THE PHANTOM HUNTER;

OR,

LOVE AFTER DEATH.

BY EDWIN EMERSON,
AUTHOR OF “THE WOOD WITCH,” ETC.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Among the earliest settlements of Kentucky was that which figures in our story. At the time of the following events it contained some fifty dwellings, surrounded by strong palisades to defend them from the savages, besides a well-constructed block-house, which was not only strongly garrisoned, but claimed the additional protection of a brass field-piece. This last-named instrument presented quite a formidable appearance to prowling Indians, as it sat on the summit of the block-house reflecting every sunbeam from its polished surface.

One bright afternoon, early in the month of August, there was an unusual commotion at the Indian frontier post.

The entire population, men and women, old and young, had assembled on a broad, level spot just beyond the limits of the fort, many of them to look upon a scene such as they had never before witnessed. This spot was known as “the green,” and it was where the youth of the settlement were wont to repair for their sports, but those gathered there now wore sad faces, and conversed with each other in low, serious tones. And well they might, for they were there to see a man hung for murder!

Russell Trafford was one of the most honored and highly esteemed young men of the place, and yet, on this bright August afternoon, he was to be put to death for the willful murder of another person, who had enjoyed a like reputation. Being an orphan, the young man had lived with his uncle, Doctor Trafford, in the largest and most substantial cabin in the settlement, the worthy doctor being a kind but eccentric individual, who could not have loved his nephew more had the latter been a son instead. These two had never been known to be at odds until very recently, and in fact the peace, harmony and happiness with which they had always lived together, had been a subject of remark on more than one occasion.

But one night, at a late hour, an alarm of fire was raised. The excited settlers, rushing out of their houses, made the startling discovery that the dwelling of Doctor Trafford was in flames. It was readily perceived that the fire had already made such headway as to be past extinguishing, but, notwithstanding that fact, crowds of people rushed to the spot to watch the doomed cabin as it burned, and to learn the cause of the catastrophe. Arriving on the scene, the only person they found there was Russell Trafford. The young man was standing in front of the burning structure, with an open tinder-box in his hand, gazing up at the flames, pale and silent. When spoken to he started violently, and then, quickly thrusting the tinder-box in his pocket, he clasped his hands and cried out in tones of mental anguish, that his poor uncle was dead—murdered—burned alive in his own house! Somebody asked him how he came to be outside of the cabin with an open tinder-box in his hand, and he replied in an absent sort of a way, that he didn’t know—the box was not his—he had found it, he supposed, and begged them to let him alone.

The idea of the esteemed Doctor Trafford being burned to death in his own house and bed, aroused the indignation of all. Somebody had done the deed, and somebody must suffer for it; and the finger of circumstantial evidence pointed to the victim’s nephew, Russell, as the guilty one. Suspicion was fastened strongly upon him, despite the good name he had hitherto borne. On the following day the remains of Doctor Trafford were looked for amid the ruins of the demolished domicil, and the search was rewarded by the finding of a skull and the rest of the bones that belong to the human body, all totally destitute of flesh. These were decently interred, as a last tribute of respect to the dead.

Russell Trafford was arrested, and allowed to go through a mock trial. An Irish boy named Mike Terry—a lad of some fourteen summers, who had lived with the doctor in the capacity of servant—testified that Russell and his uncle had quarreled on the morning preceding the tragedy, and, moreover, that he himself had seen Russell set fire to the building, and he (Mike) had barely escaped with his own life.

This was sufficient. Russell Trafford was declared guilty of firing the cabin with intent to kill his uncle, and he was sentenced to be “hanged by the neck, until dead.” And the sunny afternoon in question was set apart for the punishment of the offender, and many of those who gathered on the green to witness the execution wore sorrowful faces as they looked on the doomed man for the last time. For it was hard to believe that he, who had always been so honorable, upright and noble, could commit such a horrible crime as that ascribed to him. Instead, however, of hanging him by the simple means of a rope and a tree, after the Lynch-law custom of that day, a rude scaffold had been hastily constructed, and the evident intention of the people was to have the affair conducted in proper style. The executioner was an old hunter, ranger and scout, who gloried in the euphonious appellation of Kirby Kidd. Grizzled old borderman that he was, fearless, true-hearted and kind, he formed a good specimen of his class, and his sturdy, Herculean frame showed to good advantage as he stood at his post. His keen black eyes roamed over the crowd with seeming indifference, and occasionally he was observed to address a few words to the prisoner. He was leaning carelessly on his rifle, holding in one hand a tall death-cap, made of undressed bear-skin. There was still a third party on the scaffold. This was a friendly Wyandott Indian, of the name of Wapawah, who was the constant companion of Kirby Kidd when hunting or on the trail, and who had rendered valuable service to many of the frontier posts along the Ohio. Wapawah was as brave a warrior as ever trod Kentucky soil, and possessed all the cunning, vindictiveness and reticence, characteristic of his race. Just now he stood beside his white friend like an image carved in bronze, with his arms folded over his tawny breast, watching the proceedings in stoical silence.

