THOMAS C. HARBAUGH (1849-1924)

Quanri est sapere!
TERENTIUS: Eunuchus 4.7.21

Thomas Chalmers Harbaugh, poet and novelist, was a descendant of Jost Harbaugh, who came to this country from Germany in 1732 and settled in Pennsylvania. He was also related to the Rev. Henry Harbaugh, Pastor of the First German Reformed Church of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and writer of religious books as well as of poems in the Pennsylvania-German dialect. Thomas Harbaugh was born in Middletown, Maryland, January 13, 1849. When he was two years old his parents removed to Casstown, Ohio, and there Thomas received what education he had in the common schools. As a boy he worked for his father, who was a house painter, but in 1867 he began to devote himself to writing. He wrote two short Western stories for Street & Smith's Literary Album, the first dated August 31, 1867, and the second January 11, 1868. His first work for Beadle was a short article, "The Two Christmases," published as a space filler in 1873, in No. I of the new series of New and Old Friends. He next wrote a serial, "Nick o' the Night," which was begun in No. 322 of the Saturday Journal, in 1876, and reprinted as No. 23 of the Half-Dime Library. His third was "The Hidden Lodge," a Half-Dime in 1878. He had, however, previously published some poems of sorts and a number of short stories in the Saturday Journal, and a few novels elsewhere. "Nightingale Nat" and "Dandy Jack" also came in 1878. His home paper said of the latter:

T. C. Harbaugh has published another cheap novel entitled "Dandy Jack; or, The Outlaw of the Oregon Trail." We are proud of "T.C.H." as a poet of our own, but regret exceedingly that he should add in any wise to the already overloaded market of cheap, trashy literature. It is ruining our boys and girls.

Harbaugh replied to this by a "poem," the first two stanzas of which are given here.⁽¹⁾

MY PEN AND I
Come here, old fellow, from the rack,
And while we chat together,
I'll toast my feet before the grate,
For this is frosty weather.
We'll not write any more today
On madrigal or story;
But let the critics have their way
And starve to death on glory.
You've turned the whole world upside down,
From mansion, sir, to hovel;
You've gone and written what is called
"A cheap and trashy novel."
Against you, for this monstrous crime,
The holy ones are crying;
"O'er all the land, with moral rot
The boys and girls are dying."

For his first story for Beadle, Harbaugh received $50, but thereafter he usually received $100, or $150 at most. Harbaugh, at this time, was also writing for the Youth's Companion, Golden Days, Ohio Farmer, Chicago Ledger, New York Clipper, Metropolitan Magazine, and the Ladies' World. At different times he wrote for the Nickel Library and the War Library, published in various peroidicals hundreds of mediocre poems, and finally, when dime and nickel novels were on the wane, some thirty-odd cloth-bound juveniles, novels, and books of poems. He was unable, however, to adapt himself to the change of style demanded in stories, and gradually the little money he had saved was used up. On July 8, 1923, his few books, letters, and household goods were put up at auction and sold for approximately $1,000, and Harbaugh retired to the Miami County Poor House, where he died October 28, 1924.

Harbaugh never married, but "batched" it with a brother in Casstown; after his brother's death, he lived alone. He became paralyzed a few years before his death, and thereafter rarely was able to leave his chair.

Harbaugh wrote under various pseudonyms as well as under his own name. For Beadle he used the names Captain Howard Holmes, Howard Lincoln, Charles Howard, Major S. S. Scott, and perhaps others, but only these have been definitely confirmed. Pearson⁽²⁾ said he used the name "Captain Hamilton Holmes," but in a letter⁽³⁾ from Harbaugh himself to Dr. O'Brien, he spoke of Hamilton Holmes as though he were a real person. Furthermore, in a biographical sketch checked by himself, Harbaugh⁽⁴⁾ said that his first literary work was done in 1867. "Old Rube," by Hamilton Holmes, was published January 16, 1866, therefore submitted to the publishers in 1865 when Harbaugh was 16 years of age—and "Old Rube" is not the work of a boy of sixteen. "Major A. F. Grant"⁽⁵⁾ was used †for twenty-two stories in the Nickel Library, but not for a Beadle publication. Miller⁽⁶⁾ gives a long list of pseudonyms among which occur the names of the Beadle writers Jackson Knox and Isaac Hawkes, and in a letter⁽⁷⁾ he adds F. S. Winton. No confirmation has been found for these three names. Other pseudonyms given by Miller are Major Walter Brisbane, George B. Lee, Capt. Dick Steadman, Major Walt Wilmot, Capt. Walt Winton, Harry Winton, Major G. W. Alcalaw, Col. T. B. Bostwick, and Captain J. L. Kennedy, but since none of these is a Beadle writer, no effort was made to check them. †"Wide-Awake Ben," by Harbaugh, No. 715 Half-Dime Library was reprinted as No. 202, Old Sleuth Library with the by-line "Old Sleuth."

REFERENCES: Who's Who, Vols. II to XII, 1901 to 1922; St. Louis Post Dispatch, July 29, 1923; Nat. Cyc. Amer. Biog., X, 1909, 400; Saturday Evening Post, CCIII, 1931, 126; Chicago Tribune, July 9, 1924; Portrait in Magazine of Poetry, 1889; The Writer, II, November, 1888, 263; T. W. Herringshaw, Local and National Poets of America, with portrait; Charles M. Harvey, "The Dime Novel in American Life," Atlantic Monthly, C, July, 1907, 42; T. C. Harbaugh, Centennial History, Troy, Piqua and Miami Counties, Ohio, Chicago, 1909, 419-20, with portrait; Anon., A Genealogical and Biographical Record of Miami County, Ohio, Chicago, 1900, 581-83; Editor, I, April, 1895, 60, with portrait.

Saturday Journal. Nos. 322, 471, 484, 536, 567
Beadle's Weekly. No. 128 (partim)
Banner Weekly. Nos. 317, 683, 729
New and Old Friends. No. 1 (n.s.)
Half-Dime Library. Nos. 23, 37, 47, 64, 82, 94, 106, 123, 139, 155, 169, 188, 198, 207, 215, 231, 241, 255,267, 279, 294, 302, 316, 326, 336, 345, 356, 366, 386, 396, 411, 418, 425, 436, 445, 461, 470, 477, 499, 502, 512, 521, 528, 538, 543, 553, 563, 573, 582, 594, 610, 626, 637, 645, 653, 671, 685, 701, 715, 732, 742, 754, 768, 780, 827, 848, 897, 905, 921, 954, 980, 991, 1050, 1090 (partim), 1124, 1135, 1144, 1159, 1167
Boy's Library (quarto). Nos. 10, 22, 26, 35, 41, 46, 53, 60, 76, 85, 96, 110
Boy's Library (octavo). Nos. 20, 22, 29, 38, 44, 48, 52, 60, 76, 81, 90, 96, 119, 149
Pocket Library. Nos. 12, 31, 48, 66, 80, 108, 114, 120, 124, 130, 157, 164, 180, 195, 199, 206, 214, 223, 242, 249, 261, 272, 278, 298, 302, 320, 337, 363, 371, 387, 406, 417, 471
Popular Library. No. 43 (partim)

Under the pen name "Captain Howard Holmes" he wrote:

Dime Library. Nos. 278, 294, 321, 335, 340, 347, 352, 365, 374, 382, 392, 400, 407, 413, 421, 434, 441, 447, 453, 460, 468, 480, 487, 496, 505, 512, 523, 532, 543, 550, 559, 569, 579, 592, 608, 642, 654, 664, 671, 678, 684, 694, 701, 711, 724, 736, 751, 766, 779, 788, 803, 817, 831, 840, 847, 859, 871, 879, 888, 896, 903, 912, 929, 941, 1082

Under the pen name "Captain Charles Howard" he wrote:

Starr's American Novels. Nos. 72, 87, 90, 93, 99, 103, 108, 112, 117, 122, 126, 131, 135
Dime Novels. Nos. 315, 326, 361 (598⁽⁸⁾), 601, 615, 629
Pocket Novels. Nos. 45, 50, 52, 60, 64, 65, 69, 72, 82, 87, 89, 97, 113, 150, 245
Boy's Library (quarto). Nos. 82, 114
Boy's Library (octavo). Nos. 99, 128, 132,198, 205, 231, 258, 279, 306
Pocket Library. Nos. 426, 451, 489

Under the pen name "Howard Lincoln" were published:

Dime Novels. No. 611
Boy's Library (octavo). Nos. 108, 231

Under the pen name "Maj. S. S. Scott" were published:

Popular Library. Nos. 6, 12, 18, 26, 36, 42, 50 (announced but not issued)
Half-Dime Library. Nos. 1039, 1045, 1054, 1074, 1830, 1089

SPECIMEN OF T. C. HARBAUGH' STYLE

"Old Frosty, the Guide; or, Niolcana, the White Queen of the Blackfeet." Half-Dime Library No. 106, pp. 6, I0-II.

Meanwhile, on the spot where we have seen Marley jerk Dwarf Dan from the saddle, there were loud voices.

The accidental discharge of Kyd Douglass's gun had roused the Indian village. Armed in an instant, the Blackfeet poured from their lodges. Led by the giant and merciless Arrow Head, they had rushed to the scene of the struggle in time to wrench Dwarf Dan, already choked to insensibility, from Marley's gripe.

Of course the two deserters were surrounded in an instant, and then it was that the great chief lifted his voice and declared that the whites should be driven from the land that they had invaded.

Marley heard all this without a murmur; but with eyes fixed on the dwarfish figure on the ground.

"I hope I've choked 'im to death!" Marley thought. "He killed the boy—murdered 'im in cold blood!"

These words had hardly passed through the man's brain, before Arrow Head, the Blackfoot, whirled upon him.

"White man kill his chief—Arrow Head's friend!"

"I hope so!"

"White dog glad, eh?"

The flash of Marley's eyes and the glance that he sent to the prostrated dwarf, answered Arrow Head's envenomed words.

With one majestic stride, the Blackfoot fiend halted before the man, who, held by a score of scarlet hands, was as helpless as a captive in irons.

"You got me foul," was all that Marley said, looking undaunted into the glittering eyes of Arrow Head.

The hatchet which the chief had lifted fell bloodless at his side.

"Take the white dog to the tree that stands in the moonlight and tie him there!" he said to the braves who held Marley.

This command was promptly obeyed, and the gold-hunter soon found himself fastened to a tree, with his face turned toward the Blackfeet.

During the tying process, Arrow Head had not been idle, and when the guard had finished their work, six bowmen stepped forward.

"Great Heavens! Arrow Head is going to treat me to the death he always gives a foe!" muttered Marley. "But I'll face it like a man. Look up, John Marley; grit yer teeth an' cuss the scarlet skunks to the last."

As he looked he saw the shining tips of the Blackfoot arrows drawn to the bow.

"Shoot an' be hanged!" he cried. "Morgan, remember this!"

The next instant six bowstrings were released from the red fingers, and John Marley's head dropped upon his breast as four arrows buried themselves in the seat of life.

An oath fell from Morgan's tongue, and a strange cry caused many to wheel and see Dwarf Dan standing erect, but still almost black in the face from the terrible choaking.

Arrow Head, with a cry of pleasure, sprung forward and seized the dwarf's hand.

"Arrow Head has struck!" he said, pointing to the motionless figure at the tree.

"Marley?"

"Yes, Marley!" said Morgan. "He died like a man, too!"

Dwarf Dan said nothing; but his look told that he was glad.

"Gods! what a grip he had," he suddenly cried, putting his hand to his throat. "I saw all the worlds that shoot around the sun. I'm goin' to see 'im. Mebbe he's not dead yet."

"Arrow Head go, too."

Dwarf Dan started forward. If the arrows had not finished Marley, the pistol that he held in his right hand would.

The tree was not far away; but a cry from the Indian arrested Dan's progress.

"Wahhee!" (look yonder!) exclaimed the chief, pointing to an object which seemed to have risen from the earth.

Dwarf Dan was not a moment in recognizing it.

"Old Frosty!" he cried, starting back, fear-stricken. "Look! he's dead, Arrow Head—dead! an' sittin' bolt upright in the saddle!"

With one hand clutching the naked arm of the Blackfoot chief, while the other pointed to the apparition on horseback, Dwarf Dan was the picture of terror.

"Not dead?" said the Blackfoot incredulously.

"Dead as a tree cut to the heart! He's been ridin' through the camp all night without a speerit in his life-box."

"Arrow Head go see!"

The chief rudely jerked his arm from Dwarf Dan's grasp, and strode boldly toward the silent horseman.

A minute's walk brought him to the spot, and as he raised his eyes to the figure that sat motionless in the saddle his red hand fell upon his knee.

That touch seemed to break the spell, and Old Frosty fell forward heavily, crushing Arrow Head to the earth!

A wild cry of borrow rung from Dan's throat.

The specter still stalked. It was seen by Morgan, the companion of Marley, who had been saved by Dwarf Dan, and to him he mentioned it. Together they started out from the Indian camp to search for it.

Morgan led the way, and did not draw rein until they had reached the base of a hillock several miles away.

"It war up that!" said Morgan, pointing up the acclivity.

Dan looked his man curiously in the face.

"You'd like fur me to think thet it warn't flesh an' blood thet you see'd, wouldn't you?" he said.

"I don't know what it war, myself," was the answer. "I war standin' right hyar, when—Look! up yonder! By the jumpin' jingo! thar it is again!"

Dwarf Dan raised his eyes, and saw quite distinctly the combined figures of man and horse, apparently one hundred feet above them. The sky was lightened by the effulgence of the moon, and the figures wore gigantic proportions.

Dwarf Dan looked at the apparition with mouth half open in wonderment, while Morgan regarded him with a look of self-satisfied triumph.

"Wal, what is it?" he ventured, at last.

"The devil, mebbe!"

Dan kept his eyes on the figure but cocked his gun.

"Goin' to shoot at it, eh?"

"Yes!"

"The bullet will go right through a ghost, they say!"

The deserter did not reply, but took as deliberate aim as he could with his nerves a little unstrung.

The report of the rifle awoke a thousand slumbering echoes; but the sound that startled Dan the most, was the hollow laugh that came down from above.

Morgan, with a gasping cry, wheeled suddenly; but Dan leaned over, and as he grasped his bridle, shot him a stern look.

"Not a foot, Morgan!" the dwarf said, fiercely. "You've heard that laugh afore, jest as I hev. Ar' you in league with thet feller, up thar?"

Morgan's answer was a stare of astonishment.

"I'm in 'arnest!" thundered the deformed. "How did he get out of his coffin?"

The stare deepened.

"Coffin? What coffin?" said the now thoroughly astounded Morgan.

"The hangin' coffin we put Old Frosty in! How did he git out? Thet's the question."

"You're tacklin' the wrong man, cap'n!" said Morgan, into whose obtuse brain the dwarf's last words had shot a little light. "I don't know anything about a hangin' coffin. He was dead when you put 'im thar; but thet laugh sounded jest like his'n."

"And it was too real to come from a ghost," said Dan. "I had a dead aim on him."

"But yer hand shook a little."

"Mebbe it did."

"I saw it."

"Then you war watchin' me?"

"Kinder so. I couldn't help it."

The puzzled dwarf, looking up, saw that the object at which he had fired had disappeared; but he did not loosen his gripe on Morgan's rein.

He knew well that such an action would have been followed by the fellow's ignominious flight.

"The ghost is gone!" he said, with a sly glance at his companion. "Now I'm goin' to satisfy myself about a sart'n matter. Will you go along?"

Morgan replied in the affirmative, and the next instant they turned their horses' heads toward the North.

For a short time Dan continued to keep his strong hand on his companion's bridle-rein; but at last, with a significant glance into his face, he released it, and straightened in the saddle.

Once beyond the wood, which they speedily left behind, the country became comparatively clear, and the two white men rode over it at good speed.

Morgan soon began to observe with feeling of surprise that he was riding across the same country which he had lately traversed with the Blackfeet. There were certain well-marked landmarks, that told him that he was going toward the Indian town. Once or twice he was on the point of questioning the deformed, but the uneasy look that appeared in his eyes, kept back the question.

The moon was in the zenith, when Morgan, glancing down from the ridge, along which he was riding, saw the white sides of hundreds of teepees; but instead of entering the Indian village, Dwarf Dan veered abruptly to the right, and left it behind.

"Dan's comin' back to see if Old Frosty is still in his coffin!" murmured Morgan at last, divining the meaning of that long, nocturnal ride. "He was talkin' about a hangin coffin, too. Thet's a new kind o' sheebang, even fur these wild parts!"

Shortly after the utterance of the last sentence, the riders entered a ravine, and when Dan at last sprang to the ground, Morgan saw that they stood near the mouth of some underground cavern.

"Hev ye any matches?" the Dwarf asked, looking up into the countenance whose puzzled expression was enough to provoke a smile.

Morgan produced several dirt-colored ones which the dwarf took.

"Cuss me ef I don't more nor half believe that Old Frosty hes got out o' his basket!" the deformed said, as he wrapped a piece of cotton goods about a stick.

"Bad work ef he hez!" responded Morgan.

"It will be the Injun's fault. I wanted to give 'im a different kind o' funeral. But hyar we go to settle the question."

Shutting his teeth hard, and with all his rough courage summoned to his aid, Dwarf Dan pushed into the cavern beyond whose gloomy portals he and Arrow Head has lately borne Old Frosty to his horrible entombment.

He went ahead with the torch, closely but not willingly followed by Morgan.

The torch but illy relieved the gloom.

Dan went forward with the greatest care; but an exclamation at last announced that he had made a discovery.

"Hyar's the p'inted rock, an' the rope jest as we left it, an'," sweeping the torch beneath him. "I kin see the basket, too!"

Morgan crept forward.

He looked over the jutting rock and saw a strangely shaped basket—more particularly some network— swinging at the end of a rope.

"I can't make out ef thar's a man in the coffin," said Dwarf Dan, a little disappointed.

"Couldn't you ef you war to lean over an' wave the torch under the rock?" suggested Morgan.

"I might."

A moment later the ill-shapen figure of Arrow Head's ally dropped upon the rock and crawled to the edge. He leaned over and waved the torch as far beneath it as he could.

"It's all right!" he said, satisfied. "Thar's a corpse in the coffin, an' of course it's Old Frosty."

Morgan heard a part of these words; the last ones he drowned with the maddest cry of vengeance that ever awoke the echoes of that cavern.

With a cry he pounced upon the prostrate man like a tiger, and before Dwarf Dan could summon one thought to his assistance, he was hanging over the abyss by the edge of the rock.

"This fur Marley, one o' the best men thet ever died in Blackfoot land!" cried Morgan, holding the torch dropped by the attacked man near his victim's 'face. "He'd be alive to-day ef it hadn't been fur you, Cap'n Dan. I said I'd git even with you. I'm even now!"

The dwarf was utterly helpless, and with his last mad word of triumph, Morgan struck him across the face with the torch.

A cry more brutish than human pealed from the dwarf's throat, and swinging back before the stroke he went down—down into the darkness below!

Morgan, with face illumined by revenge, held the torch over the cliff, and saw to his horror that Dwarf Dan's hands had severed the rope, and that he had carried the "coffin" and its terrible occupant with him to the bottom.

"They'll want some light on the subject!" said the avenger with a grin, and he sent the torch hissing through the impenetrable darkness that concealed the depths of the cavern.

Then he began to retrace his steps.

At the mouth of the entrance to the singular cavern Morgan stopped and listened, but no noise came up from the darkness into which he had hurled the dwarf.

"I'd jest like to know whether thar is another way into this place," the man said to himself. "This land is full o' sech holes, they say, an' then I'm right among the hills which ar' full o' gold. Gold? That's what I came out hyar fur, an' mebbe I'm running' from worlds o' it, goln' out from hyar. Of course Dan is lyin' down ther dead as a door-nail, he'll never trouble the gal any more; she'll never git to whip him ag'in. Jest think of it, Esau Morgan! Mebbe you're leavin' a gold-mine. No! I'm not goin' to run off. I'll go back an' see!"

Thus determined, the miner sat down at the mouth of the cavern, and by dint of labor and patience in the uncertain light of the stars, he Improvised a torch, which, to his delight, burned with much brilliancy.

Then he went back into the cave with the fire over his head.

Now Esau Morgan was a judge of gold-bearing rock; he had mined along Feather river, and had prospected during his early days among the Rocky mountains.

He went around the natural gallery from which he had lately hurled the dwarf. It was a stupendous affair, enough to excite the wonder of any man.

Now and then the avaricious outlaw stopped to examine particles of rock that lay at his feet, but to cast them aside with an oath of disappointment.

But at last Morgan's eyes flashed as he weighed a piece of rock longer than usual in his hand. He set the torch down, and riveted his whole attention upon the object.

Was it gold? Had he discovered one of those golden hills that, rumor said, abounded in the Blackfoot land?

In the strange flaring of the torch the dark faced man looked more like a maniac than a sane being!

"It is gold!" he cried starting up, and from the depths of darkness far away came back a thousand confirmatory echoes of "gold, gold!"

"It was no lie!" he continued "This is a mountain of gold: I have been walking over a pathway of golden bowlders. It is all mine, for the little labor of picking the rocks up. I shan't trouble myself about Old Frosty, or the gal. I want to go back to Saint Louis with all this mountain mine. I will go back that way, er—not go hack at all!"

Half an hour later Morgan stood in what appeared lo be a vast chamber whose ceiling as indistinctly as he could see it by whirling the torch above his head was hung with gorgeous trappings like that of some cathedral. His lust for gold had led him to the spot on which he stood; he had pushed on, on, feasting his eves on the heavy rocks that had the color of unrefined old; he had traveled down, down, until the gallery from which his leader had been dashed seemed hundreds of feet above him.

But the fretted ceiling excited no wonderment in Morgan's eyes. He looked at his torch, almost burned to his tawny hand.

"Ef the thing goes out, I'll be in a purty fix!" said the man, shutting his teeth hard. "It is always night hyar. I can't burn gold. I can't eat the yaller stuff. I— mercy! don't go out, an' leave me hyar."

He whirled the flame around his head; but he could not brighten it, save for one moment.

With a cry of joy at his temporary success the gold-hunter started forward; but the next moment he hurled a sparkless and smoking stick far from him, and started back with a cry of despair falling from his tongue.

He was lost! how far under ground he did not know —lost in a mountain of gold—and in the same apartment, no doubt, where lay the mangled remains of his leader and his victim!

The agony that took possession of the stalwart miner as he realized his situation cannot be described.

He stood in the gloom for several minutes, bereft of volition, a cold sweat standing out on his forehead. His capacious pockets were filled with the weighty rocks his hands had lately picked up with such eagerness. He suddenly fell to taking them out, and one by one he threw them madly away, at the same time filling the cave with the sound of his oaths.

"I can't eat 'em!" he said, over and over. "War Esau Morgan born to die in a mountain ov gold?"

The desperate man, nerved by desperation to do something, tried to find a path to the starlight, in the gloom; but in vain.

Wearied with the fruitless efforts, he threw himself madly on the ground, and covering his face with his great arms, groaned from the depths of his soul.

Suddenly he began to roll hither and thither, thinking only of his situation, or cursing the man whose wild stories of gold in the land of the Blackfeet had decoyed him across the Missouri.

All at once, in one of these movements, Morgan struck an object in the dark, the touch of which made him recoil, with a shudder.

He scrambled to his feet in an instant.

"That war one of them!" he exclaimed. "It war Dwarf Dan or Old Frosty, an' dead, too!"

Although he stood but a few feet from the body against which he had accidentally rolled, Morgan could not see it. He tried to make it out; but, failing at last, with a pistol in his hand, crept forward. The fingers that he put out were not long in finding it, and Morgan drew back again, with a shudder.

"It is Old Frosty fur thar be a lot o' ropes wrapped around him!" he said. "I reckon as how the old chap don't git his parmit fur the boys. But what kind o' face hes he got now? This skin is smooth, an' ef I recollect right, Frosty's face war rough, and badly made. Now, ef I hed a match!"

But the last match had been used on the torch, and Morgan was lost for a moment.

"I'll shoot across the face!" he said, bethinking himself of a fortunate idea. "I'll know Frosty in a minute ef this be him."

Morgan felt the exact position of the unseen face, and held his pistol above it. The next moment a flash lit up the immediate spot, and the loud report of a fire-arm filled the cavern.

"Great Jehosaphat! It's an Injun!" cried Morgan, springing erect and almost dropping his pistol. "Thunder an' guns! what does this mean? Old Frosty war lyin' dead in this basket, up thar; now thar's a red-skin in it. I wish I hed never come hyar. I expect to be a dead Injun myself, directly!"

What anybody placed in the gold-hunter's situation would have done, he did.

He fled—ran through the gloom—on—on, until he felt cold air on his ashen cheek!

† Correction made as per Volume 3.

Notes

1	The Saturday Journal, IX, No. 458, December 21, 1878.
2	Edmund Pearson: Dime Novels, 263.
3	In the O'Brien collection in the New York Public Library.
4	Who's Who, 1901 to 1922.
5	Atlantic Monthly, July, 1907, 42.
6	W. C. Miller, Dime Novel Authors, 1860-1900, Grafton, Mass., 1933.
7	In litteris, 1937.
8	This title does not belong among "Charles Howard's" novels. The story actually is Paul Bibb's "The Squaw Guide," but in reprinting, the wrong title page and wrapper were used.