped the fellow^ 1 
 mouth. “Now boys, he’ll do for the present.” 
 
 So saying, Podunk arose, and without another word to the ^ 
 bound and speechless victim, ran back to the place where he I 
 had left his strange companion and the horses. When he ar- 
 rived at the spot, as nearly as lie could locate it in the dark- 
 ness, there was silence all around him. After listening a mo- | 
 meat, he uttered a gentle, “ -Hist., Pard!” 
 
 “ Here," answered a low voice some .distance beyond him; 
 “come this way.” 
 
 Again, but with added caution, our adventurer went for- 
 ward, and came upon his “' Partner,” whom lie located by the : 
 movement of the horses. 
 
 “What’s lip?” queried Podunk in a harsh whisper. 
 
 “ Up ! Nothin’, only your blamed horse nearly bust away 
 from me. You must a hit him a touch when you threw me 
 that rope; lie just fairly drug me here. k\ ho was it?” 
 “Who?” parried Podunk; “ didn’t ye hear ?” 
 
 “Hear nothin’! IIoiv could 1, with this dunged, critter ?J 
 Get on, why don’t ye? I’ve been hitch in’ post long enough.” 
 By this time Podunk had managed to discover which ani- 
 mal was' supposed to be his, and mounted, saying: 
 
 “Lead on; we’re losin’ time. ’Twanfc nothin’ but some- 
 body’s horse broke loose.” 
 
 “ Umph,” returned the other, “ I guess we shan’t keep 
 ’em waitin’ very long. It takes a little time if it ain’t fur, ' 
 when you’ve got that kind of a passenger. An’ they wouldn’t 
 budge, of course, till it was good an’ dark. Lord, if the stars \ 
 aint cornin’ out! I kin most see Blue Jane’s head. Wal, I 
 guess you won’t mind — ye’ll need a. little light when ye cross 
 the duck pond; and he’ll have ter b% blindfolded, anyhow.” 
 
196 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ie c He’, whoever he is, won't be much worse off than I am,” 1 
 reflected Podunk. “ What precious mystery am I ninnkig 
 my neck into now?” 
 
 But he rode sturdily on beside his guide, resolved to face m 
 the issue. For some time they journeyed in silence and then - 
 his guide halted. 
 
 “ Here we are,” he said ; “ just outside the timber. Nobody 1 
 here either; well — ” 
 
 “ Hist”, said Podunk ; “ I hear something.” 
 
 “ Yes ; they’re coming.” 
 
 They rode forward until they were a few feet from the ad- 
 vancing horsemen, four in number; and then they halted and 
 the guide said : 
 
 “ What’s the word?' 
 
 “ Ready,” replied the foremost horsemen; “and^you?” ^ 
 “ Ready, too.” 
 
 “ Where’s Joe?” 
 
 “ Here.” 
 
 “All right. Face about, boys.” 
 
 They turned their horses’ heads, and riding two by two, 
 with Podunk and his companion bringing up the rear, they 
 journeyed southward. The stars came out brighter now, and 
 they could just distinguish each other through the gloom. 
 But it was impossible to recognize form or features, and Po- ; 
 dunk felt, for the time, quite secure. They seemed to be > 
 skirting the town, and gradually drawing nearer it. Finally 
 the leader drew rein, and Podunk knew, by a glimmering 
 light just beyond, that they were close to some habitation. 
 
 u Dismount, boys,” whispered t he-man who acted as leader. 
 u Who has the rope ?” 
 
 “ Here,” said Podunk’s companion. “Joe ’tended to that.” 
 
 
PODUNK UNMASKS. 
 
 197 
 
 u All right; hand it over. Joe, you stay with the horses. 
 Here — ” he took something from his pocket, and began to 
 distribute long strips of sable crape — “ tie on the masks, boys. 
 Dick, the old man must have your horse; everything appears 
 safe, so you can meet us at the crossing. All ready, boys?” 
 There was a general assent, and five masked men walked 
 silently, in Indian file, toward the glimmering light, leaving 
 Podunk, his face concealed by a crape mask, holding their 
 horses for robbers, murderers, Regulators — which lie could not 
 guess. 
 
 “ Pd very much like to know what Pm here for,” he mut- 
 tered. And then, with a low chuckle, “ I wish I could see 
 Van, now. Pd hold him up. I feel like a ten horse-power 
 highwayman,” said to himself this irrepressible adventurer. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 PODUNK UNMASKS. 
 
 The masked men, each seeming perfectly to understand the 
 part allotted him, walked silently toward the cottage from 
 which the glimmering light shone out. Then one of their 
 number went straight to the door, while the others slunk into 
 the darkness on either side. There was a moment of silence, 
 and then the mask at the door rapped loudly. 
 
 _ “ Who's there ?” called a voice from within. There was a 
 note of impatience, but no hint of fear, in the tone. 
 
 T 
 
198 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ You’re wanted, Doctor/’ — Podunk could plainly hear th® 
 speaker without — “ There’s a badly hurt man hard by. Come 
 quick ; I’ve got a horse in waiting.” 
 
 In another moment the door of the cottage was flung open, 
 and Doctor Mitchell, his hat far back upon his head, and one 
 hand in his pocket, stood upon the threshold. The mask who 
 had summoned him retreated into the shadow 7 , and the Doctor 
 could only dimly discern his figure. 
 
 “ What’s the matter ?” he asked with his usual professional 
 abruptness. 
 
 “ An accident ; bring your instruments, Doctor, and hurry ; 
 time’s precious.” 
 
 “ All right.” The door closed with a bang, opened again 
 in a moment, and the Doctor came out, shutting and locking 
 his door behind him. 
 
 “Where are you?” he said, stepping briskly down the two 
 wooden steps; “and where do we ride?” 
 
 There w r as no answer in words, but strong hands seized 
 him before and behind; by the arms, by the legs, by the 
 throat. j 
 
 “Don’t make a noise, Doctor,” the spokesman said. “ You’re 
 perfectly safe so long as you keep still. This business must 
 be on the quiet; and if you are taken by force, and don’t 
 know where you go, it will save us the trouble of swearing 
 you to secrecy. It’s your professional services that Ave want, 
 not your money or your life.” 
 
 “ Umph !” grunted the Doctor behind the big hand that 
 covered his mouth. 
 
 They had reached the horses by this time, and his captors 
 halted. 
 
 “ Now, Doctor, we’ll blindfold you, and I may as well say 
 
 ■i 
 
PODUNK UNMASKS. 
 
 199 
 
 that the first sound you make, or the first attempt to resist, 
 will be at your peril.” 
 
 “Umph !” grunted the Doctor again. 
 
 “ Joe,” said the leader, “ bring up that horse.” 
 
 Podunk obediently led forward the animal destined for the 
 Doctor's use. 
 
 “Now that you are blinded, Doctor, we must tie your hands — - 
 not from fear that you'll turn them against us, but to prevent 
 your tampering with your spectacles.” 
 
 The Doctor grunted again, and then, as the man who held 
 a hand over his mouth withdrew it momentarily, he shot out 
 the question : 
 
 “ Are you going to tie up my tongue, too ?” 
 
 “ Not if you promise to use it mildly.” 
 
 “Well, leave that free; that's all I ask. I'd rather prom- 
 ise to keep quiet than have one of your confounded dirty rags 
 tied under my nose.” 
 
 His captors indulged in a suppressed laugh at this sally, 
 and the Doctor's mouth was respected. They lifted him upon 
 the horse which Podunk still held by the bit, and the word 
 was given : 
 
 “ Mount. Here, Joe, you ride on the other side of the Doc- 
 tor. I'll lead ; follow, men.” 
 
 Podunk, who owed his post of honor, to his proximity, 
 mounted his horse — or Joe's horse — and rode away beside the 
 poctor, fully assured now that in this adventure he was, after 
 ^1 not out of place, and determined to see Doctor Mitchell 
 safely through it. 
 
 When they had ridden for some time in silence, the leaded 
 
 said: 
 
 i£ Doctor, I'm sorry I can't render your ride more agree- 
 
200 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 able. If you’ll take a pull at my flask, I’ll hold it for you/* 
 
 The Doctor, who was riding, with his hands lashed behind 
 him, as firm and erect as a grenadier, gave utterance to his 
 favorite expression of contempt. 
 
 “ Umpli ! I’m afraid your stock of politeness won’t hold 
 out, my friend, if you draw on it too heavily. You’ll need 
 your flask to keep up your courage. I don’t feed mine on* 
 whiskey.” 
 
 The leader withdrew into himself, and Podunk indulged in 
 a low chuckle. It was evident that, whatever was in store for 
 him, Doctor Mitchell felt not one thrill of fear ; and equally 
 evident that his temper was roused. Podunk rejoiced in his 
 contemptuous attitude, and his display of pluck. 
 
 There was now scarcely a cloud to obscure the sky, and all 
 the stars were shining brightly. They could see their horses’ 
 heads, and dimly distinguish objects about them. It seemed 
 to Podunk that they must be riding in a circle, and encom- 
 passing the town at a very respectful distance. Before long 
 he was certain that this was the case. They were not going 
 away from Caledonia, but riding over the prairie in a wide 
 circuit. 
 
 Presently the leader spoke again. 
 
 “ Doctor, we have a smooth road just ahead, and some of 
 our way is rough ; can you stand a faster gait ?” 
 
 “ I can’t travel too fast in my present company,” retorted i 
 the Doctor. 
 
 The horses were put to a round trot, the sturdy old man 
 riding like a centaur. After travelling in this manner for 
 sometime, the leader called over his shoulder: “ Steady, men.” j 
 
 The horses were brought to a walk, and Podunk could see 
 the gleam of water ahead. ; 
 
PODUNK UNMASKS. 
 
 201 
 
 “ A bad place,” the leader muttered, as if to himself, but 
 loud enough to reach the Doctor’s ear. “ Now, follow me. 
 Joe, fall in behind.” 
 
 He shortened the halter of the led horse, and rode slowly 
 toward the water, the hoofs of the animals sinking deep into 
 into the mud, and coming out with a hissing sound. It was 
 a pool — the same, in fact, in which Mountain Mag had thrown 
 the handkerchief with its treasure so shortly before — and 
 Podunk, now convinced that the masked men were making 
 this detour to mislead the Doctor, was not surprised to see the 
 remaining horsemen turn aside and ride slowly around the 
 pool. Obedient to instructions, however, he urged his horse 
 forward, taking care to follow the leader, and rode splashing 
 through the mud and water, knowing that, as had been in- 
 tended, the noise made by the three horses would conceal 
 from the Doctor the fact that the others were riding dry-shod. 
 
 Again they quickened their pace, and after making numer- 
 ous feints calculated to mislead their prisoner, and skirting the 
 town on the east and north, they began to close in, until they 
 arrived at a point on the open prairie almost in the rear of 
 Mack’s, and not more than eighty rods from the place where 
 Podunk had left his bound and gagged other self. 
 
 Here they halted, the leader giving his orders in quick un- 
 der-tones, and the men obeying him promptly. Two of the 
 men dismounted, and lifted Doctor Mitchell from his horse, 
 and the leader, flinging his bridle to Podunk, said: 
 
 “Hold my horse, Joe. No; give him to Tom and come 
 with us. Boys, perfect quiet, mind, and don’t stir from this 
 spot. Who’s got the Doctor’s case?” 
 
 “ Here,” said one of the men. 
 
 “Fetch it along, Joe. Now, forward, and softly,” 
 
202 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 They went forward, the leader linking his arm within that < 
 of Doctor Mitchell, who strode along, grim and silent, until, 
 to the unbounded surprise of Podunk, they had passed in the : 
 rear of the scattered buildings and were close to the high fence 
 directly back of Mack’s Theatre. 
 
 Here there was another halt. 
 
 “Give me the case, Joe,” whispered the leader; “and do 
 you keep a watch on the south end. Bob, you look to the 
 north. Go ahead, Mike, and see if the way is open.” 
 
 The man called Mike glided away, and was back quickly. 
 
 “All right,” he whispered. 
 
 “ Come on, then. Doctor, I assure you — ” 
 
 “ Oh, get this business over,” snarled the Doctor. “ Yowim 
 assurances, indeed.” 
 
 As they moved forward, the fellow addressed as Bob walked 
 away in the direction indicated by his leader as his watch; 
 and Podunk feeling tolerably sure that no harm was intended 
 Doctor Mitchell, but anxious to learn all that he could with- 
 out betraying himself, crept after the party, unnoticed in the 
 darkness. 
 
 They went straight to the high fence, and Podunk was so 
 close that he could see what appeared to be a gate, swing in- 
 ward without noise. All then passed through, and the aper- 
 ture was closed. Instantly, Podunk was close to the fence, his 
 ear laid against the boards. But he heard no sound. Minutes 
 passed, and the stillness was unbroken. 
 
 “ There must be a gate here,” he thought ; “ a blind en- 
 trance ! a blind entrance ! and — why, of course, there is an- 
 other gate in that second fence. If Van were only here to 
 give me a shoulder, I’d show my friend Mack that his fortress 
 was not inaccessible.” 
 
PODUNK UNMASKS, 
 
 203 
 
 It seemed a very long time that lie waited there in the dark- 
 ness and silence, his ear always on the alert, and keeping closq 
 to the place where the Masks and their prisoner had entered. 
 In reality it was but half an hour, and then a slight sound 
 warned him of an approach from within. He glided silently 
 toward the south corner, but stopped before he had gone far, 
 and saw three shadowy forms emerging from the concealed 
 gateway. 
 
 Then there was a low clear whistle. Podunk, rightly judg- 
 ing that this was the signal to call in the guards, crept softly 
 after the party now walking briskly toward the spot where 
 they had left the horses. When they had reached the place, 
 and again halted, the leader asked : 
 
 | _ u Are we all here ? Bob ? Joe ?” 
 
 By this time both pickets were near enough to answer to 
 their names. Then the word was given to mount ; and, in 
 the order in which they came, they rode away, making the 
 same wide detour , splashing again through the pool, which 
 Podunk now judged to be the “ duck pond” referred to by the 
 Mask who had pressed him into this service. 
 
 After crossing the “ duck pond,” they took a new course 
 and rode straight away from the town, and toward the timber 
 to the south-west. When they had gone fully three miles, there 
 was another halt, and the leader said to the two men in the rear: 
 
 “ Ride forward, boys. Bob, hold the Doctor’s horse. Joe, 
 come here.” 
 
 In a moment Podunk and the three Masks were a couple 
 of rods away from the Doctor and Bob, and then the leader 
 said in a guarded tone : 
 
 “ Which one of you boys will take the Doctor back to 
 
 town 
 
204 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 “ I thought Bob was — ” began one, in a discontented tone. 
 
 “ I don’t think it’s safe (o send Bob; he’s too fond of talk- 
 ing; which — ” 
 
 “ I’ll go/’ said Pod unk, but as if he were not at all anxious. 
 
 “ Very well, Joe,” said the leader. _ “ Take the old man 
 around to his own cottage, or as near as is safe. Then dis- 
 mount him, cut his cords, and gallop away like the wind, a 
 Wait; don’t take off his blind; and don’t let the old Turk 
 rile you, or set you talking.” 
 
 “All right,” replied Podunk. 
 
 And then he, with the leader, rcfde back. The exchange 
 was made and Podunk took the Doctor’s bridle and turned 
 the horse’s head townward. No word was spoken as they 
 rode away, but Podunk knew that the party was standing 
 still, listening and waiting until lie, with his prisoner, was out 
 of hearing. 
 
 For fully half a mile they rode in perfect silence. Then 
 the Doctor spoke sharply. 
 
 “Where are the rest of you?” 
 
 “ Gone, Doctor. They’ve forsook us.” . 
 
 “Eh!” evidently the Doctor detected something familiar 
 in the voice, which Podunk now made no attempt to disguise./ 
 “ I say they’ve gone. Whoa!” He reined his horse close 
 to that ridden by Doctor Mitchell, and leaning over in the 
 saddle, cut the cords that bound his hands. “ There,” he said 
 with a chuckle, “ now, Doc, jest yank off that blind, and I 
 guess ye’ll be more comfortable.” 
 
 The Doctor jerked off the bandage, turned in his saddle, and 
 tried to peer through the gloom at his singular companion. 
 
 “ Who are you ?” he asked abruptly, 
 
 “Ye’ve been callin’ me Podunk of late. If ye’ll jest take 
 
PODtLNK UNMASKS. 
 
 20S 
 
 me oh trust awhile, ye’ll understand. I’ve got a little some- 
 thin’ to do, an’ when that’s done, we’ll talk. I want ye to go 
 ’long with me, ’cause then you’ll be sure that what I’m goin’ 
 to tell ye later is truth.” 
 
 “Go on,” said the Doctor; “I’m bound to see this thing 
 through.” 
 
 “So’m I,” said Pod link, and for some time they rode on in 
 silence. 
 
 When they again made a halt, it was near the place where 
 the latter had left his bound and helpless prisoner, the bona 
 fide “ Joe.” 
 
 “ Now, Doc,” said Podunk, “jest hold my nag for a minit.” 
 
 He dismounted, went forward gropingly, and soon found 
 his man, who had not succeeded in loosening his bonds or re- 
 moving the gag. 
 
 “ Oh, here you are,” said Podunk, and went at once back 
 to the Doctor. “ Jest let me lead ye up,” he said, and taking 
 the horses by the bit, he suited the action to the word. Then 
 he said : “ I’ve got a man here. Git down an’ take a look at 
 him. I want ye ter see another neat job of ty in’ an’ gaggin’.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell slipped off his horse, and bent over the 
 figure, which he could dimly see stretched upon the ground. 
 He ran his hand over the face, and felt of the fettered feet and 
 hands. 
 
 “ Umph,” he grunted, and turned away. 
 
 “ Hist !” Podunk laid a hand upon his shoulder and whis- 
 pered in his ear. “ We must take a look at him, but we 
 mustn’t take off the bandage from his eyes.” 
 
 He took from his pocket a handful of matches, and, light- 
 ing one, held it close to the fellow’s face. Then, and this the 
 Doctor thought odd, he lighted another and seemed to examine 
 
206 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 the clothing; and still another, by which he surveyed his 
 prisoner’s hands and feet. Then he whispered : 
 
 “ Mount, Doc, and be ready to ride in a minit.” 
 
 The Doctor clambered into the saddle, and Podunk turned 
 again to the prostrate man. 
 
 “ Hark, friend Joe,” he said abruptly, “ you think you’re in 
 a bad boat ; but if you do what I tell you, you’re all right. 
 I’ve rid yer nag an’ played yer part, an’ it’s all square. 
 You’ll find these horses tied to the first post ye come to when ; 
 ye go into town. All you’ve got to do, is to take ’em, an’ go i 
 back ter yer gang, an’ tell ’em that ye left the old man hard j 
 by his own door. And mind, if ye don’t do this, it’ll turn out ! 
 very bad for ye, all ’round. Another thing: don’t try ter 
 foller or come any dodges, or ye’ll turn out wus yet, an’ yer 
 friends won’t have anything ter do but bury ye. I’m going 
 ter cut yer hands loose, and arter I do it, ye must set right 
 here till ye kin count a hundred. Then go ahead, but re- 
 member.” 
 
 He finished this harangue with two quick slashes of his 
 knife, sprang upon his horse, and, seizing the Doctor’s bridle, 
 galloped away. 
 
 “ We’ll tie the nags to the first post,” Podunk said ; and no 
 other word passed between them until the horses were tethered, 
 and then the Doctor said : 
 
 “ Now, my friend, will you tell me what this means?” 
 
 “Come across the street,” said Podunk; “Joe’ll soon be 
 along after his horses.” 
 
 They crossed the street, and stood a little in the rear of 
 Mack’s once more. 
 
 “ Now,” whispered Podunk, “ I’ll tell ye enough to let ye 
 gee how the land lays— we can’t stay here long. I got out of 
 
JPOBUNK UNMASKS. 
 
 20 ? 
 
 one of Mack’s windows when the Regulators was asleep, ’cause 
 I had a little private business that I had been neglectin’, an’ 
 the first thing, I run into that feller they called Bob; an’ he 
 took me, in the dark, for this ere Joe — dy’e see?” 
 
 “ Umph !” grunted the Doctor. “ Come along to my 
 house,” — taking his companion by the arm. “ We can talk 
 over this affair there. What have you got ?” — his hand touch- 
 ing: something; underneath Podunk’s elbow. 
 
 “ Your case, Doc.” 
 
 “ Well, upon my word ! How did you carry it?” 
 
 “Oh, easy; at the pommel. But, Doc, look a here — I’ll 
 be missed at Mack’s purty soon, if I ain’t already.” 
 
 “Confound it,” snapped the Doctor, “ I must have an under- 
 standing with you somehow, before you go on that jury again.’' 
 “ Wal, there needn’t be any trouble about that” replied 
 Podunk serenely. “ Con no! ley thinks I was purty drunk last 
 night. If you jest go around to the saloon door, an’ raise a 
 thunderin’ racket, an’ call Connolley out, an’ tell him you 
 found me ramblin’ round loose an’ took me in, an’ guess you’d 
 better keep me till I sober up an’ then you’ll bring me along 
 to the inquest all right ; an’ if ye touch the Captain tip a lit- 
 tle about his cussed carelessness — I guess it’ll do the busi- 
 ness, eh ?” 
 
 “Umph!” sniffed the Doctor. After a moment’s silence: 
 “I don’t see any other way. And you?” 
 
 “ Oh, I’ll wait right here.” 
 
 \ In a few moments Doctor Mitchell was battering furiously 
 at the door of Mack’s saloon. 
 
 . “ Who’s there ?” called a voice which he recognized as 
 
 Connolley’s. 
 
 “ Doctor Mitchell. Open, Connolley.” 
 
208 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 The door was hurriedly opened, and Connolley and two oar 
 three half-awakened Regulators saw Doctor Mitchell frown- 
 ing upon the threshold. 
 
 “ Where’s that fellow Podunk ?” he asked sharply. 
 
 ‘'Podunk?” Connolley pointed toward tlie inner room. 
 
 “ He’s there, and drunk as a lord.” 
 
 “ Are you sure?” the Doctor asked scornfully. Then 
 changing his tone : “ Don’t trouble yourself to look, Connolley. | 
 I don’t wonder the stage-robbers escape you. Podunk is in ; 
 my care. I suppose he clambered out of some window. As | 
 he seemed too drunk to travel far, I took him, and Pll keep 
 him at my office until the inquest opens. I only called to save J 
 a hullabullo when he came to be missed.” And the Doctor 
 turned and strode away. 
 
 When they were, at last, in his cottage, with the door closed § 
 and securely bolted, Doctor Mitchell lighted a large lamp, and : 
 turning its full glare upon our adventurer, said : 
 
 “ Now, then, you that call yourself Podunk, what the mis- | 
 chief are you ?” 
 
 Podunk took off his old slouch hat and said, without any ■ 
 trace of his former dialect and nasal twang : 
 
 “I’m .a detective, Doctor, and the friend of Van Vernet. 
 My name is Dick Stanhope.” 
 
A COUNCIL OF THREE. 
 
 &ȣ 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A COUNCIL OF THREE. 
 
 WitiA Doctor Mitchell had recovered somewhat from the 
 surprise occasioned by this new development, he became at 
 once hospitable, and practical. 
 
 “Sit down,” he said, “ and make yourself as comfortable as 
 you can. I have some half decent wine, and can scare up some- 
 thing in the way of luncheon. I don’t know how you feel, 
 but I’m hungry.” 
 
 “So am I,” said Podunk. 
 
 In a short time they were seated at the Doctor’s table, one 
 end of which was piled high with books, pamphlets, papers, 
 knives, scissors, pens, bottles, — the usual debris accumulated 
 by a disorderly bachelor — the other end being cleared, for the 
 time, to make room for the Doctor’s bread and cheese and. canned 
 meats. 
 
 « Now, Mr. Stanhope,” said Doctor Mitchell, “ in the name 
 of all that’s wonderful, how came you with that gang to-night? 
 Tell me that first, and the rcet as you please.” 
 
 “ Doctor,” said Stanhope, setting down an empty glass, 
 which his host at once refilled, “ have you any idea wher^jfou 
 have been to-night ?” 
 
 * Not the slightest. But I’m consuofted with a desire to 
 
 know,” 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 m 
 
 “ And I,” said Stanhope, “ am consumed with a desire to 
 know what you saw, and what you did, when you reached that 
 very secret place. Remember, I was left on guard outside and 
 have no idea of what was transpiring 'within.” 
 
 “Well,” said the Doctor, “ my story is not long; you shall 
 have it first. After I was taken off my horse, I was led to 
 a place where we seemed to pass through some sort of 
 opening — ” 
 
 “ A gate.” 
 
 “Was it a gate? Well, next came something that seemed 
 to me like a narrow passage, for my two conductors pressed | 
 close to me, as we went through it, and apparently brushed 
 against a wall on either side. Then came another gate — was 
 it a gate ?” 
 
 “ I think so.” 
 
 “Well, next we went forward a few paces, and then one of 
 my guides said : * Step down three steps/ ” 
 
 “Ah, I thought so!” 
 
 “ Oh, you did ? Well, I stepped down, and I heard a door 
 open; was pushed forward, and knew that I was in some sort 
 of a room. My guides released their hold upon my arms, and 
 I heard whispering near me. Then they began to untie me, 
 and last they took the bandage from my eyes. What do you 
 think I saw?” 
 
 “ I give it up.” 
 
 “ A small room, furnished like a sleeping room, luxuriously 
 furnished, and, standing between me and the bed, six men 
 wearing masks, and long black gowns that entirely concealed 
 their figures. What do you think I did ?” 
 
 “ Said grace ?” 
 
 “ No, sir; I laughed as loud as I could roar. It struck me 
 
 
A COUNCIL OF THREE* 
 
 «s exceedingly droll* I had seen much the same thing on the 
 stage.” 
 
 “ Quite appropriate,” murmured Stanhope* 
 
 “ Eli ?” 
 
 cc Nothing ; go on, Doctor.” 
 
 “ Evidently they were not pleased with my hilarity. They 
 fell back, and then I saw a seventh man stretched upon the 
 bed. He was covered to the waist, but his body, clothed in 
 a grey flannel shirt, was exposed. His face was hidden by a 
 crape mask, like the others, and a silk cap was pulled tight 
 down over his head. A lot of straggling, grizzly whiskers 
 stuck down from under the mask. The spokesman of our 
 party made known to me that this was my patient, and I 
 went straight to business. The fellow had a bullet in his 
 shoulder.” 
 
 Stanhope started, seemed about to speak, then checked him- 
 self and said only, “Go on.” 
 
 “ It was an ugly wound. But I probed and dressed it, and 
 gave directions for further treatment. The fellow must have 
 suffered horribly, but he did not so much as groan. The men 
 never spoke one unnecessary word, and neither did I. I told 
 them the man was in no danger so long as he was properly 
 j| cared for, and politely requested them to escort me back to my 
 cottage. Then one of them thanked me and put fifty dollars 
 into my hand,” — here the Doctor’s eyes twinkled. “ What do 
 : you think I did with it?” 
 
 “ Put it in your pocket, of course.” 
 
 “ Correct ; and here it is.” He took out the money and 
 placed it upon the table. “Well, that’s about all. They 
 - bound and blindfolded me as before, and we went back as we 
 came. Now, where was I ?” 
 
213 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ In a small room directly back of Mack’s Theatre, and in* 
 side Iiis high fence/* 
 
 “No!” 
 
 “ I say yes! Listen/’ 
 
 Stanhope began with his exploration of the Theatre; told 
 of his discovery of the barred windows, the double fence, and 
 the isolated room; described the ruse by which he had con- 
 vinced Connolley of his intoxication and furnished a reason 
 for his absence, should he be missed ; how he afterward dis- 
 posed of old Pop, and made good his exit from the building; 
 relating then, in detail, the story of his adventure with the 
 masked gang, from the moment when he fell into the hands 
 of the fellow, Bob, up to the time when he had been given 
 charge of the Doctor. When all was told they sat silent for 
 some moments, and then the Doctor arose and said : 
 
 “ We might talk till daylight but it is not wise. How much 
 sleep have you had of late?” 
 
 “ About four hours out of forty-eight, I should say/’ 
 
 “ That won’t do. Did you know that your friend Vernet 
 was to meet me here at eight o’clock ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Well, I won’t ask liow you knew, but all this must De told 
 over again for his benefit.” 
 
 “ Of course.” 
 
 “ Now that I have found out where I was, I can wait for 
 the rest. I’m not so much surprised as you may imagine. 
 My bed is at your disposal ; you can get a couple of hours 
 sleep yet, and so can I — I shall lie on this lounge.” 
 
 Stanhope, who knew the wisdom of this proposition, ac- 
 cepted it without demur, and soon all was quiet in the Doctors 
 cottage, and two tired men were fast asleep. 
 
 
 
 
A OOTJNCIL OF THREE. 
 
 213 
 
 Stanhope, who had charged Ids mind with nothing, slept on 
 long after Doctor Mitchell, who had resolved to rise early, 
 and who had not lost so many hours sleep, was awake and 
 
 quietly astir. 
 
 The Doctor made coffee and prepared a bachelor breakfast, 
 and then sat down and smoked an ugly Dutch pipe, pondering 
 all the while and making notes now and then on a slip of 
 paper. Finally he consulted, his watch, and finding that it 
 was half-past seven, he breakfasted without, arousing Stan- 
 hope; and then put the coffee over the little brazen furnace 
 upon which it had been boiled, to keep it hot. While in the 
 act, he heard the approaching footsteps of his visitor and 
 hastened to open the door, lest a knock should wakenStanhope. 
 
 “ Good morning, Doctor,” said Vernet, with his usual 
 easy courtesy. “ You see I am punctual.” 
 
 His host put up a warning finger. 
 
 “ Speak low,” he said softly, “ and come in.” Then when 
 Vernet was in the room, he closed the door and added, “ Now 
 come and see whom Fve got here.” 
 
 He pushed open the door of his small bed room and beckoned, 
 Vernet forward, the latter exclaiming, after one glance, “ Why, 
 it’s that fellow Podunk!” 
 
 “ Umph!” said the Doctor. And then, when he had closed 
 the door: “Just as you like, young man; Podunk or Stanhope.” 
 
 “ Oh! so you’ve found him out?” 
 
 “Not 1 5 he introduced himself. Sit down, Vernet, and 
 I’ll tell you all about it.” 
 
 “Well,” said Vernet, when the adventures of the night had 
 been recounted, “ Dick Stanhope is the luckiest fellow alive. 
 He always comes out right side up.” 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 £14 
 
 “I can believe you. But now Pm burning to know what 
 brought this same Stanhope to Caledonia, and how he came v 
 to be figuring as a miner.” 
 
 “That I may as well tell you. I sent for Dick; and a 1 
 certain Mr. Follingsbee ; whom you may have heard named ^ 
 before — ” 
 
 “ Why, that’s Miss Wray’s friend — the lawyer !” 
 
 “Precisely. Well, this Mr. Follingsbee, learning that 
 Dick was coming West, persuaded him to act as escort to ayoung 
 lady.” 
 
 ' “Oh!” 
 
 “ He accepted the proposition, for Dick, although he pre- 
 tends to be bashful, is rather fond of the ladies.” 
 
 “ And the ladies fond of him, I’ll be sworn.” 
 
 “Well, perhaps, for Dick’s a good-looking fellow when he’s 
 himself. It happened, however, that just at this point, and 
 before he had been presented to his fair traveling companion, 
 he received a letter from me advising him to conceal his iden- 
 tity. This disarranged his plans, and the result was that Miss 
 Wray came to Caledonia escorted by an elderly person, who 
 forgot to tell his name, instead of by Mr. Richard Stanhope.” 
 
 “ And Stanhope ?” 
 
 “ Well,” with a broad smile, “he came at about the same 
 time.” 
 
 “ Look here, Vernet,” said the Doctor eagerly, “ do you 
 mean to say — is it possible that that stranger — that missing 
 stranger— was Stanhope ?” 
 
 “ Ask him, Doctor;” answered Vernet, still smiling, “he’ll 
 tell you.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said a voice directly behind them, “ I’ll tell any- 
 thing that Y ernet has left me to tell.” 
 
 i 
 
A COUNCIL OF THREE, 
 
 215 
 
 "Why; Dick ,” cried Vernet, springing up and seizing his 
 friends hand, “ did we wake you?” 
 
 “ No,” answered Stanhope. “ I dreamed that some one 
 fired on me from the top of a stage coach, and hit me in the 
 shoulder; that the Doctor, here, dressed the wound, and that 
 he wanted to find out if my whiskers were false, and pulled 
 them so hard that I woke.” 
 
 “ Umph !” grunted the Doctor, “ I wish you had given me 
 that hint last night.” 
 
 “Why?” asked Stanhope, as he exchanged glances with 
 V ernet. 
 
 “Because I would have tried it. I believe that wounded 
 fellow did wear a false beard.” 
 
 “ It’s very probable,” said Vernet. 
 
 The Doctor then hastened to place the coffee upon the table, 
 and served Stanhope with a comfortable breakfast—the three 
 keeping the conversation moving, and the Doctor persistently 
 questioning, until he heard all the story of Stanhope’s adven- 
 tures since his arrival in Caledonia. — 
 
 “ And you were actually under that bed all the time?” 
 queried the Doctor, in surprise. “You heard all that was 
 said by Mack, and Connolley, and all of us ?” 
 
 “Every word. I heard you say- — ” with an affectation of 
 offended dignity — “ that I couldn’t reason from cause to effect; 
 that I couldn’t put two and two together.” 
 
 “ I’ll take it back. I did suspect you at first, but you fooled 
 me completely. Have you done? Then let’s talk business. 
 We have a good many points to settle.” 
 
 “ All right,” said Stanhope, pushing back his chair. “Van, 
 I haven’t seen a good cigar since I landed.’ 
 
 Vernet took the hint, and proffered his cigar case. 
 
216 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ To begin,” said Doctor Mitchell, “Mr. Vernet, what do 
 you think of last night’s business ?” 
 
 “ I hardly know. Do the Regulators ever do things in 
 
 this style ?” 
 
 “ Never ; and between you and me, they don’t see real ser- 
 vice enough to get a shot in the shoulder.” 
 
 “I don’t mean that, exactly. Is it not possible that one 
 of them may have engaged in some affray, more or less disre- 
 putable, and that Mack, who seems to be a sort of patron saint 
 over them, has taken this melodramatic way to help him out.” 
 “No; it is not likely.” 
 
 “ Well, frankly, I don’t think it is, myself. Bat, Doctor, 
 have you no theory?” 
 
 “ I had not thought of it before, I confess, but this young 
 man, Podunk, has made a shrewd suggestion. May it not 
 have been the robber that you shot the night before last ?” 
 Vernet lifted his eyebrows. “ At Mack’s?” he said. 
 
 “ Umph ! you know what I think of Mack, don’t you ?” 
 
 “ You don’t like him, and you suspect him. Anything 
 more ?” 
 
 “Umph!” was the Doctor’s only response. 
 
 “Doctor,” broke in Stanhope, “how long will it be, at 
 (the shortest, before that fellow will be able to leave Mack’s 
 suburban villa ?” 
 
 “ A week.” 
 
 “ Well, then, as no great harm was done to either of us, and 
 as good may come of it, suppose we just drop this business un- 
 til Vernet and I make some investigations ?” 
 
 “ Oh, you want to drop me out of th$ affair, do you, Mr. 
 Defective?” 
 
 
A COUNCIL OF THREE. 
 
 217 
 
 “Tell us your idea, Dick,” interrupted Vernet, who de- 
 lighted in making his friend show himself at his best. 
 
 “ Why, it’s simple enough. The first thing would be to find 
 if some one has been hurt in any saloon fight, or any thing of 
 that sort. If we find that no such affair has happened — by 
 the way, Doctor, how old was that wound ?” 
 
 The Doctor started, and rested an approving eye upon the 
 - questioner. 
 
 “ By Jove, you are a practical fellow,” he exclaimed. “ The 
 wound — I didn’t? think much of it before — was all of twenty 
 hours old.” 
 
 “ Oh !” said Stanhope, and again exchanged glances with 
 Yernet. “ Now, don’t you see, we have a week in which to 
 find out whether this man is the fellow that Yernet shot, or 
 some one else who has a reason for keeping shady. Within 
 that week, too, we may be able to locate Mack. It’s plain 
 that he’s no friend to doctors, and it’s equally plain that he 
 has great influence among the Caledonians. If Mack is re- 
 solved to persecute Dalton, and it looks as if he meant mis* 
 chief, we’ve got to get a grip on him somewhere, and I think, 
 between us, we’ve made a good beginning. Dalton’s affairs 
 demand our first attention, and a good deal of it. I should 
 like to know what you think of his case, Doctor.” 
 
 “ W ell, I’ll tell you,” said the Doctor grimly. “ Of course 
 you must see that this inquest business is a mere farce, a form, 
 but one that Caledonians think much of. They’ve made up 
 their minds beforehand that Dalton’s guilty. They fully ex- 
 pect and intend that a verdict of guilty shall be rendered.” 
 
 “You say 'thqy’, Doctor,” broke in Yernet. 
 who-—” 
 
 u They/ 9 interrupted tl& Doctor in his tu$i # “ iggam ; the 
 
218 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 majority — the men who are led by Mack and others like him j 
 the birds of a feather who help to make the town the Pan- 
 demonium it is. In a civilized community, the business men, 
 the butchers and bakers and merchants and mechanics, would 
 have a vote and an interest in seeing affairs of justice rightly 
 conducted. Here the business men come to make money, and 
 these lawless characters are their best sustainers. A mail who 
 offends this crowd can’t do business here long; so they keep 
 out of the way, and the town is run by hoodlums.” 
 
 “Well,” said Vernet, “what follows?” 
 
 “ This follows : If that jury brings a verdict of guilty against 
 Philip Dalton to-night, he’ll be in the hands of the lynchers 
 before morning.” 
 
 “ Then they must not bring in such a verdict,” said Vernet 
 firmly. 
 
 “ Ah ! I wish it could be prevented.” 
 
 “ It shall be prevented,” declared Stanhope. 
 
 “ But how ? And by whom?” 
 
 “By us; all three — you, Doctor, principally.” 
 
 “ Do you see a chance, a possibility ? Can anything be 
 brought forward to counterbalance all this circumstantial 
 evidence ?” 
 
 Stanhope jerked his chair near the two men opposite him, 
 and lifted a finger to emphasize his words. 
 
 “ We’ve got to sink the detective for a little while, and turn 
 lawyer. If we can’t convince my honorable constituents that 
 Dalton is innocent, we must place the evidence in such a light 
 that they can’t consistently declare him guilty.” 
 
 “Umph!” grunted the Doctor, “that is lawyer’s work.” 
 “ I wonder,” said Veniet meaningly, “ if any of these jury* 
 mm m be bought.” 
 
219 
 
 MOUNTAIN MAG’S “CONTEMPT OF COURT.” 
 
 “ Oh !” cried Stanhope, with an encouraging nod, “ you'll 
 pass for a lawyer, Van; nothing amateurish about that! 
 Now, we have only an hour to arrange our batteries. Doc- 
 tor, are you going to put that fellow Monckton on the 
 stand ?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ And Cool Hank ?’ 
 
 “ He can’t be found.” 
 
 “Good; I hope he can’t. Now, gentlemen, listen to my 
 plan for the defense.” 
 
 And they did listen — asking cpiestions, making suggestions, 
 taking notes by the way. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MOUNTAIN MAG’S “CONTEMPT OF COURT.” 
 
 A little before the time appointed for the reopening of the 
 inquest, Doctor Mitchell appeared at Mack’s, grim and taci- 
 turn, and with him came Podunk, the latter presenting a faith- 
 ful picture of a man just recovering from an all-night 
 spree. 
 
 “ Well, sir,” began Connolley with a frown, “ I’d like to 
 know what you mean — ” 
 
 Rut the Doctor broke in with scant ceremony. 
 
 “ Don’t bully the fellow, Connolley ; he’s not more than 
 
220 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 half sobered yet. Besides, I’ve talked at him enough, trying 
 to learn how he got out of the place.” 
 
 “ Oh, that’s easy told,” said the Regulator. “ I found 
 old Pop’s window, the one in the lumber room where he sleeps, 
 wide open, and Pop drunk as a lord. Of course, Mr. Podunk i 
 got out there- — didn’t von, eh?” 
 
 Podunk, wlio had listened to the Regulator’s remarks as if 
 they concerned some very reprehensible person in whom he » 
 was not interested, winked, and grinned, and shuffled away. 
 
 “ What had the old man to say about it?” asked the Doctor, 
 who knew that Stanhope did not wish to get Pop into trouble. 
 
 “ He ? Oh, he was too drunk to say anything. If lie hadn’t i 
 been drunk, the chap never’d a got past him, and out o’ that 
 window, without waking him.” 
 
 ic Umpli !” sniffed the Doctor, who found this single ejacula- 
 tion very useful. Then he turned away, satisfied fliat Pop had 1 
 reduced himself to a condition of irresponsibility by freely f 
 absorbing the contents of Podunk’s re-filled bottle, precisely 
 as that genius had expected him to do. 
 
 The body of Selwyn had been removed to Mack’s office, and 
 there prepared for burial. The jury were all iu their places, 
 and the Regulators in theirs. And before the Coroner opened ;! 
 the examination, most of the witnesses had arrived. Among 
 them were two who had not before appeared — the first being | 
 the man Monckton ; and the second a small, thin man, with 
 pale face, piercing black eyes, and dressed like a priest. 
 
 Philip *Dal ton came early and alone; quiet and pale, but 
 perfectly self-possessed. Aileen Lome also came alone, walk- | 
 ing with quick, elastic step, head erect, and closely veiled. '4 
 But “ Rosabella Saint Leger” had found friends; she came i 
 fluttering in with Florine and Aubrey, Kit Duncan and Tony | 
 
222 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Rowe— the whole party wearing the air of visitors at a fair ©r 
 museum. 
 
 Van Vernet was among the last to arrive, and he escorted 
 Miss Wray and Mountain Mag. 
 
 Doctor Mitchell — who was outwardly severe of aspect, and 
 within, as the result of his conference with the two detectives, 
 tolerably confident — was about to resume his official dignity, 
 when Connolley pulled his sleeve. 
 
 “What now, Connolley?” he asked impatiently. “ It’s time 
 to begin.” 
 
 “I know it, Doctor,” — Connolley was not so assured as 
 usual ; he had pondered much, during the night, upon the 
 Doctor’s words, and the result was a feeling of uncertainty 
 and uneasiness. “But the fact is, Mack and some others have 
 been talking, and they wanted me to tell ye that ye ought, in 
 all fairness, to look into this jealousy business.” 
 
 “Jealousy, eh ? And where am I to look?” 
 
 “ Well, they say that the cause of the quarrel atween Selwyn 
 and Dalton was jealousy about Aileen Lome ; an’ that it was 
 because Selwyn was coming in ahead that Dalton fired on him. 
 An’ they want you to question the gal, an’ get the truth out 
 of her.” 
 
 “ Umph ! Look here, Connolley, did Mack tell you to 
 come and say this?” 
 
 Connolley dropped his eyes. “ Yes ; Mack an’ the others.” 
 “ What others ?” 
 
 'Connolley looked up and brightened perceptibly. “ Wal, 
 sir, one or two of my Regulators are among the others.” 
 
 Out came the Doctor’s note-book. 
 
 “ Name them,” he said sharply. 
 u Why, I don’t see ai\y need—” 
 
MOUNTAIN MAG’S “CONTRMRT OF COURT.” 223 
 
 “ Don’t argue ! If I put Miss Lome on the stand, I must 
 know upon whose authority; name your men.” 
 
 “ Why, Pete Finlayson was one*” 
 
 Down went the name of Pete Finlayson, 
 
 “ And Hedley.” 
 
 “ Oh, Hedley ! Any more?” 
 
 "N— No.” 
 
 “ Except yourself — eh, Connolley?” said the Doctor, slap- 
 fng shut his note-book. 
 
 The Doctor was troubled. It was no part of his programme 
 to put Aileen Lome forward again as a witness. But he knew 
 that all reasonable demands must be complied with, and could 
 give no satisfactory excuse for not recalling Miss Lome. He 
 knew that this was not, and could not be, a fair and impartial 
 investigation. To attempt to make it such would be simply 
 to hand Dalton over to his murderers. It was merely an 
 effort, on the part of Dalton’s friends, to save, and on the part 
 of his enemies, to sacrifice him. The legal aspect of the case, 
 like the legal aspect of many a similar one in more civilized 
 communities, was very sinister and vague. 
 
 Finally the Doctor took his resolution, and acted upon it 
 boldly, or as Stanhope would have said, “ in his character of 
 lawyer.” He crossed the room and approached Miss Wray, 
 wishing her good morning, and adding some appropriate com- 
 monplace in an audible voice, to which Miss Wray responded 
 in her usual low, soft tones. Then he turned to Mountain 
 Mag: 
 
 “Good morning, Miss Margaret; are you getting tired of 
 this business ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” pronounced she; “I am.” 
 
 The Doctor moved on a pace or two, and seemed for the 
 
224 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 first time to see Aileen Lorne ; who sat, as usual, a little aloof 
 from the rest. 
 
 “Ah, good morning, Miss Lome.” Then bending toward 
 her, and lowering his voice: “I am expected to cpiestion you ' 
 concerning your relations with Dalton; they are trying to | 
 make jealousy his motive. I — I hope you have no damaging | 
 evidence to give.” These last words in a still lower tone, and 
 emphasized by a quick and meaning glance. 
 
 She started and caught her breath. Then: “ Must I be | 
 questioned ?” she asked. 
 
 “I’m sorry; but it can’t be avoided.” 
 
 “Very well,” she said, in a low, firm tone; “I shall be ^ 
 ready.” 
 
 He shot another glance at the veiled face, and went back ■* 
 to his place; and in a moment the business of the day was re- 
 sumed. 
 
 The Doctor, or now the Coroner, began uniquely, with a 
 neat little speech, in which he ran over briefly the evidence | 
 presented on the day before, pronounced an anathema upon all 
 murderers, and ended by a fine little eulogium to those three M 
 sisters, Law, Order, and Justice. lie said that he desired to 
 prosecute the investigation without fear or favor, and to fasten , 
 the guilt where it belonged, let the stigma fall where it would. 
 
 It was a masterly effort, and the hearts of his listeners went - 
 out to him. 
 
 “ That’s, the kind o’ talk,” whispered one burly fellow to | 
 another. cc He’s jest Lttin’ that fellow Dalton know what he * 
 may expect, in mighty plain terms.” 
 
 “ Yes, sir,” replied his comrade; iC he don’t care no more 
 for Dalton than he would for a common miner.” 
 
 “ <3 ohn Monckton,” called the Coroner. 
 
225 
 
 MOUNTAIN MAG’s “CONTEMPT OF COURT. ^ 
 
 Monckton, dark and gloomy, rose and came forward. He 
 was an unprepossessing fellow, with a dogged manner and 
 touching gait. 
 
 “Monckton, where were you on the night of the murder?” 
 From the start which the man gave, it was evident that he 
 was prepared to answer a different sort of first question. But 
 he recovered himself quickly, and said: 
 
 “ At Daly’s, all night.” 
 
 “ At what hour did you go to Daly’s ?” 
 
 “ Early; at ten o’clock or thereabouts.” 
 
 “ At what hour did you leave Daly’s ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know, just — it must have been after four.” 
 
 “ How came you to leave at that time ?” 
 
 The witness hesitated, and involuntarily turned his eyes to- 
 ward Mountain Mag. The Coroner repeated his question. 
 
 “ I was called out,” said Monckton sullenly. 
 
 “ By whom ?” 
 
 Again Monckton hesitated, but finally answered : “ By a 
 man ” 
 
 “ Of what name ?” 
 
 “ I — I don’t know.” 
 
 “ Don’t know the name of the man who called you out ?” 
 “ I don’t remember. He wanted to see me about a horse — ” 
 “Stop,” said the Coroner sharply. Then raising his voice 
 he called, “ Connolley !” 
 
 “Here,” answered the Regulator. 
 
 “ Go over to Daly’s, and bring his doorkeeper here. I want 
 to refresh Mr. Monckton’s memory.” Then resuming his 
 questioning: “ What did this man say to you about a horse?” 
 - Monckton was silent, but just here there was a little stir and 
 turning of heads. Mountain Mag was upon her feet. 
 
A novm^m uv&tti&v. 
 
 
 “ Doctor/* she said, as the Coroner turned toward her a 
 glance of well simulated surprise, “ I wish you would put me 
 
 in Monckton’s place.” 
 
 “ Presently, Margaret, presently.” 
 
 Mountain Mag turned her eyes upon her ranchman. 
 “Monck,” she said sharply, “ answer Doctor Mitchell truly.” 
 The Doctor ^vas silent a moment, and then Ike said: 
 
 “ I think you had better try to remember the name of the 
 man who called you out of Daly’s, Monckton.” 
 
 “ It was— Daly’s doorkeeper, then,” said Monckton sullenly 
 “ And he said — what?”- 
 “ He said that a lady wanted to see me.” 
 
 “Who was the lady?” 
 
 “Mountain Mag.” 
 
 “Now, will you relate, as nearly as possible, just what was 
 said by Margaret Drood and yourself?” 
 
 Again Monckton hesitated and looked toward Mountain 
 Mag, who nodded her head and frowned. 
 
 “I can’t remember just what we said,” he began, “but Mag 
 asked if I had seen Cool Hank Dutton; and I said no. And 
 she asked me to go look for him, and I went. I didn’t find 
 him.” 
 
 “And did you report your failure to Mag?” 
 
 “Yes; Mag was riding her horse, and she told me to meet 
 her at the foot of the stairs and report, and so I did.” 
 
 “Was this all the conversation that passed between you?” 
 “ Pretty much. Mag did say, though, that Selwyn had 
 been shot.” 
 
 “ Did she send you away with her horse ?” 
 
 “Yes; she told me to stable Nick, and see that he had good 
 
 
 
 
227 
 
 MOIHSTAIN MA Q ? S “ CONTEMPT OF COURT.” 
 
 “ When did you see Margaret Drood again after leaving 
 with the horse ?” 
 
 “ I saw her before the beginning of the inquest. She was 
 coming here, and we met at a corner by accident.” 
 
 “ What did she say to you then ?” 
 
 Monckton lifted hishead and an angry flush mantled his cheek. 
 “ She told me then to take her horse and ride to the ranch, 
 and if Cool Hank was there, to tell him the news.*” 
 
 “ Did you do this ?” 
 
 “ No; I stayed in town.” 
 
 “And got drunk?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ Did you have any object in going to an out-of-the-way 
 place like Rooney’s, other than that of getting drunk ?” 
 
 “ N— no.” 
 
 “Wait; did not Mag say something to you, give you some 
 hint, that you took, and purposely kept out of the way— away 
 from this inquest ?” 
 
 “ Well, as Mag says ‘ go on,’ I may say that she did tell me 
 she’d rather I wouldn’t come here.” 
 
 “ Are you on friendly terms with Cool Hank Dutton ?” 
 
 “ We ain’t never quarreled.” 
 
 “When did you see him last?” 
 
 “ I saw him day before yesterday. We rode out to the 
 ranch together.” 
 
 “ Did he then, or at any other time, talk to you of Selwyn ?” 
 “ He spoke of him that day.” 
 
 “ What did he say ?” 
 
 “ Well, he had just been talking with Selwyn, I guess, and 
 was a little sore about something.” 
 
 H What did he say ?” 
 
228 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “Well, lie cursed him up hill and down; and swore he'd 
 get even before twenty-four hours. I asked what was the row 
 between him and Selwyn ; and then he told me to mind my 
 business.” 
 
 “ Did you repeat what he said to Miss Drood ?” 
 
 “ No; there wasn’t any need. He had a long talk with 
 Mag, and I dare say he let out some of his mad.” 
 
 “ How long did Cool Hank remain at the ranch ?” 
 
 “ He went away after dark.” 
 
 “ That’s all, Monckton.” 
 
 When Monckton had resumed his seat near the outer room, 
 the Coroner said : 
 
 “Now, Miss Drood.” 
 
 Mountain Mag arose and came forward very quietly. 
 
 “ Margaret,” said th^ Coroner gently, “ why, in giving your 
 evidence, did you omit to mention that it was Cool Hank, and 
 not Monckton, you were in search of night before last?” 
 
 Mag drew herself up, and looked fixedly at her questioner. 
 “ Doctor Mitchell,” she said firmly, “ all that Monckton has 
 just said is true. I admit that, to do him justice. But I will 
 not answer your question, or any question that concerns Hank 
 Dutton — not one.” 
 
 And Mountain Mag turned on her heel and Avent back to 
 ner place. 
 
 
 
229 
 
 " A CLOUD OF WITNESSES*” 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 “ A CLOUD OF WITNESSES.” 
 
 As Mountain Mag resumed her seat, audience and jury 
 looked their amazement. But the Coroner seemed in no wise 
 disturbed; instead, he turned tr. the jury with a smile upon 
 his face. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” he said, “ I ask you to give special attention to 
 the fact that Miss Drood declines to talk. In some countries, 
 where there is more civilisation and less courtesy, a witness 
 who refused to testify WOuld be imprisoned, fined, severely 
 reprimanded for such a bourse. Instead, as we cannot get the 
 information we seek from Miss Drood, we will look for it 
 elsewhere. Father Miles is a truthful man, and an obliging 
 man ; let us question him. Father Miles, will you come for- 
 ward ?” 
 
 Thus exhorted, the pale, dark-eyed man in the priestly gar- 
 ments arose and came slowly toward the Coroner. 
 
 “Will yen I sit, Father Miles?” 
 
 “ Thank you, no, Doctor Mitchell. I will stand, as the 
 others do,” 
 
 Fatbrr Miles, like Doctor Mitchell was one of the institu- 
 tions of Caledonia. How he, a priest, came to take up his 
 residence there, and alone, or why he came, Caledonia did not 
 know. But there he was, and had been since the town num- 
 bered only half a dozen houses, living in a sod house, or 
 
 iug-out,” so far from the town proper that it would have 
 
230 
 
 jl MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 been an unsafe residence for almost any one else. But Father % 
 Miles feared no man; Lad nothing to lose, and was hospitable * 
 to the humblest wayfarer. He was the gentlest of-tmrses, i 
 and often ministered to the sick and unfriended. He and 
 Doctor Mitchell frequently met beside the cot of some sick or * 
 injured man, and the two strangely reticent and isolated men had 
 conceived for each other very kindly feelings, and a profound 
 respect. Unlike the good Doctor, who went wherever fancy 
 led him, Father Miles shunned all public places, and held 
 himself aloof, except when his good offices were required to 
 visit the sick, comfort the afflicted, or bury the dead. To see 
 Father Miles at Mack’s, therefore, and in the character of a 
 witness, was a surprise to many. 
 
 “ Father Miles,” began the Coroner, with marked courtesy, 
 
 “ it has come to my knowledge — it is not necessary to explain j 
 how — that you know something about a quarrel which oc- | 
 curred between Mr. Selwyn and Cool Hank Dutton, two days ; 
 or thereabouts before Selwyn met his death.” 
 
 Father Miles bowed a grave assent. 
 
 “Will you tell us about it, in your own way?” 
 
 The priest bowed again, and began. 
 
 “ It was four days ago,” he said, “ and as eariy as seven 
 o’clock in the morning. I had walked away from my hut, 
 and was in search of medical herbs that grow in moist and 
 shady places. I had reached the timber to the westward, and 
 was kneeling among the underbrush just at its edge, trying to | 
 loosen the earth about some roots, when I heard a splashing 1 
 in the little stream that flows through the timber to the south- 
 east. Thinking it some roving animal, I stopped my work to y 
 listen. At that moment I heard voices, and a name pro- j 
 uounced. It was the name of Mar road uke Selwyn, and as I 
 
 
231 
 
 “A CLOUD OF WITNESSES.” 
 
 did not wish to meet this man, I remained where I was, per- 
 fectly concealed by the underbrush about me/* 
 
 “ One moment. Father Miles,” broke in the Coroner. “Lest 
 we should be in any wise misunderstood, will you not tell just 
 why you did not wish to meet Marmaduke Selwyn ?” 
 
 “ There was no enmity between us,” said the priest slowly, 
 “ but I know that he held in light esteem things that I deem 
 sacred. On one or two occasions when we have met, he has 
 interrogated me in his keen, worldly-wise fashion, and neither 
 of us have derived any benefit from the discussions that arose. 
 He seemed to regard me, or my position and profession, as 
 something anomalous. I was, to him, just as interesting as 
 would have been an odd thing in literature, or a grotesque in 
 art. I recognized this, and sought to avoid him.” 
 
 “ You say that you heard his name spoken by some one— 
 did you recognize the speaker, or the voice?” 
 
 “ I could not, at first, see the speaker, and the voice was so 
 changed and made harsh by some strong emotion, that I did 
 not know it, although I have heard it often.” 
 
 “ And who was this person ?” 
 
 “ They came close to me and stopped their horses, as if about 
 to separate there and go their different ways, which, at last, 
 they did. Then I saw them plainly. They were Marmaduke 
 Selwyn and the young man you call Cool Hank Dutton.” 
 
 “ Will you relate what you heard ?” 
 
 “ It was not much, for when I found that they were really 
 in anger, I tried not to listen. Cool Hank was remonstrating 
 against some course, which he stigmatized as ‘ low/ ‘ beneath 
 the baseness of a common pirate/ i meaner business than he 
 had bargained for/ and similar phrases. He seemed to be 
 urging some point, and insisted more than once that it should 
 
232 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 be done quickly; * to-night/ lie said. And when Selwyn de^ 
 dared it to be impossible, lie exclaimed: ‘ Then it shall be 1 
 done to-morrow night; not an hour later •!’ Ajl of his words 
 were demanding, or threatening, and all Selwyn’s seemed in- 1 
 tended to mollify him, instead of which, he appeared to grow , 
 more and more enraged. Selwyn’s horse was restless, and 
 carried him some fiw paces beyond, and I did not hear, some- 
 thing that he said ; to which the other answered fiercely and 
 in a loud tone: ‘ I’ll never touch a dollar of it, and’ — here he 
 uttered an oath — c neither shall you !’ Then I heard Selwyn 
 say: * It’s useless to keep up this argument, Hank; wait till 
 to-morrow night, and then, perhaps — ’ Here Hank broke in: 
 c No perhaps for me ! If you fail me, or try any dodging to- j 
 morrow night, it’ll be the worse for you ; and you and I’ll 
 settle it between us.’ Then he wheeled his horse and rode 
 away to the southward, while Selwyn came toward town.” 
 
 “ And no word was dropped which could help you to under- 
 stand the meaning or cause of this quarrel ?” asked the Coroner. 
 
 “ I could understand no more than I have told, sir.” 
 
 “ But you heard enough to assure you that there was trouble 
 between the two ? that Cool Hank was bitterly angry ?” 
 
 “ Surely. There could be no doubt on that point.” 
 
 “You have said that you knew Selwyn. Did you know 
 Cool Hank also ?” 
 
 “ Very well.” 
 
 “ And you did not like him ?” 
 
 “ On the contrary, I was strongly attracted toward him. I 
 could not approve of all that he did, but there were admirable 
 qualities in the man. If I had entertained the slightest feel- 
 ing of antagonism against Cool Hank Dutton, I should hardly 
 have dared stand here and say what I have said. Right should 
 
233 
 
 "A CLOUD OF WITNESSES.” 
 
 prevail, and the innocent must not suffer for the guilty; but 
 I have to-day testified reluctantly, and only from a severe 
 sense of duty.” 
 
 Father Miles sat down in the midst of absolute silence. The 
 most reckless man there never once thought of doubting or dis- 
 puting his evidence. But the enemies of Dalton, and those 
 who had condemned him beforehand, were possessed by a 
 growing uncertainty, while Hope whispered in the hearts of 
 his friends. 
 
 But if Doctor Mitchell felt triumphant, it was not manifest 
 in his face, which grew more austere' as he proceeded. 
 
 “We will now,” he said, “examine all those who can tell 
 us anything concerning the whereabouts of Cool Hank, from 
 the time when he separated from Selwyn at the edge of the 
 timber, as described by Father Miles, to the time when he was 
 last seen.” 
 
 He then called a number of witnesses, some of whom knew 
 little, and some nothing, concerning the movements of Cool 
 Hank — after which he again addressed the jury. 
 
 “Just here I ask you to note, gentlemen of the jury, that 
 all our efforts to trace the whereabouts of Cool Hank Dutton, 
 from the tir^e when he rode away from Margaret Drood’s ranch, 
 have failed. No one can be found who has seen him since the 
 night on which Duke Selwyn was shot. Father Miles saw 
 him in conversation with Selwyn the day before the murder. 
 A witness has just told us that he saw him, again in conversa- 
 tion with Selwyn, at a street corner, on the morning of the 
 next day — the day of the murder. Later, on that same day, 
 Hank rode out of town with John Monckton. After that, on 
 the eve of the murder , we lose all trace of him. Gentlemen, I 
 ask you to remember these things.” 
 
2S4 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MY8TEKY. 
 
 He turned slowly then, and fixing his eyes upon Aileen 
 Lome, said, in a voice of uncompromising severity : 
 
 "Miss Lome, I must trouble you to answer a few more 
 questions/' 
 
 Aileen arose slowly and approached the place of inquisition. 
 When she was opposite the Coroner, she put up a hand, as 
 small and as daintily gloved as was the hand of Miss Wray, 
 and removed the thick veil that had concealed her face. She 
 did not glance at the audience, or her companion witnesses, but 
 fixed her fine eyes full upon the face of the Coroner, and kept 
 them there with a look of haughty inquiry. 
 
 " Will you sit, Miss Lome?” 
 
 Aileen threw back her head and answered, as the priest had 
 done : 
 
 a Thank you ; no.” 
 
 €c Miss Lome, it becomes my painful duty to put to you 
 some questions of a personal nature. It is an unpleasant ne- 
 cessity, but-unavoidable. I trust that you will answer these, 
 r* I ask them, in the name of justice and as a duty.” 
 
 The Coroner looked severe. Miss Lome simply bowed. 
 
 " To begin then, you are acquainted with Philip Dalton ?” 
 
 "Certainly,” replied the lady coldly. 
 
 * " You know him well?” 
 
 "I know him as well as I know any other gentleman whom 
 I have met, more or less, for a period of two or three months.” 
 For a moment her eyes turned and rested upon the face of 
 Philip Dalton, with a light that was almost defiant in them, 
 as if she said through them : "You hear me — say otherwise 
 if you dare !” 
 
 " What I wish to understand is, did you look upon him as 
 ^ friend ?' f 
 
 "No.” : I 
 
235 
 
 "A CLOUD OF WITNESSES*** 
 
 As she made this answer, Vernet saw Dalton start and a 
 look of pain steal into his eyes. 
 
 “Did you then feel toward him as a friend?” 
 
 Again, prompt and clear, came the single word : “ No.” 
 The Coroner seemed to hesitate, and then resumed the at- 
 tack. 
 
 “You were much sought, much admired, it is said, by both 
 Mr. Selwyn and Mr. Dalton. Now which stood foremost in 
 your regard ?” 
 
 Aileen drew herself up, and a pink flush dyed her pale face. 
 “ Doctor Mitchell,” she said, “ are these questions necessary ?” 
 “Yes; otherwise I should not ask them.” 
 
 “Then I will answer that if asked^ to say which of the two 
 I believed best worthy of my friendship, or the friendship of 
 any one, and whose friendship I would prefer, I would choose 
 — Philip Dalton.” 
 
 The watchful Vernet saw Dalton’s eyes light up, and a flush 
 rise to his cheek. 
 
 “ Then there is no foundation for the story that there was 
 jealousy between these two ? that their quarrel concerned you?” 
 “By ‘ these two’ do you mean Mr. Dalton and Mr. 
 Selwyn?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “ I know nothing of their quarrel, or its cause. That I 
 could have been in any way concerned in it, is absurd. There 
 could have been no reason for it.” 
 
 “You say that your preference is for Mr. Dalton, and yet 
 it was Selwyn who was your escort that night, after the 
 quarrel ?” 
 
 A faint smile broke over Aileen’s face. 
 
 " Preference is not the word, sir, I see that I must speak 
 
236 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 plainer, and, since it is in defense of the gentleman whom 
 gossip has attempted to injure through me, I will. I liked 
 Mr. Dalton; I did not like Mr. Selwyn. For the rest, Mr. 
 Selwyn was my escort, because he proffered his services — Mr. 
 Dalton did not .” 
 
 “Miss Lome, I dislike to further urge this point, but there 
 are those who insist. Do you positively assert that there was 
 no reason known to you why these two men should quarrel ?f 
 
 “ I do.” Iler words were delivered with an emphasis 
 that seemed to carry conviction, for, with a change of voice 
 that was almost ludicrous in its sudden drop from unsparing 
 inquiry to professional routine, the Coroner said : 
 
 “That is all, Miss Lome.” 
 
 The two pistols, one still mud-encrusted and empty, the 
 other loaded as when found beneath Dalton’s pillow, were 
 now produced; and the finding of the first in the cellar, not 
 far from the place where the body had lain, was substantiated 
 by “ a cloud of witnesses.” They had all seen the pistol be- 
 fore — at the cellar. It was Connolley himself who picked it 
 out of the mud. Then the second pistol was identified by the 
 two Regulators who had been sent to search Dalton’s room. 
 They told the same story. They had been sent shortly after 
 the opening of the inquest, and while Dalton was in attendance 
 there, to search his room. It was Connolley who had sent 
 them, but they both recollected that he had said it was Mack 
 who had suggested the exploit. They had found the pistol 
 under one of the pillows. 
 
 Had the bed been occupied? Yes; it had evidently been 
 slept in ; it was still in disorder. No ; they had taken noth- 
 ing else from the room, and noticed nothing else that looked 
 in any way suspicious. Plow had they found the way to 
 
 
237 
 
 “ A CLOUT) OF WITNESSES.” 
 
 Dalton’s room? They had met one of the chambermaids h 
 the hall, and she had directed them. The door was not 
 
 locked. 
 
 The two Regulators were dismissed with scant ceremony* 
 and Billy Piper was called. 
 
 “ Piper/’ said the Coroner, “I believe it was you who was 
 sent after Mr. Dalton yesterday?” 
 
 “ Yes, sir.” 
 
 “ At what hour ?” 
 
 “ Oh. I can’t say exactly ; somewhere in the neighborhood 
 of four o’clock.” 
 
 “ Did you go in person tq Dalton’s room ?” 
 
 “ I went up with Potter, the night clerk.” 
 
 “ Did you ask Potter to show' you the way ?” 
 
 “ He ; I asked for Dalton’s number. Potter thought a 
 moment, and then said ; ‘ Oh, yes ; Dalton’s been changed. 
 I’ll show you up.’ Then he took a lamp and went ahead to 
 the room. We knocked and got no answer. Then we called, 
 and then tried the door. Finally, Potter muttered something 
 about its being queer, and got a duplicate key, and it unlocked 
 the door. Yv T e went in. The room was dark, but Potter’s 
 lamp showed us that there was no one there.” 
 
 “Did you look about the room ? was it in good order?” 
 “Yes; it seemed quite orderly.” 
 
 “Had the bed been occupied ?” 
 
 “I should think not. It was all ship-shape and hadn’t a 
 wrinkle in it.” 
 
 “How, Billy, did you observe Potter half as closely as you 
 did the room ? Was he ‘ ship-shape’ too ?” 
 
 “If you mean, was he sober? I must say that lie wasn’t.” 
 “ That will do, Piper. Is Potter here?” 
 
238 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Potter, who was in the outer room, made his way to the 
 front. 
 
 “Potter, what time was it when Billy Piper came after 
 Dalton?” 
 
 “ Couldn’t say, sir,” replied Potter briskly. “ ’Twas pretty 
 early in the morning and I had been napping a little.” 
 
 “Oh, you had been napping. Is it true that you had been 
 drinking, too?” 
 
 “ Sitting up all night in a hotel bar isn’t very frisky busi- 
 ness, and I had tried to brace up a little.” 
 
 “ Do you ever get things mixed when you ‘ brace up’ in that 
 fashion, Potter?” 
 
 “ AVell a man is liable to. I s’pose I may, now and then.” 
 
 “ You are excused, Potter. Mr. Dalton, may I trouble you 
 again?” ' 
 
 Philip Dalton bowed and came forward. 
 
 “ Mr. Dalton, how long have you been at the St. Charles?” 
 
 “ As long as I have been in Caledonia.” 
 
 “ Have you always occupied the same room?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ When did you change, and why?” 
 
 “I was given a very good room in the main building, and 
 kept it until the afternoon of the day before yesterday. Then 
 Charlie, the day clerk, came to me and said that two ladies 
 had arrived from the East, and that he wanted to give them a 
 good room. He thought their stay would be short, and he 
 asked me to surrender my room to them, and take one of the 
 new rooms, just finished and furnished, above the office. I 
 thought that a room directly over the office, which is none too 
 quiet, day nor night, would hardly be pleasant for ladies; and 
 I made the change.” 
 
“A CLOUD OF WITNESSED* 23 # 
 
 a Oh : what was the number of your last room T 9 
 “ As I have said, it was a new room, and it had not been 
 numbered. It is the second room on that hall, or the one 
 furthest north, and its windows face the street.” 
 
 “ Do you usually lock your door upon leaving your 
 room?” 
 
 “ No; there are always duplicate keys. I usually leave my 
 door unlocked, and lock my luggage.” 
 
 “ That is all, Mr. Dalton. Is Charlie Carson here?” 
 
 As Doctor Mitchell had especially arranged that he should 
 be there, of course Carson promptly presented himself. 
 
 “ Carson, did you arrange for the exchange of rooms that 
 Mr. Dalton has told us of ?” 
 
 “I did,” Carson answered. 
 
 “And all was done precisely as he has said?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “How many new rooms are there above the office 
 “ Two.” 
 
 “Was either of these rooms occupied on the day when Mr 
 Dalton made that exchange ?” 
 
 “No; but the other room was taken almost immediately . 51 
 “ By whom ?” 
 
 “ By the person who came in the same stage that brought 
 Miss Wray. lie did not seem in a hurry, and I had moved 
 Dalton's things, and given the ladies his former room, before 
 the stranger asked to be shown up stairs. Then I gave him 
 the other of the two new rooms.” 
 
 “ Which of the two rooms did you give him ?” 
 
 “ I gave him the first ; the one next the stairs.” 
 
 “ And Dalton's room ?” 
 
 “ Was the other, of course.” 
 
240 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Then you distinctly state that you put the stranger into 
 the^/irsi room, and Mr. Dalton into the second ?” 
 
 “That is just Avliat I did.” 
 
 “ That will do, Charlie ; just let Billy Piper step into your 
 place.” 
 
 Piper was back in a twinkling. 
 
 “ Piper, which room did you go to when you and Potter 
 went to look for Dalton ?” 
 
 “ Why, we went to the first” 
 
 “ Are you sure ?” 
 
 “ Certain ; first door, first room. It’s my opinion we went 
 to the wrong room.” 
 
 “ We don’t want your opinion . Potter, stand up out there 
 — no, you needn’t come forward; you look sheepish enough 
 where you are. What have you to say to all this ?” 
 
 Potter did look truly sheepish. 
 
 “Why,” he began, “if Charlie says Dalton was in the 
 second room, I guess — ” 
 
 “I don’t Avant you to guess ; you do too much guessing. 
 Did you show Billy Piper here, to the first room or the second ?” 
 
 “Why, the first. You see I — ” 
 
 “ Sit doAvn !” roared the Coroner ; and Potter collapsed into 
 his seat, amid the laughter of the audience. 
 
 There was a moment of silence, and then the Coroner dreAV 
 his tall form to its fullest height, and swept the assemblage 
 with a searching glance. 
 
 “ If any one especially interested in this case lias a sugges- 
 tion to make, or a new witness to produce, Ave Avill hear from 
 him now.” He paused, and again his eye SAvept the faces be- 
 fore him, resting at last upon Connolley and Mack, who had 
 been exchanging furtive whispers. 
 
 
24 ! 
 
 “a cloud of witnesses.” 
 
 As he ceased speaking, Mack again whispered a word to 
 Connolley, and the Coroner was not the only observer who 
 readily conjectured that he was urging the .Regulator to reply 
 in some manner to his words. 
 
 Connolley stirred uneasily, and turned his eyes from Mack. 
 As he did so, he encountered another pair of eyes, just op- 
 posite him, where he could see them, and had seen them, every 
 time he had looked straight before him during the morning’s 
 examination. It was not a piercing gaze; Connolley could 
 not resent it, it seemed so unconscious ; and yet it was having 
 its effect. It was a clear, persistent, speculative look, too im- 
 personal to be called a scrutiny. Connolley had begun to feel 
 as if the eyes, not the owner of them, were reading his inmost 
 thoughts. A moment before, he had considered Mack’s sug- 
 gestions good, and had resolved, in spite of the Coroner’s 
 warning to act upon it. But now, as he encountered again 
 that dark, clear, intensely calm gaze, he shook himself, as if 
 to throw off Mack and his suggestion, and, seized with an 
 unaccountable unwillingness to speak, turned away from his 
 tempter. 
 
 As he thus turned, Stanhope, or Podunk, who had been 
 looking as stupid as possible and yet was noting every move- 
 ment going on about him, said within himself : 
 
 “ Oh, ho ! Man Vernet’s been trying his mesmeric power? 
 upon Connolley 1” 
 
242 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 DOCTOR MITCHELL CREATES A TIE. 
 
 r 
 
 f Whatever the Caledonians may have thought of Doctor 
 Mitchell* — -and many looked upon him as brimming over with 
 talents of a sedate and dignified sort ; exceedingly learned and 
 wise — they did not suspect him of being an orator ; had looked 
 upon him > in fact, as a man who counted his words, and paid 
 them out as precious coin. But on this one occasion he sur- 
 prised them with a revelation of himself in the character of 
 criminal lawyer. And his peroration was long remembered 
 and often referred to by Caledonians, as the perfect specimen 
 of soaring oratory and convincing argument. 
 
 He began by briefly exhorting the jury to attend and to con- 
 sider his words. He hoped that they had listened with perfect 
 impartiality to the evidence; that they had considered it 
 gravely, and would decide upon it understand ingly, and with an 
 eye single to justice. He ran over all the circumstances of the 
 murder, by way of brightening their memories, and briefly re- 
 viewed the evidence, referring to his note-book from time to 
 time, and speaking with perfect fairness and very apparent 
 impartiality. Indeed, so nice a balance did he keep that not 
 the acutest lawyer, knowing nothing of his “true inwardness,” 
 could have guessed whether he was friend or foe to Philip 
 Dalton. As he proceeded with his resume . :, Mack settled down 
 into quiet, and saw nothing at w T hich to cavil; those who had 
 already made up their minds that Dalton was guilty, felt con- 
 
DOCTOR MlTCHEEE CREATES A TIE. 
 
 243 
 
 firmed in that opinion ; while the very few who held them- 
 selves neutral, saw no reason, for the time, why they should 
 not be neutral still. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said the Coroner, when he had arrived at the 
 summing up of the ease, u murder is never committed without 
 a motive. Now, here is our case: Three days ago, Marina- 
 duke Selwyn was alive among us. Suddenly, at almost day- 
 dawn, we find him dead — treacherously shot by an unknown 
 hand. Who is the murderer? We look about us, and we 
 learn that Philip Dalton has been closeted with him in a box 
 of the Theatre; that high words have passed between them; 
 that they have parted in anger. We begin to investigate, and 
 we prove by three or four witnesses — all more or less under 
 the influence of Mack’s wine — that this meeting and this 
 difference really did take place. We question Mr. Dalton, 
 and he does not deny it. But he says : ‘ Our difference was 
 concerning a personal and private matter, and death has put 
 an end to it; I decline to discuss it.’ Then some amateur de- 
 tective — who is not, of course, a friend to Dalton — sends 
 privately, and in Dalton’s absence his room is entered and 
 searched. There they find a pistol, and it is the counterpart 
 of the pistol found in the cellar beside the dead man. But 
 that is not the strongest piece of testimony brought against 
 Philip Dalton — mind, I say testimony , for testimony may be 
 true or false. I do not say evidence , for evidence must always 
 be true. A messenger is sent to Dalton’s room, half an hour 
 after the murder is discovered, and when Selwyn is not yet an 
 hour dead. i Dalton is not in his room,’ says the messenger, 
 c and his bed has not been slept in.’ ” 
 
 At this point, Mack shoots a glance at Connolley and moves 
 in his chair as if uneasy. But the Regulator is giving strict 
 attention to the Coroner’s words. 
 
244 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ What a damning piece of testimony ! Before the inquiry 
 
 begins we have heard all, or nearly all this; and we go home 
 
 saying to ourselves; ‘Philip Dalton is guilty !’ But wait. 
 
 We begin to investigate, and what do we find? There is an- 
 <* 
 
 other man among us who has quarreled with Duke Selwyn. 
 It is our business to make inquiries, and so we inquire into 
 this. We find that this other has been more or less a com- 
 panion to Selwyn ever since the two appeared in Caledonia, 
 which, indeed, was about the same time. This second person, 
 with whom Selwyn has lately quarreled, or who has lately 
 quarreled with Selwyn, is Cool Hank Dutton. Now, what are 
 the facts in this case ? 
 
 “Father Miles, a witness whose word cannot be doubted, 
 hears Cool Hank accusing and threatening Selwyn; hears him 
 declare that something which Selwyn is reluctant to do, shall 
 be done; and that if it is not done ‘ before to-morrow night / 
 there must be a settlement between them. The * to-morrow 
 night/ mind you, is the night of the murder — and a settlement 
 is made. But this is not all. Cool Hank does not change his 
 mood; he lets the sun go down upon his wrath. The next 
 morning, he meets Selwyn and talks with him upon the street. 
 What they say we do not know, but we may be sure that the 
 breach is not healed, for Hank mounts his horse, and riding 
 out of town with John Monckton, curses Selwyn anew. He 
 next sees and talks with Margaret Drood ; and when we ask 
 that young woman to tell us what Hank Dutton said about 
 Selwyn, she faces us and refuses to speak. Why? Because 
 she is Cool Hank Dutton's friend, and she will' not betray 
 him. I do not blame her for this; neither must you. Her 
 course may not be legal, but it is loyal — it is splendid ! But 
 even her silence tells us something. It tells us that she has 
 
DOCTOR MlTCHERR CREATES A TIE. 
 
 246 
 
 naught to say that will make Hank Dutton appear less worthy 
 of suspicion. 
 
 “ But of all these things, not Rank’s angry words and 
 threats, heard by Father Miles; his later wrathful words, ad- 
 dressed to Monckton, and uttered on the very day of the mur- 
 der; not even Mountain Mag’s loyal reticence — is the thing 
 that is strangest against Cool Hank Dutton. The fact that 
 since the eve of this murder he has not been seen , outweighs all 
 the rest . If Hank Dutton’s threats were idle, if his wrath 
 cooled, why is he not here to-day, to ask who killed the man 
 that was once his friend? 
 
 u Now, I want to speak of these three men — the one dead, 
 the others living. The first, lies there mute, struck down by 
 the hand of treachery. The second, here in his place, faces us 
 like a man, ready to answer his accusers; ready with hand and 
 brain and money to help on justice and redress this wrong. 
 The third — where is he ? 
 
 “ Who was Duke Selwyn ? He came among you more 
 than a year ago, and he made friends from the first. We all 
 liked Duke Selwyn, but who knew him ? Who ever heard 
 him talk of himself, his home, his friends, his private inter- 
 ests? Oh, he knew us perfectly, but did we know him? He 
 had no enemies among us, you say. But how do we know 
 what enemies he may have had who were not of us ? How 
 can we tell what lies back of the little that we knew in the 
 life of a man like Selwyn — a man of the world, a traveler, an 
 adventurer ? 
 
 “ Next we have Philip Dalton. He has been among us a 
 very short time, but there is no mystery surrounding him. 
 He is the only son and heir of Leroy Dalton, a wealthy New 
 Yorker. He has not told us this, although he carries his 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 246 
 
 credentials with him, and they are not to be doubted. Duke 
 Selwyn himself told it first, and the fact soon became widely 
 known. Mr. Dalton came here for pleasure, or for change — - j 
 came as many another young man comes, to see the new coun- 
 try, and to go bade better satisfied with the old. 
 
 “ And now we come to Cool Hank Dutton. We know ' 
 him, perhaps, as well as we know each other; as well as we 
 knew Selwyn. There are men whom we like without being 
 able to tell why. I think Dutton is one of these. I like him. 
 Father Miles tells that he felt strangely attracted toward him, 
 although their lives and ways are so different. We know that 
 Dutton is a fearless fellow, with a hot temper ; that he had no 
 petty meannesses, and could not tolerate them in others. He 
 Was a man of his word, and woe be to any one who lied to 
 him. If I were the under man in a fight, and Cool Hank 
 came to my rescue, I should feel sure of coming out on top. 
 If Hank met me at seven o’clock and promised to shoot me at 
 eight, I should call upon the undertaker.” 
 
 There was a little stir among his auditors, and some glances i 
 of approval were exchanged. This was the sort of talk that 
 was most pleasing to the average Caledonian, and Doctor 
 Mitchell knew it well. 
 
 “I have said that every murder has its motive,” the Doctor 
 resumed, “and such a murder as this could have but one of 
 two : robbery or revenge. If Philip Dalton shot Duke Selwyn 
 in the heat of anger, he is the last man in the world likely to 
 stop and deliberately rifle the body of his victim. What use 
 could Dalton, with more money than he knows how to spend, 
 have for Duke Selwyn ’s watch, and rings, and diamond studs. 
 And yet these things were taken by the murderer. - 
 
 “ On the other hand, if Cool Hank, in the excess of his pas^ 
 
 1 
 
DOCTOR MITCHELL CREATES A TX& 24 T 
 
 sion, rode back to town and quietly waited for an opportunity 
 to 1 settle with Selwyn — did he rob the body? Who can 
 imagine Cool Hank Dutton a thief? Such a man might shoot 
 his enemy, in a fit of rage, but rob him? Never! I don- fe 
 believe it; you don't believe it; nobody believes it. And 
 yet, Duke Selwyn was first murdered and then robbed. 
 
 : ; “ If Philip Dalton had takena pistol—one of a pair— from 
 his room, and had shot his enemy with it, would he have flung 
 that weapon dowrn beside the body of his victim, knowing that 
 its fellow was left to condemn him ? You may answer, * But 
 this thing is often done ; the murderer is seized with a panic 
 and flees, leaving damaging proof behind/ But I say this 
 could not be ; the murderer, here, stayed to rob the body. 
 Before doing this, he must have thrown down the pistol. Now, 
 if Philip Dalton had done this, he was too cool to have been 
 so indisci eet. But if some person, who knew that Dalton and 
 Selwyn had quarreled, and who had possessed himself in some 
 way of Dalton's pistol— if such a person should murder and 
 rob Selwyn, he could very easily cover up his tracks, and turn 
 suspicion upon Philip Dalton, by leaving that pistol behind— 
 just as it was left . 
 
 B Now, gentleman, here you have two cases of circumstantial 
 evidence correspondingly strong. Dalton and Cool Hank are 
 equally under suspicion. Both had quarreled with Selwyn; 
 both threatened him. Dalton's pistol, or a pistol believed to 
 be his, is found near the murdered man. And Cool Hank, 
 since the night of the murder has disappeared. Yet, in the 
 iglit of such evidence as we have, to fasten this crime upon 
 either of these men is to assume a fearful responsibility, and 
 vould be just as likely to sacrifice the innocent as to punish 
 he guilty. If you are not sure that you have the right man, 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 it becomes your duty to bring in a verdict accordingly, and to 
 recommend that every possible effort be made to fasten the 
 guilt where it belongs. 
 
 “Gentlemen of the jury, you have the case. Connolley, 
 you will take them in charge, and until their verdict is found, 
 see that no one — no one , mind — has access to them.” 
 
 In the midst of the stir and bustle that followed the Cor- 
 oner’s last words, Connolley marshaled the jurors out through 
 the saloon door nearest the gaming room, and shut them within 
 the empty Theatre. A moment later Mack moved quietly to 
 the door where Connolley stood on guard. But before he 
 could address the Regulator, a lithe form stepped before him, 
 and a pair of keen dark eyes looked straight into his. 
 
 “ You can’t go in there, sir.” 
 
 “Who the mischief are you?” demanded Mack, fairly livid 
 with rage. 
 
 “ I’m a friend to fair play, and I’ve convinced myself that 
 there won’t be fair play if you get among these jurymen,” re- 
 plied Van Vernet. 
 
 As Mack opened his lips for arejoinder,he saw that Docfcoi 
 Mitchell was approaching. He checked his speech and waited 
 
 “ Doctor,” Mack said insinuatingly, as that gentlemen haltec 
 and looked his inquiry, “I want to go in and see that tlios 
 men are made comfortable. Your 'no one’ didn’t mean me, of 
 course ?” / 
 
 “ It did mean you, Mr. Jerry McAffery,” replied Doctoi 
 Mitchell grimly. “It meant you especially . This is no 1 
 your Theatre now, sir; it’s a hall of Justice.” 
 
 The Jury remained in council half an hour and returnee 
 with their verdict. They found : “ That Marmaduke Selwyi 
 earns to his death by a pistol-shot, at the hands of a person o 
 
250 
 
 A .MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 persons unknown.” And recommended that prompt measures 
 be taken to discover and punish the criminal. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIL 
 
 DALTON DECLARES HIS INTENTIONS. 
 
 Late in the afternoon, Doctor Mitchell and Van Vernetsat 
 in the office of the former, discussing the situation and waiting 
 for Podunk and Philip Dalton. 
 
 The Doctor sat near his single front window, which com- 
 manded a view of the most public approach, keeping an eye 
 townward. He sat leaning forward, his elbows upon his 
 knees, whittling leisurely at a long pine stick. Vernet oc- 
 cupied the Doctor’s big home-made arm chair, and was smok- 
 ing a good cigar— one of an assorted collection which he had 
 been wise enough to bring with him from the East. There 
 had been a long silence between them, which finally the Doc- 
 tor broke by saying: 
 
 “ I am not sure whether it was the best thing for us or not, 
 your coming out so strong down there.” 
 
 “ You mean my interference when Mack attempted to get 
 among the jurors?” asked Vernet, taking his cigar from be- 
 tween his lips. 
 
 “Yes” 
 
 “Well, I don’t know. On the whole I think it’s quite as 
 Well. Mack has a wholesome reverence for any new comer 
 who shows a fair purse and an inclination to open it now and 
 then. Besides* it was time to let him understand that Dalton 
 
 - : . , v.;'. , . ..-A, - 
 
DALTON DECLARES HIS INTENTIONS. 
 
 251 
 
 heo 4 friend or two here. If it were not for the Stage Com- 
 pany and their interests, I would have introduced myself to 
 h'm in propria persona A fellow like Mack has a horror of 
 ; detective who has any sort of governmental backing.” 
 “What I was thinking of was your interest. Of course 
 what you did was best for Dalton. But now that you have 
 set yourself in opposition to Mack and his friends, your own 
 person may not be respected. As for introducing yourself as 
 Vernet, it would be pure madness.” 
 
 Vernet laughed softly; then he said, peering out into the 
 dusky street, from which the light had almost faded : 
 k “Some one is coming here and — it’s — it’s — Podunk.” 
 
 He hastened to open the door, and in a moment Podunk 
 was within. He entered with scant ceremony, and cast a swift 
 glance about the room. 
 
 “Isn’t Dalton expected here?” he asked abruptly. 
 
 “Yes,” answered both at once. 
 
 M “Sit down, Podunk,” said the Doctor. 
 
 “ Did you expect or intend to make my identity known to 
 him !” persisted Podunk, without heeding the Doctor’s in- 
 vitations. 
 
 “ Why, yes,” answered Vernet: “unless you have an ob- 
 jection.” 
 
 “Well, I have,” said Podunk. “And although I very 
 much want to talk with Dalton, and to hear him talk about 
 this business, 1 am sure that it will be best not to inform him 
 that Podunk and Dick Stanhope are one and the same. Does 
 fie know that you have a partner here, Van?” 
 
 “I think I hinted to him that I expected a co-laborer.” 
 “But you did not name me ?” 
 
 “ Certainly not,” 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 2o2 
 
 “Then don't. You recollect that Dalton and I were not 
 acquaintances. I wonder if ho has ever seen me?** 
 
 “I don’t think he has; at least I never heard of it if In 
 did. Of course he knows you by reputation and name.” 
 
 “ He is welcome to ; so long as he don’t know my phiz.’ 
 Then turning abruptly upon Doctor Mitchell : “ Doctor, wha 
 do you know of that clerk at the St. Charles — Charlie Car 
 son ?” 
 
 “ Carson? I know him for a good fellow. I think he’ 
 to be trusted. He’s a steady, reliable sort of chap, and he, 
 gritty too, if they do call him ‘tenderfoot.”’ 
 
 “Then if you wanted a confederate, a confidant m som 
 degree, would you be afraid to trust Charley ?” 
 
 “ No ; not if I were you.” 
 
 “Why I more than another?” 
 
 “Because you’re just the sort of a fellow that he’ 
 naturally tie to.” # 
 
 “Thanks, Doctor. I may have to give him a trial, for 
 think some of coming out in society a bit, and can’t get o 
 without a little help. You won’t do j and V an won’t, becau* 
 we would have to be too much together, and I don t want i 
 be identified with him. Besides, I’m convinced that we \ 
 got an organized band to work against, and we may want « 
 get up a little organization of our own yet. Did you set 
 time for Dalton ?” 
 
 “No,” said the Doctor; “he set it himself— nine o’clock, 
 Podunk dropped down into the nearest chair. “ Why didn 
 you say so before,” he demanded, “and not keep me ‘poise 
 for flight’ in this fashion ? I’ve got plenty of time to te 
 you what’s been going on at Mack’s then.” 
 
 “ What has been going on at Mack’s ?” asked Yernefc. 
 
 . 
 
DAX.TOK IXECIaARES HIS INTEN^IOKS* 253 
 
 **There's been a kind of an indignation meeting, or wliat 
 started out to be one. You see, Mack's a bit intimidated, and 
 Connolley a good deal unsettled, by the talk the Doctor here 
 has been treating them to, and they don’t feel quite sure of 
 their ground— either of them. I don't believe that Connolley's 
 a corruptible man, and I think Mack's of the same opinion. 
 Mack isn't making or trying to make a confederate of him— 
 only a tool, a screen. Well, the town is all upset, of course, 
 over the outcome of the inquest ; and Mack, mounted on a 
 chair, was trying to harangue the crowd in his saloon, %vhen in 
 walks Dalton." 
 
 “ Dalton !'' exclaimed both his hearers, 
 
 “ Yes, Dalton himself* He pushed his way through the 
 crowd, and went straight to the place where Mack was uplift- 
 ing his voice. The sight of him, walking in so coolly, seemed 
 to startle Mack; and when Dalton said very determinedly 
 1 Mr. McAffery, step down one moment, if yon please/ I'm 
 blessed if Mack didn't come down like a monkey off a pole. 
 Evidently he expected that Dalton was about to say something 
 personal. But when Mack got down, Dalton stepped up, 
 lookiug as serene as if he was leading off a cotillion. ‘ Gentle- 
 men/ says lie, and every man stood still and held his tongue 
 to listen, 6 1 have happened to hear that it is the opinion of 
 one or more of Caledonia's leading citizens that I intend to 
 leave the place, in order to be out of harm's way. So I take 
 this opportunity to tell you that I shall not leave Caledonia 
 while there is a doubt as to the author of Duke Selwyn's death. 
 I intend to remain here in spite of threats and bluster, and I 
 here and now offer a reward, of ten thousand dollars to the 
 man or men who will find the murderer, and give reasonable 
 proof of his guilt. I will pay all expenses incurred by parties 
 
254 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 making honest efforts to investigate this mystery, and .reward 
 all who help in the work. I can be found at the St. Charles, j 
 as usual/ Then, presto ! down steps Mr. Dalton, and bows f/ 
 to Mack. ‘ Thank you, Mr. McAfferv/ he says, and walks ! 
 out as serenely as he came.” 
 
 “Well,” said Vernet, after a moment’s thoughtful silence, L 
 “that settles one point. We hoped to get Dalton to see the | 
 propriety of leaving Caledonia until this business has been B 
 sifted, but if he’s made that announcement — ” 
 
 “ He’ll stick to his text ?” suggested the Doctor. 
 
 “Not a doubt of it. What do you think of it, Dick?” | 
 
 “ Think ? Why I think lie’s true grit. He did the only ii 
 thing he could do decently. You talk of running him out 
 of the way ! I’d like to see any one run you out of the way 
 of danger under similar circumstances !” 
 
 Vernet was discreetly silent. 
 
 “ No,” went on Stanhope, “ if anything was needed to in- 
 duce me to stand by Dalton and see him through, it would be 
 this little harangue of his at Mack’s. But, gentlemen, we’vfc 
 taken a large contract, besides the task of clearing Dalton; we 
 have got to watch over him, or we’ll have him carried off and 
 lynched under our very noses. Now, how are we going to 
 protect Dalton, find Selwyn’s murderer, discover the fate 
 of Stephen Wray, and run down Vernet’s train robbers — j 
 eh ?” 
 
 There was a long moment of silence, during which the three j 
 pondered this knotty problem. Then Vernet turned toward 1 
 Doctor Mitchell : 
 
 “ In our talk last night,” he said, “you dropped a hint that 
 led me to think there might be a connection between one or 
 two of these points.” 
 
dai&gx ms 
 
 m 
 
 “ Umph !” returned the Doctor. “You are a detective— 
 haven’t you evolved a theory yet ?” 
 
 "A theory? Oh, yes. It’s the easiest thing in the world 
 to evolve theories, but one fact will upset a whole battalion 
 
 of them.” 
 
 “ That’s so,” said Podunk. “ Suppose we marshal our facts 
 first, put them on parade, and review the troop.” 
 
 “Umph- !” said the Doctor. 
 
 “ Doctor,” said Stanhope, veering suddenly from the sub- 
 ject, “as soon as it’s dark enough to illuminate, let me suggest 
 that you close the curtain, and that we keep our voices down. 
 It wouldn’t be strange if we had listeners about.” 
 
 “Do you think any one saw you come?” questioned the 
 Doctor. 
 
 “ Oh, I didn’t come secretly. I should have waited until 
 after dark if I had intended my visit to be undiscovered. I 
 came direct from Mack’s, and Mack himself gave me God- 
 speed.” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” said Vernet smilingly, “ you’ll tell us how' you 
 came to be on such good terms with Mack ?” 
 
 “To be sure. You see, to begin, I was the only man of 
 that jury who stuck for convicting Dalton. 1 wanted him 
 pronounced guilty.” 
 
 “ Oh, you did !” ejaculated the Doctor. 
 
 “Yes. I was not to be moved, either. I confess that I 
 didn’t give any very logical reason why I believed Dalton 
 guilty — you know, Doctor, you said that I couldn’t reason ; 
 well, any man of that jury will back your opinion. But I 
 was a long time giving up mv point, and of course, after the 
 thing was settled, it didn’t take long to let it come out that 
 Podunk wanted Dalton convicted. Then, to carry out my 
 
256 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY# 
 
 programme, I was sulky and full of dark sayings. I took 
 care net to be too obtrusive, but Mack found me out, and took 
 me by the hand. We had quite a long conversation. Mack i 
 and I. He asked me, among other things, what I thought of 
 you, Doctor/* 
 
 “Umph ! And what did you tell him ?’* 
 
 “I don’t recall the precise language; but it was to the effect | 
 that I considered you a cranky old sardine/* 
 
 “Umph !” grunted tiie Doctor, while Vernet laughed. 
 
 “And then I clinched the business by declaring that I 
 wasn’t going to have the Doctor think that I had weakened, | 
 but would take the first opportunity to inform him that I hung 
 out for my principles to the last moment. At this point Mack 
 took me to the upper bar and filled . my black bottle, and after 
 a little more talk he asked me when I was going to tell Doc- 
 tor Mitchell how I stood. I said I guessed I’d make a call 
 soon; and he suggested that I come and kind o’ find out how 
 'you were takin* things, and what you were about, anyhow/’ 
 
 “ Wasn’t there a little risk in that, Dick ?’* asked Vernet. 
 “There’s always a risk. But you know my motto: ‘The 
 boldest course is the safest/ I saw that I could not get away 
 from Mack and his gang unnoticed; that if 1 tried it, I would 
 probably be detained, or, worse yet, followed. So I came 
 openly. But we’ve strayed from the subject— let’s go back to 
 our facts.’* 
 
 “Proceed/* said Vernet. 
 
 “Pact number one then: Somebody has killed Duk$ 
 Selwyn. Naturally, the first question is, who did it?’* 
 
 “ Of course/* said the Doctor impatiently. 
 
 “Not of course, I don’t ask that question first; I ask, 
 what was the motive ? was it robbery or revenge ?’* 
 
D ALTON DECLARES HIS INTENTIONS, 
 
 251 
 
 "Dick is right,” said Vernet. "The motive found, it would 
 not be so difficult to also find the man.” 
 
 " The — man 1” repeated Stanhope; and Vernet was quick 
 to note the queer smile upon his face. "Just so. Now have 
 either of you a theory, a suspicion?” 
 
 "Doctor Mitchell,” said Vernet, "you first.” 
 
 " I caif t say anything — unless it is Cool Hank that did it. 
 I see that neither of you intend to suspect Dalton.” 
 
 "I don’t,” said Vernet promptly. 
 
 " I don’t — at present,” said Stanhope. " Let’s move on to 
 our next fact: It’s certain that Philip Dalton, if he stays 
 here, is in danger. How are we to protect him ?” 
 
 "I scarcely think,” said Vernet, "that it will be worth 
 while to discuss that until we see him, and find out how much 
 of our good advice he is willing to take.” 
 
 "Well,” said Stanhope, " suppose, Tor the present, you 
 leave the business of finding the motive and the murderer to 
 me, and you two turn your attention to Dalton’s welfare.” 
 "Dick !” said Vernet, leaning forward to look in his friend’s 
 face, " you have found something, some clue ?” 
 
 "No.” 
 
 " But you have a suspicion ?” 
 
 " If I have,” replied Stanhope gravely, " it is so vague that 
 I must not name it as yet.” Then turning toward Doctor 
 Mitchell: "And now we come to fact three: Stephen Wray, 
 with money and valuable papers, came to Caledonia and 
 mysteriously disappeared. Was he murdered, think you ?” 
 "I hope not,” said the Doctor, "for his daughter’s sake.” 
 "Amen to that,” added Vernet. 
 
 " Let us suppose,” resumed Stanhope, " that lie was not 
 murdered, what then ?” 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “If I hadn’t been abducted myself so recently,” said the 
 Doctor, “ I should say that it was if t an easy tiling to abducl 
 a full grown man, even here in Caledonia.” 
 
 The two detectives laughed. 
 
 “Why, you went along meek enough,” said Stanhope/ 
 “Honestly, Doctor, were you not just a little bit scared?” 
 
 “I was horribly scared at first,” said the Doctor gravely] 
 “for I thought I had fallen into the hands of Judge Lynch,! 
 I fancied they had decided to cut short the inquest and my 
 career both together. Yes; I was scared ; but I didn’t intend; 
 to let them know it.” 
 
 “ Nor did you,” declared Stanhope. “ Not one of us could 
 have guessed it. But about Mr. Wray : What comes after the 
 fact ?” 
 
 “ Theories,” answered Vernet. “We’ve nothing else to be ! 
 gin with.” 
 
 “Very good; let’s theorize then. And to commence, Jet 
 us suppose that he is alive somewhere. How shall we find 
 him ?” 
 
 “ Umph J” grunted Doctor Mitchell. 
 
 “First,” said Vernet, “ we must learn if lie appeared to any 
 one in Caledonia as Stephen Wray. He didn’t register at the! 
 St. Charles — there’s no such name on the books.” 
 
 “ And yet,” said Stanhope, thoughtfully, “ ten to one In 
 stopped there. Have you talked much with Miss Wray 
 Van?” 
 
 “Very little on this subject.” 
 
 “Well, suppose you find out from her as much as possibk 
 concerning her father’s habits and get a description of him. 
 Perhaps she has some of his letters, and if Selwyn’s correspond- 
 ence with him could be got hold of, it might tell us something, 
 
DALTON DECLARES HIS INTENTIONS. 
 
 259 
 
 It would be delicacy to spare Miss Wray’s feelings, but it 
 won’t be wise. You or the Doctor must see her, and hear all 
 
 that she can tell.” 
 
 “That is the right plan,” said Doctor Mitchell. Then 
 rising quickly; “How dark it has grown. I will light a 
 lamp.” He did so, first lowering the curtains, and then came 
 back to liis place. “ We were ‘supposing’ that Miss Wray’s 
 father has been abducted,” he said : “ by whom then?” 
 
 “By some band of men who know that he is a Hew York 
 millionaire,” suggested Stanhope. 
 
 ; “There’s the rub!” said Vernet. “If we could but find 
 the first man of this gang ! Doctor, direct our suspicions.” 
 “If I were you,” said the Doctor slowly, “ I would begin 
 with our friend Mack.” 
 
 “If he were not dead,” said Stanhope, “ I would begin with 
 Duke Selwyn.” 
 
 f “It’s the same thing,” dropped from the Doctor’s lips. 
 
 “Is it?” queried ~ Stanhope. “Then we have a starting 
 point. We must find if Stephen Wray has been seen here at 
 all; and if so, under what cognomen, for he must have 
 dropped his own name from some motive; caution, probably. 
 If we can ever connect him with Selwyn, or Mack, or both—” 
 “We will have made a beginning,” added Vernet. 
 
 “How, I’ll tell you what I want to do// said Stanhope 
 briskly, rising as lie spoke. “I want to hang about Mack’s 
 until I find out the meaning of his double picket fence and 
 liis secret chamber. I want to discover who that wounded 
 man is. Doctor, what style of build was he? Was he tall 
 or short, stout or thin, old or young?” 
 
 | “Tall,” answered the Doctor; “ tall and well knitj a mus- 
 cular fellow, with a smooth, white skim/’ 
 
260 
 
 A MOUNTAIN HYSX3BR1T. 
 
 "Well, I’m deeply interested in this retreat of Mack’s, and 
 I intend to give it considerable of my time and attention. I 
 can’t see you often, I’m afraid, but I’ll manage a way to com* 
 municate with you. I’ll find a trusty messenger md use the 
 old cipher, — -Van, you can translate for the Doctor. In ease 
 of emergency don’t wait to write, but give me a signal of dis- 
 tress. I’ll contrive to come within hailing distance pretty 
 often. And now, hadn’t I better cut this short ? Dalton will 
 soon be here, and — ■” 
 
 "Dick,” broke in Vernet, placing a hand upon his friend’s 
 arm, "Dick, I think you had ought to stay and hear what 
 Dalton lias to say. If you don’t want him to see you, it is 
 not absolutely necessary that lie should.” 
 
 "I don’t know,” said Stanhope shaking his head; "some- 
 how I dislike the idea, where Dalton is concerned — ” 
 
 "Nonsense!” interrupted the Doctor. "This is no time 
 for squeamish ness. Dalton’s in danger every moment, and he 
 will trust you as readily as he would us.” 
 
 "Still,” said Stanhope hesitating, " I don’t half like it— * 
 
 lurk!” 
 
 They heard the sound of voices, uttering quick, threatening 
 exclamations, and then, while Doctor Mitchell moved toward 
 the door, Vernet seized Stanhope by the shoulders and forced 
 him toward the bedroom. 
 
 " In with you,” he whispered ; " whoever it is. he must not 
 see you” 
 
CHAPTER XXVXXI. 
 
 A SPY. 
 
 Mrs. McAfPery was seated at the head of her long tea tables 
 iird nearly all her “ boarders” were gathered about it that 
 evening, when Aileen Lome glided quietly into her place al- 
 most unnoticed by the others, who were listening, one and all, 
 to Billy Piper’s account of the latest event at Mack’s. He 
 vvas telling of Dalton’s sudden appearance in the saloon and 
 of his brief address to the crowd • and he told his story well. 
 He had just begun when Aileen came in, and she had heard 
 irto the end before he observed that she was a listener. 
 
 "Is it Mr. Dalton who said that, Billy ?” she asked, when 
 h§ had finished, leaning forward, and looking down the table 
 to where he sat. 
 
 j |f-Yes’m,” replied Piper, who stood a little in awe of the 
 beautiful, reserved Primct Donna, but who yet admired her 
 immensely. “It was Dalton.” 
 
 Miss Lome drew back in her place, and quietly took her 
 ^up of weak tea from the hand of the landlady. 
 
 | Si?LT heard,” said Kit Duncan, who was the gossip of the 
 Theatre, “that there was the strongest kind of talk of 
 ynching.” 
 
 “Be careful, Miss Lome,” cried Mrs. Me A fiery, “you’re 
 pilling your tea— rthere !” 
 
 “Really,” said Aileen, as she put down her cup ? “ that was 
 
 ory careless of me/” 
 
 I » 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Do you suppose/' went on Kit Duncan, addressing her 
 remarks to Piper, “ that Dalton’s heard of this talk ? Don’t 
 you reckon he’s trying a little bluff, Billy?” 
 
 “ No,” said Piper shortly, “ I don’t. There’s no bluff about 
 that man ; he’s a gentleman, if one ever set his foot in Cale- 
 donia. If you’d seen him this afternoon, you wouldn’t think 
 he was scared. Not much ! He walked in there as cool as if 
 he owned the place ; and he walked out again just as cool. 1 
 noticed, — ” added Billy, reaching across the table and spear- 
 ing at a small, thin slice of bread with a big steel fork, — “I 
 noticed, — ’’ securing the bread and landing it safely on his 
 plate — “ that nobody was in a particular hurry to begin mak- 
 ing remarks till he was out of hearing.” 
 
 “ Well,” commented La Belle Florine, glancing obliquely 
 across at Aileen Lome, “ I never could see anything much in 
 that Dalton. He wasn’t half the man Selwyn was, — eh, 
 Aileen ?” 
 
 “ Are you asking my opinion ?” said Miss Lome quietly. 
 
 “ Yes; give it to us.” 
 
 “ You won’t find it worth much, to you. Two men could 
 %\oi be more unlike. The one was everything that the other 
 was not.” 
 
 “Oh, dear I” said Kit Duncan, “I’d like to know what a 
 body can make out of that !” 
 
 A faint smile flitted across Aileen’s face ; but amid the 
 babble going on about her she remained silent, and seemingly 
 undisturbed. When she arose from the table, she came close 
 to Billy Piper’s place, and bending over, said to him: 
 
 “Mr. Piper, will you do me a favor, when you sure »t 
 Sdsure ?” 
 
 “ Yeshn/’ answered Billy briskly* 
 
A SPY. 
 
 263 
 
 * If you will wait, I will come down in a few moments.” 
 
 44 All right, Miss Lome.” 
 
 The “ Parlor” of Mack’s boarding-house was a small, stuffy, 
 ill-ventilated room, seldom used for two reasons : It was a 
 place of state, closely watched over by Mrs. McAffery, and it 
 was too small to accommodate the entire family. It had long 
 been understood that the parlor was not for general use, and 
 when one of the young ladies wished to receive a call of state, 
 she was wise enough to apply to Mrs. McAffery, who usually 
 carried the key. When the weather was cold, the boarders 
 congregated in the big, barren dining-room ; and when it was 
 warmer, they made themselves as comfortable as they could in 
 the long, narrow hall, sitting upon the stairs, or outside upon 
 the doorsteps. 
 
 Aileen Lome, by special grace, had the exclusive use of one 
 very small bedroom : and in this she usually remained, keep- 
 ing as much as possible aloof from the rest. And so when, 
 shortly after supper, she came down the stairs, passing quietly 
 through the groups of loiterers, they looked their surprise, but 
 Aileen went calmly on, and entered the dining-room, where 
 Mrs. McAffery was gathering up a soiled and faded collection 
 of pink rags which she dignified by the name of napkins. In 
 a moment Aileen came out again, and went straight to where 
 Billy Piper stood exchanging pleasantries with two or three 
 of Mack’s fairies. 
 
 “ Now, Billy,” she said, and then turned away, unlocked the 
 parlor door and entered, followed by the obedient Billy, who 
 closed the door behind him and shut out a chorus of comments. 
 
 “ Billy,” said Aileen, in her soft, slow voice, “you are the 
 ; Dniy one whom I would ask to do me this favor, or whom I 
 would dare trust.” 
 
 - {■■ - : ■ ' vA 
 
264 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEItY. 
 
 a Fm sure you may trust me, Miss Aileen,” said Billy 
 eagerly. 
 
 “ Yes, I think I may ; and I shall feel very grateful to you ! 
 too. Billy, will you go to the St. Charles for me; now, right j 
 away ? I think there is time.” 
 
 “ Plenty of time; yes’m. Of course I’ll go. You know . 
 there’s only a rehearsal to-night, Miss Aileen” 
 
 “ Oh, surely. I want you to give this note, as privately as I 
 you can, to Mr. Dalton.” 
 
 Billy looked a trifle surprised, but only said: “All right.” 
 “ You need not stay for an answer. And, Billy, will you 
 promise me something?” 
 
 “ Yes’m ; anything ,” said Billy recklessly. 
 
 “ You are about town, almost everywhere, are you not?j. 
 You hear all that’s going, don’t you?” 
 
 “I guess there aint much that I don’t hear,” he replied 
 truthfully. 
 
 “ You — they said that there was talk of violence — lynching. 
 Will you try to learn all that is going on? try to keep track i 
 of the movements of these men who are threatening violence, 
 and if there is really any danger, will you come to me at once i 
 no matter when or where. The moment there is a move- j 
 ment, an attack upon Mr. Dalton, will you come to me — in j 
 time?” 
 
 Billy stared dumbly. / \ 
 
 “In time?” he said. “I — I don’t understand.* 
 
 “Never mind that. Only promise to inform me at once if: 
 danger threatens.” 
 
 “I’ll do that, Miss Aileen. I promise you. But as for 
 danger, Dalton’s in danger every minute that he stays in Cale-i 
 donia.” 
 
A SPY. 
 
 265 
 
 A quick sigh escaped her lips, and she looked very pale in 
 the gloomy room. 
 
 ; “ Is there anything else. Miss Lome?” 
 
 “No, Billy; and thank you.” 
 
 “Then I’ll go. And if you’ll just call on me when you 
 want a friend — I mean anything done, Miss Lome, Fll be 
 proud — ” 
 
 “Thank yon, Billy,” — she put out her hand quickly — “you 
 are very good. I think you mean what you say. I shall look 
 upon you as my one friend here. And I shall be grateful.” 
 
 Billy put the note in his pocket, and in another moment the 
 wondering groups in the hall saw him come out, and hasten 
 townwards, while Aileen went back to her room as quietly as 
 she came. 
 
 After paying his visit to Mack’s, Philip Dalton had returned 
 to the St. Charles, where he remained until supper-time, smok- 
 ing in the office, and exchanging occasional commonplaces 
 with Charlie, the clerk, and the two Tourists, one of whom had 
 just been released from service on the Coroner’s jury. He 
 parried all efforts to converse upon the interesting topic of the 
 murder, and seemed not at all discomposed by the keen glances 
 cast upon him by the constantly changing groups about him. 
 He ate his evening meal in his usual leisurely fashion, and 
 went back to the office to smoke a fresh cigar. 
 
 After supper Charlie Carson was relieved by Potter, the 
 night clerk, but he did not leave the office with his usual 
 alacrity. Instead, he lighted a cigar, and perched himself upon 
 one end of a long counter, swinging his legs and looking in- 
 different to all things 'mundane. He w r as sitting thus when 
 Billy Piper entered the office and gradually approached 
 Dalton. 
 
 i 
 
266 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Billy was clever, and lie managed to transfer tlie little white 
 note into Dalton’s hands from his own without attracting the 
 attention of those about them. But his action did not escape 
 the eye of Charlie Carson, who, in truth, had been keenly alive to 
 every movement of Philip Dalton’s since the closeof the inquest! 
 
 Dalton cast one quick glance at the delicate handwriting 
 upon the envelope, and Charlie Carson kw a swift flush tint 
 the face that bent over it. Then it was placed in a convenient 
 pocket, and Dalton looked up at the messenger. 
 
 “ A thousand thanks, Billy,” he said, in a low tone. “Any 
 instructions ?” 
 
 “ No,” said Billy, and was about to turn away, 
 
 “ Stop, Billy ; is there anything I can do for you ?” 
 
 “ Kb,” said Billy again. 
 
 “No? Well, have a cigar. And remember, Billy, when 
 you do want a favor, I’m under obligations to you.” 
 
 The variety performer nodded, and moved away : and Dal- 
 ton, the flush still lingering upon his cheeks, soon arose and 
 went to his room. Once there he locked his door, and with 
 eager hand tore open the creamy envelope. As lie unfolded 
 the note, and his eyes rested upon the first word, the flush 
 mounted higher, his whole face lighted up; and yet it was a 
 brief note, and very simple. 
 
 My Friend : 
 
 If you still wish to talk with me, you will find me in the parlor of 
 Mrs. McAffery’s boarding-house to-morrow morning, at nine o’clock. 
 Since we met last, I have discovered that I also wish to see you. 
 
 Aileen Lorne. 
 
 That was all. But it wrought its change in Philip Dalton. 
 He put the note away carefully, after twice reading it. He 
 sat down by the window, and meditated long, but he did not 
 
A SPF. 
 
 267 
 
 relight the cigar, and the new look of animation was still in 
 his face. By and by he arose and paced the floor, and every 
 moment his restlessness increased. He looked at his watch ; 
 it was only eight o'clock. He resumed his solitary march, and 
 kept it up for a long half hour. Then again lie looked at his 
 watch. 
 
 “ PH go/* he muttered ; “ half an hour can’t matter. I 
 must make the time pass somehow.” 
 
 He went to his trunk, and took out a silk traveling cap with 
 a broad visor, which he drew well down over his face. He 
 exchanged the dark, close-fitting coat which he wore, for a 
 shaggy, blouse-like garment, which he buttoned up to his chin; 
 and then surveyed himself in the small mirror hung high upon 
 the wall. 
 
 Once more he visited his trunk, and this time something 
 cold and glittering was slipped into each of the two capacious 
 pockets in the sides of the shaggy coat. Then he locked the 
 trunk and sallied forth. In the hall he met Charley Carson, 
 who stared and came to a halt directly before him. 
 
 u Will you be so good — ” He stopped abruptly and stared 
 again. “ Mr. Dalton I” he exclaimed. “■ I took you for a 
 stranger, and was about to ask what you were doing in this 
 part of the house. I half thought you were trying to spy- — ” 
 “ Upon myself?” asked Dalton with a smile. 
 
 “Well, yes. Are you going out, Mr. Dalton?” 
 
 “ For a short time.” Dalton nodded as if to end this in- 
 terchange of words, and passed on. 
 
 As he walked toward the stairs, Charlie followed him with 
 his eyes, and for a moment seemed ready to ask him to stop. 
 Then he seemed to take a sudden resolution, and went quietly 
 after Dalton, 
 
 B ' ' • 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY 
 
 For some moments Dalton walked slowly, seemingly intfittfc 
 upon his own thoughts. Then his ear caught the sound of 
 feet close behind him and stepping as he stepped. Without 
 changing his gait he looked over Ids shoulder, and listened in- 
 tently. Yes; some one was following him, and not far be- 
 hind. Ten paces more brought him to a street corner. He 
 turned abruptly and waited just out of sight. In a moment 
 the person following was close upon him, and Dalton stepped j| 
 quickly forward. Ils was face to face with the other, and he 
 could see by a light gleaming out from a window near them, 
 that it was Charlie Carson. 
 
 “ Charlie !” he exclaimed. “ Were you following me?” |§ 
 
 “ That’s what I was doing, Mr. Dalton, and 1 must be awk- 
 ward at the business,” replied Charlie, with an embarrassed 
 half laugh. 
 
 “ May I ask why. you were doing it?” 
 
 “ Why !” Charlie put a hand upon his arm, and lowered 
 his voice. “Is it possible that you don’t realize that you are , 
 not safe on these streets ? Man, we don’t want another Cor?? 
 oner’s inquest — not vet.” 
 
 Dalton was silent for a moment. Then lie said very 
 slowly : 
 
 “And did you come out after me to be at hand in case of 
 need?” 
 
 “ I meant no intrusion, Mr. Dalton. I did not wish to spy 
 upon your movements. But I couldn't see you go out alone 
 like this; the risk is too great.” 
 
 “Charlie,” said Dalton coming close to the other, and pass- 
 ing a hand through his arm, “ I’m not quite unprotected. Fva 
 got a double-barreled pistol in one pocket, and a six-shootef 
 in the other.” 
 
A SPY* 
 
 269 
 
 *WeTl* said Charlie, brightening, “ I’m pretty well fixed 
 myself; so if you want to go anywhere, come on.” 
 
 They walked forward slowly for a little way, and then 
 Dalton said : 
 
 ^Charlie, I appreciate your motives, and I’ll prove it to 
 you in some way. I have no intention of doing anything 
 reckiess, and I know the risk I run. Now, I can’t take you 
 with me — not because I do not trust you, but because it’s an 
 appointment. But I’ll tell you where I’m going. I’m ex- 
 pected at Doctor Mitchell’s at nine o’clock.” 
 
 “ Oh 1” ejaculated Charlie, drawing a breath of relief, “ then 
 I’ll just go with you as far as the cottage, and turn you over 
 to the Doctor; I’ll risk you in his hands. You don’t object 
 to that, I hope ?” 
 
 Dalton laughed softly; he was in a peculiarly complacent 
 tnood. 
 
 “No,” he said, “I can’t quarrel with an act of disinterested 
 friendship, if it does make me feel a bit ridiculous. So come 
 
 along.” 
 
 He tightened his grasp upon Carson’s arm, and they walked 
 briskly forward until they were in sight of the Doctor’s cot- 
 tage. Dalton seemed absorbed with his own thoughts. But 
 Charlie’s keen glance was constantly roving, and as they ap- 
 proached the cottage, he put a hand up and touched the hand 
 of Dalton where it rested upon his arm. 
 
 “ Stop !” he whispered; “ there’s some one outside.” 
 
 Dalton stopped and peered before him. 
 
 “ I can’t see anything,” he whispered back. 
 
 “ He’s not moving now, that’s why. I saw a form at the 
 corner of the house. Wait here. It’s a spy of some sort; I’ll 
 go forward and start him.” 
 
270 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY® 
 
 “Hold; let me start him. You follow him, and find out 
 
 who he is, if you can/’ 
 
 “ All right,” breathed Charlie. t( Go on.” 
 
 Dalton moved softly toward the cottage, with Charlie close 
 in his wake. The figure at the window must have been in- 
 tent upon his effort to hear what was going on inside, for he 
 never stirred until Dalton’s hand came heavily down upon his 
 shoulders. 
 
 “ What are you spying here for?” demanded Dalton. 
 
 With an exclamation of surprise, the fellow turned to run. 
 
 But Dalton’s 'grip was strong, and there was a short strug- 
 gle. In the midst of it, the Doctor’s door was heard to open; 
 there was a warning hiss from Charlie, and Dalton recoiled in 
 time to escape a blow from a keen, thin-bladed knife, which 
 the fellow had managed to draw with his left hand. At that 
 moment the ruffian broke away and ran townward. 
 
 u Go in quick !” whispered Charlie, and started in hot pur- 
 suit. 
 
 “ What’s all this?” It was the Doctor’s voice, and he now 
 appeared in the doorway, holding a lamp high above his 
 head. 
 
 Dalton recovered himself, and turned toward him. 
 
 “ Only a little skirmish, Doctor,” he said; and in a mo- 
 ment was beside him in the doorway. 
 
 “ It’s Dalton !” cried Vernet from within. “Come in, man 
 m& shut the door*” 
 
272 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE STORY OF THE PISTOL. 
 
 '* Well,” commented Doctor Mitchell, when Dalton had 
 told of the adventure, taking care to give Charlie Carson his 
 due, “ and so you’ve had your first skirmish/’ 
 
 “ And Charlie Carson has enlisted added Vernet, with an 
 intonation that Dalton did not understand. 
 
 “ I’m anxious about Carson,” said Dalton. “ I think I 
 ought to go out and look after him.” 
 
 “ Nonsense!” ejaculated the Doctor; “ he’s all right.” 
 
 “ I don’t know about that. He won’t make himself popular 
 by espousing my cause.” 
 
 “He won’t be the only unpopular man in Caledonia,” said 
 the Doctor grimly. 
 
 “No; I’m a Jonah. I’m drowning all my friends.” 
 
 “ Bosh !” cried the Doctor impatiently, “ your friends can 
 take care of themselves; never mind them.” 
 
 “ Dalton,” said Vernet abruptly, “we can’t do much with- 
 out your confidence. And of course you know that the Doc- 
 tor here did not press for all that you might have told. Are 
 you willing to go over the ground again with us ?” 
 
 “ Perfectly,” said Dalton; “and to answer any questions | 
 that do not concern others more than myself. First of all, I 
 want to say that I thank the Doctor immensely for not being 
 too curious about that pistol.” 
 
 “ Why asked Vernet 
 
TUB STORY. OF THE PISTOL. 
 
 273 
 
 “ 'Because the pistol taken from my room was once the 
 property of Duke Selwyn, and the more I think ©f it, the more 
 I believe— although I can’t see how it can be— that the other 
 weapon was once Selwyn’s also.” 
 
 “ Oh!” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you how the one came Into my possession. As I 
 have said, Selwyn and I were college mates, and for a time 
 after we left college excellent friends. But our tastes were 
 not alike. Selwyn was inclined towards gayeties that did not 
 attract me. The first time I visited Selwyn at his rooms after 
 we were out of school, I saw upon his table a handsome case, 
 open and displaying a pair of pistols. That which I owned 
 is one of them. Of course I admired them; and Selwyn told 
 by what lucky stroke they fell into his hands. They were, as 
 you must have observed, really unique; and had once been 
 part of a rare collection of weapons.. I was setting myself up 
 as a connoiseur in such things, and of course talked much of 
 their fine workmanship and finish. 
 
 “ It was some weeks before I visited Selwyn again. The 
 pistol-case still lay open upon the table, but one of the weapons 
 was missing. I spoke of it, and Selwyn laughed and replied: 
 ‘ Yes ; I have given it to a friend/ ‘ You should have given 
 him both/ I said; ‘you have spoiled the set/ He laughed 
 again, and said: ‘We thought it would be fairer to divide/ 
 
 u We met occasionally for some four or five weeks. Again 
 he asked me to come to his rooms one evening, to meet two or 
 three friends. I went and found myself earl}'. Selwyn was 
 writing a letter, and I bade him go on, while I would amuse 
 myself. I felt quite at home, of course, and after looking 
 aimlessly about, I noticed the pistol-case closed and pushed 
 aside behind go me pieces of X dmw it out and 
 
274 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 opened it As I did so, Selwyn looked up and said : ' Are 
 you superstitious, Phil?’ ' Why ?’ I said; 'not usually/ 
 'Well/ said Selwyn, 'there’s a saying, I believe, that it is un- 
 safe to give a friend a deadly weapon ; that it is sure to breed 
 war. And I think there may be something in it/ 'Why?’ 
 
 I asked. 'Because the one upon whom I bestowed the mate J 
 of that pistol, has quarreled with me— or worse. Now, I’m 
 anxious to find out if it really was the pistol that did it/ 1 
 'Well,’ I said, 'suppose you give away this one and see what - 
 the result will be ?’ ' Good/ said he ; ' I’ll give it to you, 
 
 Phil; you’re the most peaceably inclined fellow that I know/ 
 
 ' Was the quarrel really so terrific?’ I asked. 'Unless I had / 
 been shot dead with my own weapon, it couldn’t have been 
 worse/ he replied. 
 
 " Just then the others came, and I shut the case and put it 
 down. When we broke up, Selwyn remembered our chaff, > 
 and made me take the pistol. ' I don’t want to keep the 
 thing/ he said, ' and I won’t be cheated out of my experiment/ 
 
 I took the pistol out of the case, and put it into my pocket. 
 'You may keep the shell/ I said laughingly; ' it will make a 
 more even distribution.” 
 
 He paused, and for a moment no one spoke, then he re- 
 sumed : 
 
 " I only saw Selwyn once, in the East, after that. I sailed 
 for Europe soon, and in my wanderings I got into the habit of 
 keeping the little pistol about me. It was dainty, and trim, 
 and true . When I carried a weapon, it was usually that ; and 
 I slept with it near at hand habitually, after waking to find a 
 burglar in my room one night, and seeing him escape, carry- 
 ing my watch with him, because no weapon was within my 
 reach.” 
 
THE STORY OF THE PSgJSH* 
 
 * And you did not see Selwyn again until reee&tJy?” asked 
 Vernet, 
 
 “ No," Dalton answered abruptly. He seemed trying to re* 
 call some thought. 
 
 “ Did he ever say anything that would give you a hint as 
 to the identity of the person owning the other pistol ?” 
 
 “I have told you absolutely all he said — except- — except 
 this: Last Winter, at our first meeting, I spoke of the two 
 pistols, and of his superstition. I showed him mine, and asked 
 him if he had seen the other. He frowned, and then laughed. 
 6 1 think I was very near it not long ago/ he said, i and I ex- 
 pect to encounter it once more — at least/ It almost seems as 
 if Fate had her hand in this affair/' 
 
 “Yes; it would appear that he did encounter it/* said 
 Vernet musingly. 
 
 “ If this unknown person, to whom Selwyn gave the pistol 
 so long ago, is the one who killed him/' said Doctor Mitchell, 
 “he must have been in Caledonia; may be here yet/' 
 
 “At any rate," said Vernet, “this business of the pistols 
 gives us a new point of view ; a fresh start, as it were. And, 
 Dalton, you did well to say nothing of this at the inquest/* 
 “If I had told this story there," said Dalton, “it would 
 have been looked upon as a trumped up tale,, to account for 
 the second pistol. It coidd have done no good." 
 
 “None," said Doctor Mitchell; “you were wise ttoS to 
 tell it.” 
 
278 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AILEEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 ' 
 
 At nine o’clock on the following morning, Philip Dalton 
 presented himself at Mrs. McAffery’s boarding-house. 
 
 Aileen had chosen her hour wisely, for Mack’s people were * 
 seldom astir so early, and the house was quiet, Aileen, Mrs, - 
 McAffery, and one over-worked “ girl” being the only ones 
 astir. Aileen Ixad treated the parlor to a little air, and ar- 
 ranged the curtains: so that they admitted a gentle half-light j 
 and it was she who opened the unpainted door to Dalton, be- 
 fore h* had found time to knock. 
 
 “ J- -iiw you pass the window,” she said, by way of explana- 
 tion* u Come this way, Mr. Dalton.” 
 
 Her voice was low, and her face very pale, but she seemed 
 qui **e calm as she ushered him into the little room and closed 
 the door. As she turned from the door they stood very near 
 eart other, and face to face. 
 
 Aileen!” he said eagerly; “Aileen I” And he held out 
 In ^ hands to her. 
 
 JBtii the girl drew back, and her face became, if that were 
 possible, a shade paler. 
 
 “ Pardon me,” he said quickly ; “ I forgot- — ” And then 
 a flush mounted to his forehead. “ Aileen — Aileen, is it pos- 
 sible — do you believe me guilty of — ” 
 
 “ Stop ! she cried sharply, and putting up her hand as if 
 to ward off a blow. “Stop! You shall not say it. Philip 
 
 
ArLEEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 27 ? 
 
 Dalton, whatever else I may doubt, I believe in yon x honor 
 always.” 
 
 “ Aileen— ” he came a step nearer, and she held her place, 
 looking at him steadfastly — “until to-dav I have thought, 1 
 believed, that you cared for Duke Selwyn. What did you 
 mean to-day, when you-—” he stopped suddenly; the right 
 Word would not come. 
 
 “When I said before all those people .that I would choose 
 you rather than him, for a friend ?” she asked. 
 
 HeP nodded. 
 
 “ I meant what I said j all of it.” 
 
 “You said that you did not like Selwyn.” 
 
 “ I say it now.” 
 
 “But you never said it before — -you let me think that you 
 eared more for his society than for mine.” 
 
 She turned with a weary gesture, and seated herself upon a 
 low chair. 
 
 “Sit down, please,” she said. And when lie had obeyed 
 her, she went on in a low even tone: “I will tell you the 
 truth now ; I did not tell it before. I allowed you to think 
 that I preferred the society of Duke Selwyn because I wanted 
 you to give me up- — to go back to your home. I had asked 
 you to go, and you would not.” 
 
 “ I could not,” lie corrected with a sad smile. 
 
 “It is the same thing. When I found that you had fol« 
 lowed me here, I said to myself ; ( I have been to blame after all. 
 I have done something, said something, looked something, that 
 he has taken as encourgemeut. He surely thinks I did not 
 mean what I^aicl/ Was that true?” 
 
 “ Ho ; not that; I felt only too sure that you were in earn* 
 eet. I followed, at first, aimlessly ; but when I saw you again, 
 
2TS 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY,. 
 
 ud gEfc&dtaess came back, I stayed hoping to make you 
 change your mind.” 
 
 ** Oh !” she murmured, catching her breath sobbingly, “did 
 I not tell you that it was impossible ? Why will you not * 
 give me up, hate me, anything but this. Do you not see all 
 the harm I have wrought you? Don’t you know that you 
 are spoiling your life? You have followed me for half a year 
 — from Yew York to this wretched place — and for what V 
 Oh ! have I been so bitterly to blame 1” 
 
 The hands in her lap were tightly clenched, there was a sob 
 in her throat, but her eyes were dry. 
 
 With a sudden passionate gesture, Philip Dalton sprang up, 
 and again stood before her, his tones almost stern. 
 
 “ Aileen Lome,” he said, “ I did follow you from New 
 York, and from place to place. That is true. But at first, 
 and for months, I believed that you tolerated me, at least. 
 You were kind; you permitted my services, my escort ; in- 
 deed, you favored mo— for during that time you never once 
 accepted so much as a flower from any other man. I followed 
 you hopefully, and with a purpose; and it was not until, at 
 last believing that you were learning to care for me a little, I 
 asked you to be my wife- — it was not until then that you bade 
 me go back ; forbade me to follow you further.” 
 
 A moment she bent her head, and then, seeming to control 
 herself by a mighty effort she looked up and said: 
 
 “ If I accepted your kindnesses, your friendship, and seemed 
 blind to the fact that you were following me, it was because I 
 never thought, I never dreamed, that you — cultured, traveled 
 aristocrat that you are— would stoop to ask me— a poor, roving 
 singer, a 6 variety actress’ — to be your wife.” 
 
 “ If you did not think this, in Heaven’s name what did you 
 think ? What did you mean ? or expect ?” 
 
27 $ 
 
 AILEEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 W I thought” — her voice was very low, and her calm evi- 
 dently forced— “ I thought that you were amusing yourself, 
 at first ; and later, that you had yielded to a fancy that must 
 wear itself out — for I believe you too proud, too far above me, 
 to think of making me your wife ; and too honorable to offer 
 me your love on any other terms. Believing this, I meant to 
 enjoy your society, your friendship, while I honestly could. 
 As for what I expected — I expected that which has come — • 
 loss and loneliness such as I never felt before.” 
 
 “Aileen Lome,” and again his hands went out to her, “do 
 you know what you are saying?” 
 
 “Yes; I know what I am saying, and I will say It out 
 When I said I would not marry you, and gave you a dozen 
 reasons, there was one that 1 did not give,” 
 
 “And what was that?” 
 
 “ That your welfare was dearer to me than my own ; that 
 I cared for you too much to link your fate with mine. Stop!” 
 for lie had made a sudden forward movement, his face radiant— 
 “stop ! You shall not touch me! You and 1 were never 
 further apart than at this moment. Hear it, if you will, for 
 the first and the last time, I loved you from the first ; I have 
 perjured myself before that Coroner and his jury for your sake • 
 I will die for you, if need be. But you must noi speak of love 
 to me again. You shall not.” 
 
 f "For a long moment he stood gazing down at her, as if tin* 
 able to comprehend her words. And then, suddenly, he be- 
 came calm 
 
 “Aileen,” he said gravely, “forgive me; this is so new, so 
 strange to me. "Will you say it once again — -just those three 
 words,' I will ask nothing else. Say once more that you care 
 
 I Tor me.” 
 
 “Care! i.usm You, Philip Daltpn” 
 
280 
 
 A UOUmAUs MYSTERY* 
 
 44 Listen, dear. I shall not speak of this again ; not ask for 
 word or promise now — I cannot. But when the cloud that 
 now hangs over me is dispersed, when in y honor is cleared, 
 if it ever is, then I shall come to you and repeat my question* 
 
 I will not give you up. Your scruples, your barriers, can- 
 not fence me out longer. I have your love: I will not 
 lose you.” 
 
 For a moment she sat staring at him strangely, and shiver-* 
 ing as if his words had been blows. Then she seemed to dis- 
 miss the subject by a quick gesture. 
 
 u I will say no more,” she said wearily. “ We have noth* 
 ing io do with the future. Is it true that you have declared 
 your intentions of remaining here until Duke Selwyn’s mur* 
 derer is found ?” 
 
 “Yes,” he said, smiling and confident now; “it is true.” 
 
 “Would anything, anything 9 induce you to change your 
 mind?” 
 
 “ Yothing, Adeem” He became suddenly grave. “ Surely 
 you could not expect me to run away from such a charge as 
 this?* 
 
 “ I do ask it,” she said. u I ask you to go away at once— 
 as far away as it is possible to escape: to India — anywhere— | 
 but go.” 
 
 “Aileen !” « 
 
 46 Oh ! yes ; I know your argument — it would be the act of 
 a coward ; it would brand you with infamy ; it would convince 
 the world of your guilt. But why should you care for the 
 opinion of these people— Jerry McAffery and his hangers-on ; 
 these miners and ruffians of the mountains ? What will it 
 matter to you, back there in your own world, among other 
 
282 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY# 
 
 accused, wrongfully accused and by a band of social outcasts, 
 of killing such a man as Duke Selwyu ?” 
 
 “ It will matter so much, dear, that I shall not go back to 
 my world, as you call it, until this mystery is cleared up. 
 Don’t you see that I can’t go back with this stigma upon me? 
 And more than that, more than all else to me, I can’t marry 
 the woman I love, I can’t even ask her to wait for me, until 
 my name is cleared of all stain.” 
 
 “ Your name!” Her hands clenched each other until the 
 nails cut deep into the pink flesh, and for a moment her features * 
 were convulsed. “ Oh ! you don’t know what you are saying! 
 Philip — Philip Dalton, it is the first favor I have asked of 
 you — it will be the only one I shall ever ask. But I do ask 
 this. By all that you are, by all that you hope, by your love 
 for me, I ask you to go away from Caledonia.” 
 
 “ Aileen, if nothing else held me here, I would not go while 
 you remain.” 
 
 “Oh ! I will go; I will go anywhere. I will go wherever 
 you bid me, if you go first, and promise me never to come 
 back.” 
 
 “Would you go with me , Aileen?” 
 
 “ With you ? No; nor near you. When we have left CaB 
 edonia, we must never meet again; we never will !” 
 
 “ Then let us both stay here. I can’t understand you, 
 Aileen, so I must wait and have patience— of faith in you I 
 have more than enough.” 
 
 “ Faith in me! Oh! my God!” 
 
 “But I could wish you were somewhere else, Aileen; away 
 from here, away from Mack’s. If you will promise to go East 
 — only so far as need be; to some quiet pleasant plasse— and 
 
 Wait there until this business is ended*—” 
 
AILEEN AND PHILIP. 
 
 283 
 
 **jHftidedI” What a queer emphasis she gave the echo of 
 his word. “Ended! Once and for all, Philip Dalton, will 
 you do what I beg? Remember, it is the one thing, the only 
 thing, that I ever will ask.” 
 
 “ Aileen, you are morbid : something that you do not choose 
 to explain is making you all this anxiety. What is it, darling; 
 tell me, and let us kill it.” 
 
 “Kill it!” What a bitter laugh she uttered. “Kill it! 
 Philip, answer me, will you go away ?” 
 
 “ No, Aileen. Ask me anything but that.” 
 
 “ It is all I have to ask.” 
 
 “ You do not realize what it would be, to do as you wish. 
 I cannot brand myself a coward. I cannot live all my life as 
 a suspected murderer. It would be worse than death. Aileen !” 
 —-springing towards her suddenly— “ how ghastly you look ! 
 Darling, don’t let this grieve you so.” 
 
 Ghastly ? Yes ; she looked like frozen marble. Her hands 
 had fallen apart in her lap,, her eyes stared straight before her, 
 but she sat erect, and spoke in a slow mechanical fashion 
 strange to hear. 
 
 “ Worse than death ?” she said. u Oh ! yes ; far worse, far 
 worse !” 
 
 “Aileen, calm yourself. You take this too seriously. 
 There is much to hope for.” 
 
 Her hands moved restlessly, she turned her head from side 
 to side. 
 
 “ There is nothing to hope for,” she said slowly ; “ nothing.” 
 
 He was silent a moment, watching her wonderingly. Then, 
 suddenly, light seemed to break upon his mental vision. 
 
 “Why,” he exclaimed, “ how very dull I am not to under- 
 stand! Aileen, you have heard of this threatening, this talk 
 
284 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 of ly ncli law, have you not ? Is it this that has alarmed you 
 
 for my safety ?” 
 
 For some moments she was silent. Then she arose, and 
 walked to the window, standing there with her back towards 
 him. When at last she spoke her tone was less strained, she 
 seemed to have recovered her self-possession. 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, “ I have heard it. It has alarmed me.” 
 “Then, I beg of you, do not heed this bluster, for it is 
 nothing more. At the worst, I am not defenceless, not friend- 
 less. I have more champions here than I thought to find. 
 And I have good hope, too, of discovering the truth ; of fasten- 
 ing the guilt where it belongs.” 
 
 He came to the window and stood near her there, but she 
 kept her face averted. 
 
 “ The gentleman who came with Miss Wray,” he went on, 
 
 46 is an old acquaintance; a friend. He is worth a dozen men 
 like Mack. And Doctor Mitchell has taken up the cudgels in 
 my defense. Between us, we will sift this business to the 
 bottom. My friend, Miss Wray’s escort — ” He hesitated, not 
 wishing to call Verne t by name and disliking to deceive her 
 even in this. 
 
 “Your friend?” she said. “I have seen your friend be- 
 fore. He is a detective.” 
 
 “ How do you know that?” he asked, surprised. M 
 
 “He was pointed out to me, when I was in New York, as 
 a person worth seeing. He had just performed some bold 
 stroke of his trade and was more or less a lion. He is to find 
 the true culprit for you ? Well,” turning towards him quickly, 
 
 “ I predict that he will succeed.” 
 
 “Thanks, dearest. That means much to me — -to us.’* Jfl 
 
 “Yes — ” she was entirely calm now, and her tone and atti« 
 
AILEEN AND PHILIP* 
 
 285 
 
 lu<3e had almost a touch of defiance — “ it means much — much l" 
 
 “Aileen," very gently*, “ was it about this — this business 
 of lynching and like threats — that you wished to see me to- 
 day?" 
 
 " Yes," quietly. 
 
 “ And this is why you desired me to go away ?" 
 
 Silence for a moment’ then, again, quietly, “yes." 
 
 “Well, let us consider that settled : I can’t go honorably. 
 But there is nothing to keep you. Will you go, for my sake ?" 
 
 “No," she said firmly; “ consider that settled, too." 
 
 “ But why, Aiken ?" 
 
 “Your reasons are mine; I can’t go ‘ honorably/" 
 
 “ Pshaw ! do you mean without breaking your engagement 
 at Mack’s ?" 
 
 “ No matter what I mean. I shall stay until the end." 
 
 “ Or until I go, Aileen ?" 
 
 “ Or until you go," she repeated mechanically* 
 
 “ Aileen, I wish you would not sing at Mack’s} you cannot 
 like to do it." 
 
 “I hate it." 
 
 “ Then stop it now." 
 
 “ No ; so long as I remain here, I shall sing at Mack’s." 
 
 “ But why, dearest 
 
 “ Because — ’’ She lifted her head and her eyes flashed upon 
 him ; then suddenly her gaze was averted, and she said, in 
 an altered, almost sullen, tone s “ I shall not tell you why." 
 
 When Philip Dalton, followed by Aileen, came out of the 
 little parlor and' opened the outer door, he was confronted 
 upon the street by a rough-looking fellow in a red flannel 
 shirt, and wearing his hat very much awry. 
 
286 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 “ Why !” ejaculated Dalton, and then stepped back invol* 
 mi tardy and glanced down at Aileen. 
 
 “S’kuse me, sir,” said this personage glibly; “ s’kuse me, 
 Mr. Dalton; this is Mack’s board in ’-house, ain’t It?” 
 
 Dalton nodded, and Aileen came to the rescue. 
 
 " Do you wish to see some one ?” she asked. 
 
 “ I’m try in’ to find Old Pop,” explained the visitor, “ He 
 lives here, I s’pose?” 
 
 “ Xo answered Aileen, “Pop does not live here. He stays 
 at the Theatre.” 
 
 “ Oh, thank ye/’ said the visitor; “ much obliged. Sorry to 
 a troubled ye. Good morning sir.” And lie turned and went 
 stumbling down the steps. 
 
 “Why,’* said Aileen, gazing after him as he went, “surely 
 that is — ” 
 
 “ One of the Coroner’s jury,” finished Dalton. “ He's a 
 queer genius. He calls himself Podunk.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 OVER THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 When Philip Dalton came back to the hotel, walking slowly 
 and absorbed with his own thoughts, he saw a light wagonette 
 before the door. It was drawn by a fine pair of horses and 
 had seats for four. 
 
 As he came nearer, Vernefc ran down the steps, pulling on 
 a gray glove. He saw Dalton, and stopped beside the wag- 
 onette. 
 
ovmi the p&Airtrm 
 
 28 ? 
 
 n Oh, here you are ; eh ?” was li is easy greeting. " I thought 
 you were going to disappoint me.” 
 
 “ Perhaps I should have told you,” said Dalton, half smil- 
 ing, “ that I had air engagement this morning.” But he did 
 not explain further. 
 
 Vernet smiled, too, but thought it best to ignore this remark, 
 feeling assured that Dalton did not wish nor intend to enter 
 into details. 
 
 “ You evaded me last night; are you going to desert me 
 now ?” he said. 
 
 “ No,” replied Dalton; “ I am quite at your service, al- 
 though, of course” — with a side glance at his friend— “ I per- 
 fectly understand your motive.” 
 
 But this remark also, Vernet chose to ignore. 
 
 He had told Philip Dalton, the night before, when they 
 were walking back together at a late hour from Doctor 
 Mitchell’s cottage/ that he proposed seeing Miss Wray and 
 Mountain Mag safely to Mag’s home on the morrow, and 
 had asked him to join the escort. And Dalton, thinking 
 only of Aileen and uncertain how much of his time she 
 might require, had answered evasively, a« little to the surprise 
 of V ernet. 
 
 a T think we are about ready,” the fatter said, securing his 
 well-fitting glove and casting a critical glance at the harness. 
 “ Have you any preparation to make ?” 
 
 “ No ; I think not. How is Miss Wray, this morning ?” 
 “ Quite calm and hopeful. For so delicate a creature, she 
 is wonderfully brave.” He spoke with a quick enthusiasm 
 and Dalton turned upon him a keen glance. 
 
 “Take care, Vernet,” he said half jestingly. tf There are 
 more dangers than one to be encountered here.” 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 388 
 
 “ And, to borrow a little of your own rhetoric, I should be 
 a coward to run away.” 
 
 “ Well,” responded Dalton, “I see that you recognize the 
 danger.” 
 
 The “ danger” thus delicately alluded to, came down the 
 steps at that moment — Barbara Wray, followed by Mountain % 
 Mag and Charley Carson. She gave her hand to Dalton in 
 friendly greeting, and Vernet assisted her into the wagonette. 
 She was followed by Mag, who disdained assistance. The two 
 men took their places, and, nodding to Charlie, the party drove 
 briskly away. 
 
 “ At least,” murmured Carson, as he stood gazing thought-^ 
 fully after them, “ Mr. Dalton is out of harm’s way for the " 
 present. I’m glad of that.” 
 
 As he turned to reenter the house, he saw a man cross the 
 street a little way down and come sauntering toward him. 
 
 “ Here’s that queer fellow, Podunk,” he said to himself. 
 “I’ll have a little chat with him, to pass the time.” 
 
 It was yet early, as time went in that place, and scarcely 
 anyone was moving about the St. Charles. 
 
 Charley lounged upon the lower step, where he could com- 
 mand a view of the office, and waited. 
 
 “Good morning,” he said, as Podunk approached. “Out 
 of business, eh ?” 
 
 Podunk, who had not seemed to see him, stopped short and 
 appeared to consider. 
 
 “ Wal, I ain ? t driven,” he said finally. Then casting a look 
 after the fast receding wagonette: “Taking a mornin’ airin’?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Charlie briefly. 
 
 Podunk sent a second look after Miss Wray’s party 
 slowly shook his head. 
 
OVER THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 “1 don’t know ’bout that business/’ lie said dolefully. “I 
 ain’t clear in my mind that we didn’t jest nachelyput our foot 
 into it” 
 
 “Into what?” asked Charlie. 
 
 <c Inter that kind o’ open verdict that we brung in.” 
 
 “Oh, your jury ? What kind of a verdict did you want?” 
 
 Charlie, who had heard of Pod unk’s hostility towards Dal- 
 ton and promptly resented it, thought he now saw an oppor- 
 tunity to make a convert. 
 
 “ Wal, I kinder wanted to see that slick fellow, Dalton, git 
 the benefit of the thing.” 
 
 “You mean you wanted him charged with the murder?” 
 
 Pod unk nodded, and burrowed with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 “ Look here — ” Charlie spoke sharply and came down the 
 two steps, thus putting himself on a level with Pod unk — “ I’d 
 like to hear what you know about this business, that you should 
 take such a stand against an honest gentleman. What have 
 you got against Dalton ?” 
 
 “ Nawthin’/’ drawled Podunk, casting a quick glance from 
 side to side. 
 
 “ Then what do you mean ?” demanded -Charlie. 
 
 Podunk cast another look about him and .came a step 
 nearer. 
 
 “ Say,” he remarked in a lower tone, “ be ye { on watch’ 
 now ?” 
 
 “ jSTo ; I put a man in my stead while I saw that Mr. Dal- 
 ton and his friends got their team, and a safe start.” 
 
 “Have ye got a place where ye can take a man that’s got 
 anything pertickler and private to say to ye, where there won’t 
 be no interruptin’ ?” 
 
 “ I’ve got a room,” replied Charlie, a trifle coldly, “ and 
 
290 
 
 A MOUHtTAtK MYSTMKlf. 
 
 there wouldn’t be much danger of interruption anywhere, at 
 tins hour.” 
 
 “Then,” said Podunk, touching him lightly upon the arm, 
 “s’poseyou take me to ye’r room. I want a little talk with you.” 
 “ Umph ! If you want to tell me that you think Dalton’s 
 guilty, you’ve got hold of the wrong man, Mr. Podunk.” 
 
 “ And if you think I don’t know what I’m about, you’ve 
 got hold of the wrong man, Mr. Carson.” 
 
 The words were low spoken, and there was no trace of the 
 man Podunk in the look which accompanied them; a look 
 keen, intelligent, straight into the eyes of Charlie Carson, who 
 started and was about to utter an exclamation. 
 
 “ Hush,” said Podunk, anticipating him. “If you are a 
 friend to Philip Dalton, the quicker we understand each other 
 the better.” 
 
 Charlie was startled, but he was not dull, 
 
 “Come,” lie said turning toward the door ; “follow me.” 
 
 The stout team attached to the light conveyance, carried 
 Miss Wray and her friends swiftly over the smooth prairie. 
 The air was exhilirating, calm sunshine overhead, fresh spring 
 turf beneath the horses’ feet. The trail they traversed was lit- 
 tle worn, and Mountain Mag was often called upon to decide 
 whether it was really a trail at all. Their way lay to the 
 south-east, over a softly undulating prairie, with only one small 
 stream to cross. A few miles to the eastward stretched a long 
 belt of timber. Beyond, in the direction of the ranch, all was 
 open. to the mountains in the- distance. And west and south- 
 west again, stretched the timber land, a long dusky line, with 
 the mountains, here barren rock and there tree clad, rising 
 high behind it. 
 
OVER THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 29 | 
 
 Tmt were not a talkative party but they were all fl for dif- 
 ferent reasons, very observant of each other, and the scene 
 about them. 
 
 “ You seem to be midway between those two belts of tim- 
 ber, Miss Drood,” said Dalton addressing Mag over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 “Yes,” replied Mag; “my father preferred the mountains 
 to live among. He left them more on my account than his 
 own.” 
 
 “ I should not think,” said Miss "Wray, “that the mountains 
 would have been very safe for you.” 
 
 “ So my father feared,” said Mag, “ although I ? ve always 
 been safe enough anywhere ” 
 
 “ Miss Drood is a good shot,” put in Vernet at this point. 
 “Ask her to show you what she can do in that line, Miss 
 
 Wray.” 
 
 “ I surely will,” said Barbara in a tone so emphatic that it 
 'made them all laugh. 
 
 “Are you afraid of firearms, Miss Wray ?” asked Mag. 
 
 “ I don’t know whether I am or not,” said Barbara can- 
 didly. “ I never touched a weapon. When you have noth- 
 ing better to do, we will find out.” 
 
 “ Do you ride ?” asked Mountain Mag of Barbara, after a 
 short silence. 
 
 “ Oh, yes; and I’m very fond of a good horse.” 
 
 “ Well, I can furnish you with one. And there’s plenty of 
 riding over these prairies.” 
 
 “I should think so,” gazing about her. “And I should 
 like to ride to those woods.” 
 
 “ Before you go there,” said Mag slowly, “ you had better 
 kern to shoot.” 
 
292 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Oh !” cried Barbara, “ is it there V ’ And then she stopped 
 
 suddenly, and said under her breath: “ My poor father !” 
 
 She had schooled herself to patience, knowing that they 
 would do all that they could — all that any one could — -to find 
 her father. And she was bravely trying to keep down her 
 anxiety, and not to yield to the fears that assailed her. She 
 was silent for a moment, and then, leaning forward, she ad- 
 dressed Vernet. 
 
 “ Mr. Morgan, in which of these w r oods did you encounter 
 the stage robbers ?” 
 
 “ Spare me, Miss Wray,” he said turning tz look at her. . 
 “I didn’t encounter the stage robbers; I simply ran away 
 from them. I assure you I did not pause for one second.” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Mag, “ we ail understand that Old Morris 1 
 laid on the whip when he saw them ahead, and ran the horses 
 past them.” 
 
 “How was that?” asked Dalton. 
 
 “It appears,” replied Vernet, “that he had studied out 
 
 blamed for not showing more fight. He was determined r 
 to fight, but thought he would see what his horses could do 
 help him out. It was a new trick and surprised the robbe 
 1 fancy, as much as it did me.” 
 
 “ We must try again,” said Dalton. “ The next time y 
 go up the mountain, I’ll go with you.” 
 
 “Good !” exclaimed Vernet. 
 
 They were now half way to the ranch, and before them w 
 a small elevation which effectually concealed the creek tl 
 they must cross, and the trail beyond. As they came sloy 
 up the hill, they saw two men watering their horses at t 
 creek below them. As they began the descent* the V 
 
 line of conduct. He had been stopped twice, and been sever* 
 
OVER THE PRAIRIES. 
 
 293 
 
 horsemen crossed the stream and came slowly toward them. 
 
 Dalton and Vernct ; following the fashion of the country, 
 saluted them as they passed, receiving in return two nods of 
 (lie head that were next to imperceptible. 
 
 Nothing was said until the wagonette had crossed the creek, 
 and then Mountain Mag leaned forward and touched Vernet’s 
 arm. 
 
 “ I saw you looking at those two men,” she began hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 “Yes,” he said; “I look at everybody here. I make it a 
 duty.” 
 
 “Why?” 
 
 “Why?” with a laugh. “I am a sight-seer, Miss Drood. 
 I came to see everything.” 
 
 “ Do you think you would know those men again ?” per- 
 sisted Mag seriously. 
 
 “ I think I have seen one of them somewhere. Yes ; I 
 would know them anywhere. Dm very observant, I assure 
 you.” 
 
 “ Fm glad of it,” said Mag. 
 
 “ Why ? Do you know them ?” 
 
 “ Yes; I know them. They are two of the Regulators.” 
 “Oh ! They’re coming from your direction, Miss Drood.” 
 “They’re not coming from my ranch,” said Mag positively, 
 “ They wouldn’t find any one to welcome them there.” 
 
 “ May I ask why ?” 
 
 “Because I won’t have them about, if they are Regulators. 
 I don’t see what Connolley means by enlisting such men as 
 Iledley and Pete Finlayson.” 
 
 ~ “Why,” said Vernet, struck by a sudden thought, “ if they 
 haven’t been to your place, where have they been?” 
 
 I io 
 
294 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 He turned to get a better view of Mag’s face, and their 
 eyes met for just one instant. Then Mag sank back in her 
 seat, as if to end the discussion. 
 
 “ If they’ve been to my place,” she said briefly, “ we’ll soon , 
 know it.” 
 
 Her glance traveled past Miss Wray, who was looking wist- 
 fully at a distant mountain peak, and rested upon Philip Dal- 
 ton, who was gazing straight before him and seemed lost in 
 thought. 
 
 “ Hedley — Finlayson,” said Vernet to himself, as he turned 
 his face to the horses and shook the reins lightly. u Those 1 
 are the two Regulators who wanted Miss Lome questioned, , 
 and who are Mack’s right hand men. I must talk with the 
 Doctor about them.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell, it should be explained, had told the two 
 detectives how Connolley had requested that Miss Lome be 
 recalled, and had given them the names of Hedley and Fin- 
 lay son. 
 
 Mountain Mag’s home was a low, rambling structure, built 
 and enlarged as the needs of its occupants increased. It 
 could lay no claims to architectural beauty. It was “ all 
 on the ground,” but there was room enough and to spare. 
 
 It was simply furnished, with a view to use and some de- 
 gree of comfort. And Barbara Wray was pleased to note 
 the nice order, the perfect neatness of everything, within and 
 without. 
 
 Dalton and Vernet had very willingly accepted Mag’s in- 
 vitation to stay to dinner, and all three of her guests spent a 
 little time in walking about, viewing the well ordered place. 
 When they were within, and waiting the call to dinner, Ver- 
 net said to Barbara; * 
 
OVER THE PRAIRIES, 
 
 295 
 
 “ Before we go back, Miss Wray, I want a little informa- 
 tion about your father.” 
 
 “ Anything; ask me everything/’ she said eagerly. 
 
 “ First, then, have you a picture of him ?” 
 
 “ Oh, a very good one : Mr. Dalton will tell you so. It 
 is in my trunk, which will be here soon, I suppose.” 
 
 “Well, perhaps, not before we leave; but we can come 
 again. And have you those letters from your father — the ones 
 sent you immediately after his arrival in Caledonia?” 
 
 “ Yes; all of them, I think.” 
 
 “ When you wrote to your father, how did you address 
 him?” 
 
 “I did not write to him. His instructions were, not to 
 write. He would write me frequently, to inform me of his 
 welfare, and he could be tolerably sure of mine, among friends 
 as I was.” 
 
 Vernet was silent, and his look one of surprise. 
 
 “ Did he make this arrangement before leaving home?” he 
 asked finally. 
 
 “ No ; his first letter contained his instructions.” 
 
 There was another interval of silence, and then Vernet asked : 
 
 “ Miss Wray, will you trust me with your father’s picture 
 and those letters ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes; anything!” She caught her breath, as if she 
 would keep back some impetuous words, and then suddenly 
 yielded to the impulse that swayed her. “ Won’t you tell me 
 what you think ?” she cried. “ Your request means some- 
 thing, I know.” 
 
 “I have only one definite idea, Miss Wray,” Vernet said 
 gravely, “and that may yet turn out a wrong one. It is, that 
 your father, after leaving his home — alter reaching this place, 
 
296 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 perhaps — found some reason for concealing his identity by as* 
 turning another name.” 
 
 “ Oh ! And why do you think that?” 
 
 “ Because his name does not appear on any of the registers. 
 No one seems to have heard of such a person here. Now if 
 your father wrote you several times from Caledonia, if lie was 
 here a week or more, we would find some trace of him if he 
 went by the name of Stephen Wray.” 
 
 “ True,” she said; “I did not think of that.” 
 
 “ I would like to know,” went on Vernet, “ something 
 about your father, Miss Wray ; his temper, his disposition. 
 Was he at all inclined to be venturesome ; to take risks ?” 
 
 “ My father was a man of strong will. If lie saw fit to do 
 a thing, that was reason enough to him why it should be done. 
 He was not a coward; not a man to give up easily.” 
 
 “ Suppose — and mind this is only a supposition; you are 
 not to be alarmed at it- — suppose that some man or men, know- 
 ing your father’s wealth, had been able to get him into their 
 power, their object being to extort a large sum of money by 
 way of ransom — what do you think he would be likely to do?” 
 She was silent a moment, and then her head went up proudly, 
 and her eyes rested full upon his face. 
 
 “ He would laugh at their demands,” she said. cc 1 am sure 
 of it. He would not be intimidated.” She looked at him 
 earnestly, as if longing to ask something, but held her peace 
 and waited for his next question. It came after another in- 
 terval of silence. 
 
 “ Do you know whether your father brought with him any 
 large sum of money, or any valuable papers?” 
 
 “Yes; he brought money — quite a sum— and negotiable 
 papers of considerable value.” 
 
ALMOST AN ADVENTURK. 
 
 297 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 ALMOST AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 A short time before their departure. Mountain Mag ap- 
 proached Vernet and said : 
 
 “I would like to show you some guns that I have.” 
 
 “By all means,” said Vernet, and followed. her at once 
 from the room. 
 
 Mag did not affect a display of her weapons ; she knew 
 nothing of such use, or lack of use, for firearms. She led him 
 to the long narrow room in which they had dined, and threw 
 open a closet door. 
 
 “ Why,” exclaimed Vernet, “ you beep an arsenal !” 
 
 “Yes,” said Mag grimly; “they don’t eat nor drink, and 
 they might come handy. ‘ A store’s no sore,’ my father used 
 to say; and folks in this country don’t think none the less of 
 you through knowing that you keep a lot of guns, and under- 
 stand how to use them.” 
 
 Vernet started at a thought which suddenly presented it- 
 self. 
 
 “Miss Drood,” he said, “is there a possibility of an attack 
 upon your place? Has it ever happened ?” 
 
 Mag smiled. “No,” she said; “it’s never happened yet ; 
 my father, in his day, wasn’t a man to be trifled with. No; 
 we’ve never been molested. Everybody knows that Michael 
 Brood’s guns shoot true, and that they weren’t buried with 
 him.” She laid her hand upon a fine rifle and drew it from 
 
298 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 its place. <c This was my father’s pet gun/’ she said, u and 
 I’m going to lend it to you.” 
 
 {i Thanks, Miss Drood, — ” taking the weapon from her hand 
 and examining it critically — -“it is a fine gun; but I have a 
 Winchester at the St. Charles, and a very good one.” 
 
 “ But,” said Mag, looking steadily at him, “ you haven’t it 
 
 here” 
 
 “ Miss Drood,” said Vernet, coming a step nearer her, “I 
 have known you long enough to feel sure that your words mean 
 something. What is it?” 
 
 “ I mean that I want you to take this gun with you to-day, 
 and Mr. Dalton must take this” 
 
 She drew from the closet a second rifle, and held it toward 
 him. 
 
 “ But Dalton and I are well armed, Miss Margaret.” 
 
 “ With pistols ?” 
 
 “ Yes” 
 
 " Listen ; there are men in Caledonia who want to see Mr. 
 Dalton out cf the way, and it would be a simple thing for 
 some one who knows that you two will drive over the prairie 
 alone, to ride out, meet you, and shoot one or both. 
 Pistols are good weapons at close range, but if you see two or 
 three men coming toward you, and show them a rifle, they will 
 be apt to keep out of danger, especially if they carry only pistols. 
 That’s the way they’d be armed, I dare say ; and they’d have 
 an advantage over you in being on horseback. You’ll take 
 the guns ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Vernet soberly; " we will take the guns. 
 Thank you, Miss Drood.” 
 
 When they had said adieu to Miss Wray and were ready to 
 start, Mag brought out the rifles with her own hands. 
 
ALMOST AN ADVENTUKE. 29$ 
 
 “ They’re well loaded,” she said as* she passed them, one at 
 a time, up to Vernet. 
 
 “Guns!” exclaimed Dalton as they drove away; “are we 
 going to hunt, old man ?” 
 
 " Perhaps,” said Vernet, giving his entire attention to the 
 eager horses, and saying no more until they were some dis- 
 tance from the ranch. Then he told his companion what had 
 passed between himself and Mountain Mag, on the subject of 
 the guns. 
 
 “ Do you think it means anything more than a woman’s 
 caution ?” asked Dalton, after a moment’s reflection. 
 
 “ Yes. Mag is intensely practical. She is not given to vain 
 imaginings. I think she acted upon some knowledge or sus- 
 picion that she holds.” 
 
 There was another thoughtful pause, during which Dalton 
 examined Michael Drood’s rifle with the eye of a connoisseur . 
 
 Then : 
 
 “ Do you think that Mountain Mag knows where to look 
 for Cool Hank?” he asked. 
 
 “ I can’t tell what to think. Mag knows more than she 
 means to explain. But I’m convinced of one tiling: she is 
 to be trusted. If worst comes, she will be found on the right 
 side. If Mag is seeking to defend Hank Dutton, it’s because 
 she has faith in him.” 
 
 “ Faith in him !” The words recalled to Dalton’s mind his 
 morning’s meeting with Aileen Lome. He rested the rifle 
 between his knees, and relapsed into reverie. 
 
 As they sped on over the gently undulating prairie, Vernet 
 from time to time stole a glance at his face; and if he had 
 spoken his thoughts, he would have said: 
 
 44 Ah, my friend Dalton, Mountain Mag is not the only 
 
300 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 one who deals in mystery , and keeps back the best half of the 
 story !” * 
 
 To do Dalton justice, he was sensible of the value of Ver- 
 net’s friendship, and esteemed him entitled to his fullest con- 
 fidence. Had he consulted only his own will, he would have 
 told Vernet all the story of his love for Aileen and his reck- 
 less pursuit of her. But before, there had been no suitable 
 opportunity; and now, since the morning, and his talk with 
 Aileen, he felt that the story was not his own — that although 
 she had not said it, she did not wish their secret shared with an- I 
 other, not even if so good a friend as Vernet was sure to prove. 
 
 Such reflections as these made him more than usually quiet, 
 and for some time they drove on in silence. They were not 
 far from the creek were they had met the two Regulators, and 
 Vernet was driving briskly, and keeping a watchful eye upon 
 the horizon all about him, while Dalton mused and saw noth- 
 ing, when the latter roused himself to say : 
 
 “ I’m bad company to-day, Vernet. Here—” proffei'ing 
 his cigar-case, — “ take one : it may prove stimulating.” 
 
 But Vernet, casting a side glance at the proffered weeds, ■; 
 shook his head. 
 
 cc I believe I won’t smoke,” he said. (C Poor fellow ! if my 
 eyes don’t deceive me, those are Caledonians; and have you 
 come to this ? All the rest is nothing in comparison, but Phil 
 Dalton smoking Caledonia cigars is pathetic ! It moves me 
 to offer you a weed imported from God’s country. Here, my 
 boy, take it; enjoy it. Oh! how are the mighty fallen,” 
 Dalton laughed at his friend’s conceit, and helped himself 
 from his cigar case. 
 
 “ I believe it is an improvement,” he admitted, as he lighted 
 the cigar. 
 
ALMOST AN ADVENTUKE. 
 
 301 
 
 Vernet made no answer. His eyes, keen by nature and 
 quickened by training, were fixed upon a dark object straight 
 ahead, at the top of the hill just beyond the stream they were 
 approaching. It appeared like some small animal, he thought, 
 but when they were a little nearer, he put out his hand and 
 proffered the reins to Dalton. 
 
 “I believe I will smoke.” he said quietly, 
 
 Dalton received the reins without comment, and Vernet 
 took out a cigar and stuck it between his lips. But he did 
 not light it until he had lifted Michael Drood’s rifle and laid 
 it across his knees. Then he coolly lighted his cigar, keeping 
 his eyes fixed constantly upon the dark object at the top of 
 the hill. 
 
 “ Ease up a little,” he said quietly, when they were nearing 
 the creek. 
 
 Dalton brought the horses to a steady walk, and turned to 
 ask the meaning of his friend’s sudden command. He saw 
 Vernet rise from the seat, raise the rifle to his shoulder, and 
 take deliberate aim. 
 
 “ What are you doing ?” cried Dalton amazed. 
 
 ^ Keep cool,” replied Vernet, himself the incarnation of 
 coolness. “ There’s something moving at the top of that hill; 
 and as there are no anacondas nor diamond snakes here, I 
 think it must be a man crawling on his stomach.” 
 
 “ Oh !” ejaculated Dalton, darting a quick glance up the 
 hill. “By Jove, you’re right! He sees you, too. Don’t 
 fire, Van. Let the fellow go.” 
 
 “ He isn't alone ; don’t think it,” said Vernet, still sighting 
 his rifle. “He’s got friends behind that hill. Hello!” 
 
 He lowered his gun and laughed aloud. The man upon the 
 hill top had risen to his feet, and scampered out of sight be-* 
 
302 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 hind the hill. V ernet resumed his seat but kept the rifle iu 
 readiness. 
 
 “I think this is what Mountain Mag prepared us for/* he 
 said. “ Drive steadily up the hill, old man, and be ready to 
 stop at the word. Keep both hands on your reins. If I 
 should fire — ** 
 
 “ Humph F* ejaculated Dalton, “ you won’t need to fire, if 
 that fellow is a sample of what remains behind.** 
 
 They crossed the creek and drove slowly up the hill, seeing 
 nothing. At the top, Dalton broke into a laugh. 
 
 “ Look F* lie exclaimed, pointing with his whip where four 
 mounted men were riding across the prairie, away from them 
 and toward the west, at a breakneck gallop. 
 
 “ If I were mounted/* cried Vernet, “ I’d follow; I*d run ' 
 them down f* He rose again in his seat and looked after 
 them wistfully. 
 
 “ To shoot them ?** queried Dalton. “ You can*t consist- 
 ently shoot men for crawling on their bellies, and galloping 
 over the prairies, can you?** 
 
 “To see them/* said Vernet, sitting down. “One glance * 
 might help me to considerable knowledge. This is- the second 
 time that spies, or worse, have got out of our way before I 
 could put my mark of identification on them.** 
 
 “ The second ?** echoed Dalton. 
 
 “Yes. Have you forgotten the fellow you caught under 
 Mitchell’s window last night? I*m sorry Charlie Carson 
 failed to run him down.** 
 
 “ It ivas not Charlie’s fault/* said Dalton. 
 
 “ Certainly not. None the less it’s our misfortune.** 
 
 Charlie Carson had reported his success, or lack of it, to j 
 Dalton that morning. He had followed the spy, who had 
 
ALMOST AN ADVENTURE, 
 
 SOS 
 
 broken away from Dalton’s grasp under the window of Doo 
 tor Mitchell’s cottage, until they were near to Mack’s Theatre. 
 Both men were running rapidly, when something in the path 
 caused Carson to stumble and fall. When he regained his 
 feet, and was able to look about him, the fellow had disap- 
 peared. 
 
 “ If the Doctor had brought the lamp to the door at first—” ■ 
 began Dalton. 
 
 “ If, and if, and if,” ejaculated Vernet. 
 
 Dalton was silent a moment ; then suddenly he started : 
 
 “ I begin to think that I am very stupid,” he exclaimed. 
 
 “ Oh, you are ? And why ?” 
 
 “ When we were clinching each other there, I got hold of 
 one of the fellow’s hands. I think— in fact I am sure — from 
 the position, that it must have been the right hand. And it 
 was covered with big, hard, round lumps — ” 
 
 “Warts?” suggested Vernet. 
 
 “ Why, of course ! It must have been ! And I never 
 thought to mention this before.” 
 
 “Well,” commented Vernet, “you were — ” Evidently he 
 was about to say “ stupid,” but he changed his intentions and 
 said, instead, “preoccupied.” 
 
 Dalton glanced at him sidewise; but Vernet was looking 
 straight ahead and saying to himself, “I must tell Dick of 
 those warts at once.” 
 
 “ You are right,” Dalton said ; “ I was preoccupied. But 
 it’s very good of you to call it by so mild a name.” 
 
 “ Oh,” said Vernet laughing, “ my goodness was an after- 
 thought ; moderate your gratitude.” 
 
104 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEtfY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 “ SIGNS AND OMENS.” 
 
 Duke Selwyn was buried that afternoon; and V ernet and 
 Dalton arrived in time to join the throng which gathered about 
 his grave. When it was over, there was a scattering, and then 
 an almost immediate gathering together, in knots and groups 
 in divers places, of such choice spirits as were mutually at* 
 tracted toward each other. • M 
 
 There was very little loud talk among these groups, but 
 they talked a great deal, and seemed very much in earnest. I 
 To Vernet, this evident stir, coupled with the unusual ab- 
 sence of noise, seemed ominous. He had nojt met Podunk 
 since the morning, and he had only seen Doctor Mitchell at a 
 distance, in the crowd about Selwyn’s grave. He felt restless 
 and uneasy, and kept a constant watch upon Dalton, who 
 smoked in the office and seemed the more unconcerned of the 
 two. 
 
 At dusk, Vernet took a sudden resolve and set out alone , 
 for the Doctor’s cottage. Before he had gone half way he saw 
 the tall form of the Doctor approaching, and the two, meeting, 
 expressed their mutual anxiety in the single syllable simultane- 
 ously uttered : 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 (C Is it well ?” queried Vernet, turning and pacing back to- 
 ward the hotel 
 seeking you.” 
 
 “ For what ?” inquired the Doctor. 
 
 by the Doctor’s side. “ I feel uneasy. I was 
 
“signs and omens.” 305 
 
 “ To ask you to help me keep an eye on Dalton. I’m afraid 
 of a demonstration to-night, and Dalton’s in a reckless mood. 
 I don’t believe he’ll try to be prudent.” 
 
 “ I was coming to 'look up this business/’ said Doctor 
 Mitchell. 
 
 “ There will naturally be more or less uproar to-night. We 
 must go well armed, and keep Dalton with us. Have you 
 seen your friend Podunk since morning?” 
 
 “ No. But he’ll be sure to turn up if danger threatens.” 
 As they neared the hotel, they saw a slender figure glide 
 down the steps and move away in the direction of Mack’s. 
 
 “Wasn’t that Father Miles?” asked the Doctor of Charlie, 
 who came out just as they reached the lowest step. 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Umph !” ejaculated the Doctor. “Odd to see him here.” 
 “He’s been about town all day,” volunteered Charlie; 
 “something new for the good Father. I’ve seen him loiter- 
 ing and listening in half a dozen places. Early this afternoon 
 he had a long talk with that fellow Podunk.” 
 
 “Umph!” grunted Doctor Mitchell, and passed on into the 
 office, where Dalton. still sat and smoked. 
 
 But Vernet did not follow him. lie stopped in response 
 to a signal from Charlie Carson, who stood between him and 
 the office door, grinning broadly. 
 
 “Your friend told me to tell you that he intended to spend 
 most of the night at Mack’s,” he remarked in a low voice. 
 “He said if he was wanted vou’d find him there.” 
 
 “What friend?” asked Vernet. 
 
 “Podiftik,” said Charlie, still grinning; “or Stanhope .” 
 “Oh !” said Vernet, his eye lighting; “so you have come 
 into the ring ?” 
 
SOS 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY- 
 
 “Yes; Pm in the ring. Pm going to see it through.” 
 
 The two men looked straight into each other’s faces for a 
 moment. And then, as if satisfied with their scrutiny, Ver- 
 net said: 
 
 “"We’re glad to have you with us, Carson. Will yon 
 smoke ?” 
 
 Charlie accepted the proffered cigar, and the two entered the 
 office. 
 
 As the moments passed, the evil signs increased. Prom 
 time to time dark faces peered in at the office door, and then 
 vanished instantly. Whispering groups passed the hotel, halted |j 
 before the entrance, peered about them and conversed briefly, | 
 while one of their number thrust his face for a moment in at 
 the door or up against a convenient window pane. At certain 
 street corners clusters of men talked animatedly, invariably 
 stopping and remaining silent while any chance passer-by was 
 within hearing. 
 
 It was only at Mack’s that things seemed very much as 
 usual. The Theatre had been closed for forty-eight hours, but 
 to-night all the lamps were aglow. The bar was doing its 
 customary lively business. At the usual time, a blare of not 
 too harmonious instruments told all Caledonia, quite unneces- 
 sarily, that Mack’s was in full blast. 
 
 Mack was flying about the place as was his wont; now § 
 speaking sharp words of advice or reprimand to his bar* 
 keepers, above and below ; now greeting a new comer, or a 
 profitable old customer, with effusion ; now arguing with his 
 stage manager; now diving behind the scenes, and swearing, 
 in this privacy, quite unreservedly at whatever had gone 
 wrong; then bouncing out again, beaming and bowing and. 
 rubbing his hands for the benefit of the increasing public^for 
 
307 
 
 “sighs and omens.” 
 
 Mack had a role, as well as his performers, and he played it 
 better than most of his people did theirs. 
 
 Another thing was noticeable, to a person Jooking out for 
 signs by which to gauge the popular pulse : none of the 
 
 Regulators, who. for two days, had been so conspicuous as a 
 body, were to be seen, except singly, as detached individuals. 
 And of these, even, few were visible. As for Connolley, he 
 was notably conspicuous by his absence from all of his ac- 
 customed haunts. 
 
 While the band was braying in front of Mack’s, calling his 
 votaries together, the loungers in the office of the St. Charles 
 were, one and all, surprised to see the outer door open and 
 Father Miles enter slowly and sedately. Their surprise grew 
 as without any seeming purpose, except to pass the time as the 
 ethers were doing, he seated himself and began to look about 
 with mild interest, making no attempt to converse. After a 
 time, Charlie Carson paused near him, and Father Miles put 
 out his hand with a detaining gesture. 
 
 “ My son,” he said, “ can you give me a room in your house 
 to-night ?” 
 
 Charlie looked grave, and then his face brightened. 
 
 “ If I can’t otherwise, you shall have mine, Father Miles,” 
 he said. 
 
 “ If I may share it with you,” said the good man, “I will 
 accept your kindness.” 
 
 “Have it as you like,” answered the young man, “but I 
 don’t much expect to see a bed to-night.” 
 
 Father Miles scanned his face fora moment, and then turned 
 away, sighing softly. 
 
 After a time, Doctor Mitchell, who had been conversing 
 
 with Dalton, came aid sat down at the Father’s side. 
 
 9 
 
308 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 \ 
 
 “ It’s not often we have you among us wordly folks like 
 this,” he said in his usual blunt fashion. 
 
 “ No,” said the Father gently. And then he added, in a 
 still lower tone: “Blit there are times when a man should be 
 something more than a priest.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell suppressed the “Umpli!” that rose naturally 
 to his lips when no other fitting word occurred to him, and 
 said instead, “Oh — ah.” 
 
 “I don’t see clearly what I can do,” went on Father Miles, 
 “ but if that young man is menaced to-night” — he nodded to- 
 ward Dalton as he spoke — “I could not stand aside while the 
 wrong was done.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell stared in astonishment, and theii his eyes 
 brightened. 
 
 “Why,” he said, “then there are six of us!” 
 
 “ Six ?” 
 
 “Yes. But you will see. What is it, Charlie?” for 
 Charlie had approached and touched him lightly upon the 
 arm. 
 
 “ I don’t like the way things are looking,” Charlie said. 
 And then he glanced at the Priest. 
 
 “Go on, Charlie,” said the Doctor. “Father Miles is 
 with us.” 
 
 “Is he? Well, I rather suspected it. Now, hadn’t I bet- 
 ter go out and take a peep around ? go down to Mack’s, say ?” 
 
 “ Wait a second,” replied the Doctor. And watching his 
 opportunity, he signalled Vernet to join them. 
 
 At the same time Father Miles crossed the room, and, seat- 
 ing himself beside Dalton, entered into conversation* 
 
 For a few moments, the three conferred together. The 
 office was nearly deserted, and they were quite alone on that 
 
“signs and omens.” 309 
 
 side of tlie room. Finally the Doctor resumed the seat lie had 
 occupied near Dalton, and Vernet and Charlie Carson went out 
 one after the other. 
 
 It was nearly an hour before they came back, and then the 
 Doctor, Dalton and Father Miles were the sole occupants of 
 the place. All the other habitues , drawn by the strange, silent 
 magnet stirring the atmosphere without, either through fear, 
 curiosity, or motives of prudence had gone, like Sister Anne, 
 “to spy what she could from the watch tower.” 
 
 Charlie was the first to return. Before speaking, he looked 
 about the office, 'opened the door beyond the counter that con- 
 nected with a small private room, and then stuck his head out 
 into the hall. 
 
 “ Well ?” said Doctor Mitchell, when he had completed hik 
 investigations ; “ how goes the night ?”. 
 
 “ Dark,” said Charlie, “ and dubious.” 
 
 At this moment Vernet entered, closely followed by Po- 
 
 dunk. 
 
 “ I met this person,” said Vernet, speaking with an air of 
 severity assumed for the benefit of Dalton and Father Miles. 
 “One would think that lie never was sober — ” Pod unk was 
 certainly very unsteady on his legs — “ but he seems in his right 
 mind, and he says — .” He glanced from Dalton to the Priest, 
 and hesitated. 
 
 “ What does he say ?” broke in Dalton. “ What is it, Po- 
 dunk ?” 
 
 • “ Misser Dalton,” said Podunk with tipsy gravity, “ I — I 
 ain’t got nothin’ agin ye — nothin’ agin nobody — but I don’t 
 like fusses. I alius keep out o’ — fusses. But I — jes think 
 its — s’ my duty — ter tell yer — that — that there’s a nigger in the 
 fence. An’ ye’d better look-look out.” 
 
310 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Do you mean,” said Dalton, fixing a keen eye upon Fo* 
 dunk, who was playing his drunken role to the life, “ do you 
 mean that there’s a mob gathering?” 
 
 Podunk wagged his head in emphatic assent. 
 
 “ Where?” 
 
 “ Wal, I guess when they break loose ’twon’fc be fur fran* 
 here” replied Podunk. 
 
 “ How soon ?” 
 
 Podunk shook his head. “ I didn’t aim ter come in here,” 
 he said, looking from one to the other and backing toward the 
 door, “but that gen’le’man — kind of insisted — ” 
 
 “ Brought him along by the collar,” explained Charlie. K 
 
 “ Jes’ so,” said Podunk. “ But I aint any earthly use in 
 a skrimmage, so I guess I’ll be goin’, I hate fitin’; it makes 
 me nervous.” 
 
 He backed out, and they heard him stumbling down the steps. 
 In a moment the five men were on their feet, looking from one 
 to another. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said Dalton finally, “ I see by your faces that 
 you mean to make my quarrel yours. I need not say now 
 how much I appreciate it. But I cannot consent to drag you 
 further with me. What would we be against a mob? You 
 would only eudanger yourselves uselessly. I am not afraid 
 of these people, and I am well armed. I am going to show 
 myself alone at Mack’s, and let them do their worst.” 
 
 Vernet and Doctor Mitchell exchanged quick glances; they 
 had anticipated something like this. And then the masterful 
 spirit of Vernet made itself felt. He wasted no time in vain 
 argument, or friendly exhortation, but spoke as firmly as if he 
 Were threatening an enemy instead of coercing a friend. 
 
 “ Mv dear fellow,” he said, “ that sounds like you. It is 
 
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 ’.'k ■ ■ 
 
 P|l! 
 
 i paiM 
 
 mmkmm 
 
 IMm 
 
 |P|i|piM 
 M 
 
 r'M'/i 
 
 mmKKBnm 
 
 SI£S! 
 
 “I didn’t aim tei come in here, but that gentleman— kind of insisted—" 
 
 -Page 310 
 
 311 
 
312 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 1 ike you. But there are times and places where a man should not 
 be allowed to do as he pleases, even when the stake is wholly 
 his own. This is one of them. You can’t go to Mack’s alone.” 
 
 “ Can’t ? and why ?” 
 
 “ Simply because we won’t permit it. If you insist upon 
 going, we go with you.” 
 
 “ Really ?” said Dalton, his eye traveling from one face to 
 the other, and resting last upon that of the Priest. 
 
 “Yes,” said Father Miles, as if he had spoken; “I too.” 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” cried Dalton, “ I will not permit this!” 
 
 “ Yes, you will,” replied Vernet. “We are four to one, and 
 we are in earnest. If you go to Mack’s, as I hope you will 
 not, we go too. If you try to go elsewhere — ” 
 
 “Well?” demanded Dalton. 
 
 “ We will prevent you ; by force, if necessary. Be as angry 
 as you please, Dalton, but don’t argue. We have settled our 
 part of the programme.” 
 
 He sat down beside the door when he had finished speaking, 
 as if he considered the matter “ settled” indeed. 
 
 For some moments Philip Dalton stood looking from one 
 countenance to the other, his own a strange blending of anger j 
 and something else ; something softer and more akin to tears. 
 He saw no sign of wavering in either of the faces turned toward j 
 him, and then suddenly his own features broke, and a whirl of 
 changing emotions swept over them. He dropped heavily into 
 the chair behind him, and his lips quivered as he exclaimed i 
 
 “ What can I say in opposition to such friendship ! Have 
 your will.” 
 
 “ It’s our will that you stay here,” said Doctor Mitchell i 
 grimly; and Charlie Carson found something to trouble him j 
 in his throat, and walked to the door. 
 
 > ' 1 
 
■ 
 
 K' 
 
 “signs and omens.” 313 
 
 Podunk, who was rapidly making for himself a place among 
 the “ characters” of the town, had hung about Mack’s all day; 
 and he had satisfied himself that, however much the disaffected 
 ones might scatter and seek to make it appear that the upris- 
 ing against Philip Dalton was general, it had in reality its 
 beginning, middle and end at Mack’s. And he became con- 
 vinced, too, that Mack’s generalship was not to be despised ; 
 that his influence was far reaching, and his activity reduced to 
 a well-working system. 
 
 He had stolen away from Mack’s in the hope of seeing Yer- 
 net, and had met him, in company with Charlie Carson, half 
 way between the Theatre and the hotel. They had conversed 
 in low tones while Charlie did picket duty, and the brief 
 dialogue was characteristic of the men. 
 
 • “ Well, partner ?” were Vernei’s first words. 
 
 “The deuce is to pay, Van. Where’s Dalton ?” 
 
 “ At the St. Charles.” 
 
 “Keep him there; and lookout for squalls about midnight, 
 it’ll be on hand when the time comes, but I want to work by 
 strategy as long as possible. Is Dalton prepared?” 
 
 “ I don’t think he fully realizes his danger. He’s perfectly 
 unconcerned.” 
 
 “Oh, he is ! Perhaps I’d better step in and speak a word 
 )f warning ?” 
 
 “It might be wise. He thinks that we are too quickly 
 ilarmed, 1 fancy.” 
 
 “ Well, come along. I’m a reliable person, if I am tipsy.” 
 
 “Still in liquor, eh ?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes. It’s the easiest dodge down there. I’ve played 
 irunk until I almost believe that I am drunk.” 
 
 “ By the way,” said Vernet, when they had signaled to 
 
 A 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 314 
 
 Charlie and turned their faces toward the St. Charles, “ I got 
 a point from Dalton to-day : Keep your eyes open for a fellow 
 with his hand covered with warts.” 
 
 “Eh? What’s that?” 
 
 “ It occurred to Dalton to tell me that he got hold of that 
 spy’s hand last night, and it was decorated with something that 
 felt like warts.” 
 
 “ Oh !” said Podunk, “I guess I’ve seen that hand.” 
 
 “Are you sure, then, that there will be an actual personal 
 attack to-night?” asked Vernet as they came near the hotel | 
 “ There will be an attack, and it will be personal, and dan- 
 gerous, unless between now and midnight there occurs some^ 
 thing in the way of a diversion.” 
 
 “ How a diversion ? Can’t we create one?” 
 
 “ I’d like to,” said Podunk grimly. “But unless we feel 
 like pistoling somebody, or burning half the town, we could 
 not furnish them with entertainment sufficient to ‘ divert’ them 
 from their present purpose.” 
 
 Nevertheless, and without driving them to the necessity of 
 shooting their man, or firing the town, the much wished 
 “ diversion” came. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 BLOOD AT DEATH PASS. 
 
 Many of us there are who know, only to well, what a great 
 uprising is like; how men with no wish or thought in com- 
 mon save the burning desire to right a great wrong, or to drive 
 from the face of the earth some monster who menaces home 
 
BLOOD AT DEATH PASS. 
 
 3%5 
 
 and life and honor, will come together, as if by a mighty, sim- 
 ultaneous impulse, and stand shoulder to shoulder, a unit for 
 vengeance, a law unto themselves. 
 
 We have heard the sound of such a multitude, rising to a 
 roar, as its numbers increase; ever rising and swelling as 
 boldly, in the face of day, they declare their will, march to 
 their goal, and strike their blow. Such a spectacle has some- 
 times reached the sublime, and it has not been utterly devoid 
 of courage and manliness. 
 
 But the mob that organizes by stealth ; that plots its deed 
 of blood in darkness and with crape-concealed faces; that 
 creeps upon its victim with the stealth of the serpent but strikes 
 without so much as a hiss of warning — that is the most hideous 
 spectacle of all, with no saving grace of courage, sublimity or 
 manliness. It is the human serpent, striking with its fangs 
 blasphemously in the name of Justice. 
 
 i It is such a mob as this that gathers in the street just 
 below the St. Charles ; gathers slowly, silently, by twos and 
 threes and half dozens;, each man with his face concealed, 
 each heart bent on bloodshed. A few there are who are 
 earnestly intent upon wreaking vengeance upon the man 
 they believe to be Duke Sehvyifs murderer. Others simply 
 follow the cue given by a recognized patron and leader. 
 Some are bribed, and the ranks of these are swelled by the 
 usual outcast, reckless horde, ever ready to lend themselves to 
 deeds of iniquity. 
 
 In more than one drinking hell, whiskey has flowed freely 
 to-night, making the reckless yet more reckless, the bloods 
 thirsty more cruel still. 
 
 How silent they all are now, as they move steadily forward, 
 bent on their murderous deed ! They are very sure of their 
 
316 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 victim. They know he is within reach. They have planned 
 a surprise, and the moment has come. 
 
 The leaders of the party, six masked men, go forward now 
 in advance of the rest, reach the steps of the hotel, and then 
 pause suddenly. 
 
 Something has turned the nearest corner, rattling, creaking, 
 with a big red eye high aloft. 
 
 Instinctively the six men pause. It is the incoming Rock- 
 ville stage, and as they look the voice of the driver rings out: 
 
 “ Help, here! hallo ! help! help ! Murder and robbery at 
 Death Pass!” 
 
 The words are heard within. The door is flung wide open, 
 and the light streams out. Instantly the six maskers slink 
 back into the shadows. 
 
 u Help!” again cries the voice ; “ two passengers dying; one 
 dead !” 
 
 “ That’s Dan Strong’s voice,” whispered one of the six ; and 
 the others see that he is removing his mask, and quickly follow 
 his example. 
 
 From the doorway above them, a slender figure emerges ? 
 now — Father Miles, bareheaded, and with anxious face. | 
 Charlie follows him, with a light, and they both peer in at the 
 occupants of the stage. The man upon the box springs down, J 
 and stands for a moment in the broad band of light that shines 
 through the open door. As he stands thus, one of the mob 
 of masked men lingering in the rear, sees him, and says aloud : 'i 
 
 " It’s Dan Strong, sure.” 
 
 “ It’s Dan Strong,” repeats another, and the name is passed S 
 from mouth to mouth. 
 
 In a moment more every face is unmasked, and the crowd 
 is pressing around the coach, gaping uselessly and asking eager 
 
“Help, here! hello! help! help! muraer and robbery at Death Pass V 
 
 ■Page 316. 
 
 317 
 
318 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 questions, while Philip Dalton, their intended victim, helps 
 Dan Strong and Father Miles to lift out the first wounded 
 man, who is covered with blood and moaning piteously. They 
 lay him gently upon the office floor, and Doctor Mitchell, Ver- 
 Uet and Charlie Carson bring in the second man. 
 
 When they lift out the third, Dan Strong says : 
 
 “ Poor Morris ! He showed fight, and they shot him on 
 his box.” 3 
 
 Morris was the oldest and truest of the Rockville drivers, 
 and he had been shot dead — riddled with bullets. 
 
 Philip Dalton is reprieved ; at least for this night. The 
 mob, a moment before one in desire and intent, becomes 
 divided. A few there are who would urge them on to the 
 fulfilment of their purpose, but they see the hopelessness of 
 such an effort and wisely desist. A new sensation has turned 
 the thoughts of the majority into another channel. They are ' 
 as eager now to hear all that Dan Strong lias to tell, as they 
 Were, a moment since, to drag Philip Dalton to his death. 
 
 Dan Strong is a Rockville miner, well known, respected, 
 feared; much such a man as Connolley, but possessing, to- 
 gether with his hardihood and rugged honesty, a keener in- 
 sight into men and things. That Dan Strong is roused to 
 Wrath and to action now, is evident to all that see the dark 
 shade upon his brow, the fire in his eye, the set firmness of the 
 thin-lipped mouth, and who know the-man. 
 
 As he moves about, seeing that the wounded men are care- 
 fully placed, and caring for the jaded animals that have brought 
 the coach so gallantly through, he has no answer to question 
 or comment from the men about him. He exchanges a few 
 quick words with Doctor Mitchell as they bend together over 
 the prostrate body of one of the wounded men, and he nods 
 
BLOOD AT DLATM DA SB. 
 
 819 
 
 intelligently in answer to something said by the Doctor, whose 
 hands, while he speaks, move busily, cutting away the cloth- 
 ing and searching for the wounds. 
 
 Charlie has barred out the crowd, and they are pressing 
 against each other, their numbers increased from moment to 
 moment by those who come from neighboring saloons. 
 
 Bv and by, Strong rises and nods to Charlie. Then the 
 door is thrown open and the men outside press close upon each 
 other, eager to hear and to see. But Dan Strong, standing 
 upon the threshold, waves them back, and frowns down upon 
 them darkly. 
 
 u Men,” he says, lifting his voice so that it may be heard 
 far up and down the street, “ I am going to Mack’s, and any 
 one that wants to hear what I’ve got to say, had better follow 
 me — the more the better. There’s been some bloody work 
 done to-night, and there’s goin’ to be more before long, if I’ve 
 got anything to say about it. If you’ve a mind, any of you, 
 to do honest huntin’, instead of crawlin’ around dark corners 
 to mob a single man, go to Mack’s an’ let us know what yer 
 _made of. The time’s come in these diggin’s when every 
 man that ain’t known to" be for the right is goin’ to 
 be counted agin it. And, one way or another, we want yer 
 to take yer stand. Go along, now. Tell Jerry McAffery that 
 Dan Strong’s cornin’, and that lie’ll want the whole of his stage.” 
 
 Dan Strong is a power in Rockville, and even his name has 
 its weight here in Caledonia. Some of the mob begin to move 
 away in the direction of Mack’s, obedient to his bidding, and 
 eager to tell the startling news. Others remain sturdily at 
 their posts until Strong comes down the steps, and without 
 so much as a glance at any of them walks quickly toward /:he 
 Theatre. 
 
320 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Perhaps Jerry McAffery is surprised to see Dan Strong 
 march into his saloon with the mob of lynchers, unmasked now, 
 and trying to look like decent, law-abiding citizens, at his 
 heels. Perhaps, too, he is disappointed, filled with baffled 
 rage at the sight. If so, he conceals his real feeling tolerably 
 well. But be this as it may, it is certain that he starts and 
 looks* con fused for just an instant, when Strong approaches 
 him and abruptly asks: 
 
 “ Where’s Connolley?” 
 
 “lie’s asleep/’ says Mack, recovering himself, “in my 
 
 private office.” 
 
 “Where’s Cool Hank?” 
 
 Mack shoots a glance about him, and then whispers behind 
 his hand : 
 
 “Missing; under a cloud !” 
 
 “ Bah ! And the Regulators?” 
 
 “Most of them laying by, I reckon. The boys have been 
 on hard duty for two days and nights. Come this way and 
 I’ll tell you about it.” 
 
 “'Not now. I know. that somebody has shot Selwyn, and 
 that a mob has been organized to hang a man for the murder, 
 after the Coroner’s jury has discharged him, or as good as that. 
 
 I want your stage, Mack, as soon as the performance is over.” 
 
 “S’s’h!” whispers Mack, seeing, over Sfrong’s shoulder, 
 that several of his guests are within earshot; “come this way.JJ 
 
 He seizes Strong by the lapel of his coat, and so leads him 
 into the gambling-room. For a few moments they converse 
 in whispers, Mack looking anxious, and Strong resolute. Then 
 they come out and go together through the long, narrow pas- 
 sage, with its litter of lumber and trappings, to the stage door, 
 and thence on until they stand in one of the wings. 
 
BLOOD AT DEATH PASS. 
 
 S21 
 
 Billy Piper, temporary stage manager, filling the pKce of 
 the gentleman who is sleeping off a debauch in the dressing- 
 room belowp moves toward them. 
 
 “ As soon as Duncan comes off, Billy, I want to make an 
 announcement/* says Mack. 
 
 “ Til do that/* breaks in Strong. “ Just leave it to me/* 
 
 Mack looks reluctant, but submits. And when Kit Duncan 
 has executed her parting skip and disappeared behind a painted 
 wing at the left, Dan Strong, rough-garbed, blood-stained, 
 grimy and stern- visaged, steps out from the wing at the right. 
 The effect is so grotesque, so surprising, that it causes the dev- 
 otees before the footlights to break out into prolonged ap- 
 plause. 
 
 Strong only frowns the more, and stands grimly waiting 
 until he can make himself heard. When they are quiet again 
 he speaks. 
 
 “ I want to say just due word now, and this is it. I want 
 you, one and all, to stay in your places when the show is out, 
 and let me entertain you a little while. Fve got something 
 important to say to every one of you/* 
 
 There is one more “ turn** on Mack*s programme, but the 
 audience pays little attention to the stage. While La Belle 
 Florine sings a ballad in a cracked and piping voice, they 
 whisper and wonder and guess, and stare at the lynchers, who, 
 by twos and threes again, just as they had gathered to assail 
 Dalton, come quietly into the auditorium, crowding together 
 in the rear of tile room and filling up the doorway. 
 
 When the curtain falls, Strong comes out, and standing 
 there before it, a sinister figure against the gaudily painted 
 background, begins abruptly. 
 
 “ Fve got a story to tell you all, and I won*t make it long/* 
 
322 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEHY. 
 
 a Go, ahead, Strong / 5 shouts a voice from the crowd; {c takt 
 your time . 55 
 
 “That’s just what I begrudge myself — my time / 5 said 
 Strong. “ I want to be somewhere else this minute, with a 
 gun on my shoulder and my belt stuck full of pistols. I 5 ve 
 been robbed to-night in Death Pass. I 5 ve seen one man killed, 
 and two . more wounded and as good as dead. All this hap- 
 pened not twelve miles from Caledonia, and it riles me a little 
 to come here and see you all like this — half the town roostin 5 
 here listen in 5 to Mack’s fiddlers, and the other half trying to 
 hound down a stranger because he’s suspected of having shot 
 somebody — only suspected, mind — while the Regulators are 
 all snoozing and letting robbery and murder come to pass 
 under their very noses! I don’t like the look of it ! It’s a 
 bad record for you Caledonians. Yesterday morning I left 
 Rockville in the stage coinin’ east, with Billy Morris holding 
 the reins. There were two miners, who had made a neat little 
 stake and were starting back to God’s country, hopeful and 
 happy as boys out o’ school. Then there was two others ; fel- 
 lows that had been a year or more in Rockville, and that had 
 been considered fair and square men. Lastly there' was my- 
 self. I had made some money in the diggin’s and was es- 
 cortin’ it down the mountains, aiming to send it home express, 
 to my wife. We had shipped our treasure very privately, and 
 thought that nobody suspected there was anything like a great 
 haul in the coach. We knew that Morris was true as steel; 
 and the whole six of us were well armed.” 
 
 At this moment there is a movement about the door of en- 
 trance, and numerous heads are turned in that direction. 
 Strong checks his speecli and looks too. A party of five have 
 just arrived, and are slowly making their way toward tiie 
 
BLOOD AT DEATH PASS. 
 
 323 
 
 * front : Doctor Mitchell, Father Miles, Van Yernet, Philip 
 Dalton, and Charlie Carson. They seem quite unconcerned, 
 quite unconscious that they are objects of scrutiny. Their 
 eyes are fixed upon Dan Strong; and he, after a moment’s 
 pause, resumed his story. 
 
 “We came down the mountain safely, and were half way 
 through Death Pass, when a shot and a yell warned 11s of 
 danger. The shot was fired by a robber in ambush, and the 
 yell was the last sound that Billy Morris ever uttered. They 
 seized the horses, and surrounded the coach. We were ordered 
 out, and Jackson — one of the miners who had treasure aboard 
 — was the first to obey. Before they could speak a word, or 
 lay a hand on him, he drew his pistols and began firing. 
 Under cover of his fire, Slack, who was next, got down and 
 began shooting. I followed; and just as I was drawing my 
 pistols, I was seized from behind , tripped and thrown to the 
 ground. My head must have struck something, a wheel 
 probably, for I lost my senses. And when I came to, all was 
 quiet. jSTear me lay Jackson and Slack — both wounded in 
 half a dozen places. O11 the other side of the trail lay poor 
 Morris, just as he had fallen from the top of the coach, his 
 whip still clutched in his hand. And a little beyond, the 
 horses were standing, one of them tied to a sapling. The 
 other two passengers were gone.” 
 
 He paused a moment, and looked searchingly down upon 
 the faces before him. 
 
 “This is not the first time a stage has been robbed between 
 here and Rockville,” he resumes. “ But it’s the first time a 
 driver has been shot in cold blood. It’s the first time men 
 have been left wounded and senseless beside^ the road, their 
 pockets turned inside out, their last penny gone. I want it 
 
324 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 la be the last time. Somewhere between Caledonia and Rook* 
 ville, these outlaws are in hiding at this moment. And that 
 is not the worst of it. I have been studying their operations, 
 and I am sure of one thing : they have spies in our very midst, 
 here and in Rockville. The two missing passengers are mem- 
 bers of this gang. They helped to rifle our pockets, to carry 
 off our gold. This band must be broken up, or we can never 
 transport our dust from above; never feel sure of our lives. 
 How many are there among you who are willing to go out and 
 hunt down these robbers? We don’t want an indignation 
 meeting. We want action. You men who are aching to lynch - 
 somebody, how many of you are ready for honest fighting? 
 Where are the Regulators, that such things can happen so near 
 their headquarters? At sunrise to-morrow I am going to ride 
 to Death Pass, and hunt for a trail that will lead me to these 
 devils in human form. Who goes with me?” 
 
 “ I,” said a voice from the doorway, and Connolley come? 
 ^forward, pushing his way through the crowd. 
 
 “ Oh !” said Strong bitterly, “ here’s the Chief of the Regu- 
 lators at last /” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Connolley, as he steps upon a bench and 
 from that to the stage, “here I am. I’m with you, Dan,” 
 He holds out his hand to Strong, and then turns toward the 
 crowd. His face is haggard, and his eyes look hollow and 
 leaden. “ Where are my men ?” he says, glancing about him. 
 
 From different parts of the room half a dozen men arise 
 and come toward the stage. But before they reach it, Doctor 
 Mitchell, Van Vernet, Philip Dalton, and Charlie Carson 
 have advanced and taken their stand beside Strong and Con- 
 nolley. 
 
 Then the spell seems broken and others press forward, 
 
eOKNOLLEY RECEIVES A “SETTLER.” 
 
 325 
 
 crowding the stage and talking eagerly. Among them is Po- 
 dunk, reeling, swaggering, wagging his head defiantly, and 
 declaring his intention to see the thing through. Last, and 
 to the surprise of all, Mack mounts to the stage, and ranges 
 himself beside the volunteers. 
 
 As they crowd around the central group, Podunk contrives 
 to get behind Doctor Mitchell and whisper in his ear ; 
 
 “This won’t do. You must pick your men ” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 CONNOLLEY RECEIVES A “SETTLER.” 
 
 The next morning, the sun, taking its first peep above the 
 horizon, saw a body of men, twenty-five in number, riding to- 
 ward the west. They were well mounted and bristling with 
 arms. Strong and Connolley, Dalton and Doctor Mitchell, 
 were at their head. But Van Venict had chosen to fall back 
 among the men, conversing now with one and then with an- 
 other, as they rode at an easy gait across the prairie. 
 
 The Regulators were there with two exceptions: Cool Hank 
 and the man called Hedley. 
 
 That Cool Hank should be absent was not a thing to cause 
 wonder, inasmuch as he had been lost to sight for several days. 
 But Hedley had been one of the six Regulators who had re- 
 sponded to the call of their Captain the night before, and one 
 af the men had heard him say something about going to look 
 ifter his horse. But when the select cavalcade were mounted 
 And ready, Hedley did not answer to his name, 
 
 i tt 
 
326 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Three other volunteers were also missing from the rankaJ 
 Mack ; Pod unk and Charlie Carson. 
 
 At the last moment, Mack had approached Connolley and 
 presented his excuses. He was indisposed. He was reluctant 
 to leave his “ Place.” There was no telling what might occur, 
 with all the Regulators gone. Some one, with a little influence, 
 or authority, ought to stay behind and keep an eye on things. 
 Besides, he was a poor stick in the saddle ; too heavy, and not 
 used to long rides. Connolley might take as many of his men 
 as he chose; he would manage “ somehow.” 
 
 “He’s as willing as the man who wanted to send all his 
 relatives to the front,” said Strong, who had heard Mack’s 
 speech. And then lie turned on his heel and walked away, 
 his lip curling scornfully. 
 
 Charlie Carson had made small excuse. “He found that 
 he could not leave business,” he had explained briefly. 
 
 But Podunk had deserted without any ceremony of apology. 
 He had seemed to be among those most eager for the fray; a 
 little the worse for liquor, it is true, but as his tipsy condi- 
 tion became more apparent, his courage had seemed to rise. He 
 grew boisterous and full of braggadocio. 
 
 “Where’s that fellow Podunk?” asked one of the volunteers, 
 who was riding near Vernet. 
 
 “Hidin’ somewhere, I s’pect,” replied another. “Ef 
 there ever was a coward in these diggin’s, I bet that Heller’s 
 one!” 
 
 “He felt full enough of fight last night, I sh’d say!” 
 
 “Oh, yes; last night! But then he was full o’ whisky too. 
 I heard him gassin’ Dan Strong, and when Dan accused him 
 of being drunk, what do you s’pose he said?” 
 
 “Dunnoj what?” 
 
CONNOLLEY DECEIVES A “ SETTLER.” 
 
 327 
 
 **Wal, he said that his legs might be a trifle drunk but his 
 head was sober.” 
 
 Vernet smiled as he thought of Stanhope’s queer masquerade; 
 and then he rode forward to exchange words with the Doc- 
 tor. 
 
 He knew, and Doctor Mitchell knew, thanks to the good of- 
 fices of Charlie Carson, that Stanhope had decided not to be 
 of their number. 
 
 “He says he can do better work here,” Charlie had told 
 them, after delivering Podunk’s message. “And he says that 
 this hunt’s bound to turn out a fiasco.” 
 
 Whereupon Doctor Mitchell had delivered himself of his 
 customary “UmphI” and added; “I shouldn’t wonder if he 
 was right.” 
 
 Throughout the morning they advanced at a leisurely gait, 
 for they wished to reach the timber with fresh horses, and it 
 was nearly noon when they arrived at Death Pass, where they 
 halted, lunched, and took counsel together. 
 
 There were plentiful traces of the recent struggle. The 
 grass was trampled and blood besprinkled; sundry articles, 
 of little or no value, lay where they had fallen from the hands 
 of the robbers who had rifled the pockets of their victims, tak- 
 ing only valuables and flinging away the rest. Two battered 
 hats lay near the scene of the struggle. 
 
 ;; “ Them hats belonged to Jackson and Slack,” said Strong, 
 taking up one of them and turning it in his hand. “ I s’pose 
 (hey took mine — it was a new one — and Morris’s too* X 
 Couldn’t find either.” 
 
 _ There was a difference of opinion as to which route they 
 should follow. There was something like a footpath up the 
 steep incline of the Pass to the right, and there were broken 
 
328 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 twigs and other evidences of a scramble through the bushes 
 upon the wall, equally steep and far more rugged, that bounded 
 the Pass to the left. It was impossible to urge the horses up 
 either ascent. 
 
 “ Better send a few men up each side,” suggested Doctor 
 Mitchell to Connolley. 
 
 “I’ll lead one,” said Strong. “Connolley, you — ” 
 
 “No,” broke in Connolley, “send some one else.” “1 
 
 “Morgan,” suggested the Doctor. 
 
 In a few moments, Morgan, or Vernet, followed by three 
 others, was scrambling up the steep wall on the left, while 
 Strong led the way up the opposite bank, their horses being 
 picketed by the side of the Pass. 
 
 When they had disappeared behind the thick brush and 
 overhanging trees, Connolley approached Doctor Mitchell, who 
 was standing aloof from the rest, seemingly lost in thought. 
 
 “I s’pose you thought it odd that I didn’t want to lead one 
 of them parties,” said the Regulator in a low tone. 
 
 The Doctor turned his keen eyes full upon him. 
 
 “I don’t know,” he said, a shade of coldness in his tone. 
 “You don’t appear quite like yourself, Connolley.” 
 
 “I don’t feel like myself, and I can’t account for it. You 
 don’t suppose I’m goin’ to be sick now, Doctor?” 
 
 The Doctor put on his professional look. 
 
 “TJmph ! I don’t know. Your skin is yellow — I’d call it 
 pale if you wasn’t so tanned. Your eyes are dull and hollow 
 — how do they feel ?” 
 
 “They burn; and now and then there’s a queer snapping 
 in my head, and I turn blind.” 
 
 “Umph! stick out your tongue.” 
 
 Connolley thrust out his tongue and looked sheepish 
 
CONNOLLEY DECEIVES A “SETTLER.” 3S$ 
 
 “tJmph! What did you eat last night?” 
 
 “I don’t remember; nothin’ that I aint used to/ 
 
 “ Where did you eat?” 
 
 “ At Mack’s.” 
 
 “ Oh ; And what did you drink?” 
 
 “Nothin’ but water.” 
 
 “With your supper?” 
 
 “Yes” 
 
 “But you took something after supper?” 
 
 “Yes; Mack insisted upon my taking a snooze on the lounge 
 in his office, and we had a glass together before I went to 
 sleep.” 
 
 “You did, eh? At the bar?” 
 
 “No; in Mack’s office.” 
 
 “ Oh, ho ! Out of a private bottle, I suppose? Mack mixed 
 you up a choice drink, didn’t he?” 
 
 “Well, s’pose he did, what has that to do with it?” im* 
 patiently. ’ 
 
 “Oh, nothing; nothing. You slept soundly, of course?” 
 
 “ Yes ; if I hadn’t slipped off the lounge, guess I’d a been 
 asleep yet.’*’ 
 
 “Umph!” The Doctor turned on his heel and walked a 
 few paces up the Pass. 
 
 “ I’d like to know what you’re driving at,” growled the 
 Regulator, following after him. “I thought we was talkin' 
 about what ails me.” 
 
 • “ Bah ! that’s clear enough.” 
 
 “ Then what is it?” 
 
 “You've been drugged — that’s all.” 
 
 “ Drugged ? — me?” 
 
 “ Yes, you. You’ve been drugged, and made a catspaw ef« 
 
330 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 You needn’t worry about your health; you’ll be all right 
 enough when the opiate gets out of you. Didn’t I warn you 
 against Mack ?” 
 
 “Mach /” 
 
 “Yes , Mack! He gave you a nightcap that kept you out 
 of the way. He scattered your Regulators. He didn’t want 
 you around when his mob got ready to lynch Dalton.” 
 
 “ His mob !” 
 
 “Yes, his . Connolley, how much longer do you mean to 
 play the fool and let Mack make a tool of you?” 
 
 For answer Connolley stared at him blankly a moment, and 
 then turning sharply about, walked up the Pass and seated 
 himself upon a large rock. 
 
 “Umpli!” grunted the Doctor to himself, “ I shouldn’t 
 wonder if that settled him !” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXYI. 
 
 MACK PLAYS A NEW GAME. 
 
 A little after sunrise, and while the reinforced Regulators 
 were wending their w^ay across the open prairie toward Death 
 Pass, Charlie Carson rau lightly up the steep stairway of the 
 St. Charles, and hurried down the long narrow hall that ran 
 from the front of the building to the rear. 
 
 He carried a key in his hand, and when he had reached the 
 door of the last room at the end of the hall, he paused and 
 looked back. All about him was stillness, the very house 
 
MACK PLAYS A NE W GAME. 
 
 331 
 
 seemed asleep; and a satisfied smile overspread his face as lie 
 fitted the key in the lock and opened the door. 
 
 Some one was lying upon the narrow bed that filled nearly 
 half of the room. When Charlie had closed the door and 
 locked it on the inside, this personage reared himself on his 
 elbow, and turned upon him an inquiring face. 
 
 It was Dick Stanhope, divested of all disguise, and looking 
 as if quite content to be himself again. 
 
 “ Well !” he ejaculated, seeing that Charlie was staring 
 blankly ; “ what is it ?” 
 
 “ Whew !” exclaimed Charlie, “ but you are changed ! So 
 this is how you look when you are at home, eh ?” 
 
 “ Pretty much ; only sometimes Pm a little better 
 dressed.” 
 
 “ I guess Caledonia can stand your togs. It isn’t likely that 
 there’ll be any swell parties here, for a few days at any rate. 
 Did you get some sleep ?” 
 
 “'A very good nap, thank you. What’s the news out-of- 
 doors?” 
 
 Charlie Carson and Podunk had arrived at a very satisfac- 
 tory understanding, and the latter had not been disappointed 
 in his expectations. He had found in the light-hearted, quick- 
 witted, brisk, young hotel clerk, just the ally he was in 
 need of. 
 
 : “ The town’s quiet enough now,” Charlie said in answer to 
 his question. “ But Mack is up to something new.” 
 
 Stanhope sat erect upon the side of the bed. 
 
 a What is it?” he asked quickly. 
 
 __ “ He’s applied to me for permission to overhaul Selwyn’s 
 baggage.” 
 
 “Oh I” 
 
332 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 “ He says that he has had some business with Selwyn, and 
 thinks there should he papers to show how they stand.” 
 
 “Oh!” again from Stanhope. 
 
 “ He began on me very gently. I didn’t appear much op- 
 posed to the scheme, and he grew bolder, and said he wanted 
 his examination to be private.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes ! I see.” 
 
 “ I hesitated just enough to encourage him, and he offered 
 me one hundred dollars if I would give him half an hour in 
 
 Selwyn’s room, alone?” 
 
 “ Alone, eh ? Charlie, how is it that no one has applied for 
 this privilege before ?” , -i 
 
 “ Well, you see, Doctor Mitchell ordered me to close Selwyn’s 
 room, leaving it just as it stood, and Mack hear? him. That 
 was before the inquiry. I guess Mack wasn’t noxious to have 
 a public search made. Perhaps there was something in 
 Selwyn’s possession that he didn’t want ventilated.” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” echoed Stanhope thoughtfully. 
 
 “ And I fancied that the Doctor thought it best to ignore 
 the possibility of finding the wrong sort of evidence among 
 Selwyn’s belongings.” 
 
 “ Very likely.” 
 
 Charlie was silent a moment ; then : “ I wonder, though, 
 that you and your friend did not make an effort to explore the 
 room.” 
 
 “ YV r e meant to do it, all in good time.” 
 
 “ Well, you are a cool one ! How, may I ask ?” 
 
 “Oh, I haven’t been in the Secret Service ten years without 
 learning how to commit burglary. It wouldn’t be much of a 
 trick to pick one of your hotel locks.” 
 
 Charlie sat down opposite -the bed and looked at him 
 
MACK PLAYS A NEW GAME. 
 
 333 
 
 keenly — sturdy young fellow that lie was, lie admired this cool, 
 high-handed detective exceedingly. 
 
 “What answer did you give Mack?” asked Stanhope. 
 
 “ I told him I’d consider it, and let him know soon. I 
 guess he expects the bribe will fetch me.” 
 
 “ Good ; you did well. I think it will be best to explore a 
 little ourselves, in advance of Mack, eh ?” 
 
 Charlie shook his head and grinned. 
 
 “ If you’re such an expert, you won’t need me. As I’m the 
 man in charge here, at present, I’d rather keep out. But I’ll 
 give you a clear field, and a friendly warning if you are likely 
 to be interrupted.” 
 
 “ That will do me. Have you hit on any new plan for my 
 public appearance ?” 
 
 Charlie’s face brightened. 
 
 “ Yes,” he said, “ and it’s a good one ; luck has played right 
 into our hands. About an hour ago a wagon train crossed 
 the prairie, headed south-east. They passed within a mile of 
 the city, without stopping.” 
 
 “ Oh !” said Stanhope ; “ I see.” 
 
 “ It’s better than the other scheme. If I introduce you to 
 all Caledonia as a brother, just come through on that wagon 
 train, nobody will be likely to dispute it.” 
 
 “ That’s so,” said Stanhope thoughtfully. “ And now I’m 
 ready for business.” 
 
 Half an hour later, Stanhope emerged from Selwyn’s room, 
 and found Charlie pacing the main hall. Without a word he 
 left his post, and together they went back to the little rear room. 
 
 “ Well ?” spoke Charlie, when they were safely within. 
 “ You don’t look like a man that’s been disappointed.” 
 
 “ I don’t feel like one,” said Stanhope significantly. 
 
334 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 
 “ Now, then, what shall I do about Mack ? I guess any- 
 thing you say will be satisfactory to the Doctor.” 
 
 “ If it isn’t, you can wash your hands of the blame and 
 turn it over to me. It will be as well to let Mack take a 
 look ; he won’t find anything to disturb him now, and it’ll 
 make him feel easier.” 
 
 “ Easier ! I’d like to make him feel tmeasier.” 
 
 “ That’s where you’re wrong. The more secure he feels, 
 the less difficult it will be to catch him napping. Let him 
 have his will, by all means; and be sure and accept the 
 bribe.” 
 
 “ No; I don’t want to do that!” 
 
 “You must; it’s a part of the programme. You needn’t keep 
 it. You can throw it away, or buy masses for his miserable 
 soul with it.” 
 
 “ All right, if you say so.” 
 
 “I do say so; emphatically.” 
 
 While Stanhope and Charlie were thus arranging their plans, 
 Mack was sitting alone in his office, a frown upon his face, 
 and impatience showing itself in every movement. On a desk 
 at his elbow, pens, ink and paper were arranged as if made ; 
 ready for instant use. The window shades were lowered so 1 
 that the view of the street was shut out, but a sufficient amount 
 of light came in at the tops of the two windows that over- 
 looked the street. Presently there was a hesitating knock at 
 the street door, and Mack called out sharply : “ Come in.” 
 
 The door opened slowly, and a young man entered. One 
 glance would suffice to reveal to even a casual observer that 
 he was a young man in years only. Vice and dissipation had 
 hollowed caverns for his black eyes, mottled his skin, fur- 
 
HACK PLAYS A NEW GAME. 
 
 S35 
 
 rowed his features. His walk was a shamble, his dress untidy. 
 Evidently lie stood in awe of the man before him. 
 
 “Oh, you’ve come at last/’ growled Mack. There was, in 
 his voice and manner, n > mice of the urbanity which be put 
 on as a garment in public, and dropped altogether in private, 
 as if it were a thing likely to become threadbare with constant 
 use. “ You’ve been a good while about it. Shut the door 
 and lock it.” 
 
 The young man obeyed ; but as he turned, there was a look 
 upon his face such as a vicious but weak animal might cast 
 upon its tormentor. 
 
 “Sit down there,” commanded Mack, pointing to the stool 
 before the desk. “ I’ve got a little job for you.” 
 
 His visitor sat down, and awaited his next words in sullen 
 silence. Mack looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and 
 then crossed the room, took from a cupboard a bottle and glass, 
 and deposited them upon the desk. 
 
 “Take something, Harry,” he said, in a milder tone. 
 
 But the other shook his head. 
 
 “ I don’t care for anything. What do you want of me ?” 
 
 Mack uttered an oath, and snatched up the bottle. “ You’re 
 getting high toned,” he said; “I’d like to know who you 
 think you are ?” 
 
 - “ Oh, I know who- 1 am well enough,” said the other dog- 
 gedly; “I’m about what you made me.” 
 
 “7 made you?” 
 
 S “Yes, you! One might as well be a convict as fall into 
 your hands. I wonder how long such fellows as you will run 
 this western country?” 
 
 Mack sat down and assumed a look of virtuous indignation. 
 
 “I was under the impression,” he said, “that you was Harry 
 
336 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYKTERY. 
 
 Hatch, a little nigger singer who hadn’t a cent in his pocket 
 when he landed at my door; a fellow that I befriended, and 
 who repaid me by robbing my money drawer.” 
 
 “Since you remember so much, perhaps you will remember 
 that you got me here by making fair promises which you never. I 
 kept ; that you paid me just half the salary you agreed to, and 
 got that all back in fines, lay offs, and whiskey bills; that 
 you set me to doing your dirty work; and that when I tried 1 
 to steal money enough to take me away from this cursed 
 country — not half the sum you had cheated me out of — you j 
 caught me at it, and made a great spread about letting me off 
 Without punishment; so that you might have me all the more 
 in your power. When I get back to God’s country, if ever I 
 do, I’ll go in for prison reform, and have all convicts sent to 
 you to be tortured out of half of their lease of life.” 
 
 “You’d better look out,” said Mack frowning blackly, “or 
 you’ll never live to get back there.” 
 
 “ Bah!” 
 
 Harry Hatch was short and slight, with little hands and 
 feet, and effeminate features. As he sat on the high stool, 
 dangling his legs and looking sullen defiance at h is master, J 
 he was, for a moment, in actual danger. Mack’s brawny fist ; 
 was clinched and half raised to strike; then, suddenly, it 
 dropped to his side. He turned and resumed his seat. 
 
 “ Look here, Harry,” he said, choking down his wrath, “ I’ll * 
 do the fair thing by you. I want a bit of writing done. Do 1 
 it, and I’ll pay your fare back home.” 
 
 But Hatch shook his head. 
 
 “ No, sir,” he said. “ I came out here at your expense, lab- 
 eled like a bale of goods. I’ll go back, when I do go, like a v , 
 man,” 
 
A SHEET OF PAPER, 
 
 337 
 
 « Will you go back at once, if I let you have the money ?” 
 *Pm not so much in love with this place that I’ll be likely 
 to stay long, when Pm able to leave it.” 
 
 “ Well, Pll give you money to pay your way, and some- 
 thing over. Now for the writing; time’s precious.” He 
 took two letters from his pocket and handed one of them to 
 Hatch. “Can you imitate that writing?” lie asked. 
 
 Hatch took the letter, evidently not in the least surprised. 
 It was a brief epistle; and when his eyes fell upon the first 
 words he started and seemed about to say something. But a 
 second thought controlled him, and he scanned the written 
 words silently. 
 
 “ Yes,” he said, when he had finished his inspection ; “ that’s 
 easy enough.” 
 
 “Well, then, go to work. I want this” — taking a folded 
 paper from his pocket — “ copied in that handwriting. Here’s 
 the envelope ; make the name at the top precisely like that.’ 
 Hatch took the envelope and looked at it. It was stamped 
 and bore the New York postmark. Evidently it had been 
 through 'lie mails, and it was addressed to Duke Selwyn. 
 
 CHAPTER, XXXVII. 
 
 A SHEET OF PAPER. 
 
 Neither Stanhope or Charlie Carson were the men to loiter 
 when once they had decided upon a course of action. And 
 their decision being reached, they set out at once for Mack’s. 
 
 “I may as well go along,” Stanhope had said. “It will 
 
338 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY 
 
 seem quite natural that I should wish to take an early peep at 
 such an institution as Mack’s, and I want to get used to my- 
 self in f store clothes’.” 
 
 “ All right,” said Charlie cheerfully. “ As you’re my 
 brother, of course your name must be Carson, but what shall 
 I put before it?” 
 
 “Oh, you may call me Dick, It’ll do as well as any; be- 
 sides its my genuine front name anyhow, and I’m rather used 
 to if.” 
 
 They found the saloon deserted, except for the barkeepei 
 drowzing behind the counter, and, after a peep into the erupt} 
 auditorium, they went out, Charlie taking the lead, and hu 
 counterfeit brother following, and looking about him like ar? 
 interested stranger. 
 
 “I shouldn’t wonder if we found him in his office,” saiaf 
 Charlie, and thither they went. I 1 
 
 As they were about to knock at the office door, it opened 
 suddenly, and Harry Hatch came out. There was a frown 
 upon his face, and Stanhope’s quick eye noted that the fingers 
 of the hand that rested upon the latch were ink stained. 
 
 He saw, too, over Hatch’s shoulder, a scowl upon the face of 
 Mack, who was just behind. 
 
 “Howdy, Harry,” said Charlie, who, among his other 
 merits, counted that of knowing everybody in Caledonia. 
 
 Hatch nodded, but the frown did not relax, and he went 
 his way. Charlie and his companion entered the office. 
 
 As Mack held the door wide open to admit them, he stood 
 several paces from the desk, with his two visitors between it 
 and himself. They halted near the entrance, and Charlie 
 hastened to introduce his brother. 
 
 “Dick’s been doing- a little good wotk up north,” Charlie 
 
A SHEET OF PAPER. 
 
 339 
 
 explained, “and he’s going to stop with me awhile. I’ve 
 agreed to help him get rid of some of his dust.” 
 
 The frown upon Mack’s face disappeared ; he scrutinized 
 the new comer with bland interest, and begged them to be 
 I seated. 
 
 Charlie accepted the proffered chair, but his brother, who 
 struck Mack as being a very cool, “ off-hand,” young fellow, 
 lounged carelessly back against the open desk, without so much 
 as looking at the chair placed for him. 
 
 They conversed a few moments upon the usual topics — the 
 town, the weather, the mining prospects up the mountains, 
 the respective merits of Caledonia and Rockville; and Stan- 
 hope was called upon to relate some of his experiences “ up 
 north,” and with the wagon train — which he did in a very 
 satisfactory manner. Finally Charlie said : 
 
 “ By the by, Mack, that little matter you spoke of : I guess 
 it will be-all right. You can come up, say, in an hour from 
 now.” 
 
 Mack’s countenance brightened, “I’m much obliged to you, 
 Charlie,” he said, “ till you’re better paid.” And then he 
 glanced quickly and inquiringly toward Stanhope, who seemed 
 to be deep in contemplation of a row of photographed “stage 
 beauties” tacked against the opposite wall. 
 
 Charlie interpreted the glance, and shook his head as if to 
 say, “He is not in the secret.” Then : “ I guess we’ll be go- 
 ing,” he remarked aloud. 
 
 “'Hold on,” cried Mack, “you must have a drop of some- 
 thing first.” « 
 
 He went to the cupboard in the rear of the room, and took 
 down a bottle — not that which he had proffered to Harry 
 Hatch, but a smaller one, containing liquor of a better quality. 
 
340 
 
 A. MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 While he was at the cupboard, his back was toward them for 
 just an instant. 
 
 But in that instant Stanhope had turned his head, glanced 
 over the desk to be sure he was right, and quickly transferred 
 a sheet of paper to the loose side pocket of his coat. 
 
 When Mack came forward with his bottle and glasses, Stan- 
 hope stood as at first, hands in pockets. 
 
 “ Well,” said Charlie, when they were walking back to the 
 hotel, “that was pretty slick. I reckon you must have prac- 
 ticed sleight of hand.” ^ J 
 
 “ Oh, that was no trick,” replied Stanhope. I suppose you 
 wonder why I took that paper ?” 
 
 “Well, rather.” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you. It was because I happened to see, as I 
 stood by the desk while you were shaking hands with Mack, 
 a name on that paper which was half hidden under those fresh 
 sheets. The name was Dalton 
 “Oh,” ejaculated Charlie. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIIL 
 
 “ AN EVENING AT MACK’S.” 
 
 The band of assorted musicians attached to Mack’s Theatre 
 liad finished its last “ number,” and was filing in from the 
 street to resolve itself into an orchestra five minutes later, 
 when Aileen Lome entered the dressing room which she shared 
 with four or five others, dropping her mantle from her shoulders 
 as she came. It was not usual for her to be late, but to-night 
 
341 
 
 "AN EVENING AT MACK’S.” 
 
 she looked very wan, her step was slow, and her voice languid. 
 
 “Am I late?” she asked, going to her place next to Stella 
 Aubrey. “ Yes; I see that I am.” She tossed aside her man- 
 tle and hurriedly began her toilet. 
 
 “If it was any one of us, you’d see a fine chalked up too 
 quick,” quoth La Belie Florine, as she dabbed at her sallow 
 face with a powder puff. 
 
 Aileen seemed not to have heard this remark ; Stella Aubrey 
 was the only one among Mack’s ladies with whom she tried 
 to be on friendly terms. Stella, with her care-worn face, her 
 quiet manners, and total lack of curiosity, had at once attracted 
 - Aileen. As for the others, she shuddered at their vulgarity, 
 and held herself aloof from them. 
 
 “I wish I were not first on the programme to-night, ’ r she 
 said, as she fastened a sparkling ornament among the coils of 
 her abundant hair. “ I'd give something to sit here all by 
 myself for half an hour.” 
 
 “You’d be very likely to sit here all by yourself if Mack 
 happened to miss you,” said Florine gratuitously. 
 
 Again Aileen made no answer; seemed not to have heard. 
 Stella turned and looked at her inquiringly. 
 
 “ Why,” she said quickly, “ you’re sick, Aileen ! You’re 
 not fit to go on.” 
 
 • “ Not sick, Stella ; only tired. Perhaps it’s the weather. 
 Stella,” lowering her tone and leaning toward her friend, “ I 
 want to ask a great favor of you.” 
 
 “ What is it ?” 
 
 “ I want to beg a little, a very little rouge,” laughing 
 lightly. 
 
 Stella Aubrey laughed too, and sent the small saucer of pink 
 sliding across the shelf toward her. 
 
342 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Well,” she said ; “ that is a come-down for you. But you 
 need it ; you’re ghastly.” 
 
 “Yes; I know it.” 
 
 “ I wonder if his majesty; Mack, intends to discharge any 
 of us,” hazarded Kit Duncan. 
 
 “I s’pose he will if you make a hit to-night; St. Leger.” 
 
 Aileen turned quickly; and saw that Miss Rosabella St. 
 Leger was occupying the third place at the shelf behind hei # 
 where Kit Duncan and Florine also stood. 
 
 Stella noted the direction of her gaze and smiled. 
 
 “Yes/’ she whispered, as if in answer to a question, “she’s 
 managed it; she’s thirsting for glory. Look at those curl 
 papers! And she’s got her wardrobe all on her back.” 
 
 Aileen’s eyes, at sight of the girl, had flashed a look of 
 contempt ; but as she glanced again, she smiled in spite of 1 
 herself. 
 
 Miss Saint Leger was dressed in a very short skirt, of some 
 thick, white stuff, and over it she wore a garment of sea-green | 
 tarletan, so voluminous that it gave her the appearance of a 
 circus rider in the midst of a flying leap. Her arms' bare to 
 the shoulder, were brown to the elbow ; and the hands, large n 
 and bony, were browner still. She was “ picking out” her 
 yellow curls until they stood out like a halo; and the rouge 
 and powder, which she had distributed over her face with°a 
 free hand, had transformed it into a striking work of art. 
 
 It was evident that Kitty and Florine were bursting with 
 merriment, and enjoying the prospect of Miss Saint Leger’s 
 coming confusion. 
 
 As for Miss Saint Leger, she was more than satisfied with 
 herself and her surroundings. She had heard, back in New 
 York, while washing dishes and “ waiting” at hotel tables, 
 
343 
 
 u AN EVENING- AT MACK'S,” 
 
 of the easy success won by ambitious young women in the 
 theatres of the West. And she flattered herself that the coup 
 de etat y by which she had accomplished her purpose of sooner 
 or later “ coming out” on the Western stage, had been a bril- 
 liant stroke. As the paid companion of Barbara Wray, she 
 had felt herself, or her position, a little below the salt of the 
 earth. But note, as Miss Rosabella Saint Leger, beaming with 
 gratified vanity, throbbing with ambition, blushing with rouge, 
 bristling with tarletan and yellow frizzles— she was the peer 
 of anybody, equipped to slay her thousands, advertised upon 
 Mack’s posters as 
 
 The Accomplished Young Vocalist ! 
 
 A NEW STAR ! ! 
 
 <( It’s too bad !” whispered' Aileen, as she turned from her 
 contemplation of Miss Saint Leger. “ She will be hissed off 
 , the stage.” 
 
 k U Of course she will,” assented Stella, going calmly on 
 with her toilet. “ Let her : she don’t deserve anything 
 I better.” 
 
 I “ Perhaps she’ll allow us to tone her down a bit,” suggested 
 Aileen. “ I’m going to try : we might improve her a little.” 
 But Aileen’s good intentions were broken in upon by the 
 Stage Manager’s voice at the door. 
 
 I “ Now then, young ladies, what’s the matter? All ready, 
 Miss Lome, for the first turn ?”- 
 
 | “ All right, Wiliiam !” cried Florine, making a speaking 
 
 :rumpet of her hands and calling through it. Then with a 
 : jrimmace for the benefit of Miss Duncan : “ Will always does 
 x)me up cranky after a spree.” 
 
344 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 When Aileen had gone down to the stage there was quiei 
 for a moment in the dressing room. Then Kit Duncan broke 
 out : 
 
 “ There needn’t any one tell me that Aileen Lome didn’t 
 care a fig for Duke Selwyn ! I know better.” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! Kit,” said Stella; “ you never had a good word 
 for Aileen. I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re jealous.” 
 “Jealous !” Kit wheeled about with a powder puff held 
 fiat against the tip of her nose. “ I’d like to be told what of. 
 She can’t sing — ” 
 
 “Oh, yes, she can. All the men in the band say she’s the 
 only one here who knows anything about music.” 
 
 “ Well/’ said Kitty, —she figured on the bills as the “ cham- 
 pion lady song and dance artist, — ” it’s all she does know; 
 she can’t dance a step, and as for grace — m 
 “She don’t need to,” said Aileen’s defender. “And as 
 for grace, if you could just step on and off the stage as grace- 
 fully as she does, you’d draw a better salary and get more 
 encores .” 
 
 “Well,” sniffed Kitty, “ she’ll get her salary cut down if she 
 keeps on growing white and peaked. Mack ain’t soft on sick 
 folks — you know that, Aubrey. And I just want you to mark 
 my word : Aileen Lome is badly cut up about Selwyn.” 
 
 “ I don’t believe it.” 
 
 “Oh, well, don't, then. Maybe you would, though, if you 
 knew what I know. Come on, girls; I wouldn’t miss Saint 
 Leger’s turn for money.” 
 
 If Aileen Lome — to fulfil the prophecy of “the Champion,” 
 as Kit Duncan was derisively called by the habitues of Mack’s 
 — was doomed to lose her beauty and her prestige together, 
 there were no signs of a falling off that night, as she stood fea- 
 
345 
 
 “ AN EVENING AT MAVK V* 
 
 hind the footlights, a fairy, all in white and gold, ana sent her 
 sweet soprano notes ringing down the long hall. And cer- 
 tainly no stage star ever underwent a closer, more persistent 
 scrutiny than she, from, one individual at least in that audience. 
 
