THE HAUNTED MINES. BY HORACE STANTON. COME of the grandest scenery in SOME America is to be found amid the wild mountain ranges and along the bright rivers of Texas. From the snow-crowned hights of the Sierras to the tropical shores of the gulf is opened a wide vision of luxuriance and beauty. Her mammoth forest-trees invite the weary traveler to repose beneath their waving branches, while her broad prairies come down to be kissed by the foamlit waves of the sea. The Colorado River finds its source in a bright pearly stream that gushes from the rocky face of the Guadaloupe Mountains, and then, rolling away through the wild, rich prairies, it receives constant accessions to its strength, until it comes down to the gulf in a mighty volume of rushing waters. But even this wild spot, apparently so free from the intrusion of man, was not secure from the adventurous foot of the New Englander; and, at the base of the mountain, Henry Bateman had built a comfortable cabin, while his wide and fertile ranche extended far away through the woodlands and prairie. A man of ordinary acquirements, he had been early taught the sturdy New England lessons of self-reliance and virtue. A strong love of adventure was hidden away in his practical brain; and, with his brave-hearted wife and little group of children, he had sought a home in this wilderness of beauty and grandeur. Above their modest cabin the strong towers of nature leaned against the sky; and they witnessed coronations grander than at the courts of princes, when the sunlight placed upon the mountain's brow a radiant morning crown of gold and crimson, or swept the hights at eventide with the purple glory of his mighty benediction. Farther on, amid the wild ravines of this lofty range, were mines of silver and gold, which had been worked to advantage by the Spaniards a century before, until the mining operations were broken up by the Indians. Among the few families that lived within a range of fifty miles, was a wild legend that the ravines were haunted. It was said that a pale-faced youth from the north of England, being driven from home by the cruelty of his father, had wandered here and gone into the mines with the Spaniards; that he proved more fortunate than his comrades, and was finally robbed and murdered there for the possession of his shining spoils. His mother, the Lady Helen, had died broken-hearted on hearing the news. And since that time-so the legend ran the figure of a woman in white robes had flitted up and down the mountain-side, amid the lofty pines and through the dark defiles, wringing her white hands and moaning in anguish, while her strange cries were borne on the midnight air. The consciencestricken murderer said the voice declared that no more treasure should be taken from the mines; that the hand of the spoiler should seal up the shining ores of the mountain; and that whoever sought for them in after years should fall by the hand of a northern avenger. The widely-scattered and superstitious inhabitants received the strange story without a doubt or a question, and in their humble cabins, beside the flickering rays of the weird firelight, they gravely repeated it to wondering childhood; and then a solemn awe, that nature never gave, would rest upon their simple hearts and crown the ancient mountains with an indefinable fear. But about the year 1856, a company of Texans formed themselves into a band, determined to work out the golden problems of the dark ravines, and bid defiance to the ghost of the past. The old mines were partially closed; and rather than seek for unknown veins, they began the task of opening them anew. But for weeks they toiled patiently on, without any reward for their labors. One night, as they rested around their camp-fires, they were awakened by the ominous roar of a mountain storm, and soon the rain came pouring down in a tropical flood, while the heavy thunder rolled from peak to peak, and the lightning flashed along the gray rocks, or smote the lofty trees near their encampment. Awed, and perhaps frightened, by the unusual power of the tempest, the little group looked silently on as the vivid lightning revealed the damage that was being done to their works. But as the wind wrestled with the mountain pines, or swept through the dark ravines, they fancied that a woman's shriek was borne on the blast; that a wild scream of exultation mingled with the voice of the tempest, or a moaning cry sounded beneath the gale. But in a few hours the storm rolled down from the hights and swept away to the prairies and woodlands below. The morning sunlight found the miners undecided what course to pursue. The more superstitious were in favor of abandoning the enterprise; but under the strong influence of one controling mind and the fair morning sunlight, the majority grew bolder, and it was decided to work bravely on, whatever obstacles lay in their pathway. Deeper they forced the sinking shaft, but long they toiled before their eyes rested upon the shining sands that gave promise of a rich reward. Richard Armsdell was the leading spirit of the enterprise, and the only one among them who was entirely free from superstition. He had led his comrades on, by alternately reasoning with them and laughing at their ghostly fancies, until they felt more than half ashamed of them. The fearful storm they had witnessed, and the wailing undercurrent of its deepest notes, would have driven them back, but for the brave heart and clear head of Armsdell, who held them by his superior courage and by the strong magnetic power which even an ordinary mind will always obtain over a weaker one. "Now boys," said he, "one of you must start in the morning, before daylight, and go to the Corners for supplies. Who will volunteer to do