While the spectators were waiting nervously for the finale, the attention of many was attracted to a rather curious-looking individual, who suddenly made his appearance among them. This was a man of medium size, clad in the ordinary garb of a hunter and ranger, who trailed after him a long, black rifle as he walked. There was not the sign of an expression on the fellow’s face. A red, straggling beard covered his mouth and chin; long hair of the same color brushed his shoulders at every movement of his head; an ugly patch disfigured his left cheek; and a rough bandage concealed his right eye. Altogether his was not the most prepossessing face ever seen. Nobody seemed to know him, nor did he return any of the searching glances directed at him. He was pressing through the crowd toward the scaffold, looking neither to the right nor left, but straight ahead.

When the stranger had pushed himself through the wondering throng, he unhesitatingly ascended to the elevated platform, and confronted Kirby Kidd, the hangman. For some minutes the two hunters conversed together in low, earnest tones, the friendly Indian standing near, and evidently drinking in every word that was uttered. When the secret conference had been kept up so long that the mob began to show its impatience by angry shouts, it was promptly ended, and the stranger turned away. Then the hangman spoke out loudly, exclaiming:

“Wal, Nick Robbins, ye know it’s my way. I allers try to do my duty, whether it be pleasant or no.”

“Sartinly, Kidd,” returned the person called Nick Robbins. “Go ahead an’ string the cuss up. I know yer wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with the thing ef yer thought he didn’t desarve it.”

With this, the stranger with the bandaged eye turned and descended to the ground, still dragging his gun after him. Wapawah, the Wyandott, followed him, and the two withdrew to a spot apart from the crowd, where they might talk unheard.

A few of the settlers went forward to shake the hand of the young convict, and bid him a last farewell. Among these were three persons who attracted considerable attention—a man and two women. They were Mr. Moreland, his wife and daughter. Mr. Moreland was one of the first men of the settlement, a sensible, industrious and stout-hearted pioneer, who knew well why God had given him health and a pair of strong arms, and who acted accordingly. He had a wife of the same disposition, kind, charitable and self-sacrificing, and their daughter resembled them both. In point of beauty, Isabel Moreland certainly had no superior in all Kentucky, and in those days real beauty was not so scarce as in this age of fashion and folly. She was the betrothed of Russell Trafford, and people had said they would make an excellent match, but that was all over now, and here stood the young man under the gallows, on the eve of a felon’s death, while his affianced wife wept bitterly as he bid her a final adieu.

This affecting scene over, Russell Trafford was asked if he had any thing to say before dying. He replied that he desired a very brief hearing, and then stepped to the edge of the scaffold to speak. He was strangely calm and collected, and his voice was clear, steady and distinct. He said:

“Friends and former friends: it affords me extreme happiness to know that there are those among you who still have faith in my innocence, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. On the heads of such I invoke the blessing of God as I die. For you who believe me guilty I bear no malice, nor even reproach, but trust that a just Heaven will undeceive you after I am gone, and bring the true offender to the retribution he deserves. I am ready to die.”

He stepped back as he made this last declaration, and the old ranger immediately placed the death-cap over his head.

It is not necessary to inflict upon the reader a detailed account of the sickening scene which followed. Sufficient to say, that Russell Trafford was hung before the eyes of his former friends and the grieved maiden who had promised to become his wife. The body of the young man was lowered from the gallows, and placed in the coffin that awaited it, which was nothing more than a rude pine box constructed for this purpose. Old Kirby Kidd, the Wyandott Indian, and their friend, Nick Robbins, volunteered to take the corpse in custody until the morrow, and protect it from the enraged mob, who, it was feared, not being satisfied with the murderer’s death, would further vent its wrath upon the dead body.

