The scene is a small glade, surrounded by tall cottonwood trees, one of which on each side, conspicuously “blazed,” indicates a “trace” of travel. It is that leading from Helena to a settlement on the forks of the White River and Caché.

The time is a quarter of a century ago, when this district of country contained a heterogeneous population, comprising some of the wildest and wickedest spirits to be found in all the length and breadth of the backwoods border. It was then the chosen home for men of fallen fortunes, lawyers and land speculators, slave-traders and swindlers, hunters, who lived by the pursuit of game, and sportsmen, whose game was cards, and whose quarry consisted of such dissolute cotton planters as, forsaking their homes in Mississippi and Tennessee, had re-established themselves on the fertile bottoms of the Saint Francis, the White and the Arkansas.

A glance at the individuals comprising the bivouac in question forbids the supposition that they belong to any of the above. There are six of them; all are boys, the oldest not over twenty, while the youngest may be under sixteen. And though at the same glance you are satisfied that they are but amateur hunters, the game they have succeeded in bringing down shows them gifted not only with skill but courage in the chase.

The carcase of a large bear lies beside them on the sward, his skin hanging from a tree, while several steaks cut from his fat rump, and impaled upon sapling spits, sing pleasantly over the camp fire, sending a savoury odour far into the forest around.

About a dozen huge bear-hounds, several showing scars of recent conflict, lie panting upon the grass, while just half this number of saddled horses stand “hitched” to the trees.

The young hunters are in high glee. They have made a creditable day’s work of it, and as most of them have to go a good way before reaching home, they have halted in the glade to refresh themselves, their hounds, and their horses.

The chase has provided them with meat of which all are fond; most of them carry a “pine” of corn bread in their saddle-bags, and not a few a flask of corn-whiskey. They would not be the youth of Arkansas if found unprovided with tobacco. Thus furnished with all the requisites of a backwoods bivouac they are sucking it in gleesome style.

Scanning these young fellows from a social point of view you can see they are not all of equal rank. A difference in dress and equipments bespeaks a distinct standing, even in backwoods society, and this inequality is evident among the six individuals seated around the camp fire. He whom we have taken for the oldest, and whose name is Brandon, is the son of a cotton planter of some position in the neighbourhood. And there is wealth too, as indicated by the coat of fine white linen, the white Panama hat, and the diamond pin sparkling among the ruffles in his shirt-bosom.

It is not this, however, that gives him a tone of authority among his hunting companions, but rather an assumption of superior age, combined with perhaps superior strength, and certainly a dash of bullyism that exhibits itself, and somewhat offensively, in both word and action. Most of the dogs are his, as also the fine sorrel horse that stands proudly pawing the ground not far from the fire.

Next to Master Brandon in degree of social standing is a youth, who is also two years his junior, by name Randall. He is the son of a certain lawyer, lately promoted to be judge of the district – an office that cannot be called a sinecure, supposing its duties to be faithfully performed.

After Randall may be ranked young Spence, the hopeful scion of an Episcopal clergyman, whose cure lies in one of the river-side towns, several miles from the scene of the bivouac.

Of lower grade is Ned Slaughter, son of the Helena hotel-keeper, and Jeff Grubbs, the heir apparent to Jeff Grubbs, senior, the principal dry goods merchant of the same respectable city.

At the bottom of the scale may be placed Bill Buck, whose father, half horse trader, half corn planter, squats on a tract of poor land near the Caché, of which no one cares to dispute his proprietorship.

Notwithstanding these social distinctions, there is none apparent around the camp fire. In a hunter’s bivouac – especially in the South-Western States, still more notably within the limits of Arkansas – superiority does not belong either to fine clothes or far stretching lineage. The scion of the “poor white hack” is as proud of his position as the descendant of the aristocratic cotton planter; and over the camp fire in question Bill Buck talked as loudly, ate as choice steaks, and drank as much corn whisky as Alf Brandon, the owner of the hounds and the splendid sorrel horse.

