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Richard did not return from the exercise of
his official duties, until late in the evening of the
following day. It had been one portion of his
business to superintend the arrest of part of a
gang of counterfeiters, that had, even at that early
period, buried themselves in the woods, to manufacture
their base coin, which they afterwards circulated
from one end of the Union to the other.
The expedition had been completely successful,
and about midnight the Sheriff entered the village,
at the head of a posse of deputies and constables,
in the centre of whom rode, pinioned, four
of the malefactors. At the gate of the Mansionhouse
they separated, Mr. Jones directing his assistants
to proceed with their charge to the county
gaol, while he pursued his own way up the gravelled
walk, with that kind of self-satisfaction that
a man of his organization would feel, who had,
really, for once, done a very clever thing.

“Holla! Aggy!” shouted the Sheriff, when he
reached the door; “where are you, you black dog?
will you keep me here in the dark all night?—

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Holla! Aggy! Brave! Brave! hoy, hoy—where
have you got to, Brave? Off his watch! Every
body is asleep but myself! poor I must keep my
eyes open, that others may sleep in safety. Brave!
Brave! Well, I will say this for the dog, lazy as
he's grown, that it is the first time I ever knew him
let any one come to the door after dark, without
having a smell to know whether it was an honest
man or not. He could tell by his nose, almost as
well as I could myself by looking at them. Holla!
you Agamemnon! where are you? Oh! here
comes the dog at last.”

By this time the Sheriff had dismounted, and
observed a form, which he supposed to be that of
Brave, slowly creeping out of the kennel; when,
to his astonishment, it reared itself on two legs
instead of four, and he was able to distinguish, by
the star-light, the curly head and dark visage of
the negro.

“Ha! what the devil are you doing there, you
black rascal?” he cried; “is it not hot enough
for your Guinea blood in the house, this warm
night, but you must drive out the poor dog and
sleep in his straw!”

By this time the boy was quite awake, and, with
a blubbering whine, he attempted to reply to his
master.

“Oh! masser Richard! masser Richard! such
a ting! such a ting! I nebber tink a could
'appen! nebber tink he die! Oh, Lor-a-gor! a'nt
bury—keep 'em till masser Richard get back—
got a grabe dug”—

Here the feelings of the negro completely got
the mastery, and instead of making any intelligible
explanation of the causes of his grief, he
blubbered aloud.

“Eh! what! buried! grave! dead!” exclaimed
Richard, with a tremour in his voice; “nothing

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serious? Nothing has happened to Benjamin, I
hope? I know he has been bilious; but I gave
him”—

“Oh! worser 'an a dat! worser 'an a dat!”
sobbed the negro. “Oh! de Lor! Miss 'Lizzy
an a Miss Grant—walk—mountain—poor Bravy!—
kill a lady—painter—Oh! Lor, Lor!—Natty
Bumppo—tear he troat all open—come a see,
masser Richard—such a booful copse—here he
be—here he be.”

As all this was perfectly inexplicable to the
Sheriff, he was very glad to wait patiently until
the black brought a lantern from the kitchen, when
he followed Aggy to the kennel, where he beheld
poor Brave, indeed, lying in his blood, stiff and
cold, but decently covered with the great-coat of
the negro. He was on the point of demanding an
explanation; but the grief of the black, who had
fallen asleep on his voluntary watch, having burst
out afresh on his waking, utterly disqualified the
lad from giving one. Luckily, at this moment the
principal door of the house opened, and the coarse
features of Benjamin were thrust over the threshold,
with a candle elevated above them, shedding
its dim rays around in such a manner as to exhibit
the lights and shadows of his countenance.
Richard threw his bridle to the black, and bidding
him look to the horse, he entered the hall.

“What is the meaning of the dead dog?” he
cried. “Where is Miss Temple?”

Benjamin made one of his square gestures, with
the thumb of his left hand pointing over his right
shoulder, as he answered—

“Turned in.”

“Judge Temple—where is he?”

“In his birth.”

“But explain; why is Brave dead? and what
is the cause of Aggy's grief?”

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“Why, it's all down, Squire,” said Benjamin,
pointing to a slate that lay on the table, by the
side of a mug of toddy, a short pipe, in which the
tobacco was yet burning, and a Prayer-book.