 This person was a young man, with big, keen, brown eyes, 
 a smooth-shaven, handsome face, and an air which was a de- 
 lightful mixture of good humor and independence. He sat 
 very near the front, at a little table, and Charlie Carson, whom 
 she knew, sat beside him. Two other men were also seated a t 
 this table, but Aileen scarcely saw them. 
 
 Before she had finished her first ballad, Aileen felt the 
 scrutiny of the clear, brown orbs. And once, when compelled 
 by some irresistible impulse, she let her eyes meet his in a long, 
 slow gaze, she found herself reluctant to look away. And 
 while she did not permit her eyes to turn toward him again, 
 she felt, every instant^Aat his own were searching her face. 
 
 “ Did you see that young man who sat in front with Mr. 
 Carson of the St. Charles, Stella?” asked Aileen, when, a few 
 moment’s later, the two met in the balcony which Mack in- 
 sisted upon calling a u parlor,” and where he welcomed and 
 entertained his favored and most profitable guests. 
 
 ■ Stella nodded. “ Y es ; good looking, isn’t he ?” 
 
 “ I — I don’t know. Who is he ?” 
 
 U I never saw him before” — advancing to the balcony’s edge 
 and leaning over the rail to look below. “ Why, he’s gone 
 already.” Then seeing the Stage Manager coming : u Oh, 
 here’s His Majesty ; 1*11 ask him. Will !” 
 
 The Stage Manager halted beside them. 
 
 “Well!” he jerked out. 
 
 And Stella at once gave up her intention and asked instead; 
 “ Haven’t you lost something ?” 
 
346 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEEY. 
 
 He clapped his hand to his handkerchief pocket, and then i 
 looked down at his shirt front, where a huge mock diamond 
 blazed. 
 
 “No; why?” 
 
 “ Oh, nothing. “ I thought you might be looking after your 
 temper.” 
 
 “ Temper !” he almost shouted, “ have you seen that — that — 
 that green horror who’s all ready to go on and sing : ‘ That 
 young man across the way’ !” 
 
 “Well, I should say we had. If you aren’t satisfied with 
 her. Will Gibbs, you are hard to suit. Is she going on now? 
 Come, Aileen ; it’ll be too good to miss.” 
 
 They drew chairs close to the balcony rail, and settled 
 themselves to listen, while Gibbs rushed below in a perspi- 
 ration. 
 
 Just as the bell tinkled, and the curtain went up for Miss 
 Saint Leger’s debut , Stella, whose face was turned for a mo- 
 ment toward the door of the entrance from the balcony - 
 proper, whispered to Aileen : 
 
 “We’re in a fair way of finding out who he is. He’s just : 
 come in with Mack.” 
 
 “Hush !” said Aileen ; “ don’t seem to see them.” 
 
 But Mack at that moment was intent upon other thoughts, f 
 When a new face appeared behind his footlights, his audience 
 contained no enthusiast more interested than himself ; and a 
 success scored by the debutante was to him a source of happi- 
 ness — and of profit. 
 
 But the curtain is up. The orchestra screeches out the 
 initial notes of a prelude, and Miss Rosabella Saint Leger is 
 making her first, her last, her only appearance upon the stage. . 
 She is by no means abashed. She comes forward with a mine- 
 
348 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ing gait, and a self-conscious simper. She bows to right, to 
 left, to the front. Then the song begins: 
 
 “ Oh, I wonder what/s his meaning,” 
 
 She is a whole note out of tune, and the stage manager groans 
 behind the wing. The orchestra falters, stops, and the leader 
 sounds the key note. Miss Saint Leger catches it and continues i .. • 
 
 “ Always look -ing over here,” 
 
 False note again. The leader wears a desperate expression, 
 but fiddles straight on. Miss Saint Leger looks beamingly 
 unconscious and sings on complacently, and hopelessly out of 
 tune : 
 
 ‘‘When I'm at the parlor window. 
 
 He is certain to appear.” 
 
 She finishes the verse, singer and orchestra growing momem 
 tarily wider apart. 
 
 The audience is delighted. They clap their hands, and 
 pound the floor with their heavy heels. They fling out face- 
 tious remarks. 
 
 Miss Saint Leger beams and bows anew. 
 
 This is too much. Charlie Carson and his “ brother ” laugh 
 in the very face of the Master of Ceremonies. Mack’s brow 
 is ominous. He springs up, rushes across the balcony, through 
 the dressing-rooms, down to the stage. 
 
 The orchestra has sawed its way through a long interlude; 
 the crowd still fling out their gratuitous and very audible re- 
 marks. As Mack reaches the wing, where the Stage Manager 
 stands agonizing, the interlude dies down preparatory to 
 striking once more, loud and strong, the key note for the 
 
349 
 
 “ AN EVENING AT MACK'S." 
 
 next verse. And then the voice of a half-drunken loafer in 
 the centre of the hall is heard above, below, everywhere : 
 “She's got a hole in her stockin'!’* 
 
 Miss Saint Leger starts perceptibly, and then deliberately 
 bends sidewise and looks down at her slippered feet. 
 
 Tt is the last straw ; the house rings with shouts and de- 
 risive laughter. And Mack, with a prefatory curse, shouts 
 'too, in the Stage Manager's ear : 
 
 “ ! ! ! ring down that curtain ! * ! 
 
 v > 
 
 It is over in a moment. The curtain has fallen ; and Miss 
 Rosabella Saint Leger is ruefully climbing the steep, narrow 
 stairs, a retired prima donna in green tarletan and tears. 
 
 Luring the interval that elapsed between the going down 
 of the curtain upon the ruin of all the earthly hopes of Miss 
 Susan Collins, and its rising again for the appearance of “ the 
 Champion", Stanhope, or Lick Carson, as he now called him- 
 self, leaned over the balcony rail and scanned the audience 
 below with keen eyes. 
 
 “ Look, " he said, in a low tone to Charlie, “isn't that the 
 little chap we met coming out of Mack's office this afternoon ?" 
 
 “ Yes," said Charlie, glancing down ; “Harry Hatch, he 
 calls himself." 
 
 “ Tell me what you know about him." 
 
 “ Why, he's one of those always-broke Nigger singers. 
 Mack got him nere as he gets half his people— advances their 
 fare and takes care that they never get money enough to pay 
 it back and skip the town. He's a schemer, is Mack." 
 
 “ He doesn't belong to Mack's force now, does he ?" 
 
 “ Hatch ? No, I think not. Harry's a hard drinker, and 
 of no use to anybody when he's drunk. Some of these fellow* 
 
350 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY 
 
 *re funnier on tlie stage drunk than sober, but Hatch ain’t of 
 that sort. I reckon Mack’s shipped him.” 
 
 “ What was he doing at Mack’s, do you think, if he has no 
 salary to draw ?” 
 
 “ Oh, I don’t know — trying to borrow a dollar, maybe. 
 I’ll wager he didn’t get it; lie looked mighty glum.” 
 
 “ Yes; I saw that. And I saw that Mack looked glum, 
 too. Is Hatch a fair scholar ?” 
 
 “ Why, I v think it likely; his address is good. He ap- 
 plied to my boss for a place as night clerk, a while ago, and I 
 remember he represented himself as a good and rapid penman.” 
 
 “ When is your boss coming back ?” asked Stanhope, with- .1 
 drawing his gaze from the face of Harry Hatch, and seeming 
 to lose all interest in him. 
 
 “Why he’s likely to return any day, and to go away the 
 day after. He’s stuck on that cattle ranch of his.” 
 
 “ What sort of a man is he ?” 
 
 “How do you mean ?” 
 
 “ Well, suppose, for instance, he had been here and Mack 
 had asked him, as he did you, to let him overhaul Selwyn’s 
 belongings — what would he have done?” * 
 
 “Satisfied himself that no one would be the wiser for it, 
 and then told Mack to go ahead.” 
 
 “ That’s enough,” said Stanhope. 
 
 As the entertainment was nearing its close, Kitty Duncan 
 came bouncing into the dressing-room where Stella Aubrey J 
 was preparing for her part in a “ roaring farce,” and snapped * 
 her fingers in triumph very close to Stella’s nose. 
 
 “ I guess I’ll ‘take the cake’ to-night,” she said eagerly. 
 
 “ That good-looking brother of Charlie Carson’s has asked -r 
 sne to supper, Aileen Lome don’t get all the big fish ” J 
 
VEKNET TAKES COMMAND. 
 
 SSI 
 
 ** Aileen don’t angle for them. But don’t crow ; Aileen re- 
 fused point blank to be introduced to jour good-looking Mr. 
 Carson an hour or more ae;o. I heard her.” 
 
 o 
 
 <c Bah !” cried Kitty, tugging viciously at her wig, which 
 Was very much awry ; “ I detest that girl 1” 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 VEKNET TAKES COMMAND. 
 
 The noon halt in Death Pass resulted in little that could 
 serve to guide the further movements of the robber hunters. 
 The exploring parties to the right and left returned, each dis- 
 appointed, each having discovered something, but not enough. 
 
 To the left, at a convenient distance from the Pass, were 
 evidences that a number of horses had been tethered there 
 quite recently. That they had remained for some little time 
 was proved by the browsed and leafless twigs and branches as 
 high overhead as a horse could reach, and by the close cropped 
 grass, and barked and broken shrubbery, underneath. 
 
 On the other hand, at the right, something like a faint trail 
 led up, zigzaging in and out among the thick underbrush. 
 This trail the exploring party followed until it terminated sud- 
 denly at the edge of a narrow ravine, the sides of which were 
 almost perpendicular. 
 
 “ ’Taint worth while to beat about here,” said Dan Strong 
 confidently. u Vv e can find plenty o’ tracks; but if we want 
 to find robbers ? we’ve got to go further up the mountains.” 
 
352 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Connolley, Doctor Mitchell. Vernet and Dalton were of the | 
 same opinion ; and the onward march began. 
 
 All that long afternoon they pressed forward ; riding hither 
 and thither, following the faintest trail that promised to turn 
 out anything more than the track of some wild or stray animal, | 
 deploying to the right and left of the stage road, separating ! 
 and coming together again to begin anew. It was nearing! 
 sunset when they halted for consultation at the top of a steep 1 
 bluff, where the road was narrow, and the wood on either side I 
 dense and tangled with underbrush. 
 
 " I’ve always believed,” said Connolley, " that this bit of | 
 table-land could tell its story. It’s here they used to halt the f 
 stages, before they got so tarnation bold. I suspect there’s a f 
 hidin’ place somewhere in this neighborhood, if we could 
 only stumble onto it. I move we do a 3 it tie explorin’ right here.” ij 
 "But,” objected the Regulator known as Pete Finlayson, 
 "you don’t reckon on campin' here, do you, Connolley ? J 
 ’Twould be a ticklish place ter be surprised in.” 
 
 " We ain’t goin’ to be surprised, no matter where we halt; 
 we’re goin’ to swap watches. An’ this is as good a place as nj 
 any, far as I see. There’s one thing sure: Our horses’ll be 
 tolerably safe here ; no critter can git through this under- 
 brush.” 
 
 “ That’s so,” said Strong. “ I’m of your opinion, Con- | 
 nolley; we ought to do a little bush-beatin’ right here.” 
 
 They had all gathered together, urging their horses close | 
 upon one another in the narrow road, and now Finlayson, who | 
 was very near Vernet, spoke sharply : 
 
 " D’ye want us to leave our horses and take to the bush, 
 Captain ?” 
 
 " Yes,” replied Connolley shortly ; " all but two or three - 1 J 
 
VEBNET TAKES COMMAND. 
 
 353 
 
 lie swept the little band with a keen glance and then said : 
 “ PH tell off three men to stay with the horses, and then we’ll 
 break into parties — eli, Doctor ?” • 
 
 Doctor Mitchell nodded. 
 
 “ About three in eacli party would be right/’ said Strong. 
 
 The party dismounted, and looked to their weapons. And 
 then Connolley and Doctor Mitchell told off their men. Per- 
 fect silence was enjoined upon all after they were once fairly 
 within the bush, and a signal was agreed upon in case of a 
 discovery or a surprise. 
 
 "When Van Vernet dismounted, one of the men detailed to 
 do picket duty came forward, and reached out to take his 
 bridle. As he did so, Vernet’s eye rested for an instant upon 
 the outstretched hand. 
 
 u Why, man !” he exclaimed, “what’s the matter with your 
 hand?” 
 
 “ Warts,” said the fellow ; and turned away, leading the 
 horse. 
 
 Strong and two stout followers were the first to plunge into 
 the woods on the right. Doctor Mitchell, with two Regulators, 
 took to the left. When each man was appointed his place, 
 Van Vernet found himself tramping through the underbrush 
 with Finlayson going before him, and a stout Regulator, whose 
 name he did not know, bringing up the rear ; and lie was glad 
 to see that Dalton was one of the two men who followed the 
 lead of Connolley. 
 
 For some time Finlayson pressed ahead in a straight line, 
 and Van Vernet, who had reduced himself to the ranks and 
 took no share in the consultation, followed unhesitatingly close 
 at his heels. When they had traveled thus a considerable dis- 
 tance, Finlayson halted and whispered cautiously: 
 
§54 
 
 A MGttKTAltf MYStP&Y, 
 
 “ Maybe we’d better spread out just a little; keep each 
 other in sight or hear in’ but try to widen our beat — eh?” 
 
 Vernet nodded assent; and the three moved a little way ’ 
 apart — Finlayson to the left, and the Regulator to the right, 
 with Vernet midway between them, and all three with their 
 faces still westward. 
 
 They had pushed on a considerable distance in this manner, 
 and Vernet was peering through the dense foliage directly in 
 front of him, when suddenly the stillness about them was 
 broken by a clear, high, double note, the hoot of a species of 
 small owl sometimes seen and heard in that region. It sounded 
 upon his left, and very near. Vernet turned sharply, and 
 met the inquiring gaze of Finlayson, which was instantly with- 
 drawn and directed upward, as if he were looking among 
 the interlacing branches for that feathered disturber of the 
 silence. 
 
 For just an instant Vernet, too, glanced upward; and then 
 his gaze returned and rested keenly upon Finlayson, who was 
 walking slowly about with his head thrown back and his eyes 
 upraised. 
 
 At the very moment when his back was squarely toward 
 Vernet, another hoot was heard, close at hand, loud and clear, 
 like the first. A look of anger crossed the face of the detec-; 
 tive, and he began to move toward Finlayson, who seemed to 
 be listening intently. Vernet, now close behind him, stopped 
 and listened too. 
 
 How silent everything was ! The sun was already far be- 
 low the tree tops; all about them the greenness was changing 
 to black, and beginning to assume fantastic shapes. 
 
 Then, faintly, and a great way off, was heard an answering 
 note — once, twice, three times repeated* 
 
VERNET TAKES COMMAND. 
 
 355 
 
 Vernet’s hand came heavily down upon Finlay son’s shoulder. 
 u What was that?” he demanded, in a low tone. 
 
 The man started and turned quickly. 
 
 “ That’s jest what I was tryiu’ to make out/’ he said. “It 
 sounded like one o’ those pesky little black owls.” 
 
 “■A black owl?” 
 
 “ Well, they look black. He must be mighty nigh us.” 
 And Finslayson began to look aloft again. 
 
 “I thought,” said Vernet slowly, and looking around at 
 the other Regulator, who was now moving toward them, “that 
 it was a signal.” 
 
 “Pshaw !” said Finlayson hastily, “ we didn’t agree on no 
 such signal.” 
 
 “No, we didn’t; but the men we are looking for might have 
 done so.” 
 
 Finlayson shook his head. 
 
 “ I don’t believe anybody could imitate a bird like that/* 
 he said. 
 
 “Don’t you?” smiled Vernet. “ Well, now, just to con- 
 vince you — .” He turned away his head, very much as Fin- 
 layson had done a moment before, and a gave a loud, clear call, 
 precisely lilye the first they had heard; then another, and an- 
 other, and another in quick succession, turning, with the last, 
 to look at Finlayson, who was reddening duskily, and looked 
 actually terrified. 
 
 “Stop !” he said; “stop, forth e Lord’s sake!” 
 
 For answer, Vernet gave another long shrill hoot, that went 
 echoing up the mountain beyond them. 
 
 “What’s this?” asked the Regulator who had now come 
 up. “ What in the nation — .” Then he, too, started, and 
 stopped and listened. 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 366 
 
 “Tuwhoo! tuwlioo! tuwhoo !” sounded from the opposite 
 side of the Pass. The woods were echoing with the loud, 
 dear calls. 
 
 “ Good Lord !” ejaculated tlie Regulator, “ that ain’t our sig- 
 nal !” 
 
 fr No/ J said Finlayson, turning and facing toward the coach 
 road, “but we may as well go back.” 
 
 “Why?” said Vernet. 
 
 “Because,” — with a sullen glance and a muttered oath — •’* 
 “the Lord only knows what that racket’s all about. I don’t 
 want to run into no ambush.” 
 
 ‘Oh, I thought you were sure it was a black owl!” 
 
 Finlayson made a step forward. “Pm going back,” he 
 said doggedly. 
 
 Vernet shot the Regulator at his side a meaning glance. 
 
 “'Very good,” he said, “go back; we’ll follow you.” 
 
 Then, before either could stir or speak again, another unex- 
 pected sound rang through the forest — the sharp crack of a 
 rifle, followed instantly by a second report. And these, too, 
 came from the opposite side of the coach road. 
 
 Vernet could see, through the gathering dusk, that Finlay- 
 son was now very pale, and evidently puzzled. 
 
 “ What kind of a bird was that, do you think ?” he asked : 
 satirically. 
 
 Finlayson’s only reply was a muttered oath, and a backward 
 movement. „ I 
 
 “ Hist !” exclaimed the Regulator. 
 
 One, two, three short, sharp jvhistles, loud and piercing, 
 followed the rifle shots. 
 
 “ That’s the signal,” said the Regulator. And he began 
 tramping sturdily back toward the east, Vernet and Finlay- 
 son following. 
 
VERNET TAKES COMMAND. 
 
 357 
 
 As the Regulator pressed forward, Vernet perceived that 
 Finlayson lagged behind. He made his observations by cast- 
 ing quick, sidewise glances, and when Finlay son had fallen 
 so far in the rear that he could no longer see him without 
 turning his head squarely, he quietly transferred his gun from 
 his right hand to the left, and drew a pistol. 
 
 A few steps more, and the regulator emerged into an open 
 space. Vernet stepped quickly after him and suddenly turned. 
 
 Finlayson, his back toward them, was in the act of parting 
 some bushes, with the evident purpose of concealing himself 
 behind them. 
 
 “Finlayson!” called Vernet sharply, 
 
 Finlayson turned his head, saw that Vernet had him covered 
 by the pistol, and swung his whole body around. 
 
 “I thought I heard something in there,” he stammered. 
 
 “Finlayson,” said Vernet calmly, “I want you to walk on 
 ahead of me, until we arrive at the rendezvous .” 
 
 “I won’t,” said Finlayson stoutly. 
 
 “Click!” said the pistol in Vernet’s hand. 
 
 “Yes, you will, or I’ll put a bullet through you. You 
 won’t lead those men to an ambush with my consent. Go 
 ahead.” 
 
 Finlayson looked from the pistol to the face behind it, 
 growled out another oath, and, passing Vernet, marched sul- 
 lenly forward at the side of the astonished Regulator. 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 «£53 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 A " BLACK OWL.^ 
 
 Conn ol ley, Dalton and the Regulator who completed their 
 trio, waited in the opening or roadway until they had seen the 
 last of the two exploring parties disappear in the thick wood. 
 Then they too entered it, going eastward. 
 
 On this route the trees were less thickly crowded together, 
 and the underbrush seemed not so rank. 
 
 They had traveled some distance, and were beginning to 
 find their silent rfiarch monotonous, when they came upon an 
 opening among the trees larger than any they had as yet found, 
 and, evidently, not altogether the work of nature. Some of the - 
 overhanging branches had been lopped off, the low-growing 
 bushes had been cut away or uprooted, and in the center of 
 the small circular space thus made were the scattered remains 
 of a camp-fire. 
 
 “Oil!'” said Connolley, as his quick eye fell upon this, 
 
 “ anyhow, they’ve been here.” 
 
 He went forward, knelt beside the dead embers and began | 
 turning them over, thrusting his haiftls deep down among the . 
 ashes and sifting them through his fingers. Finally he arose | 
 and stood beside his waiting companions. 
 
 “ It’s fully two days old,” lie said, in a tone of disappoint- 
 ment, Then, as he looked about him. “ We’d better explore a 
 a little, in a circle like. You” — nodding to the Regulator-— 
 
A “ BLACK OWL.” 359 
 
 u go in there,” pointing to the right. “You Mr. Dalton, if 
 you will — .” 
 
 “ Certainly,” said Daltion quickly. “ Which way, Mr. Con- 
 nolley ?” 
 
 “Well, if you like, go in there,” pointing to his left. “I’ll 
 go in here,” moving forward a pace. “ Each one go about 
 two rods straight ahead, then begin to circle to the right. It’ll 
 keep us within easy hailin’ distance.” 
 
 Dalton and the Regulator nodded, and in another moment 
 the clearing about the deserted camp ground was again in 
 solitude. 
 
 It was while they were thus circling, each in his place, 
 that the first “ tu wlioo” of the black owl broke the stillness 
 of the forest. Connolley, with his sturdy feet planted in the 
 midst of a clump of tall bushes, and his hand raised to clear 
 for himself a passage through, paused in the act, to listen. 
 The branches about him stood up high above his head, except 
 for the small space where his hand held one of them down. 
 Beyond was another of the frequent openings, but the bushes 
 on its farther side would not have stood much above his 
 shoulder, and he saw, with a thrill of expectation, that their 
 leaves seemed violently agitated. 
 
 Cautiously he drew back a little, so that he could handle 
 his rifle and take aim, if need be, through his port-hole, which 
 he now kept clear with the barrel of the gun. And then, to 
 his surprise, he saw the bushes before him separated by the 
 broad shoulders of a man. The man’s back was toward Con- 
 nolley ; he was bending low and seemed intent upon some 
 object directly ahead. Connolley bowed down until he could 
 look across the man’s shoulder, and he caught his breath as he 
 saw him raise his gun and take aim. 
 
360 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Then Connolley bit his lip, and aimed his own weapon. 
 
 Crack ! rang oat (lie rifle in the hands of the man before 
 him; and crack! again, almost simultaneously, rang out the 
 rifle in the hands of Connolley. Then there was a groan from 
 the first man, and a forward spring from the other. 
 
 “Oh, it’s you !” exclaimed Connolley, to the man who tum- 
 bled out from the clump of bushes, and over upon the ground 
 at his feet. But he did not stop ; he stepped across the fallen 
 fellow and hurried on to w here, some yards away, he had seen 
 a man’s head a moment before. As he bounded forward, the 
 air became vocal with the second series of tu whoos. 
 
 When he had reached the spot, he found Philip Dalton, 
 leaning against a tree and though dully contemplating his hat, 
 which he held in one hand. 
 
 “Are you hurt, Dalton?” gasped the Captain of the Reg- 
 ulators. 
 
 “No,” said Dalton coolly: “not quite . But I should 
 hate myself if I had come that near a man without hitting 
 him.” 
 
 He held out the hat, which had a hole in the front and 
 rear and Connolley glanced from this to this forehead, where 
 drops of blood were slowly trickling down, and from which a 
 tuft of hair was missing. 
 
 “ He didn’t miss you by a quarter of an inch !” cried Con- 
 nolley wrathfully. “ But I nipped him. He won’t toy that 
 again. Come.” 
 
 Dalton replaced his hat upon his head, picked up his gun, 
 and followed Connolley back to the place where his would-be 
 assassin lay groaning. 
 
 “He*s only shot through the hand,” said Connolley; “I 
 didnT aim to kill the scamp.” 
 
 ^ ' v4 « vi *r * ' w' 
 
“Crack 1” again> almost simultaneously, rang out the rifle of Con- 
 
 nelleiy,— Page 360. 
 
 361 
 
362 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Dalton bent down and looked at the wounded hand, and 
 then started back, uttering a quick exclamation. 
 
 “What’s the matter?” asked Connolley. Then, without 
 waiting for a reply: “Say, did you hear them hoots? By 
 heavens! how many there was ! Something’s wrong!” Heplaced 
 his fingers to his lips and blew three loud calls. “ Something’s 
 wrong,” he said again ; “ we’ll go back.” Then he bent over 
 the prostrate man. “Hold your tongue; you’ll live. Stick 
 out your hand till I tie something around it. There; now 
 drink from this flask. Get up; you can lean on me. Con- 
 found you, what did you shoot at Dalton for ?” 
 
 “ I didn’t,” groaned the fellow. “ I thought it was a rob- 
 ber.” 
 
 “Likely story, that!” 
 
 “I did. I saw just his hat, and it’s getting so dark.” 
 
 “ Jsaw just his hat,” growled Connolley, “and I knew it 
 was Dalton’s. There aint another like it in the country. 
 Stop your lies.” 
 
 “ Let up on him, Connolley,” said Dalton with careless con- 
 tempt. “ I’ll keep a lookout for him in future. Perhaps 
 it was a mistake.” 
 
 “ Umph ! And perhaps it wasvJt /” 
 
 “ Why,” said Dalton, turning to look at the Regulator, 
 “ what’s come over you, Connolley ? I didn’t think it was in 
 you to be so suspicious.” 
 
 “Well, it is,” retorted Connolley, “and it’s in me to 
 stay !” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell and his two companions were the first to 
 arrive at the place where the horses had been picketed. Only 
 two of the three men who had been left on guard were 
 visible 
 
A “BLACK OWL.” m 
 
 “ Why, where’s the other fellow ?” demanded the Doctor, 
 addressing the nearest picket. 
 
 “ Hicks ? Oh, not far off. He’s over there among them 
 trees.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell walked quickly to the place indicated. 
 
 “Hello !” he muttered, as he saw more clearly the object 
 supposed to be Hicks; “ a coat !” 
 
 He pulled it off the branch from which it had been suspended, 
 and carried it back to the picket. 
 
 “Do you call this Hicks?” he asked. 
 
 “By Jingo !” cried the astonished fellow, “it’s his coat I” 
 
 “ Well, you perceive that he isn’t in it, don’t you.” 
 
 “ I should say ! What’s to be done ?” 
 
 At this moment, another of the exploring parties emerged 
 from the woods on the right, and then another. And each 
 man forgot to wonder why they had .been recalled, and the 
 question became, instead, “ What has become of Hicks ?” 
 
 In the midst of their discussion, Hicks himself appeared 
 before them, supported by Connolley, upon whom he leaned 
 heavily, and followed by Dalton and the Regulator who com- 
 pleted their party, and who carried three guns across his 
 shoulder. 
 
 Hicks was pale, weak, terrified ; one hand, wrapped in a 
 bloody handkerchief, dangled loosely at his side, and his gar- 
 ments were liberally smeared with blood. Connolley wa 
 gloomy and uncommunicative. He wore the look that some 
 of the Regulators knew well, and in all that he did and said 
 there was evident a disposition not to be trifled with. 
 
 On their way he had spoken to Hicks a word of warning 
 and admonition ; and now he vouchsafed to the wondering 
 men scant explanation. 
 
 \ 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Hicks has had an accident,” was all he said. “ Here, some 
 of you, see what you can do for him.” 
 
 Doctor Mitchell took prompt charge of the fellow, and • 
 dressed the wounded hand. While this work was in progress, i 
 Finlayson made his appearance in the edge of the wood, and | 
 just behind him came Van Yernet, smiling slightly, and with 1 
 his hand upon his pistol belt. 
 
 “ What did you find?” asked Connolley. 
 
 “Nothing,” said Yernet laconically. . i 
 
 Dan Strong and his two companions were the last to appear, v 
 
 “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking sharply around. 
 
 “Hicks has met with an accident; that’s all,” said Connol- 
 ley ; and then the eyes of the two men met. 
 
 “Oh !” said Strong, turning away. 
 
 “ We’ll camp right here,” said Connolley. “ It’s as good a | 
 place as any.” 
 
 He went about his share of the work in grim silence. He 
 was very exact about all his arrangements, and his division 
 of the men was not quite what some of them expected. Yer- 
 net, whose eyes were Every where -saw that he whispered l 
 aside with the stout Regulator who had been the companion 
 of himself and Finlayson ; and that the Regulator soon after 
 stationed himself beside the wounded man, Hicks, with a very 
 alert look. He saw Connolley also in communication with two 
 others of the Regulators, who soon after placed themselves on 
 either side of Finlayson ; not ostentatiously, yet with evident 
 purpose. 
 
 “I’m going to take half of the watch,” Connolley said, stand- 
 ing among a group of men. “Strong, will you take the other 
 half?” 
 
 “Yes; an’ be glad,” answered Strong. And then he said 
 
366 
 
 A " BLACK OWL/ ? 
 
 aside to Doctor Mitchell : “ I aint very anxious to sleep to* 
 
 night.” 
 
 At an early hour, all was quiet in the encampment, and tht 
 men, save those-on guard, were lying grouped about two or 
 three smouldering camp fires. — 
 
 Vernet, rolled in his blanket, with his head pillowed upon 
 a saddle, was musing, very wide awake, and conveniently near 
 the man Finlayson, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, 
 and a voice whispered in bis ear : 
 
 “ Hist; it’s Connolley. Get up and come with me.” 
 
 A little way from the encampment, in one of the small 
 openings through which he had lately passed, the Regulator 
 Captain had built a fire; and Vernet found Doctor Mitchell 
 and Dalton seated beside it cross-legged, and looking, in the 
 flickering firelight, not unlike two plotting Indians. 
 
 “ Here we are,” said Connolley, dropping down beside the 
 fire, while Vernet silently placed himself at Dalton’s side. 
 
 “ Well,” said the Doctor, with a touch of impatience in his 
 tone, “ what are we here for, Connolley ?” 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said Connolley, “ we may as well turn tail 
 an’ go back to Caledonia, to-morrow morning, bright an’ early.” 
 “ Why ?” asked Vernet. 
 
 “ Because, we’ve got traitors amongst us — amongst the Regu - 
 lators .” 
 
 “ Oh !” said the Doctor ; “ have you found that out at last?” 
 “ Yes; I’ve found it out at last, and you needn’t be afraid 
 that I’ll forget it. The w r orst is, I don’t know now many ther# 
 are. But I’ve nailed one” 
 
 “Who?” asked the Doctor. 
 
 “Hicks. He tried to shoot Dalton, here.” 
 
 “ And shot himself instead?” asked Vernet. 
 
366 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “No;* I shot him.” And Connolley related the incident | 
 as it had occurred. “He tried to lie out of it,” he said in 
 conclusion, “ by claiming that he didn’t know it was Dalton, 
 as he only saw the hat. If 'he saw that, he must have known i 
 it was Dalton’s !” 
 
 “ There’s no doubt but his bullet was meant for me,” said 
 Dalton quietly. “He’s tried if before, or I’m much mis- ■% 
 taken.” 
 
 “ What! tried to shoot you ?” 
 
 “ No; but I think lie is the fellow who played the spy at 
 Doctor Mitchell’s, and drew a knife on me.” 
 
 “ That isn’t all,” said Vernet significantly.. “ But we need 
 not discuss the rest now. . Connolley, have you ever suspected 
 Finlayson ?” 
 
 “ Not till to-night.” 
 
 “ And why to-night ?” 
 
 “Well,” said Connolley slowly, “for no reason only that I 
 know he’s Mack’s right-hand man. There’s been a good 
 many things that I couldn’t account for as long as I had faith 
 in Mack. Now 1 can see just how we’ve been handled. I’ve 
 been pretty blind but— I might as well tell ye — it all cbme | 
 over me in a flash when the Doctor there told me that I had 
 been drugged last night.” 
 
 “ Umph !” from the Doctor. 
 
 “ Now, if Mack’s a traitor, and there’s traitors among my 
 men, why it’s fair to conclude that Finlayson’s one, an’ that 
 Hedley’s with him.” 
 
 “ Did you hear that owl ?” asked Vernet abruptly. 
 
 “ Did I ! Didn’t everybody ? If you could a seen us! It 
 was them hoots that petrified us all like. There was me stand in’ 
 in one clump of bushes, Hicks in another right afore me, and 
 
367 
 
 A “ BLACK OWL.’* 
 
 Dalton among the trees a little way ahead, an’ all three in a 
 direct line. Every one of us stopped stock still when we 
 heard the first hoot ; and when we’d heard, or thought we 
 had, the last one, Hicks had the best chance in the world to 
 draw a bead on Dalton, and I had the same chance to cripple 
 him . But he got a second ahead of me; I meant to hit his 
 hand afore it pulled the trigger.” j 
 
 “ What made you fire ?” asked the Doctor. “ Why didn’t* 
 you order him to drop his gun ?” 
 
 “ I’ll tell ye,” said Connolley quietly. “I was mad. 1 
 felt sure he knew it was Dalton, and that he was one of the 
 traitors. I wanted to hurt him.” 
 
 “ Well, you did it,” said the Doctor. “ I shouldn’t wonder 
 if he lost that hand, warts and all.” 
 
 There was silence for a moment around the flickering fire, 
 then Doctor Mitchell, who seemed to be in a discontented frame 
 of mind, jerked out a question : 
 
 “I’d like to know what you mean to do, Connolley?” 
 
 “ Go back,” answered Connolley, in a tone that indicated a 
 desire to meet his discontent half way. 
 
 “ But the men won’t stand it — they’ll want reasons.” 
 
 “ They’ll get ’em,” said Connolley grimly, “ when the time 
 comes. So long as I’m Captain of the Regulators, they’ll obey 
 orders and not ask questions.” 
 
 “Well,” said the Doctor, “perhaps you’ll be good enough 
 to tell us what you brought us here for — was it simply to say 
 that we must go back ? You may order your Regulators to 
 return, but not us.” 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” said Connolley with dignity, “you may please 
 yourselves. But I can’t lead this party any further, and I 
 won’t. I ain’t alone in my notion, either, though ’twould a 
 
368 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Dan Strong is of my opinion, 
 “ Doctor, Connolley, 
 
 been just the same if I were, 
 too.” 
 
 “So am I,” put in Vernet quietly, 
 just let me have the floor.” 
 
 “ Oh !” ejaculated the Doctor, and then subsided into silence, 
 while Connolley, who only knew Vernet as a good-looking 
 and somewhat venturesome young man “from the East,” was 
 silently amazed. 
 
 Vernet had thrown aside his careless air of following a 
 leader, and he now spoke like a commander. 
 
 “Connolley is right,” he said, “nnd Strong is right. We 
 must go back to Caledonia — and if we get there without loss 
 of life, we shall be very fortunate. That owl, the first which 
 hooted, was Finlavson” — and he told briefly, what had oc- 
 curred while they were in the bush. 
 
 “And you think there was an answering call?” asked the 
 Doctor. 
 
 “ I know it. It was a long way off. Of course I judged 
 that it meant something and so I gave my series of ‘ tu whoos,’ 
 on the chance that they might prove somewhat confusing to 
 the enemy. From the look on Finlayson’s face I know I was 
 right. But those answering calls- — they were very near/ and 
 they, too, seemed to be unexpected — I don’t know what to 
 think of them” 
 
 “I’ll tell* you,” broke in Connolley; “ that was Strong. 
 He told me so. He thinks as you do, sir, that the first call 
 was from the robbers, and his scheme was the same as yours: 
 to confuse them.” 
 
 “Well, if we have succeeded in this, we shall get back to 
 Caledonia with all our men. If not, there’ll be the odds 
 against us, for we don’t know the enemies in our mkbi» I 
 
 ■ ■ 
 
A “ BLACK OWL.” 
 
 doubt if Mack meant to let Connolley serve with us ; lie hoped 
 better things of his drugged liquor. It’s my opinion, too, that 
 Dalton is as safe here as anywhere, even with Hicks against 
 : him. Mack had scattered the Regulators and drugged their 
 leader in order to have a clear field for his mob of ruffians. 
 Dalton would have had to fight for his life last night if it 
 hadn’t been for that stage-coach and Dan Strong.” 
 
 “Umph !” said the Doctor, “ I guess we are in accord on 
 that point; Connolley ought to be willing to take our word 
 for it.” * 
 
 “ I am,” said Copnolley quite humbly. 
 
 “I hope,” continued Vernet, “that we can prevail upon 
 him to take our word for yet more. Mr. Connolley, since we 
 agree that it’s best to go back, may I ask what you intend to 
 do next ?” 
 
 “ Eh ?” 
 
 “ How do you mean to explain — to manage it ?” 
 
 “I don’t mean to explain at all. In the morning I intend 
 to muster my men for the march, and then tell them my 
 mind.” Evidently, from histone, he expected the unqualified 
 approval of his hearers. 
 
 “ And what is your mind ?” persisted Vernet. 
 
 “ My mind !” — in a burst of indignation: — “ it’s my mind 
 to say my say once and for all ! I’m goin’ to tell ’em that 
 * Hicks and Finlayson are snakes in the grass — traitors! I’m 
 going to tell them what they have done. I’m going to say 
 that I won’t command a band of men whom I can’t swear by. 
 And then I’m going to say that from the minute, the word, 
 the Regulators are disbanded. I organized them ; I disband 
 them. They can go back to Caledonia and do as they like; 
 I’m done with ’em all /” 
 
370 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 He ended with an upward tone of triumphant self-approval; 
 if liis face had been visible through the darkness, they would 
 have seen in it his expectation of approval from them. In- 
 stead of this, Doctor Mitchells lips emitted a contemptuous 
 “Umph!” and Van Yernet, after relieving himself by a 
 quick, forcible gesture of impatience, said sharply, peremp- 
 torily : 
 
 “ Ridiculous ! Not to be thought of, Connolley !” 
 
 Connolley’s self-approbation had been sorely tried, and 
 this was too much. 
 
 “Look here,” he said hotly, “I’ve stood a cussin’ from the 
 Doctor here, but hang me if Pm goin’ to take it all around ! 
 Fd like to know what you mean by takin’ such a high hand ?” 
 
 As Doctor Mitchell was about to interpose, Vernet said 
 quietly : 
 
 “ Well, I think that you had better know what I mean. I 
 do mean to hunt down these stage robbers, and I don’t mean 
 to let any man — even as honest a man as I believe you to be, 
 Connolley — interfere with my plans by committing a blunder, 
 though done with the best intentions in the world. It would 
 be a fatal mistake to disband your Regulators here and now. 
 But before I say why — Doctor, won’t you just introduce mo 
 to Mr. Connolley? We can’t afford to lose his confidence; 
 he will be the very man we need — after he has ceased to be a 
 Regulator.” 
 
 “Umph!” said the Doctor; “I must say you have an 
 abundance of patience and hope — Pm disgusted with Connolley 
 for a thick-headed, obstinate, blind donkey. Why, you big 
 Regulator, that man over there is one of the first detectives of 
 this country. He’s here expressly to root out these outlaws, 
 and the Overland Stage Company has given him unlimited 
 
37 $ 
 
 A BLACK OWL.” 
 
 authority to act for them. He’s even got it in his power to 
 call the United States troops to Caledonia and put the town 
 under military control, if lie sees fit. If you want to do some- 
 thing, Connolley, I advise you to cut loose from your band, 
 give Mack a wide berth — for you’re no match for him — and 
 enlist unconditionally under Mr. Vernet.” 
 
 The last half of the Doctor’s tirade had quite obliterated 
 the effect produced by the first ; Connolley’s natural resentment 
 died away in surprise. In his helpless astonishment he turned 
 toward Dalton. 
 
 “ Is this so ?” he asked. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Dalton, “ it’s true. Mr Vernet is a well 
 known New York detective. I have known him as such for 
 years.” 
 
 Connolley caught his breath, and was silent for a moment. 
 When he spoke, his words carried to his listeners a bit of new 
 and interesting intelligence. 
 
 “Well, I’m blessed !” he said, more than half to himself. 
 /; I wouldn’t believe they were right about you, Mr. Dal- 
 ton.” 
 
 “ How ?” Dalton asked carelessly. 
 
 “ Why, in their notion that you was in some way interested 
 with the Overland. I said I guessed not.” 
 
 As Dalton was about to reply, he felt a warning touch upon 
 his arm. It was Vernet’s hand, and he closed his lips. 
 
 “Now,” said the Doctor, who seemed in perfect rapport 
 with Vernet, “ as time is precious, let’s hear your ideas, Vernet, 
 they’ll be sure to interest Connolley.” 
 
 Both he and Vernet knew their man. Connolley, crushed 
 and convinced, and glad to escape a renewal of the Doctor’s 
 uncomplimentary frankness, muttered a low “Yes,” and 
 
372 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 * 
 
 Vernet began, addressing himself, with his usual tact, not to 
 Connolley but to all. 
 
 “We will not enter into explanations now, gentlemen, but 
 simply review the facts. To begin, I will say that I felt 
 assured from the first that our raid would be a failure, and I 
 think I have not been alone in this opinion.” 
 
 “Dan Strong said the same thing!” broke in Connolley, in 
 his surprise at the coincidence. 
 
 “No doubt he lias his reasons,” said Vernet, “as we have 
 ours. I have become convinced that the men who ought to 
 protect Caledonia are, in reality, its worst enemies. There’s 
 Mack, now ; that Theatre of his brings him in money fast, 
 he ought to be a rich man, and yet he is not satisfied. He is 
 in a position to see and deal with all sorts of people; he is in 
 everybody’s confidence. Yet I firmly believe he is in col- 
 lusion with a band of outlaws, and that it is he, more than 
 our friend here, who controls the Regulators.” 
 
 Connolley started and seemed about to speak. 
 
 “Wait,” said Vernet. “ I don’t mean that all the Regu- 
 lators are false, but that Mack has bought and owns some of 
 them — two, at least; and that these manage to control w T hen 
 they can, and to circumvent w hen they can’t control. That is 
 wdiy your robber hunts ahvays turn out failures; why, when 
 there is a crisis, and prompt action is needed, the Regulators 
 are invariably scattered. Mack has, on his premises, a hidden 
 rendezvous. He can meet outlaws, harbor them, plot with 
 them, and never go out of his own door. Now w^hat happened 
 last night, when Strong called for volunteers? Only a few 
 Regulators responded, but among these was Hedley. Ten 
 minutes later, I saw Mack whimper a few words in his ear. 
 They understood each other so w r ell that Hedley only listened 
 
373 
 
 A “ BLACK OWL.” 
 
 and uodded. A moment later he told one of the volunteers 
 that lie was going after his horse, lie went, and he has not 
 been seen by any of us since. But 1 can tell you where he 
 went. He mounted his horse and rode straight across the 
 prairie to some outpost of the outlaws, to warn them of our 
 movements. And Finlayson came with the party in order to 
 furnish a means of communication. He made his first signal 
 over there in the woods, and it was answered by Hedley or 
 some other of the robbers. Perhaps they intended an ambush; 
 perhaps only to mislead us. At any rate, the number of hoots 
 given by Strong and myself must have puzzled them. Fin- 
 iayson don’t know what to do next; he will probably 
 try to get away and warn his confederates, or explain to 
 them.” 
 
 “ He can’t do that,” said Connolley ; “ Strong will look aftei 
 
 him.” - 
 
 “Now, don’t you see, Connelley,” resumed Vernet, “that 
 if you act as you propose, and disband your men, Finlayson, 
 and such others as are traitorously inclined, would at once be 
 free to give warning ; to join their confederates, perhaps, and 
 lead them in an attack on our disorganized party. These fel- 
 lows know that if they could annihilate ns, it would be a 
 warning to all future searching parties.” 
 
 ■ r There was a moment of silence, and then Connolley said 
 quite humbly; 
 
 “I’ve been a blind fool; I can see it now. Convince me 
 of the right and reason of a thing, and I’m with you. What 
 
 shall I do ?” 
 
 * I’ll tell you,” said Vernet. But he did not tell him then, 
 for the Doctor uttered a quick “ Hist,” and they all turned 
 tfcsir faces westward and listened. 
 
374 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “It may be Strong,” whispered Connolley; and then he 
 «®aid, just above his breath, “ Who comes ?” 
 
 “ A friend,” answered a low voice from the bushes. And 
 then appeared one of the /two men whom Connolley had set 
 to guard Finlay son. 
 
 “ Strong sent me,” he whispered, crouching down beside the 
 smouldering fire, to bring his face upon a level with theirs. 
 “Finlayson’s tried to sneak off into the woods, and come purty 
 near doin’ it. Strong’s sure there’s somebody hangin’ about 
 in the bushes. He says ye’d better git back soon’s ye can.” 
 “Doctor,” said Vernet promptly, “if you and Dalton will 
 go to Strong, Mr. Connolley and I will join you in five 
 minutes.” 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 CONNOLLEY RESIGNS. 
 
 It was Connolley himself who went about among the lag- 
 gard ones, early next morning, rousing them and bidding them 
 hasten. “We want to be in the saddle in half an hour,” lie 
 said to them ; “ we’ve got a long ride before us.” 
 
 But he did not name their destination until every man was 
 mounted; then he reined his own horse out upon the roadside 
 and raising himself in the stirrups called : “ Attention, Regu- 
 lators !” 
 
 The men promptly wheeled about and faced him. 
 
 “ My men/’ he said slowly, “ I have found that we started 
 out with too many odds against us. We have made some dis- 
 
CONNOLLEY RESIGNS 
 
 375 
 
 coveries that justify me in ordering a right about face. I want 
 to see the edge of Caledonia before sundown. I ain’t got no 
 explanation to make here: when we get back I’ll tell ye why 
 we have concluded to give up this hunt. Pete Fiulayson, I 
 want you to ride ahead with Dan Strong. Doctor Mitchell 
 and Mr. Dalton have volunteered to lead Flicks’ horse, and 
 see to his wounded hand. Now, boys, forward — keep close 
 together, quiet and orderly — straight for Caledonia.” 
 
 Dan Strong and Fiulayson turned their horses northward, 
 and the two Regulators who had slept beside Fiulayson took 
 place behind them without a word, and, such is the force of 
 example combined with mystery, the others, exchanging glances 
 of wonder, and questions and comments in undertones, fell 
 into line, and the whole cavalcade, Strong at its head, and 
 Connolley and Vernet bringing up the rear, rode back toward 
 Caledonia. 
 
 Once, when they were a long way toward Death Pass, Doc*, 
 tor Mitchell dropped back and reined his horse close beside 
 V ernet’s. 
 
 “ I’ve been thinking of what Connolley said about Dalton/' 
 lie remarked. “ If it was true, it would explain some things.” 
 “ If what was true ?” asked Vernet. 
 
 “ Why, the idea that somebody has got the notion that Dal- 
 ton might be a Secret Service Agent.” 
 
 “ Pshaw ! do you think that any One really has that notion ?” 
 “ You heard Connolley,” replied the Doctor. “ Didn’t you 
 do something, make some sign, to prevent Dalton’s speaking 
 on this subject ?” 
 
 1 “Why, yes. I didn’t consider his denial necessary just then. 
 It won’t do any harm to let Connolley believe him a detective.” 
 “ Well,” said the Doctor, “ I never should have thought it.” 
 
376 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEKY. 
 
 “ Don’t think of it now. Dalton’s a gentleman of leisure, 
 and not a detective. I suppose Mack has trumped up this 
 notion for the benefit of his lawless confederates, to get them 
 to further his schemes the more easily.” 
 
 “ Then you haven’t suspected that possibly Selwynmay have 
 dropped a hint of this sort to Mack?” 
 
 Vernet looked thoughtful. 
 
 “There might be something in that,” he said. “I must 
 discuss it with Stanhope.” 
 
 “How did you settle it with him?” asked the Doctor, 
 nodding toward Connolley, who was riding a little to one side 
 of them. 
 
 “ Capitally; we understand each other. He will act with 
 us, and be a valuable help. He has got his cue, and I don’t 
 think he will make, any more mistakes.” 
 
 “ I saw you talking with Strong this morning,” ventured 
 the Doctor, after a time. _ 
 
 “Yes. That mail’s a host in himself; he meets you half 
 way, and understands a hint. We’ve planned our next ex- 
 pedition already.” 
 
 “ Umph ! May I inquire how many Regulators you mean 
 
 to take next time?” 
 
 “ One,” answered Vernet smiling. “ When we go out again 
 it will be to conquer, but not by numbers.” 
 
 “ How then ?” 
 
 “By strategy.” 
 
 When the robber hunters, voluntarily returning from their 
 abandoned chase, had reached the outskirts of the town, Cen- 
 nolley halted them. 
 
 “Men,” he said, “ what lam going to say, is just this; 
 
CONNOLLEY RESIGNS. 
 
 377 
 
 We set out to hunt stage robbers, and if some of ye aren’t 
 satisfied with the way the thing’s ended, I don’t blame ye. 
 There was an idea amongst us that some spies were in the 
 bush last night, and that if we had waited we might a had a 
 skrimmage, Now, I guess you all know me well enough to be 
 sure that I wasn’t scared out. If our enemies had all been in 
 the 'bushes, we’d a been there this minute ; but the enemies we 
 had to fear most was amongst ourselves , just waiting a chance 
 to stab or shoot us in the back. There wasn’t a ghost of a 
 show for honest fightin’ or for anything but jest murder . If 
 I’d a found this out afore we started, there wouldn’t been any 
 start. If I hadn’t found if out at all half of us — the honest 
 half, most likely— would a been corpses afore, night. Sence 
 we’ve been a organized band, and ye’ve called me Captain, 
 we’ve had some robber hunts, and we’ve alius failed . We 
 couldn’t see why. Now I say, from the very first we’ve had 
 traitors amongst us. See if ye can’t put two and two together. 
 I aint a goin’ to point ’ em out, nor to name ’ em; there aint 
 no need.” 
 
 He paused a moment and then resumed : 
 
 J “ Now men, honest Regulators and dishonest, as I was the 
 one to organize this band, I am the one to say that the Regu- 
 lators of Caledonia are disbanded, from this time out, and I 
 do say it. I give up my office of Captain. You’re your own 
 men. Boys — you that are true blue — I’m sorry we must part 
 this way, but it’s the only way. I’m sorry I can’t tell 
 you my reasons for doin’ as I am doin’, but I can’t. Now I 
 *ay to you, do yep duty by yourselves and each other, and 
 don’t trust any man till you’ve tried hint.” 
 
 'His voice fell rather huskilv at 
 
 the last, and with the final 
 
378 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 It had been agreed that they should separate upon reaching 
 the town, and when Connolley turned, Doctor Mitchell made 
 a stiff little farewell gesture to Vernet and Dalton, and rode 
 straight toward his cottage. Then Dan Strong, seeming to 
 waken from a state of profound surprise, struck his- horse 
 smartly, and without one glance at the others galloped after '( 
 Connolley. 
 
 At this moment a young man with keen, blue eyes, and a j 
 clear, resonant voice, rode out from among the Regulators, | 
 who had remained in their places, each seemingly waiting for the | 
 other to move. 
 
 “ Boys”, he said, wheeling and facing them, “ before we ; 
 break ranks I ? d like to say a word to ye.” He paused and ; 
 glanced askance at Vernet and Dalton. 
 
 “We are de trop ,” said Vernet, smiling; and he touched I 
 his hat to the assembled band and rode townward, followed i 
 by his friend. 
 
 As they were nearing their hotel, there came tiie sound of ; 
 galloping feet behind them, and then Finlayson dashed past, i 
 accompanied by a dark faced man, who turned his head to J 
 bestow upon Vernet a grin and a significant wink. 
 
 “There’s mischief brewing,” said Vernet, looking after the jj 
 flying horsemen. 
 
 “Where?” asked Dalton. 
 
 “Among those disbanded Regulators. That man with N 
 Finlayson is one of the two whom Connolley set to watch him 
 last night; and the one who addressed the men, as we left! 
 them, was the other. They both have good reason to think 
 Finlayson one of the traitors.” 
 
A QUIET WEEK. 
 
 37£ 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 A QUIET WEEK. 
 
 That evening, beginning at sundown, Van Vernet held a 
 strange audience in Doctor Mitchell’s cottage. 
 
 First, it was Vernet, Dalton and Doctor Mitchell who 
 talked long and animatedly, seeming finally to agree, and to 
 understand each other perfectly. Then the Doctor and Dal- 
 ton left the cottage and went townward. 
 
 Soon after Connolley came, and when he and Vernet had 
 consulted earnestly for half an hour, and apparently had set- 
 tled some vexed question, Vernet changed the subject by ask- 
 ing abruptly : 
 
 “ Connolley, had you and your Regulators no penalty for 
 traitors ?” 
 
 „ “ Why, yes/* replied Connolley, “ we had?’ 
 
 “ Viiat was it ?” 
 
 “ Death, after a fair hearing, if the crime was proved?’ 
 
 “I wonder,” ventured Vernet, “ that some of your men 
 didn’t demand the name of the traitors? 
 
 “ They knew better,” said their late leader. “ If I’d a had 
 positive proof, I was bound to name (he man ; If not, I couldn’t 
 name him. They all understood my position. It was part 
 of our obligation.” 
 
 “But,” persisted Vernet, “surely you had sufficient proof 
 against that' fellow Hicks.” 
 
 “ Hicks ? Oh, yes ; but he wasn’t a Regulator. He wanted 
 to join, but I wouldn’t accept him.” 
 
880 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “Oh, ho ! But you set two of your men to watching Fin- 
 layson last night. You had to tell them something ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; I told them that Finlayson needed watching. That 
 was enough. They’re sharp fellows; sharper than me — 
 they’ve told me more than once that Finlayson was crooked.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Vernet, “ I rather think these two men mean 
 to try and locate the treachery.” 
 
 “Let ’em !” said Connolley grimly. 
 
 When Connolley had gone, Vernet sat for some time alone. 
 Then a light tap announced a new visitor, and he sprang up, 
 his face brightening. Tt was Charlie Carson, who entered, 
 and Vernet’ s countenance fell. 
 
 “Where’s Dick?” he asked quickly. 
 
 “ He couldn’t come. He’s watching at Mack’s with both 
 eyes.” 
 
 “What is it? anything new?” 
 
 “Well, I don’t just know. He’s making friends with Kit 
 Duncan, one of Mack’s hoppers” — “ hoppers” w r as Charlie’s 
 idiom for dancers — “ and he’s got a sharp lookout on a little 
 singer named Harry Hatch. There’s another thing : # he told 
 me to tell you that the Regulators were up to something. 
 They’re gathering on the quiet, and a couple of them are 
 sticking so tight to Finlayson that he can’t get out of their 
 sight.” 
 
 An hour later Doctor Mitchell came back and Connolley 
 was with him. 
 
 “I’ve persuaded him to sleep here,” said the Doctor tc* 
 Vernet, who was about to return to his hotel. 
 
 Vernet had been gone half an hour, and the Doctor and 
 Connolley were still smoking and talking, when footsteps came 
 hurriedly up to the door, and a loud, quick rap roused them 
 
A QUIET WEEK. 
 
 381 
 
 It was one of Mack’s bar-keepers who stood before them when 
 the Doctor opened the door. 
 
 (( Is Connolley — ,” he begun, and then his eyes fell upon 
 the ex-chieftain. “ Oh, Connolley, here you are ! I’d like to 
 see you outside for a minute.” 
 
 I “ I guess you can say anything that’s on your mind right 
 here,” said Connolley, without rising. 
 
 “ But it’s a message from Mack.” 
 
 I “ I’d come outside for you quicker’n I would for Mack, Jim. 
 Out with it.” 
 
 i “ Well, Mack’s got wind that a lot of your Regulators are 
 down on Finlavson, and likely to do him mischief. He wants 
 you to come up and try to quiet them.” 
 
 L “Tell Mack he’s out of Ids head,” said Connolley coolly. 
 “ There ain’t any Regulators. And tell Mack that he can get 
 the same mob that was ready to attack Dalton last night, to 
 protect Finlavson. ” 
 
 “Then you won’t come?” asked the messenger. 
 
 | Connolley turned about in his chair and placed his feet upon 
 a camp-stool. 
 
 “Not much,” he said, over his shoulder. 
 
 I The first man who rode out of town to the southward next 
 morning, found the body of Finlayson hanging to a beam that 
 was elevated upon two tall, newly set posts. 
 
 % Caledonia was scattered over a treeless plain, and Finlay- 
 son’s executioners had erected that impromptu and exceedingly 
 simple gallows in order to leave the body of the traitor hang- 
 ing on the very spot where the Regulators had been disbanded. 
 • r No attempt was made to punish the perpetrators of this 
 deed. 
 
 “ Ye see, we can’t hang all the Regulators,” said an oracle 
 
382 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 to a knot of corner gossips, “ and they won’t peach on each 
 other. The honest ones won’t, and the guilty ones dassent.” 
 
 “I knew them fellows was up to mischief,” said Dan 
 Strong, “ but ’taint for me to be too inquisitive about who 
 done it.” 
 
 “ Vo, sir,” said Connolley, in answer to an insinuation, “ I 
 didn’t have no part in it. But if ever we find the head of i 
 these sneakin’ go-betweens who pretend to be good citizens and 
 are all the time in cahoots with the robbers, I’ll take a hand 
 in that bangin’, now you bet !” 
 
 Vernet and Dalton drove to the ranch that morning. They 
 told the story of the day before to Barbara and Mag, and 
 brought away with them the letters Vernet had desired, and 
 an excellent photograph of Stephen Wray. 
 
 “ We have decided to keep the guns you were good enough 
 to lend us, Miss Drood,” said Vernet to Mag, when they were 
 about to go. “ We are making a little collection of arms,” 
 and he laughed lightly. 
 
 “Keep them,” said Mag heartily; “and take more if you 
 like.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” said Vernet. c Miss Wray, have you made 
 the acquaintance of the arsenal?” 
 
 “ That she has,” cried Mag, seeing that Barbara blushed and 
 hesitated. “ She’s been practising pistol-shooting, and she’s 
 doing well.” 
 
 “Really?” asked Vernet, still looking to Barbara for his 
 answer. 
 
 “Yes,” she assented; “I’ve broken the ice. I don’t think even 
 an arrant flatterer could call me a good shot but I’ve learned to 
 load a pistol, and I think I could fire it without hitting my- 
 
A QU1KT WEEK. 
 
 080 
 
 6e ]f j0r _” with a side glance at Dalton— “ shutting my eyes.” 
 
 “You haven’t been perfectly candid,” said Dalton, smiling. 
 “ You d id not say without fear. Confess ; were you not afraid 
 of the thing?” 
 
 “ Horribly, at first,” she admitted. 
 
 “And now?” queried Yernet. 
 
 t “Now? Why, it’s only a. test of the nerves after all. I 
 am no longer afraid of the weapon. Mag says I’m going to 
 be a marksman. Won’t that be an accomplishment to take 
 with me to the East?” Then suddenly her countenance sad- 
 dened and her eyes fell, at the thought of her father. 
 
 I “Courage,” said Yernet in a low tone, and extending his 
 hand ; “we have all things to hope for. I shall begin now to 
 report progress regularly, Miss W ray ; every day, perhaps. 
 
 “Oh, thank you,” she said impulsively. “It will be such 
 a relief, even if your news is ever so little.” 
 
 | He was as good as his word. Every day during the week 
 that followed, he drove, with Dalton, over the velvety prairie 
 to the home of Mountain Mag. Usually they made these 
 visits after an early breakfast, dining at twelve with Mag and 
 Barbara, and then back to Caledonia before evening. 
 
 One day, Stanhope, who, in the character of Dick Carson, 
 and living in the same house with Yernet and Dalton, was 
 much in their society, manifested a desire to supplant Dalton. 
 His request, of course, was proffered in the absence of the 
 latter, who only knew him as Charlie Carson s brother. 
 
 “I think it can be managed, Dick,” Yernet answered, “if 
 you make your request in Dalton’s hearing. I ve a half 
 notion that these long trips bore him a little.” 
 
 “So have I,” said Stanhope significantly. 
 
 . Vernet turned and eyed his Iriend keenly'’. 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ■“Dick,” lie said, “ you’ve got some idea or information 
 that you’re keeping from me.” 
 
 Stanhope laughed. “ Haven’t -you enough on your mind, 
 old fellow? You’ll get the benefit of all my ‘ideas’ in good 
 time.” And here the subject dropped. 
 
 “ Where do you two fellows ride to every day?” said Stan- 
 hope later, when Dalton had joined them, and all three were 
 smoking on- the hotel porch. “I wish there was room for 
 
 ,w- I 
 
 “There is,” said Yernet, “on the prairie.” 
 
 “ Oh, I know you go somewhere* Charlie says there are 
 ladies at some ranch out yonder. I wish one of you, which- 
 ever one it is that* takes the other, would take me for a 
 change.” 
 
 “Why,” said Dalton, looking up from his cigar, “it 
 wouldn’t be an unpleasant trip for you, Carson. If you’ll 
 agree to do my duty, fill my place — ” 
 
 “All right; what is it?” answered Stanhope promptly. 
 
 “I might let you go in my stead,” finished Dalton. “ I go 
 to take care of Morgan, here ; solely to take care of him.” 
 
 “ Well, anybody could do that.” 
 
 “Why, Dalton,” said Vernet, as if it hadjust occurred to him, 
 “ maybe you would like a day to yourself. If so, I can take 
 this chap.” 
 
 As a result of this ingenuous dialogue it was Stanhope, in- 
 stead of Dalton, who rode with Vernet to the ranch next day. 
 As they were about to set out, Dalton approached Stanhope 
 and placed a hand upon his arm. 
 
 “Carson,” he said, “ I hope you will do your duty.” 
 
 “What is it?” asked Charlie Carson’s supposed brother. 
 
 ‘‘There are two ladies at the ranch. Be sure you pay 
 
A QUIET WEEK. 
 
 386 
 
 enough attention to> one- — and not too much to the other.” 
 
 Stanhope looked up quickly, caught the meaning smile in 
 Dalton’s face, and, in the same glance, the flush that mounted 
 to Vernet’s. 
 
 “Oh, ho !” he thought, as he rode away with his friend ; “I 
 wonder if Van is caught.” 
 
 But he said nothing, this astute young man. Only, when 
 they were arrived at the ranch, he made good use of his eyes, 
 and formed his own conclusions. 
 
 The week passed in comparative quiet. Thrilling things 
 cannot be constantly happening, even in Caledonia. 
 
 The fiasco of the robber hunt created, naturally, some ex- 
 citement, but its one apparent result, the tragic end of Fin- 
 layson, served as a" sop to the blood-thirsty, and saved the 
 affair from the otherwise flat and stale finale which Cale- 
 donians could endure least of all things. The Regulators 
 went their several ways by mutual consent. Connolley Was 
 taciturh and refused to be interviewed. A stillness and an air 
 of mystery brooded over the place. Prophecies ran riot ; pre- 
 dictions were to be had for the asking. Signs and omens 
 were everywhere. It was rumored that the Regulators were 
 reorganizing in secret, strengthening their numbers, and plan- 
 ning a fresh raid. 
 
 Some said that the town was to be put under military dis- 
 cipline; others, that suspected Regulators were soon to be 
 lynched. People conversed in groups, whispered and wagged 
 their heads Dishonest men watched honest ones, and vice 
 versa. It was a week of waiting and unfulfilled expecta- 
 
 One of the two men who had shared with Dan Strong that 
 fotal stage-coach adventure, tjie one who was going Rome to 
 
386 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 his waiting sweetheart, died during this week, with her name 
 on his lips. 
 
 The other, under the watchful care of Father Miles, was 
 slowly corning back to life. The good man obtained the con- 
 sent of Doctor Mitchell, and had his patient carried to his own 
 humble sod house, away from the discords of the town, and 
 remained there with him, attentive and watchful. 
 
 Doctor Mitchell, Strong and Connolley went about silent, 
 yet alert, each intent upon the work he had taken upon him- 
 self to do. Vernet, coming and going to and from the ranch 
 by day, closeted with one or the other of his confederates at 
 night, or on duty at Mack’s — outside when Stanhope was 
 within; inside when he was without — and throwing into all 
 that he did a zest, an enthusiasm, a relish, which he did not 
 stop to analyze. Dalton, quietly but firmly persisting in his 
 purpose of “ seeing the play played out,” and waiting for 
 Aileen. Stanhope, here, there, everywhere; now coquetting 
 with Kit Duncan in Mack’s “ balcony,” now treating Harry 
 Hatch at Mack’s bar, now watching the “ private entrance” 
 outside. 
 
 All, during this quiet week, were busy, and the work of 
 each was bringing nearer the end for which they labored. 
 
 CHAPTER LXII1. 
 
 THEORIES. 
 
 On the last day of this week of outward calm with its 
 strange, strange undercurrent, Vernet chose Stanhope to pay 
 with him a visit to Mag and Barbara Wray. 
 
THEORIES. 
 
 387 
 
 "Vm going to have a kind of summing-up of the case, for 
 Miss Wray’s benefit, to-day,” Vernet said as they rode across 
 the prairies. “ I wish to make everything look as promising 
 as I can, before we set out, and yet I don’t want her to know 
 what we are going to do. But I will make a full explanation 
 of our plans to Mag. I tell you, Dick, that girl is one in a 
 thousand! I shall not attempt to deceive her , and I shall 
 depend upon you to entertain Miss Wray while I have a few 
 words with Mag.” 
 
 “ All right,” answered Stanhope and then he sang lightly: 
 
 “O, I can be happy with either, 
 
 When t’other dear charmer’s way/' 
 
 Vernet glanced around at him sharply, and they both 
 
 laughed. 
 
 “ Dick, your grit and good spirits are invaluable to the rest 
 of us. You tone down our tragedy. I wish you would re- 
 veal yourself to Dalton ; the fellow’s growing melancholy, in 
 spite of his apparent indifference to all things.” 
 
 Stanhope’s face became instantly grave. 
 
 | “ Van,” he said “what you wish has become more distaste- 
 ful to me than ever. But I want to put it all out of my mind 
 until our expedition is over. Perhaps — ” he paused abruptly. 
 
 “ Perhaps it will end our troubles for some of us, that ex- 
 pedition,” added Vernet. “Is that it, Dick ? Yes; you’re 
 right enough ! It may be you, or I, or Dalton. I wish he 
 would stay behind. It’s none of his business, this outlaw 
 hunt,” 
 
 “ For God’ssake, doq’t try to keep him back !” cried Stanhope. 
 “I tell you. Van, if the thing I suspect is true — ” Again he 
 
 paused abruptly. 
 
383 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ‘'Dick/* cried Vernet facing about, “in Heaven’s nara*, 
 what have you discovered?” 
 
 “ It can’t be called a discovery yet” said Stanhope, more 
 composedly. “ You will be the first to hear it, Yan, when the 
 time comes. When we all get back — ” 
 
 “If we do get back,” interrupted Yernct, suddenly falling 
 info a mood of gloom. 
 
 “Oh, we will,” exclaimed Stanhope, with a quick return of 
 his inconsequent manner. 
 
 When they reached the ranch they found Mountain Mag 
 and her fair guest engaged in pistol-practice, and while they 
 were exchanging greetings, Yernet said to Mag in a low 
 tone : 
 
 “ Before we go, I must talk with you alone.” 
 
 She answered him by a quick glance of intelligence, and he 
 passed on to greet Barbara. 
 
 “We have come to-day, Miss Wray,” he said, “to make a| 
 little semi-official report of what has been done, and to tell 
 you what we are about to do.” 
 
 When they were all seated in Mag’s airy sitting-room, he 
 took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it, saying : 
 
 “I have jotted down the items of such discoveries as we 
 have made, Miss Wray, and have ranged them all here so that 
 we may see just where we stand. To begin, then, the photo- 
 graph of Mr. Wray has been recognized by several people. 
 First, by Father Miles, who saw the original, lie believes, and 
 conversed with him. They met in the town accidentally, and 
 parted before Father Miles had learned his name. The gen- 
 tleman seemed perfectly at his case, and impressed the good 
 father as a man well able to take care of himself. There are 
 others who remember seeing him about the town. In shod| 
 
THEORIES. 
 
 there’s no doubt of his having been here, and having been a£ 
 the St. Charles, but—” he paused and turned his eye quietly 
 toward Barbara - — “ he was not known here as Stephen Wray.” 
 “Oh,” cried the girl sharply, her face full of alarm. 
 
 “ There is a name upon the register in his handwriting. 
 It has his initials reversed; you might almost . say it is his 
 name reversed. It is William Stephens, New York.” 
 
 Barbara put her hand to her head. She began to look be- 
 wildered. 
 
 “ I can’t understand it,” she said ; “ why should Papa do 
 that ?” 
 
 “ Why should lie change his name, you mean ? It might 
 not be difficult to guess his motive. Your father, perhnps, 
 reasoned that to make himself known here as Mr. Wravg a 
 New York millionaire, might attract unpleasant attentions 
 from disagreeable people. ITe may have had money or valua- 
 ble papers with him, and no fane)' for being robbed. Ou tlie 
 whole, I think the supposition quite natural.” 
 
 Vernet glanced again at Barbara, but she was sitting with 
 her hands clutching each other, listening, waiting breathlessly. 
 
 “ Having satisfied ourselves of his presence in Caledonia, we 
 found out, after some trouble, that a man resembling Mr. 
 Wray took passage in one of the Rockville stages — ” 
 
 “ Oh !” breathed Barbara, turning white* 
 
 “ And that twice he changed his plan, or seemed to, and de- 
 layed his journey. Now, Miss Wray, thus far we are reason- 
 ably sure that it is your father whose movements we have been 
 tracing. Beyond this all is surmise. It is known (hat a stage, 
 leaving a few days after Mr. Wray postponed his journey for 
 the second time, carried two passengers. One of these is a 
 fellow who comes and goes between here and Rockville, gen- 
 13 
 
390 
 
 A MOUKTAm MWW. 
 
 erally considered a f hard case’, and believed to be more outlaw 
 than miner. All the description we can get of the other isj 
 that he was an elderly, well-dressed man. Now, we are go- 
 ing to suppose this man to have been Mr. Wray.” 
 
 Barbara’s pale face grew still paler, and Mountain Mag 
 involuntarily moved nearer to her. 
 
 “ We will suppose him to have been Mr. Wray,” repeated 
 Vernet, “and that he set out for Rockville, the second pas- 
 senger in the coach. In this case, for want of more positive 
 evidence, to guide us, we decide to adopt the theory that shapes * 
 itself to our hand. Miss Wray, let us suppose that your father 
 comes here, as he did come, lured by promises and represen ta- 
 tions from one upon whom he believes he can rely. Let us 
 suppose that he comes to purchase mining stock — do you think 
 that probable ?” 
 
 “Yes; I think it very probable.” 
 
 “ To do this, then, he must have brought with him money 
 or securities to a large amount. If he did, it would account 
 for his effort to hide his identity under a fictitious name. Let 
 us next suppose that he arrives here expecting to meet this per- 
 son whose representations have brought him to the West ; that 
 he does not find him, but a letter, instead, telling him to wait. 
 He waits, and while waiting informs his correspondent, who, 
 we will say, is in Rockville, of his change of name and also, 
 because of this same change, he tells his daughter not to write 
 to him.” 
 
 “Oh!” exclaimed Barbara. “I feel that you are right !” a 
 “ Now, let us further suppose that Mr. Wray, learning that 
 
 his correspondent is in Rockville, writes him to come down 
 the mountains, and waits for him a few days. Then, becom- 
 
 ing impatient, he decides to go to Rockville, and engages pas- 
 
THEORIES. 
 
 &91 
 
 gage in the stage. Then a letter comes, bidding him wait. 
 Finally he goes, and there are only two passengers in the 
 coach. The driver is one Sajmuels, who has not been long in 
 the Company’s service. Now, Miss Wray — I beg that you 
 won’t be alarmed at what I am saying ; it is all theory from 
 this point, remember — suppose there is a man, powerful in 
 Rockville and Caledonia, a speculator and stock gambler per- 
 haps, who has set on foot a gigantic scheme for profit. He 
 goes East to interest capitalists in this scheme, which may have 
 been, in the beginning, a fair one. Suppose that, after your 
 father has set out for this place, the bubble bursts ; a fortune 
 is slipping out of the grasp of the schemer. Then he conceives 
 another idea. He can command or buy any number of despera- 
 does, and he lays his plans. He contrives to have his victim de- 
 tained in Caledonia, by letter, until a coach goes up the moun- 
 tain manned to suit his purpose — that is, with only two 
 passengers, and one of these his tool, and with a driver who is, 
 doubtless, in his pay. At a convenient point the coach may 
 be waylaid, and the two passengers made prisoners ; me of 
 them, of course, to be released ; the other — held for ransom, 
 perhaps.” 
 
 Barbara Wray started up, and Mag, fearing an outbreak of 
 grief or terror, moved impulsively toward her. But to the 
 surprise of all, the girl turned and walked steadily tip and 
 down the room three or four times. Her lips weie tightly 
 pressed together, as if to keep back all signs of emotion, and 
 she was very pale. Presently she recovered her self-control 
 and paused before Yernet. 
 
 . “ You say, perhaps the coach was waylaid,” .* he said slowly. 
 “Did not the driver come back? What has become of the 
 other passenger ?” 
 
A MOTJHTAIK M YttTfiHY, 
 
 S#2 
 
 “Oh !” said Vernet, with a look of approval, “I wondered 
 if you would think of that. The driver came back, resigned 
 his position, and started East the same day. The other pas- 
 senger — Nixon was his name — has not been seen in Caledonia 
 since, although a certain Rockville miner, Dan Strong, says 
 that he is now and then visible in Rockville.” 
 
 “And why — why do you think that my father is held for 
 ransom ? May he not have been — murdered?” She shuddered 
 as she spoke the word, yet spoke it firmly. 
 
 “ If the stage Avas halted, Miss Wray, and if your father I 
 had upon his person any large sum of money, they might have 
 taken that and lot him go. It would have been the simplest 
 way. If, on the contrary, lie was too wise to carry a large 
 sum of money about with him, but had, instead, securities 
 not negotiable by others, or that were without value until his 
 signature was attached, they might then have resolved to hold 
 liimV until he signed these papers, or consented to ransom him- 
 self at a handsome figure”. 
 
 “Stop,” said Barbara excitedly. “Tell me, do you think 
 that it ivcts my father who w r ent in that stage ?” 
 
 “ I think so, Miss Wray, and I am not alone in that opinion !” 
 
 “ Then you must be right. I am determined to hope that 
 you are right. But why, if my father is held in the mountains 
 for ransom, why, in sending for me, did he not bid me bring 
 money ? If he were not ill, as he said — ” She paused sud- 
 denly, and her face blanched at the new thought that brought 
 terror with it. 
 
 “Miss Wray,” said, Wernet, rising and standing close be- 
 side her, “those letters have been on refill Iv examined by per- 
 sons who are experienced in the analysis of handwriting, and 
 I believe them to be forgeries.” 
 
THEORIES. 
 
 393 
 
 “What! *&nd my father, then, did not write for me?” 
 
 “1 do not think lie wrote those letters.” 
 
 Barbara sank suddenly in the nearest chair, and buried her 
 face in her hands. 
 
 “Then he is dead,” she mourned; “and I — ” 
 
 Vernet was instantly at her side. He drew his chair close 
 to her and said gently : 
 
 “Miss Wray, if these letters are forgeries, they are the 
 strongest of proofs that your father is living. Perhaps he 
 lias been obstinate and refused to buy his freedom, and these 
 villains have schemed to get you here in order to appeal to you 
 or — ” He paused; a sharp ejaculation had fallen from 
 Mountain Mag’s lips. 
 
 “It’s nothing,” said Mag in answer to his look of inquiry, 
 but she shot him a warning glance. 
 
 Barbara’s hands had fallen from her face. She saw it all 
 and understood instantly. 
 
 “Or,” she said, looking from one to the other, “in order 
 to work upon his fears for my safety.” 
 
 “Well,” said Vernet, “all this, you know, is supposition.” 
 
 “It is inspiration!” cried Barbara. “I am sure that Papa 
 would never start upon such a journey with much money about 
 him. I am sure, too, that he carried valuable papers. And 
 I am very confident that he would not yield to their demands 
 unless — unless they could reach him through his fears for me. 
 Tell me,” starting up, “how can we act upon this? Something 
 must be done.” 
 
 “Something will be done, Miss Wray. The first step will 
 be, I think, to find this man, Nixon, if he is to be found. 
 To do this, we must go to Rockville. We shall be gone some 
 days ; perhaps a week. Can you wait in patience and in 
 
§>94 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MBTOY. 
 
 hope ? When we come back, I think we shall , bring good 
 neAvs.” 
 
 “I will try,” she said faintly, but she did not look very 
 hopeful. 
 
 Before they left the ranch, Mag and Stanhope, two valu- 
 able allies, made for Vernet the opportunity to converse with 
 Mag alone. In this interview he was very frank, telling the 
 strong-hearted Mountain girl all that they had planned, all 
 that they hoped and feared. From this interview Mag came 
 back to Barbara with a face profoundly serious, and with a 
 clear knowledge of what part she might have to play in the 
 coming drama, or tragedy — which it was to be, no one could 
 foretell. 
 
 When they parted, Barbara and Vernet were very coura- 
 geous and very calm. But Vernet sighed heavily as he rode 
 away, and Barbara followed him with her solemn eyes, and in 
 a visible tremor, until Mag laid a hand upon her arm and 
 said : 
 
 " It’s a sign of bad luck to watch a person out of sight. 
 Come in.” 
 
 CHAPTER LXIV. 
 
 THE SECRET CHAMBER. 
 
 Darkness was settling down upon Caledonia when Charlie 
 Carson ran briskly up the stairs of the St. Charles, and 
 hastening along the narrow hall, paused at the door of his own 
 room, inserted a key in the lock and noiselessly entered. 
 
THEORIES, 
 
 The shade before the single window was lowered, but Charlie 
 knew where to place his hand upon matches and a small lamp, 
 and soon it was dimly illuminated. 
 