In their smoking there might be noted a difference, Bill indulging in a council pipe, while the son of the planter puffs his principe that has come through the custom-house from Havanna. Luncheon over, it still seems too early to separate for return home, and too late to set the dogs on a fresh bear trail. The corn juice inspires to rouse a kind of diversion, suggesting trials of death or skill. Among these sons of Arkansas cards would have come in; but to their chagrin no one is provided with a pack. Bill Buck regrets this, and also Alf Brandon, and so, too, the son of the Episcopal preacher. They are too far from any settlement to send for such things. Pitch and toss is not sufficiently scientific; “hokey in the hole” is too childish, and it ends in a trial of strength and activity. There is wrestling, jumping over a string, and the leap horizontal. In all of these Alf Brandon proves superior, though closely tackled by the son of the squatter. Their superiority is actually owing to age, for these two are the oldest of the party.

The ordinary sports exhausted, something else is sought for. A new kind of gymnastics suggest itself or is suggested, by the stout branch of a cottonwood, stretching horizontally into the glade. It is nearly nine feet from the ground. Who can spring up, seize hold of it, and hang on longest?

Alf Brandon pulls out his gold repeater, formed with a moment hand, and the trial is attempted.

All six succeeded in reaching the limb, and clutching it. All can hang for a time; but in this Bill Buck beats his companions, Brandon showing chagrin. Who can hang longest with one hand? The trial is made, and the planter’s son is triumphant.

“Bah!” cries the defeated Buck. “Who can hang longest by the neck? Dare any of you try that?”

A yell of laughter responds to this jeu d’esprit of the young jean-clad squatter.

Story 1-Chapter II.
Two Travellers

The silence succeeding is so profound that the slightest sound may be heard to a considerable distance. Though not professional hunters, these young Nimrods of the backwoods are accustomed to keep open ears. It is a rustling among the reeds that now hinders them from resuming conversation – the canes that hang over the trace of travel. There are footsteps upon it, coming from the direction of Helena. They are soft as the fall of moccasined or female foot. For all this, they are heard distinctly in the glade – hunters, horses, and hounds having pricked up their ears to listen.

Who comes from Helena?

The question has scarce shaped itself when the answer also assumes shape. There are two upon the trace – the foremost, a youth of about eighteen, the other, a girl, at least two years younger.

They are not like enough to be brother and sister. They may be of the same mother, but not father. If their father be the same, they must have come from two mothers.

Both are of interesting personal appearance, strikingly so. The youth is tall, tersely and elegantly formed, with features cast in a mould that reminds one of the Romagna; the same facial outline, the prominent nose and chin, the eagle eye, that in childhood has glanced across the Teverino, or the Tiber, and a complexion equally suggestive of Italian origin, a tinge of olive in the skin, slightly damasked upon the cheeks, with, above all, a thick chevelure, black as the plumage of a buzzard. While different in mien, this youth is dressed altogether unlike any of the young hunters who regard him from the glade. He is in true hunter costume, slightly partaking of the garb more especially affected by the Indian. His feet are in mocassins, his limbs encased in leggings of green-baize cloth, a calico hunting shirt covers his shoulders; while, instead of cap or hat, he wears the “toque,” or turban, long since adopted by the semi-civilised tribes of the frontier. He is equipped with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, slung crossways under his arm, armed with a long pea-rifle resting negligently over his left shoulder.

His companion has been spoken off as a girl. The designation stands good; but to describe her will require less minuteness of detail. Sixteen in countenance; older to judge by the budding promise of her beauty; clad in a gown of common homespun, copperas-dyed, ill stitched, and loosely adjusted; a skin soft as velvet, and ruddy as rude health can make it; hair to all appearance unacquainted with combs; yet spreading as the sun through a southern window; eyes like stars clipped from the blue canopy of the sky. Such was she who followed, or rather accompanied, the youth in the calico hunting shirt.

A sudden fire flashes into the eyes of Alf Brandon. It is the expression of a spirit not friendly to one of the new comers, which may be easily guessed, for the girl is too young and too fair to have excited hostility in the breast of any one. It is her companion against whom the son of the planter feels some secret resentment.

He shows it more conspicuously on a remark made by Bill Buck.

“That skunk is always sneaking about with old Rook’s gal. Wonder her dad don’t show more sense than let her keep company wi’ a nigger. She ain’t a goslin any more —she ain’t.”

Buck’s observation displays an animus ill concealed. He, too, has not failed to note the hidden beauty of this forest maiden, who is the daughter of an old hunter of rude habits, living in a cabin close by.

But the sentiments of the horse-dealer’s son, less refined, are also less keenly felt. His remarks add fuel to the fire already kindled in the breast of Brandon.

