Part 2

Many Bears had no notion of fighting so terrible an enemy with less than his whole force, and he was in no hurry to begin. Orders were sent for everybody to fall back without allowing themselves to be seen, and the Lipans were allowed to come right along, with the mistaken idea that they were about to make a surprise. They moved in two long scattered ranks, one about a hundred yards in advance of the other, when suddenly old To-la-go-to-de himself rose in his saddle, and sent back a low warning cry.

He had seen shadowy forms flitting along in the gloom around him, and he was not sure but he had heard the beat of hoofs upon the sod. In half a minute after, he had uttered the warning cry which so suddenly halted his warriors, he was quite sure he heard such sounds, and a great many others.

First came a scattering but hot and rapid crash of rifle firing; then a fierce chorus of whoops and yells; then, before the two ranks of Lipans could join in one body, a wild rush of shouting horsemen dashed in between them. There was a twanging of bows, a clatter of lances, and more firing, with greater danger of somebody getting hit than there had been at first. Then in a moment Two Knives found his little band assailed on all sides at once by superior numbers. The orders of Many Bears were that the rear rank of his foes should only be kept at bay at first, so that he could centre nearly all his force upon the foremost squad. The latter contained a bare two dozen of chosen warriors, and their courage and skill were of little use in such a wild hurly-burly. To-la-go-to-de and three more warriors even suffered the disgrace of being knocked from their ponies, tied up, and led away toward the Apache village as prisoners.

The rear rank of the Lipans had made a brave charge, and it had taught them all they needed to know. The battle was lost, and their only remaining hope was in the speed of their horses. They turned from that fruitless charge as one man, and rode swiftly away--swiftly, but not wildly, for they were veterans, and they kept well together. A few of the Apaches followed in pursuit, but the Lipans were well mounted. The approach of night favored them, and in the darkness the main body made its way to the shelter of the mountain pass in safety.

* * * * *

Even before the Apaches had set out to find their Lipan enemies, Murray and Steve made their way across the ford, and were guided by a bright-eyed boy to the lodge which had been set apart for them.

"Now, Steve," said Murray, "you stay here awhile. I can do some things better if I'm alone."

"All right;" and Steve threw himself down on the blanket he had spread upon the grass.

The lodges of the chief were not far apart from each other, and Murray had not gone twenty steps before he found himself in front of one of them, and face to face with a very stout and dark-complexioned squaw. But if she had been a warrior in the most hideous war-paint she could not have expected a man like Send Warning to be startled so at meeting her.

Perhaps she did not notice the tremor which went over him from head to foot, or that his voice was a little husky when he spoke to her. At all events, she answered him promptly enough, for at that moment there was nobody in sight or hearing for whose approval or disapproval Mother Dolores cared a button. The two girls within the tent were not worth considering.

Murray had used his eyes to some purpose when he had watched Dolores at her cooking, and his first words had made her his very good friend.

"Squaw of great chief. Squaw great cook. Know how."

"Is Send Warning hungry?"

"Not now. Eat enough. Great chief and warriors go after Lipans. Pale-faces stay in camp."

"They will all eat a heap when they come back. Bring Lipan scalps, too."

"The Lipans are enemies of the Apaches. The Mexicans are friends."

"The Mexicans!" exclaimed Dolores.

"Yes. Great chief marry Mexican squaw. Handsome. Good cook."

"I am an Apache."

"Yes, Apache now. Mexican long ago. Forget all about it. All about Santa Maria--"

"No, no; the Talking Leaf remembers that."

And the poor woman nervously snatched from her bosom the leaf of the magazine on which was printed the picture of the Virgin and Child, and held it out to Murray. He could but dimly see what it was, but he guessed right, for he said, instantly:

"You remember that, do you? I suppose you never knew how to read. Not many of 'em do, down there. The Apaches came one day and carried you off. Horses, mules, cattle, good cook--killed all the rest."

