Part 2

"Captain Skinner's jest the man to try it and find out. Thar'll be a hot time, thar will."

Two Knives probably had some such idea in his head, for his next orders, when carried out, left Bill and his two mates firmly bound to separate trees, so that no braves need be compelled to waste their precious time as "guards" over them.

The fate of the three prisoners was a matter to be thought over. To-la-go-to-de was by no means sure he had no further use for them. He could wait until his braves should return from the examination he had ordered of the plain below the valley. It was less than an hour before they came back, and in a remarkable hurry, with the news of the approach of the main body of the pale-faces.

Old Two Knives merely nodded his head. His captives had told him the truth. But that number of white men would not be likely to attack at once so strong a band as his own. A full company of regular cavalry would hardly have been enough to scare him, for the Lipans are second to no other tribe in their fighting qualities, and these were picked and chosen warriors.

"Pale-face come. Laugh at him."

Captain Skinner and his men saw nothing to laugh at when they rode near enough to understand the condition of affairs in their camp. The blow had fallen upon them so suddenly that for some moments after they halted on the plain, half a mile away, not a man could say a word.

"It's our fault. Cap. We ort to have follered your advice."

"Ort not to have left the camp."

"You was right."

"It's too late for that kind of talk, boys. The question for us is, what had we best do. Anybody got anything to say?"

There was another moment of glum, sulky silence, and then a perfect storm of angry outcries.

"Charge in on 'em."

"Kill every soul of 'em."

"Fight right away."

"We won't lose all that's in them wagons."

"That'll do, boys. I know you've got all the grit for a fight," said Captain Skinner; "but suppose they're too much for us, and wipe us all out, what then?"

"Then that's what it'll have to be, Cap. We're ready."

"All right, boys. But no matter what comes, not a man of you must run. Not for a yard."

"We'll stand by ye, Cap."

"Most likely thar ain't no use talking of Bill and the boys."

"Not much, I reckon. They had no kind of show."

There was no time to do any mourning for their comrades, but the way in which that line of white horsemen now rode forward made the Lipans open their eyes in astonishment.

"Keep about a rod apart," said the Captain. "Walk your horses. Don't fire a shot unless you've got a good aim at something. We'll draw them nigh enough to teach 'em a thing or two."

For once even old Two Knives, with all his cunning, was led into making a mistake. He was unwise enough to try and scare those miners, when there was not a man among them who knew how to be afraid, and they had all agreed to be killed rather than not whip those Lipans and get back what was in the wagons.

It was a bad mistake for those Indians to make even a threat of a charge, when it brought them, in a pretty compact mass, just as they were about to wheel, instead of "charging," less than two hundred yards from the steady line of pale-faces.

"Now, boys, save every shot."

It was not a volley. The rifles cracked rapidly, one after another, but all were fired in a very few seconds, and the Lipans recoiled in dismay, firing wildly as they went, and carrying off their dead and wounded.

"Keep it up, boys. Steady. Take a pony if you can't hit a red-skin."

The "rally" of the Lipans was quickly made, and their own firing grew hotter, but it had little of the cool accuracy that Captain Skinner insisted on from his own men. All the while, too, he was moving steadily forward, and To-la-go-to-de began to understand what kind of men he had to deal with.

A sharp, deep-throated order to three of his braves was rapidly obeyed, and in a few minutes more the miners heard their Captain's voice, excitedly,

"Halt! They've brought out the boys. They've stopped firing."

It was precisely so. There were Bill and his two mates, on foot, with their arms tied behind them, and before each stood a Lipan with his lance levelled, ready to strike at a moment's warning.

"That's plain, boys. They've got their lesson. Don't want any more. Want a talk. They'll kill those three if we don't hold up."

"We've only lost two, Cap, and we've laid out more'n a dozen of them."

"Save the boys."

"No fault of their'n."

"Have a talk, Cap."

"We'll have to give up something if we do," said the Captain, in a dubious tone. "They'll never give us back the outfit, you know."