On the following day a grave was dug in a pretty glade just outside of the settlement, and burial services were performed.

Isabel Moreland stood in the doorway of her father’s cabin one morning, two or three days after the execution of her lover, Russell Trafford. She was very pale, but very calm. The roses, which had been the admiration of all, were gone from her cheeks, and her dark, soulful eyes, which had been the particular admiration of her ill-fated lover, were hollow and unusually large. A sad, pitiful, expression dwelt in their clear depths, and the lines on her forehead told a tale of mental suffering. The settlers who passed that way, seeing her standing there, marveled at the change that had taken place in her since the death of young Trafford, and felt their hearts moved to pity for the broken-hearted girl.

Presently a man sauntered up to the door, attracted thither by the charming one who stood there. He was a big, burly fellow, with the brute plainly stamped on his coarse, red face, and an air of reckless depravity about him that proclaimed him any thing else but a man. He wore a slouched hat, pulled carelessly down on one side of his head, completely hiding his right eye. This was Jim McCabe, the veriest bully and profligate in the settlement, who, it was said, was so devoid of principle that no piece of deviltry was too great for him to commit. He had been one of Russell Trafford’s rivals in love, and of all the rivals he had been compelled to contend with, Russell had regarded Jim McCabe as the most insignificant. But, now that his successful competitor was out of the way, McCabe seemed to think it possible to thrust himself into the vacant place, and seeing her this morning at the door of her home, he determined to seize the opportunity of renewing the contest for the much-coveted hand and heart.

“Good-morrow, Miss Moreland,” said he, with a profound bow, and an attempt to smile pleasantly.

“Well, sir?” returned the girl, coldly.

“Perfectly well, I thank you,” replied the rogue, choosing to misconstrue her words. “But, really, Miss Moreland, you are looking decidedly unwell to-day. What can be the matter, if I may ask? Are you ill?”

“Not particularly.”

“No? Now that is strange. One would suppose that you had just risen from a prolonged illness. You see I am naturally concerned for the health of one so dear to me. By the way, that was a sad affair about Doctor Trafford and his ingrate of a nephew, wasn’t it?—a sad affair all round. As a friend, I feel for you deeply, but I think you were fortunate in thus finding out the character of your intended husband before—”

“Sir, I must trouble you to drop this subject now and forever.”

Isabel Moreland turned her flashing eyes upon the man as she spoke, and gave him a look that made him recoil. But, quickly recovering himself, he replied, in a tone of apology:

“Why, I did not suspect that I was treading forbidden ground. I only wished to express my sympathy for you, and you certainly need it, since your favored suitor has proven himself only fit to grace the end of a rope.”

“Do you persist in talking of this?” demanded Isabel.

“Not at all—not at all,” was the humble rejoinder. “It being your desire, the subject shall be dropped immediately. I would merely observe, what an inhuman wretch that man was to deliberately kill his own uncle, and that in the most horrible manner conceivable.”

“If you have come here to jeer and mock at me, you must continue your insults without my presence,” interrupted our heroine, and so saying she entered the house, and quietly closed the door between her and her tormentor.

Jim McCabe ground his teeth with rage. Was this to be the result of the new game he had so hopefully commenced? Did she, then, hate him so bitterly? and was her love for Russell Trafford so great that his death had produced this marked change in her lovely face? But Jim McCabe was not the man to submit thus tamely. He shook his fist at the door which shut the maiden from his view, and muttered:

“This is all very fine, my proud lady, but the time is not far off when you will look at Jim McCabe with a much softer expression in those eyes. I have played none but my loose cards as yet, but there are trumps to follow that are certain to win, and two weeks shall not pass away before I shall have the pleasure of seeing this haughty jade at my feet.”

He hissed the last words through his clenched teeth, and his usually red face grew still redder with anger.

He was walking away from the spot, when a peculiar voice behind him arrested his footsteps.

“Hello, you! Jest draw rein a minute, ef you please.”

Instinctively guessing that he was the one accosted, McCabe stopped to see who the presumptuous person was. A tall, angular specimen of humanity, with long, dangling legs and ungainly feet, was coming toward him with awkward strides. He was an utter stranger to McCabe, but the latter saw at a glance that he was a Yankee, of the raw sort, evidently just from his native State. His dress alone would have proven that fact, to say nothing of the nasal twang in his voice, and the “down-east” peculiarity of speech. He wore a tall, white hat, the nap of which stuck straight out; a pair of striped trowsers, which clung tenaciously to the awkward members they protected; and a blue, threadbare coat, whose swallow-tails reached nearly to his heels.

