University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

On the afternoon of the day succeeding the
fight, and the second from the departure of Bonardi,
a rough group of some fifteen outlaws
were lounging about the Outer Cave—some talking,
some polishing their weapons, and some playing
cards. These consisted of the ten left as
guards, with the addition of Hendrick and his four
companions, who returned the day previous,
bringing in Saxton and Niles prisoners, both of
whom were now confined in the dungeon below,
the place whence Piketon led forth the Jew on the
night of his trial and execution.

In the Inner Cave were four females—consisting
of Emily, Inez, Hetty and Cyntha; and to
these we shall, for the present, direct our attention.
Inez and Emily, at the moment introduced,
were reclining on sofas, but a little distance
apart, while the other two, Hetty and Cyntha,
were occupying one corner of the apartment, conversing
together in a low tone.

Since the departure of Ronald, Inez had lavished
upon Emily the most tender care, anticipating
her every wish, and doing all in her power
to restore her strength, and contribute to her happiness.
Partly from Ronald, ere his departure,
and afterwards from Hetty and Emily herself, she
had learned the story of the wrongs of the latter,
and all the gentle sympathies of the woman had
been elicited in her behalf. From Ronald, too, she
had learned a secret, of which Emily and Hetty
were as yet ignorant, accompanied by a request
that she would not reveal it, unless some unforeseen
accident should prevent his return.

The parting between Ronald and Inez had been
affecting and solemn. He had not revealed to
Inez his design, but she could perceive by his pale
features, and an agitation which he vainly strove
to conceal, that he was about setting forth on an
unusual, if not dangerous mission. Hence, as we
have said, the parting had been affecting and solemn;
and since that time, Inez, although she strove
to be cheerful, and paid the most tender regards
to the wants of Emily, could not banish from her
mind thoughts dark and painful; and in consequence
an air of gloomy abstraction would not unfrequently
take possession of her. On the day
we again introduce her, these painful reveries
had become more frequent than before—more
prolonged—and in one of them we now find her.
And here, had we space to devote it, we might moralize
upon the causes producing these results.

It is thought the spirit, in many cases, when
approaching the confines of that vast eternity before
it, grows brighter, more etherial, and is less
allied to the corporeal substance around it—consequently,
is more sensitive to events about to
happen--and by its elevation or depression, prognosticates,
many times, the good or evil that will
shortly follow: moreover, too, that with an intuitive
sense, it sometimes communicates to the body
what and whom this good or evil will effect, and
what will be the result. Hence the spiritual, or
second sight. We believe, too, the spirit is not
unfrequently acted upon, when far from death
ourselves, with regard to the fate of some dearly
beloved friend, (but not so clearly as in the former
instance) which is to influence our seeming
destiny; and hence our gloomy forebodings, or
presentiments.

But as we presume the reader—who is doubtless
anxious for the conclusion of our story—will not
thank us for stopping to moralize or philosophize
here, we shall pass on, and leave a subject we might
otherwise be tempted to investigate farther.

Inez, as we have said, was reclining on a sofa,
in a mood of gloomy abstraction. Her eyes were
bent upon the ground, her features were pale and
very sad in expression, and there was a slight
quiver of some of the delicate muscles, as though
the mind was laboring with painful thought.—
She had been sitting thus some quarter of an hour,
motionless and mute. Emily was also reclining
upon a sofa, but a little distance from her. Her
features, too, were pale, and somewhat care-worn;
but there was, notwithstanding, a more animated
and hopeful look than when we saw her last—and
yet, withal, the expression was sad. Under the
kind treatment received from Inez, Emily had
gradually recovered from the hardships she had undergone,
and although still weak, was fast regaining
health and strength. At the moment introduced,
her eyes were resting enquiringly, but sadly,
upon Inez, as though she sympathized with,
and wished, yet almost feared to question her of
her sorrows. At length the strong promptings of
her gentle and grateful heart got the better of her
reserve, and approaching, she bent down, and
gently taking the soft, delicate hand of Inez in her
own, in a sweet, touching, musical voice, she
said:

“You are sad, dear Inez?”