"You know what we want. We're close to the border now."

"All right. I'll ride out. I reckon their chief'll come to meet me."

The meaning of the Lipans had been plain enough. The sudden firing of the miners upon their superior force had had all the effect of a surprise.

They were furiously angry over their losses, but their wise leader saw that he must give them a breathing spell. No troops in the world could stand a fire so withering as that which came from the repeating rifles of the desperadoes. Quite as many ponies as men had gone down, and their morning's plunder had already cost them more than it was worth. Therefore it must not be permitted to cost them any more, if they could help it by threats and talking.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A COMPLICATED PREDICAMENT.

BY F. B. STANFORD.

Josephus Jones was his name in full, but he was called Seph by familiar acquaintances, and usually designated as "Potter's colored boy." In his stockings he stood about four feet five, was black as ebony, and had an inclination to grin more or less. When in full costume he wore his employer's discarded cowhide boots, a blue flannel shirt, a frock-coat ornamented with brass buttons, and a faded felt hat that had a ragged vent-hole in the crown. Trouble usually slipped from his mind and memory like water from a duck's back; but at the time about to be mentioned he was considerably disturbed because he was not white "like other folks."

The white boys and girls in the Potter neighborhood had been planning several weeks to have a masquerade party in the old red school-house, and Seph desired above all things to have a share in the fun and eatables of the occasion. His color and scanty wardrobe, however, were likely to debar him the privilege.

"It do'n' make no dif'rence nohow," he said to himself, after mature deliberation. "I's gwine to hab a show in dat party one way or nudder."

When the expected day at last arrived, he watched the preparations anxiously all the morning and afternoon. The inside of the school-house was first abundantly trimmed with evergreen, then a stage was erected in one corner for a fiddler, and next a long table was arranged at the back of the room for the refreshments, which were brought in baskets by several of the boys and girls from time to time. Finally the table-cloths were spread, and the girls drew from the mysterious baskets frosted cakes wrapped in tissue-paper, great bloated pies, nuts and raisins, oranges and big bunches of grapes, paper bags filled with candy, and, in fact, a quantity of good things that made Seph's mouth water while he looked in through one of the windows.

At home, late in the afternoon, Job Potter secretly led him up to an unfinished room over the wood-shed, and showed him his mask and outfit, which were hidden away in a barrel. He made Seph try on the mask, the old beaver hat, and the coat, just to see how they were going to look.

"Father is mighty sot on not lettin' me go," said Job, "but I'm a-goin', now, you better believe. Don't say anything, though. Mum's the word."

Seph said that he would take care. But an hour afterward, when he saw the Deacon, as Job's father was familiarly called, come down from the shed chamber, and carry Job's mask and costume to a hiding-place in the barn, he had to lie down behind the wood-pile, and hold both hands over his mouth to keep his laughter from being heard.

At the supper table Deacon Potter announced to the whole family that he did not approve of masquerade parties anyway, and certainly not for young people. Job must just make up his mind to stay at home.

Seph was bringing in the kindling-wood for the morning, and heard the Deacon's command. A few minutes later a great thought took complete possession of him. If Job couldn't go, why shouldn't he go in his place?

"Dar's no reason in de world why I habn't jes' as good a right to go as he hab, an' I's gwine to, sure's my name's Josephus."

He hurried through all the chores, swallowed his supper hastily, and took advantage of the first opportunity to slip away to the barn. After hunting all over the hay-mow, and in every hole and corner he could think of, for the concealed articles, he found them under a basket in the corn crib.

Luckily the moon was just coming up, and the cracks in the barn admitted glimmer enough for him to see where he was, and what he was doing. He very soon exchanged his own garments piece by piece for Job's Sunday suit, which, with the exception of the pantaloons, fitted him very well.

