University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

An hour later than that in which the attack
was made on the bandits, through the treachery
of John, the party of his father returned from a
third days search for Emily, fatigued in body and
depressed in spirits. Three days had they traversed
the country in every direction, making diligent
enquiries of every person they met, and yet,
of what had become of her, not the slightest cue
had they gained; and consequently, as we have
said, they returned most sadly depressed in spirits,
and worn out in body. In fact, hope of ever beholding
her again had almost become extinct; for
to them it was probable she had been seized by

the Jew and his accomplices, and taken out of the
country. And this latter seemed the more probable,
from their having been at the residence of
the Jew, on the day she disappeared, and knew
him to have been absent.

On Webber and Merton the sad truth fell with
a crushing effect; and men though they were,
both wept for grief. In fact, the latter, when he
found all search had been in vain, knew it would
have to be relinquished, and felt the sweet being
of his soul's adoration—she whose heart and hand
in the holy confidence of love, had been pledged
to him—was now gone, forever gone, pressed his
hands to his burning temples, and strove, as a
man, but vainly strove to be calm. Life to
him now seemed a lonely path, through a barren
waste, where not one bright flower by the
wayside grew, to relieve it of utter desolation;
where no ray of sunlight came, to dispel, even for
a moment, the oppressive gloom.

Slowly, sadly, and in silence, the party referred
to, reined in their horses on the night in
question, at the cottage of Webber—litttle dreaming
that beneath that humble roof, the ingrate,
the black hearted villain, the cause of their present
trouble, had been sheltered, and fed; and that
there too, their sorrow was soon to find an additional
weight. At the door they were met by
Mrs. Webber, who was pale and trembling with
intense grief and excitement.

“Oh, you have come—you have come, thank
God!” uttered she, in the low, rapid accents of
heart touching misery. “I feared, oh God! I
feared you would be too late. Quick! quick!”

“Sarah, Sarah,” gasped Webber, “what, what
has happened? Speak, Sarah! for Heaven-sake
speak!”

“Alas! William, Rufus —”

“Well, Sarah!”

“Is dying.”

“Great Heaven!” and staggering back, Webber
would have fallen, had not the arms of Bernard,
who was close behind, supported him.

Like the sudden shock of an earthquake, this
startling announcement came upon those who
heard it; for they believed Rufus free of danger,
and slowly, yet gradually recovering. He had
been pronounced convalescent by his physician,
and the events of the last few days had so engrossed
their attention, that by them he had in a
measure been forgotten. From the moment of
his fainting, on hearing of the disappearance of
Emily, as previously mentioned, he had gradually
declined. His mother—whose very existence,
as we have before stated, seemed bound up in his
—noticed the change, with all a fond mother's
feelings of grief and alarm. Night and day since,
had she remained almost constantly by his side;
and on the evening previous, when the party returned,
she had made known to her husband her
fears. Wearied by a hard day's ride, and thinking
her fears had made her exaggerate, Webber,
contrary to his usual custom, had seemed almost
indifferent to his wife's remarks; and merely saying,
“He will be better anon,” retired early to
rest, to be in readiness to pursue his search for Emily
on the following day. Several times during
the day on which we have again introduced him,
his conscience had reproved him for neglecting
his son; and it was not without considerable anxiety,
that he once more approached home; consequently
the powerful effect produced by the sudden
and alarming announcement of his wife.

Recovering, somewhat, from the first terrible
shock, Webber sprang forward, and in a moment
stood by his son, followed by his wife, Merton,
Bernard and Tyrone. A light, standing on the
table by the bed, cast a mournful gleam—if we
may so be allowed the expression—on to the pale,
calm features of the dying youth, who, save an
unnatural breathing, seemed like one asleep.

“Rufus!” gasped his father, grasping his thin
hand. “Rufus, my son!”

Slowly the invalid unclosed his eyes, and for a
moment looked up with a vacant stare.

“Rufus, my son! Oh, God! do you not know
me?”

“Father,” said Rufus, calmly, a look of recognition
lighting up his thin features, at the same time
raising himself on his elbow, and glancing slowly
around: “Father—mother—Edward—yes, yes,
I know you all; but I am weak, father,” and he
sunk back on his pillow. Suddenly he started,
and a bright flush passed over his wan features.
“Emily!” cried he, quickly: “Emily! what of
her? have you found her?” and he gazed with an
intense look on his father's tearful eye.

“Alas! my son, we have not.”

“Too well—too well I knew it,” he murmured,
clasping his hands, and gazing upward with a solemn,
devout look. “We shall meet again, but it
will be there;” and stretching forth his wasted,
bony arm, he pointed above: “It will be there—
in Heaven!”