Among the other pursuits of Richard, it was a
passion to keep a register of all passing events;
and his diary, which was written in the manner of
a journal, or log-book, embraced not only such
circumstances as affected himself, but observations
on the weather, and all the occurrences of the family,
and frequently of the village. Since his
appointment to the office of Sheriff, and his consequent
absences from home, he had employed
Benjamin to make memoranda, on a slate, of whatever
might be thought worth remembering, which,
on his return, were regularly transferred to the
journal, with proper notations of the time, manner,
and other little particulars. There was, to
be sure, one material objection to the clerkship of
Benjamin, which the ingenuity of no one but Richard
could have overcome. The steward read
nothing but his Prayer-book, and that only in
particular parts, and by the aid of a good deal of
spelling, and some misnomers; but he could not
form a single letter with a pen. This would have
been an insuperable bar to journalizing, with most
men; but Richard invented a kind of hieroglyphical
character, which was intended to note all the
ordinary occurrences of a day, such as how the
wind blew, whether the sun shone, or whether it
rained, the hours, &c.; and for the extraordinary,
after giving certain elementary lectures on the
subject, the Sheriff was obliged to trust to the ingenuity
of the Major-domo. The reader will at
once perceive, that it was to this chronicle that
Benjamin pointed, instead of directly answering
the Sheriff's interrogatory.

When Mr. Jones had drunk a glass of the

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toddy, he brought forth, from its secret place, his proper
journal, and, seating himself by the table, he
prepared to transfer the contents of the slate to the
paper, at the same time that he appeased his curiosity.
Benjamin laid one hand on the back of the
Sheriff's chair, in a familiar manner, while he kept
the other at liberty, to make use of a fore-finger,
that was bent like some of his own characters, as
an index to point out his meaning.

The first thing referred to by the Sheriff was the
diagram of a compass, that was cut in one corner
of the slate for permanent use. The cardinal
points were plainly marked on it, and all the usual
divisions were indicated in such a manner, that no
man who had ever steered a ship could mistake
them.

“Oh!” said the Sheriff, settling himself down
comfortably in his chair—“you'd the wind south-east,
I see, all last night; I thought it would have
blown up rain.”

“Devil the drop, sir,” said Benjamin; “I believe
that the scuttle-butt up aloft is emptied, for
there hasn't so much water fell in the county, for
the last three weeks, as would float Indian John's
canoe, and that draws just one inch nothing,
light.”

“Well, but didn't the wind change here this
morning? there was a change where I was.”

“To be sure it did, Squire; and haven't I logged
it as a shift of wind.”

“I don't see where, Benjamin; I”—

“Don't see!” interrupted the steward, a little
crustily; “an't there a mark ag'in east-and-by-nothe-half-nothe,
with sum'mat like a rising sun
at the end of it, to show 'twas in the morning
watch?”

“Yes, yes, that is very legible; but where is the
change noted?”

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“Where! why doesn't it see this here tea-kettle,
with a mark run from the spout straight, or
mayhap a little crooked or so, into west-and-by-southe-half-southe?
now I calls this a shift of
wind, Squire. Well, do you see this here boar's
head that you made for me, alongside of the compass”—

“Ay, ay—Boreas—I see. Why, you've drawn
lines from its mouth, extending from one of your
marks to the other.”

“It's no fault of mine, Squire Dickens; 'tis
your d—d climate. The wind has been at all
them there marks this very day; and that's all round
the compass, except a little matter of an Irishman's
hurricane at meridium, which you'll find marked
right up and down. Now I've known a sow-wester
blow for three weeks, in the Channel, with a
clean drizzle in which you might wash your face
and hands, without the trouble of hauling in water
from alongside.”

“Very well, Benjamin,” said the Sheriff, writing
in his journal; “I believe I have caught the
idea. Oh! here's a cloud over the rising sun;—
so you had it hazy in the morning?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” said Benjamin.

“Ah! it's Sunday, and here are the marks for
the length of the sermon—one, two, three, four—
What! did Mr. Grant preach forty minutes!”

“Ay, sum'mat like it; it was a good half-hour
by my own glass, and then there was the time lost
in turning it, and some little allowance for leeway
in not being over smart about it.”

“But, Benjamin, this is as long as a Presbyterian
sermon; you never could have been ten minutes
in turning the glass!”