There are words, and ways of saying them,
which at times, with a sudden and resistless impulse,
will stir up all the finer emotions of the
heart, and make the eye grow moist and dim.—
Such was the effect of Emily's words upon Inez.
She started, a flush mantled her pale features, and
she looked up into the sweet countenance of Emily,
with tearful eyes. The next moment these
two gentle beings were locked in each other's embrace,
and the tears of both mingled.

“Oh, will you not open your heart, dear Inez,
and tell me what makes you so sorrowful?” asked
Emily, as, with an arm thrown around the others
waist, she seated herself by her side.

“I hardly know myself, Emily,” answered
Inez, with a sigh; “but I feel as though there were
a weight upon my heart. I fear something has
happened to him--to Ronald--though why I cannot
tell; for he has often been away, sometimes for a
week, and yet I felt not so depressed as now. I
fear that dark man you spoke of will betray him,
perhaps has done so already, and he may now be
in prison, or dead. Oh, God! if such should be
the case, what, oh! what would become of me?”
and Inez shuddered, and hid her face in her hands.

“Do not borrow trouble, dear Inez,” said Emily,
gently, and soothingly. “All will turn out
for the best, rest assured. We are all in the
hands of a holy, omnipresent God, whose actions
cannot err.”

“But is not that God a God of justice?” asked
Inez, solemnly. “And will he not punish man

for his misdeeds, his—his—” Inez' voice faltered—“his
crimes?”

“Man will doubtless suffer for his misdoings,”
answered Emily; “but God will look into the heart
and judge him by the motive.”

“Oh, Emily, dear Emily,” returned Inez, weeping,
“to you I will say what I have never yet
said to human being—for you seem so gentle and
pure, my heart yearns for your sympathy. You
know the occupation of my husband, and that it
is criminal in the eyes of the law. His heart is
good and noble; and yet, for his outward acts, I
have a long time feared, and of late more than
ever, that some terrible calamity, sooner or later,
will befal him.”

“It is strange,” replied Emily, musingly, “that
one who possesses so many good and generous
qualities as he, should lead such a wild, daring life
—should associate with men so far inferior to
himself, both in intellect and education.”

“Yet judge him not too harshly, dear Emily,”
returned Inez, sorrowfully, “for circumstances
have made him what he is. He has told me his
early history; how he wept over the death of a
beloved mother—a mother who was foully, most
foully wronged;—how your—how his own father
disowned, treated him with contempt, and spurned
him from his presence, while society could do
nought less than point at him with the finger of
shame, because he was a bastard son. Oh, you
know not how such things can try a proud, restless
spirit like his—a spirit that, turned into a different
channel, had led him to honor and renown—and
make him turn with venomed tooth
upon that society, as the viper upon the foot that
tramples it.”

“I doubt not there have been strong causes for
his deeds,” rejoined Emily; “yet methinks a nature
like his should have paused, ere he brought
one so gentle and innocent as you seem to be,
into a career the laws of the land will hold most
criminal.”

“You do him wrong there, dear Emily. It is
of my own doing. He frankly and nobly told
me all; that we must never meet again; and yet
I married him, and gave up name and wealth,
knowing him to be an outlaw.”

“This is strange, very strange, Inez,” remarked
Emily, in surprise.

“Does it seem strange to you?—to me it is
simple. I loved him; and had it been to the gallows
direct he would have led me, I cheerfully
had gone to die with him.”

“I understand,” replied Emily. “Oh, woman's
love! what will it not do? where can its bounds
be set? But strange that he did not then, does
not now, give up this wild, terrible life, and retire
to some quiet, though humble spot, where
you would both be happy.”

“Alas!” sighed Inez, “his oath bound him
then—his oath binds him yet.”

“Alas, indeed!” sighed Emily; and for some
minutes both sat silent, buried in thought. Suddenly
Inez started to her feet, and her but now
gloomy countenance became radiant with joy.

“He comes!” she cried, “he comes! I hear
his step. I would know it from a million—and
now his voice!” and tears of joy streamed from
her eyes.

The remark of Inez was correct; for Ronald
had already entered the Outer Cave, and was now
giving orders in a low, rapid tone.