"How do you know?" suddenly interrupted Dolores. "I remember all that. Don't want to, but I can't help it. Same thing happens a great many times. Apaches are great warriors. Many Bears is a great chief. Bring back heap of prisoners every time."

She was telling Murray what he wanted to know, but he saw that he must ask his questions carefully, for, as he said to himself: "I never saw a woman so completely Indianized. She is more of an Apache than a Mexican now."

He talked and Dolores answered him, and all the while the two girls heard every word. Ni-ha-be would have liked to make comments every now and then, and it was quite a trial to be compelled to keep so still, but Rita would not have spoken on any account. It seemed to her as if Dolores were telling all that to her instead of to Send Warning. She found herself thinking almost aloud about him.

"What a kind, sweet voice he has! He can not speak Apache. I know he is good."

In another moment she again came near betraying herself, for the words were on her very lips before she could stop them and still them down to an excited whisper.

"He is not talking even Mexican now. It is the tongue of the Talking Leaves, and I can hear what he says."

More than that, for she soon found that she could repeat them over and over to herself, and knew what they meant.

Murray had talked to Dolores as long as was permitted by Indian ideas of propriety, and it was just as he was turning away from her that he said to himself, aloud and in English: "I am not mistaken. She is the same woman. Who would have thought she could forget so? I am on the right track now." And then he walked away.

He had not gone far, however, when his footsteps were checked by the sound of war-whoops from the throats of the triumphant braves on their return to the camp.

"That's the whoop for prisoners," he exclaimed. "If they bring in any, I must not let them see me here. I never hated Apaches more in my life. It won't do to lose my friends. Here they come."

He crept to the edge of the bushes and lay still. There would be a council called at once, he knew, and he would be sent for, but he was determined to wait and see what was done with the prisoners.

They were the great To-la-go-to-de and his three chiefs, none of them hurt to speak of, but they were all that were left of the foremost rank of the Lipans in that brief, terrible combat.

Other braves kept back the mob of squaws and children, while the four distinguished captives were almost carried into one of the lodges at the border of the bushes.

Here more thongs of strong deer-skin were tightened upon their helpless limbs, a strong guard of armed braves was stationed in front of the lodge, and the Lipans were left in the dark to such thoughts as might come to them.

Not an Apache among their guards dreamed that anything could happen to the captives. And yet, within two minutes from the time he was spread upon his back and left alone, old Two Knives heard inside the lodge a low warning hiss.

His companions also heard it, but neither of them was so unwise as to answer by a sound.

The hiss was repeated, and now it was close to the chief's ear.

"Friend come. No Tongue is here. Great chief must be snake. Creep through hole in back of lodge. Find plenty horse. Ride fast. Get to pass. Never forget friend. No Tongue come some time."

Even while he was whispering, the sharp edge of Murray's knife was busy with the thongs, and in a moment more all four of the prisoners were free--free to lie silently, while their friend repeated to each in turn his advice as to what they were to do next.

Their nerves had not been shaken by their defeat, and when Murray slipped away again through the slit he had cut in the lodge cover, he was followed by four forms that made their way every bit as quietly as so many snakes could have done.

What puzzled To-la-go-to-de and his friends was that when they ventured to rise upon their feet, out in the dark among the horses, No Tongue was not with them.

"Ugh! Gone!"

"Cunning snake. Stay and strike Apaches. Then come."

"Good friend. Big warrior."

They could not quite understand the matter, but of one thing they were sure: No Tongue had penetrated the Apache camp in the most daring manner, and had set them free at the risk of his life.

He had disappeared now, but they felt abundantly able to look out for themselves.

Even the ordinary watchers of the corral had left their stations to join the shouting crowd in camp, who were boasting of their victory, and the escaping Lipans could do about as they pleased.

They could find no weapons, but there were saddles and bridles and scores of fleet steeds to choose from, and it was but a few minutes before Two Knives and his friends were on their way through the darkness toward the river.