While his teeth chattered, and his whole body trembled with nervous excitement, he put on the mask and the beaver hat. These, together with the coat collar turned up, completely concealed his face, head, and neck; and tucked away in a pocket of the coat there happened to be an old pair of brown cotton gloves Job sometimes wore to meeting, that supplied the last necessity to the disguise. Should it be found out that he wasn't Job, Seph knew very well what his fate would be, and he took care to have every part of his black skin and woolly head thoroughly covered before he ventured forth.

In a very short time he arrived in sight of the school-house lights, and heard the fiddle already under way. Heads were bobbing past the windows in rapid succession, as though all were dancing, and the sounds of mirth and revelling that floated out toward him gave his blood a stimulating tingle.

Not a minute was to be wasted; it was "time already to be in dar 'mong de victuals, an' circ'latin' wid de crowd," he thought, walking up boldly to the door, where a dozen or more boys were watching the arrival of each new-comer.

"Now, then, here we have him!" said one, and for an instant Seph hesitated.

"It's Billy Tarbox," cried another.

"No, 'tain't," said somebody else; "it's Job Potter. Hey, Job, you've got on your go-to-meetin' clothes; you can't fool us."

Seph felt a laugh tickle him clear down to the soles of Job's boots; but he was a trifle nervous also, and consequently suppressed it quickly. Without saying anything, he pushed by them, and entered.

"Here's Job!" "Here's Job!" shouted every one at once; and before Seph could make up his mind what to do, fifteen or twenty boys and girls in masks began to caper around him. As soon as he did collect his scattered wits, however, he decided to play that he was dumb, and refused to speak. That made them laugh, and shortly they left him to greet another arrival.

Nobody, indeed, seemed to have the least suspicion who he really was. They'd "neber cotch him to let dem know, needer," Seph ruminated. He guessed he'd "cut his eye-teeth, an' knew what he was 'bout. When dar was mince-pies 'round, an' stuffed chicken, an' heaps ob good things, jes' lebe him alone."

"But," as the old saying has it, "there is many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip." Before supper-time could draw near, there was a little catastrophe awaiting Seph that he had not counted on.

It arose from the fact that there was a meeting at the church that evening which the Deacon and Mrs. Potter attended, their way lying directly past the school-house. Who ever could have supposed that curiosity would have prompted the two good old people to look in and see what the young folks were about, even though they did not approve of such goings on?

But in the mean time Seph enjoyed himself amazingly. He watched the table longingly; he listened to the fiddle, and danced until he was out of breath; he played chase the squirrel, and had capital fun for an hour or more; then the end was at hand.

While standing in the middle of the floor, hesitating what to take part in next, he happened to notice a face outside one of the windows, and it did not take him more than the thousandth part of a second to recognize the Deacon looking straight at him. It was a tremendous moment, and Seph could almost feel the wool on the top of his head uncurl and rise right up under his hat.

His first impulse was to make a rush for the door. When he crossed the entry door-sill, however, he stubbed one foot, and fell, and the Deacon's hand was on him before he could recover himself.

He led Seph down the road, Mrs. Potter following close behind and pleading for mercy, as mothers do.

But in a moment the mask fell off, and the Deacon, amazed, let go his hold.

"What--!"

Seph did not wait to hear anything more, but ran into the bushes, then leaped over a fence, and ran at his best speed across an acre or two of ploughed ground.

"By golly!" he gasped, dropping down at last exhausted. "I reckon I's glad I'm black dis yere time, anyhow!"

Sorely disappointed, however, he skulked back to the barn, and there another misfortune overtook him--his own clothes had disappeared.

For a moment or two this startling discovery was too much for his intellect to grasp. He searched here and there desperately, overturned the hay, upset a barrel of oats, frightened the hens from their roosts, and got the horse to neighing. Then, scared and bewildered, he rushed outside, undecided what to do.

Surprise, however, awaited him here again. In a moment he saw himself--or at least somebody, with a black face and his clothes on--steal out from the wood-shed near by, and hurry down to the road.

If he wasn't himself, who in de world was he? dat's what he'd like to know.