“How d’ye dew, stranger?” drawled the specimen, as he came up. “Right nice weather we’re havin’ nowadays, ain’t it?”

“Splendid. But what do you want of me?”

“What dew I want? Law, now, you’re jest like all the rest o’ the western folks—want a feller tew come tew the p’int instanter, without the least bit o’ prevaricatin’ or dodgin’ round the stump, as Tabitha Simpson used to say. Tabitha Simpson was my third cousin, stranger, on my mother’s side, a gal o’ the femenine persuasion, by the way, and I swan tew man, there never was a couple in all Christendom as had more fun than Tabitha and me used to have. There was one time in partic’lar—”

“See here,” interposed McCabe, crustily, “before you continue your nonsense I should like to know who you are?”

“Me? Darn my buttons! mother allus said I was the most forgitful child she had, and I’m forever provin’ the fact to myself in this very way. Me? Why, bless you, I’m Jonathan Boggs, all the way from Maine! Jonathan Boggs, stranger, a first-rate feller on the whole, who was considered the smartest member of his father’s family, until he robbed neighbor Green’s hen-roost and had to turn tail on the old humstead.”

Jim McCabe began to regard the Yankee with some curiosity.

“When did you arrive here, Mr. Boggs?” he inquired.

“I brought up in this hamlet yesterday,” replied the Yankee, squeezing his hands with difficulty into the pockets of his “tights.”

“Yesterday,” repeated the other. “It may seem strange to you, but I really think I have seen your face somewhere.”

“Dew tell? I s’pect you have, mister, for I often go there,” said the “specimen,” with provoking coolness. “As Tabitha Simpson used to say, ‘Cousin Jonathan must be known to be liked,’ and I’m glad to l’arn as how my phiz ain’t unfamiliar tew you—”

But Jim McCabe was too thoroughly exasperated by the sang froid of his interlocutor, to let him go on in this strain.

“Well, well!” he exclaimed, “if you have any thing of importance to say, I wish to hear it at once.”

“Want to know!” returned the stranger, elevating his eyebrows. “Now that’s what I call right down mean, bluffin’ a chap off in that ’ere style when he’s talkin’ ’bout the land of his birth, and old-time associations. I find I can’t talk enough to please you, but I calkilate you’ll ’scuse me on the score that natur’ neglected to put the gift o’ gab in my blamed noddle.

“Now, in that respect, I ain’t one iotum like the old woman, ’cause why? she can talk the ha’r right off o’ your head in three jerks of a possum’s ear, and ef you’s with her from Sunday mornin’ till Saturday night, you wouldn’t find a chance to crowd in a word edgewise. But I did forgit my business, that’s a fact; thereby givin’ further proof that mother told no lie, when she said as how I was etarnally disrememberin’ every blamed thing of importance. But now tew the p’int, as Tabitha allus said, when tellin’ one o’ her long-winded yarns. Tabitha had been childerns’ nuss at some time of her life, and so had acquired a habit o’ story-tellin’ that clung to her through the hull course of her existence—”

“Curse you for an idiot!” growled McCabe, irascibly, and with an oath he started away.

“Hold on, mister,” said Jonathan Boggs, coolly laying his hand on the other’s shoulder. “Don’t go off ’thout hearin’ me through.”

“Hands off, scoundrel!” commanded the settler, fiercely. “I’ll knock you down if you repeat this insult.”

“I wouldn’t dew that, mister, I swow I wouldn’t. It takes such a hard lick to knock me down that ye might cripple your hand for life. Besides, when I was a boy it wa’n’t considered healthy tew undertake sech a rash job, and even now you might not be dewin’ the right thing toward yourself.”

Jim McCabe was a coward, like all other bullies. So these words, and the manner in which they were uttered, alarmed him not a little.

“Who the deuce are you, anyway?” he demanded, sullenly.

“Jonathan Boggs, from Maine,” was the quiet reply.

“And your business with me?”

“Now that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along, but you wouldn’t listen. I sell clocks for a livelihood. I’ve rented a room in the block-house yonder, and by Jupiter! it’s e’na’most filled up with my clocks. Reckon you’ll buy a clock, won’t you?”