They did not hunt for any ford. Horses and men alike knew how to swim. Once safely across, there was a great temptation to give a whoop, but the chief forbade it.

"No. Keep still. No Tongue is on the trail of the Apaches. Noise bad for him."

With that he sprang into his saddle, and led the way at a fierce gallop.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

INCIDENTS OF THE GREAT FLOOD.

If we could gather together the records of the mighty flood that lately laid waste the great valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, we should have a wonderfully terrible yet glorious picture of peril, suffering, and heroism. Scarcely a town but has its own sad tale of bridges carried away, railroad tracks washed out, houses flooded, and whole families forced to flee before the advancing waters, and in many cases to flee in vain. In Arkansas and Mississippi the mighty "Father of Waters" burst through the great levees which the labor of generations has built up to confine him within bounds, and rushed over the low-lying country beyond, carrying death and desolation with him. In Arkansas City every house was flooded, and families retreated to the upper stories of their homes. Many families whose houses were but of one story were forced to abandon their homes, and trust themselves to small boats or rafts hastily put together.

A sad fate befell one such family. They were a gentleman and his wife and six children, four of whom were between the ages of six and fourteen. The floods had risen around them until not even the roof afforded a safe refuge. Their only hope was a small boat--a "dug-out"--and in it they all embarked. But what chance had they in such a tiny craft and in such a storm? The story is short. The boat capsized, and the father saved his wife, only to realize that they two were left childless.

In another place two brothers were alone in their father's house on the bank of a creek. The water rose so rapidly that before they could realize it the house was surrounded, and they saw no hope but to trust themselves to the water, and endeavor to reach higher ground, where they would be safe. They were brave, strong lads, but all too weak to battle against the raging torrent into which they plunged. One of them was not seen more. The other reached a haven of refuge in a tree, and had help been at hand he might have lived to tell the fearful tale. But no aid was near. It was twenty-four hours before he was found, and then cold and exposure had done their work. The two brothers had perished within a few hours of one another.

Many of you will remember the story of Rupert of Ware, which was told in these pages last Halloween. It is such noble acts as that of his that light up the gloomy narratives of great calamities. This story also has its bright side. Doubtless it has many heroes. We can tell of only one.

It was at Paducah, a river-side town in Kentucky, that a young hero, a boy named "Dad" Little, pushed off in his skiff to rescue some men in a flat-bottomed boat, whom the fierce river was hurrying to destruction on its angry tide. As soon as the boy reached them, they seized his boat and scrambled into it, so that it capsized. Two of them were drowned, and the others, with "Dad" Little, saved themselves by holding on to the overturned boat. As the boat floated near the shore, the brave boy swam to a tree, and climbed up into it, and was not rescued from his cruel position until six hours later.

PERIL AND PRIVATION.

BY JAMES PAYN.

II.--ON THE KEYS OF HONDURAS.

Ashton's first task was to range the island. It proved to be thirty miles or so in length, but its only inhabitants were birds and beasts; it was well watered, and full of hills and deep valleys.

In the latter were many fruit trees, and also vines and currant bushes. There was one tree which bore a fruit larger than an orange, oval shaped, and brown without and red within. This he dared not touch until he saw the wild hogs eating it, lest it should be poisonous. Fruit was his only food. He had no weapon to kill any animal, or the means of cooking it when killed. One often reads of producing fire by friction, but unless one has flint and steel this is very difficult. Some savages only know the secret of it, and it is doubtful whether any white man has ever succeeded in it. In Philip Ashton's island there were no matches.

He found tortoise eggs in the sand, which he dug up with a stick, "sometimes a hundred and fifty of them at a time." These he ate, or strung on a strip of palmetto and hung them in the sun. They were very hard and tough, but he was glad to get them. Enormous serpents, twelve and fourteen feet long, were numerous. When they were lying at full length he often took them for "old trunks of trees covered with short moss," and was much astonished when they opened their mouths and hissed at him.

What annoyed him much more, however, were the "small black flies," which harassed him in myriads. To escape them he longed to swim over to a small "key," which, being without trees, and exposed to the wind, was probably free from those pests. He was, however, a very indifferent swimmer, and had no canoe nor the means of making one.

At last he hit on the idea of putting a piece of bamboo, which is as hollow as a reed and light as a cork, under his chest and arms, and so trusted himself to the sea.

Once the bamboo slipped from under him, and he was nearly drowned. At another time a shovel-nosed shark struck him on the thigh, and but for the shallowness of the water, "which prevented its mouth getting round" at him, he would have perished miserably. Practice, however, soon made him a good swimmer, and in spite of the sharks he swam over to the little island daily to escape the flies.

He had built a hut, if it could be called such, by taking fallen branches and fastening them by means of split palmetto leaves to the hanging boughs. This sheltered him from the noonday sun and the heavy night dews. The entrance of this hut "was made to look toward the sea," in hopes of rescue.

"I had had the approbation of my father and mother," he piously reflects, "in going to sea, and I trusted it would please God in His own time and manner to provide for my return to my father's house."

But in the mean time he endured frightful sufferings. His feet became very sore from walking on "the hot beach, with its sharp, broken shells," and sometimes, "though treading with all possible caution," a shell on the beach or a stick in the woods would open an old wound, inflicting such agony that he would fall down suddenly as if he had been shot. Rather than risk any more such misery, he would sometimes sit for a whole day, with his back against a tree, looking with tearful eyes for the vessel that never came.

Once, when faint from such injuries, a wild-boar ran at him. He could not stand, but caught at the bough of the tree above him, and hung suspended while the beast made his charge. "He tore away a portion of my ragged trousers, and then went on his way, which I considered to have been a very great deliverance."

These hardships, and the living almost entirely on fruit, brought him to great extremities. He "often fell to the ground insensible," and thought every night would be his last. He lost count of the days of the week, and then of the month. The rainy season came on, and he grew worse.

At one time--as he judged in November--he saw a sight which, had he been himself, would have filled him with joy. He beheld a small canoe approaching the shore, with a single man in it. The spectacle excited little emotion. "I kept my seat on the beach, thinking that I could not expect a friend, and being in no condition to resist an enemy."

The stranger called out to him in English, and Ashton replied that he might safely land, for that he was the only inhabitant of the island, and as good as dead.

The whole incident is most curious, but the strangest fact of all is the unenthusiastic terms in which our hero describes the matter. It is clear he must have been almost at death's door. This stranger proved to be a native of North Britain; Scotchmen were then so called. "He was well advanced in years, and of a spare and venerable aspect, and of a reserved temper.... He informed me he had lived two-and-twenty years with the Spaniards, who now threatened to burn him, for what crime I did not know. He had fled to the 'key' as an asylum, bringing with him his dog, gun, ammunition, and also a small quantity of pork." Ashton goes on to say that the stranger showed him much kindness, and gave him "some of his pork."

On the third day after his arrival, the new-comer prepared to make an excursion in his canoe to some of the neighboring islands for the purpose of killing deer. Our hero, though much cheered by his society, and especially by the fire, the means of kindling which the other had brought with him, and by eating cooked food, was too weak and sore-footed to accompany him. The sky was cloudless, and the man had already come six-and-thirty miles in safety, so that their parting seemed only a "good-day."

But it was final. A storm arose within the hour, in which his visitor doubtless perished.

What is very singular, Ashton never had the curiosity to ask him his name; and though our hero found himself so suddenly deprived of his companion, and reduced to his former lonely state, he consoled himself with the reflection that he was in far better circumstances than before. He had "pork, a knife, a bottle of gunpowder, tobacco, tongs, and a flint." He could now cut up a turtle and boil it.