“Quick!” he said, “quick! All—all is lost.
If there are any here afraid to die, they may now
escape. We shall soon be attacked. Those of
you who are willing to stand the brunt of the
peril, will join Piketon, quickly as possible. You
will find him at the Entrance. He already has
his orders. You will obey to the letter his commands.
Go, men! I am wounded and faint.
Should we never meet again, farewell!” and Ronald
extended a hand to each of those bold outlaws,
who grasped it in silence, with tearful eyes.
Then seizing their weapons, they rushed forth,
while Bonardi immediately entered the Chieftain's
Chamber, where the bright light, as it fell upon
his features and form, exhibited a sight most sad
to behold, and where he was greeted with a wiid,
universal shriek of alarm.

His face was pale—in fact bloody, bloodless, and
ghastly. His features exhibited the expression
of great mental and bodily suffering. His eyes
were wild and blood-shot—his hair dishevelled,
matted, and in some places stained with blood.
His dress was disordered, torn, and bloody also.
One hand, bloody likewise, was pressed upon his
side, where appeared to be a wound.

“Ronald! My God, Ronald!” screamed Inez,
who was springing forward to meet him; and
throwing up her hands, she staggered back and
fell to the ground.

“Oh, sir, you are wounded—are killed, perhaps!”
cried Emily, in alarm.

“I have my death wound, Emily, but heed it
not. You, Inez, Hetty and Cyntha, must escape!
We shall ere long be attacked. I have time to explain
nothing. I shall die here. How is Inez,
Cyntha?” enquired he, turning to the latter, who
with Hetty had rushed to her on her fall, and was
now placing her on a sofa.

“Missus dying! She jus gasp um once, massa!”
answered the terrified Cyntha.

“Inez, dear Inez!” cried Ronald, darting forward,
placing his arm under her head, and supporting
her against his breast.

Inez opened her eyes, and looked up into his
face. Then she uttered a wild scream, and threw
her arms around his neck, where she clung as if
fearful of being torn away.

“Oh, God!” groaned Ronald, “this is the most
trying moment of all. Inez, Inez,—dear Inez—
for God-sake, Inez, look up!—awake!—look
up!—you must escape!”

“Escape!” shrieked Inez, starting back her
head, and gazing into his face in terror.

“Ay, escape! We shall soon be attacked, and
you must not be here to fall into the hands of
those accursed minions of the law!”

“And you, Ronald?”

“I cannot escape: I am wounded.”

“And could you think your Inez would leave
you thus, Ronald? Never, never, never! No,
no, no! if you die, Inez will die with you!” and
again she threw her arms around his neck, and
clung to him wildly. Suddenly she started.
“Oh, you are wounded!” she cried. “Oh, let me
see it! I will staunch the blood! It shall not,
shall not kill you, dear, dear Ronald!”

“'Tis vain, Inez, 'tis vain!” groaned he, straining
her to his heart. “I know the wound is mortal.
But come, Inez, you must fly! If I know
you are safe, I can die content.”

“Never, never, never, Ronald! I will not
leave you!”

“But, Inez”—and Ronald whispered the conclusion
of the sentence in her ear.

Inez trembled, and grew a shade more pale; but
still she answered firmly, “I will remain.”

“Enough!” and Ronald strained her to his heart
again in silence. Then easing her upon the sofa,
he sprang to his feet. “Emily,” he exclaimed,
“you must fly this moment! Hetty and Cyntha
will go with you!” and turning to the latter, he
placed in her hand a purse of gold. “There, my
faithful Cyntha, go! and may you escape and be
happy.”

“And leave missus?”

“I will tend on her, Cyntha, so no more. Emily,
here,” and he drew forth a letter. “In this
you will find the explanation I promised you, regarding
your parents. Do not open it until you
hear of my death, which will not be long. It is
brief, but comprehensive. I wrote it in haste,
since I saw you, for I feared we should never
meet again. At the mouth of the cave, a boat
awaits you, manned by three trusty followers,
who will conduct you to a place of safety. And
now, Emily,” and his voice faltered, “it only remains
to bid you farewell!” and taking her hand,
he pressed it to his lips, respectfully.

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Emily, weeping bitterly,
“how can I thank you for your generosity?”

“Nay, I need no thanks, Emily. You were a
woman, in the hands of a black-hearted villain,
and I did but my duty. You are saved, and that
villain has paid the penalty.”

“Then John is —”

“Dead!” said Ronald, solemnly, concluding the
sentence. “But question no farther; you will
learn all in time. Oh haste, Emily, and away,
ere any thing happens to endanger you!”