But in about three minutes, when he saw the mysterious personage and the Deacon meet unexpectedly near a great tree that stood in the yard, he was never so glad in his life to be in some other fellow's clothes.

Seph ran over to the wood-shed, climbed up the ladder to the chamber above, and began to disrobe himself of Job's clothes in a hurry. He had got them all off, when the personage came scrambling up the ladder also, and the two confronted each other in the straggling moonbeams that found their way through a cobwebbed window.

"What yer gwine to do wid my clothes on, Job Potter?" Seph asked, wrathfully.

"Nothin'. Pa's spoilt it all! He fust thought that you was me, and then that I was you. There's no goin' to the party, anyway."

Seph dropped down on the floor, and let out the laugh that had been tickling him several times during the evening.

"It am all on account ob de Deacon bein' so onreasonable," he said. "We's had a perdicament for sartin."

THE SHEPHERD'S FRIENDS.

It is not difficult to recognize, even under their funny disguises, the dogs that are performing this little comedy. Even if their faces were completely hidden, the Highland bonnet and the shepherd's plaid on the back of the bench would betray them. They are Scotch shepherd dogs, or collies. Both are young, and are in the early stages of their education. They are learning to know their master's voice and to understand his wishes.

To sit up on its hind-legs, with a cap on its head and a pipe in its mouth, must certainly be very trying even to a good-tempered dog. The cap is very heavy and uncomfortable, and the pipe has not the least bit of bone flavor about it. But the dog that holds the pipe and the dog that wears the good wife's sun-bonnet know, or at least are learning to know, that what their master bids them do must be done, if possible.

There is a very serious side to the life of a shepherd's dog in the Scottish Highlands, to which this merry masquerading forms a pleasant contrast. Day after day he must accompany the shepherd and his flock, and keep watch over the straying sheep upon the mountain-side.

When the faithful colly has thoroughly learned his business, he may have a chance to win other prizes besides his daily food and his master's friendship; for in Scotland prizes are often given to the dog that proves himself the best in a "field trial."

A flock of sheep is turned out upon a mountain-side, and in a distant part of it a "pen" is made with hurdles just large enough to hold the flock. An opening just wide enough for one sheep to pass in, at a time, is left. The shepherds in turn send their dogs out, and the dog that can drive all the sheep into the pen in the shortest time wins the prize. Each shepherd "works" his own dog, that is, he directs it with his voice, but is not allowed to help his dog in turning the sheep.

A shepherd who was watching his flock on a dark night saw them suddenly break away in all directions. Calling up his dog, he gave chase; but the sheep were wild, and he could not turn them. Soon they were all out of sight. He wandered over the mountain all night, but no trace of them could he find, until just at daybreak he came upon them, collected together--there were seven hundred of them--and there, keeping watch and ward over them, was his faithful dog. It had spent the night in gathering them together, and as they were too tired to walk home, the faithful animal sat down and waited until his master should find them at daybreak.

The dogs in the picture are the old shepherd's playmates now. They will soon be his most faithful friends and servants. Perhaps they may be the means of saving his life, for many and many a life has been saved by the intelligence and devotion of these humble creatures.

At last the brave and hardy shepherd will grow old, and the day will come when his sheep will miss him upon the mountain-side. His body is borne to its last resting-place in the peaceful old church-yard, and the neighbors all along the valley come to drop a tear upon his grave. But when all have gone their way sorrowfully, there remains one mourner who will not quit the mound of earth that covers his dear friend and master. It is no one; it is nothing; it is but a poor, ignorant, unreasoning, faithful--dog.

HOME GYMNASTICS FOR STORMY DAYS.

BY SHERWOOD RYSE.

Hoary old winter provides some glorious sports for young limbs, but there come days of fierce snow and rain, or cold, howling winds, when he that ventures out for pleasure is more brave than wise. Books and in-door games then claim attention; but after a whole day, or perhaps two, spent in-doors, they lose their attraction.