“Fool!” McCabe stamped his foot with vexation, and again turned on his heel to leave his persecutor. But again that opposing hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was once more detained against his will.

“Ain’t you gwine to buy a clock?” asked the Yankee. “I tell you, mister, they’re the nicest thing under the sun and jest presactly what you want. I swow, by gravy, it’s the most complete invention in existence. Why, the man as made them clocks died. He was tew confounded smart tew live—”

“Stop!” said the settler, imperatively. “I don’t wish to buy, and you will oblige me by discontinuing the subject.”

“You don’t tell me! Wal, I don’t wish to impose on the patience of an indulgent audience. I’ve sold so many clocks since I come, that I ain’t spilin’ for your patronage nohow, so we’ll drap the topic. I say, mister, that was a bad thing ’bout your feller-citizen, Doctor Trafford, bein’ killed in his own house, wa’n’t it?”

“It was indeed,” was the brief answer.

“It was, sure’s shootin’,” continued the Yankee; “but the wust part o’ the hull sarcumstance was the awful mistake of arrestin’ the doctor’s own nephew, and hangin’ him for the murder.”

“Mistake!” echoed McCabe, looking sharply at the speaker. “Why, sir, there was no mistake about it. Russell Trafford was found guilty before he was punished. He did do the deed.”

“Did he though? Now that beats me. I s’pose you was there, and see’d him dew it?”

“Not I, sir, but a small boy, who had been in the doctor’s employ, saw the doctor’s nephew set fire to the building.”

“Wal, the lad might have been bribed tew tell all that, you know. I’ve hearn the hull story two or three times, and I hope I may be shot for a chicken-thief ef the young man done the job.”

“Dare you assert that he did not do it?”

“Yas.”

Jim McCabe started visibly at this cool affirmation, and for an instant his naturally red face was almost pale. But he was quickly himself again, and with an incredulous smile, he muttered:

“Pshaw! the cursed fool don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Then he turned on his heel again, and this time he was off and walking briskly away before the Yankee could detain him. Jonathan Boggs looked after him for a moment with a curious expression on his face, and then turning aside, he boldly entered the house of Mr. Moreland, without so much as knocking at the door.

Jim McCabe had not proceeded far, after leaving his new acquaintance so abruptly, before he met another person who stopped him. This was a small boy, about fourteen years of age, who wore a jaunty cap, a green jacket, and corduroy knee-breeches, which revealed his nationality as plainly as did his face. He was a bright-looking little fellow, with intelligent blue eyes and rosy cheeks, and, in fact, was no less a personage than Mike Terry, the former servant of Doctor Trafford. He it was who had furnished the evidence that convicted his master’s murderer.

“The top iv the mornin’ to yeez, Jamie,” said the young Hibernian, as he met McCabe.

“Well, what do you want?” gruffly demanded the man, as the boy seized his arm to prevent him from passing on.

“An’ is it that same quistion ye’d be askin’, sure? Phat w’u’d I be afther wantin’ but money?”

“I haven’t any money,” declared McCabe, angrily.

“I know yeez have,” asserted the boy, firmly, “an’ be gorra, ef yeez don’t give it to me, sorry the day yer honor iver timpted me to desart me colors, intirely. Av I wasn’t yer cousin, Jamie, I should niver have done that wicked thing, no more w’u’d I. An’ av it was all to do over, it isn’t the likes iv Mike Terry that ’ud play false to a kind masther for love or money. For Doctor Trafford and Masther Russell were good to me, Jamie, an’ but for you—”

“Hush, Mike,” continued the man, glancing uneasily around. “Have you gone crazy, or do you wish to expose me?”

“I ain’t carin’ much phat I do. Av yeez don’t kape me in money I won’t hold yer saycret a day longer; divil a bit will I. Ye’ve med a bad b’y iv me, Jamie, an’ ye’re me own cousin, too.”

“Here; take this, boy,” said the angry man, handing him a coin, “and for heaven’s sake let it seal your lips. I can’t afford to give you money every day. Now go.”

So Jim McCabe and Mike Terry parted, both of them looking very much discontented as they walked away in opposite directions.