“Why, d'ye see, Squire, the parson was very
solemn, and I just closed my eyes in order to
think the better with myself, just the same as you'd

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put in the dead-lights to make all snug, and when
I opened them ag'in I found the congregation were
getting under weigh for home, so I calculated
the ten minutes would cover the lee-way after the
glass was out. It was only some such matter as
a cat's nap.”

“Oh, ho! master Benjamin, you were asleep,
were you! but I'll set down no such slander
against an orthodox divine.” Richard wrote
twenty-nine minutes in his journal, and continued—
“Why, what's this you've got opposite ten
o'clock, A. M.? a full moon! had you a moon
visible by day! I have heard of such portents before
now, but—eh! what's this alongside of it?
an hour-glass?”

“That!” said Benjamin, looking coolly over
the Sheriff's shoulder, and rolling the tobacco
about in his mouth with a jocular air; “why
that's a small matter of my own. It's no moon,
Squire, but only Betty Hollister's face; for, d'ye
see, sir, hearing all the same as if she had got up
a new cargo of Jamaiky from the river, I called in
as I was going to the church this morning—ten,
A. M. was it? just the time—and tried a glass;
and so I logged it, to put me in mind of calling
to pay her like an honest man.”

“That was it, was it?” said the Sheriff, with
some displeasure at this innovation on his memoranda;
“and could you not make a better glass
than this? it looks like a death's head and an
hour-glass.”

“Why, as I liked the stuff, Squire,” returned
the steward, “I turned in, homeward bound, and
took t'other glass, which I set down at the bottom of
the first, and that gives the thing the shape it has.
But as I was there ag'in to-night, and paid for
the three at once, your honour may as well run
the sponge over the whole business.”

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“I will buy you a slate for your own affairs,
Benjamin,” said the Sheriff; “for I don't like to
have the journal marked over in this manner.”

“You needn't—you needn't, Squire; for, seeing
that I was likely to trade often with the woman
while this barrel lasted, I've opened a fair account
with Betty, and she keeps the marks on the
back of her bar door, and I keeps the tally on
this here bit of a stick.”

As Benjamin concluded he produced a piece of
wood, on which five very honest, large notches
were apparent. The Sheriff cast his eyes on this
new leger, for a moment, and continued—

“What have we here! Saturday, two P. M.—
why here's a whole family piece! two wine-glasses
up-side-down!”

“That's two women; the one this a-way is
Miss 'Lizzy, and t'other is the parson's young'un.”

“Cousin Bess and Miss Grant!” exclaimed the
Sheriff, in amazement; “why, what have they to
do with my journal?”

“They'd enough to do to get out of the jaws
of that there painter, or panther,” said the immoveable
steward. “This here thingum'y, Squire,
that maybe looks sum'mat like a rat, is the beast,
d'ye see; and this here t'other thing, keel uppermost,
is poor old Brave, who died nobly, all the
same as an admiral fighting for his king and country;
and that there”—

“Scarecrow,” interrupted Richard.

“Ay, mayhap it do look a little wild or so,”
continued the steward; “but to my judgment,
Squire, it's the best imager I've made, seeing it's
most like the man himself;—well, that's Natty
Bumppo, who shot this here painter, that killed
that there dog, who would have eaten or done
worse to them here young ladies.”

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“And what the devil does all this mean?” cried
Richard, impatiently.

“Mean!” echoed Benjamin; “it's as true as
the Boadishey's log-book”—

He was interrupted by the Sheriff, who put a
few direct questions to him, that obtained more
intelligible answers, by which means he became
possessed of a tolerably correct idea of the truth.
When the wonder, and, we must do Richard the
justice to say, the feelings also, that were created
by this narrative, had in some degree subsided,
the Sheriff turned his eyes again on his journal,
where more inexplicable hieroglyphics met his
view.

“What have we here!” he cried; “two men
boxing! has there been a breach of the peace?
ah! that's the way, the moment my back is turned”—

“That's the Judge and young Master Edwards,”
interrupted the steward, very cavalierly.

“How! 'duke fighting with Oliver! what the
devil has got into you all? more things have happened
within the last thirty-six hours, than in the
preceding six months.”

“Yes, it's so indeed, Squire,” returned the
steward; “I've known a smart chase, and a fight
at the tail of it, where less has been logged than
I've got on that there slate. Howsomnever, they
didn't come to facers, only passed a little jaw fore
and aft.”

