house. The mysterious lake spread its expanse afar, with here and there some bank of mist or low-lying cloud upon it, out of which came an occasional twinkle of the ice, as if a celestial lance had shivered in the midst of it.

"And you," said David Lane, "what brings you up so high, if one may ask?"

"This view, which alone repays one, but still more, to speak frankly, the Golden Justice. She had allured me from a distance, and I had just been saying to myself, when I met you, how disappointed I was not to find myself nearer; I had hoped to come out at her very foot."

Oh, fatality! to see the Golden Justice? Alas, that he should be met with here on such an errand!

"This is as high as one can get," said David Lane coldly. "A special permit is needed to go further, and even that is of no avail. It is a painful climb, and there is no egress but by a trapdoor, nor any means of approaching the statue, after that, unless one should use a scaling ladder."

In secret, no one knew better than he whereof he spoke.

"And why has the Golden Justice allured you?" he went on to ask.

"I have an eye for the decorative, and she appealed to me as a pleasing object, shining so golden yellow against her field of deep blue; but when I heard that the features were those of Mrs. Varemberg I found my interest at last fully accounted for."

Barclay was not averse to bringing on an explanation of the anomalous condition of affairs, since the time and circumstances were favorable for it. David Lane seemed to incline in the same direction.

"Mrs. Varemberg still much occupies your thoughts, then?" he asked, gravely attentive.

"You know how much she once occupied me. Well, all that is past and

gone; destiny was opposed to it, and, with time, my views have changed. Since she honors me with her friendship, I trust there is nothing in what has passed to make me withhold from, her the tribute of my most respectful esteem, admiration, and sympathy, and my desire to be of service to her in any or all the troubles with which she may meet."

Barclay dwelt with emphasis on the high-minded, disinterested character of his regard, hoping to vindicate himself from suspicions that he sometimes thought might be at the bottom of the opposition of David Lane. Possibly the latter knew him better than, at this time, he knew himself.

"Yes, the features are those of my daughter Florence," said the ex-governor. We did not know, and were not wholly pleased with the resemblance at first; it was the artist's eccentric way of paying us a compliment." He answered soberly, but not resentfully. He was in fact in a sort of daze, and made no offer to continue the conversation. An awkward pause ensued.

Barclay looked up again at the huge bulk of the figure, from the drapery of which broad reflected rays glinted down into their eyes.

"It seems she was utilized somewhat like a corner-stone," said he, in the most cursory way. "I have been told that some documents were sealed up in her."

Lane was as if thunderstruck. He fell to trembling, with an agitation such as even he had rarely known, and to hide it he altered his position, moving a little further along by the railing.

"It is a curious instance; I don't know that I ever heard of one before," pursued Barclay, in the same easy tone. "It seems reserved for Keewaydin to do original things, in a number of ways. The whole matter of deposits in cornerstones sometimes impresses one curiously. We leave dispatch-boxes along the roadside, as it were, to be opened by those

who come after us, to give them news of us and our times. It is a little odd, however, considering all the cornerstones that are dedicated, how rarely you hear of one being opened. Is it because it is too soon yet for our buildings to have begun to tumble down, flimsy as so many of them are? Or is there really no interest in the contents, these being so very trite when reached?"

"No doubt it is due to the comparative unimportance of the matters generally on deposit," replied David Lane, in a voice scarcely audible, struggling manfully to retain the mastery of himself.

"It would be more considerate, though, if one generation would arrange little surprises for the next. What was it, for instance, you put into the Golden Justice?"

Oh, fatality! fatality! Was it not enough that this young man, of all others in the world, should have found them out in Europe, and become a suitor for his daughter's hand? Was it not enough that avoidance of this should have precipitated such lamentable unhappiness? No, he must follow them here, establish himself in the place, even interest himself in the statue, mount to the dome, and be met with today under its very ægis. Nor this alone; for now at last, with an innocence that but made it the more startling, he must put the finger of speculation on the very box and its contents, on the confession itself. To what but one fatal result could all this concentration of events, all these successive approaches, this remorseless narrowing of the circle, be tending? The utmost efforts had availed to hinder no single step of its progress.

"It was a very long time ago," replied David Lane. "At this distance of time it is not easy to remember, reports, statistics, the newspapers, I pose; they could hardly have been any thing of great moment."

sup

"Alfsen, an old weather-prophet in

my vicinity, told me about the box, the other day, and predicted that the Golden Justice would come down, and I should see the deposit scattered about my feet. I shall naturally be on the lookout for it with interest."

"He predicts that the Golden Justice will fall?" repeated the elder man in horror. He involuntarily cast another glance up at the mammoth figure towering above them. She was certainly secure enough at present.