the work?" No one answered; and, looking around the group, his eye rested upon the man who could best be spared from the works, and he said, "Bill Nelson, you had better go." The man thus addressed started, as if half frightened by the request, and answered, "No, sir, I can't go." "Why can't you?" pursued Armsdell. "Because, to tell the truth, I don't fancy the idea of starting off from these diggins in the night, and maybe meeting that woman in her graveclothes." "Ha!" sneered Richard, "afraid you'll meet a woman in her night-dress, ain't you? Well, let somebody else try it." But in vain he reasoned with their fears. Under one excuse or another, every one of them positively refused to go. "Now look here, boys, ain't you ashamed of yourselves? You ought, all of you, to know that dead folks ain't here spookin around! I tell you, they can't tell tales; and even if there is a ghost in these mountains, telling what they say it has told, we have given it the lie already. Haven't we taken ores out of these mines in spite of its warnings? I'll go myself; and mind you don't get scared out while I'm gone!" "Take care, Dick Armsdell," said another; "you were the first man that attempted to open these mines, and the 'Northern Avenger' may be upon your track." "Yes, I fancy I see him," replied Armsdell; "but I reckon these will take the vengeance out of him!" and he pointed to a pair of heavy pistols in his belt. The next morning, while yet the stars were flashing above the dark trees, the brave Texan started upon his journey. Mounted upon a mustang pony and leading another, he began the descent of the mountain. His lonely pathway led through the darkness of the evergreen forest that crowned the summit, and down the deep defiles-down to the fragrant woods that came up a mile from the base, to join the pines upon the mountain-side. The morning light was flushing the eastern sky with its beauty, as Armsdell rode slowly down through the long green aisles, beneath the spreading oaks and walnuts, where grape-vines were climbing the lofty trees to hang among the waving foliage their clusters of fruit. He crossed the infant Colorado near its source, and far away across the wide prairies patiently followed the trail, while around him vast numbers of wild cattle were roaming at will, and away in the distance herds of horses galloped over the plain. After a few hours his pathway lay along the course of a running stream, and the banks were lined with deep beds of wild honeysuckle, where the flowers came down to kiss the limpid waves. The bushes were so laden with blossoms that but little foliage could be seen, as they lay along the river for miles in solid masses of beauty and fragrance. The unfolding buds wore a crimson hue, but they grew paler with time, and passing through each blushing shade, the falling petals were creamy white. This pleasing variety of color, the rich profusion of flowers, and the fragrance-laden air, were worth a pilgrimage from a northern clime; but Armsdell was so accustomed to these scenes of beauty that he rode on, scarcely heeding the luxuriance around him. He soon entered a region of timber-land and passed through occasional thickets, where the undergrowth was close and almost impenetrable. Once, the high bushes were carefully parted behind him, and a dusky face peered cautiously through the opening, while a malicious grin overspread the hideous features. But it was quickly withdrawn, and the traveler passed on, unconscious of the shadows that haunted his pathway.. He had expected to reach the little village at nightfall or soon after; but his pony had proved inefficient, and he was still nearly ten miles away when the sun went down behind the western mountains. Just before him lay a forest deeper than any he had yet met, and as he passed into its shades the birds were seeking their rest, and soon the hush of night settled gloomily down over the lofty trees. Occasionally the solitude was disturbed by the cries of the night birds or the howl of a wolf; and more than once his practiced ear detected a stealthy footstep amid the underbrush. He laid his hand upon his pistols, to be assured of their safety, and urged his weary animals on. A moment more, and a dark form sprang from the roadside and caught the bridle of his pony, while another attempted to confine his arms with a lariat. But, drawing a pistol from his belt, he fired two shots in rapid succession, and one of his assailants fell mor His tally wounded. Again he endeavored to quicken his pace, but a well-known war-whoop rang through the woods, and he found himself surrounded by hostile Indians. They were his old foes a treacherous and cruel tribe, whose bloody record will go down to posterity in the histories of the frontier. wife and only child had been massacred by them, years before; and then he had registered a solemn vow of vengeance against their name and nation. well had he kept his fearful pledge that this one man had been a destroying angel to their tribe, and more than fifty of their bravest warriors had fallen by his hand. Thus far he had eluded their grasp; for long years of frontier life had made him as wary as his savage foes. So But now he was so far from their hunting-grounds and usual haunts that he had not anticipated an encounter with them, else he would not have been alone. As it was, the contest could not last long, and soon the strong-hearted man was completely at the mercy of his captors, although five or six of their number had fallen before his deathdealing pistols. His ponies were taken from him, and, with pinioned arms, he was compelled to march for hours in the front, while they moved silently away to join the rest of the tribe. The strange procession swept on beneath the starlight until the