Young minds and bodies grow restless and weary. There is no inclination for reading, or study, or play. The blood that only the other day was rushing through the youngster's veins with such force that he jumped and yelled with delight at he knew not what, is now almost as stagnant as a pool of water in a long drought.

It was exercise that made him glad and happy out-of-doors; exercise will make him contented and able to enjoy his book and his games in-doors.

For good in-door exercise there is nothing like a gymnasium. This is fortunate, for every house has a gymnasium in it, if its owners only knew it. It may sound like a strange statement, but it is true. _Every bedroom is a gymnasium._

It is convenient to call this piece of furniture a chair; but if you call the room a gymnasium, you may call this chair a pair of parallel bars and a trapeze. If it is a light chair, and the ceiling is high, you may call it an Indian club and a pair of dumb-bells also if you like. That bed is a horizontal bar; so is the ledge over the door. The wall is an upright bar, and the pillow a sand-bag. When you are sleepy at night, you go to your bedroom; when you awake in the morning and spring out of bed, you find yourself in your gymnasium.

When you are only a little way dressed, try this exercise on your parallel bars: Turn your chair over so that it may rest upon its front legs and the front edge of the seat. Grasp the hind-legs, one in each hand, and with your legs stretched out, and your weight resting on the toes, lower your body until your chest is on a level with the legs of the chair; then push yourself up again by straightening your arms. Do this, without letting go the legs of the chair, two or three times. This will be as many as you will want to try at first, and you must never tire yourself. After several days' practice you will find you can do it a dozen times without any special fatigue, and you will also find that your arms are getting larger and harder.

When you can do this first exercise easily, get another chair, and place the two back to back, and about eighteen inches apart. Stand between them, and grasp the chairs, one with each hand; hold your arms straight, and lift your feet off the floor. Now lower yourself by bending your arms; dip down between the chairs as far as you can, and raise yourself up again without putting your feet to the floor. This exercise is rather harder than the other, and at first you will not be able to make more than perhaps two or three dips, but you will be astonished to find with how few days' practice you will be able to make twelve dips, and soon twenty or more. This is a capital exercise for the chest and arms; and because you are not going to be a lumberman or a wrestler you need not think you are wasting time by developing your muscles.

One of the greatest poets this country has produced, and one of the most able editors of any country, the late William Cullen Bryant, practiced this exercise every morning, and kept it up _until his eighty-fourth year_. What a wonderful old man! But we shall hear more of him soon.

Now for a bed exercise. Grasp the foot-board with the hands close together, and the fingers on the side nearest the body. Bring your elbows together, and leaning forward upon them so that they support your body, balance yourself upon your hands, and go forward until your face almost touches the bedclothes, and your legs are parallel with the floor. This is not easy; but after you have practiced the chair exercises well, you will soon be able to do this several times, and even bring your feet almost down to the floor and return to your balancing position without touching the floor.

One of the fittings of a gymnasium is a "horizontal bar." This you will find in your gymnasium in the ledge over the door. Open the door, and take hold of the ledge, and see how many times you can draw your chin up to the ledge. Not many times at first, you will find. But it is a capital exercise to bring up the biceps, as the muscle in the front of the arm above the elbow is called. Mr. Bryant used to do this exercise on the ledge over the door, and pulled himself up so many times without resting that he could not keep count of them. And he was not a light boy or girl, but an old gentleman of eighty years.

Now try a trapeze exercise, or something very like what is done on a trapeze. Sit on the chair, and place your right hand on the back of it, and with the left hand grasp the seat between your legs. Raise yourself a little by your arms, and pass your right leg through your arms to where the left is, and the left leg through to where the right was. You will then find yourself with your face to the back of the chair. Rest in that position for a few seconds, but without releasing your grasp of the chair, and then pass your legs back to their original position. This is an excellent exercise for the back and legs and arms, and though gymnastics are out of place in the sitting-room, it is a good trick to do when, as sometimes happens, some one is talking about and showing feats of strength.