“Inez!” exclaimed Emily; and the next moment
they were in each others arms, both sobbing
bitterly. “Inez, sweet lady, it wrings my
heart to leave you; but I will not urge you to
go, for I can understand your feelings. While
Emily Nevance lives, Inez and Ronald Bonardi
will never be forgotten. Farewell, dear Inez;
farewell, farewell!” and straining her once more
to her heart, she pressed a kiss upon her lips,
sprang away, and disappeared into the Outer
Cave. Hetty and Cyntha took an affectionate
leave, and disappeared also, both weeping. In a
few minutes all three were seated in a boat without
the cave.

“Farewell,” uttered Bonardi, who had followed
them to the top of the ladder, waiving his hand
solemnly: “Farewell!” The next moment the
boat shot away, and turning, Bonardi descended
the ladder with a quick step. Drawing forth a
key, attached to his person by a small gold chain,
he glided behind the ladder, and opened an iron
door, which concealed an aperture in the solid
rock.

It was the door of a powder magazine.

Hastily taking thence some eight or ten casks,
he gazed on them a moment, with a singular
smile, and then proceeded to arrange them along
the wall, at certain distances from each other, until
the two last came within the Inner Cave. He
then uncorked, and attached a train of towe,
soaked in turpentine, to each. This done, he returned
to Inez, clasped her in his arms, cast himself
upon a sofa, and whispered in her ear:

“Now, dear Inez, let them come.”

In the meantime, the boat, bearing Emily, Hetty
and Cyntha, reached the Entrance, which
was the juncture of the creek and river Osage,
and so called from its being the only point whence
the cave could be approached. On either hand
was a high bluff, which gave the channel running
back to the cave an appearance of being artificial.
The bluff on the eastern bank of the Osage, and
immediately around the Entrance, was very steep
and rocky, covered with a stunted growth of
trees and underbrush, so that a large party might
be there concealed in ambush. It was here that
Emily, and the two females with her, were landed,
and then immediately conducted up the steep.
As she went up the winding path, she could occasionally
perceive, on either hand, a dark figure,
crouched in the bushes, with a rifle either resting
against his shoulder, or poised and pointed toward
the river, whom she rightly conjectured to be of
Bonardi's band, and that—but why she knew
not—they expected an attack from below. When
she reached the brow of the hill, she could
perceive the sun shining upon a beautiful and
variegated landscape, through a crimson mellow
haze, within an hour of the horizon.—
At another time perhaps, she would have paused
to admire the scenery, and contemplate the rich
beauty of light and shade, as, striking some high
point, with a golden sheen, the rays of Sol threw
a long line of shadow into the quiet valley at its
base, or glanced off from the smooth surface of
many a stream—not excepting the Osage, and the
great Missouri, the latter some several miles distant—as
from a polished mirror; but now her
thoughts were sad and painful; and she turned
from this to her conductor—who here come to a
halt, and was looking eagerly in every direction—
with an enquiring gaze.

“You'll have to mount and fly, gal,” said he,
at length, turning to her; “for if I arn't mistaken,
it'll be no place for you here shortly. Thar's a
body of men coming by land, and another by water;”
and he pointed to where the smoke of a
steamer indicated its advance up the Osage, some
three miles distant. It was this latter, by the
way, which Bonardi had discovered from one of
the bluffs, that had made him so apprehensive of a
sudden attack. “Right round this ere rock,”
continued the man, “is four blooded horses; but
as thar' aint but three o' ye, I suppose the cap'en
overrated the number as was to ride 'em, or else
his wife 'scapes another way.” As he spoke, the
party turned the angle of a huge rock, where
were found four fine horses, well caparisoned for
riders. “Mount, gal, and ride hard to the east, and
you'll soon be out o' the way of a scrimmage.”

In a few minutes all three were mounted, and
thanking him kindly for his services, Emily led
the way down the hill, with feelings better imagined
than described, while her conductor, turning
short around, speedily rejoined his companions.

The party in ambush was commanded by Piketon,
who had orders from Bonardi to annoy the
party attacking as much as possible, without sacrificing
his own men; and, if pressed hard, to escape
as best they might, and leave the rest to
him; but, under no consideration, to allow a man
of them to return to the cave. As soon as the
individual who conducted Emily up the hill returned,
he immediately sought the lieutenant,
whom he found leaning against a tree, rifle in
hand—for since their return, the party, in addition
to their other weapons, had armed themselves
with rifles and short swords—and gazing down
upon the dark waters of the Osage, with a gloomy
look and clouded brow.