 ! At the moment when the light flashed up, there was a 
 sound and a movement behind Charlie, and he turned quickly 
 just as a dark form reared itself and sat upright on the bed. 
 
 % “ Oil, is it you, Charlie ?” 
 
 “ Well I should rather think so. I’d like to know what 
 waked you. You were snoring sweetly when I came in, and 
 I’ve made no sound.” 
 
 “It was the light,” explained Stanhope, yawning and get- 
 ting off the bed to stretch himself. “ You needn’t come 
 around me with a light when you want me to sleep ; thunder 
 wouldn’t wake me half so quick/ What time is it, Charlie?” 
 | “ Oh, it’s early enough ; not fairly dark outside. Do you 
 feel refreshed?” 
 
 “Yes; I’m all right ; ready to make a night of it if nec- 
 essary. Raise that lamp a bit, Charlie; I must make my- 
 self charming. I’ll take a look at our friend in the private 
 asylum for single gentleman early to-night, for I mean to 
 bestow considerable of my valuable society upon Mack and 
 Miss Duncan.” 
 
 He was standing before the small mirror, and laughed as 
 he fitted on a jaunty mustache. 
 
 “ Poor little Frenchy,” he said, “I’ll have to discard you 
 to-morrow and show my naked countenance to a heartless 
 world. Charlie, I think you’ll have to crop my hair. I 
 must not run the risk of any wig or toggery of that sort to- 
 morrow. I’m going in prepared to corae to close quarters.” 
 
 “I can’t give it a very slick cut,” said Charlie, referring to 
 the hair. 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 396 
 
 “I don’t want anything of that kind. I want to be cropped 
 like a young $wede just landed.” 
 
 “ Oh ! in that case, I guess I can fix you.” 
 
 The band was beginning its first quickstep before the door 
 of Mack’s, and the street about the front of the house presented 
 a lively aspect when Charlie Carson came, by a ‘round-about 
 way, to the Theatre. He did not approach its front entrance, 
 but came, instead, close to the corner, in the rear, that was 
 nearest Mack’s office. He moved quietly, not to attract to 
 himself needless attention, but yet boldly, with an off-hand 
 air, as if he had nothing to conceal. 
 
 When he found that he was unobserved, and that Mack’s 
 office was dark, lie glided along the rear fence, keeping close 
 to it, and stopping at every few steps to listen. When ho had 
 reached the northwest corner of the enclosure, lie halted and 
 peered cautiously around it. 
 
 A dark figure was standing silent and moveless against the 
 fence. There was a quick interchange of low, very low, clucks, 
 as signals of safety, and then Charlie whispered : 
 
 “Here we are. All ready?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 Charlie unbuttoned his loose coat, and began to revolve 
 like a top, uncoiling, by this manoeuvre, a light ladder of 
 strong cords, that had been wound about his body, and which 
 (lie other coiled deftly again, standing finally with the end 
 which had a strong iron hook attached, in his right hand. | 
 “ All right, Charlie,” he whispered. “ Just you wait here — 
 at any rate until I see how the land lies. I only want to take 
 a look now; I’m coming back later. Now then.” 
 
 He stood close to the wall, with his face turned inward? 
 and Charlie, who was the shorter and lighter of the two. 
 
THE SECRET CHAMBER. 
 
 397 
 
 stepped quickly out- of his low shoes, and putting his two 
 hands upon Stanhope’s collar, mounted easily to his shoul- 
 ders. Then Stanhope’s right hand went up. Charlie took the 
 hook and deftly caught it over tin*, top of the fence, drawing 
 lip one end of the ladder, and dropping it into the enclosure 
 between the two fences. Then he clambered lightly over and 
 down upon the other side. 
 
 There was a moment of stillness and then came a soft tap 
 upon the board against which Stanhope’s ear was pressed. 
 He stooped instantly, took up Charlie’s discarded shoes, 
 stowed them in his deep side-pockets, and began to climb the 
 rope ladder. 
 
 This exploit was no new thing to them. Every night for 
 more than a week these two had paid a visit to the secluded 
 portion of Mack’s fortification, and when Stanhope was upon 
 the ground beside Charlie not a moment was lost in needless 
 consultation. Stanhope again placed himself against the outer 
 palings and Charlie again mounted to his shoulders. This 
 time he dropped to the ground with the ladder of rope trail- 
 ing after him. Then Stanhope placed himself against the in- 
 ner fence, and again Charlie adjusted the hook. This time, 
 however, he did not go over the fence, but dropped back, in- 
 stead, beside Stanhope. 
 
 ec The way seems clear, he whispered. 
 
 Stanhope unburdened his pockets of the shoes, and climbed 
 to the top of the second fence, with its ornamentation of iron 
 spikes, two of which he removed, and thus easily passed be- 
 tween those on either side, and so down to the ground. 
 
 And now Stanhope is fairly within Mack’s closely guarded 
 premises. He stands still a moment, listening and peering 
 about him through the darkness. A very faint light, shining 
 
398 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY 
 
 from the window of the place Stanhope has been pleased to 
 call Mack’s secret chamber, guides them toward it. But he 
 approaches neither door nor window. He goes, instead, 
 straight to the angle of ihe wall, where the detached room 
 touches the main building. The walls of the secret chamber 
 are of rough stones, and it is not difficult for Stanhope to ! 
 climb by the help of their projections and the bracing power 
 afforded by the angle, to the low roof which slopes from till 
 front, like that of a shed. 
 
 Once upon this roof he lies prostrate, and his hands come in 
 contact with something in the very centre. The roof is not 
 shingled without, nor plastered within. Below is a ceiling 
 of thin painted boards and the top is tightly covered with 
 matched lumber, which is overlaid with narrow strips where 
 the boards are joined. A week ago he had drilled through 
 this, working slowly and cautiously, and removed a small 
 square block. Underneath this block he has pierced the ceil-, 
 ing, and has three small holes through which he can see much, 
 but not all, that is transpiring below'. As a precaution against 
 possible rains, he lias fitted over the block an extra piece of 
 wood, and now he remove* board and block, and applies his eye 
 to one of the small openings'. 
 
 The room into which he looks is well lighted and comfort- 
 ably furnished. At the back is a bed, much tumbled, and 
 a washst&nd that bears evidence of frequent use. Near the 
 centre is a small table, with the remnants of a substantial meal 
 upon it. And beside the table a man is sittingw-a man with 
 a fine head, covered with abundant, but closely cropped hail ; 
 with a firm chin and handsome mouth, above which grows a 
 small moustache, neatly trimmed, and blonde like the hair. 
 The ©yes arc blue, and keen, and serious ; dearly not the eyes 
 
“ He removes block and board, and applies bis eye to one of the small 
 
 openings.'’ — Page 398. 
 
400 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 of a humorist. Their light knows but three gradations: they 
 are severe, or piercing, or steadfast, always. The face is pale; 
 and its pallor is the finishing touch that makes it a face of re- 
 finement. He looks like one who should be, must be, gravely 
 courteous, chivalric to heroism, loyal to the end. And yet this 
 man with the noble head and refined face is a man in hiding, 
 a man suspected of murder. He is Cool Hank Dutton, and 
 as yet, Stanhope is ignorant of his identity. 
 
 He rises now, and begins to pace the floor, and then Stan- 
 hope could observe, if lie were not already familiar with the 
 fact, that the form is tall, and lithe, and muscular. He looks 
 strong, notwithstanding ten days of racking pain and close 
 confinement. One hand, grown white like his face in that sun- 
 less room, hangs loosely at his side, where it clinches and un- 
 clinches itself ; the other rests before his breast, in a sling. 
 He is thinking deeply, and not too contentedly. His face, as he 
 walks to and fro, is severe, and his lips are set in straight, firm 
 lines. Sometimes he lifts his clenched hand in a gesture that 
 may mean menace, or defiance. / 
 
 Stanhope watches him for some moments, as he has watched 
 him nightly for more than a week, and then concludes that lie 
 will return to Charlie. All seems well in the secret chamber; 
 at least all appears as he expected to find it. 
 
 “ He won’t be likely to leave this place until he is rid of 
 that sling,” Stanhope had said to himself, and lie was annoyed 
 because he always found this man in solitude. 
 
 iC Is he shunned, or does he shun society ?” he had said to 
 Vernet. “ I’d give a good deal to see him and Mack together ; 
 to know on what terms they stand.” 
 
 “ 1 suppose Mack visits him by day,” said Vernet, in reply 
 “Urthis. “ He isn’t often absent from his c Place,’ as he calls 
 Si, at night.** 
 
A LI03f IK A NET. 
 
 m 
 
 As the last Wail of the band rends the air, and Stanhope is 
 about to lift his hand and replace the block of wood, he sees 
 the man halt abruptly, directly under him, and seem to listen. 
 
 Stanhope listens too, and he hears, or thinks he does, a low 
 double knock upon the door below. Then he sees the man 
 move quickly toward it, and although lie has now passed be- 
 yond the range of his sight, he knows, by the sounds, that the 
 door is being unbarred and opened. He quickly relinquishes 
 his design of speedy departure, and with a thought for poor 
 Charlie, cooling his heels between the two fences, again presses 
 his face close to the holes in the ceiling. He sees the occupant 
 of the room come back to the table and sit down, and then the 
 visitor appears, drawing up a chair and seating himself op- 
 posite. 
 
 Stanhope silently congratulates himself. The visitor is 
 
 Mack. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 A n OK IK A NET. 
 
 The face of the occupant of the secret chamber, as he turns 
 it upon his visitor, is neither pleased nor expectant. It is 
 simply severely blank. But Mack’s face is as bland as Spring. 
 He beams upon his vis a vis as he seats himself. 
 
 u Well, Hank/’ he says, rubbing one hand over the other, 
 after a fashion peculiar to him, ci how do you find yourself 
 now ?” 
 
 * Mtmkf’ Stanhope has heard distinctly, but for fmr ha 
 
402 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 should lose a word of what may follow, he withdraws his eye 
 from the orifice, and applies his ear instead. 
 
 “ I’m stifling,” says the other shortly. “ I must get out 
 of this.” 
 
 “Yes, yes/* says Mack quickly; “ of course — of course. 
 That arm was a bad affair. It couldn't have happened at a 
 worse time, the whole thing.** 
 
 “ What c whole thing?* ** asked the man he had called Hank 
 resting his keen eyes upon Mack*s face. 
 
 “ Why, your quarrel with Selwyn, his death, and your 1 
 wound, you know, and all at a time when you and Selwyn. 
 both were so much needed. Hank, I wish youjyvould trust 
 me about that business !** 
 
 “ What business ?** 
 
 a Oh, pshaw ! that quarrel, and all the rest of it.** 
 
 Hank kept his eyes steadily fixed upon Mack's face. 
 
 “You've said something like this before," he remarked, as 
 if the words had made no impression upon him. 
 
 A little of Mack's suavity fell away from him. 
 
 “ Well," he said, “we never did quite understand each other, % 
 and there's a good deal to be understood. Tve been perfectly 
 frank with you." 
 
 “Yes!" — -still speaking in the same even tone. “Let me 
 see. You’ve told me, for instance, that Duke Selwyn has been 
 shot; and when I asked for details, you treated the question 
 as a joke, and gently insinuated that it was I who shot him.** 
 “'Well, you didn’t deny it.** \Yj 
 
 “ Perhaps I should have done so, if, before I had rallied 
 from my surprise, you had not come down upon me with the 
 information that my mysterious absence, and the fact that I 
 
A LION IN A NET. 
 
 403 
 
 as proof of my guilt. 1 r ou appeared to consider the matter 
 
 'wrfctle d ” 
 
 a There’s one tiling I didn't teil you. Dalton has offered a 
 big reward for the apprehension of Selwyn's murderer.” 
 
 “ Wei!,” said Ilimk coolly, c: I suppose that settles my chances. 
 Of course, you don't mean to let a big reward slip through 
 your fingers?” 
 
 ‘‘ Upon my word, one would think you wanted me to give 
 you up !” cried Mack. 
 
 “ Well, I'm getting a little tired of this place, and I'm rather 
 fond of excitement, you know.” 
 
 Mack got up with an angry gesture, and then sat down as 
 if he had heretofore been only joking. 
 
 i( Come, Hank,” he said, with - an effort to return to his 
 bland atmosphere, u let's be serious. Selwyn told me, the very 
 day he was killed, that you had gone clear back on our pro- 
 ject. Afterwards, lie said, you met him on the street, and. 
 were less unreasonable ; that you agreed to meet him and me 
 next morning, and talk the matter over.” 
 
 Ci Well,” said Cool Hank, “ thus far all is correct.” 
 
 Mack thrust his head forward, and put a world of meaning 
 in his tone. 
 
 Ci Did you intend to keep your word f 9 
 s: No ; I had no intention of so doing.” 
 u That was just a blind ?” 
 
 u I could call it by a better name, but that will do.” 
 a Look here, Hank, wore you in earnest in all that you said 
 to Selwyn about that business ?”' 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 €i And haven't you changed your mind f 9 
 
 “No” 
 
404 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MVStBMV. 
 
 “I suppose you know that you will beexpected to take 
 Selwyn’s place, and what that means ?” 
 
 “ Mack, drop this subject.” 
 
 “ I tell you it can’t be dropped. We’ve got to understand 
 each other.” 
 
 “ We do understand each other.” The speaker’s eyes began 
 to throw out a steely light ; there was a red spot now on either 
 cheek. “ I understand that unless I agree to carry out Sel- 
 wyn’s damnable plans to the end, you will denounce me as 
 Selwyn’s murderer. You understand, if you know me at all, 
 that I’ll not touch the business.” 
 
 “ Look here, Plank Dutton, if you had only me to fear you’d 
 be safe enough. You say you want to get out of here. What 
 do you intend to do when you leave this place ?” 
 
 “I’ll tell you,”— the light in the blue eyes deepened. “I’m 
 going to begin right where I left off. I told Selwvn, that 
 day on the street, that I’d meet you both, because I wanted 
 to keep him in town. I wanted a clear field. I meant by in- 
 fluence, force, or strategy, to carry my point.” 
 
 “I see,” said Mack dryly. 
 
 “I wish Jdid,” thought Stanhope, on the roof. 
 “Unfortunately,” went on Cool Hank, “I got into a shoot- 
 fog scrape, and it disarranged in y plans.” 
 
 “At any rate> you got off better than the other fellow.” 
 “Did I?” musingly. “Well, I don’t knerw. One thing is 
 certain ; I didn’t expect to be brought here.” 
 
 “ That’s what I can’t understand — how the boys came to 
 mix you and Selwyn up so.” 
 
 Hank was silent. 
 
 “ They said they had brought in Selwyn wounded, when a* 
 that very inmate he was lying in my Place, dead.” 
 
A LION IN A NET. 
 
 405 
 
 "It wasn’t at my request that they brought me to your 
 
 door.” 
 
 "No; you were feather-headed enough, just then. So you 
 purpose going back upon all of us? Oh, well, I haven’t 
 kept you very fully informed. Listen, and maybe you’ll 
 change your mind. Three days ago a band of men went out 
 to hunt stage-robbers, with Connolley^ and his Regulators at 
 their head. They came back about dusk of the next day. 
 Connolley halted them just outside the town; made them a 
 speech ; said that there were traitors among them, and that, 
 but for his superior wisdom, they would all have been led in- 
 to ambush and slaughtered. Then he pronounced the Regula- 
 tors disbanded ; he washed his hands of them.” 
 
 " Mack, are you lying to me?” 
 
 "I wish I could say yes. No, I’m not lying; and that 
 isn’t the worst. The next day Pete Finlayson’s body was 
 found hanging to a cross-beam, on the spot where Connolley 
 harangued the Regulators the night before.” 
 
 ^ Cool Hank sat silent, his face pale again, his eyes looking 
 Mack through and through. 
 
 "You see,” said Mack, after a pause, " that this is a bad 
 time to go back on your friends. It will look like an effort to 
 save yourself, and even that won’t work. A week ago you 
 might have been accused of murder almost without danger to 
 yourself; you’ve always been popular, and that would have 
 carried you through. But things are changed. The town’s 
 full of threatenings. There’s trouble in the air. There’s a 
 strong feeling growing against the old order of things. There’s 
 a secret influence at work. There’s mysterious talk of another 
 robber hunt, with new leaders and with the military to back 
 them. I tell you, things look black for some of us. And 
 
m 
 
 $ rnmwMN my 
 
 1 
 
 Here ;m sits vwsaag me, isfe. : «3 y oelieve taat if I hadn’t 
 effort to screen you, cy trying to make out a ease 
 ag^rst somebody else, all this hubbub would not have been 
 lacked up, Ifs that infernal Dalton business that’s done it.” 
 Mack stops and waits for his effect. But Cool Hank has 
 himself under perfect control again. 
 
 “Wall,” he says, “go on. Since you have gone into de- 
 
 tails, finish. How did you try to screen me? who is the 
 ‘somebody else’ upon whom you attemped to throw the blame? 
 what do you mean by the Dalton business?” 
 
 “I’ll tell you all about the inquest,” says Mack, “and then 
 
 you’ll understand.” 
 
 And lie does tell him, omitting some particulars, here and 
 there, hut giving, so far as Dalton’s share in the trial is con- 
 cerned, a very faithful version. 
 
 -the listener just over their heads makes a mental note of 
 the fact that he does not mention, however remotely, the part 
 taken by Mountain Mag and Barbara W ray : that he does 
 not even name these two young ladies. 
 
 A hen Mack has gone over the entire ground, giving sharp 
 emphasis to the strong points made against Dalton, and end- 
 ing with a rehearsal of Doctor Mitchell’s final summing-up, 
 and the verdict of the Coroner’s mry s his auditor sits. looking 
 him full in the face, in severe silence for some moments. At 
 last he sneaks. A’*' ^ * I 
 
 “ So,” he says, u you cursed coward! Y m contemptible 
 :.cak ! You have w(Wt'§ coil of evidence against tms ma i 
 jj; :cu ; because you hate and fee r Mm. And you ask me to 
 Lciieve that it was to serve me that yen did it — - — you liar l* 
 u 1 tell you there was nothing false about the evidence. I 
 jpasiied the seasea ior it, csjsI the prosecnticai all I 
 
A LION IN A 'NET. 
 
 40 ? 
 
 *etild, but the evidence is square enough.” Mack seems to 
 iiave lost all feeling of personal resentment in the effort he is 
 making to impress the facts upon Cool Hank. 
 
 “ It seems, then,” says Cool Hank slowly, — “ that is, if you 
 Have told the truth — it seems that Mr. Dalton and I divide 
 he honor of this accusation between us about equally?” 
 
 * You did” 
 
 “ Oh, did ; and why not do f ” 
 
 “ Because Dalton has redeemed himself by standing his 
 ground and by offering that reward. The fact that you have 
 3een in hiding, as people think, has made prejudice against 
 
 jrou.” 
 
 Mack looks at him warily as he speaks. He knows that 
 ae is treading upon dangerous ground ; that he may be saying 
 it any moment the word that will act as the last straw. 
 
 But Cool Hank is still worthy of his name. 
 
 “Mack,” he says, “you’re almost a perfect villain. You’re 
 jrand in your specialty, and you’re a wonderful liar! As if 
 [ did not know how you have been killing two birds with one 
 Hone! You hate that man Dalton, and you fear him. You 
 have done your level best to ruin him, and you expect to make 
 capital of your revenge and spite by turning it to my account. 
 Drop that. If you have set the dogs on Dalton, I know why 
 you did it !” 
 
 “Why!” stammers Mack. It is not a question, but Cool 
 Hank chooses to receive it as such. 
 
 “ Perhaps it never became known to all Caledonia that you 
 were once collared and kicked by this same Dalton. Do you 
 want your memory refreshed? It was quite early, and 
 Selwvn and I were the only witnesses, except the girl. She 
 had fallen aick, I think she said, while drudging behind your 
 
408 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 
 greasy foot-lights ; and, because she had disappointed you, 
 you withheld her wages. Dalton found her crying where you 
 had turned her out. He led the girl in with one hand, and 
 took you by the throat with the other — ah, I see that you are 
 beginning to remember it. Selwyn and I could not interfere; 
 vve didn’t want to. I believe we both told you then that he 
 served you right. Now that I recall it, this was Selwyn’s first 
 meeting with Dalton. He privately expressed himself as not 
 quite pleased to find his old school-fellow here in the wilder- 
 ness.” * 
 
 “ Since you remember so much, perhaps you recollect that 
 Selwyn said he thought Dalton was interested in the Over- 
 land?” 
 
 “Yes; I remember that, too. And you took the alarm. 
 You thought Dalton might look too closely after his interests. 
 Don’t you know that Selwyn always manipulated you through 
 your fears? I didn’t believe a word of that then; I don’t 
 now. But I can see how eagerly you caught at a chance to 
 hurt Dalton. So my absence has not been in my favor, eh ? 
 Well, I’ll try now what my presence can do. I’ll go and take 
 up my quarters at the St. Charles, and have an understanding 
 with Dalton.” 
 
 Mack starts and catches his breath. 
 
 “ But,” he stammers, “ but you can’t — it won’t do — the 
 boys— I promised — pshaw ! Hank, you’d be arrested in ten 
 minutes !” 
 
 “That’s my affair.” . | 
 
 “ No, it isn’t ; there’s too much at stake !” 
 
 “Bah! there’s nothing at stake. Mack, I’d like to know 
 how much longer you think I’m going to stay in this con- 
 founded hole.” 
 
A LION IN A NET. 
 
 m 
 
 “ Well" — Mack rubs his bauds and half shuts his eyes— 
 "well, a little while yet; until we understand each other bet- 
 ter, or your arm gets well.” 
 
 "By which you intimate that I am a prisoner here your 
 prisoner, because, until my arm gets well, I -can't break your 
 head and your locks, and scale your palisades, eh ? Well, 
 until that time I intend to be monarch of all I survey. Be 
 so good' as to take yourself 01T, Mack. I want to reflect upon 
 these things, these probable lies, that you have told me." 
 
 All Mack's serenity deserts him. Pie springs up and 
 deals the table a fierce blow. 
 
 | " Plank," he cries, " we've got to come to terms to-night! 
 We must succeed or be ruined!” 
 
 He bends toward Cool Hank, who sits perfectly unmoved, 
 until their faces are close together, and says a few words in a 
 sharp hissing whisper. Then he recoils suddenly. Cool 
 Hank has bounded up, his eyes and cheeks aflame. Hot a 
 sound escapes his lips until he has seized the man before him, 
 shaken him with his strong, uninjured hand as a dog might 
 shake a rat, and flung him violently from him. 
 
 Mack !" he cries hoarsely, u go, while you can ! If you 
 stay, I shall kill you ! If Duke Selwyn were not dead I 
 would kill him; yes, if he had a dozen lives ! Go and de- 
 nounce me ; say that I killed Selwyn, that I have confessed it; 
 say anything, but go, go /" 
 
 He turned sharply and walked to the low bed, as if to re- 
 move himself, by even that much space, from an overmaster- 
 ing temptation. 
 
 L_ Mack, who has been gathering his shaken anatomy from the 
 floor where lie lias been flung, seizes this moment while Hank's 
 back is turned, as if it were his last of grace. He is near the 
 
410 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 m 
 
 door ; lie springs toward it, and in a moment is ail the othe* 
 side and safe. 
 
 Cool Hank hears his movement, hears the door open and 
 shut, without moving. He stands like a statue there beside 
 the bed for a long minute, then flings up his hand in a gesture 
 that may mean rage, menace, or remorse. 
 
 “ Curse them \” he says between his teeth ; •• curse them 
 fall !” 
 
 He goes to the door, tries it and finds that it is locked on 
 the outside. 
 
 u Of course,” he says grimly. u I didn’t frighten him into 
 forgetting that /” He turns, and going back to the table, bows 
 his head and seems to think. Then lie looks up, and his pale 
 strong face is distorted with anguish. 
 
 cc If I could know the truth! If I could be sure that ha 
 didn’t lie to me !”- he cries. Then lie flings out his hand 
 again. “ Oh, I’d give half my life fp see Mag to-night, foi 
 only five minutes ! She would not lie to me, and she would 
 believe me !” 
 
 The uplifted hand falls to his side; he goes slowly across 
 the room, and throws himself face downward upon the bed. 
 
 CHAPTER LXTI. 
 
 A WORD TO THE WISE. 
 
 When Cool Hank, in one of the darkest moods and hour* 
 of all his life, turned away from the table to fling himself upon 
 his couch, and so passed out of Stanhope ; s sighr, mat young 
 mm Bat erect for a moment, and might have been a mme ot 
 
412 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 a diimney on the roof, so moveless he was. A daring thought 
 had come to him, and had captured his fancy. 
 
 “ I ? xu going to do it !” he said to himself, and straightway 
 began his descent. He had heard Mack cross the yard, and 
 open and shut the door which gave him access to his office, | 
 and he knew that the way was clear, when he slid to the ground 
 beside Charlie Carson. And that young gentleman, who had 
 been cooling his heels for what seemed to him like half the 
 night, could not deny himself the pleasure of saying, with his 
 mouth close to Stanhope’s ear . 
 
 “ I hope you didn’t hurry?” 
 
 But Stanhope ignored the insinuation. 
 
 “ Over, Charlie,” was all lie said ; “ quick.” 
 
 When they had scaled the outside palings, and moved a few 
 paces away, Stanhope stopped and put a hand upon his com- 
 panion’s shoulder. 
 
 “ Charlie,” he whispered, “ I can’t stop for explanations. 
 Ho you know where to get me a good pair of horses, saddled ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Charlie, after a moment’s reflection. 
 
 “How long will it take?” 
 
 “Ten minutes ; maybe fifteen.” 
 
 “ Get them right away, and tie them — Jet me see ; well, as 
 near here as you can. I’m going up to the hotel to consult 
 Vernet, if he’s to be found. If I don’t find him, I’ll write a 
 note; and when you’ve got me off, I want you to hunt him 
 up and deliver it.” 
 
 “ All right, Hick ; going far ?” 
 
 “ No ; when I give you Van’s note, you can read it; it will 
 save time. Be in Mack’s saloon after you get the horses, and 
 keep your eye out for Mack. That’s all.” 
 
 That was all. Stanhope wtis off with the last word on his lips,, 
 
A WORD TO THE WISE. 
 
 418 
 
 ted Charlie tamed only long enough to wind himself up in the 
 rope ladder. Then he too was off, but in an opposite direction. 
 
 Half an hour later, they were again' scaling the palings as 
 before. When Stanhope began to mount the second time, 
 Charlie gave him a light upward push. 
 
 “Good luck, old man,” lie whispered. 
 
 Cool Hank Dutton, quite destitute of his “ coolness,” was 
 still lying upon his bed when he heard a soft sound at his 
 door. He turned his head and listened a moment, and in that 
 moment the door swung inward, and a good-looking, well- 
 dressed, smiling young man stepped briskly across the threshold . 
 
 “Good evening, Mr. Dutton,” he said, and closed the door. 
 “ I’ve come to invite you to take a little ride with me. Do 
 you feel equal to a few miles in the saddle ?” 
 
 Cool Hank raised himself on his elbow and stared at the 
 intruder. K 
 
 “ How did you get heref ’ he asked dazedly. 
 
 “ Easily : scaled the palings with a rope ladder, and opened 
 your door with a skeleton key. Mack keeps things pretty 
 snug here, but I ; m rather fond of explorations. Besides, I’ve 
 had an eye upon you ever since you came here, Mr. Dutton, 
 and I’ve been not a little interested in you. I don’t feel like 
 spending much time now, so I may as well tell you that I have 
 heard all that passed between you and Mack to-night and come 
 prepared to — ” 
 
 Cool Hank sprang from the bed with an exclamation that 
 broke in upon his sentence. 
 
 * If you heard,” he cried, “ you can answer me ! Did he 
 tell the truth ?” 
 
 “ About Selwyn and Dalton, do you mean ?” 
 
 “Yes* yes.” 
 
414 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Well, 
 him.” 
 
 Cool Hank suddenly became calm, quite like himself. 
 
 6 Who are you ?” he asked. 
 
 “ I’m called Dick Carson, by Caledonian^. Pm a friend to 
 Philip Dalton and Doctor Mitchell. I happened to discover 
 that a man was in hiding here and have been sort of playing 
 special providence, looking down upon you by night.” 
 
 Cool Hank involuntarily glanced upward. 
 
 “Yes,” laughed Stanhope, “you’ve hit it. I’ve been on 
 top of this secret chamber of yours ; got a first-class observa- 
 tory up there. Now, I gathered the idea to-night that Mack 
 wants to keep you perdu, and that you don’t want to be kept. 
 I’ve heard enough of Cool Hank Dntton to know that, what- 
 ever else he is, he is a man of his word, and I’ve come to make 
 a proposition to you.” — 
 
 “ What is it,” asked Cool Hank, coming close to him. 
 
 “ I will take you now, to-night, to Margaret Drood’s ranch, 
 if you will give me your word of honor to return with me to 
 Caledonia; to come back and remain in hiding here or other- 
 wise as I desire, for, say, two weeks.” 
 
 Cool Hank’s eyes were searching his face, but instead of 
 answering he asked : 
 
 “ Do you know Margaret Drood ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; I met her at the inquest.” 
 
 “At the inquest ! Mack didn’t name her I” t 
 
 “Well, he did omit some particulars. Are you going to 
 accept my proposition ?” 
 
 Hank considered a moment. 
 
 “ Let’s understand each other,” he said finally. “ Am I m 
 go as your prisoner 
 
 Mack really kept very close to the truth 
 
A WOliD TO THE WISE. 
 
 415 
 
 “ By no moans. I shouldn’t know what to do with you.” 
 “ "W ill you tell me your exact position ?” 
 
 “ Well, I’ll tell you this much : I have no thought of the 
 Selwyn business. I don’t want to earn that reward. But I 
 want to see Dalton clear of that charge. If you’ll go, as you 
 said to Mack, and stay at the St. Charles until the thing is 
 settled, I won’t ask more.” 
 
 “ Look here,”- said Cool Hank, “will you accept my word ?” 
 : “Yes,” said Stanhope promptly. 
 
 “ Then listen. If you’ll take me or let me go to Margaret 
 Droocl, now, to-night, and permit me to talk with her alone, I 
 pledge you my life to do as you wish. But if you can con- 
 trive to get me arrested for that murder, you’ll do me the only 
 other favor I’ll ask of you.” 
 
 “Well,” ejaculated Stanhope, “you’re getting too deep for 
 me ! But come along. I’ve got two good horses waiting out- 
 side. I mean fair play, Hank Dutton, and if you don’t — ” 
 As he checked himself, Dutton put out his hand. 
 
 “/ mean fair play,” he said, “ and, if I don’t, may I never 
 find another friend in need.” 
 
 Y an Yernet, who supposed Stanhope and Carson to be fix- 
 tures at Mack’s, for a part of the night at least, had joined 
 Dan Strong in a tour of the town, to get, as Dan expressed 
 it, the lay of the land, and it was more than an hour 'before 
 Charlie succeeded in running them down. When Yernethad 
 read the note which Charlie put into his hand, he looked up and 
 stared across it. 
 
 “ Charlie, do you know what that fellow has written here ?” 
 “No,” said Charlie quietly. “He told me I was to read 
 it, but it was sent to you, so I thought — you first.” 
 
416 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Vernet put the note into his hand, and Charlie read wiAi 
 astonished eyes the following : 
 
 Dear Old Man 
 
 The chap in the S. C. is Cool Hanh Dutton. Have just overheard 
 an interview between him and Mack. Jump to this conclusion : that 
 Mack and C. H. are both in league with the outlaws, and that either 
 Mack or Selwyn are “ head centres” M. and C H. are now at odds, 
 and M. is actually keeping him a prisoner. I intend to take C. H. to 
 Mountain Mag's ranch to-night. This is my idea: I think that C- H. 
 knows something about Wray. Tbe man isn’t altogether bad. I mean 
 to surprise him with Miss W. and her story, and hope to rouse the 
 chivalry that is certainly in him. At any rate, I don’t intend to let him 
 get away from me. I wish you were with me. but know it wouldn’t 
 have worked. I think you’ll see both of us at the St. Charles before 
 morning. Meantime, ta-ta. A word to the wise, you know. Dick. 
 
 “ What on earth does he mean ?” ejaculated Charlie as he 
 gave back the note ; “a word to the wise!” 
 
 “The Lord only knows. This is the craziest thing Dick 
 has done yet. ‘A word to the wise!’ I’ve a mind to pretend 
 to think it means follow , and do it. How long since they 
 left, Charlie ?” 
 
 “An hour ago. Look here, Vernet, you’ve kept me on the 
 outside of about everything, but if you go out to-night, s® 
 
 
 CHAPTER LXVII. 
 
 MOUNTAIN MAG’s TROUBLE. 
 
 I 
 
 After Vernet and his friend had left them in the early af- 
 ternoon, Mountain Mag became very busy, and through a 
 
MOVKTAIK MAfc’s THOUBLB. 
 
 417 
 
 that she did ran a suppressed excitement that Barbara must 
 
 have noticed, had she not been, herself, so preoccupied. 
 
 Mag’s first movement was to visit old Marv in her kitchen; 
 » * * •* 
 
 and the direct methods of the girl, and the old woman’s habit 
 ©f reliant and ready obedience and acquiesence in everything 
 projected by her young benefactress, were exemplified in their 
 fyrief interview. 
 
 “ Mary,” said Mag, after she had carefully closed the door, 
 so that no sound of her voice might reach the sitting-room, 
 where Barbara was pacing thoughtfully to and fro, “ how 
 would you like to go to town for a few days?” 
 
 Mary lifted her two dripping hands from the dish-pan and 
 turned to face her young mistress. 
 
 “ Who? me, Mag?” 
 
 “Yes; you and all of us. I won’t fib to you, Mary; I 
 know how well you can hold your tongue. It’s on Miss 
 Wray’s account that I’m going, but I want her to think it’s 
 ©n business of my own. Can you cook up enough to feed 
 Monckton for a few days and leave things handy for him ?” 
 “Why, yes, of course, child, if you want me to go. Land 
 alive, I hain’t been in Caledonia time’s when !” 
 
 “Well, I do w*ant yon, Mary. And be sure, if you say 
 anything about it before Miss Wray, to blame the business 
 for all of it. I wish we could go to-day, but we can’t.” 
 
 “Oh, land, no !” 
 
 “So we’ll go in the morning. There needn’t be anything 
 said to Monckton, except that we’re going. If he asks you — ” 
 Mary tossed her head with a sniff that showed the state of 
 her mind where Monckton was concerned. 
 
 * “I’ll send him about his business,” she said, “if he eomes 
 \u\ztzm round me.” 
 
418 
 
 A MOOTTAM MYSfESY, 
 
 From the kitchen Mag went to the stables, where she fan* 
 Monckton. 
 
 « Mouck,” she said, “ I’m going to town to-morrow morn- 
 ing : there’s a little business I’ve been wanting to look after 
 for. some time. Miss Wray is going with me, and Mary thinks 
 she may as well go too and get a new dress. So, I guess, 
 you’ll have things pretty much your own way here. You 
 may put the sorrel colts to the wagon after breakfast, and drive 
 in with us.” 
 
 “ All right, Miss Mag,” ho answered. But when Mag was 
 out of hearing, lie added : “ Something’s up. She hadn t 
 thought of this before them fellers come. Mag’ s gittin mighty 
 high-handed.” And Monckton scowled as he went back to 
 
 his work. _ . 
 
 Barbara had ceased to pace the floor, and was looking wist- 
 fully out upon the monotonous prairie, when Mag rejoined 
 her. Both girls, for different reasons, found that any form 
 of effort or exercise. was easier than to keep still; and when 
 Mag said, “ We haven’t done much riding yet, Miss Wray, 
 how would you like a turn on horseback ?” Barbara was glad 
 of the proffered diversion, but she only said, over her shoulder-. 
 “ Thank you, Miss Drood ; I don’t want to ride with such 
 
 a stiff, prim, formal young woman.” _ | 
 
 Mag laughed and came nearer. These two girls, so differ- 
 ent in much that came by cultivation, so alike in natuiesbest 
 gifts to woman, had grown to be very good friends 
 
 “ Excuse me, Barbara,” she said. “ You see I have heard 
 those two gentlemen ‘ Miss Wray’ you until I have fallen ia 
 -with them. Would you like a ride?” . . 
 
 (i Yes,” turning away from the window, “ I would. J 
 don’t mind telling yuu } Mag, that I’m very restless. 
 
MOUNTAIN MA^’s TKOTTBLE, 
 
 419 
 
 u Well, a gallop’s cured me of that feeling more than once. 
 I’ll tell Monck to get up the horses.” 
 
 They rode about the prairie until it was almost sundown, 
 talking at random, and each avoiding, for the time, the subject 
 in which she was mast interested. 
 
 As they turned toward home, Mag seemed to grow more 
 and more silent and preoccupied. She had studied how she 
 should contrive to take Barbara back to Caledonia without be- 
 traying to her the fact that she was being taken for her own 
 good. In Mag’s primitive life she had not learned that use- 
 ful art so well known to most of her sex — the art of acting. 
 Just how she should manage it had puzzled her a little, at 
 first. But Mountain Mag was a woman, and having deter- 
 mined, for once, to enact a bit of deceit, she did it, like a woman, 
 exceedingly well. 
 
 As they rode on, and Mag seemed to grow more pensive 
 and preoccupied, Barbara, just as Mag had meant that she 
 should, took note of her mood. 
 
 “ Margaret,” she said, “you are letting something make, you 
 anxious. I hope — ” 
 
 “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Mag; “at least it’s not much. 
 Only a little business matter 'of my own that I’ve been rather 
 neglecting of late.” 
 
 \ “ Oh !” cried Barbara quickly, “ and on my account, too, 
 I feel sure. Tell me about it, Mag ; and dmH neglect any- 
 thing for me.” 
 
 a It isn’t worth bothering you about. Besides didn't you 
 say that you had no head for business ? It’s about some stock 
 I own, and some papers, and some debts due me — I don’t owe 
 anybody, thank goodness ! I go into town and have these things 
 Skaightesaed out for me once in a while, and I was thinking—” 
 
420 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 u Margaret Drood,” cried Barbara, turning upon her with 
 mock firmness, “ you deceitful girl !• After all your promises, 
 too ! You’ve been wanting to go to Caledonia, and you 
 wouldn’t because you think I am such a goose as to dread re- 
 maining here without you.” 
 
 “ But,” said Mag, secretly delighted with the success of her 
 plan, “ I should have to stay away several days — there’s the 
 trouble.” 
 
 Barbara started, and her countenance fell. But after a 
 moment she said bravely : 
 
 “ Why, then, I must go too, of course. And I shan’t mind 
 ’it in the least, with you. That is, if I won’t be in your way, 
 over there.” 
 
 u You wouldn’t,” declared Mag ; “ not the least bit. And 
 we might take Mary; she likes to go down once or twice a 
 year. It would just suit her, and you’d have her with you, 
 if you liked, when I’m gone out,” 
 
 “ Margaret, I’ve a suspicion that you’re taking Mary on my 
 account.” 
 
 “ No indeed ! She generally does go when I do.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Barbara, “ we can start as soon as you like. 
 And don’t let me hear of your neglecting your affairs again 
 for mine, Mag.” 
 
 “ I won’t. And if you’re really willing to go, we may as 
 well start in the morning.” 
 
 When Mountain Mag led Miss Wray’s horse around to the 
 stable-door, Monckton was not there. Mag called for him, 
 then led the horses in and stabled them herself. But there 
 was a cloud upon her brow as she entered the kitchen and 
 looked about ner. 
 
 “ Mary, where’s Monck ?” she asked. 
 
a;y»>^B waua» <a t < t 
 
 mmm 
 
 WmB] 
 
 
 Q'Wffm 
 
 ri&mm 
 
 
 »/4 
 
 mtr fj 
 
 ff| M^Klyr ; 
 
 “Margaret Drood, you deceitful girl! after all your promises, too!” 
 
 -Pago 420, 
 
 421 
 
 14 
 
422 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ I don’t know, child, except that he’s gone off on his horse, 
 with a chap that rode up here about an hour ago. I heard 
 him tell Monck somethin’ about a horse, and ask him to do 
 somethin’, I couldn’t make out what. Then Monck came to 
 the door, an’ put his head m, an’ says he was goin’ to look at 
 a horse that had been took sick on the prairie. He said he’d 
 be back purty soon, he guessed.” 
 
 Mag made no comment, but turned away with a troubled 
 face. She did not speak of Monck’s absence to Barbara. 
 When it was almost dark, and still he had not returned, she 
 went out and fed the horses, and saw that all was snug for the 
 night, as she so well knew how to do. When she came back 
 to the kitchen, she said to Mary : 
 
 “ I guess I wouldn’t say anything before Miss Wray about 
 Monck’s being gone. She may get frightened if she thinks 
 there is no man in the house.” 
 
 “ All right,” answered Mary. “ But I guess Monck’ll turn 
 up soon ; a bad penny — a bad penny !” 
 
 Mag put out her lantern, hung it on a nail behind the door 
 and then washed her hands at the sink. 
 
 “ What sort of a man was he, Mary ?” she asked, as she 
 wiped her hands on a roller towel. 
 
 “ Was who ?” 
 
 “The man that came after Monck.” 
 
 “Oh! Why, big an’ tanned. I never seen him before.” 
 Mag sighed and went back to the sitting-room. Neither of 
 the girls were inclined to sleep early, and both were, inwardly, 
 more excited than they would willingly have acknowledged. 
 
 They talked of many things ; of Mag’s life among the moun- 
 tains, and of Barbara’s in the city. 
 
 “ What I miss most now is schooling,” said Mag finally* 
 
423 
 
 MOUNTAIN MAG’S TROUBLE. 
 
 “I miss it more than ever since I’ve had you here, and seen 
 your dainty ways, and heard you talk.” 
 
 “Why, Margaret! I’ve thought often that you conversed 
 extremely well, and, if you’ll excuse me for saying it, your 
 manners are very good. Nature has taught you true polite- 
 ness. Don’t allude to my manners, please. I feel as artificial 
 as a lay figure !” 
 
 Mag was silent a moment. 
 
 “Maybe it wouldn’t be quite honest to let you think I’ve 
 never had any hints,” she said, flushing a little. “I have 
 had a friend who helped me in a good many ways — by telling 
 me how things were done in the world, and by correcting my 
 blunders, after I’d begged him to, and by telling me the names 
 of a few books that would help me. My poor father taught 
 me all he knew — that seemed enough for him; just to read 
 and write, and a little about figures. But it’s only since I’ve 
 begun to pick up a trifle more knowledge, that I can see 
 how much there is that I ought to know.” 
 
 “ My dear child, I don’t think there is anything that will 
 seem very difficult to you, you are so eager and so able.” 
 
 “ Why !” exclaimed Mag, struck by some thought, “ that’s 
 almost word for word what he said — ” She stopped breath- 
 lessly, and dropped her eyes, the hot blood surging into her face. 
 
 Then, with one of those swift, indescribable, womanly ges- 
 tures, that every gentle, generous, impulsive woman knows and 
 uses in moments that have risen above and beyond the sway 
 of the cold proprieties, Barbara Wray drew her low T chair to 
 Mag’s side and took both her hands. 
 
 “ Margaret Drood,” she said, “ there’s something S must 
 say ! I’ve long wanted to, and now I shall. It isn’t to gratify 
 curiosity, or to be impertinent, but — oh ! you big-hearted. 
 
424 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 proud, reserved Mag, don’t you suppose I know ? I’ve heard 
 about him from Doctor Mitchell, from Mr. Morgan, from 
 everybody! And everybody speaks well of him — you heard 
 what Doctor Mitchell said at that wretched inquest. And yet 
 I can see that you’re worrying your heart out about him. I’ve 
 been wild to have you talk about him ever since — ever since 
 you stood up there before the Coroner’s jury and refused to 
 speak one word that they might use to injure him. I wanted 
 to tell you how grand I thought you, and I felt sure that he 
 must be worthy, or you could not have given him your friend- 
 ship. Why, in spite of all the evidence, I know Philip Dalton 
 did not kill that man ; and why should we not feel the same 
 about him?” 
 
 No name had been mentioned, but to these two women this 
 was no ambiguous “he.” It was Cool Hank Dutton of whom 
 they both had spoken, and both understood. 
 
 “ Oh !” cried Mag, glad to speak, now that the way had 
 been opened, “ if he were only here; here as Mr. Dalton is! 
 If I could ask him, I would know — the truth !” 
 
 “ Margaret Drood,” said Barbara, sitting erect and looking 
 straight at Mag, “ what kind of a daughter would I be if I 
 
 where he is, and he makes no sign — he is hiding from the 
 consequences of some wrong he has done.” 
 
 “Oh, I have thought of that,” sighed Mag. “I have 
 thought of everything, but—” 
 
 ^ “ c But’ — well, now, but what? Don’t you remember what 
 
 the Coroner said about those jewels? /should cling to that, 
 until I found something better.” 
 
 “Oh,” groaned Mag, “you don’t know all! You can^ 
 understand what you are saying !” 
 
 . . _■ -VO 
 
MOUNTAIN MAG’s TROUBLE, 
 
 425 
 
 “Well, I do know that Doctor Mitchell said that your friend, 
 whatever else he might have done in a moment of anger, could 
 not have taken those things — and they were taken.” 
 
 Mag covered her face with her hands and rocked to and fro, 
 moaning: “ Oh ! you don’t know, you don’t know !” 
 
 “ Mag,” entreated Barbara, “ tell me the very worst. It 
 will help you to bear it.” 
 
 Mag suddenly let her hands fall and turned a pale face to- 
 ward Barbara. “ I will” she said, “ and see what you will 
 say to me then” 
 
 Barbara took one of her hands and waited silently. 
 
 “ That day — the day of the murder — he was here. Selwyn 
 had done something that had put him in a terrible rage. I 
 couldn’t make out what it was, and I never quite understood 
 the intimacy between him and Selwyn. But this day he made 
 a horrible threat, and I was not able to say anything to quiet 
 him in the least. That night I got so uneasy that I couldn’t 
 rest. I felt as if some dreadful thing was going to happen. 
 And then I began to think that if somebody could see Selwyn, 
 and warn him, it would prevent trouble. I was in bed when 
 this idea came to me, and all at once I jumped up and said to 
 myself, ‘ Til do it’ It was late, then, and Monckton was 
 away on one of his sprees. But I didn’t care for that. I 
 wasn’t afraid. I saddled Nick, and set out for town. At the 
 inquest I told them that I had started to look up Monckton, 
 and that I was leading his horse, but that was a lie. I’d never 
 have thought of hunting Monck if he’d stay away a year, and 
 he knew it. I told them, to explain my riding into town so 
 late, that Monck’s horse got away from me and that I lost a 
 lot of time trying to catch him. That was another He, for, 
 of-oonrs^ I didn’t lead his horse ; and one of the jurors came 
 
426 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTB&Y. 
 
 near tripping me by asking me what time the moon rose. I 
 meant to get in just as they came out of the Theatre, but I 
 missed it a little. I knew that Selwyn was hanging around 
 that Miss Lome, and so I said to myself, ‘ 1*11 ride toward the 
 boarding-house, and if he’s gone home with her, I may meet 
 him yet.’ That was why I rode so slow, and came up so 
 readily with my lantern when Billy Piper called me. When 
 I heard that one groan, I wonder I didn’t scream. And when 
 I went into the cellar, and saw Duke Selwyn lying there, I 
 felt sure that / knew who killed him.” 
 
 “ Mag,” said Barbara softly, “ it was terrible ! But — there 
 was only circumstantial evidence — ” 
 
 “ Wait,” interrupted Mag, “ until you hear all. Billy Piper 
 didn’t give more than half a look; and so, when between us 
 we had made those girls go away and Billy ran off to get 
 help, I went into the cellar again, all alone, and looked at 
 Selwyn, and his watch and rings and diamond pin were all 
 there” 
 
 “ Oh, Mag !” 
 
 “ I got down on my knees,” continued Mag grimly, harden- 
 ing her voice and hurrying over her words, “ and I took off 
 the rings, the watch, and the rest, for I felt sure it was the 
 only way to turn suspicion from him. I knew no one would 
 accuse him of taking them. I tied them up in a handkerchief, 
 and, as soon as I could, I carried them out on the prairie, and 
 threw them into the middle of a pond that was all soft mud 
 at the bottom. Later, after the body had been carried to 
 Mack’s, I couldn’t be easy till I went back and hunted around 
 the cellar. I was afraid there might be something else that I 
 ought to hide. I didn’t find anything, though, except that 
 pistol.” 
 
MOUNTAIN MAGS TROUBLE. 
 
 
 “ Ok,” interjected Barbara, “ if it laid not been for that, 
 
 ' they would have had no case against Mr. Dalton.” 
 
 * . “ I’d have taken that, too,” said Mag, “ for, although I had 
 
 never seen anything like it, I was in such a state of mind that 
 I couldn’t have made things sure enough, but I was spied 
 upon and half frightened to death, though I tried hard 
 not to show it. You remember that queer man they called 
 Podunk?” 
 
 Barbara smiled. “ Yes, indeed ; I should think so.” 
 u Well, he made his appearance from behind one of the 
 | mounds. He saw the pistol before I did, picked it up and 
 showed it to me, as polite as you please. I had my lantern, 
 and was about sure there was nothing more to be found, when 
 I heard somebody say, 6 Ye’ve jest missed it.’ And then he 
 l came and took the lantern right out of my hand. He was 
 grinning from ear to ear, as if he considered it a good joke. 
 I’ve thought about that man a good deal, and sometimes he 
 worries me. He said that he wasn’t watching me , and that we 
 were ‘ jint discoverers.’ He asked me if I wanted to take the 
 pistol to Mack’s and said he didn’t. I tried to be high- 
 handed with him, but he seemed to know that t was only act- 
 ing. He said I needn’t be bothered about his saying anything 
 : concerning our meeting there, he was as much my friend 
 as anybody’s; and he’d ‘keep it mum.’ And so he did. 
 But it’s troubled me a good deal. There’s something more 
 than we understand about that man.” 
 
 “ It’s certainly strange,” mused Barbara. “Did you ever 
 think that perhaps he knows a great deal more about the 
 miirder than has been told ?” 
 
 “Oh ? yes; I’ve thought and thought and thought. But 
 I now you can see, can’t you, why I wouldn’t answer the Cor- 
 
428 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 oner’s questions about Hank ? and why I didn’t get any con- 
 solation out of the argument about that jewelry ?” 
 
 “Yes, Mag; I see,” answered Barbara softly. “But you 
 must not despair even now.” 
 
 Mag turned upon her quickly. 
 
 “ Would you encourage yourself to hope, if it were your 
 own case?” she asked. 
 
 “Yes! If I ever had reason to believe in him, if I ever 
 had faith in him, I’d cling to it to the last moment.” 
 
 “ God bless you !” said Mountain Mag. And she bent 
 dawn and kissed the hand of her comforter. 
 
 It was late when Barbara retired, and she soon fell asleep. 
 But Mag remained awake and restless. Monckton did not 
 return and old Mary had long since sought her labor-sweetened 1 
 repose. ;! 
 
 When Mag was satisfied that Barbara was sleeping, she I 
 went softly about the house, making sure that doors and win- 
 dows were fastened, and occasionally she relieved her over- \ 
 burdened mind by addressing herself to the silence about her. 
 
 “ If I live another week I’ll have some tight board shut- 
 ters to these windows. I don’t know why one must be so i 
 careless,” she muttered, as she shook the window-sash to be 
 positive that it did not yield. 
 
 CHAPTER LXVHX 
 
 A SIEGE, 
 
A SIEGE. 
 
 429 
 
 And, after a time, as she contemplated the lock of a door : 
 “ I don’t understand why I should feel so ; Mr. Morgan 
 only said that one might as well use caution. Pshaw! I’m 
 getting to act like an old woman. Superstitious !” 
 
 And then she found herself, without intending it, standing 
 before her “arsenal,” contemplating the weapons, fingering 
 them in an absent manner, and finally loading some of them, 
 with an ineffectual air — all for her own private benefit — of 
 not realizing what she was about. 
 
 When everything was done, Mag could find no further ex- 
 cuse to linger, but linger she did until a sound, which seemed 
 to come from the direction of Mary’s room, caused her to 
 start and listen, arid then to extinguish her lamp, and glide 
 out into the kitchen. 
 
 “ She shan’t come down here and find me making a fool of 
 myself,” she muttered. 
 
 It was Mary coming kitchen ward in the dark. The old 
 woman was talking to herself, as she came ; it was a habit 
 with her, and often amused Mag. 
 
 “ The mischief’s in it,” Mag heard her mutter. “Doors 
 creakin’ and things abangin’. I s’pose it’s that Monck.” 
 
 She entered the kitchen, and Mag, flattening herself against 
 the wall that she passed, knew that she was crossing the room 
 and going toward one of the uncurtained windows. For a 
 moment there was silence, and then Mag heard Mary mutter : 
 “ Yes, it’s him, of course! I’ll stop and let him in — good 
 for nothing !” Another moment of silence, and then Mag 
 heard : “ Land o’ goodness! if he aint brought that feller back 
 here ! Mortal man, what’s the mean in’ of it ! there’s an- 
 other r* 
 
 Then the old woman felt a hand upon her arm, and before 
 
430 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 she could utter a sound, Mag’s voice said close to her ear : 
 “ Hush, Mary ! ” 
 
 The night was clear and objects outside were distinctly 
 visible. In the open space between the stables andike house, 
 Mag could see three men, half way between the two buildings, 
 and in evident consultation. Her heart went down like lead, 
 but she whispered quite steadily in Mary’s ear: 
 
 “ It isn’t Monck at all. Hush !” 
 
 For some moments the men consulted together, and the two 
 women at the window watched silently. Then Mag whispered : 
 “Mary, get something, anything — those dark blankets will 
 be best — and we will pin them up at these windows. Those 
 men mustn’t see inside. The other windows are covered.” 
 
 It was one of Mary’s frugalities not to have curtains at her 
 kitchen windows. A kitchen needed all the sun it could get, 
 she said ; besides, it saved washing. So far as the kitchen 
 was concerned, Mag had humored her whim, and now, for the 
 first time, she regretted it. 
 
 It took them some moments to arrange the impromptu cur- 
 tains, for they worked in the dark. When the task was done, 
 Mag could see, by peeping out the side of the window, that 
 one of the men had disappeared. 
 
 “ Mary,” she whispered, as she dropped the curtain from 
 her hand, “I wish you knew how to shoot.” 
 u Hoot !” returned the old woman, “ I do.” 
 
 “ Why, Mary, I never knew — ” 
 
 “ Hoot !” said Mary again, u wasn’t I a miner’s wife ten 
 years before ever I came to yxm? Look here, Mag, what does 
 it mean, this ?” 
 
 “ I’m afraid it means danger — an attack. Watch those men 
 while I go to Miss Wray. Are you afraid, Mary?” 
 
A SimE. 
 
 431 
 
 * Who, me ? Not a bit of it ! I don’t mind a skrimmage. 
 Drat that Monck !” Mary was already connecting this noc- 
 turnal visit with Monckton’s absence. 
 
 A light shake wakened Barbara, and while she was rousing 
 herself enough to ask a question, Mag’s voice said : 
 
 “ Are you awake, Barbara ?” 
 
 u Yes: what is it, Mag?” ! 
 
 ’/O' I, 
 
 “ There are three strange men outside, Barbara — don’t he x 
 frightened; perhaps they are only horse- thieves and won’t 
 trouble us. I thought I had better come and tell you. The 
 house is well fastened, and Mary and I can both shoot, if worst 
 comes.” 
 
 “ So can I,” said Barbara in a low voice, slipping from the 
 bed and beginning to dress in the dark. 
 
 Mag caught her breath with surprise. “ Barbara,” she said, 
 * aren’t you frightened ?” 
 
 “ No, Mag. But I’m quivering with excitement — feel.’* 
 She put out a tremulous hand, found Mag’s and touched it. 
 
 Mag waited until she was ready, and they went below hand 
 in hand. 
 
 When Cool Hank Dutton and Dick Stanhope arrived within 
 sight of Mag’s house, a light shone out, for an instant, from 
 what both knew to be one of the windows of the sitting-room. 
 
 It was at the moment when Mag pushed up a curtain, and 
 stood with the lamp in her hand examining the fastening. 
 When she had done, she had dropped the curtain again, and 
 the light, as it appeared to them, went out. 
 
 “ Strange,” said Cool Hank, stopping his horse, Stanhope 
 at once following his example. “ They’re up very late there; 
 it's unusual—” He checked his speech, and would have 
 
432 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 urged on his horse again, but Stanhope, who was close beside 
 him, leaned over and laid a hand upon his arm. 
 
 “ There’s something that I. didn’t tell you,” he said ; “ Miss 
 Drood has a guest.” 
 
 u A guest ! Who ?” 
 
 “ A young lady, who came here from the East in search of 
 her father; a Miss Barbara Wray. Her situation was so for- 
 lorn that Miss Drood’s heart was touched, and she offered the 
 poor girl a shelter.” 
 
 “ Good God !” exclaimed Cool Hank. 
 
 “ Well, I must say,” said Stanhope carelessly, “ that for a 
 fellow who has been nicknamed Cool , you’re about the most 
 excitable and exclamatory chap I ever saw.” 
 
 “Hush; and come on,” said Cool Hank. “You don’t 
 . . V 
 
 know what you’re talking about.” 
 
 Stanhope rode on, smiling to hinlself ; lie thought otherwise. 
 He had purposely reserved the piece of information about 
 Barbara Wray until the last moment, and now he was con- 
 gratulating himself. He had evolved, while listening upon 
 the roof of the “ secret chamber,” a theory which, if true, would 
 make clear and simple all the mysterious sayings exchanged 
 between Mack and Cool Hank. What he now said and did 
 was with an eye single to the solution of the problem which 
 Cool Hank presented, and the proving of his theory, if it were 
 capable of proof. 
 
 Evidently Cool Hank had something to think of too, for he 
 was silent as they rode forward. Their journey had been 
 made slowly because Hank had found that a rapid pace caused 
 severe pain to his injured arm. They were still some distance 
 from the ranch, and twenty minutes had been consumed by 
 their onward ride ; when they were startled by a pistol-shot. 
 
A SIEGE. 
 
 433 
 
 It was fired, evidently, from the house, and they were near 
 enough to hear it followed by a succession of oaths. 
 
 “Gods!” whispered Cool Hank, “ the house is attacked !” 
 He slid from his horse while speaking. “ Let’s tie our horses 
 together, and take the chances of their standing. Are you 
 well armed ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ Give me one of your pistols, then.” 
 
 “ Well, maybe it is not so serious a matter as it seems. If 
 it is, you’ll get the weapon. Come on.” 
 
 ?>' They crept forward stealthily, and Cool Hank stifled his 
 impatience, prqvoked by Stanhope’s caution, when he saw 
 how like an Indian on a still hunt the latter made his approach. 
 
 Several men, they could not tell the precise number, were 
 grouped about the front door, where a parley was evidently 
 going on. Stanhope and Hank approached near enough to 
 hear their words. 
 
 “ I tell you,” said one, “ we may as well do it. That girl 
 ain’t goin’ to open no doors for us ! An’ I ain’t goin’ to stand 
 none o’ her shots, if I know it.” 
 
 “And I tell you,” said another voice, “'it won’t do to hurt 
 Mountain Mag or her property if we can help it ; she’s got 
 too many friends. If we can git the girl out — ” 
 
 Cool Hank’s arm closed upon Stanhope’s arm 
 “ We must get into the house,” he whispered. “ Let’s try 
 the rear door.” 
 
 They crept through the rank grass until they were near 
 the back of the house, and then again Hank whispered, “Stop.” 
 : They halted and listened; then crept close to the corner of 
 the house and peeped cautiously around it. Two men were 
 
 ' standing near the kitchen-door. One of them was at that in- 
 
 i ■ 
 
434 
 
 A mountain mystery. 
 
 staut lighting a match, and by its momentary glare the two 
 examined the fastenings of the door. The light, for an instant, 
 revealed their faces. 
 
 Suddenly Hank put his mouth to his companion’s ear, and 
 whispered ; 
 
 “ I’m going to try a trick. Give me the pistol, in case it 
 fails.” He pulled off his soft felt hat and threw it upon the 
 ground. “ Will you untie this sling?” he whispered again. 
 
 The two men at the door were conversing in low tones. 
 Stanhope wonderingly unfastened the sling and assisted Hank 
 to button his crippled hand in the breast of his coat. Then 
 lie gave him the pistol. Cool Hank dropped it into his side 
 pocket, and again put his mouth close to Stanhope’s ear. 
 
 “I’m going to play ghost,” he whispered. “ If I don’t suc- 
 ceed, we’ll have to shoot. Watch me.” 
 
 He waited until one of the men at the door struck another 
 match, and then lie advanced slowly and noiselessly. As the 
 match blazed up, a slight sound, like a sigh, caused the two men 
 to turn their heads. Cool Hank stood before them, upright, 
 motionless, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed and staring; 
 one hand was thrust in his breast, the other hung loosely at 
 his side. Rigid enough, surely, he looked; but anything 
 rather than ghost-like, so Stanhope thought. Evidently the 
 men at the kitchen-door thought otherwise, for, after a single ? 
 glance, they uttered a yell loud enough to startle the ghost 
 himself, and ran wildly toward the stables. 
 
 Hank was back beside Stanhope instantly. 
 
 “ Now,” he said, u which way are they coming?” 
 
 A sound answered him. The yells of the frightened men 
 had drawn the besiegers away from the front, 
 coming around the house, on the north side* 
 
 They were 
 
After a single glance, they uttered a yell loud enough to startle the 
 
 ghost himself*— Page 434. 
 
436 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “Come,” said Hank, and dashed past the kitchen-door, 
 around the house, to southward, and so to the front, closely 
 followed by Stanhope, just as the last man disappeared around 
 the opposite corner. 
 
 Instantly Cool Hank's mouth was at the keyhole. 
 
 “Mag / 7 he called clearly. 
 
 Mag’s voice, with a note of agitation in it, answered 
 promptly : 
 
 “Who is it ? 77 
 
 “Cool Hank and a friend, to the rescue. Open, Mag . 77 
 
 Then they heard Mag say : “ Barbara, quick — the lamp , 77 
 and a light flashed up within the room. “Now, unbar the 
 door , 77 said Mag’s voice. They heard a key turned, and a 
 bolt withdrawn. Then the door opened, and Mountain Mag 
 stood on the threshold, with a pistol in either hand. She 
 stepped back at sight of them, and in another moment they 
 were inside, and Dick Stanhope was making the entrance 
 secure against further intruders. 
 
 “What is it ? 77 asked Stanhope, as he turned. “What are 
 they trying to do ? 77 
 
 Mag, who had not withdrawn her gaze from Cool Hank’s 
 face, seemed now, for the first time, to notice the questigner. 
 
 “ Oli, Mr. Carson ! 77 she ejaculated ; and then added quickly, 
 and with a side glance toward Barbara : “ Trying to force an 
 entrance. They are— robbers . 77 
 
 “ Well , — 77 it was Stanhope who now assumed command — 
 “we won’t let them in, just yet. Is your ‘ arsenal 7 in order, 
 Miss Drood ? 77 
 
 “Yes,” said Mag breathlessly ; “ we have loaded everything!” 
 And then she added : “There are ten men.” 
 
 “ There won’t be so many if they stay long,” said Stanhope. 
 

 A SIEGE. 
 
 437 
 
 “Mag,” broke in Coof Hank, “ you must give me something 
 to cover my face. These fellows must not see me.” 
 
 A scarlet flush dyed Mag’s brow, and her eyes flashed upon 
 her lover. But Stanhope spoke promptly : 
 
 “ Here, if it’s a disguise you want, I’ll fix you.” He drew 
 from some inner pockets a fuzzy false beard and moustache, 
 and shook them out with a quick snap. “ There, let me put 
 them on. Now, wear mv hat. You’re fixed. Better turn 
 down that light again, Miss Wray.” 
 
 Old Mary had entered from the kitchen. “They’re all 
 huddled together in a bunch out by the stables,” she said. 
 | And then she saw the new-comers, and stopped and stared. 
 
 “ Let’s take a look at them, Mary,” said Stanhope, and the 
 two went out together. Mary led him across the dark room 
 : and up to* one of the two windows, of which one was on 
 • either side of the door, and both, like the door, opening to the 
 west. 
 
 Stanhope peeped out for a moment, and then whispered : 
 “ Isn’t there another west window, Mary ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; in the pantry.” 
 
 “ Can we open these windows, without too much noise ?" 
 
 “ Yes ; they open pretty easy.” Then she started at a sudden 
 'recollection. “ Why, the pantrv window is open at the top !” 
 | Instantly Stanhope began to move toward the pantry-door, 
 which he fancied he could see on the side of the room nearest 
 1 him. 
 
 “ That’s it,” said Mary. 
 
 A few moments later, Stanhope reentered the sitting-room, 
 I where Cool Hank, Mag and Barbara stood, one at the door 
 and one near each window, in watchful attitudes. He beckoned 
 
438 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “I’ve been listening at the pantry-window/* he said. 
 
 “ They’re going to try moral suasion once more. If that fails, 
 they’re going to batter the kitchen-door in, if we don’t stop 
 
 them. ” 
 
 “ We’ll stop them,” said Mag grimly. 
 
 “ Miss Drood,” said Stanhope, “ if we can drive away these 
 men without bloodshed, it will be best, believe me.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, yes /” said Barbara quickly. 
 
 “ You know,” continued the young detective, smiling a little, 
 
 “ if we kill them, Dutton and I might have to bury them ; 
 and if any one is wounded, you’d have to take him in and 
 nurse him. I think we can drive them away.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Mag,- “ if you can . But I’ll take my share 
 in the burying if we shoot every one of them. What shall 
 we do ?” 
 
 “ Take all the guns into the kitchen, and when they come , 
 to the front door to parley, you and Mary open the kitchen- 
 windows; without noise, if you can.” 
 
 A few moments later, a loud knock sounded on the front 
 door. The prompt “ Who’s there ?” that was uttered in an 
 unmistakably manly voice, seemed, for a moment, to have 
 caused consternation in the midst of the enemy. There was 
 no reply to the question, and Stanhope, with his ear to the key- 
 hole, could hear them whispering eagerly. Presently the be- 
 siegers seemed to understand each other, and one of them 
 knocked a second time. 
 
 “ Who’s there?” Stanhope called again. 
 
 “ Friends. Is that you, Monckton ?” 
 
 “ No ; it isn’t Monckton,” replied Stanhope sharply. And 
 
 then, loud enough to be heard by those who, he knew, were 
 pressing close up against the door without, but yet in a milder 
 

 A SIEGE. 
 
 439 
 
 tone, as if addressing some one in the room, he said : “ Miss 
 
 Drood, I must insist that you let me and my men deal with 
 these fellows. We were sent here for that purpose/’ 
 
 There was silence outside for a moment, and then: 
 
 “ Who the dickens are you ?” demanded the same voice out- 
 side. 
 
 “Lieutenant Baker is my name/’ answered Stanhope 
 promptly. “You don’t want to be introduced to all of my 
 men, do you ?” 
 
 Again there was a whispered consultation, and then the im- 
 patient spokesman said : 
 
 “ What brought Lieutenant Baker and all his men to this 
 ranch ?” 
 
 “ We came chiefly on your account,” replied Stanhope 
 coolly. 
 
 “Bah ! We don’t believe you’ve got any men in there!” 
 “ If you stay about here much longer, we’ll convince you 
 that you’re out in that opinion.” 
 
 “ We mean to come in,” broke in another and sterner voice. 
 “ You’d better open the door.” 
 
 “ Come in, then,” retorted the self-commissioned Lieutenant. 
 “We’ll give you a warm welcome !” 
 
 For some moments longer the men hung about the door, 
 giving it an occasional shake, and making further attempts 
 to parley, but no voice answered them. Stanhope was in the 
 kitchen, arranging his defences. 
 
 Perhaps the ghost, or the fear of its possible reappearance, 
 had prevented the men from wishing to stand guard again at 
 the kitchen door. At any rate, all the beseiging party had 
 gone in a body to the front; and Mag and Mary found no 
 difficulty in opening the windows, By the time the besiegers, 
 
440 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 uow bent upon making a forcible entrance, had selected from 
 a pile of timbers, intended for use in building, one heavy enough 
 to serve their purpose as a battering-ram, the besieged were 
 ready for the onset. At the pantry-window was Stanhope, 
 with a gun resting upon the sill, and at one of the kitchen- 
 windows crouched Mag, similarly armed, while Mary, close 
 beside her, gripped a long pistol in each hand. 
 
 “I'm handy with both fists,” she had said. “ Give me 
 two.” 
 
 At the third and last window was Cool Hank, also armed 
 with a pistol. Much against her inclination, Barbara Wray 
 had been sent to the rear. 
 
 Each figure crouched low beside its window ; the muzzle 
 of each weapon rested obliquely upon the window-ledge. 
 
 The besiegers have selected their battering-ram, brought it 
 into place, and raised it. 
 
 “ Now,” said their leader, “ bring it ahead a few steps more. 
 Then a rush and it’s done.” 
 
 One, two, three paces they bring it forward. It is directly 
 in a line with that luckless kitchen-door. 
 
 “ All ready ?” says the leader. 
 
 And then another voice rings out : “ All ready ?” A mo- 
 ment of statue-like silence within and without. “ Fire /” 
 
 A blaze and a roar ; bullets whizzing over the heads of the 
 besiegers, now thoroughly demoralized. 
 
 “ That was a warning !” cries the voice of Stanhope. 
 
 His words are drowned in another volley of shots ; this 
 time they come from the enraged enemy, and they rattle about 
 the cottage and whistle in at the windows. 
 
 “ Now,” cries the leader again, “ forward with the ram, boys, 
 and we’ve got ter 1” 
 
RESCUE. 
 
 441 
 
 Again, for an instant, it is silent without. Then a mighty 
 yell breaks the stillness, and following it the sound of gallop- 
 ing horses. At the same moment two pistol-shots from the 
 cottage cut their way among the men outside. 
 
 Another yell, that mingles with the howls of wounded men, 
 and the galloping horses are very near. Then the beam tum- 
 bles to the ground, and, in a moment, the last of the besiegers 
 is disappearing behind the stables, leaving a trail of blood as 
 he goes. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIX. 
 
 RESCUE. 
 
 “I’d like to know what they thought,” said Stanhope, af- 
 terward, relating the story of the siege and rescue to Doctor 
 Mitchell. “ I suppose they must have imagined it was an- 
 other regiment. IIow two such men as Vernetand Carson could 
 have let off such horse-power yells, I can’t see yet. I sup- 
 posed it was all Caledonia. It wasn’t a very pleasant position, 
 though, for any of us. Leaving the outlaws out of the ques- 
 tion, there was Van and Charlie Carson, with their led 
 horses, tearing around the house. They didn’t know whether 
 to follow those fellows, or look for us. And when he called 
 us — well, I didn’t answer promptly. I didn’t quite know 
 what had happened. I had heard some one fall, out in the 
 kitchen, and I was suffering, at that minute, from actual hor- 
 ror, fearing that it might be one of the women. After all, it 
 was Miss Wray who brought us into port.” 
 
 In this wise it had come about : 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Unable to remain inactive after the receipt of Stanhope’s 
 note, Van Vernet had determined to ride to the ranch; and 
 Charlie Carson was not to be left behind. They had started 
 late, but had ridden rapidly, and so arrived in less than half 
 an hour after Cool Hank and Stanhope had left their horses 
 to take care of themselves on the open prairie. These quad- 
 rupeds had turned their heads homewards, and were aimlessly 
 rambling, feasting as they went, when Vernet and Charlie 
 came upon them ; and, being on the lookout for Stanhope and 
 Cool Hank, the two were not slow in surmising that these 
 might be the horses they had ridden. Filled with tear lest 
 their friend had fallen into some ambush, they had taken pos- 
 session of the horses, and hurried forward to the ranch, arriv- 
 ing just in time to hear the first volley, to see that it was tired 
 from the house, and to charge down, cheering, with their four 
 galloping horses, to the rescue. 
 
 It was then that Vernet, puzzled between the silence and 
 darkness within, and the fleeing outlaws without, called 
 sharply : 
 
 “ Dick — Mag — ” and then last and most thrillingly— . 
 “Barbara !” 
 
 And it was Barbara who was first to answer from the dark 
 ness within : “ Here! oh ! here!” 
 
 It was Barbara too, who, a moment later, opened the kitchen- 
 door, just as old Mary struck a light, which flashed up, illumi- 
 nating a weird scene. 
 
 In the door- way, Van Vernet, grasping both Barbara’s 
 hands and saying something incoherent, while Charlie Carson 
 peered anxiously over his shoulder. Stanhope, half-way 
 across the kitchen, paused, stark -g at the opposite side of the 
 roonq where Cool Hank Duttc ^ay by the window which he 
 
RESCUE. 
 
 443 
 
 had guarded, with blood flowing from his ' shoulder, and 
 Mountain Mag kneeling at his side. To care for him was 
 their first thought, but when they pressed forward, Mag said 
 huskily : 
 
 “ Leave him ; leave him to Mary and me.” 
 
 “ And to me,” said Barbara bravely. 
 
 Cool Hank stirred and opened his eyes. 
 
 “ It’s nothing,” he whispered, looking at no one but Mag. 
 "‘Tell them to see that those villains — ” He closed his eyes, 
 fainting again from loss of blood. 
 
 Stanhope was out of the house in a moment, and Vernet, 
 waiting only to be sure that Cool Hank was indeed in good 
 hands, and that he could do nothing there, followed him. 
 
 The outlaws were already galloping across the prairie west- 
 ward. 
 
 When Stanhope and Vernet reentered the kitchen, Mag 
 had cut away the clothing from Cool Hank’s shoulder. It 
 was only a flesh wound after all. The bullet had passed be- 
 tween the arm and body, drawing much blood but inflicting 
 no serious injury. It was the crippled arm that had received 
 the shot. 
 
 While Mag was staunching the blood, Mary preparing 
 bandages, and Barbara hovering near them, eager to do what 
 she could, Vernet, Stanhope and Carson conversed in low 
 tones. 
 
 “ How did this happen?” asked Vernet. 
 
 “I don’t know,” replied Stanhope, “the men were here 
 when we came.” 
 
 And he related what had taken place, as he knew it, after 
 'which Vernet told how he and Charlie had found the two 
 horses wandering at will, and taken possession of them. 
 
444 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Well/’ said Charlie, “those horses are entitled to their 
 share of credit. I guess they created the impression, in the 
 minds of those fellows, of a whole mounted brigade.” 
 
 “I’ve heard that three or four cowboys, riding about a 
 house on a dark night and yelling at the top of their lungs, 
 have been taken for a formidable troop of Indians on the war- 
 path,” said Vernet. “I can see, now, that it might easily 
 be!” 
 
 “ Do you think the outlaws will come back ?” asked 
 Charlie. 
 
 “ No,” said Stanhope, “ I don’t ; but we’ll be on our guard.” 
 “ What was their purpose, Dick ?” 
 
 Stanhope cast a rapid glance around him. 
 
 “ Wait,” he said ; “ let’s go into the sitting-room. We 
 will light the lamps, and reload the guns, in case they do re- 
 turn. Our best plan now is to create the impression of strong 
 reinforcements and perfect security. I’ll close the windows 
 and fasten up the curtains again.” 
 
 This was soon done and then they went into the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 “ You asked my opinion of this business,” said Stanhope. 
 “ I’ll tell you. I think they were after Miss Wray. And 
 if they were, it’s proof positive, to me, that Mr. Wray is alive 
 and in their hands. They hoped to get possession of his 
 daughter, and then practise upon his fears.” 
 
 “Curse them!” said Vernet; “ I wish you had shot them 
 all.” 
 
 “ We were too weak to begin actual bloodshed. Besides it 
 would have been terrible for Miss Wray. She begged us not 
 to kill. Our plan was to fire together, over their heads, as 
 they were about to rush upon the door. If the first round 
 
RESCUE. 
 
 446 
 
 failed to drive them back, we meant to fire the second straight 
 into them. I anticipated that they would return our volley, 
 and thought if we could get them to empty their weapons it 
 would be so much the better, it ease we had to fire the second 
 time. The word was given to shoot and then drop to the floor. 
 I don’t see how they happened to hit Dutton.” 
 
 “I guess Hank didn’t drop / 9 said a voice from the dpor. 
 They turned to see Mary entering. She closed the door and 
 came toward them. “ I had my cut at them,” she continued, 
 ' c and I’m glad of it.” 
 
 “ Was it you who fired those two last pistol-shots ?” asked 
 Stanhope. 
 
 “ Yes. I guess I gave ’em as good as they sent Hank, any- 
 way, if they didn’t any of ’em stay behind.” 
 
 “ I guess you did, too, Mary,” said Stanhope, not thinking 
 it worth while, then, to comment further upon her pistol-prac- 
 tice; “ you drew blood. How is Dutton?” 
 
 u Oh, he’ll come out all right. Some of you’d better try 
 and get Miss Wray away. She’s been so wrought up she ain't 
 thought about herself yet, but she’s beginnin’ to look pale, 
 an’ she can’t git quieted down too soon. We’re goin’ to put 
 Hank in my room, ’cause it’s handier for him than Monek’s. 
 He’s party weak, ana’ll be willin’ % to lay quiet a little while, 
 I reckon.” 
 
 Vernet started and turned to the door. “ I’ll go,” he said, 
 and then hesitated. 
 
 “ Well, go, Van,” said Stanhope. “ Bring her in here ; it 
 will be better for her just now. She’ll calm down quicker if 
 she’s among us all.” 
 