“The nigger thinks entirely too much of himself. I propose, boys, we take the shine out of him,” said Brandon, who makes the malicious challenge.

“Do the nigger good,” chimes in Slaughter.

“But is he a nigger?” asks Spence, to whom the strange youth has been hitherto unknown. “I should have taken him for a white.”

“Three-quarters white – the rest Indian. His mother was a half-bred Choctaw. I’ve often seen the lot at our store.”

It is Grubbs who gives this information.

“Injun or nigger, what’s the difference?” proceeded the brutal Buck. “He’s got starch enough for either; and, as you say, Alf Brandon, let’s take it out of him. All agreed, boys?”

“All! all!”

“What do you say, Judge Randall! You’ve not spoken yet, and as you’re a judge we wait for your decision.”

“Oh, if there’s fun to be had, I’m with you. What do you propose doing with him?”

“Leave that to me,” says Brandon, turning to the quarter-bred, who at this moment has arrived opposite the camp fire. “Hilloa Choc! What’s the hurry? We’ve been having a trial of strength here – who can hang longest by one arm to this branch? Suppose you put in too, and see what you can do?”

“I don’t desire it; besides, I have no time to spare for sport.”

The young hunter, halted for only a moment, is about to move on. The companionship thus offered is evidently uncongenial. He suspects that some mischief is meant. He can read it in the eyes of all six; in their faces flushed with corn-whiskey. Their tone, too, is insulting.

“You’re afraid you’ll get beat,” sneeringly rejoins Brandon. “Though you have Indian blood in you, there ought to be enough white to keep you from showing coward.”

“A coward! I’ll thank you not to repeat that Mr Alfred Brandon.”

“Well, then, show yourself a man, and make the trial. I’ve heard that you boast of having strong arms. I’ll bet that I can hang longer to that branch than you – that any of us can.”

“What will you bet you can?” asks the young hunter, stirred, perhaps, by the hope of employing his strength to a profitable purpose.

“My rifle against yours. Looking at the value of the guns, that is quite two to one.”

“Three to one,” says the son of the store-keeper.

“I don’t admit it,” answers the hunter. “I prefer my piece to yours, with all its silvering upon it. But I accept your challenge, and will take the bet as you have proposed it.”

“Enough. Now, boys, stand by and see fair play. You, Slaughter, you keep time. Here’s my watch.”

The girl is going away; Brandon evidently wishes she should do so. He has some design – some malice prepense, of which he does not desire her to be a witness. Whatever it is he has communicated it to his fellows, all of whom show a like willingness for Lena Rook – such is her name – to take her departure. Their free glances and freer speech produce the desired effect. Her father’s shanty is not far off. She knows the road without any guidance, and moves off along it, not, however, without casting a glance towards her late travelling companion, in which might be detected a slight shadow of apprehension.

She has not failed to notice the bearing of the boy hunters, their insulting tone and attitude towards him of Indian taint, who, for all that, has been the companion of her girlhood’s life – the sharer of her father’s roof, rude and humble as it is. Most of those left in the glade she knows – all of them by name – Buck and Brandon with a slight feeling of aversion.

But she has confidence in Pierre – the only name by which she knows her father’s guest – the name given by the man who some six years before entrusted him to her father’s keeping; she knows that he is neither child nor simpleton, and against any ordinary danger can well guard himself.

By this sweet reflection allaying her fears she flits forward along the forest path like a young fawn, emboldened by the knowledge that the lair of the protecting stag is safe and near.

Story 1-Chapter III.
Hanging by One Hand

“How is it to be?” asks Slaughter, holding the watch as if he were weighing it. “By one hand or both?”

“One hand, of course. That was the challenge.”

“I propose that the other be tied. That will be the best way, and fair for both parties. There will then be no balancing, and it will be a simple test of strength in the arm used for suspension. The right, of course. Let the left be tied down. What say you, boys?”

“There can be no objection to that. It’s equal for both,” remarks Randall.

“I make no objection,” says Brandon.

“Nor I,” assents the young hunter; “tie as you please, so long as you tie alike.”

“Good!” ejaculates Bill Buck, with a sly wink to his companions, unseen by the last speaker.