When they were well gone, a man rose from behind a pile of logs within a few feet of the spot where they had stood conversing. It was the man of the bandaged eye and red, straggling beard, of whom we made mention in the foregoing chapter, and as he strode away, dragging his gun after him, his face was still expressionless.

The eavesdropper was Nick Robbins.

As we have already stated, the grave of Doctor Trafford’s supposed murderer was in a pretty little glade just outside of the settlement. Those who had known and liked the young man were only too glad to perform any office of respect to his corpse, and the grave had been dug so deep that there was no possibility of the body being reached by wild animals.

To this lonely spot the intimate friends of Russell Trafford would repair at times to lament, in solitude, the loss of one so good, noble, yet unfortunate.

That night, after his interview with Isabel Moreland, and the provoking stranger, Jonathan Boggs, Jim McCabe was seized with a strong inclination to pay a visit to the tomb of his ill-fated rival in love. Of course this inclination was not born of any such feeling as grief or regret for the lost one, but, rather, of a desire to exult over his fallen foe, and glut his greedy eyes on the last resting-place of the man who would never more stand in his way. He had not seen it as yet—in fact, he had not been outside of the palisades since the day of the execution—and he now felt as if he must see the place where the man was buried, before he could fully realize that his most dangerous rival was indeed out of his way.

The thought struck McCabe while he was sauntering through the settlement. It was night, but not a dark one by any means. The moon was shining in all her glory, and not a cloud obscured the star-studded sky; and, as Jim McCabe seldom turned a deaf ear to the voice of his inclination, he was not long in determining to follow it on this occasion. The hour was late, and none of the inhabitants were out, save a few who sat in their doors, and they would suppose he was merely going out for a stroll in the moonlight. But, pshaw! even if they should see where he went, would they not think he had gone there to drop a silent tear on the sod that covered the remains of a noble man?

He went. He told the man at the gate, as he passed out, that he would return in a few minutes, and then he walked slowly away into the shadows of the forest. He was musing on the events of the day as he wandered on; of the freezing coldness with which Isabel Moreland had met him; of the eccentric character, Jonathan Boggs, from Maine; and not a little of his cousin, the Irish boy, who had demanded money of him.

Thus meditating, Jim McCabe arrived at his destination. Emerging from the darkness of the woods, he paused on the edge of the glade to contemplate the scene before him.

Yes, there was the grave of the man he hated, in the very center of the open place—the small, grassy mound he had come to gloat over. He saw it now, and was satisfied; but why did the villain start back and stare, as his gleaming eyes alighted on the object he had come here to see? Why did he seem so surprised, and even alarmed? Well he might, for he saw at a glance that he was not the only person in that lonely spot. A man was there—a tall, finely-formed man, standing by the grave, with his head bowed upon his breast! He was motionless as a statue of stone. Who was this man—this mourner—this night visitor at the tomb of Russell Trafford?

Jim McCabe asked himself this question over and over, gazing keenly at the stately figure before him for an answer. Had he not seen that tall, graceful form before? He thought at first that he had, but, as he called to mind every person of his acquaintance, and compared them with this one, he was compelled to admit that this one was a stranger to him. Just as he arrived at this conclusion the unknown moved. He turned half around, which gave the silent watcher a full view of his face. The moonlight fell on his bare head, revealing a noble forehead, a pair of brilliant eyes, and features of the handsomest mold.

Good Heaven! the man was Russell Trafford himself!

Jim McCabe staggered backward, and grasped a tree for support. His face changed to a deathly pallor, the perspiration poured from his brow, and for a moment his breath came in spasmodic gasps. Russell Trafford! he who had been hung—he who was dead and buried—now standing before him in all his living health and manly beauty! Great God could he believe his eyes? Had not he himself seen the man hung? Was he dreaming, or was this some frightful delusion of a disordered brain? That face, with the mellow light of the moon falling gently upon it, was not to be mistaken.

While the terrified ruffian was staring at the apparition, still another figure appeared in the glade. This, more to his surprise, he observed was not a male, but a female figure. It wore a white dress, and it was gliding toward the grave in the center of the natural clearing. Another keen glance, and McCabe had recognized this new appearance. It was Isabel Moreland!