“How!” exclaimed the lieutenant, suddenly
starting at a remark the other now whispered in
his ear. “By land, too? Are you sure?”

“Sure!” answered the other.

“What distance from us?”

“About five miles, as near as I could reckon.—
I jest catched a glimpse on 'em going behind a
hill.”

“I feared so, I feared so!” returned the lieutenant,
biting his nether lip. “There will be time
to give these others one good round, however, and
then we must escape. What ho!” he shouted:
“Listen all! Comrades, there are two parties
approaching to attack us. One comes by water,
the other by land. The one by water will shortly
be here. We must manage to give the latter
one deadly round, and then fly to the Retreat,
where are horses in waiting, and thence along the
banks of the Osage, following the course of the
stream, far back into the country; by which means
we shall avoid the others, with whom our numbers
are too few to engage in conflict, and where
we will remain until the excitement has died
away, when those who have wives and children
can return for them, and then quietly leave this
accursed country forever. Such are the orders of
our noble captain, Ronald Bonardi, who is mortally
wounded; and who, for his own design,
chooses to remain in the cave.”

After this, Piketon proceeded to dispose of his
men, so as for each to lie in perfect concealment
to those below, with orders that so soon as practicable,
each was to select his man, and, at the
word, to pour a terrible volley of death among
them, and then rush up the hill and escape. This
being done, all relapsed into silence—a silence to
be shortly broken by the awful mandate of death.

The steamer which left St. Louis during the
night, was, in the meantime, slowly approaching.
The rendezvous of the banditti had been so accurately
described by the traitor John, that there
was but little danger of those in command mistaking
the place; still it required a careful examination
of the shore, as they approached, and this examination
they were now making. In about
twenty minutes she hove full in sight of the concealed
bandits, who clasped their rifles with the
nervous grasp of determined and desperate men.
In ten more she had thrown off her steam, and
lay floating,

on the dark bosom of the Osage below them.

“This must be the place,” said a deep voice on
board. “Yonder is the inlet. Man the boats!”

Instantly a dozen boats suspended to the steamer
for the purpose, were lowered into the water,
and quickly filled with armed men. And here,
ere we proceed, let us give a word or two in explanation.

From the information conveyed by John, it
was gathered that the outlaws, who might chance
to escape the attack on the Mississippi, would
here rally as their stronghold, and doubtless here
make their last desperate resistance,—particularly
Bonardi, who, he stated, would return hither
to seek his wife, and, from his character, be little
likely to fly,—consequently this was the place to
be immediately sought, to give the final blow of
extermination to the banditti. On this information
the authorities had acted, and hence the arrival
of the steamer for this purpose.

As soon as the boats were manned, a stout figure
sprang into the forward one, and stood erect in
the bow.

“Six of you,” he said, in a low, quick tone,
“will remain behind to cover us, and prevent an
attack in the rear. The six with myself will now
forward to the cave, which we must enter at all
hazards. Row, men, row! Fifty dollars to him
who first enters the cave! An hundred to him
who captures the body of Barton—alias Bonardi
—living or dead!”

The words were scarcely out of the speaker's
mouth, when six boats shot out from the rest, and
entered the channel, each straining as for life to
be first at the cave.

“Now then, comrades,” whispered Piketon,
“pick your men on the river, and do not waste
powder! One farewell volley, and then for our
horses, as the others must be near.”

“But our captain?” said one, enquiringly.

“Fear not for him,” answered Piketon. “He has
some deep design in view, doubtless, as this was
to me his last solemn injunction. Now then,
comrades,—ready—fire!”

The last word was drowned in a roar of musketry,
that rolled heavily across the Osage, and
reverberated from cliff to cliff, echoing far away
into the solitary retreat of many a wild beast,
startling him from his lair, while groans, shrieks,
and curses, immediately resounded from the boats,
where all was consternation and confusion—not
less than twenty having fallen under the fire, most
of them dead, and the others, with but three exceptions,
mortally wounded.