The competitors stand under the branch of the tree ready to be tied. A minute or two sufficed for this. It is done by a piece of string cord looped upon the left wrist, and then carried round the thigh. By this means the left arm is secured against struggling or in anyway lessening the strain upon the right.

Thus pinioned, both stand ready for the trial.

“Who goes first?” is the question asked by Slaughter. “The challenger, or the challenged?”

“The challenged has the choice,” answers Randall. “Do you wish it, Choc?” he adds, addressing himself to the quarter-bred Indian.

“It makes no difference to me whether first or last,” is the simple reply.

“All right, then; I’ll go first,” says Brandon, springing up, and clutching hold of the limb.

Slaughter, entrusted with the duty, appears to take note of the time.

One – two – three – three minutes and thirty seconds – told off on the dial of his watch, and Brandon drops to the ground.

He does not appear to have made much of an effort. It is strange he should be so indifferent to the losing of a splendid rifle, to say nothing of the humiliation of defeat.

Both seem in store for him, as the young hunter, bracing himself to the effort, springs up to the branch.

One – two – three – four – five. Five minutes are told off, and still does he remain suspended.

“How much longer can you stand it, Choc?” asks Bill Buck, with a significant intonation of voice. “Most done, ain’t ye?”

“Done!” scornfully exclaimed the suspended hunter. “I could stand it three times as long, if needed. I suppose you’re satisfied I’ve won?”

“A hundred dollars against my own rifle you don’t hang five minutes more.”

This comes from Brandon.

“I’ll take the bet,” is the rejoinder.

“Since you’re so confident, then, you’ll have to win or be hanged.”

“What do you mean by that? What are you doing behind me?” asked the young hunter.

These questions are put under a suspicion that some trick is being played. He hears a whispering behind him, and a rustling of leaves overhead.

“Only taking the precaution that you don’t hurt yourself by the fall,” is the answer given to the last.

It is followed by a peal of loud laughter, in which all six take part.

The young gymnast, still clinging to the branch, wonders what is making them so merry. Heir speeches have suggested something sinister, and glancing upward he discovers the trick played upon him. There is a rope around his neck, with a running nose, its other end attached to a branch above. It has been adjusted in such manner that were he to let go his hold the noose would close around his throat, with his feet still dangling in the air.

“Hang on!” cried Slaughter, in a mocking tone. “Hang on, I advise you. If you let go you’ll find your neck in a noose.”

“You’ll keep the time, Slaughter,” directs Brandon, “Five minutes more. If he drops within that time, let him do so. Well, then, see how long the nigger can hang by his neck.”

Another loud laugh rings through the glade, echoed by all except him who is the subject of it.

The young hunter is furious – almost to frenzy. His cheek has turned ashy pale – his lips too. Fire flashes in his coal-black eyes. Could he but descend safely from the tree, at least one of his torturers would have reason to repent the trick they have put upon him.

He dare not let go his hold; he sees the set snare, and knows the danger of falling into it. He can only await till they may please to release him from his perilous position.

But if patient, he is not silent.

“Cowards!” he cries, “cowards every one of you; and I’ll make every one of you answer for it: you’ll see if I don’t.”

“Come, come, nigger,” retorts Brandon, “don’t talk that way, or we’ll not let you down at all. As good as you have been hanged in these woods for too much talking. Ain’t he a nice looking gallows bird just now? Say, boys! Suppose we call back the girl, and let her have a look at him? Perhaps she’d help him out of his fix. Ha! ha! ha!”

“You’ll repent these speeches, Alfred Brandon,” gasps the young man, beginning to feel his strength failing him.

“You be hanged – yes, hanged, ha! ha! ha!”

Simultaneous with the laugh a deer-hound, straying by the edge of the glade, gave out a short, sharp growl, which is instantly taken up by those lying around the camp fire. At the same instant is heard a snort, perfectly intelligible to the ears of the amateur hunters.

“A bear! a bear!” is the cry uttered by all, as the animal itself is seen dashing back into the cane-brake, out of which it had come to reconnoitre.

In an instant the hounds are after it, some of them already hanging to its hams, while the six hunters suddenly rush to their guns, and flinging themselves into their saddles, oblivious of all else, spur excitedly after.

In less than twenty seconds from the first howl of the hound there is not a soul in the glade, save that now in real danger of parting from the body that contains it.

The young hunter is left hanging – alone!