"Oh, a piece of garrulous nonsense. He keeps up some old grudge for not having been allowed to do all the work he wanted to on the city hall. Even prophecy, it appears, cannot free itself from the bias of personal injury."

David Lane made something like a half circuit of the short promenade, then turned back upon his track, with a very altered bearing: as well as one so much troubled in mind and so reserved by recent habit could do so, he assumed towards the young man an open and friendly demeanor.

"I am glad to have met you here," he began. "This situation, apart by ourselves, and free from danger of interruption, gives me, almost for the first time, an opportunity of welcoming you to the place. I seem to have seen far too little of you since your arrival. I trust it is not too late to express the real interest I feel in you and your affairs, and to ask if there is any way in which I can be of service."

"I confess I had sometimes thought your feelings towards me were quite of an opposite sort," returned Barclay, much surprised.

"Oh, no; why should you think so? Why should it be so? You are a young man, and I an old one. I have often many cares and troubles, and perhaps, sometimes, an unfortunate manner."

Had Barclay desired to justify his opinion, he would have cited the rejection of his suit together with a long course of marked coldness. But of what

avail? And what warrant had he, after all, for questioning a father's disposition of his daughter's hand, in the supposed interest of her happiness, even at the expense of a certain subterfuge? To re-open the subject, furthermore, he feared might arouse distrust anew, and defeat the greater freedom of action that seemed promised him.

"Will you tell me about your enterprise and your present prospects?" asked David Lane.

Barclay, thus encouraged, proceeded to give a brief, orderly account of the whole, from the first. This statement added to Lane's sense as of an inevitable fatality pursuing him. It impressed him as an investment such as might have commended itself to the judgment of any shrewd cool-headed man of business. It was no mere pretext for remaining, and the circumstances were such that, given Barclay's peculiar requirements, it would have been almost reprehensible not to have entered into it. They descended the stairs together. Lane offered Barclay his hand, at parting, with a cordiality in which, however, was an indescribable shrinking.

He wished him to come and dine, but it happened that day that Barclay could not. Thereafter, for a considerable time, it was not alone Mrs. Varemberg's invitations and friendly offices he accepted, but her father's as well. The two men were seen amicably together on the street and on 'Change, and the wise business head of David Lane even offered counsels that brought profit to the StampedWare Works.

And what did it all mean? Why, simply this: that when the hapless Montezuma knew that the invading Spaniards, the Children of the Sun, destined to be the destroyers of himself and his people, had landed on his coasts, he sent costly presents, to endeavor to turn them aside from their march to his capital. So David Lane haplessly aimed to propitiate the messenger by means of whom Destiny seemed stretching forth a long arm for his destruction. It was not that he was more reconciled to his fate than before, or saw clearly, as yet, the means of its accomplishment; but in the mood in which he found himself for the time being, further struggle, further resistance, seemed useless.

William Henry Bishop.

In the last five years, the raiding parties of the Apaches in Southern Arizona have been so active and constant in their work of murder and pillage that there has been no security for either life or property outside of the few towns. In that time more than a thousand citizens have been murdered, with all the accompanying barbarities of savage warfare, and an immense amount of property has been stolen or destroyed. Meanwhile, all industries in this region —trade, grazing, mining, and agricul- have suffered partial or total pa

ture

ralysis. The government seems powerless to protect its citizens or to maintain its peace and dignity against these outlaws.

The press has been loud in its comments on the subject, but these do not usually go beyond the statement of the murders and depredations which have been committed, with an occasional aspersion on the efficiency of the regular army. They do not attempt to trace the causes of the evil, or to suggest a remedy for it, further than to express the simple opinion that the army should catch and

kill the Indians who may chance at the time to be on the war-path.

The parties engaged in this bloody tragedy, which is being perpetually enacted, may be divided into four general classes the Indian, the Frontiersman, the Army, and the Government.

THE INDIAN.

The Indian is no exception to the general law of cause and effect. That he is a murderer and a bandit can surprise no one who will reflect on what has been his treatment for the last twenty years.

In 1871, in order to open certain parts of Arizona to civilized occupation, about eight thousand Indians were placed on the San Carlos reservation, a region a hundred miles square. The agency is situated on the Gila River, in a low, hot, dirty, unhealthful spot. Some of the tribes now forced to dwell there were mountain Indians. In their native haunts, they enjoyed one of the most delightful climates in the world. At San Carlos they endure one of the most abominable. There they suffer from long and extreme heat, bad water, fever and ague, and ophthalmia. They must appear at the agency on the weekly ration day. If they stay away, they get no rations. In going through the camps of the Chiracalmas and Warm Springs, I have been struck by the misery of their condition. It is these mountain Indians who have caused the most serious trouble. So far as I know, no successful effort has ever been made to instruct or assist them in agriculThe government feeds them, and the agents have not, as a rule, considered it the policy of their craft to make the Indian self-supporting. The game in that locality is nearly exhausted, so his occupation as a hunter is gone. There he exists, in a hot, sandy camp, on the banks of a low, sickly stream, without amusement, without hope, with no incentive to any good or useful labor.

ture.