“Ho! pursue them!” shouted a hoarse voice,
from one of the boats; and the speaker pointed
up the hill, where the bandits were seen making
their escape.

Scarcely a minute elapsed, ere the dead and
wounded were placed on the deck of the steamer,
and the boats touched the store. Leaping at once
upon the bank, they darted up the steep acelivity,
and some of them had reached within a few yards
of the summit, when suddenly all paused, as by
common consent, and their faces blanched with
absolute terror. The ground beneath them trembled,
as by the throes of an earthquake; and then
there came a tremendous, heavy, booming sound,
seemingly from the bowels of the earth below.
For a moment a dead silence ensued; and then
wild shrieks, from distant voices, rent the air.

“The cave!—the cave!—they have blown up
the cave!”

Horror stricken at this awful announcement,
they turned and rushed back to their boats, in
wild dismay, only to find, shortly after, this terrible
intelligence confirmed by their own observation.
Of the party that entered the channel,
upwards of fifty in number, some thirty had
reached the cave and disappeared, while the
others were eagerly pressing forward, when Bonardi,
with Inez clasped to his heart, fired the
train, and himself, with every soul within, was,
in the twinkling of an eye, launched into eternity.
As the explosion took place, and the cries
ascended from those in the creek, who had escaped,
announcing the awful calamity, a voice
from the brow of the hill shrieked:

“Oh God! oh God! she is lost!” and Edward
Merton reeled to and fro, and finally sank to the
earth; while the tall, gaunt figure of Harvey Bernard
stood over him, with a look of the most intense
anguish depicted on his honest, open features.

“Poor youth!” he murmured. “Alas! poor
Emily;” and kneeling by Edward, he wrung his
horny hands, and gave vent to his grief in choking
sobs, that made his strong, muscular frame quiver.
A quick rustling among the bushes startled him.
On looking up, he instantly sprang to his feet,

staggered back several paces, and uttered a shout
of joy.

“Emily!” he shrieked, “alive?”

At the word Emily, Edward bounded to his feet,
and saw her, but a few paces distant, rushing toward
him.

“Emily!” he gasped, scarcely crediting his
senses.

“Edward!” and the next moment they were
locked in each others embrace, and so overcome
with joy, that for a time all power of utterance
was lost; while Bernard, in a delirium of ecstacy,
fairly danced about them, and actually so far forgot
himself as to kick several stones down the
hill, to the no small annoyance of some of the
party hurrying up from below.

It was a strange wild meeting, that of the
lovers, in that wild region, and at a moment too
so awfully terrible, when not less than forty human
beings, without a second's warning, had just
been ushered into the presence of their Maker;
when groans and shrieks from the dying, on the
deck of the steamer, were mingling with the
hoarse shouts and cries of those who had escaped
their untimely fate. It was a strange wild meeting,
that of the lovers, and one that by them
would never be forgotten.

As the reader is aware, Merton and Bernard
had set out in the morning, with a party rising of
forty men, to seek the rendezvous of the banditti,
rescue Emily, and punish the offenders. We shall
not attempt to describe the thoughts and emotions,
the hopes and fears, agitating the breast of the
former, during that eventful day, (when his mind
ran on the perils seemingly surrounding her he
loved,) but leave these to the imagination of the
reader, for our space is already limited. Suffice,
that a hard day's ride of bodily fatigue and mental
anxiety, had brought him to the spot where
we now find him. When within three miles of
the place, Edward had descried the steamer; and
divining at once her purpose, had become very
much alarmed, lest there should be a fight, wherein,
as he thought, Emily must necessarily become
involved. Whispering his fears to his companion
Bernard, both instantly drove their spurs into
their horses' sides, and set rapidly forward, in advance
of the others. When they arrived at the
foot of the hill, whereon they now stood, they
found it too steep for a speedy ascent with their
horses, which were already very much blown,
and leaping from their backs, they darted up on
foot. They had proceeded but a few paces, when
they heard the report of a volley of fire-arms,
which caused them to redouble their speed. On
their way, they caught a glimpse of the flying
bandits, some distance to the left; but heeding
them not, they still pressed on, and at length, pale
with excitement, and breathless with bodily exertion,
they reached the summit. As they came
in full view of the steamer, the awful explosion
at the cave took place; and Edward, thinking Emily
was within, and now lost to him for ever, uttered
the words recorded, and sank to the earth.