 Vernet followed Mary from the room, and came back in a 
 moment with Barbara. She was very pale, and a strangely 
 
446 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 confused look was creeping over her face. She glanced about 
 her, at the lamp burning upon a small table, and at Stanhope 
 and Charlie Carson. 
 
 Then she lifted her eyes to Vernet’s face, opened her lips 
 to speak, and fell forward upon the floor, the words dying in 
 an inarticulate murmur. 
 
 When she opened her eyes, some moments later, she was ly- 
 ing upon a low couch, and Mary was kneeling beside her. The' 
 three young men had retreated to the kitchen. 
 
 “There,” said Mary cheerfully, “I knew you’d soon be all 
 right ! I told ’em so. I said you wasn’t one to be faintin' 
 and botherin’ folks for long.” Mary had grown fond of 
 Barbara and, if rough, she was practical. She knew how best 
 to rouse the girl. “What with Mag a takin’ care of him , an’ 
 only me to look after three gentlemen, and git ’em something 
 to eat after their long ride and all the rest, I should be bothered | 
 if you’d give up. But you won’t, will you, dearie ?” 
 
 “No,” said Barbara, smiling at the old woman’s artfulness, 
 
 “ I won’t, Mary ; I’m ashamed of myself.” 
 
 “ You needn’t be, then,” said Mary crisply. “ Most any- | 
 body’d faint after what you’ve been through — only it’s all 
 over, and there ain’t any use to worry now.” 
 
 “ Well, I won’t, then, Mary ; I’ll help you get supper in- 
 stead.” 
 
 But Mary would not hear of this. She went to the kitchen r 
 and said to Vernet and the others : 
 
 “ I guess you’d best go back and talk with her now. I’m * 
 goin’ to give ye all a bite of something.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Mary,” said Stanhope ; “ it would be very 
 acceptable. Charlie, you and I will see about those horses; 
 they’re loose in the enclosure, with their saddles on.” 
 
 
HEsem 
 
 44 ? 
 
 w Dick,” said Yernet quickly, “ you did that. I had for- 
 gotten about the horses.” 
 
 Stanhope laughed, and went toward Mary, who was already 
 lighting Mag’s lantern for him. 
 
 “ Well,” he said, “I thought they might not like to wait 
 for us, if left to their own sweet wills. Besides, you and 
 Charlie had just done a like favor for Dutton and me. Better 
 go back to Miss Wray, Van. Come along, Charlie.” 
 
 When Yernet reentered the sitting-room, Barbara sat erect 
 upon the side of the couch, thinking — not of the outlaws, nor 
 of her terror, but of the voice that had come ringing to her 
 through the danger and darkness, calling her, for the first 
 time, Barbara . 
 
 He came toward her, flushing a little and saying only : 
 
 “ I am more than thankful that we reached here as we did, 
 Miss Wray. I don’t understand the whole affair yet.” 
 
 “ Oh, my friend, you are trying not to alarm me ; but it 
 has all come to me in a flash. I am the cause of this danger 
 and trouble; I am sure of it. Those men asked Margaret if 
 I was here /” 
 
 “ Did they ? Are you sure ?” 
 
 “ Yes. They first asked for Monckton ; and next they 
 asked her to open the door, and let one of them come in and 
 talk with me. Mag refused, and then thej r began to threaten. 
 Mr. Yernet, do you think — tell me, do you think they wanted 
 to make me a prisoner ?” 
 
 u Miss Wray,” replied Yernet gravely, “ it is very probable.” 
 
 “ But why, why?” 
 
 “ I can see but one reason. If they are holding your father 
 for ransom, and if lie has refused to pay for his liberty — don’t 
 you see ?” 
 
448 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, yes ! And I believe it is true ; I am sure it is 
 true !” 
 
 “Then, Miss Wray, you have every cause to hope. If they 
 are hiding your father up there in the mountains, we shall 
 find him.” 
 
 “ Oh !” she cried, “ and I shall owe it all to you !” 
 
 “I wish, with all my heart, that were the case. But it is 
 not, Miss Wray. You owe it as much — more, indeed — to 
 others: to the two Carsons, and Connolley, and — but there, I 
 am betraying my confederates.” 
 
 When Stanhope came in he found Mag waiting for him in 
 the kitchen. 
 
 “ He wants to see you,” she said, nodding toward the room 
 where Cool Hank lay ; and when she had seen Stanhope enter 
 there, and close the door, she went into the sitting-room and 
 sat down beside Barbara. She was pale, paler than Barbara 
 now, and her face looked very fixed and stern. 
 
 “ Well,” Stanhope said, as he seated himself upon the edge 
 of the bed where Cool Hank lay, “ how is it ? Are you going 
 to need Mitchell again ?” 
 
 A look of surprise crossed Cool Hank’s face, but he ignored 
 the question and asked : 
 
 “ Have you told them— -Carson, and the other ?” 
 
 “ Do you mean, have I told them about our romantic meet- 
 ing and mutual contract ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “Well, no; I haven’t found an opportunity yet. But 
 I shall tell them,” he went on hurriedly, “for they know 
 so much already; remember, Charlie was with me, 
 and — ” 
 
 “ I’m willing you should tell them everything. I want 
 
BESCUE. 
 
 449 
 
 you to tell Mag, too. But not tlie others, at least not the 
 l young lady, yet.” 
 
 Stanhope looked his surprise. 
 
 “Do you want me to tell Miss Drood how long you have 
 been at Mack’s wounded, and — •” 
 
 “Yes, yes; tell her everything that you can. She has & 
 right to know where I’ve been and I can’t tell her.” 
 
 “ Oh !” ejaculated Stanhope, “ oh ho !” 
 
 “ I wish,” went on Cool Hank, ignoring these ejacula- 
 . tions, “that you’d tell her as soon as you can. I want her to 
 ~ know it before — before — ” 
 
 “I see,” broke in Stanhope brightly. “After she hears 
 that, you want to add something else which you’re not bound 
 to keep to yourself.” 
 
 “ What do you mean ?” asked Cool Hank averting his 
 eyes. 
 
 I “ I mean that I’m beginning to understand you. It® 
 < getting hot,’ as they say in hide-and-go-seek. You’re 
 bound to something or somebody by a promise ; you can’t 
 give away anything that concerns others as much as it does 
 yourself.” 
 
 “Take care,” said Cool Hank slowly: “don’t get ideas 
 that may make us bad friends. At any rate, don’t talk them. 
 I’m beginning to like you, and I want to prove it, but — ” 
 “But I mustn’t overreach, eh? Well, I won’t. I’ll tell 
 Miss Drood all that I can about yon without saying too much 
 about myself. This business has been a little hard upon you. 
 £ You came especially to see her and you haven’t made much 
 headway yet. Do you know that you’re a regular elephant 
 upon my hands just now.” 
 
 “How?” 
 
 . 
 
450 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 '“Why, I can’t help considering you in some sort, my 
 prisoner, after all.” 
 
 “ I suppose not.” 
 
 “ And I didn’t know who to appoint as my deputy. How 
 would you like to have me put you in Miss Drood’s hands ?” 
 “ I’m not sure she would take me,” said Cool Hank gloom- 
 
 %• 
 
 “ Oh, she will, — to oblige me.” Stanhope’s eye twinkled 
 as he watched the other’s face. “ The question is, would she 
 turn you over to me again on demand ? I must ask her. 
 Seriously, now, will you stay here, or at the St. Charles, as 
 Mag chooses, until 1 see you again?” 
 
 “Are you going away?” 
 
 “I’m going to Caledonia as soon as it’s daylight, and so is 
 Morgan. Charlie will remain, and come later with you and 
 the ladies. You’re not fit to go down yet, and Miss Wray 
 reeds rest. Will you keep your side of the contract ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; you can depend upon me.” 
 
 Stanhope was silent a moment. “ What do you intend to 
 do about Mack?” he asked finally. 
 
 “Nothing,” said Cool Hank. “Mack won’t get any ex- 
 planations from me, until you say the word.” 
 
 “I’ll say the word in good time. Now, I’ll go and have a 
 talk with Miss Drood.” 
 
 “ Wait,” said Cool Hank. “I said it would be a favor to 
 have me arrested. I’ve changed my mind.” 
 
 “ That’s very odd,” said Stanhope, with a laugh. “ How- 
 ever, I could not have thought of obliging you, anyhow, as 
 matters stand. It might interfere with my present plans.” 
 “What!” cried Hank, “have you a doubt of my guilt, 
 after all you have heard and seen?” 
 
 

 MONCKTON’s GOOD-BYE. 
 
 451 
 
 “ Well/’ answered Stanhope coolly, “the question now is 
 not as to your guilt or innocence, but as to the effect your 
 arrest would have on my plans.” 
 
 For a moment, Hank was silent. Then he began hesitat- 
 ingly, and with his face averted: “When you tell her, if 
 
 she asks you — and she will ask you — what you think about 
 me, will you say the best for me that you honestly can ? Mag’s 
 the only friend I have in the world.” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Stanhope, with grave sympathy, “ I’ll do that.” 
 Just then Mary appeared before them with a bowl of some 
 cooling, home-made draught in her hand. 
 
 “Here.” she said, pushing past Stanhope with scant cere- 
 mony, “drink this; and then you go to sleep. I hain’t no 
 notion of having you fretting into a fever on my hands. It’s 
 coolin’ and quietin’ ; drink it;” 
 
 “ Drink it,” repeated Stanhope, who read rebellion in Cool 
 Hank’s face. “ It’ll be some time before I can talk with our 
 friend, perhaps. If you can sleep, you’ll get rid of the time, 
 and wake up ready for business. Make him drink it, Mary.” 
 And he went out, leaving the patient in Mary’s determined 
 hands. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 monckton’s good-bye. 
 
 It was a delicate task that Cool Hank had imposed on Stan- 
 hope, to tell Mountain Mag of her lover’s position, as it ap- 
 : peared to him, without wounding her; to say enough to do 
 Cool Hank justice, without raising false hopes, and not to say 
 
 too much about himself. 
 
452 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ I’ll get Van’s opinion,” he said, after some thinking ; and 
 at the first opportunity he did. 
 
 “Tell as much of the truth as is necessary to make your „ 
 part in the transaction clear to her,” said Vernet. “ Mag is £ 
 entitled to our entire confidence, and is to be unreservedly 
 trusted. But to tell more than is absolutely necessary might • 
 not be a real kindness to her, standing as she does between this | 
 good-looking outlaw and ourselves.” 
 
 “ Then you think he is one of them ?” queried Stanhope. 
 
 “ Yes ; I can’t make what has happened fit into any other 
 theory — can you ?” 
 
 “ No ; honestly, I can’t. I hope Mag won’t cross-question 
 me, that’s all.” 
 
 “ She won’t, if I know her. Her pride will interpose where 
 Cool Hank is concerned, or else she’ll be afraid of hearing 
 something not to his credit.” 
 
 “Upon my word,” said Stanhope laughingly, “you’re get- 
 ting wonderfully learned in woman’s ways, Van.” 
 
 Vernet’s prophecy proved true. Mountain Mag listened to 
 Stanhope’s recital in absolute silence, and made no comment 
 upon what she heard. She asked only one question. 
 
 “ Does he know that you are telling me this ?” 
 
 “He requested me to tell you. He said you had a right to J 
 know.” 
 
 “Thank you;” and she turned away. 
 
 Just as day was dawning, and Vernet and Stanhope were 
 beginning their preparations for departure, some one came to 
 the kitchen-door, opened it cautiously, and looked in. 
 
 Barbara had fallen asleep upon the couch in the sitting- 
 room, and Mag, Mary and the others were in the kitchen. 
 
 Mary was first to discover him, and she called out sharply ; 
 
MONCKTON S GOOD-BYE. 
 
 453 
 
 u Monckton ! Hi, there ! come in, man, and see if ye can 
 look us in the eye.” 
 
 The man’s face, which had worn a look of apprehension, 
 gradually cleared as he stared about the room. He came for- 
 ward, and then they saw that he was pale and unkempt ; that 
 his clothing was damp and earth-stained, and that he moved 
 like one exhausted. 
 
 “ Monck !” exclaimed Mag, starting toward him, “ where 
 on earth have you been ?” 
 
 The man looked weakly about, and Stannope hastily put' a 
 chair beside him. He sank upon it, and looked up at Mag. 
 
 “ Mag, what, what has happened ?” 
 
 “ We’ve had a little skirmish, Monck,” said Mag, begin- 
 ning to think that he looked more like a victim than herself. 
 “ The house has been attacked, but you see we had help, and 
 nobody is much hurt. What became of you , Monck?” 
 
 “ I’ve been layin’ out on the prairie all night, bound hand 
 and foot. They cut me loose a while ago, and I’ve tramped 
 back here, half dead with rheumatism, and t’other half with 
 fright. I darsent look in here, hardly ; I was afraid things 
 might be worse.” 
 
 “ Land o’ Goshen !” burst out Mary, “ I guess yovtll want 
 a hot dose. Why” — turning, in the pantry-door, to appeal to 
 the company — “the man must be starved !” 
 
 And Mary forgot her prejudices in preparing a hot drink, 
 and setting forth sundry eatables, while Monckton told his 
 story in the fewest possible words. 
 
 He had never before seen the mam who came to him in the 
 afternoon with the story of a sick horse. The stranger had 
 said that he was leading a valuable animal into Caledonia, in- 
 tending to sell it. He had been camping with a wagon train, 
 15 
 
454 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 and one of ilie men was his enemy. He believed this man 
 had poisoned his horse. The story appealed to Monckton, who 
 was himself a horse fancier, and possessed of some Veterinary 
 
 skill. He set out with the stranger, and when he began to 
 think that the way was growing long, and to question his 
 guide, the fellow drew a pistol and compelled him to ride for- 
 ward until they were some miles away from the ranch, when 
 they came upon a party of men who had picketed their horses 
 upon the open prairie, and were squatted upon the ground, 
 waiting, as Monckton inferred from their conversation, for 
 darkness to come down and cover their forward movements. 
 They, bound him without ceremony, and, when night came, 
 rode away and left him on the ground alone. It was impos- 
 sible to release himself, and his roars for help only came back 
 to him in echoes. He lay all night, writhing in tortures 
 bodily and mental, until, when it was almost morning, the 
 band of men came galloping back, and one had turned out of 
 the way to cut his bonds, and curse him, and then dart on 
 again. His horse had been taken from him, probably for the 
 use of one of the outlaws; and when he had refreshed him- 
 self somewhat, he breathed threats of vengeance. 
 
 After Monckton’s return, Vernet delayed his going a little, 
 and found opportunity to speak with Mag. 
 
 “ I’ve been trying to study your man Monckton,” he said. 
 u He looks to me like a steady, courageous, determined fellow.” 
 u He is,” said Mag quickly. “ Monck’s nobody’s enemy 
 but his own. He’s faithful to his friends, but he’s got a jeal- 
 ous, soured temper, and that makes him unpopular. But lie’s 
 served me well, and my father trusted him in everything.” 
 She might have added that Monck’s pet grievance was her 
 friendship for Cool Hank Dutton, whom he looked upon as an 
 
 
monckton’s good-bye. 
 
 455 
 
 interloper whose visits to the ranch might well be dispensed 
 
 with. 
 
 “ Then you believe he is to be trusted ?” asked Vernet. 
 
 “ Yes, indeed ! Monck is trustworthy.” 
 
 “ I have thought that, perhaps, in his present state of mind, 
 it would suit him to join our expedition.” 
 
 “ The very thing !” exclaimed Mag ; “ and you couldn’t 
 have a better man.” 
 
 “ But your affairs — can you spare him ?” 
 
 I “ Yes, yes ! I’ll send some one out from town ; don’t mind 
 that.” 
 
 “ Well, if you approve, I will talk with him,” said Vernet. 
 
 He talked with him to such good purpose that Monckton 
 was soon eager for the war-path. Vernet congratulated him- 
 self upon having secured a strong ally, and, before they left 
 the ranch, Monck understood the programme perfectly. 
 
 The return of Monckton relieved Charlie Carson from the 
 necessity of remaining at the ranch, and so Stanhope, Vernet 
 and Carson rode away a little after sunrise. 
 
 “ Charlie,” said Stanhope, when they were within sight of 
 Caledonia, “ you' will have something to do, after all. Your 
 duty will be to look after Miss** Wray, and between that and 
 keeping an eye upon Mack, you will not have much time to 
 miss us. Besides, there’s Hatch.” 
 
 “ What about Hatch ?” asked Charlie. 
 
 “ Well, you must keep an eye upon him, too. Mack gave 
 him money to go East with, and I rather prevailed upon him 
 not to go. Mack’s badly put out at his staying. I’ve been 
 supplying him with money to keep him here, and I want you 
 f to do the same, if necessary.” 
 
 I “All right, old man,” said Charlie; “I’ll look after Harry.” 
 
466 
 
 A MOUNTAIN M ViSTURY, * 
 
 An hour after they had gone, Mountain Mag sat alone in 
 her sitting-room, her hands crossed in her lap, looking out 
 upon the level landscape and thinking earnestly. Barbara 
 was still sleeping, and Monckton, too, was taking some much 
 needed rest, but Mary, whose household gods were always first 
 to be considered, was still trotting about the kitchen, her feet 
 beginning to drag a little and her eyes to close with drowsiness. 
 While Mag sat thus alone, some one opened the door of the 
 sitting-room and came softly in Mag did not glance at the 
 intruder ; she had scarcely noted the sound. It was Cool 
 Hank, and lie came quietly toward her, only speaking when 
 he had reached her side. 
 
 “ Mag !” 
 
 She raised her eyes quickly then, and said the first words 
 that came to her: 
 
 “ I thought you was asleep.” 
 
 “ No,” he said, “ I haven’t been asleep.” 
 
 She started and looked at him closely ; he was very pale, 
 and evidently wearied. There was something almost pathetic 
 in his attitude as he stood before her. 
 
 “Sit down,” she said, in a softer tone. “I went in — I 
 thought — ” 
 
 “Yes,” he said, “you thought I was asleep. I couldn't 
 sleep until I had seen you.” He sat down near her, with a 
 question in the face he turned toward her. 
 
 But Mag suddenly found herself longing to put off or pre- ^ 
 vent the saying of that which she knew must be said. 
 
 She glanced at his arm, which was again in a sling. 
 
 “Your arm,” she said, starting up; “it must need dressing.” , 
 “ No,” — he put out his uninjured hand, and touched her-^ 
 u it has been dressed just now: Mary did it.” 
 
MONCKTON S GOOD-BYE. 
 
 457 
 
 Mag sank back in her chair, and looked at him silently. 
 She had determined that he should speak first, and, after a 
 moment, he did. 
 
 “ I asked that young man who calls himself Carson, to tell 
 you how it happened — our coming here together last night.” 
 
 “Yes,” she breathed ; “ he told me.” 
 
 “ Mag, what did he tell you ?” 
 
 “He told me,” she began, fixing her eyes upon his face, 
 “ that he found out by accident , several days ago, that there 
 was a secret room connected with Mack’s Theatre, and that a 
 man was concealed in it. He said that he had no time to give 
 me particulars, but that he hoped, before long, to be able to 
 explain fully his part in what happened there, and his mo- 
 tives.” 
 
 “ Ah !” ejaculated Cool Hank. 
 
 “ He didn’t attempt to account for your being there,” went 
 on Mag, a touch of irony in her tone. “ But he told me about 
 your talk with Mack, or rather that you talked a great deal 
 that he did not understand. From what he said, I gathered 
 that you and Mack did not agree on some subject, and that 
 Mack threatened you. He said that you were ignorant of 
 what was going on outside; that Mack told you some things, 
 but not all; and that on your way here he told you more. 
 Then he advised me to tell the story over again — c from my 
 point of view,’ he said.” 
 
 “ Mag, will you do that ?” 
 
 “Yes,” she answered steadily; “1 want to do it. There 
 are some things that he does not know.” 
 
 “ I’m surprised to liea*' that. I began to think the fellow 
 knew everything.” 
 
 “ Did he inform you,” asked Mag, without heeding this re- 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTEEY. 
 
 mark, “ that I was one of the first to discover — the body ?” 
 
 She hesitated over the last words, but there was no hesitation 
 in his reply. 
 
 “ The body of Selwyn, do you mean ? No ; he did not. : 
 Is that true, Mag ?” 
 
 “ Yes ; it is true.” 
 
 “ I wish you would begin at the beginning, and explain all 
 about the finding of the body, the inquest, the witnesses, 
 everything, as if it were all new to me. Will you ?” 
 
 “Yes,” she said, and immediately began the recital. 
 
 She told him everything, not sparing herself. How her ; 
 anxiety lest he should meet Selwyn, had made her set out in 
 the night to find and warn the latter, and how she had found 
 him — dead. She told him that she had removed the jewels, ; 
 and why ; and when he would have interrupted her at this 
 point, she bade him wait, and went steadily on with her story 
 to the very end. 
 
 He listened through it all with grave attention, and when 
 she had done, went back over some of the ground, asking her ^ 
 to repeat certain portions of her story, and putting minute ; 
 questions that surprised her not a little. 
 
 “Mag, my girl,” he said, after he had pondered for some 
 moments, “ it’s impossible that we should understand each 
 other now ; at least, that you should understand me. And 1 
 won’t try to thank you for your noble effort to rescue me, | 
 from justice, while you thought me guilty beyond a doubt. 
 Words are useless, and until I can — ” He stopped abruptly, 
 and left the sentence unfinished. “ Everything appears | 
 against me,” he went on, ^ and I can’t blame you, ci \nyone, 
 for believing that I’m guilty. You do think meguiT % don’t 
 you, Mag?” 
 
W' 
 
 monckton’s good-bye. 
 
 469 
 
 k 
 
 “Oh, I don’t know what to think now/’ she said despon- 
 dently. “ I have tried so hard to believe it was a chain of 
 coincidences. Finally I gave it all up, and settled down to 
 the conviction that — that it was you. I was beginning to 
 harden myself to it, when something possessed me to tell Bar- 
 bara Wray a little of my troubles. And she — she made me 
 ashamed of myself.” 
 
 “How, Mag?” he asked, almost in a whisper. 
 
 “Last evening,” said Mag huskily, “not two hours before 
 those men came to carry her off — for we all believe that was 
 what they were trying to do — after I had told her the whole 
 story of that fearful night, and put everything in its worst light, 
 she said these words: ‘If I ever had reason to believe in him, 
 if I ever had faith in him, I’d ding to it till the last moment .’ ” 
 
 Cool Hank bowed his head upon his hand and something 
 like a groan escaped his lips. 
 
 “ Mag, did she say that ?” 
 
 “Yes; and, Hank, I tell you that when I heard those 
 words I felt better, more kindly toward you, than I have felt 
 since — since I found Duke Selwyn’s dead body.” 
 
 This time it was an unmistakable groan that burst from 
 his lips as Cool Hank arose and began to pace the room in 
 evident agitation. 
 
 Mag watched him in puzzled silence until he came back 
 and sat down again near her. He had calmed himself, and 
 his manner was strangely humble and gentle. 
 
 “Do you remember something that I said to you once, 
 when we first became friends, Mag?” he asked slowly. “I 
 told you that I had not led a good life; that I had been wild 
 and reckless, and had much to regret.” 
 
 46 I have not forgotten.” 
 
460 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 
 “ I said that I wa 3 even yet hampered by consequences of 
 my past mistakes, but that I meant to emancipate myself, and 
 begin over and better.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Mag. b J| 
 
 “ If I had acted promptly then, and not waited like a 
 coward, hoping that just the right opportunity would come, 
 we might have escaped some of the misery that I have brought 
 upon both of 11s. If I had been as true to you as you de- - 
 served, and had not spared myself, things might have been 
 different, been better. But now that very opportunity I 
 wanted and waited for has come, and I am tied hand and 
 foot. Mag, I can’t tell you anything, — can’t explain any- 
 thing, — but I beg you to have patience with me a little longer, 
 and do me a great favor.” 
 
 “Hank,” said the girl turning upon him with an appealing 
 face, “you must answer one question; you must, no matter what 
 comes of it ! There may have been great provocation — per- 
 haps you are not altogether to blame— perhaps it was an act 
 of justice — but you must Jell me: did you shoot that man?” 
 
 But Cool Hank shook his head. 
 
 “God forgive me, Mag, for causing you all this wretched- 
 ness,” he said. “ I can’t even answer that, eitheriro affirm or ■]«' 
 to deny.” 
 
 Mag sank back in her chair and turned her face away. She 
 seemed to have given up all hope. 
 
 “You said you wanted to ask a favor,” she. said, after a 
 long silence, and with averted eyes. 
 
 “ Yes ; I had promised that young man to act as he dictates, 
 or rather to go and come as he dictates. Just before he went 
 away, he said that I 
 st least. He said he 
 
 bad better remain here, a couple of dayy > 
 expected to be very busy, that he didn’t y 
 
'God forgive me, Mag, for causing you all this wretchedness. 
 
 | Page 460. 
 
 461 
 
462 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 think my arm was well, and made other excuses. I saw that 
 he had some strong reason for wanting me to lie quiet here; so I 
 agreed to do so, if you would let me.” 
 
 “Yes,” said Mag, still looking away, “ they spoke of it to 
 me, almost the last thing.” 
 
 “ They ! Who besides him, Mag ? n 
 ■ “ Why, his friend, Mr. Morgan.” 
 
 “Oh !” He pondered a moment, and then asked. “How 
 long have you known this Mr. Morgan ?” 
 
 “ He came out to see the ranch a couple of weeks before 
 Selwyn’s death, and I have seen him since in town.” 
 
 “And this other — Charlie Carson’s brother ?” 
 
 “ Oh, he has not been here so long.” 
 
 “ Was he here at the time of the murder?” 
 
 “ No,” replied Mag, wondering how he could speak so 
 calmly of that horrible event. “ I don’t think — in fact I am 
 certain he was not.” 
 
 Hank sat silent for some moments, evidently pondering 
 what he had heard. Then he said : 
 
 “ I’m going to tell you all that I can, Mag, and I wish it 
 could be everything ; but first, did that young man tell you 
 how I came to be hiding at Mack’s ?” . ■ 
 
 ■j 
 
 “He told me that he heard you tell Mack that you didn’t 
 come there willingly. He said he thought you must have || 
 been taken there while insensible.” 
 
 “I was; insensible from weakness, or drugged, I hardly 
 know which. I had been taken there the night after Selwyn’s 
 death, and Doctor Mitchell was brought to look after my 
 wound. At that time I did not know where I was, although, 
 of course, I supposed myself to be somewhere in Caledonia. I 
 had been there four days before Mack told me that Selwyn * 
 
monckton’s good-bye. 
 
 463 
 
 had been shot, and he told me nothing more then. Last night, 
 for the first time, I learned all the rest. You have done me 
 that much injustice at least, Mag. I did not know until last 
 night that I, or anyone, was suspected.” 
 
 “Oh !” said Mag turning her face toward him, “ I am glad 
 of that !” 
 
 Again, for some moments, he was silent; then he asked : 
 
 “ When are they coming here again, Mag?” 
 
 “I don’t know,” she said absently. “ Didn’t Mr. Carson 
 tell you that we were all going to Caledonia?” 
 
 “ No ; is it because of Miss Wray ?” 
 
 “Yes; they think it will be safer there, until they come 
 back.” 
 
 “ Where are they going ?” 
 
 Mag did not answer for a moment. She had spoken 
 hastily and feared that she had said too much. 
 
 “ I think they said to Rockville; at least Mr. Carson and 
 Mr. Morgan are going there,” she replied finally. 
 
 “ Will you let me stay here, Mag ?” 
 
 “Why, of course. And if you stay, I will ride out to-mor- 
 row ; Monckton won’t be here, and some one must dress your 
 arm .” 
 
 “ Oh, my arm will not trouble me : you are too good, Mag. 
 Shall you take Nick ?” 
 
 “ No ; I will get a horse in town. I’m going to bring out 
 a man to look after things until we return ; old Loomis, prob- 
 ably. Perhaps I will send him out early, and come myself 
 later in the day.” 
 
 “ That would be best I should think. Mag, may x use 
 Nick if I feel like riding?” 
 
 “ Wby f of course,” said she in some surprise, 
 
464 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 a Thank you. Now, one thing more; I want to write 
 letters; will you leave me pens, ink and paper ?” 
 
 Mag looked slightly annoyed. 
 
 ‘I haven’t the paper in the house/’ she said. And then 
 
 came an afterthought. “ I’ll get some of Barbara.” 
 
 At little past noon, Monckton began his preparations. He 
 called Mag aside and they talked a few moments earnestly. 
 And then Mag went to her “ arsenal,” and took from it two 
 sturdy pistols, which she gave to him. Cool Hank, sitting 
 alone in the next rooom, saw the act through the open door. 
 He could not hear the words that accompanied it, but while 
 Mag was still speaking a lovely young girl joined them. She 
 put out her hand to Monckton, smiled upon him sweetly, and 
 said something in a low, gentle tone as she smiled. 
 
 It was his first sight of Barbara Wray, for he could not 
 be said to have seen her in the confusion and darkness of their 
 short siege, and fair as she was, the lovely vision brought to 
 his face an expression of bitterness. 
 
 Out in the other room he still saw the mysterious prepara- 
 tions going on. Mag brought from somewhere a soft blanket, 
 and Mary prepared a compact luncheon. Then Mag, with 
 Barbara’s assistance, made luncheon and blanket into a knap- 
 sack-like bundle, while Monckton looked on pleased and 
 proud, and wearing a newly acquired air of importance. 
 
 The bitterness in the face of the looker-on deepened. He 
 turned away from the two noble girls, so busy over the mysteri- 
 ous preparations in which he had no part, and went softly out 
 through the sitting-room-door, and around the house to the 
 atables. There he found Monckton’s horse saddled and wait- 
 ing, and in a few moments Monck himself appeared, armed 
 with the two pistols and a long sheathed knife. He also car- 
 
JdQNCKTON’s GOOD-BYE* 
 
 468 
 
 0 
 
 ried a rifle in one hand, and the knapsack in the other, ready 
 to be slung to his saddle-bow. 
 
 “ Monck,” said Cool Hank, as they met beside the waiting 
 horse, “you look as if you were going to war.” 
 
 “ Mebbe I am,” replied Monck grimly. And then, in a 
 more friendly tone, he asked : “ How’s your arm, Hank?” 
 
 “Pooh!” said the other, “it’s only a scratch, a flesh 
 w r ound !” 
 
 “ Well,” said Monck as he adjusted his blanket, “ I hope 
 you’ll never have a worse, Hank.” 
 
 “Thank you, Monck.” 
 
 When Monckton had finished his preparations and vaulted 
 into the saddle, he hesitated a moment, and then leaned over, 
 holding out his hand to Cool Hank. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Hank,” he said. “ Shake, once ; an’ if I hain’t 
 always been fair an’ friendly toward ye, jest forget it, won’t 
 ye?” 
 
 “ Why, Monck !” began Hank. But the other interrupted 
 him. 
 
 “ I shouldn’t wonder if I was going on a long journey, 
 Hank, and I want to part fair and square. Tell ’em” — nod- 
 ding toward the house — tell ’em good-bye for me, and God 
 bless ’em ! ’Taint no use for me to try to. ” Aixl Monckton 
 gathered up his reins and galloped away. 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 46ft 
 
 I 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 Cool Hank went back to the house, and straight into the 
 presence of Mag and Barbara, whom he found in the sitting- 
 room. 
 
 “ Monckton has gone,” he said to Mag ; and then, as well 
 as he could, he delivered Monckton’s message. 
 
 “ Poor old Monck,” said Mag sadly. And Barbara averted 
 her face for a moment. 
 
 As Cool Hank was about to leave the room again, Mag 
 stopped him with a word, and as he turned, Barbara came to- 
 ward him. She held out her hand, and told him how she 
 thanked him for coming to their aid — Ker aid; how she re- 
 gretted the hurt he had received ; how she admired his 
 courage. “ Mr. Carson has told me all that you did,” she 
 added, “and it was half the battle. T wish that I could 
 prove to you how grateful I am.” She did not smile upon 
 him, but she looked straight into his face with eyes that were 
 full of unspoken sympathy. 
 
 Cool Hank’s eyes fell before hers. He held her hand stu- 
 pidly for a moment, then dropped it hastily, and went out 
 without speaking a word. 
 
 Mag looked after him in amazement. “He is out of his 
 senses !” she exclaimed, and started as if to follow him. 
 
 “ No, Margaret,” said Barbara gently, and putting out a 
 hand to stop her, “ he is not out of his senses. That man is 
 
GONE. 
 
 467 
 
 enduring some horrible mental agony ; it is written all over 
 his face. Be very kind, very patient with him, Mag.” 
 
 Early in the alter noon, Mag, Barbara and Mary were ready 
 for their journey to Caledonia, and Mag sought out Cool 
 Hank to tell him her latest decision. 
 
 “We are going in early,” she said. “I happened to think 
 that if I didn’t get old Loomis out here to-night, he might 
 not be so easily started in the morning; he’s so slow. If I 
 can’t get him, I’ll send some one else.” 
 
 Monckton had harnessed the sorrel colts, and made the 
 wagon ready for their use. Cool Hank helped Mary carry 
 out their luggage, and saw them prepared for the start. 
 
 “Good-bye, Hank,” called old Mary' from the back seat. 
 “ You’ll find plenty to eat in the pantry.” 
 
 “ Good-bye, Mr. Dutton,” said Barbara. “ Take good care 
 of that wounded arm.” 
 
 “'Good-bye,” said Mag, bending toward him, with the 
 reins in her hand. “ You’ll see me here to-morrow.” 
 
 And Cool Hank, standing with bared head beside the 
 wagon, answered Thank you, Mary. Good-bye, Miss 
 Wray. Good-bye, Mag.” And bowed, and waved his hand, 
 and went back to the empty house with a choking sensation 
 in his throat, and his heart very heavy. 
 
 Soon after nightfall old Loomis arrived, and for two long 
 hours Cool Hank compelled himself to listen to his gossip. 
 But when the old man had talked himself sleepy, and 
 gone stumbling to Monckton’s room, Cool Hank, sitting alone 
 beside the kitchen table, reviewed much that he had heard, 
 and assured himself that he had not listened in vain. 
 
 From out of the mass of information volunteered by the old 
 man, he made a mental note of various items. First, that the 
 
468 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 Overland stage from the east had brought into Caledonia, on 
 the night before, a large amount of money, with which the 
 Company intended to purchase certain mining lands that lay 
 southwest of Rockville. Second, that this money was to go 
 to Rockville by that day’s stage, which, for reasons best known 
 to the Company, had delayed its start until late in the day — * 
 \n fact, had but just taken its departure when Mountain Mag 
 and her party arrived at the St. Charles Hotel. 
 
 And here Loomis had remarked, by way of parenthesis, that 
 he “ Guessed the gals wouldn’t be over lively in town, for 
 them Eastern chaps, Dalton and Morgan, and that skittish 
 brother of Charlie Carson’s, was all off to Rockville on a 
 lark. And,” he added, “ if you were to speculate ten years, 
 ye wouldn’t ever guess who was drivin’ that stage.” 
 
 Of course Cool Hank promptly said : “ Who was it ?” 
 
 “ Connolley, sir ; Doc. Connolley. He’s hired out to the 
 Overland.” 
 
 It was this story of the Rockville-bound treasure, and of 
 the passengers and driver of the Rockville stage, that Cool 
 Hank turned over in his mind after Loomis had gone to his 
 repose. A long time he pondered, and then, taking the lamp 
 in his hand, he went into the sitting-room, where Mountain 
 Mag had left him the pens, ink and paper. Here he sat for 
 another hour, writing and sealing several letters. 
 
 When Mountain Mag came the next day, she found Loomis, 
 sitting in the open doorway, in solitary possession. 
 
 “ Where’s Hank Dutton ?” she asked quickly. 
 
 “ Hank ? Oh, he’s been gone these four hours. I saddled 
 Nick for him at crack o’ day. There’s a letter or somethin’ 
 in on the table, that he left for you.” 
 
 Mag hastened to the sitting-room, and found upon the table 
 
THE START. 
 
 469 
 
 three or four letters tied in a packet, and one, apart from the 
 others, addresssed to herself. It ran thus: 
 
 Dea.r Margaret: 
 
 I have taken Nick and set off on an errand which I know that you 
 would approve, if I could tell you its object. I go hoping to com® 
 safely back with Nick, and if I am not here by to morrow’s sundown, 
 it will be because I am disabled, or dead. If I fail to return, wait until 
 you can be reasonably certain; and in case you learn that I am dead, 
 open the bundle of letters which I leave to your care, and send them to 
 the persons to whom they are addressed. God bless you, Mag, and 
 good-bye. Whatever my faults and vices, the one good thing in my life 
 has been and is the love for you which will go with me to the end. 
 
 H. D. 
 
 With this note clutched tightly in her hand, Mountain Mag 
 rushed to her room, and, flinging herself upon the bed, quaffed 
 there, alone, the bitterest cup of sorrow that life had yet held 
 to her lips. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE START* 
 
 The stage which was reputed to bear the treasure of the 
 Overland Stage Company, and which also bore our friends, 
 Stanhope, Vernet and Dalton, as inside passengers, and Con- 
 nolley, as driver, upon the box, took its way across the prairie 
 in a fashion so leisurely that it was nearing sundown when it 
 reached the little adobe house occupied by Father Miles, and, 
 contrary to the usual custom of stage-coaches, halted there. 
 
 Three or four horses were tied to some rough stakes beside 
 the house, and the rattle of wheels brought to the door four 
 
470 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 men, the first being Doctor Mitchell, who was closely followed 
 by Dan Strong, Monckton, and Father Miles. 
 
 “ Well/’ said the Doctor, when the coach had drawn up 
 before the door, and the inside passengers had alighted, “ how 
 goes it ?” 
 
 “Perfect, everything, so far as heard from,” replied Vernet. 
 
 “ Dame Rumor is an excellent ally sometimes.” 
 
 There was an air of purpose about them all. Their dress 
 was especially adapted for rough usage, and all were heavily 
 armed. 
 
 “We’re ready now, are we not?” asked Doctor Mitchell, 
 glancing about him. 
 
 “ I’m not ready, Doctor,” said Stanhope. “ I want to make 
 a fresh toilet, if Father Miles will let me use his dressing-room 
 and his mirror.” 
 
 “By all means,” replied the good Father. “The room is 
 at your disposal; unfortunately I don’t own a mirror.” 
 
 “ Well,” said Stanhope, “ I carry mine with me.” 
 
 He took from the coach a small leather valise, and followed ~ 
 Father Miles into his single room, while the others waited 
 outside. When he reappeared, he was arrayed in a soiled and 
 ancient set of garments that had once been the property of a 
 bona fide emigrant from Sweden, and their only merit, if merit 
 they had, lay in the fact that they fitted as if they were his 
 own. He had smeared his face artistically with dirt, and added , 
 some tiny brown patches here and there that might pass, even un- 
 der a close inspection, for freckles; and when he had extracted \ 
 from his face all its natural expression, hung his head, drooped | 
 his shoulders, dropped his lower jaw, and assumed a look of 
 sheepish stupidity, his disguise was pronounced perfect. 
 Charlie Carson had sheared liis head, according to theSr pro- 3 
 
THE START, 
 
 471 
 
 gramme of the night before, and this had proved the very finish- 
 ing touch. He was the stupidest-looking Swede in the land. 
 
 After the failure of the first robber hunt in which the two 
 detectives had taken part, they had given much thought as to 
 how the next effort should be managed. They must not 
 again trust to numbers, and so, perhaps, once more find trai- 
 tors in their midst. Something besides force was needed. 
 After many consultations, with and without the presence of 
 Doctor Mitchell, Connolley and Strong, they had decided 
 upon the plan they were now putting into execution. 
 
 They believed that the chief rendezvous , if not the per- 
 manent abode of the outlaws, was not far from Death Pass, 
 and nearer to Caledonia than to Rockville. The wild- 
 erness all about Death Pass was well adapted for hiding, and 
 for making sudden raids, while the region about Rockville 
 was more barren, with fewer chances of quick concealment, 
 and aside from the coach road, impassable for horses, and dif- 
 ficult even for pedestrians. There was another reason for be- 
 lieving that the robber’s rendezvous was on the Caledonia half 
 of the dividing territory. But this reason Stanhope and Ver- 
 net argued only when they conversed apart from the others. 
 It was that Selwyn, Mack, and Cool Hank Dutton, had 
 made Caledonia, rather than Rockville, their chief abiding 
 place. 
 
 Believing, then, that the place and the men they were seek- 
 ing were near the Pass, they had planned their expedition. 
 
 First, the rumor that money was to be carried up the moun- 
 tains, instead of down, was set afloat, and this was judiciously 
 followed by another rumor to the effect that a small body of 
 soldiers were to come down from Rockville, to escort the 
 coach over the last half of the journey, which would be made 
 
at night. Then pretexts had been hatched by which to delay 
 
 472 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 coach, so that, instead of going through the Pass at noon, it 
 would arrive there, just before daybreak. 
 
 They were now traveling slowly, not to reach it-heir des- 
 tination too soon, and conversing on the way. 
 
 “ I should like to know,” said Doctor Mitchell, after he 
 had made for the tenth time a critical survey of Stanhope’s 
 make-up, “ I should like to know why you have seen fit to 
 come out in this fashion.” 
 
 “ So should I,” said Dalton quickly. 
 
 Vernet said nothing. He knew the object of this mas- 
 querade, and had argued in vain to induce his venturesome 
 friend to give up his dangerous scheme. 
 
 “Well,” replied Stanhope, “I’ll tell you. If all turns out 
 
 laid out for them — to stop us in Death Pass, rob us and leave 
 us — we would run great risk in following them in a body. Now, 
 I propose to cut and run ; conceal myself, not too far 
 away, and try for a chance to follow some one of the gang to 
 his lair. It will be safest, and simplest. 
 
 “ It won’t be very safe for you” said Dan Strong. 
 
 “ Pshaw !” replied Stanhope. “ Look here : I am dressed 
 like an emigrant, and look like a very green one. Before we 
 reach the Pass, I’ll get up on top with Connolley. If they 
 challenge us, I shall be terribly frightened, watch my chance 
 and dive into the woods. You will all have to get back into 
 the coach and drive ahead a short distance. But one of you 
 must manage to see where I go into the bush ; and when you 
 think the right time has come, if I don’t make my appearance, 
 you must follow me.” 
 
 “ I don’t quite understand,” said Strong. 
 
 as I hope it will, and if the outlaws follow the programme we’ve 
 
ON THIS TRAIL* 
 
 473 
 
 H Well, you will in good time. I’m pretty handy at dodg- 
 ing, and if I can once get upon the track of one of these fel- 
 lows, I believe I can pipe him home. One man can follow a 
 trail better than half a dozen. My plan is practical.” 
 
 “It does look so,” admitted Strong. “But you, going 
 alone, would be taking all risk. Suppose you should be dis- 
 covered ?” 
 
 “I’ve considered all that. I’ve put on this disguise with 
 that very possibility in view. Don’t be concerned about me; 
 I’ll come out all right.” 
 
 At a little after midnight they made a long halt, lunching 
 heartily, and allowing the horses to feed. When they resumed 
 their journey, the “small hours” were beginning to grow long 
 again. 
 
 And now, at four o’clock in the morning, they are at the 
 mouth of Death Pass. 
 
 Connolley stops the stage, gets down, and puts his head in 
 at the coach door. For a few moments they talk in low tones. 
 Then Stanhope gets out and mounts, with Connolley, to the 
 driver’s seat. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 ON THE TRAIL. 
 
 When the coach enters the Pass, the five men inside, and 
 the two upon the box, become silent and alert. The horses 
 mount upward slowly, and there is no sound to be heard save 
 the fall of their feet and the rattle of the heavy wheels. They 
 have just traversed a bit of rugged winding road, and are 
 
474 
 
 A MOXJOTAXH MYSTERY* 
 
 I 
 
 half way through the Pass, when Vernet says, in a low tone* 
 
 “ It was here that the coach was waylaid on the night of 
 Selwyn’s death.” 
 
 Dan Strong bends forward to peer out, but no one speaks. ; - 
 
 A little further^ yet they go in silence, and then Strong 
 says, “ I think it must be about here that poor Haines and 
 Jackson- — ” He stops suddenly ; a single word has cut short 
 his speech. 
 
 “ Halt r 
 
 “ What’s this ?” they hear Connolley say, as if he were too 
 much astonished or frightened to add more, and then the stage 
 stops. 
 
 “ Don’t stir, you on that box !” they hear some one say, and 
 a black face appears at the stage-door. “ Get out of this !” 
 a gruff voice commands ; and the inside passengers hear an- 
 other voice, at the same moment, bidding Connolley “ Come 
 down off of that !” 
 
 Two men have the horses by the bits, two others are men-, 
 acing Connolley and his companion, and half a dozen more 
 swarm at the coach-door. 
 
 Van Vernet is the first to get out, and he moves slowly, as 
 if divided between reluctance and terror. 
 
 “Hold up your hands!” commands the gruff voice, and 
 Vernet puts up his hands promptly. 
 
 Then Doctor Mitchell begins to clamber out slowly, and 
 with many remonstrances. Connolley throws down his reins 
 and jumps to the ground. But Stanhope, upon the box, does 
 not stir. 
 
 “ Here, you !” says one of the robbers, putting a foot upon 
 the wheel and raising himself as he points a pistol at Stan- 
 hope’s head, “ git down.” 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 As the pistol is raised, Stanhope seems for the first time to 
 realize his position. He starts up and utters a terrific screech. 
 At the same instant Dan Strong creates a diversion by pre- 
 tending to stumble in getting out of the coach, and falling 
 heavily, clutching at the leg of the man upon the wheel as he 
 strikes the ground. The fellow is pulled back, and, before he 
 can regain his balance, Stanhope has bounded dow r n, uttered 
 another yell, and vanished into the woods. Three or four 
 shots, and a volley of oaths, are fired after him, and two of 
 the men start in pursuit. But they do not follow far ; all 
 their interest is with the coach. They care for the spoils, 
 rather than the chase, and they come back to find the six vic- 
 tims drawn up in line, with twelve hands stretched heaven- 
 ward, and to assist in rifling their pockets. 
 
 When this is done, the coach is searched, while Vernet and 
 his friends stand statue-like, each man covered by.a pistol held 
 in the hand of a robber. 
 
 It has been the custom of the robbers to relieve their victims 
 of all weapons, and in anticipation of this our party had armed 
 themselves lightly, and with a very worthless collection of 
 weapons, while a goodly number of knives and revolvers had 
 been concealed in the only receptacle that the outlaws treated 
 with respect — the mail-bag. 
 
 “ Look here,” says one of the outlaws — the one who had 
 acted as spokesman-in-chief — coming back to the line of pris- 
 oners, u what have you done with that Overland money, eh?” 
 
 “ What money ?” asked Doctor Mitchell sharply. 
 
 (( Why, the boodle going up by this coach, to buy mines or 
 something of that sort for the Company.” 
 
 “I don't know anything about your Overland business* 
 growls the Doctor. 
 
O N THE TRAIL. 
 
 477 
 
 u Where’s the driver of this thing ?” demands the outlaw, 
 beginning to pace down the line. “ Which is him ?” 
 
 “ I’m the driver,” says Connolley quietly. 
 
 At this moment one of the outlaws says something to 
 the man next him, who comes forward and peers at Con- 
 nolley. 
 
 “ What’s the matter ?” asked the leader. 
 
 “ Why, I thought — ” began the fellow. “ Yes, and I’m 
 right! This ’ere’s Doc. Connolley.” 
 
 “ What !” cries the leader, “ Connolley the Regulator ?” 
 And then the outlaws join him in a hoarse laugh. 
 
 Greatly to the surprise of his friends, Connolley answered 
 quietly : 
 
 “ Yes, I’m Connolley the Regulator. And if there’s any 
 of my men among ye, as I dare say there is, I jest want to say 
 that I’m glad to see ’em in such a fair way of gittin’ to the 
 only place they’re fit for.” 
 
 “ Wliar’s that ?” demands a voice. 
 
 “Somewhere between the sky and the ground, at the end 
 of a rope.” And then, with a sound in his throat that might 
 have been a dry chuckle, he adds: “I’m glad to notice that 
 Pete Finlayson ain’t among ye.” 
 
 For a moment his friends fear that Connolley’s freedom of 
 speech may work him ill, for there is a murmur of indignation 
 among the outlaws, and one of them cries: 
 
 “ Give him to us ! Let’s try it on him.” 
 
 Rut some one in the rear moves toward the speaker and says 
 something, of which all can distinguish the last words — “ give 
 us all away.” And then the leader calls sharply: 
 
 “ Boys, tend to business. Now, then, Connolley, where’s 
 the boodle ?” 
 
478 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ I guess it’s where you won’t be able to lay hands on it to- 1 
 night/’ says Connolley indifferently. 
 
 “ Where is it t 9 demands the outlaw again. 
 
 “ Wal, it hain’t left Caledonia yet/’ says Connolley serenely, j 
 <( The fact is, they found it had leaked out that they was goin’ 
 to send money up to Rockville, so they concluded not to ship 
 it just yet.” 
 
 The leader growls out an oath, and turns back to the coach. 
 
 “ I’ve a good mind to rip up their old mail-bag !” he mut- 
 ters. 
 
 “ I wouldn’t,” says Connolley, “ not while the soljers araso 
 handy.” 
 
 Possibly this suggestion has its effect; the fellow puts down 
 the bag. Evidently he is in a chronic state of disgust. He 
 has searched, with his own hand, the pockets of his victims, 
 and he knows that he has not reaped a rich harvest. There is 
 very little luggage, and the two baskets which contain the 
 elements of one or two frugal meals, he does not deign to 
 touch. 
 
 “ I never struck such a lot of empty pockets,” he mutters. 
 Then he turns back to his prisoners. “ I’ve a mind to search 
 you fellers again,” he says. “ You can’t all be dead broke.” 
 
 No one offers reply or remonstrance. 
 
 “ Take off yer coats,” he commands. 
 
 The six coats are promptly removed. The leader takes 
 them one by one, turns them inside out and upside down, 
 pinches and pulls and shakes. But they contain nothing of 
 value, and he bids the owners put them on again. 
 
 “ Take off your boots,” he says next. 
 
 The boots come off as promptly as did the coats. Again 
 there is a fruitless search and, then the leader says : _ 
 
 
OK TM3E THAIL. 
 
 479 
 
 u There, git back with ye, one at a time. Boys keep your 
 pistols up.” 
 
 They all re-enter the coach, and Conuolley climbs upon the 
 box and gathers up his reins. 
 
 “ I should think you’d feel it rather a come-down,” says the 
 leader, “from boss Regulator to hired man. /should.” 
 
 “ Well,” retorts Connolley. “I guess when you get pro- 
 moted, it’ll be a good deal higher. Have you got anything 
 more to say ?” 
 
 “ No. If you've still a mind to go on to Rockville, I won’t 
 hinder you.” 
 
 “ Then I guess we’ll go right along.” 
 
 “ Hold on,” says Doctor Mitchell, with his head out of the 
 coach wdndow, “ where’s' that Dutchman, driver ?” 
 
 “By Jupiter!” exclaims Connolley, “where is lie, sure 
 enough? Call him, somebody?” 
 
 “I don’t think it would do any good,” breaks in Vernet, 
 speaking for the first time. •» “ He does not understand a word 
 of English.” 
 
 “ We can’t stay around here waiting your convenience much 
 longer,” breaks in the outlaw leader sharply. “Your Dutch- 
 man’s half way back to Caledonia by this time, if he’s kept 
 on as lively as he started. Boys, stretch across the Pass; let’s 
 give them a salute to hurry ’em up a bit.” 
 
 The whip in Connolley’s hand comes down quickly, and 
 the coach rattles away up the Pass, followed almost instantly, 
 by a volley of pistol-shots. 
 
 “ Confound it !” growls Dan Strong, “ I’d like to return 
 that compliment !” 
 
 But the coach dashes on, and only slackens its pace when they 
 have reeled around two or three curves, and are a mile away. 
 
4S0 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Then they get out again and confer together, and quickly 
 oorae to a decision as to their course. Vernet, who has nat- 
 urally assumed the leadership, suggests that they drive quietly 
 back to where they were attacked, and look for the trail of the 
 fictitious Dutchman. Stanhope no doubt would contrive to 
 leave landmarks for their guidance, he says. 
 
 When they halt again, at the place where they left the out- 
 laws, they find it solitary. No trace of the robbers, and none of 
 Stanhope. 
 
 While Connolley and Strong unharness the horses, Ver- 
 net goes a little way into the thick w r ood, guessing, as nearly 
 as he can, at the place where Stanhope vanished. He is back 
 in a few moments. 
 
 “ I have found his trail,” he says. “ But we ? ll have to 
 wait for a little more daylight before we can see the others. 
 I divided it, and here is half.” 
 
 He smiles and holds out a crumpled bit of something 
 white. 
 
 “ Newspaper !” says Strong in surprise. 
 
 “No; cloth. Paper is too easily blown about. Listen: 
 he will leave these clues about a rod apart. There are four 
 sorts. This white cloth, when it is found alone , means, 
 straight west . A bit of blue wool yarn means, go north . Red, 
 means, south , and yellow, east . We must all make good use 
 of our eyes, and look, after every clue that’s found, for bro- 
 ken twigs and branches, hanging a little over head, or de- 
 tached and dropped upon the ground. These will mean south- 
 west, northwest, southeast or northeast, according as they are 
 to the right or left of the bits of cloth or wool. Do you get 
 the idea?” 
 
 They all answer in the affirmative 
 
 
OJST THE TRAIL. 
 
 481 
 
 “ Then I think we had better eat something : day is com- 
 ing fast ” 
 
 “Isn’t there danger of these bits of things being found by 
 the outlaws, rather than by us ?” asks Connolley. 
 
 “ Almost none. They may find one or even two, but how 
 many of us, do you think, would notice one of these if we 
 were ignorant of its purpose, or give it a second thought if 
 we saw it? And they will be so far apart that even a sus- 
 picious person would scarcely connect the second with the 
 first, even if he saw two in succession.” 
 
 By the time their breakfast was disposed of, the horses cared 
 for, and the coach drawn away from the road, well under a 
 group of sheltering trees, day was dawning grayly, and the 
 party plunged into the woods. 
 
 When they had reached the spot where Vernet had found 
 the first piece of cloth, he said : 
 
 “ You see there' is an opening among the trees here, that 
 aided me in finding this. Let us go forward slowly for an- 
 other rod, and if we do not find a white clue, we will wait for 
 more light.’’ 
 
 The next is a white clue, larger than the first, and they find 
 it pinned conspicuously to a tree that stands directly before 
 them. They leave it as they find it, and pass on to the next, 
 and then to another, and another, all of them white. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 A LOST SCENT. 
 
 When Stanhope took his flying leap from the top of the 
 coacn, ne ran straight ahead through the thick brushwood, and 
 
462 a Mountain mysteey. 
 
 tlie random shots fired after him only served to accelerate hia 
 speed. He heard, for a few moments, the sound of pursuit 
 not far behind, but when he checked his pace to listen, all was 
 silent about him, and he turned, rightly guessing that the out- t, 
 laws had given up the chase. 
 
 He crept back cautiously, until he was once more at the very ^ 
 edge of the wood where it skirted the roadway. It was at the 
 moment when the leader of the outlaws was questioning Con- 
 nolley, and, acting again upon his favorite theory, that the 
 boldest course is the safest, lie climbed nimbly into a tree just 
 opposite the coach. Seated thus astride a big bough, and quite 
 hidden by the clustering foliage, he could hear all that passed ^ 
 below. 
 
 When the coach rattled away, the robbers drew back from * 
 the road, grumbling at the small returns of their labor. 
 
 u I guess it won’t hurt us much to carry off all we’ve got 
 to-night” growled one of the party. “ A nice go, this is ! I 
 tell you, you ain’t goin’ to get me into any more of these deals, 
 when we’ve got a regular bonanza right in our hands if we’ve 
 a mind to work it ! I’m gettin’ sick o’ this dallyin’ business! 
 
 If the captain can’t come up to the scratch, let him stay away. 
 We’re all in favor of it, and the majority rules — eh, boys?” 
 
 “ That’s the talk !” cries one ; and then another and am 
 other takes up the refrain. 
 
 “ Look here, boys,” says the leader impatiently, “ this ain’t 
 no place to palaver, and no time either. It’s close onto day- v 
 light, and we can’t get back to our holes any too quick. If i 
 you’re for talcin’ this thing into your own hands, well an’ good 
 — I ain’t goin’ back on ye. But come along ; we kin talk in 
 a safer place than this.” 
 
 The robbers seem to recognize the wisdom of these remarks 
 
A LOST SCENT. 
 
 483 
 
 and in a few moments they are all in motion, walking west- 
 ward as swiftly as the trees and bushes will permit, and with 
 Stanhope following behind at a respectful distance, scattering 
 his clues as he goes. 
 
 For a long time they keep steadily on, westward at first, 
 and then southwest, the way beginning to be more broken, 
 rocky and steep. 
 
 The robbers travel like men accustomed to the route, and 
 confident in their solitude. They do not once look behind 
 them, and Stanhope has only to follow, and to make no sound. 
 
 And now they have reached a place where the trees stand 
 wider apart, and large patches of sky can be seen glimmering 
 between them. But the growth of underbrush is heavy, and 
 the way leads up a steep hill, that seems to have no vanishing 
 point. 
 
 At the foot of this hill the robbers pause and exchange a 
 few words, and Stanhope strains his ears to hear, but he only 
 catches fragments of the dialogue. At first he can put no 
 meaning into what he hears, but a moment later two of the 
 men moved away from the rest, turned their faces southward, 
 and begin to skirt the hill. They pass very near him, as he 
 stands behind a clump of bushes, and he hears a few words as 
 they go. He is quick at putting “ two and two” together, and 
 he combines what he has heard and extracts from it this mean- 
 ing : the robbers have horses concealed somewhere on this 
 side of the hill, and the two men are going to give them 
 drink. . 
 
 “So they keep a suburban livery,” thinks Stanhope, as he 
 moves slowly up the hill. “ Fll try and pay a visit to that , 
 too, all in good time.” 
 
 fhe path grows rough and steep, and steadily upward* 
 
484 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Hocks and underbrush are everywhere, but the openings among 
 the trees grow more frequent. Stanhope finds it difficult to 7 
 move from opening to opening, through bush and over crag, 
 without making his presence known, should one of the out- 3 
 laws chance to look back. 
 
 It is clear enough to him, now, why the robbers’ horses * 
 are stabled below the hill, and it soon becomes even more 
 evident. 
 
 When they have traversed what seems to Stanhope like 
 miles of this rocky upland, zigzagging from left to right, and 
 always going higher, they come suddenly out upon the edge 
 of a precipice, and along this the robbers walk for a short dis- > 
 tance, stopping, at length, at what appears to be the highest 
 and ruggedest point within view. 
 
 The trees near the ledge are few and small, and Stanhope is 
 obliged to drop upon his breast, and crawl serpent-wise through 
 bushes and around rocks until he is near enough to catch their 
 words, though he cannot see the speakers. 
 
 “ I wish you would wait for them,” he hears the voice of 
 the leader say. “ I don’t like to leave it so.” 
 
 “ Well, I won’t , and that settles it,” a voice replies. “ It’s 
 safe enough to leave it down.” 
 
 “ It’s agin the rules,” says a third voice. 
 
 “ Everything’s agin the rules — for us” the second voice re-' 
 plies. “ I’m hungry and tired — you’re always givin’ me the 
 dirty jobs — I won’t stay.” And the speaker emphasizes his 
 dictum with a string of oaths. 
 
 Then several of the outlaws begin to expostulate, seeming 
 to close around the rebellious one, and all speaking at once* 
 Under cover of their voices, Stanhope drags himself forward 
 through a low-growing thicket, and parting the leaves before 
 
A LOST SCENT. 
 
 485 
 
 him, finds that he can see the group upon the edge of the 
 precipice. They stand, almost to a man, with their backs to- 
 ward him, and facing the chasm. 
 
 S Evidently the leader is angered at the delay caused by the 
 mutineer. He turns away from him without more words, and 
 drops upon one knee beside a huge rock that is surrounded 
 by a tall growth of fringe-like grasses. 
 
 “ Get hold of the rope, two of you,” he says peremptorily. 
 Instantly two of his men come forward, kneel beside him, 
 and thrust their hands among the grasses. 
 
 “ Here it is,” says one, and immediately produces an end 
 of rope, which seems to have been wound about the rock and 
 tied there. 
 
 They uncoil it, Stanhope watching their proceedings won- 
 deringly. He is near enough to see that the chasm must meas- 
 ure at least fourteen feet across, the opposite side being a very 
 little the higher. It is rocky and fringed with hazel brush, 
 and whatever lies beyond is thus shut out from his view. 
 
 And now the robbers have uncoiled the rope, and one is 
 winding it “ hand over elbow,” while the other is putting in 
 yard after yard, that comes slowly up from the chasm below. 
 After a time the rope is all drawn up, and extends tautly 
 across the chasm. Evidently it is moored to something. 
 
 u Looks as if they were going to give a tight-rope exhibi- 
 tion,” Stanhope thinks. 
 
 The man slides his hand along the line until he is close be- 
 hind the leader, who has now grasped the rope firmly. 
 
 “ Pull !” says the leader ; and the men, who have grasped 
 the rope, one behind the other, move back a pace and give a 
 tug. 
 
 “ Here she comes !” cries one. 
 
 id 
 
486 
 
 A FOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Stanhope sees an agitation among the bushes opposite, hears 
 a crackling and snapping, as twigs bend or break, and then a 
 dark object conns into sight, pushing its way through the 
 bushes like the head of a mighty serpent. The men at the 
 rope move backward, still pulling, and the dark object comes 
 on, out over the chasm, and lands on the rocks at the feet of 
 the outlaws. But not all of it. One end still rests upon the 
 opposite bank, and the watcher sees clearly that it is a draw- 
 bridge , of primitive make but apparently strong. 
 
 “Now,” says the outlaw leader, as he steps behind the men 
 and stands beside the rebellious fellow, who has seated him- 
 self upon a rock a little aloof from the rest and assumed a look 
 of sullen indifference, “ go over, boys.” 
 
 One of the men bends down, as if to see that the bridge is 
 securely placed, and then walks lightly over. Another, and 
 another, and another follows, until the leader and the rebel are 
 the only ones on this side. 
 
 Then the leader draws his pistol, and turns toward the man 
 on the rock. 
 
 “ Now, sir,” he says, “ don’t let me hear any more c won’t’ 
 from you ! Go over that bridge, and stay by it until the boys 
 come up the hill. If they don’t give a good report of you 
 when they get into quarters, I’ll make an example of you. 
 This is the third time that ye’ve tried to kick up a fuss, and 
 it’s got to be the last. Go over, and hold your tongue.” 
 
 Evidently the fellow is cowed. He stammers out something 
 that the leader will not hear, and goes sulkily toward the draw- 
 bridge. 
 
 “ No more talk,” the leader says. “You’re a fine fellow to 
 belong to a band like this ! Connolley must a had a nice lot 
 of Regulators !” 
 
A LOST SCENT. 
 
 487 
 
 But even the bruised worm will turn. When the rebel is 
 fairly on the bridge, he looks back and says sneeringly : 
 
 “ He wouldn’t a had as much use for me as he’d a had for 
 you.” 
 
 “Don’t be too free with your lip!” says the leader as he 
 sets a foot upon the drawbridge. “ You haven’t got out of 
 the woods yet.” 
 
 “ No,” retorts the other, “ and neither have you. I guess 
 I’ll come out about when you do.” 
 
 When the outlaws have gone out of sight on the other side, 
 the unwilling picket selects for himself a very comfortable spot 
 near the brink of the ledge, with a big rock at his back, and 
 his face set squarely toward the bridge and the opposite bank. 
 He takes from one pocket a cigar, from another a match, and 
 is soon smoking and looking — so Stanhope thinks — disagree- 
 ably comfortable, in spite of his recent dissatisfaction. The 
 cigar is a good one — it was taken from Dalton — and the soft 
 breeze brings its pleasant odor straight across the chasm. 
 
 Stanhope, on the opposite side, grows restless, lest the trail 
 of the retiring robbers becomes utterly lost to him. But the 
 only way out of his unpleasant predicament seems to. be by the 
 path of patience. So he remains motionless behind his leafy 
 screen, and grows cramped and hungry, and begins to look 
 upon himself as a man entrapped, and forsaken alike by his 
 friends and enemies. 
 
 His patience deserts him, and he is almost ready to make a 
 sudden dash upon the all-too-comfortable sentinel, when that 
 personage seems to have caught at a bright idea, for he gets 
 up quickly, looks about him, and crosses the drawbridge. 
 Arrived at the opposite end, he walks quickly down the hill, 
 where he is soon out of sight among the trees and bushes. 
 
488 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Stanhope waits a few moments, lest the outlaw should look 
 back. “He’s going to join the others at their horse hotel, I 
 fancy,” he mutters. Then he crawls out of his hiding-place 
 and advances to the edge of the chasm. 
 
 Looking down, he does not wonder at the anchored draw- 
 bridge, nor at the care with which it has been made and 
 guarded. The rocky walls are almost perpendicular, and they 
 stretch down and down, ending in a swift, narrow stream, its 
 waters inky black, more than a hundred feet below. 
 
 To the right and left the chasm stretches, and the stream 
 runs, as far as the eye can see; beyond this the outlaws have 
 indeed a secure retreat. 
 
 Stanhope examines the bridge, which is made of a tree cut in 
 halves, and lashed together, side by side, with rope and leathern 
 straps, the flat, roughly hewn surfaces turned uppermost. 
 
 Over this structure Stanhope goes quickly, and finds at the 
 opposite end, a second rope, attached like the first, tied securely 
 about the body of the nearest tree. He sees that the ropes not 
 only serve to place and remove the drawbridge, but they add 
 to its security by keeping it from being pulled over the edge 
 on the upper side, for the bridge extends across the gulf with 
 hardly half a foot to spare at either end. 
 
 And now he thinks that the difficult part of his journey is 
 done. Before him is a well defined path, leading over and 
 around rocks and through brushwood, straight westward. The 
 ground is almost level for some distance, but grows more and 
 more open as he progresses. The sun, fairly risen, penetrates 
 the trees and shines in strips and spots of brightness about 
 him. Before him, along way off, the tallest of mountain-peaks 
 towers skyward, the blue mist that envelopes them touched 
 into brightness by the glow of the sunlight. 
 
 flfft i 'ht t ‘ * i if i • 'I— ■ I -r- -ft • ■ • - - .r ■ d i— TV - ■infr-irt 
 
PRISONERS. 
 
 489 
 
 The scene is a fair one, but it is the path, rather than the 
 landscape, over which our young detective rejoices. 
 
 It leads him across this bit of table-land, and then descends, 
 sloping gently until it reaches a'small stream, clear and shallow 
 and swift. And here, to his utter amazement, it comes 
 abruptly to an end ! 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 PRISONERS. 
 
 For a moment Stanhope ponders over this singular phenom- 
 enon. He wades across the shallow stream, but there are no 
 traces of a path or of footsteps on the further side. 
 
 He goes back to the stream and gazes up and down. The 
 rivulet flows from the north, and in that direction nothing 
 meets his view save rocks and bushes and scattered trees. He 
 turns about and gazes southward. A few rods below, the 
 creek glides in between steep, rocky banks, that seem to rise 
 higher and straighter further on. 
 
 Suddenly the young detective utters a low laugh, and says to 
 himself : 
 
 “ Why, of course ! That’s it ! The clever rascals !’ r He 
 tucks his coarse trousers into the tops of his boots. “ I’ll 
 try it this way first,” he mutters, and steps inttTthe stream. 
 
 The thing begins to look quite plain to him. He thinks 
 that the outlaws, to cover up their tracks, have waded a short 
 distance up or down. He moves slowly down the creek, now 
 at one side, and now at another, keeping a sharp outlook 
 
m 
 
 A Mountain mystery. 
 
 on either hand. He sees nowhere a sign to guide him. When 
 he has reached the point where the banks began to rise, he 
 hesitates for a moment, and then goes on, lifting his feet as little 
 as possible and pushing them forward through the water, 
 to avoid, as much as he may, any splashing sound. 
 
 And now, as he advances between the rocky walls, the 
 stream narrows, the walls rise higher and straighter, and 
 presently the sun’s rays cease to fall upon the rippling water, 
 which glides between the rocks with a gurgling noise, and 
 grows, as it darkens, perceptibly deeper. 
 
 At a point where the rocks on either hand seem highest, 
 and abandon the perpendicular to jut over the stream, Stan- | 
 hope pauses to gaze at what seems to be two or three shelving 
 steps or ledges of rock, that appear in a fissure of the main 
 projection, and seem to lead upward to nothing. 
 
 “ Looks as if the stream had once been a cataract,” muses 
 Stanhope, putting his hand against the lower ledge, and cran- 
 ing his neck to look higher. “ Natural staircase leading to 
 nowhere, and wisely left unfinished by Dame Nature.” 
 
 He withdraws his 1 hand and lifts a foot half out of the 
 water, tempted to mount Dame Nature’s unfinished stair. 
 The movement makes an increase of sound in the echoing 
 stillness about him, and he gently lowers his foot again — 
 failing of success, as many others of us do, by that one step 
 that was not taken. 
 
 He utilizes the ledge, however, by leaving upon it one of 
 his bright-tinted clues, dipping it first in the stream to make 
 sure its adherence to the rough surface, and then he goes 
 cautiously on. 
 
 Still the stream narrows and the water darkens. He can- 
 not see the pebbly bed, and feels his way cautiously, with one 
 
PRISONERS. 
 
 491 
 
 foot advanced, and a hand pressing lightly over the rocks at 
 his side. And now the stream curves gently. He is so near 
 the angle that he can see the wall suddenly descend, and a 
 grassy open just beyond. He bends forward and takes one 
 more step — such a step ! There is a splash, a crash, a cry! 
 He realizes them all, instantly, but dimly as if in a dream. 
 
 The splash ; it is himself, going down, down, and the water 
 closing over him. The crash ; it is from above, something 
 heavy and hard, that falls upon his head asjf to crush it 
 as the water gurgles over him. But the cry: even in that 
 moment he has uttered no sound — that comes from the rocks 
 above him. 
 
 His next sensation is a strange one, a mingling of moisture 
 and ache and dizzy weakness, with the sound of voices. Then 
 he seems to feel himself outstretched upon something clammy 
 and cool, and the voices are all about him. 
 
 “He’s done for !” a voice says. “ The water’s finished him.” 
 “ Not much it didn’t ! It was that rock. He wasn’t undei* 
 long enough to drown. Hi ! look! there’s life in him yet.” 
 “Is there, then ? Well, so much the worse for him. We’ll 
 have to do it over, that’s all.” 
 
 “ How d’ye s’pose he got here?” 
 
 “He’s a spy; I knew we was watched. The deuce will be 
 to pay now /” 
 
 “ Hold your gab ; he may hear ye ” 
 
 “Not him! There ain’t enough life in him.” 
 
 “ I tell ye there is. Let me git to him. There; now hist 
 up his head.” 
 
 “ See here, Blowey, what the Moses d’ye mean to do?” 
 Half a dozen voices have uttered these sentences, but now 
 the dialogue confines itself to two. 
 
492 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “I’m goin’ to see if he’s got enough life left to tell where 
 he came from, and how he got here. 
 
 “ D’ye want to be trapped ?” 
 
 “ If we bring him round we ain’t obliged to keep him so, 
 eh ? What’s the matter with ye all ? Hist his head, I say ; 
 there !” 
 
 All these words Stanhope has heard dreamily. And now 
 his head is lifted, and a burning fluid goes gurgling down his 
 throat. He feels the blood begin to stir, and knows that it 
 is coloring his face. 
 
 “See!” the voice says, “I told ye so! His slip, and the 
 water, as he went under it, broke the force of the rock. He’ll 
 tell Ills story mighty quick, and then — ” 
 
 “Yes, and then what?” 
 
 “Well, I guess, mebbe, he’ll like hangin’as well as drownin’ 
 or havin’ his brains knocked out. Here, you, wake up and 
 give an account of yourself.” 
 
 Stanhope has come back to full consciousness now, and to 
 the knowledge that he has fallen into the hands of the outlaws. 
 The last words addressed to him are accompanied by a shake, 
 and, for the first time, he opens his eyes and stares blankly 
 about him: 
 
 He is lying upon a flat, moss-covered rock, at the edge of 
 the little stream, which at that point has grown so suddenly 
 and treacherously deep, and he sees about him a small, grassy, 
 half circle of level ground, with the rocky wall enclosing it 
 completely. Just opposite the spot where he lies, is a dark 
 opening, whick looks like the entrance to a natural cave. Be- 
 tween himself and this opening stands a small clump of trees, 
 with the remnants, or beginning, of a camp-fire beneath their 
 shade. Crowding close about him, with faces that are curious, 
 
. . 
 
494 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 stolid, startled or menacing, are a dozen swarthy, dirty, vil- 
 lainous-looking fellows, each armed like a pirate. 
 
 It needs no second glance nor second thought to tell him 
 that lie is in the very stronghold of the outlaws. 
 
 “Hullo! ” says one of these gentlemen, u he’s a cornin’ out!’* 
 
 The words act upon Stanhope strangely. He sighs, closes 
 his eyes, and seems to sink back into a state of apathy. In a 
 flash, and aided by the momentary glance about him, he re- 
 alizes his position. At the very instant when his foot, ad- 
 vancing through the no longer clear water, had poised above 
 the sink-hole, one of the robbers, perched upon the crag above, 
 had heard his movement below, and looked over, and instantly 
 pushed down one of the loosely-poised rocks that were directly 
 above him, at the same time uttering, for the benefit of his 
 comrades, that warning cry which brought them to the brink 
 of the stream. What Stanhope does not know is, that the 
 crash of the rock, the cry of the robber, and the splash of his 
 body in the stream, had so taken the outlaws by surprise that 
 they had rushed forward, dragged him from the water, and 
 placed him safely upon the rock, which usually served them 
 for a dining-table, before they became aware that they had res- 
 cued an interloper, and not, as they thought, one of them- 
 selves. And what the robbers do not know is, that the in- 
 terloper whom they had fished from a watery grave, had not 
 been killed by the falling rock before he sank beneath the 
 water, but that the blow had only stunned and the water re- 
 vived him; and that he lies now, with closed eyes, simulating 
 insensibility, but really listening intently, and trying to think 
 himself out of his present damp and unpleasant predica- 
 ment. 
 
 “ There/’ he hears one of the two last speakers say, “ so 
 
BBISONEE&, 
 
 495 
 
 much for your wisdom, Blowey. He’s gone off in another 
 swoon. Lord, don’t waste any more good liquor on him” 
 The man addressed as Blowey picks up one of Stanhope’s 
 moist hands, and lets it fall limply. 
 
 “ Mebbe lie did get a thumper, after all, from Dowd’s 
 brickbat,” he says, seeming to resign his theory. “ Anyhow, 
 we won’t waste time over him. Pull him off the table, boys, 
 and hurry up grub. We can’t git what we’ve got to do over 
 none too soon. If he comes to, we’ll have it out with him. 
 If not— ” 
 
 The sentence is completed by a brutal gesture in the direc- 
 tion of the creek and followed by a laugh from the compan- 
 ions of Blowey, who seems to be in command. 
 
 Stanhope feels himself pulled, none too gently, from the 
 rock, and further inland. A moment later he hears the sharp 
 crackle of freshly kindled brushwood, and feels the glowing 
 heat of flames near at hand. They have drawn him toward 
 the fire, on the side nearest the rocks, and he feels the warmth 
 about him and he says to himself : 
 
 “ The rascals have done the very thing ! Between their 
 whiskey within and their heat without, I shall soon be dry 
 and but little the worse for my wetting.” 
 
 And he lies still with his eyes closed, and hears, wonder- 
 ingly, the bustle of preparation going on all about him, and 
 knows without seeing that they are cooking breakfast, clean- 
 ing and loading pistols and guns, rolling up bundles, and 
 making unmistakable preparations for a long journey. As 
 they work they converse in low tones, and separate groups. 
 After a little^, Stanhope becomes aware from sundry gur- 
 glings and smackings and exclamations of impatience or grati- 
 fication; according as the bottle has passed from their hands. 
 
496 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 or is yet to come into them, that they are lightening their labors 
 with frequent pulls at something stouter than water. Present- 
 ly they are all at breakfast, and he finds himself seeking an | 
 answer to three questions : 
 
 Where are the outlaws going? That they are going soon, 
 he is assured. What will they do with him ? And will 
 Vernet and the others arrive in time? 
 
 Suddenly, upon the clatter of the break fasters, breaks a voice, 
 loud, clear and so different in quality and accent from the | 
 others, that Stanhope almost forgets himself, in his strong de- 
 sire to open his eyes and see the speaker. 
 
 “ Eh !” says the voice, “ what’s this ?” 
 
 Stanhope hears a queer, halting, clankling sound, and then ; 
 realizes that he is the object of the question. He hears the ; 
 clanking sound very near him, and becomes aware of a body | 
 interposed between himself and the camp-fire. He notes too, in 
 the same instant, that the robbers have become suddenly | 
 silent. Then a hand touches him, and the same voice says : 
 
 “ Another victim, I suppose!” 
 
 “ He don’t look much like you, does he?” responds the { 
 voice of the leader. And the fellow adds : “ No ; he ain’t 
 
 none of our captures. He’s a visitor, jest dropped in on us.” | 
 And the rough voice cries: “ Hullo! he is cornin’ round! 
 
 Warm and almost dry ! Here, you, wake up, can’t ye?” 
 