But he has one agreeable relaxation from his wretched imprisonment, on the reservation, that of raiding the surrounding ranches. These raids are to him the most delightful diversion conceivable. The pleasure of killing and plundering, with the very slight risk of capture and punishment, renders this the ideal pastime in the Indian's estimation.

Let us imagine a few young "bucks," utterly tired of their dreary camp life on the Gila. They talk over their position, and organize a raiding party. They easily supply themselves with arms and ammunition, which most frontier tradesmen will sell them in any quantity. They tell their chief that they are going out; or, if he chance to disapprove of such expeditions, they say that they are going on a hunt to the northern part of the reservation, about Camp Apache and Mount Ord. Then, having determined the first ranch to be attacked, they quietly leave their camp, and move by easy marches on the doomed family. They reach the place. One or two creep forward and carefully reconnoitre. All the party assume their positions in the rocks or grass, and patiently wait until they can take the family at the greatest disadvantage. For, though devoted to the sport of killing others, the Apaches are very much opposed to taking the slightest chances against their own lives. The looked-for opportunity arrives, and they spring from their concealment. They kill every human being about the place, unless they can manage, with perfect safety to themselves, to capture some of the ranchmen alive, in which case they will have the opportunity of enjoying an Indian's favorite amusement, that of watching a white man die by slow degrees under the most inhuman tortures which savage ingenuity can invent. This entertainment completed, they help themselves to whatever pleases their fancy in the house, and then set it on fire. Finally, they

collect all the horses, and, mounting the best, drive the others before them.

An

The ball is now open. They will move with great rapidity, and will promptly agree on the destruction of another ranch, a hundred miles or more distant. Away they go, now galloping, now trotting, and subsiding into a walk only when the trail is very steep and rough. During this rapid march, they show great skill in keeping the loose horses ahead of them on the trail. Indian can ride a tired horse from ten to twenty miles farther than can a white man. When a horse is entirely exhausted, his rider calmly dismounts, and proceeds to kill him, usually by stabbing him many times with a long knife. It is very seldom that he will waste a precious cartridge on such an occasion, but under no circumstance will he leave a living horse behind him.

Now, if the party be in the humor for a meal, they build a small fire, cut slices from the dead horse, cook them a little, and eat their fill. Thus, in the stolen horse is combined both the means of transportation and the commissary. In this, the Indian possesses a vast advantage over his soldier pursuer, who must ride one horse through an entire campaign, and whose rations and spare ammunition must be carried with him on pack-mules. In this way the raiding party can easily cover a hundred miles in twenty-four hours, while a company of cavalry, with its indispensable packtrain, can with difficulty accomplish more than thirty, in that rough, roadless country.

With the second ranch, the programme of the first is repeated. The Indians murder the inhabitants, plunder and burn the house, and drive off the horses.

ham, or about Helen's Dome. From this vantage-ground, they can survey the surrounding country for a long distance, and their practiced eyes can easily detect, by the clouds of dust in the valleys, the approach of a column of troops twenty or thirty miles away. If they can see several of these columns on the march, they enjoy all the delights of a successful practical joker; for they are confident of their own safety, and have the satisfaction of knowing that they have put into the field several hundred troops.

If their appetite for murder and plunder is still unsatisfied, they may go into Old Mexico, and continue their tactics of rapid transit, ambuscade, and pillage. But it is probable that they will now be content with the results of the expedition. They will break up the loose organization of the party, and traveling singly, by night, individually make good their retreat to the camp on the Gila.

The return of an Indian from such an expedition is a proud day in his life. He is a hero, he is a rich man. He has several good horses, and money, clothes, arms, and ammunition. He enjoys the approval of the old men of his tribe, the envy of the young ones who stayed in camp, and the boundless admiration of all the squaws. On the next ration day, he presents himself at the agency, and calmly resumes the enjoyment of the bounties of the government. If he has been missed, which is not probable,— and is asked to give an account of himself, he says that he has been hunting on the reservation, or that he has been looking for some ponies which had strayed away from his camp. Every Indian in his tribe would sooner die than utter a syllable to throw a ray of light on the

Here you have the picture of the Apache, his home life and his amuseHe is born a warrior and a robBefore the white man became his

ments.