dusky leader gave the order to halt. A rude encampment was soon made, and, with the captive securely lashed to a tree, the Indians lay around their camp-fires, and soon sank into a profound slumber. At daybreak they ate their breakfast, and allowed the prisoner a liberal share; for their chief had given orders long before that if this man was ever captured he should be well treated. Poor Armsdell was destined for torture, and the malignant chief well knew that if he was strong death would not come to his relief as soon as if weakened by starvation. The weary march was resumed and pursued over hill and plain, and through deep forests, where the evergreen oak spread out its thicklyvarnished leaves, or the mistletoe, with its shining foliage and snow-white berries, clung in heavy clusters to the branches of a lofty tree. On the evening of the second day after his capture, and while yet the sun lingered in the heavens, they came up with the rest of the tribe, though it was much farther south than Armsdell had ever known them to wander before. When it was known who their captive was, the wild yells of triumph arose from a hundred savage throats; and soon the whole tribe were performing one of their hideous war-dances around the prisoner, whose feelings we will not attempt to describe. The dance was prolonged until the moon was high in the heavens, when the captive was again lashed to a tree, to await the torture of the coming day; and under the influence of a generous supply of “firewater," the Indians sank into a heavy slumber. On the side of the Guadaloupe, and about half way between the mines and the Bateman ranche, was an Indian's hut, inhabited by its owner, who called himself Olanto. He was entirely alone, and many miles from the hunting grounds of his tribe. Whether he was banished by his a fugitive, or had been fellows, no one knew. He lived ostensibly by hunting; but he frequently intruded upon Bateman's premises, always appropriating the best of whatever he could reach. The generous pioneer had borne with him long, but within a few weeks he had ordered him to leave the premises, and forbidden any future visits. All the malice and treachery of the Indian were aroused by this just sentence, and he was now waiting for an opportunity to do him wrong. He had already sent poisoned arrows among his herd of cattle, on more than one occasion; but his malice was far from being gratified. Olanto had a habit of creeping stealthily near whenever he saw two men engaged in conversation; and, on the morning of the fourth day after Armsdell's departure, while sitting on a peak above the encampment of the miners, he saw them apparently discussing some topic of great interest, and hastening down, he carefully approached them. upon his hands and knees. While lying concealed beneath the underbrush he heard one of them say: "Poor Dick was a brave fellow, but I reckon he has met the Northern Avenger' before this. He wouldn't stay away four days if all was right." "Yes, he's gone sure," replied Bill Nelson. "I'll tell you how I know," he added in a lower tone, "I saw that woman last night, and she wasn't crying and wringing her hands as she used to be, but she was laughing and screaming, while the wind blew among the great pines in an awful gale. Ah! yes," he slowly added; "I knew that it hadn't been floating over these dark mountains a hundred years for nothing!" Well," said Ned Casey, the desperado of the group, "I don't know about the ghost; I ain't seen it. Like as any way its here, though. But it ain't a ghost that's killed Dick Armsdell. They don't do such things; and besides, he'd fight his way through a whole regiment of the moonlight imps. I tell you he's found a foe that has flesh and blood. Like as any way that mean Yankee, at the foot of the mountain, sent a ball through him as he passed his house. He could do it easy enough, and then hide his body." "Yes, yes," said Nelson eagerly, "that's what's become of him-that Bateman is from the north. He's the 'Northern Avenger,' I reckon !" "Don't be a fool, Bill," was Casey's courteous reply. "It don't make much difference what sort of an avenger he is. If he's shot Dick Armsdell, we'll put a stop to his shooting, that's all!" "Yes, that we will," responded two or three others; for Armsdell was a general favorite, and the more reckless of his comrades were ready to avenge his death by any deed of cruelty or blood. As Olanto heard their earnest words, a smile of fiendish malice overspread his dusky face, and, crouching lower, he listened eagerly, but heard little more of importance, as they soon after resumed their work, when he crept cautiously away. Half an hour afterward, he came to the mines, and sitting down in silence he looked mournfully from one to another, and in reply to their remarks or questions he gave only the low guttural “Ugh!" "Come, old Greasy, tells us what ails you," said one jovial fellow as he came near him. "Ugh! me feel bad so bad," was the reply. "Well, what's the matter?" "Me tell bad news-white man gone -white man no come back." These words, uttered like the voice of an oracle, had a magical effect in gathering the group, and, after some urging, he told them, in his broken tongue, that on the morning that Armsdell left them Olanto had gone down the mountain, and when near the base the horseman had passed him. While still in sight of the Indian he had reached Bateman's house. Having thus excited their curiosity, he refused to reveal any thing more, until strongly urged. He then testified that Bateman was standing near the house, at the time, with his rifle in his hand, and, deliberately raising it, he shot Armsdell through the body, and the wounded man instantly fell from his horse. A storm of indignation was aroused |