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                     No. 2.               ONE PENNY.

                            FREE TRAPPER’S
                                 PASS.

                            [Illustration]

                           JACKSON’S NOVELS

                            JAMES JACKSON.

             2 Red Lion Court, Fleet Street, London, E.C.




                           JACKSON’S NOVELS

                         FREE TRAPPERS’ PASS;
                                  OR,
                      The Gold-seeker’s Daughter!




CHAPTER I.

THE RAID OF THE BLACKFEET.


On a tributary of the Yellowstone River, and near to the Bighorn
Mountains, there stood, at the time our story opens, a cabin. Though
roughly constructed, there was an air of nicety and comfort about it,
which could hardly be expected in a frontier log-house. On the outside,
the walls presented a comparatively smooth surface, though a glance
would be sufficient to satisfy one that the work was of the axe and not
of the plane. On the inside, the walls seemed to be plastered with a
material, which, in its primitive state, resembled stiff brown clay;
and it was through a chimney of the same substance that the smoke of
the fire within found vent.

A fair girl stood in the shadow of the rude doorway. Her hair, golden
as the memory of childhood’s days, floated in soft ringlets over her
exquisitely-formed shoulders, half concealing in its wavy flow her
lovely cheeks, mantling with the rich hue of life--cheeks which, long
ago, might have been tinged with the sun’s brown dye, but which now,
miracle though it might seem, bore little trace of old Sol’s scorching
hand, or tell-tale mark of western marches. Blue eyes she had, and a
lovely light lingered in their liquid depths, while her form was one
corresponding to her face, slender, but lithe and springing, well
calculated to endure, along with a stout heart, the privations which
must come upon one thus so strangely out of place.

Half turning, she threw up one beautiful arm, and with her hand shaded
her eyes from the glare of the sun, at the same time glancing to the
right. As she did so, she gave a slight start, for, in the distance,
she had caught sight of an approaching horseman. As cause for fear was,
however, quickly removed, as she almost immediately recognized him as a
friend. Murmuring lightly to herself:

“Ah, John Howell! What can he be after?” She watched with some interest
his onward progress. Why was it that he so suddenly halted? Why did
horse and rider remain mute and motionless, gazing in the direction of
a mound which lay not far distant from the cabin?

From behind its concealing shade, with a horrid yell, a band of Indian
braves at least fifty in number, in single file approached.

The majority of the band came directly toward the house, but the form
of Howell, stationed, sentinel like, upon the crest of a knoll, having
been speedily observed, a squad of four well-mounted and well-armed
braves dashed toward him at full speed.

Half the intervening distance had been traversed before the
trapper--for such was the white man--had fully determined whether their
advance was friendly or hostile in its nature. When at length he caught
fuller glances of their forms, it was with remarkable celerity that
he unslung his rifle and brought it to bear upon the nearest of the
advancing foes, tersely exclaiming:

“Blackfeet, by mighty!”

At the touch of the finger upon the trigger the weapon was discharged,
and he who had been the mark, fell. Without waiting to see the success
of his shot, Howell turned his horse and struck the heavy Mexican spurs
deep into his sides, speeding in hot haste over the rolling ground,
with the three red-skins following in close pursuit.

While these things were transpiring, the main body was marching
steadily toward the cabin. Simultaneously with the report of Howell’s
rifle, the band halted in front of the dwelling.

In front, mounted before a sturdy-looking brave, was a noble-looking
white man. Although his hands were tied, yet from time to time they had
not scorned to eye him with anxious glances, seemingly fearful that by
some Sampsonian attempt he might free himself. Thus, when the party
halted, men closed around him, upon either side, guarding against such
a catastrophe.

The young girl still stood in the shadow of the door, with the fairy
hand shading her eyes; but her face was pale as ashes, and her heart
must have throbbed at whirlwind speed, to have corresponded with the
way in which her bosom rose and fell. It was very sudden. A single
horseman in sight, and he a friend; then to see in a moment more a
half a hundred yelling savage foes! For a moment she looked at them,
but