Three months afterward another canoe came on shore, but without a tenant. The possession of this vessel was a somewhat doubtful boon to him. He rowed in it to another "key" miles away, where, having landed, he lay down to sleep, with his face to the sea, as usual, and his back to a tree.

"I was awakened by a noise of firing, and starting up beheld nine piraguas [large canoes] full of men, all firing at me. I ran among the bushes as fast as my sore feet would allow, while they called after me, 'Surrender yourself, O Englishman, and we will give you good quarter.'" By their firing at an inoffensive man Ashton knew that they were Spaniards, and guessed what was their idea of "good quarter." After hiding in the woods for that night he returned to his little island the next day, and to the hut of boughs, "which now seemed a royal palace to me."

After nineteen months' residence alone on this spot, save for that three days' visit from the stranger, Ashton was joined by seventeen Englishmen, fugitives from Spanish cruelty. They were accustomed to hardships and miseries, but "they started back in horror at the sight of so wild, ragged, and wretched an object."

A spoonful of rum which they administered to him almost took away his life, owing to his long disuse of strong liquors. They clothed and fed him, and were very good to him, though "in their common conversation," as he naïvely remarks, "there was very little difference between them and pirates."

Considering what he had gone through, one is inclined to wonder how Mr. Philip Ashton could have been so very particular. He seems to have been an honest, good man, and did not forget to express his earnest gratitude to Providence when rescued at last by a British sloop driven near his "key" by stress of weather. He arrived home at Salem in March, 1725, having spent eight months on board a pirate ship, and nineteen on the "key." "That same evening," he says, "I went to my father's house, where I was received as one risen from the dead."

SOMETHING ABOUT SONATAS.

BY MRS. JOHN LILLIE.

It was once my good fortune to stay in an Italian country house, where among many treasures there were some old music-books.

These books were in manuscript, and they had been written in the fourteenth or the fifteenth century. They seemed to have existed as long as the old house. They were kept in a little black ebony cabinet in a long room full of soft old colors.

There was a grand piano in the room, for the young ladies of the house played beautifully, and there was an organ for the use of the master of the house. The old music-books seemed suited to the room and to the organ.

I did not play any of the music. It would have been very difficult indeed to have done so, as the notation was not like ours, but it suggested many grave sweeping chords. Taking the chord of G major, for instance, I tried to see just how much the writer of this old music knew about it. Not a great deal; yet the Gregorian chant had been established, and in this music were various ideas which we have since developed.

Now the most interesting part of it all to me was certain queer little marks in the music. Here and there was a tiny _f_, which, as you know, meant what we now write as _forte_. There was a little _t_, or _bt_, meaning _teneatur_, or _ben tenuto_; a little _c_, meaning _celeriter_, or _con moto_, and so on.

I think the beginning of any art is interesting. All sorts of little shadowy suggestions of things that we have now in perfection seemed to me to lurk in those faded pages. As I put the books back in the ebony cabinet, and sat down by the wood fire, while B---- was drumming on the piano, I thought a great deal of the earnest, hopeful, patient old monk who had written it. And now, taking these little marks for my text, I want to tell you something about musical terms and signs.

Before you try to understand any great work like a symphony or sonata, you ought to thoroughly acquaint yourself with its very first principles. A great deal of hidden meaning lies in these simple little signs and terms.

That little _f_ in the old music meant, as I say, _forte_, that is, loud, strong, as you know by its connection with the piano. The Italians called it _fragor_, and when you see it _Fp_, or _fp_, it means a quick, loud sound, suddenly subsiding into a _piano_ or soft sound. Try the chord of A flat; it is a beautiful one, and you can best practice on it the _fp_.

The old _teneatur_, or _tenuto_, means that the note or chord should be sustained or held on to. I think this is best practiced at first in duets, for as you play you will see the effect of the _tenuto_ on the notes your companion is playing, without having to worry yourself over holding the note properly, and playing with the other hand at the same time.