Dumb with amazement, the lurker could do nothing but stand and stare. He saw the woman go up to the man; he saw the man catch her in his arms, and press his lips to her fair brow; and then he heard the low hum of their voices as they began an earnest but guarded conversation. In an instant his astonishment and consternation were transformed into fierce, ungovernable rage. He forgot, for the moment, that the appearance of this man, alive and well, was the most miraculous thing he had ever heard of. He forgot that he must be dreaming or insane, or that the familiar form before him was but a spirit from the dead. He forgot every thing, except that Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland were standing there within a few feet of him, locked in each other’s arms! His blood boiled in his veins, and his hot head swam with the demoniac fury that took possession of him.

“A thousand curses!” he roared, in a voice hoarse with passion, as he snatched a pistol from his breast. “I swear I’ll kill the scoundrel if he has a hundred lives!”

Like a wild beast bursting from its covert, Jim McCabe sprung from the shadow of the tree, pistol in hand, and bounded across the open space toward the lovers. But he had taken scarcely half a dozen strides, when a rough hand grasped his collar from behind, and he was jerked backward with a violence that well-nigh precipitated him to the ground. As soon as he had regained his equilibrium, he wheeled around to see who it was that had so abruptly put an end to his fierce attack. In the moonlight he saw the faces of three men, all scowling upon him as though he were the worst person in existence! He knew them all at a glance. One of them, he who had seized him by the collar, was Kirby Kidd, the stalwart ranger who had acted the part of hangman in the execution of young Trafford. Another was the friendly Wyandott Indian, Wapawah, the constant companion of the white hunter. The third and last member of the group was Nick Robbins, the man of the bandaged eye and expressionless face.

“What do you want of me?” demanded McCabe; “and what do you mean by jerking a fellow about in that manner?”

“See hyur, youngster,” drawled Kirby Kidd, peering into the face of his captive, “who in creation are you, anyhow?”

“None of your business,” was the curt reply.

“Yas, I thort so,” continued the ranger, coolly. “But, never mind; I know who you be, now. Ye’re Jim McCabe, the chap as are known to be the black sheep of the fort, an’ the sneakin’est hang-dog that ever set fire to a shanty! What in all natur’ are ye—an eediot or a sleep-walker? ’cause it’s plain to this coon ’ut ye’re one or t’other. What wur ye caperin’ round hyur fur? Hav yer treed sunkthin’?”

“Can’t you see what it is?” exclaimed McCabe, wildly. “Where are your eyes? Don’t you see Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing there, locked in a close embrace?”

“What! When? Where?” ejaculated Kirby Kidd and Nick Robbins, in a breath.

“Why, there!” roared the ruffian, in the wildest excitement, pointing toward the grave as he spoke.

“This coon sees nothin’,” asserted Kidd.

“Neither do this ’un,” echoed Robbins.

Nor did Jim McCabe himself see the apparitions now. During the brief space of time that his eyes were averted from the spot, the two figures had disappeared! Had he, after all, been laboring under a freak of imagination? He stared blankly at the three men, and the three men stared blankly at him.

“Poor cuss!” said the ranger; “he’s gone crazy, to a sartainty.”

“I haven’t—I deny it,” panted the terrified wretch. “By the Great Jehovah, I saw them as plainly as I now see you!”

“Yer see’d who?”

“Why, Miss Moreland and that young scamp of a Trafford.”

“Poor cuss!” repeated the ranger, slowly. “He is crazy, mold me into buckshot ef he ain’t.”

“I tell you I am not,” cried the villain, with an oath.

“Look hyur, kumrid,” argued Nick Robbins, “the man ye speak of are dead, and thar’s his grave, right behind ye. Kidd, thar, wur the coon as hung him, an’ ’most ev’rybody at the fort wur out hyur when the buryin’ tuck place.”

“I know all that, and yet I have not taken leave of my senses. If I did not see the real Russell Trafford, I saw his ghost, although I was never thought to believe in such things. He was standing yonder by the grave, and he was joined there by a female, whom I at once recognized as the daughter of Mr. Moreland.”

“I reckon ’twur a couple o’ spooks,” said Kidd, solemnly. “Whar wur ye goin’ when we saw fit to detain yer?”

“I was approaching the ‘spooks,’ as you call them.”

“Approachin’ ’em? Yas, I guess ye wur, but ye may mold me into buckshot ef I don’t think ye’re a sleep-walker. Ye started off as if yer futur’ redemption depended upon yer speed, an’ I must say ’ut ye seemed jest the least little bit angry, or frightened, or excited, or sunkthin’ else, ’cause why? yer face was redder’n I ever see’d it, an’ ye cussed like a trooper, an’ yer eyes shined like hot fat. What ye got that pistol in yer hand fur?”