“Explain! explain!” cried Richard—“it was
about the mines, ha!—ay, ay, I see it, I see it;
here is a man with a pick on his shoulder. So
you heard it all, Benjamin?”

“Why yes, it was about their minds, I believe,
Squire,” returned the steward; “and by what I
can learn, they spoke them pretty plainly to one
another. Indeed, I may say that I overheard a

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small matter of it myself, seeing that the windows
was open, and I hard by. But this here is no
pick, but an anchor on a man's shoulder; and
here's the other fluke down his back, maybe a little
too close, which signifies that the lad has got
under way and left his moorings.”

“Has Edwards left the house?” demanded Richard,
peremptorily.

“He has,” said the steward.

Richard pursued this advantage, and, after a
long and close examination, he succeeded in getting
out of Benjamin all that he knew, not only
concerning the misunderstanding, but of the attempt
to search the hut, and Hiram's discomfiture.
The Sheriff was no sooner possessed of
these facts, which Benjamin related with all possible
tenderness to the Leather-stocking, than,
snatching up his hat, and bidding the astonished
steward to secure the doors and go to his bed, he
left the house.

For at least five minutes after Richard disappeared,
Benjamin stood with his arms a-kimbo,
and his eyes fastened on the door; when, having
collected his astonished faculties, he prepared to
execute the orders he had received.

It has been already said, that the “court of
common pleas and general sessions of the peace,”
or, as it is commonly called, the “county court,”
over which Judge Temple presided, held one of
its stated sessions on the following morning. The
attendants of Richard were officers who had come
to the village as much to discharge their usual
duties at this court, as to escort the prisoners; and
the Sheriff knew their habits too well, not to feel
confident he should find most, if not all of them,
in the public room of the gaol, discussing
the qualities of the keeper's liquors. Accordingly
he held his way, through the silent streets

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of the village, directly to the small and insecure
building, that contained all the unfortunate debtors,
and some of the criminals of the county, and
where justice was administered to such unwary
applicants as were so silly as to throw away two
dollars, in order to obtain one from their neighbours.
The arrival of four malefactors in the
custody of a dozen officers, was an event, at that
day, in Templeton; and when the Sheriff reached
the gaol, he found every indication that his subordinates
intended to make a night of it.

The nod of the Sheriff brought two of his deputies
to the door, who in their turn drew off six or
seven of the constables. With this force Richard
led the way through the village, towards the bank
of the lake, undisturbed by any noise, except the
barking of one or two curs, who were alarmed by
the measured tread of the party, and by the low
murmurs that run through their own numbers, as
a few cautious questions and answers were exchanged,
relative to the object of their expedition.
When they had crossed the little bridge of hewn
logs that was thrown over the Susquehanna,
they left the highway, and struck into that field
which had been the scene of the victory over the
pigeons. From this they followed their leader
into the low bushes of pines and chestnuts which
had sprung up along the shores of the lake, where
the plough had not succeeded the fall of the trees,
and soon entered the deep forest itself. Here
Richard paused, and collected his troop around
him.

“I have required your assistance, my friends,”
he said, in a low voice, “in order to arrest Nathaniel
Bumppo, commonly called the Leather-stocking.
He has assaulted a magistrate, and
resisted the execution of a search-warrant, by
threatening the life of a constable with his rifle.

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In short, my friends, he has set an example of rebellion
to the laws, and has become a kind of outlaw.
He is suspected of other misdemeanours
and offences against private rights; and I have
this night taken on myself, by the virtue of my
office of sheriff, to arrest the said Bumppo,
and bring him to the county gaol, that he may be
present and forthcoming to answer to these heavy
charges before the court to-morrow morning. In
executing this duty, my friends and fellow citizens,
you are to use courage and discretion. Courage,
that you may not be daunted by any lawless
attempts that this man may make, with his rifle
and his dogs, to oppose you; and discretion,
which here means caution and prudence, that he
may not escape from this sudden attack—and—for
other good reasons that I need not mention. You
will form yourselves in a complete circle around
his hut, and at the word `advance,' called aloud
by me, you will rush forward, and, without giving
the criminal time for deliberation, enter his dwelling
by force and make him your prisoner. Spread
yourselves for this purpose, while I shall descend
to the shore with a deputy, to take charge of that
point; and all communications must be made directly
to me, under the bank in front of the hut,
where I shall station myself, and remain in order
to receive them.”

This speech, which Richard had been studying
during his walk, had the effect that all
similar performances produce, of bringing the
dangers of the expedition immediately before
the eyes of his forces. The men divided, some
plunging deeper into the forest, in order to
gain their stations without giving an alarm, and
others continuing to advance, at a gait that
would allow the whole party to get in order;
but all devising the best plans to repulse the

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attack of a dog, or escape a rifle-bullet. It was
a moment of dread expectation and interest.

When the Sheriff thought time enough had
elapsed for the different divisions of his force
to arrive at their stations, he raised his voice in
the silence of the forest, and shouted the watchword.
The sounds played among the arched
branches of the trees in hollow cadences; but when
the last sinking tone was lost on the ear, in place
of the expected howls of the dogs, no other
noises were returned but the crackling of torn
branches and dried sticks, as they yielded before
the advancing steps of the officers. Even this
soon ceased, as if by a common consent, when,
the curiosity and impatience of the Sheriff getting
the complete ascendency over his discretion, he
rushed up the bank, and in a moment stood on the
little piece of cleared ground in front of the spot
where Natty had so long lived. To his utter
amazement, in place of the hut, he saw only its
smouldering ruins!

The party gradually drew together about the
heap of ashes and ends of smoking logs, while a
dim flame in the centre of the ruin, which still
found fuel to feed its lingering life, threw its pale
light, flickering with the passing currents of the air,
around the circle, now showing a face with eyes
fixed in astonishment, and then glancing to another
countenance, leaving the former shaded in the
obscurity of night. Not a voice was raised in inquiry,
nor an exclamation made in astonishment.
The transition from excitement to disappointment
was too powerful in its effects for speech, and even
Richard lost the use of an organ that was seldom
known to fail him.

The whole group were yet in the fulness of
their surprise, when a tall form stalked from the
gloom into the circle, treading down the hot ashes

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and dying embers with callous feet, and, standing
over the light, lifted his cap, and exposed the bare
head and weather-beaten features of the Leather-stocking.
For a moment he gazed at the dusky
figures who surrounded him, more in sorrow than
in anger, before he spoke.

“What would ye have with an old and helpless
man?” he said. “You've driven God's creaters
from the wilderness, where his providence had
put them for his own pleasure, and you've brought
in the troubles and divilties of the law, where no
man was ever known to disturb another. You
have driven me, that have lived forty long years
of my appointed time in this very spot, from my
home and the shelter of my head, least you should
put your wicked feet and wasty ways in my cabin.
You've driven me to burn these logs, under
which I've eaten and drunk, the first of Heaven's
gifts, and the other of the pure springs, for the
half of a hundred years, and to mourn the ashes
under my feet, as a man would weep and mourn
for the children of his body. You've rankled the
heart of an old man, that has never harmed you
or your'n, with bitter feelings towards his kind, at
a time when his thoughts should be on a better
world; and you've driven him to wish that the
beasts of the forest, who never feast on the blood
of their own families, was his kindred and race;
and now, when he has come to see the last brand
of his hut, before it is melted into ashes, you follow
him up, at midnight, like hungry hounds on
the track of a worn-out and dying deer! What
more would ye have? for I am here—one to many.
I come to mourn, not to fight; and, if it is
God's pleasure, work your will on me.”

When the old man ended, he stood, with the
light glimmering around his thinly-covered head,
looking earnestly at the group, which receded

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from the pile, with an instinctive and involuntary
movement, without the reach of the quivering
rays, leaving a free passage for his retreat into the
bushes, where pursuit, in the dark, would have
been fruitless. Natty seemed not to regard this
advantage, but stood facing each individual in the
circle, in succession, as if to see who would be
the first to arrest him. After a pause of a few
moments, Richard begun to rally his confused
faculties, and advancing, apologized for his duty,
and made him his prisoner. The party now collected,
and, preceded by the Sheriff, with Natty
in their centre, they took their way towards the
village.

During the walk, divers questions were put to
the prisoner concerning his reasons for burning
the hut, and whither Mohegan had retreated, but
to all of them he observed a profound silence, until,
fatigued with their previous duties, and the
lateness of the hour, the Sheriff and his followers
reached the village, and dispersed to their several
places of rest, after turning the key of a gaol on
the aged and apparently friendless Leather-stocking.

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