As to Emily herself, she had ridden, in company
with Hetty and Cyntha, some two miles,
when she perceived a body of men, about a mile
to the right of her, rapidly advancing toward the
spot she had but lately quitted, and where she
knew the bandits were lying in ambush. Some
little distance in advance of the main body, she
descried two horsemen, whom her eyes and heart
at once told her were Edward and Bernard,
Fearful lest the one she loved, with his compan
ion, might heedlessly run into an ambush, that
would cost both of them their lives, she suddenly
wheeled her animal, and, without a word to the
others, darted away to intercept them. But in
laying out her line of interception, the angle was
too abruptly formed, and, in consequence, she
had fallen somewhat in the rear. Had they even
for a moment glanced to the right, they must
have seen her; but with their eyes intent upon
one point, she had escaped their observation.
When they sprang from their horses, at the base
of the hill, she was but a few rods distant. Ere
they arrived half way to the summit, she had dismounted
and was struggling up after them, but
too much exhausted to gain their ears with her
voice. Their meeting the reader has already seen.

And now, leaving Edward and Emily to the
holy commune of love, and the relation of such
other matters as are already familiar to the reader,
with a few brief remarks we shall close this chapter.

The party of which Merton and Bernard
formed a portion, on seeing them ride forward in
such haste, increased their speed, and presently
joined them on the hill, where they received the
sad intelligence of what had taken place, and
also learned that the bandits had effected their escape,
without the loss of a man Of those who
were in the cave at the time of the explosion, not
one could be recognised—so mangled were they,
and torn, and blackened with powder. The cave
itself, though not utterly demolished, was so rent
and shattered—both apartments being blown into
one—that those who may chance to view it at the
present day, will fail, doubtless, to recognise that
almost classic beauty belonging to it prior to and
at the date of our story; or, what is more, may
even fail to recognise the cave at all. For the
benefit of the curious, however, and lest some may
deem it a fabulous one, we will here assert that the
cave is still in existence, and can be seen by those
who may be disposed to seek it.

As the party just arrived soon discovered their
presence was no longer necessary, and as the sun
was already near the line of the western horizon,
they immediately set out upon their return, accompanied
by Bernard, Edward and Emily. Hetty
and Cyntha soon after joined them, both of
whom, to their no small surprise and terror, were
immediately taken into custody, to be conveyed
to St. Louis for examination; and particularly the
latter, who had no papers to show that she was
free. About five miles from the Osage, the party
found a convenient place, and quartered for the
night, during which Cyntha effected her escape,
and was never afterwards heard from,—she probably
having again joined the escaped outlaws.

At daylight on the following morning, each resumed
their journey, much refreshed by a good
night's rest, and for some thirty miles traveled
in company, when they gradually began to separate,
as here and there one after another turned
off to seek their nearest course home. Some
three hours after nightfall, Bernard, Edward and
Emily arrived at Webber's, having traveled the
last five miles entirely by themselves.

The party on the steamer remained at the cave
during the night, and on the day following, after
having interred the remains of all those found in
the cave, started upon their return, with what
feelings we leave the reader to imagine.

Of the party of Piketon, we can only say they
were never again heard of in that country.—
What became of them is unknown. Probably

they sought some remote place, and perhaps settled
down, many of them, into peaceable citizens
—who shall say? No little wonderment was
created among some of the oldest settlers, to find
that here and there an old neighbor had suddenly
and mysteriously disappeared—in many cases
whole families also—and for a long time it was a
difficult matter to reconcile their minds to the
fact, that in the persons of those neighbors had
existed many of the most formidable members of
the dread banditti.

On the night following the one in which Bonardi
blew up the cave—wherein Saxton and
Niles perished—in a miserable hoved, unfriended
and alone, the wretched outcast Curdish breathed
his last. The wound in his shoulder, given by
Bernard, having mortified, produced his death.

So perish the guilty.

Thus, one after one, in various ways, have we
seen our characters disappear, until but a few remain.
Well, like to them, one after one, shall
we also disappear, and perchance without a friendly
hand being raised to record that we have been.

Let us now turn once more to the living of our
drama of life, take a farewell view, and then let
the curtain descend and shut them from our sight
forever.