The ranger looked straight in the eye of McCabe as he made this last inquiry. McCabe started nervously, and quickly thrust the pistol into his pocket.

“I hardly know why I drew the weapon,” he answered, turning very red, “but surely with no intention of using it. But, my friends, how came you here at this hour of the night?” he added, not caring particularly to continue the subject.

“How kum us hyur? Wal, ye see, Nick, thar, is a great coon-hunter, an’ me an’ the red-skin volunteered to ’kump’ny him to-night on one of his nocturnal tramps. But that reminds me, kumrids, that it’s time we wur movin’ on.”

“And I must return home,” said McCabe. “So good night.”

They parted, and while the three hunters went their way Jim McCabe walked slowly homeward.

He was sorely troubled. He could not banish his strange adventure from his mind. That he had seen either the ghost or exact counterpart of Russell Trafford, he was morally certain, and that the female who joined him was the beautiful Isabel, he was ready to swear. A train of horrible thoughts passed through his mind as he walked through the dark woods, and then he began to glance suspiciously around on every side, and tremble unconsciously at every rustle of a leaf. Once he stopped short and caught his breath, at sight of his own shadow on the trunk of a tree, and then he hurried on, chiding himself for his weakness. Nor did he feel safe until he had dashed through the gate, and found himself once more within the stockade.

“Strange,” he whispered to himself, as he hastened home; “’tis very strange indeed, but I know that I was not walking in my sleep. I believe that I am haunted. It never occurred to me before to-night that I am a double murderer!”

To say that Jim McCabe soon forgot his midnight adventure would not be speaking truthfully, for he did not. It preyed upon his mind so continuously that his once red face began to grow pale and haggard, and his eyes hollow. He unconsciously acquired the habit of falling into a deep reverie when alone, and on such occasions he started nervously when spoken to, and stared wildly around. In his dreams he saw visions of Russell Trafford and Isabel Moreland standing by the grave in the glade, and sometimes it seemed as if they were joined there by Doctor Trafford, the murdered man. He could not muster up courage sufficient to pay that lonely tomb another visit after dark, for, though always before he laughed at the mere idea of ghosts appearing to mortals on this earth, he now firmly believed that he had seen the spirit of a dead man! He could not, nor did he attempt to, explain the mysterious actions of Isabel, and her meeting with the supposed ghost, but he thought of it a great deal, and even told the girl’s father about it.

Yes, embracing the first opportunity that offered, McCabe related the circumstance to Moreland. That is to say, he informed that gentleman that he had seen his daughter meet a man in the woods; but he forbore mentioning the resemblance of the man to Russell Trafford, for fear such a statement would make him an object of ridicule. Mr. Moreland was sadly grieved by the intelligence. It is hardly probable that he would have put any faith in the testimony of such an unreliable person as Jim McCabe, had he not heard the same story from other sources. Different parties, happening by the glade on different nights, had come to him with the information that they had been very much surprised by seeing his daughter meet a man there in a very loverlike manner. None of them was prepared to say who the man was, since they had not been able to see his face, but that of Isabel seemed to have been plainly visible on each and every occasion.

No wonder, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Moreland were deeply troubled, and began to look on their daughter with distrust. Was it possible that Isabel, always so good and dutiful, was clandestinely meeting a stranger every night in the woods? They would fain have turned a deaf ear to every word touching the character of their idolized child, but all of those who had witnessed the secret meetings—we may except McCabe—were persons whom they positively could not disbelieve. They were at a loss what course to pursue. They decided to say nothing on the subject to their daughter, but to devise a plan instead, of putting an end to the nocturnal meetings without seeming to have such an object in view. The whole settlement was soon talking about the mysterious stranger, wondering who in the world he was, whence he came, and where he kept himself during the day. And the men looked puzzled, and the women held up their hands with horrified looks, as they speculated on the immodest conduct of Miss Moreland, but not a word of the gossip reached the ear of the wronged girl herself. All knew that the death of Russell Trafford had wrought a marked change in her appearance, but already the roses were returning to her cheeks, the luster to her eyes, and she was fast becoming the same light-hearted, joyous girl that had once been the light and life of the whole settlement. Was not this, in itself, proof that she had forgotten her old love?