“Oh! dear, dear Rufus,” cried his mother,
springing forward, unable to control herself longer,
and bending on him a look of the most intense
anguish, while every eye in the room filled with
water: “Oh! dear, dear Rufus, say you will meet
again on earth!”

Rufus gazed upon her a moment, and shook
his head sadly. “Mother, dear mother, speak not
thus! My minutes are all numbered. I—I am
dying, mother.”

“Oh God, support me!” returned she, sinking
into a chair, and covering her face with her hands.

“Nay, mother—nay, father—nay, friends”—
continued he, “weep not! We must all die, sooner
or later, and death is only terrible when we are
not prepared to meet it. It is only parting for a
time, to meet again in the bright and glorious land
of spirits. I feel I shall be happy when my spirit
has thrown off this clayey tenement, and entered
upon its second existence. Oh, my dear parents
and friends, I beseech you, weep not for me! for I
was not, could not be happy here. Edward,
come hither; I have somewhat to say to you, ere
I set out upon my long journey.”

Edward approached with tearful eyes, and took
his hand.

“You, my noble friend,” continued Rufus, “are
sad—almost heart-broken—for the sweet being
you love is gone; but be not cast down—be not
disheartened—for you will meet again, and see
many happy days on earth. Nay, shake not your
head with that despairing look, for what I tell
you is true. My spirit is already on the verge of
eternity, and looks with a prophetic eye into the
future. But now I had a dream; and in that dream
I saw you and Emily meet. There was sadness
in the hearts of both; but it gradually rolled away,
as mist from the mountain tops, and joy, like
sunlight, shone in your faces. Mark these words!
they are prophetic. You will see her, you will
love her, you will cherish and guard her, with all
the pure, deep devotion of a holy love, emanating
from a high minded, noble, manly heart. Ere
that time, however, these frail limbs will have

stiffened in death—this soul will have flown to
the presence of its God; therefore shall I give you
my secret, and request that you bear to her my
dying words. Tell her, Edward, that one who is
gone, loved her no less deeply, no less purely, no
less sacredly than yourself. Tell her that from
youth up she was the sole ideal of his longings,
the angel visitant of his dreams. Tell her that
Hope, like a star, once rose and shone brightly on
the broad field of his future imaginings, but that
its light went out in the Hope of another. Tell
her to think sometimes on this, and sometimes
cast a glance upon the lowly grave of Rufus
Webber. You will tell her this, Edward?”

“Should we meet again, my gentle friend, I
will,” replied Edward, pressing the hand of Rufus.

“You will meet again, Edward, and in that
thought I die happy.”

“And you loved her so,” said Edward, deeply
affected; “and I knew it not.”

“And she knew it not,” returned Rufus. “I
saw she loved another, and I would not pain her
with the story. But that is now past, and so forget
it. Ah! I—I feel my voice is going: I feel myself
growing fainter; and so, dear Edward, farewell!”

Edward pressed his hand, and turned away with
a burst of grief.

“Father?”

“My son!”

“I am going fast. Where is John?”

“Alas! he is not here.”

“Then bid him farewell for me, and tell him it
was the dying request of his brother, that he
shun bad company. Father, farewell!” and he
pressed his hand—a hand that shook with the agonies
of a father's heart. “Mother,” and the
voice of Rufus faltered.

“Oh! my child—my son—my own dear Rufus!”
cried she, throwing her arms around his
neck, and pressing kiss after kiss upon his bloodless,
quivering lips: “Oh! my son—my son—I
cannot, cannot part with you!”

“Mother, dear mother,” returned he, in faltering
accents: “Mother, be calm—be calm! Remember
it is the will of God, who orders all
things for the best. We shall soon meet again in
another, in a better world. Ah! ah! death is coming.
Mother, fare—fare-well! Friends—all—all—
fare—farewell! In—in Heaven!” and with these
words the lips of the gentle Rufus were sealed
forever.

For an hour life remained in his body; but from
that moment Rufus spoke no more, nor seemed
he conscious of anything that transpired afterward,
although his mother still clung to, and entreated
him in the most heart-rending tones to
speak to her again. At the expiration of the time
mentioned, his gentle spirit passed away, as one
sinking into a quiet sleep.

