and strode across t'he illuminated space. I
rubbed my eyes, and cautiously raised myself
on my elbow.

The last speaker was of gigantic stature, with
a fell of shaggy black hair tumbling on the
collar of his red woollen shirt; his face was a
stern and forbidding one, like that of some
robber soldier in a Flemish picture; he wore a
pistol and a bowie knife, ostentatiously displayed,
in the black leather belt around his waist.

"All right, captain! 'twar that rampaging
black beast, Jem Hudson's colt, that got loose
a minit," answered a man from without; and
very soon several men and two or three women
entered the log-house. Most of the new comers
were ruffianly figures, with the brass-bound
handles of knives or pistols peeping out of their
pockets, or protruding from the breasts of their
homespun coats; but one or two had the air of
educated men, though their keen faces showed
traces of evil passions and evil habits. One
old man—he must have been more than sixty—
was well dressed in the unpretending garments
of a respectable Western farmer, and his weather-
beaten but mild face contrasted with the ferocity
and recklessness of the countenances around
him. The man with the high cracked voice,
who wore a town-made suit of dilapidated broadcloth,
accosted this new comer as Mr. Stone, and
asked if his wife intended to give the company
any supper or not?

"The mississ is comin' in: you'd best ask
her," said the old farmer, philosophically
lighting his pipe. Mrs. Stone, a tall bony
virago, here bustled forward to answer for
herself, which she did by telling the hungry querist
that he was " a greedy, cowardly, troublesome,
turkey-buzzard of a Yankee, and that he had
better have been helping to caché the horses and
unload the boats, than calling for food as if he
was in some fine city hotel."

While thus upbraiding the man in black—
who indeed seemed to hold a very low position
in the esteem of his comrades—Mrs. Stone
bustled furiously to and fro, and before long a
great frying-pan, full of pieces of pork, was
sputtering on the fire, while several junks of
beef and venison were broiling on impromptu
spits made of ramrods stuck in the soft clay of
the floor. Mrs. Stone was aided in these culinary
processes by a pretty modest looking girl of
eighteen, whose pale sad face looked out of
keeping with the place and company, and whom
I discovered to be her eldest daughter. A
younger girl, about fourteen years of age, looked on
from the outer circle. I no longer felt the slightest
inclination to address the members of this group,
and hardly knew in what light to consider them.
I could form no guess as to their calling or
object, but I instinctively cowered down among
the branches and hid myself from observation.
I felt that something was amiss, and that
discovery might lead to awkward results. General
Flint was asleep, but I feared that every moment
he might awake and utter some exclamation,
while it was always possible that his heavy
breathing might draw the attention of some sharp-
eared member of the band. Some of the party
had seated themselves on barrels or logs, with
every sign of fatigue, but the rest stood watching
the pork as it bubbled in the pan, and the
steaks browning before the fierce fire. Several
voices were speaking at once, and I only caught
unconnected scraps of the talk.

"Jem Hudson was terrible riled. He set
such a vally on that colt. If his gun hadn't
had too much powder in it, this child would have
been a gone coon, I guess."

"I think Hiram Stout's a deal uglier than
Jem. He owes us a grudge, he does. I reckon
Tennessee's gettin' too hot to hold us."

"Keep your opinion till it's axed for, greenhorn,"
said the big man who had been addressed
as captain, and who spoke in a tone of bully-
ing authority. " This nigger don't need a
Pennsylvany chicken to tell him when a melonsquash
is squeezed dry."

"Here's your victuals ready, and no lady in
Illinoy State could have fixed' 'em better, nor
yet slicker," exclaimed Mrs. Stone, in an
argumentative manner, as if to challenge contradiction.
But nobody picked up the gauntlet. A
circle was formed, some walnut-wood platters
and pewter pannikins were produced from a
hiding-place, the company drew their bowie
knives, and Mrs. Stone carried round the frying-
pan, in order that every one might help
himself: while her two daughters followed, one with
the steaks still stuck upon the iron-tipped
ramrods, the other with some lumps of " corn-bread"
in a basket.

It was at this moment that I felt my wrist
cautiously grasped by a set of long lean fingers,
and could hardly repress an exclamation, when,
looking round, I saw that Jeremiah Flint was
awake, and had risen to a kneeling position,
keeping at the same time well behind the screen
of brushwood.

"It's well I woke. We're in a fix, mister,
we air." I looked round. I could see by the
faint light that my companion's resolute face
was very pale. "Very bad this—wuss than
scalding water, mebbe; we've got into the den
of a grizzly, mister; and if we carry our scalps
out, we may be thankful a few."

I began to be seriously alarmed. I was
yet in ignorance as to the true character of those
on whose bounds we seemed to be unwitting
trespassers, but I knew that Flint, who had
spent years in the wild West, had a stout heart,
and that his apprehensions were not likely to be
roused without reason.

"I know more than one of 'em, Mr. Barham,"
whispered the general; " that tall fishrod of a
man in the tail-coat, comes from Concord, Mass.:
he was a regular penitentiary bird, he was.
That German rogue in the cap, is Fritz Vogel,
who was nigh hanged at Chicago last fall. And
—may I never!— but that big chap in the red
shirt the captain turns out to be Black
Dave."

"Black Dave?"

"Ay, Black Dave, or David Jossam, the
most e-tarnal thief! Famous for stealing horses,