 The invitation is accompanied by a poke in the ribs that 
 causes Stanhope to wince and wisely conclude it is time to 
 open his eyes. He opens them accordingly. 
 
 On his left, and between himself and the fire, a man has 
 dropped upon one knee beside him, and is scanning his features 
 narrowly. He is past middle age, his hair is nearly white, 
 and his eyes dark and piercing. His face is smooth-shaven, 
 
PRISONERS. 
 
 497 
 
 and but for the firmness of the mouth and chin would be al- 
 most delicate in its outline. The hand that is put out to 
 touch him is white and soft, and Stanhope notes, as an aston- 
 ishing point of the ensemble , that, among these uncouth, vile- 
 handed, ragged-bearded, roughly-garbed fellows, this man is 
 neatly dressed in well fitting clothes, and is scrupulously 
 clean. 
 
 Thus much Stanhope sees while seeming to stare vacantly, 
 and then his eyes turn to the man on the other side. He is a 
 big, brawny ruffian, with a straggling, reddish beard, a short 
 nose, and small, inflamed eyes ; a very bull terrier in human 
 form. He is even dirtier than any of the group of dirty men 
 who are staring attliem, and Stanhope, who never forgets a face, 
 knows that he has seen this outlaw before. 
 
 “ Who is he?” asks the kneeling man impatiently. 
 
 Stanhope notes the look that the two men exchange. It is 
 the look of two duellists who mean war to the knife. 
 
 “ He’s a spy,” says the outlaw angrily. “ Some of your 
 friends, mebbe.” 
 
 The old man looks again and shakes his head. 
 
 “No,” he says ; “I never saw him before.” 
 
 The outlaw leader bends over Stanhope and gives him a 
 shake. 
 
 “Get up, you,” he says gruffly, “and give an account of 
 yourself.” 
 
 Stanhope only stares vacantly, and puts his hand to his 
 head with a great show of feebleness. 
 
 “Get up, I say,” growls the outlaw again. “Don’t stare 
 so, like a confounded idiot.” 
 
 But the vacant look still meets his, and the hand still feebly 
 fumbles about aimlessly. 
 
498 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 “ Blowey,” says a man who is doing something at the 
 fire, “I guess that chap’s head’s riled. He’s stunned like. 
 Don’t yer remember how Bill was, after lie got that crack 
 atr-” 
 
 “Shut yer mouth, will ye?” broke in the man called Blow- 
 ey. But the words have their effect, for after another pro- 
 longed stare he turns away, muttering : “ He is dazed, or 
 
 I’m a goat !” 
 
 And Stanhope feels himself reprieved for the time. 
 
 “ I’d like to know what’s routed you out,” Blowey says, 
 stepping unconcernedly across Stanhope’s prostrate form, and 
 addressing the old man, who now rises slowly, the movement 
 revealing the cause of the clanking sound. The old man is a 
 prisoner. A long, slender, steel chain trails after him across 
 the green, and is secured about his left ankle. 
 
 They are standing close together face to face, and almost 
 over the recumbent and interested detective. 
 
 “ I want to know what you are about to do,” the old man 
 says fearlessly, “ and I came out to ask.” 
 
 “And/ want to know what you mean to do!” retorts 
 Blowey, with a big oath. 
 
 Instead of answering this counter question, the old man 
 looks him squarely in the eye and says : 
 
 “ I have just learned why your Captain, as you call him, 
 does not make his appearance. In fact, I have learned several 
 things that enlighten me a little as to the meaning of some of 
 your manoeuvres.” 
 
 “ What have ye found out ?” asks Blowey contemptuously. 
 
 “ What I have discovered I gathered from the conversation 
 of your own men. And the first explains why I have been 
 shut up here for nearly three months, and have never had the 
 
PRISONERS, 
 
 499 
 
 hdnoi' of meeting your Captain. It seems that your Captain 
 is dead — ” 
 
 “ Wal,” interrupts Blowey, “ I meant to tell ye that.” 
 
 “ That he has been murdered, and that your second in com- 
 mand is more than suspected of being the murderer. Wait; 
 is this true ?” 
 
 “ What if I say it is ?” 
 
 “ Just this : you have been tormenting me, as go-between 
 for these superior villains. If they are both gone, I suppose 
 you are the head scoundrel now.” 
 
 “ You’d better look out !” growls Blowey. And then, with 
 a hoarse laugh : “Yes: I’m the head scoundrel now, if that 
 name suits ye.” 
 
 “ It suits you admirably,” says the old man. 
 
 “ Wal,” ejaculates the fellow, casting a sharp and threaten- 
 ing glance at two of his men who have approached, and now 
 at once draw back again, “ I s’pose ye’ve made up yer mind 
 to have dealings with me, now that I’ve been promoted ?” 
 
 “ From the talk of the men, I gather that since the loss 
 of your superiors, you and your gang have been steadily un - 
 fortunate — ” 
 
 Blowey growls out an oath at the expense of his talkative 
 subordinates. 
 
 “ That you have attempted to rob a stage, and been poorly 
 paid for your effort ; that some other enterprise of yours has 
 failed ; that you have grown uneasy and are about to forsake 
 this stronghold,” 
 
 “Wal?” growls Blowey. 
 
 “ This being the case, do you intend to take me with you?” 
 
 “ Yesterday,” said the outlaw slowly, “ I made ye an offer. 
 I said that if ye’d sign them papers, I’d set ye free in twenty- 
 
500 
 
 a Mountain mystery. 
 
 f. 
 
 «ir iioti 
 
 arter 
 
 (li 
 
 ev \\’c< 
 
 as turned into money in Rockville. 
 
 Are ve s;oiny: to do it?” V. 
 
 He looks up and the eyes of the two men meet squarely. 
 Those of the one are resolute ; those of the other are brutal. 
 
 "No,” says the old man firmly. 
 
 “ Then,” says Blowey with an oath, “ I say that I ain't goin’ 
 to take ye with me.” 
 
 “ Ah ! What do you mean to do ?” 
 
 “ I’ll tell ye,” the villain says slowly. “ I’m the head 
 scoundrel now, as you say, and Fm goin’ to run things on a 
 easier an’ simpler plan. I ain’t goin 9 to carry any dead 
 weights — me an’ my men are of the same mind ; we\e talked 
 the thing over. Ye’re goin’ to sign them orders, an’ have that 
 money sent over to Rockville so we kin git it, an’ no questions 
 asked, or ye’re goin’ to stay right here till Gaybrull’s trumpet 
 Wakes ye up. Ye kin have this feller to keep ye company, 
 if ye like the style of him; the dirty spy.” And the outlaw 
 indicates Stanhope by the thrust of a heavily shod foot in his 
 direction. 
 
 The old man looks fixedly but unfalteringly into Blowey’s 
 
 face. 
 
 “ I tell you again,” he says firmly, “ that I will not sign 
 those papers, and remain a prisoner in your hands, relying 
 simply upon your word for my release.” And he turns back, 
 as if to re-enter the cave from which he came. 
 
 1 
 
 “Wait,” says the outlaw sharply. “There’s something 
 that I reckon ye didn’t happen to hear. There’s a young 
 woman in Caledonia that mebbe will be willin’ to pay some- 
 thin’ jest to git news of ye. We kin leave ye here, and stand 
 a fair chance of gittin’ well paid jest for tellirJ her that her Pa 
 is dead. The Captain’s seemed to sort of foresee that you’d be 
 
PRISONERS. 
 
 601 
 
 a hard un to deal with, so he sent her word that her Pa wanted 
 her, and she came right along. We ain’t quite made up our 
 mind, yet, whether we’ll carry her off or jest kind o’ tap her 
 purse.” 
 
 “Her?” cries the old man eagerly. “Of whom do you 
 speak ?” 
 
 “Oh ! I’m talkin’ about a Miss Barbara Wray, that landed 
 iu Caledonia about a week ago.” 
 
 “ Barbara !” The name seems wrung from the old man’s 
 lips. 
 
 “ Oh, ho !” says the brute before him. “ I thought that 
 would fetch ye. Hullo!” 
 
 He turns sharply to look at Stanhope, who, still staring 
 stupidly, has struggled to a sitting posture. 
 
 Lying there an enraged but helpless prisoner, Dick Stan- 
 hope has seen something rise slowly and cautiously above the 
 rocks opposite him, and just behind the group of outlaws, who 
 are all waiting with interest the outcome of the conversation 
 between their leader and Stephen Wray this object he has 
 quickly recognized as Van Vernet, and now he sits up, thus 
 drawing the attention of the outlaws to himself. 
 
 The only one who does not heed his movement is Stephen 
 Wray, who mutters again, mechanically, the name, “ Barbara ,” 
 and stares at vacancy, like a man suddenly turned to *tone< 
 
502 
 
 A, MOUNT AIK MYSTERY: 
 
 CHAPTER LYI. 
 
 VICTORS. 
 
 Such, at the moment when Stanhope begins to demonstrate 
 his activity, is the situation. 
 
 Suddenly something flashes before the eyes of Blowey. He 
 has a momentary impression that his vacant-faced, half- 
 drowned prisoner has developed new and startling energies; 
 that he is springing upon him, the robber chief, with face and 
 eyes aflame,. and is bearing him down, down, down. 
 
 This is what has really happened : Stanhope, who has 
 
 moved slowly, and deliberately measured his distance and his 
 man, has bounded up, clutched him by the waist and the 
 throat, and hurled him to the ground, bringing him, by a 
 dexterous twirl, face downward, with his huge, bare throat 
 right across the chain that trails from Stephen Wray’s ankle. 
 The outlaw lies as he has fallen, and Stanhope has possessed 
 himself of a pistol from his belt before a hand is lifted to 
 stay him. 
 
 The fall of the body, the sudden tug at his chain, rouses 
 Stephen Wray, and he sees what the robbers have not yet 
 seen, three men already in the enclosure ; others, he cannot 
 tell how many, stealing down the rocks beyond. 
 
 On the ground, not four feet away is a pile of loaded mus- 
 kets, left there by the outlaws. With a bound the old man 
 is beside them ; has seized a weapon, and springs back to 
 Stanhope’s side. 
 
VICTOBS* 
 
 508 
 
 Who can say just what happened next? Men are leaping 
 about, shouting, cursing, fighting, falling ; shots are fired ; 
 knives gleam. 
 
 For a moment the attacking party seems to have all the 
 advantage. Then, out of the cave rush three of the robbers, 
 who have been within since they first left their rocky table. 
 They fall upon their assailants with a yell. Blowey is up, 
 and Connolley is down. 
 
 Suddenly, the interest seems to center in the foreground of 
 the small arena, where, upon the rock that so lately has served 
 a peaceful purpose, Blowey and Stanhope have clinched and 
 are struggling. It is not an unequal contest. The big out- 
 law is heavy and strong, but Stanhope is quick and lithe, a 
 trained athlete. 
 
 Then a cry bursts from the lips of Van Vernet. He has 
 seen, in a passing glance, that two of the outlaws have sprung 
 upon Stanhope from behind; that they have seized and pris- 
 oned his arms, and that Blowey is drawing a long knife from 
 his belt. With this warning cry, Vernet dashes aside the 
 robber who opposes him, and springs toward Stanhope. In- 
 stantly Dalton follows ; and then the outlaws rush to the aid 
 of Blowey. The shouts and the rush, cause the robber to 
 stay his hand for an instant ; then, with an oath the knife is 
 again uplifted, and aimed at the heart of the now helpless 
 detective. 
 
 “Stop!” 
 
 It is a cry so quick, so clear, and so commanding, that it 
 causes all to pause involuntarily. 
 
 Blowey, with head thrown back and arm upraised, darts a 
 quick glance toward the rock opposite, from which the cry 
 proceeds, and then with a wild yell, he totters back and falls 
 
501 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 splashing into the stream. At the same moment, the men 
 who have prisoned Stanhope’s arms relax their hold, and flee 
 toward the cavern. 
 
 It is a time of panic to the outlaws, of surprise to their as- 
 sailants. 
 
 Stanhope regains his feet, casts one quick glance at the 
 rocks where stands the object of the outlaws’ terror, and 
 gives a ringing shout. 
 
 “ Now, boys, quick ! we have them !” 
 
 Ten minutes later, the robber-hunters are masters of the 
 field. 
 
 When he sees that their victory is complete, Stanhope turns 
 and looks toward the place where the apparition which has , 
 so terrified the outlaws still towers. It is Cool Hank Dut- 
 ton, pale and grave, standing erect upon # the rocks, with his 
 crippled arm hanging free from its supporting sling. 
 
 “Dutton,” calls Stanhope, “in Heaven’s name, come 
 down !” 
 
 Slowly, and in silence, Cool Hank descends the rocky in- 
 cline, steadying himself with his uninjured hand. As he 
 reaches Stanhope’s side, Van A 7 ernet advances toward them 
 from the mouth of the cavern. 
 
 “ What is this ?” he says sharply, looking from Stanhope to 
 Cool Hank Dutton. 
 
 “ I am the leader of these outlaws,” says Dutton, holding 
 out his single hand. “ You had better secure me , too.” 
 
 “ Oh /” ejaculates Vernet, and turns upon his heel. 
 
 But Stanhope says quietly: “Yes, I guessed as much, Dut- 
 ton. You are still upon parole.” And he, too, turns to sur- 
 vey the field. 
 
 Four of the outlaws are dead, and three are seriously 
 
“The knife is again uplifted, and aimed at the Heart of the now help 
 (•*» detective.” — Page 503. 
 
 506 
 
508 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY* 
 
 wounded. Three others are disarmed and bound. One is 
 missing. From the pool or sink-hole in the little stream, 
 two big feet project, horribly suggestive. Blowey has gone 
 into the pool head foremost, and when they draw him out he 
 is past all hopes or help. 
 
 As for the raiding party, they have not escaped unhurt. 
 Monckton has fallen across the body of a dead outlaw, with 
 his spent revolvers still clutched in his hands, and as they 
 bend over him the last breath flutters from his lips. Three 
 separate balls have lodged in his body. Connolley has a 
 dangerous and ghastly knife wound in his side. Dan Strong 
 has a bloody gash across his brown cheek. And when Van 
 Vernet has time to think of himself, he finds, with the help 
 of Doctor Mitchell, a flesh wound in his left arm. It has 
 been a bloody battle, although so short. 
 
 When the wounds have been dressed, the dead drawn aside 
 and covered with such articles as they find in the cave, — which 
 is a veritable storehouse of miscellaneous plunder — and the 
 prisoners made as comfortable as is consistent with safety, 
 Van Vernet turns to Stanhope. 
 
 “ Come with me,” he says. “ I must have a word with you.” 
 
 He leads the way, clambering up the rocky wall over 
 which they came, and Stanhope finds, to his surprise, that 
 there is a narrow passage leading from the top of the ledge, 
 between two rocks and down on the other side, coming out upon 
 the very stairlike ledges that he had noticed and passed by. 
 
 “ Van,” he exclaims, “ I missed this place. How did you 
 find it ?” 
 
 “I had very precise directions,” replies Vernet. 
 
 “ Eh ! From whom ?” 
 
 “That’s just what I brought you here to tell you; at least 
 
VICTOKS. 
 
 507 
 
 that’s part of the reason. You must know, then, that we fol- 
 lowed your clues without much difficulty, until we came to that 
 drawbridge and were about to cross it, when we heard voices. 
 We got behind the bushes, and in a moment along came three 
 fellows; two reeling drunk, and all quarrelling.” 
 u Ah, yes, I know; they were three of this gang.” 
 
 “ We took that for granted, and in a very few moments we 
 had them sprawling. They were too tipsy to show much 
 fight. And whom do you suppose we recognized in one of 
 them — the soberest one ?” 
 
 “ Hedley.” 
 
 “ Yes, Hedley ; one of Connolley’s old Regulators. Well, 
 we just tipped a wink to Connolley, got out a rope, and rigged 
 it up for an execution. The fellow is a coward at bottom, and 
 the whiskey was in our favor. We got a good deal of infor- 
 mation out of him; among the rest, how to reach the robbers’ 
 lair without wetting our feet much.” 
 
 “ Oh,” says Stanhope with a grimace, “ you did better than 
 I, that’s all. Where are your prisoners?” 
 
 “Tied to three trees near the creek,” answered Vernet. 
 “ With your help, I think I can persuade them to come over 
 the rocks and join their friends.” 
 
 “All right,” says Stanhope. And the two men step down 
 into the little stream. 
 
 “ Mr. Carson.” 
 
 Stanhope turns and starts at the sound of his last nom de 
 •pCume. Cool Hank Dutton is close at hand, and in spite of 
 his crippled arm and the slipperiness of the wav, lie come 4 * 
 down the rocky steps like one accustomed to them. 
 n I want a word wifh you,” he says to Stanhope 
 “Very good ; let’s get out of the water first,” 
 
508 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Stanhope moves on, and in a moment they have passed ih« 
 rocky walls, and step out upon the grassy bank. Then Cool 
 Hank looks from ono to the other and says : 
 
 “ Gentlemen, of course I consider myself your prisoner, and 
 I hold myself subject to your orders, but I have a strong reason 
 for asking how long you intend to remain here.” 
 
 Van Vernet eyes him keenly. 
 
 “ We will answer that question,” he says, “ when we know 
 what your strong reason is.” 
 
 Cool Hank turns from Vernet and addresses his answer to 
 Stanhope. 
 
 “ I gave a promise to Margaret Drood,” he says, “ which I 
 do not want to break. I have borrowed her horse and wish 
 to return it safely. If you intend to go at once to Caledonia, 
 
 I am content to go as a prisoner with the rest, and ask only one 
 favor at your hands — that is, that you will let me see and talk 
 with Mag. I heard something said a moment ago which led me 
 to think that you meant to wait here for reinforcements — ” 
 
 “ I see,” said Stanhope, “ and you don’t want to wait.” 
 Then he turned to Vernet. “Van, what do you intend? 
 Others beside Dutton would be glad to set out for Caledonia. 
 There’s that old man, Stephen Wray — ” 
 
 “True,” said Vernet; and then he glanced at Dutton and 
 hesitated. 
 
 Cool Hank promptly took the hint, nodded understandingly 
 to Stanhope, and walked slowly along the bank of the creek. 
 When he had passed out of hearing distance, he halted, faced 
 about and stood waiting. 
 
 “ That fellow’s a perfect riddle,” said Vernet, looking after 
 him; “ he’s well named.” 
 
 “Yes. However, I think I begin to understand him, 
 
 • ' ' , . ' ..... ' i 
 

 VICTORS. 
 
 509 
 
 Leave him to me, Van. Cool Hank will open his lips at the 
 right time. Now, what is your plan ?” 
 
 “ Why, we are not a strong guard, Dick, and this is how I 
 left matters at the Overland office : They are to muster their 
 strength, drivers and all, and as many outsiders as they know 
 they can trust. They counted on a reinforcement, too, by 
 yesterday’s coach from the east. They expect to be strong 
 enough to take matters into their own hands. Their plan was 
 to wait, and if we didn’t come back or send a messenger within 
 a given time, they were to set out in search of us. Now, as 
 we have run down our game so soon, I think we will' send 
 ^ some one to Caledonia to carry the news and bring help. We 
 can’t leave these wounded men, and we can’t take them until 
 assistance comes.” 
 
 “ Good ! I’ll be the man to carry the news ; and I’ll take 
 Cool Hank and Mr. Wray, and be responsible for their good 
 behavior.” 
 
 “Very well. Now let’s go up the hill and bring in our 
 three prisoners.” 
 
 “ Dutton,” said Stanhope as they approached Cool Hank, 
 “ is there a better or a shorter way to Caledonia than that by 
 which we came, along the coach road, you know, and across 
 that ingenious drawbridge ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Cool Hank. 
 
 “ Then, if you’ll lead the way, we will set out for Cale- 
 donia in fifteen minutes. Where did you leave Mag’s horse?” 
 “ A quarter of a mile from the creek.” 
 
 “Well, get him, and bring him nearer. You’ll have to 
 change horses, if there is one that’s fresher in that hidden 
 stable. Can you lead the way to that, too?” 
 
 Coni Hank hesitated. 
 
510 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “I can,” interposed Vernet, “ and there are ten good horses 
 there. Dutton, we’ve forced so much out of Hedley, that you 
 may speak without fear that you are betraying your comrades.” 
 
 “ Gentlemen/’ said Cool Hank earnestly. “ I could say 
 nothing now without creating the impression that I was trying 
 to justify myself at the expense of others. I have.been second % 
 in command of this band of robbers since I came among them.) 
 For a short time I have been Chief, nominally at least. More ' 
 than this I cannot say. I am grateful to you both for your 
 courtesy and your trust in me. After I have seen Margaret 
 Drood, I shall ask no more favors, and at present I shall ask 
 but one other : that you will put no questions to me now.” 
 
 “ Granted,” said Vernet shortly, and turning toward the 
 hill. “ Bring up your horse, Dutton, and wait for us here.” 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 STEPHEN WRAY’S STORY. 
 
 Stanhope and Vernet had gone but a few paces toward the 
 drawbridge when the latter broke out: 
 
 “ Confound your mysterious protege, Dick ! He cut me 
 off just as I was about to ask one question that sticks in my 
 mind !” 
 
 “ What was that, Van ?” 
 
 a I’d like to know what there was, in the simple appear- 
 ance of that man, to scare the pluck entirely out of those ras- 
 cals, and give us such an easy victory.” 
 
STEPHEN WRAYS STORY. 
 
 511 
 
 u Fm v not clear on that subject myself, Van, but I can tell 
 you what I think. You know he played the ghost just as suc- 
 cessfully, the other night at the ranch ?” 
 
 “ Yes.” 
 
 “ And perhaps you remember all that I told you about his 
 interview with Mack ?” 
 
 “ Yes, yes.” 
 
 “ Well, I think that for some reason Dutton and Selwyn 
 have changed identities. Wouldn’t that explain it?” 
 
 “Why, yes. If they have been taking him for Selwyn, 
 and are aware, as they must be by this time, that Selwyn is 
 dead, that would explain it. What do you make of the fellow, 
 anyhow?” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you. I’ve been studying him, and I believe I’ve 
 hit somewhere near the truth. The trapping of Wray and 
 holding him for ransom, was Selwyn’s work, and was planned 
 and executed without the knowledge or consent of Lieutenant 
 Dutton. He rebelled against it; that was the one desperate 
 deed that he could not wink at. He wanted to set Wray free, 
 and they differed about it. As for the decoying of Miss Wray 
 here, I don’t believe that Cool Hank knew anything of it. I 
 expect that was what Mack whispered to him — the one thing 
 I didn’t manage to hear that night in the. secret chamber. 
 Now, supposing my notions to have some foundation, can’t 
 you put yourself in his place — can’t you see that he could not 
 offer anything like a true statement of his case without 
 making himself appear a coward, if no worse?” 
 
 “Well, yes, supposing what you think to be true. And 
 hasn’t it occurred to you that there may be another reason for 
 his reticence?” 
 
 “Another? what?” 
 
512 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTE3IT. 
 
 
 i( Possibly he can't make his case very clear without impli- ^ 
 eating himself in that murder business.” 
 
 “Umph !” said Stanhope, keeping his face set steadily up 
 the hill, “possibly !” But his friend knew that there was 
 skepticism in his tone. 
 
 They found the three prisoners just as they had been left, 
 and drove them back, after releasing their feet, at the muzzles 
 of their own pistols. They found Cool Hank Dutton sitting 
 at the base of the rocky wall, and Mountain Mag’s favorite 
 steed, Nick, grazing near the stream. As they approached 
 with their prisoners, Hank arose and began to scale the rocks j 
 ahead of them. 
 
 The morning was well advanced when V ernet and Stanhope | 
 appeared again among their companions. Dalton and Strong 
 were busy over the fire, which they had rekindled. They had 
 found the storehouse of the robbers, and were preparing a meal. 
 Doctor Mitchell and Stephen Wray sat apart from the rest, in 
 earnest conversation. 
 
 If the horrible suggestion of Blowey had struck the heart 
 of the father with a palsy of terror, the conflict had roused 
 the man, and shackled as he was, he had fought valiantly. It ; 
 was Dan Strong who had struck off his fetters, and no words 
 were needed to tell them all that here was the missing father 
 of Barbara Wray. 
 
 He told his story briefly, and it proved that the detectives, j 
 in constructing a theory, had hit the truth. And he could 
 not hear too much of his daughter. 
 
 They told him of the forged letter, and how it had deceived 
 both Barbara and Mr. Follingsbee; how she had arrived in 
 Caledonia, and of her grief and consternation upon learning 
 that he was not there. But thev did not name Duke Selwyn ; 
 
STEPHEN WRAY’S STORY. 
 
 513 
 
 and when they told how she had found a friend ih Mountain 
 Mag. and a home at the ranch, they did not mention the at- 
 tack and attempt to abduct Barbara. 
 
 “ I see it all now/’ Stephen Wray said, fixing his keen eyes 
 upon Vernet’s face, “and I’ll never again trust myself as a 
 reader of the ‘ human face divine.’ It was that man Selwyn 
 who planned all this. It never occurred to me to suspect him, 
 until it was too late. When I reached Caledonia there was a 
 letter from Selwyn awaiting me in the post-office. It was by 
 his written directions that I called for it before registering at 
 the hotel. In it he deplored the necessity for his presence in 
 Rockville on the day when I would arrive, and gave most 
 plausible reasons. It was for our mutual benefit, lie said, and 
 might result in considerable gain. He suggested that I drop 
 my identity. I remember the very words: c In such a place 
 
 as C / he said, ‘there might be adventurers from N. Y. 
 
 who would not fail to recognize your name, if not your face. 
 To be known as a man of wealth here is simply to court dan- 
 ger. In your place, and especially as I cannot join you for 
 several days, I would assume a name less likely to make me 
 an object of too much interest to brigands.’ Think of that, • 
 sirs! to brigands! That fellow! I fell into this trap, and all 
 the others he set for me, although when I started in the coach 
 for Rockville I was beginning to smell a rat, as the saying is. 
 JSot that I suspected him then, but it struck me as odd that 
 the stage should be so lightly freighted at a time when pas- 
 sengers were so numerous. But when we were halted, and I 
 found myself the only object of special attention from the rob- 
 bers, I began to do some serious thinking. And when I was 
 brought to this place alone, and the driver and the other pas- 
 senger were turned loose, I saw the whole scheme. It did’nt 
 
fili 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 need the arrival of my fellow-passenger, tliree or four days 
 later, to confirm my suspicions ; they were already firmly 
 grounded. Yes, sir, lie was one of this very band! And 
 lie laughed in my face when I told him what I thought ot - 
 him.” 
 
 ’ “ Is that fellow among these men ?” asked Vernet quickly. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered the old millionaire, with a nod toward the 
 row of still, shrouded forms, “ lie’s there, and I shan’t mourn 
 him.” 
 
 “ And all the time that you have been a prisoner, you have 
 never seen the leader of this band ?” queried Stanhope. 
 
 “ Never once ! That ruffian, Blowey, has been the go-be- j 
 tween. Perhaps I committed a blunder by boldly declaring 
 that I suspected Selwyn; but I had got my eyes open at last, 
 and although they denied all knowledge of such a person, I 
 could see by their manner that I had startled them, and they 
 were puzzled how to act. They sent a man to confer with 
 their leader, and in the meantime left me pretty much alone. 
 But when they got their orders, the game began. They bullied 
 and threatened. Once they got up a hanging farce, and ac- 
 tually had me at the end of a rope. But I knew that my neck 
 was safe, and I laughed at them. About two weeks ago, I 
 tried to escape. It was the first chance that I had found, and 
 the force was weakened by half a dozen; but they caught me 
 in the act, and then Blowey chained me by the leg. I got so 
 desperate, at last, that I told Blowey I would negotiate for my 
 freedom, — that was a little more than a week ago — if he would 
 bring me face to face with the ringleader. I took it for granted 
 that Selwyn was the man, and for the first time Blowey forgot 
 to deny it. He sent away a messenger that same night, and 
 they did not approach me again on the subject for two days. 
 
 
STEPHEN WRAY*S STORY. 
 
 515 
 
 Then the messenger came back, and he must have brought 
 some startling news, for it set them all in a flutter and Blowey 
 afterward grew daily more aggressive. Messengers were com- 
 ing and going ; raiding parties have been scouting and coming 
 back sullen and almost empty handed ; my position was grow- 
 ing more and more difficult to endure as the robbers* schemes 
 began to miscarry. Good Heavens!** cried the old man, look- 
 ing about him as if for the first time he fully real ized the peril 
 from which he had been rescued, “ if I had known, during 
 this last miserable week, that my daughter had been so nearly 
 dragged into the toils, the villains would have had me at their 
 mercy. Note, I will spend thrice the money they wanted to 
 extort from me, to find and punish that renegade, Selwyn.** 
 Vernet and Stanhope exchanged significant glances. 
 
 “ It will not be necessary,** the latter said in a low tone : 
 u Selwyn is dead.** 
 
 “ Dead ! when ? how ?** 
 
 “ He was shot, more than a week ago. I can*t tell you the 
 details at present; there are reasons why explanations must 
 be put off* until we are all in Caledonia.** 
 
 “ Oh ! and when do we set out ?** 
 
 Vernet glances across the sward toward the other prisoners, 
 and said in a still lower tone : 
 
 “ My friend, here, is going at once, with one of the pris- 
 oners. If you feel equal to the ride, you can go with them.** 
 “ May I ask why — ** 
 
 “ You may see that we can*t move these men in their pres- 
 ent condition, and in ours. Carson will send out reinforce- 
 ments, and wagons to convey the wounded,** 
 
 Stephen Wray glanced about him. 
 
 il Let me understand/* he said. “ Do you intend to let it 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 416 
 
 be known, before you arrive with the prisoners, that you have 
 made this capture ?” 
 
 “By no means!” broke in Stanhope. “We shall flourish 
 no trumpets ; it might stir up a hornet’s nest.” 
 
 “I thought so,” said the old man. “ Then it won’t do for 
 me to go. Besides, I don’t like to desert my rescuers. I 
 want to lend a hand in landing these rascals where they can’t 
 get into more mischief. My daughter is safe, you tell me, 
 and this young man will inform her that I am alive and well.” 
 Stanhope nodded. “Then I can wait ; in fact, I prefer to 
 wait.” 
 
 Having endured so much at the hands of the outlaws, he 
 was grimly resolved to have a part in their punishment. 
 Even his fatherly anxiety gave way before this stern deter- 
 mination. The same spirit that had kept him courageous and 
 defiant through his long captivity, swayed him now that it 
 had come to an end. 
 
 While they talked, Stanhope had been breakfasting heart- 
 ily, and as he was preparing to leave the camp, Dalton drew 
 Vernet aside. “Van,” he said, “ I don’t like the idea of 
 sending Carson back with that fellow Dutton.” 
 
 “Why ?” 
 
 “ He is one of the outlaws, and how do you know that he 
 may not lead the young fellow into a trap ? They are talk- 
 ing of taking a shorter cut, Carson says — Dutton, of course, 
 to lead the way. Don’t you think that I had better go with 
 them ?” 
 
 “ Do you want to go ?” 
 
 “ Well, yes. To tell the truth I want to get back as soon 
 as possible ; I won’t have them say that I am trying to keep 
 out of harm’s way, I don’t know what to make of this Dutton; 
 
 
 M 
 
 $ 
 
 
Stephen wray’s story. 
 
 517 
 
 bu* if he means to show himself in Caledonia, I want to be 
 tnere, too.” 
 
 “Well,” said Vernet, turning away, “I’ll speak to Carson.” 
 And he did. 
 
 “I will not take him;” said Stanhope, looking annoyed. 
 “ Why must he go ?” 
 
 Vernet recounted the reasons given by Dalton. 
 
 “ Pshaw !” ejaculated Stanhope “ I know better ; he has a 
 yet stronger motive.” 
 
 “ What is it ?” 
 
 “A woman — of course !” impatiently. 
 
 A shadow fell upon Vernet’s face, but it passed instantly, 
 and he said, with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes : 
 
 “ He did give another reason. He thinks that it isn’t safe 
 to trust a youngster like you alone with Cool Hank.” 
 
 It was Stanhope’s turn to look amused. “Have you no- 
 ticed Cool Hank and Dalton ? Their courtesy is freezing. I 
 believe that each thinks the other the guilty man. ” 
 
 “To believe that, you must hold them both innocent. 
 
 “ I do,” said Stanhope significantly. And then he added 
 hastily : “ Very well; let Dalton go with us.” 
 
 In a few moments, Stanhope, Dalton, and Cool Hank Dutton 
 mounted upon three of the robbers’ best horses, were riding 
 toward Caledonia. When they were gone, Stephen Wray ap- 
 proached Vernet, whom he seemed to recognize as the leader 
 of the rescuing party. 
 
 “How much time do you give them to go and return?” he 
 asked. 
 
 Vernet considered a moment. “ It is nearly noon,” he 
 said, “ and I don’t think that we can be more than sixteen 
 miles from Caledonia.” 
 
 “ Sixteen miles !” ejaculated Mr. Wray. 
 
 XI 
 
518 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Vernet beckoned to Doctor Mitchell. * Doctor, how fat 
 do you think we are from Caledonia?” 
 
 “We’re a good deal nearer than I ever dreamed we should 
 find a robbers’ roost. We can’t be more than — let me see ; 
 it’s twelve or thirteen miles to the Pass.” 
 
 “Yes,” interrupted Stephen Wray, “if you mean the usual 
 point of attack.” 
 
 “ I do,” answered the Doctor. “ And from the Pass, by 
 the way we came — and a mighty thorny, rocky, uphill way it 
 was — it can’t be more than four miles.” 
 
 “Do you mean to tell me,” cried Wray excitedly, “ that all 
 these weeks I have been a prisoner within sixteen miles of 
 Caledonia, and only four miles from the highway?” 
 
 Both the listeners nodded. 
 
 “ Gracious Heavens !” cried the old man, now livid with 
 rage. “ Did I tell you how I was brought here?” 
 
 “No,” said Vernet; “I think not.” 
 
 “Well, sir, I was blindfolded right beside the coach, and 
 put on a horse. That was in the forenoon. My horse was 
 led until late in the afternoon, when we stopped in the woods, 
 and ate a cold luncheon. Then I was blindfolded again and 
 led on. We slept two nights in the woods, and my horse was 
 changed twice. I was all the time blindfolded, and riding, 
 while the men walked. We went uphill and down, forded 
 streams, and scrambled through bushes, and on the morn- 
 ing of the third day , they took the bandage off my eyes, right 
 here where we stand.” 
 
 “Umph!”said Doctor Mitchell, “ it’s a regular game of 
 theirs, that. They wanted to discourage any thought of escape 
 or rescue. They led me a similar dance once — the vil* 
 him !” 
 
K)DUNK REAPPEARS, 
 
 
 CHAPTER LYIII. 
 
 PODUNK REAPPEARS. 
 
 It was growing dark when Stanhope hastily entered the of- 
 fice of the St. Charles, and hurried to Charlie Carson’s room, 
 whither that young man instantly followed him. Stanhope 
 had parted from his two companions at the edge of the town, 
 and hastened by a roundabout course to the office of the Over- 
 land Stage Company, leaving Dalton and Cool Hank to ar- 
 rive in their own way. 
 
 “ Are they here ?” was his first question. 
 
 “ Yes,” answered Charlie, seeming perfectly to understand. 
 “Dalton came first, and Cool Hank a little later. They man- 
 aged it very neatly. I don’t think half a dozen people saw 
 either. Dalton’s up stairs now, talking to Miss Wray, with 
 Mag’s old woman for propriety ; and Cool Hank’s in the par- 
 lor, closeted with Mountain Mag. What’s up ?” 
 
 “ I’ll tell you in a minute,” looking about the room. “Did 
 you bring my traps, Charlie?” 
 
 “ Yes ; here they are,” dragging a large traveling bag from 
 underneath the bed. 
 
 Stanhope drew off his coat and attacked the bag. 
 
 “ I’ll give you particulars to-morrow, Charlie, — ” jerking 
 the bag opened, and beginning to take out various articles of 
 apparel. “ We’ve got the outlaws caged, and I’ve been to the 
 Overland, to start them out after the prisoners. We’ve found 
 Mr. W T ray ; that’s what Dalton is telling Miss Barbara. Hold 
 
620 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY 
 
 in, Charlie — for Charlie, not daring to shout his joy, was 
 indulging in a series of ecstatic contortions. “ Cool Hank has 
 owned to being in league with the gang.” 
 
 Charlie sobered instantly. 
 
 “I half expected that,” he said. a Pm confounded sorry. 
 But how — ” 
 
 “ He’s on parole,” broke in Stanhope. “ Hand me that 
 box, Charlie.” 
 
 Charlie gave him the desired article. “ What the dickens 
 are you up to ?” he asked, staring blankly. 
 
 “ Turning myself into Podunk again as fast as possible. 
 How’s Harry Hatch.” 
 
 “ He’s all broke up. I’ve got him locked in, down at the 
 Doctor’s cottage. Hope the Doc’ll excuse the liberty— had 
 to do it. Hatch was badly scared, and almost ready to go in- 
 to jim-jams. Mack’s been harrying him, and got him com- 
 pletely rattled.” 
 
 “ You don’t think he’ll fail us ?” asked Stanhope quickly, 
 working as he talked, and swiftly transforming hithself into 
 Podunk. 
 
 “ No ; he won’t do that. All that he asks is that we stand 
 between him and Mack. By the by — ” He checked himself 
 and looked at Stanhope, who was rapidly completing his toilet. 
 “ Fire away, Charlie. What is it ?” 
 
 “ The old man came back last night.” 
 cc Oh, did he ?” Stanhope readily understood u the old man” 
 to mean the proprietor of the St. Charles Hotel. 
 
 “ Yes; and in less than half an hour Mack was here, and 
 they were closeted together.” 
 
 <c Ah ! Got any idea of the subject discussed ?” 
 
 “ Not in words ; but early this morning Mack was here 
 
PODUNK REAREEAR B. 
 
 331 
 
 again, and the two adjourned to Selwyn's room. They went 
 through the baggage, and found something that they've been 
 very mysterious about all day. I don't like their goings on. 
 Mack and the old man swear by each other, and they mean 
 mischief of some sort. I believe that scoundrel Mack put 
 something in Selwyn's trunk that day." 
 
 “ Shouldn't wonder," said Stanhope dryly. “ Now, then, 
 Charlie, I must be off. I'll be back within the hour, and we'll 
 go and see Hatch. Try to find out what's in the wind, won’t 
 you? If I shouldn't be back as soon as I expect, perhaps — 
 yes, I'm sure, I'd better send a message to Dutton." 
 
 “ To Dalton, you mean—" 
 
 “No; to Cool Hank. Say nothing to Dalton; he's the 
 confoundedest, contraries! fellow ! Watch for an opportunity 
 to say this to Cool Hank Dutton : I want him to keep an eye 
 on Dalton. If Dalton does not go out, neither must Hank. 
 If Dalton does go out, Hank had better follow, or go with 
 him. Cool Hank will understand, I think. Do you?" 
 
 “ Well, vaguely. I'll tell him, old man ; and I'll try and 
 keep my weather eye open." 
 
 “Good. Now, then, how do I look?" 
 
 “Natural as life! Same old Podunk ! The boys'll be 
 glad to see you. Say, what if Dutton asks for you, eh ?" 
 
 “ Tell him the truth— no ; he don't know me as Podunk. 
 Tell him you don't know anything about me; it won't be far 
 from the facts." 
 
 “ That's so," assented Charlie ruefully. 
 
 “ Now, skip ahead, Charlie, and see if the coast is clear." 
 
 A moment later Stanhope, or Podunk, was hurrying 
 away from the St. Charles, avoiding the most public highway, 
 and gradually dropping into the old swagger. 
 
522 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEHY. 
 
 1 
 
 CHAPTEK LIX. 
 
 MAG AND COOL HANK. 
 
 Let us go back to the time when Stanhope’s companions ar- 
 rived in Caledonia. 
 
 When Cool Hank came to the St. Charles, Charlie Carson* 
 was standing upon the threshold. Cool Hank dismounted 
 and nodded to him. 
 
 “ Good evening, Charlie/’ he said carelessly. “ Anybody 
 up stairs in the parlor?” 
 
 Charlie shook his head, and came down the stairs. 
 
 “ Just have my horse looked to, Charlie. I’m going up to 
 the parlor. Will you ask Miss Drood to come down as soon 
 as convenient ?” 
 
 Charlie nodded, and Cool Hank passed in and up the stairs. 
 
 When Margaret Drood opened the parlor door, ten minutes 
 later, she found him pacing restlessly up and down the room. 
 She started and flushed as her eyes met his. Then with her 
 characteristic promptness of action, she turned, looked out 
 into the hall, and closed the door. 
 
 “Hank!” she exclaimed, coming toward him. “Charlie 
 did not tell me that it was youP And with a long breath: 
 “Oh, how you frightened me this morning!” 
 
 “ Then you went to the ranch ?” 
 
 “ Surely ; you knew that I would.” 
 
 He came very near her, and looked down into her face, 
 but he did not touch her, or put out his hand. 
 
 “ Margaret,” he said simply, “ I have come to clear up* 
 
 
S24 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 so far as you are concerned, some of this mystery. Can you 
 hear me now ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” she said, and stood looking at him fixedly. 
 
 He brought forward a chair, and placed another near it for 
 himself. 
 
 “Let us sit here,” he said. “ You look tired, Mag.” 
 
 “I am tired,” taking the seat he had placed for her. “So 
 many things have happened since yesterday, and we have 
 just heard such news, good but startling — Miss Wray’s father 
 has been found.” 
 
 “Yes ; I knew it.” 
 
 “ You, Hank !” 
 
 “I left him this morning, to come here.” 
 
 “ Left him !” 
 
 “Yes. Very early this morning I took Nick, and rode to 
 the place where he was kept a prisoner.” 
 
 “To the robber’s hiding-place — you!” She checked her- 
 self suddenly and a deathly pallor overspread her face. “ Oh,” | 
 she sighed, shutting her lips hard and beginning to tremble, 
 
 “ what is it ?” 
 
 “It is not a justification that I am attempting,” he says, 
 looking at her earnestly, “and I want you to promise me not 
 to regard it as such, and not, for the present at least, to dis- 
 close what I am about to tell you. But no ; I can surely rely 
 upon your discretion. When you have heard me, you will 
 understand my reasons. I have been a worse man than you 
 thought, Mag; but not worse, I hope, than you think me neiv” 
 Mountain Mag had recovered her self-command by an effort, 
 but she was still pale and her lips were tightly compressed. 
 
 “ Go on,” she said quietly. “ Whatever it is, let me hear 
 it — -get it over.” _ 1 
 
MAG AND COOL HANK. 
 
 525 
 
 "I will,” he said. “And if it pains you, you can guess, 
 while you listen, what it costs me to tell it. I have told you 
 that I was the youngest son of a thrifty New England farmer, 
 who educated me as he thought good, and sent me out into the 
 world to seek my fortune, as he had sent three brothers before 
 me. All that is true. My brothers were content with their 
 own state, with simple homes and simple lives; "they married 
 and settled down soberly to the business of life. But I wanted 
 to see the great West, and I took the small sum of money that 
 my father had given me to begin my life with, and set out. 
 I had visited various mining lands before coming here. I 
 had learned many hard lessons, and grown worse with the 
 learning. I made money and lost it; and I learned to drink, 
 and to gamble. I had been having a steady run of hard luck 
 in Colorado, about two years and a half ago, when I started in 
 search of a new field. I was reckless and discouraged, ready 
 to yield to any temptation that promised better fortune, and 
 in this frame of mind I made the acquaintance of Duke 
 Selwyn. 
 
 “ You have seen him and know the manner of man he was. 
 Success was written upon him, but he might have possessed 
 all of his strong points, and if he had been lacking in that ease 
 and grace of manner for which he was so noted, he could not 
 have fascinated me as he did. I am thought to be a man of 
 strong will, yet when I first knew Selwyn I was but wax in 
 his hands. I was the embodiment of failure; he, of success. 
 I suppose he saw that he could make me useful, and, from the 
 moment we became friends, fortune seemed to smile upon me. 
 He let me understand clearly that I owed it all to him, and 
 so we drifted on together. Everything that he touched pros- 
 pered, and he spent money as freely as he made it. I began 
 
526 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 to view all things through his eyes, and to be as conscienceless 
 as lie. I am not going to trouble you with details, nor to 
 show you the steps by which I was led on and on. His motto 
 soon became mine : ( Get money; it will buy all else. 
 
 “ W hen these mines were opened, here and about Rockville, 
 Selwyn saw what he called the end of our gold hunt. We 
 came here, and between Caledonia and Rockville we passed 
 six months, studying the miners that were coming and going, 
 choosing our men and making our plans. . Between the two 
 towns there was but one possible stage route, and we made 
 ourselves perfectly familiar with the country all about it be- 
 fore we began to operate. 
 
 “ Once, soon after you saw Selwyn for the first time, you 
 remarked upon our general resemblance — that we were the 
 same in height, weight, color of hair and eyes, and that our 
 features were not unlike. I believe, now, that he had noted 
 that, and built his plans upon it when we were yet almost 
 strangers. When we were laying the foundation for our 
 scheme, we dressed plainly, and precisely alike. We were 
 very quiet and unobtrusive, and did not show ourselves often 
 in saloons or gambling places. But when we did go among 
 people, we changed identities: 1 was Selwyn, and he Dutton. 
 We let our beards grow, and wore them alike, and we avoided 
 being seen together. You will discover presently how this 
 change served us. 
 
 “ When we had selected the men we wanted, we began to 
 store our place of retreat. We had found a natural cave con- 
 veniently near to Caledonia, and under pretense of carrying 
 supplies to Rockville, Selwyn took loads of provisions, liquors, 
 blankets, ammunition, etc., to our cave, and secreted them 
 there. When all was ready, we guided our men to the place, 
 
MAG AND COOL HANK. 
 
 527 
 
 bound them to us with a solemn oath, and installed them in 
 their new home. We had never brought any two of these 
 men together until they met there, and then their oath held 
 them. When we were with them, we were always masked, and 
 so we were able to keep up 'our incognito. After a time we 
 found it necessary to have one or more go-betweens in each of 
 the two towns. To these we made ourselves known in our 
 true characters, but we always kept them on duty in die towns, 
 and never let them mingle with our ‘woodmen’, as we called 
 them, except when one or the other of us was present. 
 
 “All Selwyn’s plans showed that lie knew how to control 
 lawless men. They were clothed comfortably, fed on the best, 
 kept supplied with good liquor, and they led a free and easy 
 life. It was far better than working in the mines, to them. 
 And we were careful in planning our raids. No violence 
 was permitted; and when large sums were taken from indi- 
 viduals, small amounts were returned. The men were com- 
 manded to respect the old, and do no harm to women and 
 children. 
 
 “When the Regulators were organized, we were troubled, 
 until Selwyn hit upon the scheme we afterward adopted, which 
 was that I, with one or two go-betweens, should join the 
 Regulators. You know who these two were; Tied ley and 
 
 Finlayson. 
 
 “ It was at this point in our career that I began to rebel 
 against myself. I had met you and was attracted to you. In 
 all my reckless life I had stood aloof from womankind, and 
 I began to wonder at the change that came over me. I was 
 not worthy of you, and I began to grope about for a way out 
 of the life that I was living. I knew I had no right to ap- 
 proach you, to win your confidence, under the pretense of be- 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ing an honest man, but I had not strength to stay away. The 
 moments that I passed with you grew to be the only moments 
 worth living. I began to hate the part I was playing among 
 the Regulators, the life I was leading among the outlaws. I 
 hated Selwyn, and, more than all, I hated myself. 
 
 “One day, in a very bad mood, I broke out upon Selwyn 
 with wild denunciations against his diabolical ingenuity in 
 making everything so absolutely safe for myself and him. It 
 left out the element of danger, or, rather, transferred it to those 
 under us. You can see at once how that was. When we had 
 an enterprise on foot and I acted as leader, I was Selwyn to 
 the men I led, and at the same moment, Selwyn himself was 
 visible, conspicuously so, in Rockville or Caledonia. When 
 Selwyn was among the men in the character of Hank Dutton, 
 1 was among the Regulators, and beyond suspicion. This 
 outbreak of which I speak was my first difference with Selwyn, 
 and I suppose it was the cause of his sudden withdrawal of 
 confidence. He laughed at my scruples, and took my com- 
 plaints very good-naturedly. But I could see that he was not 
 so ready to discuss his plans, and was more reserved toward 
 me. I knew that he watched me, too, but I did not care for 
 that. I avoided him, and the Regulators seldom found me 
 when I was wanted. I would not go near the cave, and the 
 result was that Selwyn went oftener than usual — under my 
 name, of course. 
 
 “ But I am wearying you with my long, miserable story. 
 Do you remember, when I went up the mountains, Margaret, 
 more than three months ago? — but of course you do. Well, 
 while I was there, trying to devise a way to shake myself 
 aloof from old associations, the very thing was happening that 
 X might have prevented, if I had not been trifling with my- 
 
MAG AND COOL HANK, 
 
 629 
 
 self and my position. If I had been in Caledonia when 
 Stephen Wray came, he should not have been decoyed and 
 imprisoned. It could not have been done without my knowl- 
 edge, and I would not have permitted it. When I did come 
 back, the thing was accomplished. Selwyn, thinking, I sup- 
 pose, that the prospect of the enormous ransom to be extorted 
 from Mr. Wray would awaken my enthusiasm, told me his 
 whole plan. He had actually bought the mines, as he had 
 represented to Mr. Wray, and his scheme was to doubly en- 
 rich himself — to own the mines for which Wray’s money had 
 already paid a part, and to draw from his purse, besides, money 
 enough to complete the purchase, and enable him to begin 
 operations on a large scale. It was an enormous fortune for 
 which he was striving. 
 
 “ I was half stunned by what he told me — by the boldness 
 and villainy of the scheme, and by its perfect success. He 
 seemed to take my silence for acquiesence. For a wonder I 
 controlled myself, and heard it all. That night w T e v r ent to- 
 gether to Mack’s. I was trying to keep my temper and get 
 all the information I could, and Selwyn was so well satisfied 
 with my behavior that he became confidential upon another 
 subject. He let me into the secret of his past life, and showed 
 himself more than ever a hai-dened villain. The secret con- 
 cerned a woman — a woman he had wronged and forsaken— 
 and it set my blood boiling. I will not say more on that sub- 
 ject; it is not my story. 
 
 “ From this subject Selwyn went back to Stephen Wray, 
 and then I learned that Wray had left a daughter alone in 
 New York; beautiful, and an only child. ‘If we can’t han- 
 dle him otherwise,’ Selwyn said, ‘ I’ll reach him through her/ 
 And then he added : * Confound her ! she’s the only woman 
 
630 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 that ever turned a cold shoulder to me/ I had heard too 
 much already. I jumped up, poured out a shower of curses 
 upon him and his schemes, and rushed away. 
 
 “ When I became calm enough to reason, I had but one 
 thought — to set that old man at liberty. I felt careless as to 
 what should happen next. I knew that I must resort to 
 strategy in , order to succeed. I had shown my hand, and 
 Selwyn and the others would be upon their guard. But 1 
 knew, too, that Selwyn was in a difficult position. Blowey, 
 who, under us, was in command at the cave, was not the man 
 to deal with Stephen Wray ; and, evidently, Selwyn could not 
 face him — first, because he would thus betray himself to 
 Stephen Wray, and, second, because Wray would be sure to 
 betray him to the men, who knew him only as Dutton. It 
 was upon this complication that I counted for. my success. 
 
 “I stayed away from Selwyn, and all of my usual haunts, 
 for a week. Then I reappeared and manifested a willingness 
 to talk with him. I told him that I had thought better of 
 the matter, and would aid him, provided the old man was 
 not bled too severely, and was soon released. I undertook to 
 go and' talk with Wray, and was about to set out when I 
 found that Selwyn had arranged to send Hedley and Finlav- 
 son as spies, to see that I acted fairly. That set me in a rage 
 again, and I declared the whole business off This happened 
 on the day before Selwyn was killed, and it was this quarrel 
 that Father Miles witnessed.” 
 
 He paused and looked at Mag silently for a time. She was 
 leaning forward, her lips apart, listening breathlessly. 
 
 “ Father Miles quoted some words of mine,” Cool Hank re- 
 sumed, “ which they construed into a threat, a declaration 
 that something must be or should be done that very nigfu* 
 
MAG AND COOL HANK. 
 
 531 
 
 He did not misquote. I told Selwyn that lie must commun- 
 icate with Blowey, and order* Stephen Wray set at liberty 
 thgi ^ery night. Selwyn pretended to consider the matter, 
 
 > to make a partial promise. I would have no putting off, 
 no prevarication. We parted as Father Miles testified — >{3el- 
 wyn trying to reason; I in a fury. We met again in town, 
 as another witness related, -and parted in the same way— he^ 
 cool, and trying to temporize ; I, raging.” 
 
 He stopped abruptly, and drew back as if his story had 
 come to an end, his eyes upon her face. 
 
 “ And after that,” she said huskily, rising and coming close 
 to him; “ after that — what did you do ? Tell it, every word, 
 no matter what it costs you to speak, or me to hear. After 
 that — Hank — what ? Don’t refuse me again! Trust me!” 
 She put out her hand, almost touching him in her eager- 
 ness ; and with a strange smile crossing his face he bent for- 
 ward and pressed his lips upon it. 
 
 “ Haven’t I made it bad enough, Mag?” he said. “Do 
 you want to hear worse of me ?” 
 
 “ I want to hear the truth” she said firmly. “Tell it. 
 Don’t answer me as you did yesterday. Tell me the truth.” 
 He pushed back his chair and stood erect before her. 
 
 “I will,” he said. “ I mounted my horse and rode to your 
 ranch with Monckton. I had some wild idea of telling you 
 everything then ; as you know, I was too angry to hold my 
 tongue where Selwyn v r as concerned. When I left you it was 
 with the thought, the fear, that I might never see you again. I 
 had determined to try and set Mr. Wray free that night, and 
 [ knew it would be a difficult piece of work. The men had 
 been warned, through Finlayson, w 7 ho v r as a plotter born* 
 He had told them that if Wray was removed from the cave 
 
532 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 before the ransom was paid, they would never get their share 
 of the money. You see that Selwyn had wound himself in 
 such a coil that he had to appear to fight, and inform, a^&iiwt 
 himself. Things had been very quiet at the cave for 
 time; no spoils had come in, and the men were beginning to 
 be restless. 
 
 u I had learned that the stage from Rockville was due in 
 ‘Caledonia the next morning. It carried no treasure that I 
 was-aware of, but I did not care for that. When I left your 
 house I went, Jby a route I knew well, straight to the cave. I 
 did not approach Mi:. Wrav, nor see him. I told the men 
 that I had heard that the incoming coach would bring treasure 
 belonging to the Overland Company, and that I intended to 
 lead them, in person, in an attack upon it at peath Pass. 
 
 “ My plan was this : After a raid the men invariably had 
 jollification ; successful or not, it was just the same. Selwyn 
 kept them supplied with good liquor, and they were not the 
 men to neglect an opportunity for a carousal; but they were 
 watchful through it all, and I knew I must run some risk. I 
 meant to go back to the cave with them, after our attack up- 
 on the coach ; to drink with them, and to seem to be more in- 
 toxicated than the rest. I hoped that most of them would be 
 asleep, or too drunk to interfere, and I intended, at any cost, 
 to set Mr. Wray free; to fight my way out with him, if need 
 be. 
 
 “ That was my plan, and this is how it succeeded : When # 
 
 the coach came abreast of us, and I ordered it to halt, the 
 driver laid on the whip and ran the horses straight between 
 our lines. The men fired upon the coach then, without wait- 
 ing an order from me, and some one on top of the coach re- 
 turned the fire. This shot struck me in the shoulder. Th« 
 
MAG ANH 0001# HANK. 
 
 533 
 
 blood spurted from the wound, I felt myself growing faint, 
 and remember nothing more of the night’s happenings, except 
 a shadowy notion of feeling myself falling, and of uttering or 
 trying to utter your name as I fell. 
 
 "When I became conscious again I was in a small room 
 with a sloping roof. It was well furnished and entirely 
 strange to me. I was too weak to speak, and didn’t even 
 wonder or speculate as to my situation. Hedley and another 
 of our men were with me, and after a time they covered my 
 face and began to make other strange preparations. Hedley ex- 
 plained that a surgeon was coming, and that he must not rec- 
 ognize me. Presently they brought in Doctor Mitchell, 
 bound and blindfolded. The men who escorted him, and 
 those in the room, were all masked. He dressed my wound, 
 and was taken away. After a time Mack came to me, and 
 then I learned that I was in Caledonia, in a room connected 
 with his Theatre. It was secret and completely isolated. As 
 I grew better, I found that I was a prisoner. Then the old 
 fight was renewed. I have not spoken of Mack in connec- 
 tion with our outlaw band, but he was one of us; a silent 
 partner, as it were. He began where Selwyn left off, trying 
 to pursuade me to go and extort money from Stephen Wray. 
 You have been told of our last interview, and I think that 
 there is no more to tell, except that I did not know for days that 
 Duke Selwyn was dead, and did not learn how he died, nor 
 what followed his death, until the night before last. When 
 I heard it all, and, last, that Selwyn had actually decoyed 
 Wray’s daughter here, I flew at Mack and drove him out. I 
 think, if that daring young fellow had not furnished me with 
 a means of escape from that place, that I would have com- 
 jnitted suicide before morning. I was beside myself/ 1 
 
534 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 He paused and both were silent for a moment. Then he } 
 resumed : 
 
 “ It was the night after I was shot that they brought me j 
 to Mack’s. I lay in the woods the first night, the night of 
 the murder. The next day I was unconscious, or delirious, I 
 don’t know which. You see, they thought I was Selwyn, and 
 I suppose that they had caught at your name, as I tried to > 
 speak it, and thought that it must be Mack that I was trying - 
 to say. They left me there without explaining to Mack, and 
 he may have thought, when he hid me in his secret cell, that 
 he was concealing Selwyn’s murderer.” 
 
 Again he ceased speaking and again his eyes searched her 
 face. She stood for a moment mute and moveless, staring at 
 him, her lips apart. Then suddenly her hands went up to 
 her face, and she sank down in the chair she had lately quit- 
 ted, sobbing wildly: “ Thank God ! Oh, thank God!” 
 
 “Mag!” he cried in amazement; and then, seeing that she 
 did not heed his voice, he sat down opposite her, and waited 
 for her tumult of emotion to subside. 
 
 By and by she let her hands fall from her tear-wet face, 
 and looked up at him. 
 
 “ Then it was not — it could not have been— you /” she 
 cried. 
 
 “ What-do you mean ?” 
 
 “ Who killed Selwyn. Oh, why did you not tell me before . 
 Why not tell me yesterday?” ^ . 
 
 “ Because yesterday my course was not mapped out for me. 
 To-day it is. If you had opened those letters, you would 
 have known the truth. And, Mag, now that 1 have told you, 
 now that you know the truth, will you promise me to be silent 
 upon this subject until I permit you to speak ? I have a reason 
 
‘Thank God! Oh, thank God! 
 
 mm 
 
536 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 for thu; a strong reason. If I declared myself innocent 
 now, it might injure another greatly. Let others think and ^ 
 call me guilty. I owe something in the way of atonement; 
 a chanue is offered me to do a little good, perhaps, after all I 
 the wrong I have done. You will help me in that, Mag?” 
 
 She looked him in the face long and earnestly, but her look 
 Was less strained, and her eye filled with a softer light. “ Y<es,” J 
 she said at last, “ I will do as you say; as you wish.” Then, \ 
 after a moment’s hesitation, “ But — but you don’t mean to 1 
 sacrifice yourself for Mr. Dalton, if lie is guilty, after all—” 
 
 “ He is not guilty, Mag,” he said as he again rose. 
 
 A moment she stared at him in amazement. Then she, too, 
 arose, looking and speaking once more like the old time, self- 1 
 possessed Mountain Mag. 
 
 “ Hank Dutton, you know who did it ?” 
 
 “No, Mag; I don’t know. And if I did, I would never 
 denounce the guilty one.” 
 
 “ Not to save yourself, even ?” 
 
 “ No ; not even to save myself. Don’t ask me any more, 
 Mag. Will you let me take your hand once again, and try * 
 not to hate me ?” 
 
 “ What are you going to do ?” she asked, without extending 
 her hand. 
 
 “ I am subject to the orders of that young man who calls 
 himself Charlie Carson’s brother. I am going to do anything 
 that I can to right some of the wrongs I have done. There’s 
 a great deal to do, Mag. Good-bye, then, if you can’t — ” 
 
 She interrupted him by putting out her hand. 
 
 “ Good-bye, Hank,” she said. “ When you have done all 
 that you can in the right direction, come to me.” 
 
 He took her hand in both his own. held it in silence for a 
 
MAGr AND COOL HAHK, 
 
 537 
 
 long moment, and then turned to go. “ Good-bye, Mag ; God 
 biess you !” he said, when he had reached the door. 
 
 ••'Stop/’ she called to him; “ those letters — shall I giv$ 
 them to you ?” 
 
 “ Keep them/’ lie answered, without turning his head, “ just 
 as you would if you hadn’t seen me to-day.” 
 
 Charlie Carson was loitering in the hall outside, and he has* 
 tened to deliver Stanhope’s message, which Cool Hank received 
 in silence. 
 
 “Will you put me in a room, Charlie, and send something 
 to eat there ?” he said. “ I don’t care to make myself con- 
 spicuous.” 
 
 Charlie nodded understanding^ . 
 
 “ And will you tell me if Dalton makes a move to go out 
 before I come down ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said Charlie. “ Dalton’s with the ladies up-stairs 
 yet, and he ordered luncheon to be readv when lie came down. 
 I guess you won’t miss him.” 
 
 When Cool Hank entered the office, a little later, Dalton 
 was already there, standing before the counter and looking 
 listlessly at one of Mack’s show-bills, which set forth the pro- 
 gramme for the evening, and blazoned the name of Aileen 
 Lome in staring capitals. 
 
 Cool Hank approached him and looked at the programme 
 in his turn. 
 
 The house was unusually quiet, and so was the street with- 
 out; the office was almost deserted. 
 
 “I think I’ll stroll down to Mack’s,” said Dalton, turning 
 about with an air of indifference none too well assumed, and 
 with the printed name of Aileen Lome still dancing before his 
 eyes. 
 
538 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 “ Good !” said Cool Hank promptly. “ Will you allow me 
 to accompany you ?” And then the old dare-devil look, that 
 all knew who knew Hank Dutton, flashed for a moment from 
 his eyes. “ You and I ought to make a sensation there to- 
 gether — why shouldn’t we amuse ourselves ?” 
 
 “Very well/’ replied Dalton, seeing the look and interpret- 
 ing in it something of a challenge; “ I’m willing. I suppose 
 you are well armed ? Shall we smoke ?” 
 
 “ As you please,” replied Cool Hank. And they lighted 
 two cigars, and went out together. 
 
 “ There’ll be the mischief to pay before this night is over !” 
 muttered Charlie as he looked after them. 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 “ You want to see Miss Lome !” exclaimed Mrs. McAffery, 
 in her doorway, to Podunk, one step lower down. “ What on 
 earth do you want o’ Miss Lome ?” 
 
 “ Wal, I’ll tell her when I see her,” replied Podunk, “ an’ 
 mebbe she’ll tell you. I’m in a hurry, I am ; an’ your hus- 
 band didn’t tell me that I’d got to ’splain my business to you” 
 “ Miss Lome don’t want to see anybody,” says Mrs. Mc- 
 Affery stoutly. 
 
 “ Yes, she does. It’s a matter o’ business, an’ can’t be 
 put off. If your husband knew how ye was keeping me out 
 here — ” 
 
FACE TO PACE. 
 
 53d 
 
 H Come id," jerked out Mrs. McAffery, disturbed by the 
 mention of her excellent lord ; and Podunk promptly followed 
 her into the little, stuffv parlor. 
 
 “ Now*" said Podunk, Turning upon her, “ you jest take 
 this to Miss Lome, aid come back aid tell me what she says. 
 It’s a note." 
 
 It was something like a note — a small, white envelope, 
 containing what, to Mrs. McAffery’s exploring fingers, felt 
 like a card. 
 
 Aileen Lome took the missive from the hand of her land- 
 lady without a word, tore open the envelope, and drew from 
 it a card. Stepping back from the door and nearer the dim 
 light, she read these words : 
 
 I wish to see you on a matter of vital importance to yourself and P. D. 
 
 R. Stanhope, Detective. 
 
 For a moment she stood, with closed eyes, motionless, be- 
 side the table, the card clutched in her hand. Then she 
 turned to Mrs. McAffery. 
 
 “ Is the bearer of this below?" 
 
 “ Yes." 
 
 “ Will you please light the parlor, if you haven’t already, 
 and tell him I will come down at once?" 
 
 “ I ’spose so," sniffed Mrs. McAffery, and went down 
 stairs to light a sputtering lamp and bring it into the room 
 where Podunk waited. 
 
 When she had gone, Aileen Lome turned to her mirror 
 and surveyed herself critically. She was very pale, and her 
 plain black gown made her look even paler, but her face was 
 quite composed. She smiled at her pallid image — a wintry, 
 
840 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEBY, 
 
 fleeting smile it was — and went slowly down the Stairs, tint ( 
 card still in her hand. 
 
 At sight of Podunk, standing in the centre of the room, 
 she paused in the open doorway, and a look of surprise crossed i 
 her face. But it passed instantly. She bowed to king with 1 
 grave courtesy, entered, and closed the door. 
 
 Podunk returned the bow with no sign of awkwardness, and 
 came toward her, the battered old hat in his hand. 
 
 I 
 
 “ Miss Lome,” — it was Stanhope, and not Podunk, who 
 spoke — “ I ask your pardon for coming upon such an errand 
 as mine, in what may seem to you the guise of a buffoon. But 
 I must appear a little later, in another place, in the character 
 for which I am dressed, and there was no other way.” 
 
 “ Say no more,” she said. “You are better known to | 
 me as Podunk than as Mr. Stanhope — you are Mr. Stan- 
 hope?” 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 “ And I have suspected your disguise before.” 
 
 “ Indeed ! when ?” 
 
 “ During the sitting of the Coroner’s jury. A very slight 
 thing drew my attention to you. I saw you exchange glances 
 with that young man who so kindly espoused the cause of Mr. J 
 Philip Dalton. That gentleman I at once recognized as a de- 
 tective whom I had seen in New York. I expected to meet 
 him when I entered this room.” , 
 
 “ I suppose I should not detain you,” he said, a little dis- 
 concerted by her excessive calm. “ You must be due at the 
 Theatre very soon ?” 
 
 “ I am not due at the Theatre at all, to-night. I have sent 
 my excuse to Mr. McAffery. I did not appear last night. 
 Will you sit, Mr. ” — she paused to glance at his card— 
 
FACE TO FACE. 
 
 541 
 
 u Mr. Stanhope, and tell me to what I owe this honor ?” And 
 she seated herself, as she finished the sentence. 
 
 “ Thank you,” he said, putting his hat on the table, but he 
 did not sit down. “ My business is most unpleasant, Miss 
 Lome. It concerns Duke Selwyn and his death.” 
 
 u Ah !” Just tli is one syllable, softly and slowly uttered, 
 her eyes never wavering, nor turning from his face. 
 
 tc I was at Mack’s when the news of his death came there,”' 
 he went on, after a moment of stillness in the room, “ and, 
 naturally, I became interested in the affair from the first. 
 Later, at the request of my friend whom you have just men- 
 tioned, I gave serious attention to the case.” He paused and 
 rested his eyes upon her face — not keenly ; kindly rather — and 
 the voice was lower and almost gentle in which he said : “ Miss 
 Lome, would you like to hear how I reasoned upon and fol- 
 lowed up this case?” 
 
 Silence for a moment. Then she said, her voice, too, fall- 
 ing to a lower key : 
 
 “ First, I would like to know if you have reached a con- 
 clusion: if you have decided upon — the criminal?” 
 
 “ I have.” 
 
 Another long moment of silence, her hands fluttering slightly 
 as they lay in her lap; then : “ May I ask who?” she almost 
 whispers. 
 
 “ It is not Philip Dalton,” he says, still in that gentle, re- 
 luctant tone, “ nor is it Cool Hank Dutton. It is a woman — 
 a woman whom I pity with all my soul; a woman who must 
 have been deeply wronged by Duke Selwyn before she raised 
 her hand against him.” 
 
 Slowly she arose, and came toward him, ghastly white, and 
 ■with eyes that burned like staiu Her lips parted as she stood 
 
542 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 before him, but no sound came forth. One white hand went : 
 quickly to her side, and Stanhope sprang toward her, and l 
 caught her as she fell. 
 
 For a moment he thought her dead, and she could never 1 
 look more like death. The wrist was pulseless, but the heart | 
 fluttered, and, reassured, he carried her to the dingy sofa and ^ 
 placed her gently there. 
 
 He made no outcry, called for no help. He pushed up the 
 closed windows, and drew the sofa toward one of them. He t 
 took from his pocket a small flask, lifted her head and applied i 
 it to her lips. Twice he did this, and when she moved slightly, 1 
 and he saw that she swallowed the liquor, he put aside the 
 flask and fanned her vigorously with his broad-rimmed hat. 
 
 Presently she opened her eyes, and he saw the light of con- | 
 sciousness coming back to them. 
 
 u Lie still,” he said quietly. “ Drink a little more of this.” | 
 He put the flask to her lips again, and she obeyed him. 
 
 By and by strength returned to body and mind. She sat 
 up, and seemed to be looking her fate in the face. 
 
 “ You are very good,” she said. “ I am sorry to have 
 troubled you so. It will not happen again. What do you 
 want me to do ?” 
 
 “ What do you most wish to do ?” 
 
 She considered a moment, and then asked hesitatingly. 
 
 “ Do — do they all know ?” 
 
 “ No one knows except myself.” 
 
 “ What ! not your friend ? not — not Mr. Dalton ?” 
 
 “ Not my friend; last of all, Philip Dalton. I wish, for 
 his sake and yours, that he might never know!” 
 
 She put out her hand as if to ward off a blow. 
 
 (( Don’t,” she said. And then, in a moment: “ You asked 
 
644 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 if I would hear how you made this discovery. Will you tell 
 me — now? Don’t try to spare me. Tell it plainly, without 
 thought of me, or as if I were some one else, and not — ” She 
 left the sentence unfinished. 
 
 He looked into her pallid face, her burning eyes, and seemed 
 irresolute. 
 
 “ It is not necessary that you should hear it,” he said ; “ per- 
 haps it is better not — ” 
 
 “ Yes,” she broke in; “ I want to hear it. I have thought 
 it all out an hundred times — seen myself discovered in a dozen 
 ways — since that night. You may consider it strange, but 
 now, after the shock is over, I feel better, more at ease, than 
 I have at any time since — then. Can you understand ? A 
 moment ago I stood alone, isolated from all my kind, carry- 
 ing a burdensome secret — a hideous thing that I could not lay 
 down, could share with nobody. Now , for a little while, I 
 am comparatively at ease. You have taken hold of this dread- 
 ful load. I no longer carry it alone; I have a confidant. It 
 is a blessed relief. I thank you from my heart for letting it 
 be so. I shall never blame you, or hate you, for hunting me 
 down. Of course, you must tell it to others now, and when 
 it has gone abroad, when the air is full of it, I shall cease to 
 feel this blessed respite. I shall then exchange horror for 
 shame. But now, just note, the horror is lessened, and the 
 shame has not yet overpowered me. Understand/' — and she 
 lifted a white hand in emphasis — “ it is not alone the shame 
 of having killed Duke Selwyn : that I must have done. It is 
 the dragging of all my past into the light, the past that linked 
 me to him, — that past which I loathe, and until he crossed 
 my path here, never allowed myself to glance back at. Tell 
 me how you have looked upon all this. I think it will 
 
FACE TO FACE. 
 
 548 
 
 help to make the reality more real' to me, and less hideous.” 
 
 She had spoken impetuously, but without emotion, and she 
 stopped as abruptly as she had begun. 
 
 “ When a person disappears, or meets with violence,” he 
 began, “ the natural thought is: Who saw him last alive? 
 That thought came to all, no doubt, in this case. But the an- 
 swer was so ready, and so natural, that it was at once dismissed, 
 Selwyn had walked home with a young lady, and some one 
 had waylaid him on his return. Now I, as a stranger, an 
 Unprejudiced person, shut my eyes, and reasoned like this : 
 Here is a man walking past certain pits, or cellars, to a point 
 not twenty rods beyond. He has a companion, and at this 
 given point they part. The man goes back past the pits, falls 
 there, and never rises again. First, find the person who could 
 have done this deed the easiest, with least effort, least risk of 
 detection, least danger in flight. You will see at once how 
 easy it was, how natural, to say the person from whom he 
 parted at this given point.” 
 
 “ Would it not be simpler to say ‘ at this door?’” she 
 asked quickly. 
 
 He bowed and went on. 
 
 “To demonstrate this, I experimented, walking past the 
 cellars up to this point, then back, as if at the heels of some 
 one, to the first cellar. Having satisfied myself how easily 
 the thing could be done, I waited for all that could be gath- 
 ered in the way of evidence against the two suspected men. I 
 did not want my friend to discover the clue I was following, 
 and I gave him no hint of it. Instead, I tried, indirectly, 
 to make him think that I more than half believed Dalton the 
 guilty party. As for Vernet, he was more intent upon prov- 
 ing his friend Dalton innocent than he was in finding who 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEItY. 
 
 was guilty. He looked upon Selwyn as a shark in human | 
 guise, just as I did, and counted his taking off but small J 
 calamity. As I have said, I had found, in the fact that you f 
 were the person who last saw Selwyn alive, together with the l 
 clearly demonstrated fact that you could have so easily fired | 
 that shot, the first link in my chain of evidence. You fur- 1 
 nished me with the next.” 
 
 “I ! how ?” 
 
 <( Simply by your manner. When you came before the 3 
 Coroner for the first time, your composure was splendid, but, i 
 to my eyes, it was too perfect. I felt assured that you had i 
 schooled yourself for the part.” 
 
 “Ah, I had !” 
 
 u And I thought : If she had not something to conceal, 
 she would not seek to keep back a little agitation, that would \ 
 seem, under the circumstances, perfectly natural.” 
 
 “ I see,” she said quickly. “ You are very acute.” 
 
 " After that, no word or movement of yours during that in- 
 quiry, escaped me, and I felt more and more assured that I 
 was on the right track. But when the inquest closed, and »j 
 Philip Dalton was not pronounced guilty by the Coroner’s 
 jury, I said to myself : I will not follow up this clue, unless | 
 it becomes necessary to save the innocent. That very night 
 something happened that caused me to go' on with the work. 
 Philip Dalton publicly announced his determination not to 
 leave Caledonia until his name was cleared.” 
 
 “ I know,” she murmured. 
 
 cc Yes, you saw him the next day, and I followed him here. 
 
 By that time I had learned that he was deeply devoted to you, and, 
 knowing that, I readily surmised that his quarrel with Selwyn, 
 which he refused to explain to the jury, was concerning you.” 
 
FACE TO FACE. 
 
 547 
 
 "I told the truth, however/’ she said, “when J testified that 
 Mr. Dalton did not speak of Selwyn.” 
 
 “But when you told the Coroner that Selwyn did not speak 
 of Dalton ?” 
 
 “ I lied.” 
 
 “ The thing that puzzled me most, and that almost forced 
 me to give up my theory, was the appearance of that pistol — 
 the one that was taken from Dalton’s room.” 
 
 “Ah !” she broke in quickly, “ was that his?” 
 
 “ Yes ; do you know the history of that pistol ?” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “That night,” said Stanhope, “after the close of the in- 
 quiry, Dalton told the story of the pistol at Doctor Mitchell’s 
 cottage, and I was an unseen listener. I will not tell it as 
 he did. He had been Duke Selwyn’s college-mate, and one 
 night, when they were together, lie saw the pistol and its fel- 
 low in Selwyn’s room. He spoke of their dainty workman- 
 ship and admired them exceedingly. Not long after, he 
 visited Selwyn’s room again. One of the pistols was still in 
 its case ; the other was gone. He spoke of this, and Selwyn 
 told him that he had given one of the pair to a friend. Some 
 time passed, and Dalton paid a third visit to Selwyn’s rooms. 
 The one pistol was still in his possession, but thrust aside and 
 neglected. Selwyn was in a dismal mood, and, in answer to 
 some remark of Dalton’s, he said that the pistols had brought 
 him bad luck — the one to whom he had presented the first had 
 parted from him in anger, and he was willing to be rid of the 
 second weapon. He ended by giving it to Dalton as a test, 
 to prove whether such a gift was a forerunner of broken 
 friendship. Dalton said that he had always kept the weapon 
 and never knew who possessed its mate. When I heard this 
 
548 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 story, I guessed at once that the owner of the second pistol 
 was yourself; and my circle of circumstantial evidence was 
 complete. Understand, Miss Lome, I have never talked 
 with Mr. Dalton about you ; never breathed a word of my 
 suspicions to any one. Mr Dalton, at this moment, does not 
 even suspect who I am. He knows me only as Charlie Car- 
 son’s brother !” 
 
 “ You !” she cried ; “ is it you who — ” 
 
 “ It is I, who, in the character of Dick Carson, have an- 
 noyed you at Mack’s by paying you too marked attention at 
 times. In the same character, I gained the confidence of Kit 
 Duncan, who told me that she had overheard a fragment of 
 conversation between yourself and Selwyn one night — enough 
 to convince her that you were old acquaintances, and that once 
 he had been your lover. If I had needed another link, this 
 would have sufficed.” 
 
 When he had ceased, she arose and stood erect before him. 
 He could not read the look upon her face. 
 