His mother, when fully convinced that he was
gone—that in sad truth his dearly loved voice
she would never hear again—slowly unclasped
her arms from his neck, and, with her eyes fixed
steadfastly upon him, sank into a seat by his side,
seemingly unconscious of everything around.
His father stood and gazed upon him for a few
moments with folded arms, while his features
writhed in agony, his chest heaved, and his heart
beat fast and almost audibly. In silence, in sorrow,
stood Merton, Bernard and Tyrone, near the
foot of the bed, gazing upon the corpse—forming
a most impressive group for a mournful picture.
Suddenly each started, and gazed into each others
faces enquiringly. A shrill cry came borne upon
the air, and with it a sound like the rushing of
waters. Another, and another cry, and nearer
and louder came the rushing sound. What
could it mean? All sprang to the door; and although
it was dark, yet dashing over the hill to
the right, they could trace the dim outline of a
horseman; and, following close, another—another—and
still, and still another—and more behind.

“There must be something alarming!” said
Webber, quickly. “What can it mean?”

Scarcely were the words uttered, ere the foremost
horseman dashed up to the door, leaped from
his steed, and rushed in in breathless haste.

“John!” cried Webber, in astonishment.

“Quick! quick! father—close the door—or I
shall be murdered! I am pursued by Ronald Bonardi
and his men!”

“Ronald Bonardi!” echoed all, in a breath; and
springing back, the door was bolted just as the
other horsemen were beginning to come up.

“Ay, Ronald Bonardi,” answered John, rapidly.
“He and his band are the kidnappers of Emiily.
I know their secret retreat, and for this they
would murder me!”

“Emily!” cried Merton, breathlessly, “Emily!
speak—speak!—where is she?”

“In Bonardi's cave, on the Osage river.”

“Oh, John, you give me new life!”

“Then use it defending mine, by killing these
ruffians, and I will restore her to you.”

“Quick! quick!” said a deep voice from without,
“for our time is most precious.”

The next moment there came a tremendous
crash, making the whole house tremble—the door,
bolts, bars and all, were splintered and broken
into a hundred pieces—while a tall, muscular
figure leaped forward, into the centre of the astonished
group, and the same deep voice shouted:

“Ho, traitor!”

“'Tis he!” shrieked John, turning to fly.

“Ay, 'tis he!” shouted back the figure; and then
there came a flash—a crack—and with a yell of
pain John sank to the floor.

“How!—Barton!” gasped Webber, in astonishment,
as he caught a glimpse of the intruder's
features.

“Barton and Bonardi are one!”

As he spoke, the figure seized upon the body of
John, with the strength of a giant, and, turning,
bounded into the midst of his followers, who
stood crowded around the doorway to cover his
retreat.

“To horse! to horse!” he shouted; and darting
away at the word, in a moment more each man
was in his saddle.

So rapidly was this whole movement executed—
for it occupied far less time in action, than we have
in description—that neither Webber himself, Merton,
Bernard nor Tyrone, recovered from the torpor
of a sudden astonishment, ere the bandits had
escaped them—actually shooting, seizing, and
bearing John from their midst.

“Good God!” exclaimed Webber, “is my house
to be broken into, my son murdered and borne
away, without a hand being raised to rescue or
avenge him? Follow, men!” and rushing forth,
he was quickly joined by his three companions.

By this time the bandits were all mounted, and
Bonardi, still supporting John, was just balancing
himself in his saddle, when he observed Webber
rushing towards him.

“Away!” he shouted to his men; and burying

his own spurs in his horse's flanks, he darted
off.

Webber instantly drew a pistol, and taking aim
as well as the darkness would permit, pulled the
trigger. A flash—a report—a groan succeeded—
and he could perceive Bonardi waver in his saddle;
but still he sat his horse—the animal slackened not
his speed—and in a few seconds both horse and
rider disappeared, while Webber's attention was
suddenly called to another quarter, where the
bandits were being attacked by another party of
horsemen that had just come up.

From the flight of John from the river, the
chase had been a desperate, and an equal one;
with the exception, that in the hard run of thirty
miles, the bandits had succeeded in distancing
their pursuers some quarter of a mile, so that they
had just sufficient time, after John entered the
cottage, to seize upon a huge stick of timber,
break open the door, capture the traitor and
mount, before the others were upon them. As
their design was now accomplished, they turned
upon their pursuers, headed by Piketon—for Bonardi
still kept upon his course—and a terrible
fight ensued. Webber and his companions not
knowing friend from foe, retreated into the house,
to be ready to defend it in case of necessity.

“I guess they're having a putty hard tussle, by
the way them are shooting irons are going off,”
remarked Bernard. “Hadn't we better assist them
are fellers that come up last, eh, Bill?”

