Crewne mechanically put his hands in his pocket and drew forth the money Matalette had given him to buy a horse with. The sheriff snatched it.

"That's some of his stock?" said he, looking it rapidly over. _That_ seems good enough."

"What will become of his poor daughter?" ejaculated the young preacher, with a vacant look.

"What, Helen?" queried the sheriff. "She's the best engraver of counterfeits there is in the whole West."

"Dreadful--dreadful!" exclaimed the young preacher, putting his hand over his eyes.

"Fact," replied the sheriff. "You parsons have got a big job to do 'fore this world's in the right shape, an' sheriffs and constables ain't needed. Wish you good luck at it, though 'twill be bad for trade. You'll keep mum 'bout this case, of course. We'll catch 'em in the act finally; then there won't be any danger about not getting a conviction, an' our reward, that's offered by the banks."

The sheriff and his assistant galloped on to the village they had been approaching when they overtook Crewne; but the young minister did not accompany them, although the village toward which they rode was the one in which he was to preach that morning.

Perhaps he needed more time and quietness in which to compose his sermon. If this supposition is correct, it may account for the fact that the members of the Mount Pisgah congregation pronounced his sermon that day, from the text, "All is vanity," one of his most powerful efforts.

In fact, old Mrs. Reets, who had for time immemorial entertained the probable angels who appeared at Mount Pisgah in ministerial guise, remarked that "preacher seemed all tuckered out by that talk; tuk his critter, an' left town 'fore the puddin' was done."

That same evening, the sheriff and his deputy, with several special assistants, rode from Mount Pisgah toward Matalette's section.

The night was dark, rainy and cloudy; the horses stumbled over roots and logs in the imperfectly made road; the low-hanging branches spitefully cut the faces of the riders, and brought several hats to grief, and snatched the sheriff's pipe out of his mouth.

And yet the sheriff seemed in excellent spirits. To be sure, he softly whistled the air of, "Jordan is a hard road to travel," which was the popular air twenty-five years ago, but there was a merry tone to his whistle. He stopped whistling suddenly, and remarked to the constable:

"Got notice to-day of another new counterfeit. Five hundred offered for arrest and conviction on _that_. Hope we can prove _that_ on Matalette's gang. We can go out of politics, and run handsome farms of our own, if things go all right to-night. Don't know but I'd give my whole share, though, to whoever would arrest Helen. It's a dog's life, anyhow, this bein' a sheriff. I won't complain, however, if we get that gang to-night."

The party rode on until they were within a mile of Matalette's section, when they reined their horses into the woods, dismounted, left a man on watch, and approached the dwelling on foot.

Reaching the fence, the party halted, whispered together for a moment, and silently surrounded the house in different directions.

The sheriff removed his boots, walked noiselessly around the house, saw that he had a man at each door and window, and posted one at the cellar-door. Then the sheriff put on his boots, approached the front door, and knocked loudly.

There was no response. The light was streaming brightly from one of the windows, and the sheriff tried to look in, but the thick curtain prevented him. He knocked again, and louder, but still there was no response. Then he became uneasy. He was a brave man when he knew what was to be met, but now all sorts of uncomfortable suspicions crossed his mind; the rascals might be up-stairs waiting for a quiet opportunity to shoot down at him, or they might be under the small stoop on which he stood, and preparing to fire up at him. They might be quietly burning their spurious money up-stairs, so as to destroy the evidence against them; they might be in the cellar burying the plates.

The sheriff could endure the suspense no longer. Signaling to him two of his men, he, with a blow of a stick of wood, broke in the window-sash.

As, immediately afterward, he tore aside the curtain, he and his assistance presented pistols and shouted:

"Surrender!"

No one was visible, and the sheriff only concealed his sheepish feelings by jumping into the room. His assistants followed him, and they searched the entire house without finding any one.

They searched the cellar, the outhouses, and the barn, but encountered only the inquiring glances of the horses and cattle. Then they searched the house anew, hoping to find proof of the guilt of Matalette and his family; but, excepting holes in the floor of a vacant room, they found nothing which might not be expected in a comfortable home.

Suddenly some one thought of the boats which Matalette kept at the mouth of the creek, and a detachment, headed by the sheriff, went hastily down to examine them.

The boats were gone--not even the tiniest canoe or most dilapidated skiff remained. It is grievous to relate--but truth is truth--that the sheriff, who was on Sundays a Sabbath-school superintendent, now lost his temper and swore frightfully. But no boats were conjured up by the sheriff's language, nor did his assistance succeed in finding any up the creek; so the party returned to the house, and resorted to the illegal measure of helping themselves liberally to the contents of Matalette's sideboard.

Meanwhile a black mass, floating down the Wabash, about a dozen miles below the Bonpas's mouth, seemed the cause of some mysterious plunging and splashing in the river. Finally an aperture appeared in the black mass, and the light streamed out. Then the figure of a man appeared in the aperture, and all was dark again.

As the figure disappeared within the mass, three bearded men, dressed like emigrants, looked up furtively, one yellow-haired man stared vacantly and sadly into the fire which illumed the cabin of the little trading boat, while Helen Matalette sprang forward and threw her arms about the figure's neck.

"It's all gone, Nell," said the man. "Presses and plates are where nobody will be likely to find them. The Wabash won't tell secrets."

"I'm so glad--_oh_, so glad!" cried the girl.

"It's a fortune thrown away," said one of the men, moodily.

"Yes, and a bad name, too," said she, with flashing eyes.

"We're beggars for life, anyhow," growled another of the men.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Matalette. "Nell's right--if we're not tracked and caught, I'll never be sorry that we sunk the accursed business for ever.

And, considering our narrow escape, and how it happened, I don't think we're very gentlemanly to sit here bemoaning our luck. Mr. Crewne,"

continued Matalette, crossing to the yellow-haired figure in front of the fire, "you've saved me--what can I give you?"

The young preacher recovered himself, and replied, briefly:

"Your soul."

Matalette winced, and, in a weak voice, asked:

"Anything else?"

Crewne looked toward Helen; Helen blushed, and looked a little frightened; Crewne blushed, too, and seemed to be clearing his throat; then, with a mighty effort, he said:

"Yes--Helen."

The counterfeiter looked at his daughter for an instant, and then failed to see her partly because something marred the clearness of his vision just then, and partly because Crewne, interpreting the father's silence as consent, took possession of the reward he had named, and almost hid her from her father's view.

Matalette's section was finally sold for taxes, and was never reclaimed, but the excitement relating to its former occupants was for years so great that the purchasers of the estate found it worldly wisdom to dispense refreshments on the ground.

As for Crewne--a few months after the occurrences mentioned above there appeared, in the wilds of Missouri, a young preacher with unusual zeal, and a handsome wife. And about the same time four men entered a quarter-section of prairie-land near the young preacher's station, and appeared then and evermore to be the most ardent and faithful of the young man's admirers.

[Illustration]

A STORY OF TEN MILE GULCH.

I.

The horse which Mr. Tom Ruger rode kept the path, steep and rugged though it was, without any guidance from him, and its mate followed demurely. They were accustomed to it; and many a mile had they traversed in this way, taking turns at carrying their owner and master. Indeed, the trio seemed inseparable, and "as happy as Tom Ruger and his horses"

was a phrase that was very often heard in every mining camp and settlement.

As for Mr. Tom Ruger himself, very little was known of him save what had been learned during the two years that he had sojourned among them.

Where he came from never was known, nor asked but once by the same person. All that could be said of him might be summed up in the following statement: