The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1900-04-20
.MOLOCH
OF NICK a JACK
A Tale OF the Lost People Of the
Sand Mountain Caves.
By FRANCIS LYNDE.
copyright, 1890. by Francis Lynde.l
CONCLUDED from last week.

kAOuCluttCtA tAOul AdSt WEEK. j
@Good bit of workmanship, that, and
a fine specimen of an art older than
Christianity"
How is thati" l queried.
t'It's copper'-he raped the blade
with his knuckles, and it rang like tenn
pered steel" hardened copper, and we
can't do it with all our ingenuity. It's
Aztec or Toltec. The Indians are not
metal workers."
"What is the handle made Off"
''Fiber of some sort-fern fiber prob
ably, plated and soaked in bitumen.
Listen! What is that noise?'
A curious rumbling, mufiied and dis
tant and yet strangely familiar, filed
the air. 1t grew apace and at its loud
est was dominated by four mellow
cries, like the augmented boots of a
great owl. glanced at my watch.
'sWhat was itY' said Hargreaves,
starting up.
Didn't you recognize it? It's train
the night express from Nashville to
Chattanooga. If it is on time, it left
Bridgeport less than 10 minutes ago."
Hargreaves sprang to his feet and
knocked the ashes from his pipe.
"Come onr' he cried. IF were that
near, there must be another opening.
Give me the torch"
We pressed forward, with hope re-
crudescent, but another hour OF fierce
toll dashed it. When I would have
called halt in sheer WEAKNESS, Har-
greayes stopped short and thrust the
torch into crevice.
''Do you see that?'' he whispered
Far on ahead dull red glow, as of
fire light, struggled with the murky
darkness. We left the torch to smol-
der in it's niche and crept forward to-
gether.
Fifty feet farther on the corridor
ended in an embrasurelike portfolio in
the side wall of a vast chamber. We
crawled on hands and knees to the
opening, narrowly missing well hole
by the way, and stared down upon a
scene worthy of the pencil of Dore.
In the vast amphitheater, dimly light
ed by the smoky flare of an altar fire
in the midst, was a gathering Of hui
man beings which might have found
its counterpart in a Zuni pueblo.
Indians they were, but Indians from
whose skins every trace of bronze had
faded, giving place to a yellow pallor
which was more than CHASTITY. They
were massed about the altar as If in
the midst of some solemn ceremonial,
and those in the inner circle wore dis
tinguishing tunics and headdresses.
One Of these tunic clad was whirling
deryishwise around the altar, chant
ing weird measure and keeping time
with slow gestures.
Hargreaves echoed my thought in
his excited whisper.
"Good Lord-the descendants Of the
Aztecs and Indians! The stories are
true"
'Yes, but the whites-the soldiers?''
He gripped my arm and whispered
again.
clark! Didn't you hear a groanY'
The fire on the altar famed up, and
its light penetrated the semidarkness
of our retreat At the grottos mouth,
and so near that we might have reach
ed out and touched him, we saw man,
old, emaciated. pallid, with long white
hair and beard. He was bound up
right, facing the amphitheater, but the
eyes that seemed to gaze down upon
the scene below had the look Of death
in them and We're plainly beyond see.
ing.
Hargreaves' knife was out, and In a
fash he had freed the captive and was
pouring whisky down his throat. I
came to my senses in time to snatch
the flask away.
"You're choking him!" burst out,
"Giye him chance to get his breath"
The old man opened his eyes and be-
gan to humble inarticulately.
"How-how'd you boys get herey' he
demanded in stertorous whisper.
We told him briefly and began to ply
him with eager questions He put