“Gladly, if we could assist them; but to attempt
it now would be fool-hardy,” answered Webber.
“As soon as this fight is over, we must rally as
large a company as possible, and start immediately
for the Osage, to rescue Emily, and punish the
murderers of my son Oh, God! am I to be made
childless in one night!” and Webber leaned against
the wall of his cottage for support. “And to
think, too,” continued he, after a moment's pause,
“how basely I have been deceived! I can scarcely
realize my having been, more or less, for three
years past, the companion of that notorious bandit,
Ronald Bonardi, under the assumed name of
Barton!”

“Wal, when I seed him at the river, and you
was a talking to him about himself, I guessed
then his name wasn't Barton,” said Bernard.

“Well, well, he shall not escape again!” replied
Webber, sternly. “He shall be brought to justice,
unless he die defending himself; for I will follow
him to the world's end myself, sooner than suffer
him to go unpunished. Fool that I was, to
let him shoot down my son before my own eyes!
And then to actually bear him off! What unheard
of daring!”

“The whole affair transpired so suddenly,” remarked
Tyrone, “that for one I really knew not
what was taking place, until he had fled.”

“The same with myself,” said Edward. “But
I am much mistaken, or he suffers now; for when
Webber fired, I heard him groan, and fancied I
saw him reel in the saddle.”

“I kind o' thought as how that are shot did him
too,” rejoined Bernard. “But if it didn't, there's
more where that come from, I guess, as will.”

“Ay,” rejoined Webber, fiercely, “there is!—
But hist! The fighting seems to have ceased, and
there is a horseman approaching.”

“House, ho!” shouted a voice from without.

“What would you?” answered Webber, interrogatively.

“Rest and food for the night, for our horses and
ourselves,” replied the voice.

“Who are you?” demanded Webber.

“An officer of justice, at the head of a party
of soldiers, sent out to arrest or exterminate
these accursed bandits, who, with the exception
of three killed, have again escaped us. We
would tarry here until daylight, ere we pursue
them further; for our horses are fatigued, two of
our men are killed, and three or four others
wounded. If you can accommodate us, I will see
that you are remunerated, and will also give you
the full particulars of what has occurred.”

“I am in a sad condition to do so,” answered
Webber, gloomily; “for one son lies a corpse in
the house, another has just been shot and borne
away, my wife sits buried in grief, and I am nearly
distracted myself; but still, such accommodation
as I have, you are most welcome to; and we
will endeavor, ere morning, to increase your party
for the pursuit.”

As further detail seems unnecessary here, we
trust the reader will allow us to substitute a brief
summary of what followed. The party in question
remained at Webber's through the night—all
resting, with the exception of the wounded, in
the out-houses. The latter were cared for, as well
as circumstances would permit, and their wounds
not being of a very serious nature, they departed
the next morning for St. Louis, bearing their two
dead comrades with them. During the night a
search was made, in the direction taken by Bonardi,
for the body of John; it being thought probable,
the former, if wounded, might drop him on
the way, and possibly with life remaining--though
for the latter there was little hope;—but the expedition
proved fruitless, and the party returned
some three hours later, not having discovered the
least trace.

Merton, anxious to start early on the morrow
to the rescue of her he loved, rode most of the
night from farm to farm, among the settlers, giving
each a brief account of what had happened,
and beseeching them to join in ridding the country
of the outlaws; the result of which was, the
additional force of some twenty-five, able bodied,
determined men, well mounted and armed, who,
with the party at Webber's, set out at daylight on
a journey to the Osage, to search for the grand
rendezvous, apprehend, disperse, or annihilate the
banditti.

In this expedition, Webber and Tyrone did not
join; the former, because he did not consider it
prudent to leave his house in a totally unguarded
state, with the corpse of his son within, and his
wife in a very feeble condition, but little better
than a stupid insanity, caused from her overwhelming
grief; and the latter, because it was
deemed advisable that one at least should remain
as a companion for the former. Moreover, Webber
had learned, in course of conversation with
the officer mentioned, the astounding particulars
of what had occurred at the river, and the cause
of hate against his son, from his having been a
member and betrayed the band, the which had
served to completely unnerve, and almost render
him insane also.

Besides Webber, his wife and Tyrone, there
was another individual within that house of
mourning, whom we have, during the excitement
of the past few days, lost sight of altogether; but
whom we shall bring once more before the reader,
ere we close our now nearly completed story.—
We allude to the prisoner of the Jew, who, under
the treatment he had of late received, was fast regaining
health and strength. But leaving each

and all for the present, let us precede the party
just departed, to the cave on the Osage.