 “And upon this testimony,” she said, “ purely circumstan- 
 tial at best, some of it mere conjecture, you have accused me 
 of murder and won from me a confession ! Stop !” — as he 
 seemed about to speak — “ I do not reproach you. You are a 
 very clever detective, and you have done your duty. But tell 
 me, could you, upon this evidence, bring me before a public 
 tribunal ?” 
 
 “ If I had meant ever to do that,” he said, “ I should not 
 have approached you openly. I should never have stopped 
 until I had verified every item of this circumstantial evidence.” 
 “And do not you mean to do that? — to arrest me? to try me?” 
 “ [ ? Great Heavens ! By no means !” 
 
 “ What, then, is your meaning ?” 
 
A WOMAN S WOES. 
 
 549 
 
 “I am my own master in this affair/’ he said, “answera- 
 ble to nobody. What do I care whether Caledonia ever knows 
 who killed Duke Selwyn ? Miss Lome, 1 want you to write 
 a note to Philip Dalton, bidding him good-bye, and asking 
 him simply to believe what I shall tell him concerning you, 
 and your motive for leaving. Merely that ; and then I want 
 you to quit -Caledonia at once. When you are gone, I wili 
 try, and my friend will try, to persuade Dalton to go home. 
 If we cannot move him, I will tell him your story, and he 
 will be the last man to wish to clear himself of suspicion at 
 your expense. He is in danger here, and this we must do, 
 to get him away, out of the reach of his enemies/’ 
 
 “ Why do you thus spare me ?” she asked, her voice grow- 
 ing husky. 
 
 “Because I pity you, and I know that you are already pun- 
 ished. Because Dalton loves you, and will suffer enough 
 without that final catastrophe/’ 
 
 He arose as if to go, but she put out her hand. 
 
 “Stay,” she said ; “you must hear me now/’ 
 
 CHAPTER LXI. 
 
 a woman’s woes. 
 
 Stanhope withdrew the hand put out to take his hat from 
 the table, and resumed his seat. A puff of air coming in at 
 the window,’ caused the light to flare, and then sink dully 
 down. Aileen stepped quickly forward and turned up the 
 wick with a firm hand, moving the lamp away from the 
 draught. 
 
 IS 
 
550 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Then she again faced him, but she did not resume her 
 seat. 
 
 ' 
 
 “ Have you a sister ?” she asked simply. 
 
 “ N o” he answered, wondering what she could mean. 
 
 “Is there anywhere in the world a woman whom you love 
 better than anything, better than you love your life?” 
 
 He flushed and looked half angered, but answered, in a 
 moment, as calmly as before: “Yes.” ^ 
 
 “If it were possible, as of course it is not — if you were to 
 learn that at some time in the past of the woman you love, 
 she had been left, a mere child, alone in the world, utterly 
 alone and unprotected, ignorant of wickedness and so unable to 7 
 guard herself against it ; and that, being so left, she had fallen 
 into the ruthless hands of a man, who, while promising pro- 
 tection, betrayed his trust and then abandoned his victim — if 
 this had happened to the one whom you love, what would you 
 do?” 
 
 “ That supposition I cannot entertain,” he began coldly. 
 Then his face flushed and his voice fell. “But I understand 
 you — and you have my sympathy. Go on.” 
 
 “ I have spoken awkwardly,” she said, “ but we both know 
 that a man, one worthy of the name/ would kill the betrayer | 
 of a sister, the destroyer of his home. And the world would 
 uphold his deed. But a woman who has no father, no bro- 
 ther, no protector, must submit to her wrongs, or be branded. 
 
 A man , who avenges a sister’s wrongs, does a grand act ; a 
 woman , who avenges her own, does — murder !” 
 
 She shuddered as she uttered the last word, but it was 
 spoken firmly, and her eyes never left his face. 
 
 “Ah r ” she sighed, “the world is full of miserable women 
 who have in their hearts what is on my hands," 
 
A woman's woes. 
 
 551 
 
 • T God help you!" he said pityingly. “I have been your 
 accuser reluctantly ; I will not be your judge." 
 
 tc If the world were as merciful as you/' she said, seeming 
 touched by his sympathy^ “ and if you knew all — -But I can- 
 not go back to the past. I was a mere child when I fell into 
 Duke Selwyn's hands, and utterly friendless. On the day 
 when he gave me that pistol, I regarded it as a toy, and knew 
 no other use for it. But a year brought bitter lessons — neglect, 
 ill-usage, contempt, until the worst came, and I discovered 
 myself a thing of merchandise in his hands. That closed 
 one chapter. How I struggled on and lived after that — in 
 sickness, in want, and shame — I need not tell you. How I 
 learned to handle that little pistol and not to fear it — to look 
 upon it as a friend, rather — you can guess. I learned many 
 another hard lesson, and I grew strong to live my life as I 
 had mapped it out. I had resolved never to live a lie, never 
 to go among good women, at the risk of being cast out, and 
 never to place myself at the mercy of man again. I had no 
 wish to die, and never, for one small moment, contemplated 
 suicide. _ I had found my voice and learned to use it, and I 
 had determined to make it earn me my bread. I would be- 
 come a singer in theatres, and then I would always be a 
 stranger among strangers. And 1 .would live so simply, so 
 entirly to myself, that I need not feel humiliated by my work, 
 and, at least, should esteem myself the equal of those with 
 whom I was surrounded." 
 
 She stopped abruptly and walked to the window, where she 
 leaned out as if to catch a breath of the evening air. The 
 band was braying loudly in front of Mack's, and the brazen 
 notes seemed to jar upon her. She closed the sash and came 
 
 Owck to her place* 
 
A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 winter,” she resumed, “when I was drifting 
 the gloomy sort of comfort that was the only kind 1 knew, 
 roaming from place to place, singing in some theatre at night, 
 and shut in my room with my books and my thoughts all day, 
 >1 met Philip Dalton. I can’t dwell on that time. At first I 
 was indifferent; then as days passed, and he was still the same 
 gentle, tender, respectful lover, a change came over me. I 
 found myself growing to look for his coming, to regret his 
 going. I became afraid of myself, after all my stern resolves. 
 I broke short my engagement at the theatre where I sang, and 
 fled from the new danger. But he followed me, and was per- 
 sistent. I made him understand something of what my past 
 had been, but the man seemed mad. Nothing that I said- 
 could change him. Again I fled and again he followed, until 
 we both arrived, at last, in this place. I was miserable, and 
 so was he. My peace of mind was gone; my heart, that I 
 thought dead, had sprung into new life, and all gone out to 
 him. When I found that lie was here, I began to wonder if, 
 after all, I dared to be happy again. Over and over, he had 
 declared that my past was nothing to him; that it should be 
 dead to us both ; that all our life was in the future. 
 
 “ One day, when I had thought until my brain whirled, I 
 decided that I would dare all in one more effort after happi- 
 ness. But first, I would tell him everything. I would make 
 him hear me. Dark as the truth was, he should know it to 
 the last word. There must be no void behind us for imagina- 
 tion to fill. I would tell him my decision that night, at the 
 Theatre — he was sure to be there and I was sure to see him. 
 I would bid him come to me the next day, early, to hear my 
 story. I was happy that day, wildly happy for half a dozen 
 hours. Half a dozen hours of happiness in eight long years! 
 
A woman's woes. 
 
 553 
 
 What luxury ! I went to the Theatre almost blithely. I re- 
 mained, purposely, in my dressing-room until I was called 
 down to sing my song. After that I meant to go up stairs, and 
 then I knew I should see him. I think my happiness must 
 have shown in my face when I came out upon the stage, for 
 the house greeted me w ith unusual fervor. Then I began to 
 sing, and I lifted my eyes to the boxes above. Gracious 
 Heaven ! There, looking down- upon me, side by side, sat 
 Philip Dalton and Duke Selwyn ! Years had not changed 
 him; I knew the handsome, smooth-shaven, insolent face at 
 once. 
 
 “ How I finished my song — for I did finish it, they said 
 ' — I do not know ; it must have been as the dead move under 
 the influence of galvanism. I fell, when I was behind the 
 Aving again, and they sent for Doctor Mitchell, who applied 
 restoratives and said that it was my heart He was right. 
 ‘Some day you will fall down like tnis/ he warned me, ‘and 
 never get up again/ I laughed when he said it, and prepared 
 to go home. 
 
 “Well, that xiiglit ended my dream. Selwyn did not 
 know me at first; I had changed if he had not. He sought 
 my acquaintance, and, of course, he soon discovered my iden- 
 tity, and that! had learned to care for Philip Dalton. I tried 
 to avoid him, and that sealed my doom. He pretended to 
 have fallen in "love with me the second time. And when I 
 repulsed him, and let him see that I hated his presence, he 
 said, with one of the sneers I remembered so well: ‘ So you have 
 learned that my friend Dalton is a favorite of fortune, a man 
 of wealth. And he thinks you perfection. I cannot let you 
 deceive him. I must tell him who and what you are/ I had 
 determined to do that very thing, but his coming lip ' 1 ^hanged 
 
554 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEEY. 
 
 everything; had dragged the past into the present, and made 
 the two inseparable. I knew that all was at an end between 
 Philip Dalton and myself, and I meant to go away agaia, and 
 as secretly as possible. But to think of Philip Dalton lis- 
 tening to my story from the lips of the man who had blighted 
 my life — I could not bear it! For his sake I could not en- 
 dure the shame of it ; the blow it would be to his love, his 
 pride, his honor. I determined to talk once more with Sel- 
 wyn, to humble myself, to try to avert this worst catastrophe 
 of all. 
 
 " I managed to send him word that I would see him that 
 night. Before he had received my message he had met Philip 
 Dalton, and begun his work by saying slighting things of me, 
 which was promptly resented. The result was the inter- 
 change of hot words overheard by the people in the next 
 box. I learned this much from Selwyn, when we were sit- 
 ing at the table in Macias cafe . The man told it with the 
 look in his eye which I knew well. He was in one of his 
 still, hard, cruel moods ; something had gone wrong, and lie 
 was not disposed to show mercy, least of all to me. Oh, the 
 bitter, biting things he said, in that ‘cool, slow, soft voice of 
 his! — the pictures he drew of Dalton’s horror when he should 
 know the truth, and learn of my shame! I was already half wild 
 with grief and despair, and his taunts maddened me. All 
 the long years which he had made a burden to me, seemed to 
 roll themselves into that one moment when I stood upon the step 
 above him, and, as he uttered the last most stinging taunt, I 
 hated him with a hatred born of years of suffering at his 
 hands. As he turned away and-strode back toward the Thea- 
 tre, I lifted my face to the black sky and cursed him. * 
 
 C( And then my hand fell at my side, and touched some- 
 
a woman's woes. 
 
 555 
 
 thing that lay at the bottom of a pocket in the large, loose 
 cloak I wore. That pistol ! I had kept it through all my 
 wanderings; superstitiously at first, and, later, with a sense 
 of its practical use to a girl roaming about the world alone. 
 I had learned how to use it, and had slept with it under my 
 pillow, as Philip Dalton had kept its mate. When I traveled, 
 I carried the pistol in my hand-satchel, and when I went to 
 and fro, alone and late, as I so often did, it was always in my 
 pocket. To have it with me had grown to be a habit, at 
 which I sometimes smiled. I never had occasion to use it — 
 until that night. I think there was Fate in it. 
 
 “ Until my hand touched the pistol I had felt utterly help- 
 less, but then something like fire swept through my veins. 
 I grasped the weapon, and sprang down the steps. He was 
 already several paces away, and 1 ran after him. Perhaps he 
 heard the sound of my feet, and stepped aside to let me pass, 
 not thinking who it was ; perhaps he wished to avoid me : 
 I don't know. But as he came opposite the mounds, and I 
 was close behind him, he suddenly stepped in between the 
 first two. As he did this, a step brought me beside him. I 
 raised the pistol and fired. He turned, even as the bullet 
 struck him, tottered back, and fell over into the cellar. I 
 heard him fall, flung the smoking pistol from me, and fled 
 back to- my room." 
 
 Suddenly her strength seemed to desert her ; she sat weakly 
 down and her hands began to shake in her lap. 
 
 “ This is my story," she faltered. “Use it as you think best." 
 
 At that moment footsteps went hurrying past the window, 
 and came stumbling up the steps. They sat quite still and 
 heard the loud knock; heard Mrs. McAffery go puffing to the 
 door, and heard her querulous exclamation ; 
 
556 
 
 MOUNTAIN MYSTERY 
 
 “ What on earth’s sent you tumbling in here? Want 
 Aileen Lome ? Well— !” 
 
 “ I’ve got a note/’ broke in a high, piping voice, and Aileen 
 sprang up and flung open the door. 
 
 “Come in, Pop,” she said quickly. “What is it?” 
 
 “ Billy Piper sent me here with this, Miss. He said it was 
 a life an’ death matter, almost; and I’ve hurried — ” He 
 dropped the note into Aileen’s hand, and himself into a chair, 
 where he sat puffing and wiping his perspiring brow. 
 
 Aileen tore open the envolope, scanned its contents, and ut- 
 tered a sharp cry. 
 
 “Head it,” she said, regardless of Mrs. McAffery, staring 
 in the door- way. “Oh, can you do nothing to prevent 
 
 this !” 
 
 Stanhope caught the note from her hand, read it hastily and 
 sprang up. 
 
 “ It must be prevented !” he said sharply. Then he turned 
 to the messenger. “ Pop, can you make another run to serve 
 Miss Lome ?” 
 
 Old Pop stared at the man who looked like Podunk, yet 
 spoke like one in authority, and stammered — 
 
 “ I — I’ll try, Po — Po — well, whoever you are!” 
 
 “ Podunk will do for the present, Pop. Take this note and 
 run with it to the St. Charles ; give it to Charlie Carson and 
 tell him to bring Harry Hatch to Mack’s at once. Don’t for- 
 get, and don’t, give any one else the note. Hurry, Pop, and 
 do the thing straight; it fs alife and death matter. Now, 
 Miss Lome — ” 
 
 He turned from Pop, who was hurrying out, to the place 
 where Aileen had been standing. But she was gone, and only 
 Mrs. McAffery remained, staring at him, half in and half out 
 
558 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 of the room. He caught up his hat and pushed past her as 
 Pop had just d( ne. 
 
 “For Lord’s sake, what’s gone wrong?” the woman 
 crieJ. 
 
 “You’ll know soon enough, Mrs. McAffery,” he answered, 
 and ran out into the street. 
 
 CHAPTER LXII. 
 
 THE CURTAIN GOES UR. 
 
 Mack was in an ill humor that evening, although there 
 was no visible cause, seeing that the people had behaved un- 
 usually well at rehearsal ; that both the “nigger singers” were 
 unusually sober ; and that a rival establishment had closed 
 its doors that very evening. 
 
 Billy Piper, standing behind the scenes and fingering a lit- 
 tle note ruefully, wondered at the cause, and regretted the 
 fact, — regretted it the more because he held in his hand that 
 which was sufficient to set Mack into a rage, were his previ- 
 ous mood ever so balmy. What effect it would have now, 
 upon an already ignited explosive, Billy shuddered to imagine. 
 But the hour was passing ; it was almost time for the band to 
 begin to bray, and Billy knew that his bad news must be 
 broken to his superior, gently, and at once. So he set out on 
 his unpleasant mission, going first to the cave-like dressing- 
 room below the stage in search of Mack. 
 
 “ Ain’t fin the sweat box,” he muttered; and passed through 
 it, and out at the lower door, which stood ajar. Voices, speak- 
 
THE CURTAIN GOES UK 
 
 550 
 
 iug near by, and in low ; guarded tones, caused him to halt on 
 the threshold. 
 
 Mack and his favorite barkeeper were conferring together 
 In the dark lumber-room; and Billy, in the shadow of the 
 half-open door, felt it tolerably safe to listen — scruples against 
 eavesdropping he had none. 
 
 “ Did you find out how he got here?” were the first words 
 he heard. 
 
 “ No,” answered the bartender; “you know Cool Hank ain’t 
 the man to answer questions, and I didn’t try, nor go near him.” 
 
 Mack ground out a string of oaths, and Billy stood lost in 
 amaze. Cool Hank, who had been missing so mysteriously ! 
 Where was he ? Had he really come back ? And why, if 
 he had, should Mack be enraged at that ? Billy was on the 
 wrong side of the mystery. The next words were more 
 startling still ; fortunately, too, for some of our friends, they 
 were more intelligible. His ears drank them in, while his 
 hair seemed to literally lift itself. He stood motionless until 
 the voices had ceased, and the speakers gone back to the 
 saloon. Then he started nervously and looked down at the 
 note, still gripped in his hand. 
 
 “She must know it,” he muttered. “ She must hear of this 
 at once. It can’t do any good , but I promised and — ” He 
 started suddenly; a bright thought had come to him. “I’ll 
 try it,” he muttered. And having passed from doubt to action, 
 he was himself again. He went back to the stage, and down 
 into the auditorium, vacant as yet ; opened the door that led 
 to the saloon, and bawled loudly for Mack. 
 
 Mack set a glass down — he had just emptied it — and came 
 out from the bar. 
 
 “ What’s the matter ?” he snapped. 
 
560 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 Billy beckoned, and waved the note, but did not come out 
 from the doorway. 
 
 “Well, what is it?” growled Mack, coming toward him. 
 
 “ I want to know what Fm to do,” began Billv, in an ag- 
 grieved tone. -“Here’s a note from Miss Lome, saying she 
 can’t appear to-night — indisposed. I think I’d better go and 
 see her — ” 
 
 “ ]STo, you won’t. Let her stay away. Make somebody do 
 another turn. Confound you! what do you come to me for? 
 Can’t you manage your own stage ?” 
 
 Billy recoils in surprise. Mack not care whether Aileen 
 Lome appears or not ! Mack furgetting that the stage is his 
 stage, and Billy Piper his bondman! Mack indifferent to the 
 success or failure of the evening ! Then indeed is chaos at 
 hand. Billy takes advantage of the impending disruption 
 to say, with some show of spirit, answering the final ques- 
 tions : 
 
 “ I’ve seldom had an opportunity, but since you advise me 
 to, I’ll go at once, and try to persuade Miss Lome to come 
 out. There’s time enough if I hurry, and—” 
 
 “You’ll do no such thing!” — a brace of oaths. “I tell 
 you, let her stay away! This Theatre can run without he*'!” 
 — more oaths. 
 
 Mack is about to turn away. Billy can hardly believe his 
 ears. His courage rises. 
 
 “ Mack,” he says, “ the programme’s been deucedly cut, and 
 the farce can’t be got — ” 
 
 “ Hang the farce ! Stay where you are, and attend to yoiu 
 business ! I won’t have that impudent minx run after! Let 
 her stay away, with her airs ! I don't want her here , anyhow - 
 to-night /” Mack checks himself suddenly and bites his lip t 
 
THE CURTAIN GOES TO. 
 
 661 
 
 u Fll fine her to-morrow,” he adds, then turns away abruptly 
 and with lowering brow. 
 
 Billy Piper glances after him, knits his brow, as if frowns 
 wer#contagious, and goes back to the stage, and behind it to 
 where old Pop sits upon his box, gloomy and thirsty. 
 
 “ Pll take you at your word, my dear Mack,” mutters Billy 
 Piper. And then he goes to Pop and taps him on theshoulder* 
 “ Pop,” he says insinuatingly, “I want you to do something; 
 for me.” 
 
 Pop does not appear to be much interested. He stirs feebly, 
 and emits a noise midway between a sniif and a grunt. 
 
 “ And for Miss Lome,” adds the artful Billy. 
 
 Pop begins to revive. 
 
 “ Pop, Fll let you off that farce to-night, take your part 
 myself if necessary, and Fll treat you to a supper at Blue Sam’s 
 after the performance, if you’ll carry a note to Miss Lome as 
 quick as you can go. It’s to tell her something that she’s 
 very anxious to learn, and you know she’s generous. It’s life 
 or death, almost.” 
 
 Pop recovers the use of all his faculties. “Fll do it,” he 
 says. 
 
 “ Good ; wait here, and I’ll write the note.” 
 
 In two moments he has written these words, on a piece of 
 soiled paper: 
 
 Have just learned that Mack or someone, has found or trumped up 
 fresh evidence against Dalton, in the shape of a letter warning Selwyn 
 
 to beware, as D comes to Caledonia for the purpose of revenge, etc. 
 
 I don’t know the cast of the play, but Mack is trying to urge on a lot of 
 fellows to attack Dalton to-night, at the Theatre, if he comes here, as 
 tneyseem to think he will. Pipeh, 
 
 u There,” says Billy, giving Pop the note; “take it, and 
 
562 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTEEY. 
 
 hurry. Don’t let any one see it. There’s no time to lose.” 
 “ Where are you bound, eh !” calls Mack, as Pop passes 
 him in going, as he must, through the saloon. 
 
 “ To get some sticks and newspapers and bottles, for props 
 for Billy’s farce,” replies Old Pop promptly. And having lied 
 to Mack, he goes on with renewed relish for his undertaking. 
 
 Billy is very uneasy after Pop has left. lie fusses about 
 the scenes; goes out to the saloon ; does a dozen unnecessary 
 things; delays half a dozen necessary ones. But time will 
 pass. The band begins to toot without; one piece, two. 
 Everything is ready, and Billy Piper steps outside, unperceived 
 by Mack, and recklessly resolved that the curtain shall 
 not go up until Pop is back. lie walks a few steps down the 
 street, and stops and listens. Some- one is coming toward 
 him, puffing, and stumbling, and hurrying still. It sounds 
 like Pop, but comes from the wrong direction. The runner 
 turns toward the Theatre, and then Billy sees that it is, in- 
 deed, Pop. 
 
 “ Pop !” The old man stops, puffs, and draws Billy further 
 back into the shadows. “ What the mischief — ” begins Billy. 
 “Wait,” puffs Pop. “I gave her the note”, — puff — “all 
 4 ht,” — puff, puff. — “ Who you s’pose was there?” 
 
 “Oh, /don’t know,” says Billy, relieved. “ We must get 
 in, Pop.” 
 
 “ Wait. It was that man, Podunk — ” Pop’s breath has 
 come back — “and she gave him the note—” 
 
 “ The deuce she did !” 
 
 “ Yes. He read it and said that, ‘ It’ — I don’t know what 
 — must be prevented.’ And he didn’t talk like Podunk at 
 all. He ain't Podunk—” 
 
 “ Look here Pop***” 
 
TUE CURTAIN GOES UP. 
 
 563 
 
 " Hold on ; Vm all right. I mean Podunk is somebody 
 in disguise.” 
 
 Billy is now past expostulation 
 
 “ He told me to run to the»St. Charles and take a message 
 to Charlie Carson, and I went,” concludes Pop. “ Pve just 
 come from there. Now, if you can tell me what all this is 
 about — ” 
 
 “ I can’t,” breaks in Billy. “ But there’s going to be some 
 sort of a precious uproar. Go in now, and keep your eyes 
 open. It won’t do for us to be seen together, and it’s time the 
 curtain was up.” 
 
 Somebody is approaching hastily. Pop turns toward the 
 door of the Theatre, and Billy Piper has just time to spring 
 into the dark shade of the disused double door that opens — or 
 rather does not open, for it is always shut — upon the auditor- 
 ium, before the man stops directly before him. At the same 
 moment, as Pop is entering at the saloon door, Mack comes out. 
 
 “ Is it you, Tom ?” asks Mack, as he goes toward the man 
 who had just halted. 
 
 “ Yes,” answers a voice that Billy at once identifies as be- 
 longing to the favorite bartender. 
 
 “ Well?” says Mack impatiently. “ Did you see the Agent?” 
 
 “ Yes,” replied Tom, “ I saw him, and told him what you 
 said.” 
 
 “ What did he say ?” 
 
 “ What he said was well enough* but I tell you, Mack, 
 there’s something wrong! I didn’t like his looks, nor his 
 tone. I had to wait in the outer office, and when he came 
 out, that Podunk was with him. I had to deliver your mes- 
 sage before him.” 
 
 “ Y ou did \" 
 
564 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 There' were half a dozen fellows in the main of* 
 flee. I saw them when the Agent opened the door.” 
 
 “ Well, what did he say?” 
 
 “Why, when I told him, h® just turned around to Podunk, 
 and says he: ‘‘How’s that, eh?’ And Podunk says,, as 
 promptly as you please, ‘ Say you’ll be there, by all means/ 
 And then the Agent says: ‘Very well, Tom; I’ll be 
 
 there/ ” 
 
 “Podunk, eh ?” says Mack, in a musing tone. “I don’t 
 see where he came from — but I guess it’s all right. Come in, 
 Tom ; we must keep the Toys up to the mark.” 
 
 “ Podunk again !” mutters Billy Piper when the two have 
 gone. “Something’s going to happen, jkguess ! I shouldn’t 
 wonder if Jerry Mack hears something drop to-night. Well, 
 let the circus begin. I’ve done my part, and now — up goes 
 the curtain !” 
 
 A few minutes later the curtain does go up —upon the last 
 performance at Mack's ! 
 
 As Billy Piper, intent upon some professional duty, is hurry- 
 ing from the stage to the dressing-rooms above, he encounters, 
 at the door of the first dressing-room, Aileen Lome, who has? 
 just arrived and is about to enter. 
 
 “You!” he says, surprised. 
 
 “Yes,” she answers. “ I have thought better of my indis- 
 position. I shall be ready for my turn, Billy.” Then she 
 moves a step nearer and lays her hand upon his arm. “ Thank 
 you, Billy,” she says. “Whatever happens, you have done 
 all that you could to avert— -trouble, and to — serve me.” 
 
 She goes into the dressing-room, and Billy passes on won- 
 deringly. 
 
 Afterwards, he recalled her words and her look as she 
 
RESCUE — DEATH, 
 
 §65 
 
 thanked him. How beautiful she was ! How her face glowed 
 and her eyes gleamed ! How her breath came and went, dis- 
 tinctly audible and in quick short respirations, as she shut 
 herself into her room, to prepare for her part. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIII. 
 
 RESCUE — DEATH. 
 
 Shortly after the rising of the curtain, and while Mack 
 was lingering in the saloon, watching the arrivals with ill-con- 
 cealed anxiety, there entered two, whom, to judge from his 
 countenance, he did not expect to see — least of all, together. 
 They walked coolly across the saloon, paying little heed to 
 nods, and winks, and blank stares exchanged at their expense 
 by the loungers. 
 
 -• 
 
 The new-comers were Cool Hank and Philip Dalton, and 
 they went straight into the Theatres and seated themselves at a 
 little table near the door. 
 
 At sight of Dalton, who had entered first, a look of unmis- 
 takable delight had^ crossed Mack’s face. But when his eyes 
 fell upon Dalton s companion, the delight gave way to sur- 
 prise, annoyance and uncertainty. 
 
 Cool Hank’s eyes, encountering Mack’s own as he passed 
 the bar, said to the latter, as plainly as ever eyes spoke: 
 “ Keep your distance.” And Mack made no effort to follow 
 and question him. 
 
 After a time there was another arrival, and this one was 
 
566 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ; ' V, - ■'>. 
 
 greeted with a yell of surprise and pleasure, and was instantly 
 surrounded by a number of thirsty fellows, who declared the 
 drinks were on Podunk, and rated him severely for deserting 
 on the eve of the first robber hunt. 
 
 Podunk returned their greetings with perfect good-humor, 
 responded generously to the appeals for liquid comfort, re- $ 
 minded them that he never had been “No great shakes on 
 fighting,” and that he had freely owned to the same, and finally 
 made his way into tlie Theatre, accompanied by half a dozen 
 boisterous companions, who had declared him a good fellow, 
 and one by whom they meant to stick, “ even if he couldn’t 
 fight,” 
 
 Podunk was, to all appearances, exceedingly flattered by so 
 much attention, and he expressed his gratification in many 
 mirth-provoking phrases. He sat, with his party, very near 
 Cool Hank and Dalton ; and the former whispered to the 
 latter : 
 
 “Who is that fellow in the red shirt? He seems to have 
 a lot of friends in town. I never saw him before.” 
 
 “ Ndr I,” replied Dalton, “ until very recently. He made 
 himself quite conspicuous at the inquest, and disappeared soon 
 after — ” He was about to name the 1 ' occasion, but refrained 
 from politeness, remembering that he was in the company of a 
 robber on parole. 
 
 Straws show which way the wind blows; and little things 
 — looks, acts, words, — showed, to the watcher for omens, the \ 
 temper of Mack’s audience that night. 
 
 To see Cool Hank thus calmly sitting among them, was a 
 surprise to all; and many welcoming nods and greetings 
 were given him ; the eyes that met his were friendly with 
 scarce an exception. But the same eyes turned upon his com- 
 
 
#4 Instantly surrounded by a number ©f thirsty fellows, who declared 
 the drinks were on Podunk.” — 566. 
 
 
 567 
 
568 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 panion looks of coldness, suspicion, hatred. The crowd- would 
 have clustered about Cool Hank with friendliest greeting had 
 they not been held in check, first, by the look in his eyes, 
 which forbade approach or question ; and, second, by the pres- 
 ence of his companion, against whom, it was clear, their faces 
 were set. 
 
 Cool Hank was not slow to note this, and he watched Dal- 
 ton’s face to learn whether the latter observed it too. Bui 
 Dalton’s countenance was not a tell-tale one. He looked calm, 
 as usual, somewhat weary, and, during the first part of the 
 performance, decidedly bored. Occasionally each could hear 
 some remark more or less personal, but it was not the fashion 
 of Caledonia to be overparticular, and even at that early hour 
 the beerpots were circulating freely. 
 
 “ This is the hardest-looking crowd I’ve seen at Mack’s for 
 many a day,” glancing about him. “ Looks to me like a 
 drummed-up gang,” said Hank. 
 
 “It is !” said a voice at his elbow ; “ look out!” 
 
 Cool Hank turned his head to discover the speaker. The 
 man in the red shirt was stooping to take something from the 
 floor. 
 
 “Did you answer me?” asked Cool Hank, eyeing him keenly* 
 
 “Me?” said Podunk stupidly; “naw!” And he moved 
 away. 
 
 Philip Dalton, who had been consulting a bill of the play, 
 looked up with a dawning of interest in his face. 
 
 “These fellows are dreadfully noisy,” he said. “When 
 that poor boy has done his horrible clog, let’s go forward to 
 yonder vacant table.” 
 
 “Very good,” said Cool Hank indifferently. He did 
 know that, to the careless-looking man before him, to be at a 
 
RESCUE — DEATH, 
 
 table near the front meant, to be, for a moment, so near the 
 woman he loved, that he might, perhaps, catch one glance 
 from her eyes as she went or came. 
 
 Presently Cool Hank leaned across the table and made an- 
 other remark. 
 
 “ I supposed the men of the Overland Office would have 
 something to do besides amusing themselves to-night. I see 
 that the Agent and half a dozen of his people have just coma 
 in.” 
 
 “ Ah !” said Dalton, with polite indifference, and then he 
 arose. “ Come,” he said, as the music stopped, and the clog- 
 dancer danced himself behind a wing. He pushed back his 
 chair, and stepped out into the aisle. Cool Hank had not yet 
 risen. 
 
 Dalton took two or three forward steps, and then his ears . 
 were saluted by a sharp hiss. Two steps more ; hisses on all 
 sides. There could be no doubt but that they were meant for 
 him . Then Cool Hank Dutton came suddenly to his feet, 
 stepped out after Dalton and strode up to the front by his 
 side. There were no more hisses. 
 
 Still Dalton’s face remained calm. There was no sign that 
 he had heard the disagreeable sounds. But when they were 
 again seated at a little side table, just below the stage, he 
 lifted his eyes to Cool Hank’s face and said quietly, and 
 with a half smile : “ Clearly, they have chosen between 
 
 us.” 
 
 “ Yelping curs !” was Cool Hank’s response, as he looked 
 about him with a frowning; brow. 
 
 There was comparative quiet when Aileen came upon the 
 stage and began her song. She sang gloriously, with power 
 and pathos — it was a ballad with an undertone of woe in the 
 
370 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 refrain. Stanhope, who knew the emotions animating her, 
 wondered at her self-control, while aware that it was born of 
 strong excitement. The vivid light still gleamed in her eyes, 
 her face still glowed with that singularly radiant loveliness 
 which was a revelation to those who had seen her always beau- 
 tiful, but with the beauty of the statue. 
 
 As Aileen’s song neared its close, considerable movement be- 
 gan at the end of the auditorium nearest the street entrance 
 to the saloon, and furthest from the stage. Men were going- 
 out and coming in; voices in the outer room grew louder and. 
 increased in number ; heads began to be turned, and words ex- 
 changed. Many of the audience made their way to the rear, 
 to see what was going on without; a few pressed past them, 
 unnoticed, toward the front. 
 
 When Aileen left the stage, only one pair of eyes followed 
 her movements, — -those of Philip Dalton. And for one mo- 
 ment her eyes met his, with a life-time of love and sorrow, a 
 heart-break and a farewell, in one glance. 
 
 Until she had disappeared, Dalton had no thought for what 
 was going on about him. But now he turned. The music 
 had stopped with a discordant crash : everybody seemed to 
 be in motion ; the voices from the saloon grew louder and 
 rose to a clamor. He heard his own name coupled with some 
 vile epithet, then Cool Hank’s name, then the name of Duke 
 Selwyn. He turned to Cool Hank. The latter had risen, 
 with his back to the stage, where the curtain had not been 
 rung down, and with his uninjured* hand resting upon his 
 pistol. 
 
 There was a roar from the saloon, and a rush of men into 
 the auditorium. Then came yelling, cursing, brandishing of 
 Weapons, clubs, ropes. Dalton heard another o^th ground 
 
KESCUE— DEATH. 
 
 571 
 
 out between Cool Hank’s lips, and then suddenly the mean- 
 ing of it all flashed upon him. Instantly he was facing the 
 mob, erect, and with a pistol in either hand. 
 
 At that moment Mack rushed upon the stage from one of 
 the wings ; his coat was off, and his look one of ill-assumed 
 surprise and aWm. It was evident that he was now about 
 to make a pretense of addressing the mob, and equally evident 
 that the mob would not hear his pretense. 
 
 Mack shouted and ejaculated frantically.- The mob roared 
 and advanced, reaching out threatening hands. 
 
 “ Stand back!” cried Philip Dalton, and he sprang upon a 
 chair just vacated by the first-violin player. “ Stand back!” 
 he cried again. And Cool Hank echoed the cry and sprang 
 upon a second chair. 
 
 There was a confusion of yells, a rush of men through the 
 side door near the stage, a howl from Mack. Then something 
 white flashed out from one of the wings, and high and clear 
 above the clamor, a voice rang out : 
 
 “ Philip !” 
 
 At the sound, Dalton turned his back upon the advancing 
 mob ; a bound, and he was across the foot-lights, upon the 
 stage, with one arm around Aileen Lome. She stepped in- 
 stantly before him, and standing thus between her lover and 
 harm, in all the glimmering sheen of her white and silver 
 stage dress, leaned against his breast and turned her flashing 
 eyes upon his enemies, panting heavily. 
 
 A sudden silence fell upon the men who were pressing 
 forward, and their movement was for an instant arrested. 
 
 In that moment, two figures bounded over the foot-lights. 
 One of them stationed himself promptly beside Dalton. The 
 other landed, as he sprang, directly before Mack. This last- 
 
572 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 I 
 
 named person was Podunk, and the other was Cool Hank 
 Dutton. At sight of Podunk the crowd gave~a yell, and the 
 forward pressure was renewed. 
 
 But Podunk, while the surprise of his sudden appearance 
 upon flie stage was at its height, did a tiling that checked the 
 crowd again, and threw it back upon itself in consternation. 
 
 Next to a volley of musketry, the best thing to distract a 
 mob is a surprise, if it be complete and sufficiently start- 
 ling. 
 
 Podunk had landed as lightly upon the stage as did ever 
 Harlequin, and his movements were so swift that what takes 
 minutes to describe, was over almost instantly. 
 
 He saluted the arrested crowd with an absurd gesture, in 
 imitation of Harlequin’s greeting to a delighted audience; 
 spat upon his two hands and swung them over his head ; 
 wheeled upon Mack, seized him by the throat and waistband, 
 and, lifting him quickly off his feet, flung him to the rear of 
 the stage, where he went crashing through one of his own 
 <c scenes,” and lay in a bruised heap on the other side. 
 
 Then Podunk threw up both hands, and walked to the 
 foot-lights. Two pistols protruded from his belt, but he did 
 not touch .them. He smiled, as he turned his face to the 
 crowd and took off his battered hat by way of salute. 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” he said, “I know more about this business 
 than any one of you, and I want to make a speech. I want 
 to make a confession .” 
 
 It was the crisis. Podunk knew his audience, and it was 
 now, for the moment, at his command. The place was ab- 
 solutely still. 
 
 “ I have played a very shameful trick upon you, gentlemen 
 of Caledonia,” went on Stanhope, now quite at his ease, and 
 
“Lifting liim quickly off his feet, flung him to the rear of the stage. ” 
 
 —Page 572 
 
 573 
 
574 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 seeming regardless of the fact the Agent of the Overland 
 Stage Company and one or two others were clambering over 
 the foot-lights. “ I am not what I seem. I am sorry to say 
 that I have no claim to the name of Podunk, unless it is the 
 claim of having invented it.” 
 
 Here lie paused, deposited his hat upon the floor and be- 
 gan a series of quick movements that, when they were ended, 
 left a heap of hair, in the form of disguising wig and whisk- 
 ers, upon the floor beside the battered hat. And a young 
 man, with close-cropped, dark hair, smooth-shaven face, and 
 flashing brown eyes, which seemed to have quite changed their 
 shape, size, and expression, is standing before the astonished 
 mob ! 
 
 As this transformation was completed, the weight upon 
 Dalton’s arm grew heavier, and Aileen’s head drooped upon 
 his breast. 
 
 “ She has fainted !” whispered the Agent, who was beside 
 her. “ Carry her out.” 
 
 “Gentlemen,” said the late Podunk, “my time is precious, 
 and so is yours, as I will soon prove. My name is Richard 
 Stanhope. I am a detective, and I came to- Caledonia from 
 the East to help the Overland Company hunt out their stage 
 robbers and mountain outlaws. I arrived here on the very 
 day that Duke Selwyn was murdered, and, as some of you 
 know, I took a somewhat conspicuous part in the investigation. 
 I did it at the request of a friend, a detective like myself, 
 who had known Mr. Philip Dalton in the East, and who be- 
 lieved him innocent. I must say no more on this subject 
 now — you are anxious to know why I have treated Mr. Jerry 
 McAffery so badly in his own house. I will tell you. Firs^ 
 because he is a cheat, who has deceived you all. While pre- 
 
itEscufi— death:. 675 
 
 tending to be a friend to Caledonia, a public-spirited man, he 
 has been, in secret, a go-between for the stage robbers . Wait : 
 I am going to prove all that I say. He has men in his j)ay 
 who have carried the news to the outlaws whenever a treasure, 
 or a man with a full purse, has appeared in town. His es- 
 tablishment has been a place of rendezvous for the robbers. 
 He has, connected with this Theatre, a cunningly hidden 
 room, where the robbers or their booty can be and have been 
 safely concealed more than once. Do you want the proof of 
 what I say? Very well. Some of you know a man called 
 Hedley, formerly a member of the Regulators; he was one of 
 Mack’s tools. This, morning he was captured while on guard 
 at the robbers’ rendezvous, together with the entire gang. 
 Hedley has made a full confession, and that confession, alone, 
 is sufficient to hang our friend Mack. Listen. Two days 
 ago a party set out to hunt these robbers. It went secretly, 
 and was led by a skillful detective ; one who has been among 
 you longer than I, and who is entitled to all the credit for 
 hunting down the outlaws, except what is due to Connolley 
 and Doctor Mitchell, who have been efficient aids.” 
 
 “ Ye’re off the track !” shouted a voice from the rear. “I 
 thought ye knew somethin’ about this murder business — ” 
 
 Up went Stanhope’s hand. 
 
 u Will somebody back there be so good as to mark the fel- 
 low who spoke ?” said he coolly. “ He is probably one of 
 the outlaws’ sympathizers. But I’ll tell him about the ‘ murder 
 business,’ and he will see that I wasn’t so very much * off 
 the track.’ I said that I knew more about this affair than 
 any of you. Ido. I didn’t get up here to tell you that 
 Dalton is an innocent man, but to say that the letters that 
 Mack has been showing you : the letters that have incited you 
 
m 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 to organize yourselves into a mob; the letters that purport to 
 be warnings against Philip Dalton, written to Selwyn by a 
 friend in New York — ar e forgeries, framed by Mack aud 
 copied by a tool of his. You won’t have to take my word for 
 this, nor for anything I state. I’ve got the originals of these 
 forged letters, in Mack’s own handwriting, light here in 
 my pocket. And I’ve got the man that copied -them, imi- J 
 tating the hand writing of one of Selwyn’s correspondents, where 
 I can produce him at a minute’s notice. Now, do you want 
 to know why Jerry McAffery has tried, in all possible ways, 
 to fasten the guilt upon Philip Daltom? I will tell you. 1 
 He hated Dalton, and was afraid of him. He hated him be- 
 cause once, when Dalton first came to Caledonia, he had oc- 
 casion to kick Mr. Mack. Mack couldn’t forgive the lack. 
 
 He feared him, because Selwyn, for a purpose of his own, | 
 had told him that Dalton was interested in the Overland 
 
 matters. One thing more — you are getting the facts from 
 
 * J! 
 
 me ; you will have to look elsewhere for explanations — the 
 
 band of robbers who have haunted Death Pass is broken up, 
 
 and Philip Dalton is one of the brave men who did the work. < 
 
 To-night, Cool Hank Dutton, Dalton and myself rode into 
 
 Caledonia, straight from the place where our friends are, at 
 
 this moment, guarding all that is left of the Death Pass gang. 
 
 While we were preparing to send an escort to bring in the 
 
 dead and wounded, for there are dead and wounded on both 
 
 sides, we learned that Dalton is to be attacked by a mob — a j 
 
 onob organized by a confederate of the Death Pass Outlaws ! 
 
 In proof of what I say, here is the Agent of the Overland, 
 
 and here, is Cool Plank Dutton. You know them both.” 
 
 The Agent and his men, who had followed him upon the 
 
 stage, had passed behind the ruptured canvas, where Mack 
 
RESCUE — DEATH. 
 
 57? 
 
 was ruefully gathering himself together. As Stanhope ceased 
 speaking, the Agent came forward, followed by his two men, 
 who were dragging Mack, bound and cringing, between them. 
 The Agent was a man of brusque manners and few words. 
 He stepped to Stanhope’s side and said : 
 
 “ All that Mr. Richard Stanhope tells you is true. In an 
 hour I shall start, with my men, to bring in the prisoners and 
 the wounded. Mr. Dalton has identified himself with us in 
 defending our rights, and the man who lifts a hand against 
 him will be treated as an outlaw himself. Marmaduke Selwyn 
 teas the leader and the founder of the outlaw gang , and the 
 people who are so eager to hunt down his slayer may make 
 themselves objects of suspicion.” 
 
 A hand touched his arm; he turned and saw Cool Hank 
 Dutton standing beside him? 
 
 “ Let me say a word,” said Hank. 
 
 As the Agent nodded and drew back, he addressed the 
 crowd. So eager were they to hear him that they made no 
 sign when Billy Piper came behind Stanhope, tapped him on 
 the shoulder and led him behind the wing on the right, where 
 Dalton had lately carried the insensible form of Aileen 
 Lome. 
 
 “ I want to say, first,” began Cool Hank, “ that although 
 Mr. Stanhope has not chosen to say it, I think he knows, or 
 believes, that Mr. Dalton did not shoot Duke Selwyn. At 
 any rate, I say without hesitation that Mr. Dalton is inno- 
 cent.” 
 
 “ Was it you, then ?” called a voice from the crowd. 
 
 Cool Hank smiled bitterly. 
 
 “ You can’t ask a man to criminate himself,” he replied. 
 “Mr. Dalton is innocent. Any further information on the sub- 
 
m 
 
 a mountain mystery. 
 
 ject you must look for elsewhere. As for the downfall of the 
 Death Pass robbers, I was a witness to that, and but for the 
 generosity of this same Mr. Stanhope—” 
 
 “ Stop !” It was Stanhope, speaking close beside him. He 
 was pale and his eyes gleamed with suppressed wrath. He 
 did not look at Cool Hank, although his hand clutched the 
 arm of the latter ; he looked straight forward and addressed 
 the crowd. 
 
 “ A short time ago,” he said, “word was carried to Miss 
 Lome that Philip Dalton, her best friend, was about to be 
 mobbed. She came here, terrified, and hoping, perhaps, to 
 warn him or save him. Fools ! go home satisfied ; you have 
 taken a life ! Aileen Lome is dead ! And there — ” he turns 
 sharply, and points an accusing finger at the trembling Mack — 
 “ is the man who has urged you on, and who is responsible 
 for it all !” 
 
 He turns again to Cool Hank. “ Come,” he says, and to- 
 gether they go behind the scenes. 
 
 CHAPTER LXIY. 
 
 FIRE. 
 
 Stanhope and Cool Hank go softly behind the wings. A 
 piece of carpet is spread upon the floor near the wall, and 
 upon this, in her white, glittering dress, lies Aileen Lome. 
 Beside her lifeless body Philip Dalton is kneeling. He has 
 no ears for the sounds without, no eyes to flash defiance upon 
 his enemies. He holds a cold white hand in one of his, and 
 his face is bowed upon the other. / 
 
580 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 A few paces away, Billy Piper stands dejectedly, the tears 
 dropping unheeded from his eyes. Stanhope beckons him, 
 and they move aside. 
 
 “ Did you see — all ?” Stanhope whispers. 
 
 Billy nods, and wipes a tear away. Stanhope-draws him 
 further aside. 
 
 “ Tell me about it,” he says. “ Did she speak ?” 
 
 “When he brought her in, he knelt right there and held 
 her in his arms,” said Billy brokenly. “He called her by 
 name, and it seemed to rouse her. She opened her eyes, and 
 when she saw him she just whispered, ‘ Philip 7 , and lifted 
 up her face. He bent down and kissed her, and — that’s 
 all.” 
 
 “ All ?” 
 
 “ Yes. I thought it was a faint, and brought water and 
 knelt down, but the minute I touched her I saw how it was. 
 * She’s gone !’ I says to him ; and after a minute he kissed her 
 again, and laid her down gently, as if she was asleep. He’s 
 been just like that ever since.” 
 
 Stanhope draws a breath of relief. He is glad that she has 
 taken her pitiful secret "with her ; glad to know that Dalton’s 
 grief need not be made more bitter, now, in its darkest hour at 
 least, by the knowledge of the sad confession that died on her 
 lips with her expiring breath. He glances to where the still 
 form lies, and Billy’s eyes follow his. 
 
 “ I can’t bear the idea of taking her back there” Billy 
 says. 
 
 “ Back where ?” 
 
 “ To Mack’s boarding-house.” 
 
 Stanhope too is troubled. He looks at Philip Dalton’s 
 bowed head, and says decisively : 
 
FIRE. 
 
 <581 
 
 “ She must not be taken there. Billy, will you go to the 
 St. Charles, now, right away?” 
 
 " Yes,” says Billy dazedly. 
 
 “ Miss Droodis there and Miss Wray. Ask for them; for 
 Mag, rather. Tell her just what has happened, in as few 
 words as possible. Especially tell her what you have seen here 
 — what you have told me. Do you understand ?” 
 
 Billy glanced at Dalton, and then back to Stanhope’s face. 
 Their eyes meet. “ Yes, ” he said, “ I understand. I didn’t 
 know it was — that way.” 
 
 “ I did. Hurry, now, Billy. I think Miss Drood will 
 know what to do.” 
 
 “ I am sure she will,” says Billy, and goes upon his mis- 
 sion. 
 
 Then Stanhope takes Cool Hank by the arm and leads him 
 away, leaving Dalton for a little time alone with his dead. 
 They go down the stairs, and when they reach the cell-like 
 dressing-room beneath the stage, pause as if by mutual con- 
 sent, and Stanhope says: 
 
 “ Dutton, I want to say to you that it is no part of my 
 plan to have you announce yourself as one of the outlaws, if 
 that is what you were about to do when I broke in upon your 
 speech — was it ?” 
 
 Cool Hank nodded-* 
 
 “ Well, don’t do it ; at least not until I say the word. I 
 meant that to be a part of our contract.” 
 
 “ But — ” begins Cool Hank. 
 
 “ Don’t argue ; we haven’t time. Just give me your 
 word that you will say nothing on this topic for the pres- 
 ent.” 
 
 ^’fll do that, certainly.” 
 
 19 
 
§82 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 ** Another thing; you said something just now, as you have 
 before, to the effect that you suspected or knew — who the real 
 slayer of Selwyn was.” 
 
 Cool Hank makes no reply. 
 
 “ If you know the truth, I must ask 3 r ou again — ” 
 
 “Not to mention it? Have no fear; it is not my inten- 
 tion to do so — now or ever.” 
 
 “ Well,” says Stanhope, glancing at him with a look of 
 aroused interest, “ you and I will try to understand each other 
 soon. Meantime, think of me as your friend ; that is what I 
 wish to be.” 
 
 “ Thank ) r ou ;” says Cool Hank, “that 3 T ou have proved to 
 be.” 
 
 Stanhope makes a step toward the stairway, and pauses. 
 
 “I shall have to go back with the Agent’s party,” he said; 
 “ there is no other Ava\ r . But I will remain with Dalton until 
 * — until the body is removed, and he leaves the Theatre. Will 
 you say to the Agent that I ask him to delay his departure 
 until I can join him?” 
 
 They are sitting together in Barbara’s room when Billy 
 Piper appears before them — Barbara, Mag, and Old Mary. 
 
 They have been talking every moment since Dalton and 
 Cool Hank left them. Bather, Barbara, and Mary have 
 talked — Barbara relating to Mag the wonderful story of her 
 father’s rescue, as told her by Dalton, and Mary keeping up 
 a steady stream of comments, which Barbara does not allow 
 to interrupt her story, while Mag listens, and thinks, and 
 wonders what Barbara would sa v if she knew that Cool Hank 
 Dutton, whose champion she lias so lately been, is one of those 
 robbers whom she is now anathematizing — for Philip Dalton 
 
 L. 
 
FIRE. 
 
 683 
 
 ^told his story with numerous reservations: that part of it 
 which in any way concerned Cool Hank Dutton being one. 
 
 The two girls hear Billy’s story in an amazed, awe-stricken 
 silence, drawing close to each other as it nears the end, and 
 clasping each other’s hands. When he had ceased speaking 
 Mag turns to Barbara. 
 
 “ She must be brought here — to us.” 
 
 “ Yes,” says Barbara at once. “Yes, poor girl; for Mr. Dal- 
 ton’s sake, and for humanity’s sake.” 
 
 They brought Aileen to the St. Charles, and left her to the 
 tender care of Mary and Mag and Barbara. Dalton came 
 too, and said to them sadly: 
 
 “ I hoped that she would be my wife some day. I claim 
 the right to bury her as I wish.” 
 
 “Leave it to us,” said Mag. And Barbara said: “We 
 
 will care for her as if she were a sister.” 
 
 As they were about to set out for the robbers* cave, a party 
 of men approached the Agent’s office and desired to see Stan- 
 hope. They were very quiet, and one of their number aeted as 
 spokesman. 
 
 “ What is it?” Stanhope said impatiently. 
 
 “.Excuse us, sir,” said the spokesman. “ We want to see 
 things done about right, and we want you to answer two or 
 three questions — we think we’ve got a right to ask them.” 
 
 “ Ask them,” said Stanhope shortly. 
 
 “You said that Mach got up the letter that we’ve all seen. 
 That letter said in plain words that Dalton left New York 
 swearing to shoot Selwyn, and that he had money enough to 
 do it safely.” 
 
 “Yes*” 
 
584 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 - Well, nobody wants to be too hard on Mack just because 
 he*s down. We ask you to tell us how you proved this.” 
 
 “ Gentlemen,” Stanhope replied, “Your demand is not un- 
 reasonable, but my time is limited. I can’t go into details 
 now. I suspected Mack from the first, and so had my eyes 
 open. A short time ago Mack approached Charlie Carson 
 and tried to bribe him to let him — Mack — go into Selwyn’s 
 room privately, and examine Selwyn’s baggage. Carson told 
 me this, and I took the hint and searched Selwyn’s trunk my- 
 self. I read every letter and examined every paper in it. 
 Then I told Carson to let Mack overhaul the room. Mack 
 fell into the trap, and put that letter into the trunk. When 
 Selwyn was killed, he had two or three brief business letters in 
 his pocket. These fell into Mack’s hands. He got Harry 
 Hatch to imitate the handwriting of one of these letters, put 
 the forgery into the envelope that had contained the letter 
 imitated, and placed the whole in Selwyn’s trunk. Then he 
 waited until Dalton’s friends were out of the way, and got 
 the landlord of the St. Charles, who had just come home, and 
 who was his friend, to look over Selwyn’s baggage with him, 
 as if he had not seen it before. Of course they found the 
 forged letter.” 
 
 He thrust a hand into his breast-pocket* “ Do any of * you 
 know Mack’s writing?” he asked. 
 
 One of the men came promptly forward. “ I do,” he 
 said. 
 
 “Well, look at that note.” Stanhope extended a folded 
 half sheet of paper. 
 
 The man took it, glanced at it, and said quickly: “Yes, 
 that’s Mack’s writing.” Glanced again. “ Wliy, it’s the very 
 letter he read to us this afternoon! i Vm afraid you’ll have 
 
FIBE. 
 
 585 
 
 trouble if you meet with Dcdton ; he swears that he will shoot 
 you at sight !’ — and it is Mack’s writing!” 
 
 “ I took that letter from Mack’s office the very day that 
 Hatch copied it for him;” said Stanhope. He put out his 
 hand and the letter was promptly returned. “Now, you 
 must excuse me. I have no time for further explanations.” 
 “ Thank you/’ said the spokesman ; “ we’ve heard enough.” 
 He turned with his men and went away. 
 
 “I hope you’ve left Mack as secure as possible/’ said Stan- 
 hope to the Agent, as they rode away from the town. 
 
 “I placed him in the charge. of half a dozen quiet fellows, 
 who will look after him the best they can. It was all I 
 could do, unless we stayed ourselves. Mack must take his 
 chances.” 
 
 It was past midnight when Stanhope, the Agent, and the 
 other members of the relief party rode out of Caledonia. Two 
 hours later, a great blaze lifted itself skyward, and lighted 
 the whole town. It was Mack’s Theatre, and long before 
 daylight it had burned to the ground. 
 
 “I don’t know how it happened,” said Charles Carson, the 
 next day, when he was narrating to Stanhope the events that 
 followed his departure on the previous night. “But I guess 
 it was no accident. The mob had behaved so mighty well, 
 after your speech and Aileen’s sudden death, that nobody 
 thought much about them. I know /didn’t. Most of us 
 were at the house” — he meant the St. Charles — “ and there 
 were a good many hanging around outside, when the fire 
 started. Before this, some of the mob had made up their minds 
 to see that secret room you had spoken of, and they went at 
 the * Place’ with yells and curses against Mack. He was con- 
 
A MOTOTAM MYSTBRY. 
 
 S86 
 
 fined inside and the door was locked. They broke in, and I 
 expect that they used Mack pretty rough, and talked to him 
 rougher. I suppose that there were a hundred men or more 
 that went through that building,” — went through it literally, — 
 “but I’ve talked to twenty of them, and it’s the same story: 
 ( Oh, yes, I was there ; didn’t see anything done; don’t know 
 how it happened ; was just a looker-on.’ One thing is sure; 
 the Theatre burned, and not a hand was lifted to save it. 
 The instruments belonging to the band, and nearly all the 
 things in the dressing-rooms that belonged to the performers, 
 were brought out and laid very carefully in a place of 
 safety.” 
 
 “And Mack?” asked Stanhope. “Where did they take 
 him?” 
 
 Charlie was silent a moment. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” lie said finally, in a hushed tone. “Per- 
 haps li£ escaped, but lie’s not confined anywhere, and hasn’t 
 been seen since the fire.” 
 
 “ What /” 
 
 “ Last night,” went on Charlie gravely, “after the tide 
 had turned against Mack, the mob was loud in its threats. 
 To-day, since the fire, you hardly hear Mack’s name upon the 
 street. ” 
 
 “ Good heavens !” cried Stanhope. “ And this mob, these 
 same men, were drummed together by Mack to hang Philip 
 Dalton ! Do you think that they deliberately — but pshaw ! 
 such a gang as that never deliberates. Do you think they 
 left him confined in that Theatre, and let it burn over hi* 
 head?” 
 
 “I don’t know what to think. But if I wanted to find 
 Jerry Mack, I’d begin my search — there .” 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 587 
 
 Charlie pointed to the charred ruin, and Stanhope shud- 
 dered as he turned away. 
 
 CHAPTER LXV. 
 
 RECLAIMED. 
 
 To tell how the outlaws were brought back in triumph to 
 Caledonia, how the dead were buried, the wounded cared for, 
 and the guilty punished, would be simply to repeat history. 
 
 As one after another of the outlaws were brought before the 
 tribunal and indentified, mysteries were cleared away, and 
 the people began to realize how cleverly they had been duped 
 by Duke Selwyn and his gang, and to look upon the sudden 
 taking off of that too clever leader as an act of justice irreg- 
 ularly administered. 
 
 In the sudden revulsion that overswept Caledonia, Van Ver- 
 net and Dick Stanhope became objects almost of idolatry. 
 They were followed x as if they had been notable curiosities, 
 listened to and quoted like oracles. 
 
 As for Philip Dalton, he had literally the freedom of the city 
 extended to him. But he had little thought to give to Cal- 
 edonia and her people. The first deep sorrow that had 
 crossed his life was pressing heavily upon him. 
 
 They buried Aileen Lome in the new little cemetery, not far 
 from the place where, but a short time before, the body of Duke 
 Selwyn had been laid. Still nearer, and on the same day, 
 Monekt®u was buried. And seldom have fcw® friendless ones, 
 
588 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 strangers in a strange land, been more tenderly laid to rest* or 
 more sincerely mourned. 
 
 It was Mountain Mag who buried Monckton as if it had 
 been her own brother who died so gallantly. She was his 
 chief mourner; and Mary and Barbara, Stephen Wray, Doctor 
 Mitchell, the two detectives, and all of those who had made 
 up the party of the outlaw hunters, were there, as, later in 
 the day, they came together about the grave of Aileen Lome. 
 
 Aileen had died “of heart disease” — -so said Doctor Mit- 
 chell. 'He had discovered the presence of the malady, in a form 
 sure to become fatal sooner or later, he said, one night when 
 she had fainted behind the scenes. He had warned her of 
 her danger, and she had seemed neither surprised nor alarmed 
 at his words. 
 
 Cool Hank Dutton was not one of the mourners at either 
 grave. On the morning that followed the burning of Mack’s, 
 he had gone to bed, or been driven there by Mag and Mary, 
 flushed with fever, and suffering — although this they did not 
 even guess — intense pain from his Tvounded arm. Nor did 
 he rise for many days.' At first it was inflammation of the 
 wounded arm, which threatened its loss and even put his life 
 in peril. Then the fever spread from body to brain, and 
 Death brooded still nearer. Through the worst stages of suf- 
 fering and delirium, and until the crisis was past, the patient 
 was attended faithfully by Doctor Mitchell; watched and 
 cared for by Stanhope, Verne t and Dalton ; nursed, night and 
 day, by Mountain Mag and faithful Mary. Through this 
 crisis, too, Stephen Wray and Barbara remained, waiting the 
 issue. It was Barbara who had begged her father to stay. 
 
 “I want to take Mag back with us,” the girl said. “She 
 half promised before— and I can't desert her now, papa/* 
 
BEOLAIMED* 
 
 589 
 
 i€ Oh, Tm willing to see tills business through to the end,” 
 her father had answered. “ And Fm more than willing to 
 be of service ^to the brave girl who befriended my daughter 
 when she needed a friend. We will stay, Bar by.” 
 
 At last a day came when the Doctor said that the sick man 
 might talk a little. Cool Hank had waited eagerly for this 
 moment, and he asked to see Stanhope. Mag was beside 
 him, and when Stanhope came she was about to leave them to- 
 gether. 
 
 “Stay, Mag,” said Hank, putting out his hand appealingly. 
 “ I want you to hear what we are going to say.” 
 
 Mag turned her eyes toward the young detective, who con- 
 firmed Hank’s request, and then she sat down near the bed. 
 
 “ I have asked Mag some questions,” began Cool Hank, “ and 
 got a few answers — only a few. She says that Mr. Wray and 
 his daughter do not know that I have been connected with 
 the outlaws.” 
 
 “Nobody knows,” said Stanhope, “except my friend Ver- 
 net and Doctor Mitchell. When you introduced yourself so 
 recklessly at the cave, fortunately no one but myself and Ver- 
 net heard you. We thought it best to tell Mitchell, but we 
 were all too much the friends of Miss Drood to wish to do you 
 an injury. Miss Drood,” turning to Mag, “ since we are con- 
 fidants in some degree, will you* allow me lo tell our friend 
 just how we stand ?” 
 
 The hot blood flowed into Mountain Mag’s face, but she 
 said “ Yes,” in a low voice, and turned away from the won- 
 dering gaze of the sick man. 
 
 “ It seems,” said Stanhope, “ that something you have said 
 has given her an idea that you knew who killed Duke Sel- 
 
590 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 wyn. Well, during your delirium, you let out enough to in- 
 dicate clearly to her the person you believed guilty. This 
 startled and troubled her so much that she, believing in my 
 good intentions where your are concerned, told me what she 
 had heard.” 
 
 u What was it?” asked Hank feebly. 
 
 “ It was rambling talk, but sufficient to convince her that 
 you believed that Aileen Lome had killed Duke Selwyn. I 
 told Mag the truth then, as I knew it. It teas Aileen who 
 killed him. Mag, fearing that you were a dying man, told 
 me all that you had said to her on the night you came back 
 from the cave with Dalton and myself. She knew that I 
 would not abuse her confidence, and wished to show me that 
 you had meant , at the last, to right yourself, and that you 
 were not such a very bad stage-robber as I might think.” 
 
 Cool Hank turned his eyes to Mag. “ Thank you, Mar- 
 garet,” he whispered. 
 
 “ Then Mag and I entered into a conspiracy, and when, in 
 a day or two, you became rational, and made a most Quixotic 
 c last dying request/ Mag promptly told me that too.” 
 
 Cool Hank closed his eyes and a look of pain came into 
 his face. Stanhope drew his chair nearer the bed. 
 
 “It was Quixotic,” lie said, “but it was no less noble. 
 You asked that Mag and I, the only two who knew the truth 
 would keep the secret. If you died, we were never to let 
 Philip Dalton learn who killed Duke Selwyn. We were to 
 tell Mr. Wray and his daughter the facts concerning your 
 connection with the outlaws; you wanted them to understand 
 that you were not concerned in his persecutions, but you 
 were willing to let them all think, as they naturally would, 
 that your quarrel with Selwyn had led to his death at your 
 
KECL AIMED* 
 
 69 1 
 
 Hands. You were content to have this stigma upon your 
 memory, because you thought it would be merciful to Philip 
 Dalton. I suppose, too, you meant it in some sort as an atone- 
 ment. Mag and I might have carried out your wishes — re- 
 luctantly enough, too. But you are not dead, and there is a 
 better way of atonement offered you. Thanks to the fact 
 that you and Selwyn changed identities, no one has thought 
 of connecting you with the outlaw gang. Hedley was theronly 
 man among them who knew, and I took care to shut his 
 mouth on the subject. I am going to tell your story to our 
 friends ; it is right that they should be acquainted with all 
 the facts. But there is no need that others should know that 
 you were ever associated with the outlaws. We believe that you 
 were sincere in your intentions to break loose from them, and 
 that you mean to redeem yourself. There is no occasion to 
 hamper you, in the beginning, by tying this story about your 
 neck.” 
 
 A little later, Stanhope related, first to Philip Dalton alone, 
 and afterward to Mr. Wray, Barbara and \ 7 an, two stories 
 that had between them a connecting link — the stories of Ai- 
 leen Lome and Cool Hank Dutton. 
 
 The truth concerning Aileen fell upon Philip Dalton as a 
 bitter blow that doubled his anguish, for her sake, while it 
 softened his grief at her sudden death, in which he now saw 
 dimly the touch of that hand which “ smites in love and not 
 in wrath.” 
 
 The truth concerning Cool ITank brought to his bedside, in 
 the form of Philip Dalton, a friend whose regard and com- 
 radeship he kept to the last day of his life. The two soon un- 
 derstood each other perfectly, and in a very straight-forward 
 naanly fashion. It was deckled between them, almost with- 
 
592 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 out words, that Caledonia should never know who killed 
 Duke Selwyn ; and Caledonia never did know. 
 
 It so happened, however, that having indentified Duke Sel- 
 wyn with the outlaws* chieftain, Caledonia had ceased to care 
 much who killed him. 
 
 One of the points on which Cool Hank and Dalton instantly 
 agreed was that Doctor Mitchell, a stanch friend to both, 
 should be admitted to their full confidence, and Stanhope was 
 instructed to enlighten him. His verdict, when Stanhope had 
 fulfilled this mission, was characteristic. 
 
 “ When society turns its back upon a man like Hank Dut- 
 ton because of sins repented, it does itself a wrong/* said the 
 sententiously disposed M. D. “Hank has in him unlimited 
 possibilities for good. He is one of the few bright souls that 
 go astray as much because of the good that is in them as be- 
 cause of the bad. It is recklessness, not a natural tendence to 
 Vice, that drags such men down. And they can be saved al- 
 ways, through their humanity, their affections and sympathies, 
 if there is only the right hand to pull the string.** 
 
 In Cool Hank*s case, the right hand, and the right heart, 
 strong and loyal, were close at his side. 
 
 As soon as Cool Hank was pronounced out of danger, Ver- 
 net and Stanhope made known their determination to proceed 
 at once to Rockville, as their business in the West would not 
 be completed until this journey had been made. It was now 
 quite safe to traverse Death Pass; and after some consultations 
 with Barbara, Mr. Ray declared his intention to accompany 
 them. The business instinct was strong within him, and 
 he was grimly resolved to survey the ground with his own eyes 
 and see if it were worth while to try to reclaim the mining in- 
 terests for which Selwyn had schemed. 
 
RECLAIMED. 
 
 593 
 
 “I don’t like to give up a thing, once I have undertaken 
 it/’ Mr 0 Wray said as the three drove away, with Barbara 
 waving them an adieu from the window. “ But I was half 
 afraid to broach the subject to my daughter. I supposed, now 
 that things have righted themselves here, and Margaret Drood 
 consented to go with us, that she would be impatient to return 
 home. But she was so very willing to stay that she sur- 
 prised me. I almost fancied she was glad that we were not 
 to go yet.” 
 
 The old man paused to look out of the coach window, and 
 Stanhope glanced at Vernet and grinned wickedly. Be- 
 thought he could understand Barbara’s willingness to wait. 
 
 “ What a strange scene that must have been,” said Vernet, 
 to change the subject and sober his friend ; “ that last night 
 at Mack’s!” They were passing the ruins of the Theatre as 
 lie spoke, and the remark seemed quite a natural one. 
 
 “Yes,” said Stanhope, serious enough now. “It was 
 hideously dramatic ; but fancy my position. I had assumed 
 my old disguise, intending to reconnoitre at Mack’s and see 
 what had happened in our absence. As I had been supposed 
 to start for Rockville, of course I didn’t want to go in the 
 character of Charlie’s brother; and then, while I was talking 
 with Aileen Lome, came this startling message. Something 
 must be done, and done at once. The plan that I adopted • 
 flashed upon meJike an inspiration. We had intended to 
 keep very dark about our outlaw hunt until we had our 
 prisoners actually in town, but I couldn’t regard plans of 
 any sort, in that emergency. I sent for Harry Hatch, in 
 order to make him tell his own story if it became necessary. 
 Then I rushed to the Overland office, and told the Agent that 
 he must postpone the start and come to the rescue. I could not 
 
594 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 have held that mob in check by any less dramatic and start- 
 ling means. You’ve got to handle a mob as you would a rag- 
 ing torrent: stem it, or be swept away. Of course, I didn’t 
 count on Aileen Lome’s sudden appearance, but the rest I had 
 planned with a keener eye to effect than ever Mack gave to a 
 stage sensation.” 
 
 “ Well” said the old man, “it isn’t often that a real life 
 tragedy gets such a stage setting.” 
 
 And then the talk drifted to Mountain Mag, — who was going 
 to turn over her ranch to Cool Hank and Philip Dalton, and go 
 home with Barbara Wray,: — and to the plans of the two young 
 men. 
 
 i 
 
 Cool Hank had determined to stay in Caledonia. “ I have 
 learned to know the West,” he said, “and there is no better 
 place to makesa beginning in life. I’ve had a notion, for a 
 long time, that there’s a splendid chance for a cattle ranch 
 here, on a big scale. I’m going to try and work toward that 
 beginning moderately, as I must.” 
 
 During the week that Mr. W ray and the two detectives 
 were absent, Dalton and Cool Hank talked much of this new 
 enterprise. The result was a partnership, proposed by Dal- 
 ton, and accepted, with many stipulations and reservations, by 
 Cool Hank, who insisted that Dalton was going into the thing 
 solely to aid him. But Dalton’s reply had silenced if it had 
 not convinced him. 
 
 “I like the look of your project,” he said, “and I’m per- 
 fectly able to put money into it. I need an occupation now, 
 and I don’t mind saying to you, Dutton, that I want an ex- 
 cuse for staying here near — ” He broke off abruptly. “ At 
 any rate, I mean to stay. And if I can help you, you can 
 help me too. We both have a fight to make; something, to 
 
BBCLAIMBD. 
 
 m 
 
 Kve down and forget. Let us make it together, and say no 
 more of obligations. I couldn’t go back to my old life in the 
 city now. Work’s the best thing for both of us. Let’s make 
 a new start together.” 
 
 And so they did. When Mr. Wray, with Barbara and 
 Mag, Stanhope and Vernet, set out for the East, Cool Hank 
 was able to walk feebly to the window of his room to wave 
 them a good-bye, and Dalton pressed their hands at the coach- 
 door, and promised to take care of him until they all should 
 meet again. 
 
 The two young men were to live in Mag’s house, and Old 
 Mary, who had parted from Mag tearfully, was to be their 
 housekeeper. Mag had tried to persuade the old woman to 
 go with them East, but Mary had said: No: she would stay 
 where she was, and be buried there beside her “old man, 
 please God.” She would feel at home in the old house, and 
 Hank and Mr. Dalton “wouldn’t have to w^orry about their 
 housekeepin’.” 
 
 Before going, Stanhope recommended Harry Hatch to the 
 tender mercies of his friends. The poor fellow had ceased to 
 talk of returning to “God’s country” since the disappearance 
 of Mack, whom he had so feared and hated. He was a physi- 
 cal wreck, and little could be done for him but to keep him 
 from present want and save him from a pauper’s burial. 
 
 At the last moment, too, in a mood of mercy, Barbara, ac- 
 companied by Mag sought out Miss Susan Collins. Barbara 
 asked her if she wished to go back to New York and would 
 accept her help. But Miss Collins, who still preferred the 
 name of Saint Leger, but was more often called “Stockings,” 
 by her associates, had not yet lost the spirit of adventure in 
 which she sought the wild West. She tossed her red curls 
 
598 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY. 
 
 and declined the proffered assistance, and they l$ft her to he* 
 
 fate. 
 
 If Charlie Carson had indeed been Stanhope’s brother, they 
 could not havejparted with more affectionate reluctance. But 
 they were to meet again soon, for Charlie would return to his 
 home in the East when he had seen enough of “roughing it,” 
 and he was cheered with the prospect of having two such “fine 
 fellows,” as he thought Dalton and Cool Hank, in neighborly 
 proximity, and by the promise of Stanhope to pay a via^ 
 Caledonia the following summer. 
 
 CHAPTER LXYI. 
 
 AND LAST. 
 
 One day in early autumn, some four months after Stephen 
 Wray and his party returned from their adventurous Western 
 journey, the old man sat in his stately library, musing, with 
 a grave and puzzled face, when a light step behind him 
 caused him to start and turn his head. 
 
 It was Margaret Drood who had entered. Not the Moun 
 tain Mag we have known, in broad-brimmed hat, short skirt, 
 and cavalry boots, but a handsome young woman, arrayed in 
 a neatly fitting walking dress of fashionable cut and hue; with 
 a bright, cheery face, and a calm air of self-reliance that set 
 well upon her. 
 
 “ Margaret,” said M*. Wray 3 rising gallantly and pulling 
 
A MOtTjSTjL AIN MYSTERY. 
 
 m 
 
 forward a chair, “ sit down. I am glad you came in. Where 
 is Barbara ?” 
 
 a She is in her room, a little indisposed, she says. I came 
 to get a book for her.” 
 
 “ Indisposed, eh ? Now Margaret, look me in the face and 
 tell me what is wrong with my girl.” 
 
 Margaret averted her eyes instead of meeting his glance. 
 a Wrong, sir? Really I don’t think anything is wrong. 
 Barbara is not quite well, and that makes her a little out of 
 spirits. It’s nothing serious; a slight cold — ” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Mag ! I ; ve seen the time when my child would 
 laugh at a slight cold. Margaret, I’m not blind; Barbara 
 has not been herself since we came back from Caledonia. 
 You may not see it, for you did not know her before; but she’s 
 not the same, though she tries to seem so. Mag, I believe you 
 know there’s something the matter. Honestly, now, what is it?” 
 “ Mr. Wray,” — Mag rose and faced him — “I can’t tell 
 you an untruth, and I think the truth would not please you.” 
 “ Never mind that. I’ve got to hear it sometime. What 
 is it, Mag? I shan’t be offended with you , at any rate.” 
 
 “ I’m not so sure of that,” said Mag, and her cheeks flushed 
 a little. “ When we came back from Caledonia, Mr. Wrayy 
 and we parted from Mr. Vernet and Mr. Stanhope, you very 
 generously offered them any sum of money, or any service, 
 that they might ask or would accept. And they refused to 
 receive anything.” 
 
 “ I know, I know ! Independent fellows!” 
 
 “ Yes; they are independent. You made them a very fine 
 and flattering speech, placed your purse and your influence at 
 their disposal whenever they should think better of the mat. 
 ter, and shut your door in their faces.” 
 
AND LAST. 
 
 599 
 
 “ Shut my door ! Good gracious! what does the girl mean! 
 My door /” 
 
 “You dismissed them as if there was no thought of social 
 equality, social intercourse in your mind. You never dreamed 
 of asking them to call upon you, on Barbara, on all of us. 
 You sent them away as you would a footman who had done 
 you a great service and had refused pay for it.” 
 
 “Great powers! And do you mean to say, Mag, that they 
 expected me to ask them to call ! I never thought of such a 
 thing! Why, Mag, they’re not in society — ” 
 
 “Nevertheless, Barbara and I have met them at Mr. Ains- 
 worth’s.” 
 
 “John Ainsworth — the returned Australian?” 
 
 “ The same. And we have met them at Mr. Follingsbee’s. 
 Mr. Follinsgbee tells us that Mr. Stanhope is engaged to Mr. 
 Ainsworth’s daughter. Now, let me say my say out. Mr. 
 Vernet loves your daughter, and she knows it. She cannot 
 but feel that you have almost insulted him. Suppose Mr. 
 Vernet had refused to take the liberty of rescuing you from 
 the Death Pass outlaws because he was not in your set ? They 
 are gentlemen , both. I have felt it very keenly that your 
 attitude toward them prevented me from meeting them in 
 your house.” 
 
 Mag turned suddenly and went out of the room. She had 
 allowed her tongue to run away with her temper, and she fled. 
 
 Stephen Wray paced his library for a long time. Then 'he 
 sat down and Wrote a short note. It was to Van Vernet, ask- 
 ing him to dine with them that evening. When the note had 
 been dispatched, he began to pace tne floor again. 
 
 “I’m an old fool!” he muttered. “To think that I, Stephen 
 Wray, self-made out of nothing, should set myself up for an 
 
mo 
 
 A MOUNTAIN MYSTERY, 
 
 aristocrat ! And I liked that fellow so monstrous well, vet 
 never thought — ” 
 
 He checked himself suddenly. Mag had again entered the 
 room. 
 
 “Oh Miss Drood, come in,” he said, putting on a severe 
 face. “ I suppose you’re after that book again?” 
 
 “ No, sir.” said Mag, firmly. “I have come to beg your 
 pardon. I had no right to speak as I did. It was only be- 
 cause I love Barbara so dearly, and I’m sure she is unhappy — ” 
 “Fiddlesticks ! Look here, young lady, I’ve been doing a 
 little thinking, and I’m growing seriously alarmed. Since my 
 daughter has been out West, and had adventures, and learned 
 to shoot, how do I know what you two may take it into 
 your heads to do ? It’s my duty to look out for myself. Do 
 you guess what I’ve done just now ?” 
 
 “No,” faltered Mag. 
 
 “Well, I’ve written to Mr. Van Vernet, and bidden him 
 come up to dinner. I begin to think that we need a detective 
 in the family. Barbara is growing very mysterious, and you 
 are particularly alarming. Now you can begin to make your 
 apology; it is quite time you did.” 
 
 The apology was never made: but Barbara Wray, grown 
 tired of waiting for her book, entered the library at that in- 
 stant to see her staid and dignified friend, Margaret, kissing 
 her dignified and staid father, first on one smooth-shaven cheek 
 and then on the other ! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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